Gospel Story Finder

I have always wanted to know God’s plan for humanity. For many years I sincerely sought God’s plan in a number of churches, but I never felt comfortable with their doctrines. Now, thanks to the promptings of the Holy Ghost, I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I know that this is the true Church of Jesus Christ. I hope to always be a worthy member of the Lord’s Church.
I wait impatiently for your next issue of L’Etoile (French).
Degazon Nisthone,Carrefour-Feuilles Ward, Port-au-Prince Haiti Stake

I have a brother named Matt.
I always thought of my younger brother as competition. When he was a baby, I played games in which points were earned if I could make him cry. In all those years of punching, growing, and playing I never realized he’d get bigger than me. But Matt knew, and he savored the day when his physical attributes could overcome his tyrannical older sister.
In time Matt did outgrow me, but in more ways than height and strength.
Matt and I attended the same high school, and with only a year’s difference between us, we were often placed in the same classes. We pretended not to know each other. Our public arguing brought out our stubborn personalities for all to see, and teachers who had a class with both Marriotts seemed to contemplate early retirement.
So when I announced I intended to run for student-body president, Matt flew into an understandable rage. “You’re going to humiliate me!” he yelled, rolling his eyes.
In the weeks that followed, I had campaign parties, made posters, and handed out candy with my name boldly printed on it. All too soon, the day for the speeches arrived. I left my class early and placed a flyer on each chair in the auditorium. I was alone when my brother burst in with a gang of his friends.
“Oh, no,” I thought. “Not now.”
But Matt had other ideas. He walked up to me, patted me on the back, and said, “You can do it, Paige.” I felt like a prize fighter. But for once I wasn’t going to fight my brother. He was in my corner helping.
Later, when the speeches were completed, and the flyers and crumpled candy wrappers remained where students once sat, I started to clean up the mess. After my speech I was nervous and desperately needed some reassurance. Then Matt reappeared. He grabbed a handful of garbage and stuffed it into the sack I was holding.
“Paige.” He placed his arm around my shoulders. “It’s okay if you embarrassed the family name. I’ll still vote for you.” It was his way of saying I did all right.
It was an act of kindness I will never forget. As we stood in the auditorium that afternoon, I realized my brother had outgrown me in many ways, and one of them was love.

We all have heroes, particularly when we are young. I was born and grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, in the United States. The most famous sports teams near where we lived were headquartered in New York City. It was the home of three professional baseball teams in those faraway days: the Brooklyn Dodgers, the New York Giants, and the New York Yankees. Philadelphia was even closer to our home and was the home of the Athletics and the Phillies baseball teams. There were many potential baseball heroes for me on those teams.
Joe DiMaggio, who played for the New York Yankees, became my baseball hero. When my brothers and my friends played baseball on the school grounds next to our house, I tried to swing the bat the way I thought Joe DiMaggio did it. That was before the days of television (this is ancient history), so I only had pictures from newspapers to use to copy his swing.
When I was growing up, my father drove me to Yankee Stadium. That was the only time I saw Joe DiMaggio play. As if I am still there, in my mind I can see him swing the bat and see the white baseball fly straight into the stands at center field.
Now, my baseball skills never came close to those of my childhood hero. But the few times I hit a baseball well, I copied the level of his powerful swing as closely as I could.

There also have been times when my parents wouldn’t allow me to go places or do things I wanted to do. I have not always been happy about their decisions. But many times I have come to realize that they were right. For example, when I was younger, some of my friends were going to a “teen night” at a nightclub, and my parents wouldn’t let me go. I was upset and felt that my parents didn’t trust me. But after my bad feelings left, we talked about the temptations all around us and how my being at the nightclub would be opening the door to greater temptations. We also talked about my being worthy to pass the sacrament and about honoring my priesthood. I love my Heavenly Father and my parents, and I know that love and obedience go hand in hand.

When the news picked up concerning COVID-19, I felt like it was dramatically overhyped. Then as days went on, I began to feel uneasy and even panicked about the future of our world.
One morning I couldn’t get back to sleep and sat pondering what all of this was for. Then came the peace. The Spirit taught me that the Lord had given me a gift. “It’s time to take your family back,” He said.
Life gets so busy. This pandemic has given our family the opportunity to focus on what matters: the gospel of Jesus Christ. I can drown out some of those toxic influences in the world and focus on teaching my children to look to Christ. Our Father in Heaven is ever mindful of us. I feel that now more than ever.
Mary Ostler, Nebraska, USA

Four-year-old Ann blinked her eyes in amazement as she watched the Christmas lights come on. She looked up and down the street and saw all the decorations. A chubby cardboard Santa was just getting out of his sleigh in the Wilsons’ front yard, and the Bakers had put up their lifesize Wise Men again. Ann especially liked to see the camels with their big humps. She wondered how the Wise Men could ever stay seated on them. Right next door to her house was a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer whose nose flashed on and off!
“Oh, Mommy,” she said excitedly, “the best thing about Christmas is the beautiful street decorations.”
The next day, Ann helped her mother cut out Christmas cookies. She made stars and Christmas trees and Santa Clauses and bells. Then she helped frost the cookies and sprinkle glittering silver, red, and green sugar sparkles on top of each one. And sometimes Ann popped a cookie right into her mouth.
“Mmmmmm. I think making cookies is the best thing about Christmas,” she told her mother.
That night Ann sat at the kitchen table, stringing pieces of popcorn and cranberries on thread. First she put on four pieces of popcorn, because she was four years old. Then she put on one cranberry for baby Lisa who was one year old—four pieces of popcorn and a cranberry, four pieces of popcorn and a cranberry. Ann had to poke the needle through just the right place and be careful not to poke her finger!
“Mommy,” Ann said as she showed her how long the strand was, “I guess the best thing about Christmas is decorating the tree.”
The next morning, Ann and her mother went shopping downtown in a big department store. There were red and green ribbons with different sizes of gold balls all over the store and Ann could hear Christmas carols as she and her mother rode up the escalator to the toy department. Ann liked looking at all the exciting toys. She saw some colored blocks and a big pink ball and a blue and yellow Big Wheel with racing stripes and a doll with pretty black hair.
“May I help you with something?” a smiling salesclerk asked.
“Yes, I want to buy this big pink ball for my sister Lisa,” Ann replied.
On the way home Ann squeezed her mother’s hand. “The very best thing about Christmas is shopping for gifts to give,” she told her.
On Christmas morning, Ann was wide awake even before the sun came up. After she had eaten breakfast with Lisa and her parents, they all marched into the living room singing “Jingle Bells.” Shouting with excitement, Ann rushed over to a brand-new Big Wheel just her size. When she had ridden it once around the room she jumped off and ran over to give her mother and dad a big hug and kiss.
“Just what I wanted,” she told them. “Presents are the best thing about Christmas.”
As they sat down to unwrap their gifts, Ann watched eagerly as Lisa, her face shining with joy, pulled the paper and bows off the new ball Ann had wrapped for her. “The best thing about Christmas is seeing Lisa with her first Christmas gifts,” she told her mother and father.
Later that morning, Ann went to Sunday School with her family. For the Christmas program, she sang “Away in a Manger” and “Silent Night” with her class. She had also been chosen to give a little toy lamb to Mary for the Baby Jesus. Mary, who lovingly held her new baby, was really Sister Richards dressed in a blue robe. But as Ann presented the gift, she looked at the baby lying peacefully in Sister Richards’ arms and could almost imagine that it really was the Baby Jesus.
On the way home from Sunday School, Ann’s mother said, “We were all proud of you this morning, dear. I’m wondering if you think being in the program is the best thing about Christmas.”
Ann remembered the wonderfully happy feeling she had when she gave the toy lamb to Sister Richards and the feeling that she was almost giving it to the Baby Jesus. And then she said, “Oh, Mother, I thought I knew what the best thing about Christmas was. But now I know the very best thing about Christmas is that Jesus came to live on earth.”

But did you ever stop to think that some of the smaller undomesticated creatures of the earth may be equally anxious to get home again? And because of their very smallness, their journeys may be very arduous ones. An experiment conducted by Martin Thornhill of England with a common toad is a case in point. First, Thornhill took the toad from its favorite lily pad at the side of his garden pool and placed it in a hedge about fifty yards away. Shortly afterward the toad was back on its lily pad. He then carried the toad one-fourth mile to a friend’s garden. Within a week it had returned. Marking it with a harmless red paint spot, he transported it a mile distant. In less than ten days the toad had returned. His last experiment was to deposit it by a stream three miles away. The persistent amphibian doggedly hopped across country and through town to settle itself many days later on its favorite lily pad.

Mr. Gibson got up from his chair and walked over to Steve and Cathy. “You two come with me, and I’ll show you what life does to people and their ideas about forever.”
They followed him into a small back bedroom. The blinds were pulled, and there was only one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The room was filled with pictures and trophies and sports equipment.
“Go ahead, look around.”
As they examined each picture, it was as if they were viewing the growth of a small boy into a young man—pictures of a three-year-old being held on a quarter horse by his proud father, a seven-year-old standing beside his father displaying a string of fish, a thirteen-year-old wearing a 4-H jacket and showing a hereford steer he had raised, a boy kneeling beside a trophy elk he had shot, a seventeen-year-old beside a cute girl in a formal gown, a proud graduate in a black cap and gown, a nineteen-year-old in front of the small white house wearing an army uniform.
The last picture frame contained a telegram announcing the boy’s death in combat in Vietnam.
“It took us 19 years to raise him,” the man said bleakly, “but they killed him in one second with a land mine.”
“We’re both sorry,” Cathy said.
“I don’t need your sympathy,” the man said bitterly. He reached down and picked up a fishing reel in his hand, turning it over slowly, studying it. “He was a good boy, and if he’d lived, by now he’d be married and have children, and I’d have some grandchildren, and life would have some meaning.”
He put the reel down on the shelf and turned to confront them. “Who remembers my boy anymore?”
They didn’t know what to say.
“Nobody does. Not anymore. This is all that’s left of him. What you see in this room. A few pictures and some ribbons from a county fair. And when my wife and I die, somebody will buy the house and toss it all away.”
He took a step toward them, his face in agony. “Now you tell me, where is this forever you keep harping about? Where is forever for my boy?”
Cathy threw her arms around him as if he were her grandfather. Steve could hear her crying. At first the man stood there mutely, his arms at his side, untouchable in his grief. But then, seeing that she shared his sorrow, he put an arm around her to comfort her.
A moment later she stepped back and said, “God loves your son. His body is destroyed but his spirit is alive. Someday his body and his spirit will come back together, and he will stand on this earth with a perfect body. I know that is true.”
He examined her face, searching for any insincerity, but he found none.
She continued, “God has commanded that temples be built so that we can help those who have died to receive the rich blessings they might have had if they’d lived. Your boy will live again.”
Somehow the despair that had filled the room lifted. Steve felt the sweet influence of the Holy Ghost bear witness to Cathy’s words.
The man looked at her upturned face for a long time and then simply said, “Nobody’s ever told me that before.”
“Mr. Gibson,” Cathy said, “today I was in one of those temples. I’ve never been more certain that God loves all his children. He loves your son David.”
The man slowly nodded his head. “David was a good boy.” Then looking around and seeing for the first time that it was only a room, he said simply, “It’s cold in here, isn’t it? Let’s go in the living room and talk some more.”

Growing up in Huntsville, Utah, I was very aware of the presence of President David O. McKay in our community. Once, when I was ten or eleven, I met him at the dairy where he frequently came to get milk, and he asked who I was. He said that he knew my father and my grandfather and that surely I would turn out pretty good because of them.

The snare of needless guilt. A middle-aged woman is a devoted mother, a loving friend, a faithful Church servant, and a frequent temple patron. But in her heart, this sister cannot forgive herself of sins committed years ago that she has repented of and fully resolved with priesthood leaders. She doubts that her life will ever be acceptable to the Lord and has lost hope of eternal life in Heavenly Father’s presence.

Before approving the construction of the Paris France Temple, local city council members visit a sacrament meeting.

“Besides having a good sense of humor, Dad cared about people. I remember seeing unemployed men come to his plant and wait for hours, hoping to get a job. He tried to hire one or two extra men every day. I went to him one time and said, ‘That man has been here every day for a week, and he’s hungry.’ I got my dad to hire him. Later in the day I discovered that the man had only potato peelings to eat for lunch. I went into the house and asked my mother to fix him a decent lunch. Then I took it out to him.”

Dan (name has been changed) was seeing me for professional counseling. “I try to live the commandments,” he said, “but I am constantly tempted by sensual distractions. I recommit but get worn down and occasionally end up letting my guard down. I am not going to pornography sites, but I become hypnotized by inappropriate images that seem to be everywhere. My wife is hurt, and I am tired of trying.”
With Dan, it was helpful to distinguish temptation from sin, understand shame and the power of agency, and learn to rely more on the Savior’s grace.
Dan had righteous desires, but he felt like he was failing. He was ashamed, in part because of his ongoing temptations. Like many, he thought that because he had given in to some temptations, he might as well give up.2 While guilt is an important feeling that motivates us to repent, shame can have the opposite effect, leading us to give up. This is particularly damaging when we mistakenly believe temptation is a sign of weakness.
With help, Dan learned not to panic when tempted but to acknowledge his feelings, then choose to move on to healthy behaviors.
Dan began avoiding the use of electronic devices when he was susceptible to temptation, such as when he was alone, tired, or stressed. He passed on problematic TV shows and other entertainment and instead spent time connecting with others. He strengthened his spirit by spending more time in the scriptures, journaling, improving his sleep, and exercising (see Doctrine and Covenants 88:124).8 These important principles can help each of us decrease temptations and increase strength, especially when practiced consistently over time.

May I share with you something of a personal and sacred testimony?
Nearly forty years ago I was on a mission in England. I had been called to labor in the European Mission office in London under President Joseph F. Merrill of the Council of the Twelve, then president of the European Mission. One day three or four of the London papers carried reviews of a reprint of an old book, snide and ugly in tone, indicating that the book was a history of the Mormons. President Merrill said to me, “I want you to go down to the publisher and protest this.” I looked at him and was about to say, “Surely not me.” But I meekly said, “Yes, sir.”
I do not hesitate to say that I was frightened. I went to my room and felt something as I think Moses must have felt when the Lord asked him to go and see Pharaoh. I offered a prayer. My stomach was churning as I walked over to the Goodge Street station to get the underground train to Fleet Street. I found the office of the president and presented my card to the receptionist. She took it and went into the inner office and soon returned to say that Mr. Skeffington was too busy to see me. I replied that I had come five thousand miles and that I would wait. During the next hour she made two or three trips to his office, then finally invited me in. I shall never forget the picture when I entered. He was smoking a long cigar with a look that seemed to say, “Don’t bother me.”
I held in my hand the reviews. I do not know what I said after that. Another power seemed to be speaking through me. At first he was defensive and even belligerent. Then he began to soften. He concluded by promising to do something. Within an hour word went out to every book dealer in England to return the books to the publisher. At great expense he printed and tipped in the front of each volume a statement to the effect that the book was not to be considered as history, but only as fiction, and that no offense was intended against the respected Mormon people. Years later he granted another favor of substantial worth to the Church, and each year until the time of his death I received a Christmas card from him.
I came to know that when we try in faith to walk in obedience to the requests of the priesthood, the Lord opens the way, even when there appears to be no way.

Awakened by her father, Maron risked her life and ran most of the night to warn the leader, Teomnihah, of impending danger. After her arrival at the home where Teomnihah was staying, a knock was heard at the door, and a guard demanded to know what was going on. Unsatisfied with the reply, he broke down the door, but not before Maron was hidden inside a large basket.
You were given orders,” the man snapped. “No more meetings with more than two of you together at one time. And no more talk of a savior.”
Maron pressed her face against the inside of the basket, trying to see through the woven straw.
“Nephites!” The huge man spit again and waved his sword wildly. “King Jacob will rule. Mocum will see to that!”
Two more guards entered the house. “Take them away,” the first guard ordered. “I knew they could not keep from meeting. Twelve of them! A fine lot of prisoners we have captured.”
Maron’s mind raced as fast as her heart. It ached just as much too. Had she been the one to cause all this? Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She must do nothing more to bring harm to these good men.
The three guards shoved the Nephite men outside.
“Only at night the daughter of Tat goes home,” Teomnihah said loudly as he passed through the doorway.
“Silence!” a tall guard cried, striking Teomnihah across the cheek before turning back and searching the room with his eyes. Maron closed her eyes and held her breath until she no longer heard footsteps.
There were blankets and clothing in the basket, making it stuffy and sweaty, but Maron dared not leave it. Pushing her face once more against the straw wall, she breathed deeply. Why didn’t I realize that Kurom would also be under guard? How could I have been so foolish? Over and over her father’s words sang in her mind—“Your acts must never be more eager than your thoughts.”
Rays of sunlight were beginning to appear in the doorway. Maron’s cramped arms and legs ached. She yearned to stretch, to run, to be home. But Teomnihah’s words were clear. She must wait until nightfall. Snuggling into a scratchy blanket, she worried and blamed and feared until she finally fell asleep.
When she awoke, the sun was burning brightly. In the stuffy basket Maron caught a whiff of springtime freshness as a breeze gently entered the room. She moved her hand toward her eyes but could not reach her face. Her legs were numb, and a sharp pain shot up her sweaty back. Through the basket weave she saw the bread and cheese near the cupboard. She had been hungry before, but now she was starving. She could see or hear no one.
“There is no choice,” she murmured. “I’d rather be a prisoner than stay here any longer.” Pushing up the lid, she struggled to stand. The cover opened easily, falling back on its leather hinges. But Maron slumped back onto the blanket, her legs unable to hold her.
“I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry,” Maron hissed through her clenched teeth.
Relaxing in the basket, she let the fresh air envelop her. Slowly she wiggled her arms, then her legs. She felt relieved as life tingled into her legs and feet. She stood carefully, testing one leg and then the other. Finally she climbed out of the basket and hurried to the bread and cheese, eating her fill and putting the rest in her cloak pocket.
It wasn’t until Maron had eaten that she realized that just as the night had been too still, so was the day. Once more fear raced through her. Crawling to the broken door, she peered out. There were no people, no movements, no sounds.
I must get home to Father. He will protect me. Hurriedly Maron jumped to her feet and ran from the house. Staying close to the row of houses, she scurried down the path that led out of the city. The sun shone directly overhead in a clear blue sky. The gentle breeze barely moved the tall grasses. Stumbling, falling, sliding, Maron made her way down the hillside toward the forest.
“Stop! Stop!” a voice far behind her shouted. Instead of stopping, she ran faster. An arrow whizzed past her right arm and lodged in a tree.
Her stiff, sore legs begged to stop, but the fear pounding in her heart pushed her on faster and faster until she was concealed by the dense forest. Reluctantly she slowed to a trot. Her lungs burned with each gasp of air and her feet were bleeding, but she hurried on, afraid to stop. The gasp and hiss of her own breathing exploded in her head so loudly that she wasn’t aware of the sounds now filling the world. The gentle breeze began to whip, and the spring air began to chill. By the time Maron noticed anything, the sun was disappearing behind ominous black clouds. “I’m almost home,” Maron whispered, unable to keep the tears inside any longer. “I’m almost home.”
But the wind was now whipping and beating so hard that Maron could no longer run. Fighting to even walk against the wind, she dodged the flailing tree limbs and flying leaves. Never before had she seen such a storm. Every step became more difficult. Rain began pouring from the black clouds—great sheets of water that drenched her cloak, her tunic, and her nightclothes.
Maron could go no farther. Falling into the mud, she began to cry. “Please, please help me,” she prayed. The mud splashed around her. The rain and wind whistled fiercely. “Please!”
“Maron. Maron.” It was a faint sound.
Surely I must be dreaming. No voice could travel through such a storm. I should have done as Teomnihah said and waited until nightfall.
“Maron. Maron.” The words were clearer now. Startled, Maron jerked her head up to see her brother! As Melekib grabbed frantically at her arm, Maron blinked in disbelief. It was Melekib. The cold wind beat the falling water against her face, but the sight of Melekib kindled hope in her heart and gave her strength.
Melekib helped Maron to her feet and motioned for her to follow. Gratefully she obeyed as the sky ripped apart with bolts of lightning, followed by roaring thunder. Behind them a tree crashed to the ground, fire spitting from it in giant licks.
“Run!” Melekib shouted.
Maron’s energy was spent. Stumbling and slipping in the mud, she tried to hurry, but her legs wouldn’t obey the command.
Melekib’s worried face searched the dim forest. They were almost out, almost to the outskirts of Bountiful. Grabbing Maron’s arm, he half-pulled, half-pushed her out of the forest and into a hut. He had to throw himself against the door and bar it to keep out the raging wind.
Maron recognized the hut as an abandoned house she and Melekib had played in when they were younger. The hard dirt floor was sloshing with water blown through the windows, but her exhausted body could do nothing more than fall in a heap.
Melekib sat beside her, yelling to be heard over the storm. “Father sent me. He was worried.”
Maron nodded. There was no use trying to tell him what had happened over the noise of the storm.
“We shall stay here until the storm is over.” Patting her shoulder reassuringly, Melekib leaned against the cold cement wall to wait.
Instead of getting better, the storm became more ferocious. Lightning and thunder ripped the air, and the wind raged angrily. For a long time the two listened to the storm’s angry cries. Finally Maron sat up next to Melekib and rubbed her aching legs and sore feet. “What is happening?” she asked. “This is more than a storm.”
“I do not know,” Melekib replied, “but God will be with us.” He squeezed her hand three times, a signal their mother had used ever since they could remember for “I love you.”
“It can’t get worse!” Maron shouted. But even as she said the words, the little cement hut shook and the air shattered with thunder and grew colder. The very earth began to shake and tremble. Maron grabbed Melekib as the earth rolled and groaned and the floor beneath them cracked. The walls trembled and the ceiling ruptured. It held a moment, then broke loose on one side, falling into the house. Maron screamed, “Melekib!” But he didn’t answer. A bolt of lightning split the sky, and Maron saw that he had been hit by the edge of the fallen roof. Blood trickled over his closed eyes and down his cheeks. Swaying, trembling, cracking, the earth shook Maron away from Melekib, but she fought her way back to his side. Using her wet cloak, she wiped the blood from his face.
The earth steadied itself momentarily and then trembled again. For a long while the quake pattern repeated itself, first resting then shaking violently. Maron fought to stay at her brother’s side. In another flash of lightning she saw that the bleeding had stopped. But Melekib did not move.
The storm raged for hours. Tired, hurt, and scared, Maron prayed as she tried to minister to Melekib. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the earth stopped shaking.
Slowly Melekib rolled his head and sat up. “Oh, my head,” he groaned. “We’ve got to get home.” Melekib tried to stand but fell back groaning.
“Don’t move. You must rest.” Maron tried to comfort him, but her heart raced with fear. What now? she thought. For once my actions must have the wisdom of thought. But no thought came, only tears.
Now the wind and rain stopped, but the stormy dimness faded into absolute darkness—a darkness that filled not only the eyes, but the heart.
“Melekib!” Maron cried. “I am becoming blind like our mother! I cannot see my hand when I place it in front of my face. I am afraid. What is happening?”
“Maron,” Melekib said, “do not be afraid. It is a time to be joyful.”
“Joyful!” she exclaimed. “What are you saying, my brother?”
“Maron, think. Do you not remember Samuel, the Lamanite prophet, saying that there would be terrible storms and that many mountains would be toppled and—”
“And three days of darkness!” Maron broke in.
“There has never been such darkness!” Melekib declared. “It must be the sign of the Savior’s death. It is just as our father and mother told us it would be.”
“It must be so,” Maron whispered reverently. “He is dead! Oh, Melekib, what will happen now?”
(To be concluded.)

“I’m glad I’m not a pioneer,” Amelia said. “Aren’t you, Nanny?”

Nanny thought for a moment. “I know I wasn’t born in the olden days, and I wasn’t born in another country. Nor did I go on a long walk like some other pioneers. But I’m still a pioneer.”

Amelia was amazed. “A pioneer? Why are you a pioneer?”

“Because when the missionaries taught me the gospel, I decided to join the Church, just like the early Church pioneers did,” Nanny explained. “Some of my family and friends were angry that I chose to obey Heavenly Father. Like other pioneers, I had to leave my home and go somewhere else to live.”

“Were you sad?” Amelia asked.

“Yes, I felt very sad,” Nanny said. “But I’m glad I was a pioneer, because Poppy and our children—including your mum—are all members of Jesus Christ’s true Church. And I’m also happy, Amelia, because you too are learning about Heavenly Father and Jesus and the right way to live.”

Uncle Chadwick turned from the window and sat down behind his desk. He propped his feet up and looked at us a long moment, his deep-set eyes shining with warm concern and quiet, tender affection. “It’s supposed to be a true story I don’t think you’ve ever heard before. It’s about one of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s sons, Joseph III. It happened in Nauvoo, in the early 1840s before the Prophet’s martyrdom at Carthage Jail in 1844.
“Joseph and some of the Brethren, including John Taylor and other apostles, were having a meeting at the Prophet’s home. A man by the name of Loren Walker—a member of the Church who lodged with the Prophet and his family for a time and who became a close and trusted friend—had on that occasion cleaned Joseph’s firearms and some of his clothes. He put the clothes into the wardrobe but, rather than disturb the Prophet during the meeting, put Joseph’s guns on the bed, thinking that Joseph would put them where they belonged later on.
“Now I want you children to know that the only reason the Prophet Joseph carried a gun was that the persecution he endured was sometimes so intense that he was forced to arm himself for his own safety.
“Anyway,” Uncle Chadwick continued, “the Prophet’s son Joseph went into that room to take a nap. The sound of the voices in the adjoining room kept him awake, and he found himself attracted to the pistols. Seeing that he was unobserved because of the bed’s canopy, young Joseph picked up one of the pistols. Now, he didn’t think for a minute that it was loaded or that he could possibly fire it, but the thought playfully passed through his mind that if it was loaded and he did fire it, he was sure he could hit a certain spot on the canopy.”
Suddenly Uncle Chadwick banged the flat of his hand on his desk, and we all jumped. “BANG! went the pistol,” he yelled.
“Well,” he went on, “the sound of the discharge alarmed the Prophet and the others who were holding council. Thinking the gunshot had come from outside the house and that someone was coming to attack the Prophet, they all dashed outside to look around. When they didn’t see anyone, they were puzzled. Then Brother Walker suddenly remembered where he’d left the pistols. Fearing the worst, they ran back into the house and into the bedroom.”
Uncle Chadwick pulled out a rumpled handkerchief, blew his nose, then stuffed the cloth carefully back into his back pocket. He took off his spectacles and held them up to the light as if to examine an imaginary smudge, all the while listening to the bench creak as we fidgeted. Finally, when he was sure we had fretted long enough about the worst that could have happened to young Joseph, he propped his eyeglasses back on his nose, gave us a sideways look, and continued: “Well, there lay young Joseph, as white as a just-scrubbed sheet. The pistol was at his side, and smoke was filling the canopy. He was unharmed, except that when the pistol had recoiled, it had fallen from his hand and struck him soundly on the head.
“At first there was some thought on the Prophet Joseph’s part to scold both Brother Walker, for having left the weapons there, and his son Joseph, for having played with them. But after the scare was over, there was general laughter—at the boy’s expense. The dust from the canopy, the damaged ceiling plaster that covered young Joseph, and the fast-swelling bump on his head were about all the ‘fun’ he had from the incident. However, it was a good lesson for everyone, and after that, firearms were carefully kept away from children.”

Chris is from St. Mary’s, Georgia. His parents, Artie and Carolyn Jones, met the missionaries in 1978, when Chris was only two. Chris said, “The first time my dad went to church, he saw a lot of people that he recognized in the community that respected him. That was one thing he really noticed.”
The Jones family was baptized and, as Chris has been told, they received a lot of ridicule for joining the Church. When Chris looks back, he is so appreciative of the fact that his parents were able to raise him and his two brothers and one sister in a way consistent with the principles of the gospel. And Chris grew up knowing that someday he would serve a mission. “If it is part of the Church and the Church is true, then I’ll do it.”

While studying at Brigham Young University as a young, single returned missionary, I attended a priesthood session of general conference in the Tabernacle on Temple Square. President Ezra Taft Benson, then-President of the Church, urged every returned missionary to take marriage seriously and make it a top priority in his life. After the session, I knew I had been called to repentance and needed to act on the prophet’s counsel.
Thus, I decided to go to my home country, Brazil, to find a wife. Before leaving for Brazil on a two-month internship, I called my mom and some friends on the phone and came up with a list of about 10 young women—each of them a potential wife.
While in Brazil, after much pondering and prayer, I met, dated, got engaged to, and set a date to marry one of the young women on the list. It was not record-breaking time for students in Provo, Utah, to date and become engaged, but it was fast by Brazil standards.
A few months later, I married Elaine. She is the love of my life and a choice blessing.
I am not suggesting that everyone should make a similar list, but I am suggesting—maybe more than suggesting—that we always act when our living prophets speak.

“Hey, do you see what I see?” Jonathan whispered to his three buddies. “I sure do,” Brian answered. “Looks like trouble to me. Let’s get out of here!”
Jonathan and his friends were at a band competition at a school across the city. Their band had already performed, and now Jonathan and his friends were walking through the school because they were tired of sitting around. They had walked down a hall between the school’s gymnasium and empty classrooms. They had turned a corner and found themselves in the gym entrance. At the far end of the huge room, a bunch of boys appeared to be writing or spraying something on the walls.
Jonathan and his friends turned abruptly and headed back around the corner, but not before they were noticed.
“Hey, you! Come back here!” someone yelled.
Jonathan and Brian took off running with Todd and Jackson in hot pursuit.
“Let’s get them!” someone yelled, and the sound of running feet drumming across the gym floor spurred the friends on faster still.
As he ran, Jonathan noticed a boys’ bathroom door.
“Quick! Let’s hide in here!” he yelled, sliding to a stop and pushing open the door.
All four boys crowded in, pushed the door shut, and stood silently in a small entry room. The only noise for a few moments was their heavy breathing.
Suddenly there was a commotion outside, and someone tried to push the door open. Jonathan and Brian pushed it shut again.
“Hey! They’re in here!” someone yelled.
There was a burst of energy from those outside trying to shove the door open. There was an equal burst inside trying to keep it shut. Jonathan and Brian slumped down on the floor, leaning their shoulders against the wall and pushing against the door with their feet. Todd pushed a trash can against the door, and braced himself between the can and the wall. Jackson braced his feet against the wall and pushed against the door with his back.
The commotion outside the bathroom got louder. The door would burst open an inch or two each time someone’s body slammed into it. Someone else was banging on the door with a hard object. Jonathan could not believe what was happening. He had looked forward to the excitement of this day for weeks, but he hadn’t wanted this kind of excitement.
As quickly as the whole thing had started, it ended. The yelling stopped. There was no more shoving or pounding on the door. Something must have frightened the attackers away. Jonathan and his friends waited a long time before they dared crack open the door to take a look around. No one was in sight. They slowly emerged from the restroom and found that the door was scratched and gouged.
“Let’s get out of here!” Todd said, looking around nervously.
The boys took off for the school cafeteria where the bands were performing. As they took a shortcut through the gym, a couple of older girls walked by them and said hi.
Jonathan and his friends sat at the back of the cafeteria and tried to make sense out of what had happened. They listened to another band play and debated what to do. Jonathan and Brian thought they should find their band teacher and tell him everything. Todd and Jackson insisted they shouldn’t tell anyone, because they might get accused of the damage. They didn’t have to argue for long. Mr. Jolstead, their bandleader, was striding toward them with a serious look on his face.
“Boys, I want to talk to you. Follow me outside.”
Before Mr. Jolstead had a chance to say another word, Brian jumped in and told him the whole story exactly as it had happened. Mr. Jolstead shook his head and frowned. “That’s not the story I’m hearing from the principal of this school. A couple of girls saw you boys come out of the gymnasium right after all the damage was done. They pointed you out to the principal. No one else was seen around there, and the principal is blaming you. He wants restitution for the damages, and I want to know—what is the truth?”
All four boys started to talk at once.
“Stop right there!” Mr. Jolstead put his hands up to indicate silence. He took a deep breath and looked at each boy slowly, eye to eye.
After what seemed like a long time, he turned to Jonathan. Mr. Jolstead was not a member of the Church, but his son was a member of Jonathan’s Scout troop. “Jonathan,” he said. “I know you are a Boy Scout and a Mormon. I want you to tell me the truth. What happened in there?”
A lot of questions flashed through Jonathan’s mind before he answered. Why didn’t Mr. Jolstead say that Brian’s family were important business people in the community and he wanted Brian to tell him the truth? Why didn’t he say that Todd’s parents were well-known teachers at their school and he wanted Todd to tell him the truth? Why didn’t he say that Jackson was an honor student and he wanted Jackson to tell him the truth? Why did he single out Jonathan? “Does he really trust me just because I’m a Boy Scout and a member of the Church?” he wondered.
Jonathan looked straight into Mr. Jolstead’s eyes. “It happened just like Brian told you,” he said. “And that is the truth.”
Mr. Jolstead finally smiled. “All right. I believe you,” he replied. “Let’s go talk to the principal.”
Jonathan’s band didn’t win that day, but, in a way, Jonathan did. He realized how much people respect members of the Church. He realized how closely people watch what members say and do. He knew one thing for sure—he would follow the Savior’s teachings more carefully than ever.