Gospel Story Finder

The American Young Men and Young Women living in Bonn, Germany, hosted a night of Halloween activities for their German, Spanish, French, English, and Filipino friends.
“We gave a workshop called ‘How to Carve a Jack-o’-lantern,’” says Terri Lutz, a Laurel who helped to plan the activity.
Since carving pumpkins is an American tradition, most of the youth had never even heard of it, much less done it.
“As they plunged their hands inside the pumpkin to scoop the ‘goop’ out, you could tell that some of them were questioning this strange American tradition,” says Terri.
After the pumpkins were carved and everyone had a chance to clean up, they ate—what else?—pumpkin cookies and pumpkin bread!
The activity helped bring the youth closer together, says Terri. “We were able to overcome the language barrier and enjoy one another’s company.”

The easiest person to hear in a classroom is the teacher, who stands at the front of the class. Also, teachers can stop in the middle of a passage to ask a question and stimulate discussion. As you read the following example, see if you can spot what the teacher does to encourage discussion:
Teacher: “Today we’re going to discuss a well-known story, the parable of the prodigal son. But I’d like us to think not just about the prodigal son but also about the other members of his family. Please open your Bible to Luke 15:11, on page 1305.” (Giving the page number helps students who may not be familiar with the scriptures.)
After waiting for class members to find their place, the teacher begins reading: “‘A certain man had two sons:
And the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living.’ Now, what are some things we can tell already about this family?” (Notice the open-ended question.)
Student: “The father seems willing to give the younger son what he wants.”
Teacher: “He does, doesn’t he? Usually a son wouldn’t get his inheritance until after his father died. But the father seems to be a loving, generous man. What else?”
Student: “The younger son seems selfish to me. That’s a lot to ask from a father who’s still alive.”
Teacher: “Yes, it is. He seems to be thinking only of himself. What about the older son?”
Student: “So far he’s awfully quiet.” The class laughs.
Teacher: “Yes, and that may say something about his character. Let’s watch for that as we continue to read.”

The Prophet Joseph Smith received a revelation in 1831 designating Independence, Jackson County, Missouri, as the site of Zion, the central gathering place for the Latter-day Saints and the location for the New Jerusalem identified in both the Bible and the Book of Mormon (see D&C 57:1–3; see also Revelation 21:1–2; Ether 13:4–6). By the summer of 1833, Mormon settlers accounted for approximately one-third of the population in Jackson County. The rapidly increasing numbers, the potential political influence, and the distinctive religious and political beliefs of these newcomers were causes of concern to the other settlers in the area, who consequently demanded that Church members vacate their homes and properties. When this ultimatum was not acted upon, the Missourians attacked the settlements in November 1833 and forced the Saints to leave.
The formation of Zion’s Camp was commanded by revelation in February 1834 (see D&C 103). The primary purpose for this army of the Lord was to protect the Mormons in Jackson County from additional assaults—after the Missouri militia fulfilled its obligation to escort the settlers safely back to their homes and lands. The camp also was to bring money, supplies, and moral support to the destitute Saints. Thus, during May and June 1834, a company of over 200 Latter-day Saint volunteers led by the Prophet Joseph Smith traveled approximately 900 miles (1,450 km) from Kirtland, Ohio, to Clay County, Missouri. Hyrum Smith and Lyman Wight also recruited a smaller group of volunteers from Michigan Territory and met up with the Prophet’s group in Missouri. Participants in Zion’s Camp included Brigham Young, Heber C. Kimball, Wilford Woodruff, Parley P. Pratt, Orson Hyde, and many other readily recognizable individuals from Church history.
My purpose is not to describe the details of this demanding journey or recount all of the spiritually significant episodes that took place. Let me simply summarize a few major events of the Zion’s Camp expedition:
Governor Daniel Dunklin of Missouri failed to provide the promised militia assistance necessary for the Mormon settlers to be reinstated on their lands.
Negotiations undertaken among Church leaders, Missouri state officials, and the citizens of Jackson County to avoid armed conflict and to resolve property disputes failed to reach a satisfactory agreement.
Ultimately, the Lord directed Joseph Smith to disband Zion’s Camp and indicated why the army of the Lord had not achieved its perceived objective (see D&C 105:6–13, 19).
The Lord directed the Saints to build goodwill in the area in preparation for the time when Zion would be recovered by legal rather than by military means (see D&C 105:23–26, 38–41).
Zion’s army was broken into smaller groups in late June 1834, and final discharge papers were issued the first few days of July 1834. Most of the volunteers returned to Ohio.

You may have heard the familiar Christmas story, which is taken from a poem by Edwin Markham, about the cobbler or shoemaker whose name was Conrad.

As he slept, Christ appeared to him and said that he would visit him that day in his shop. So Conrad hastened to make ready. He scrubbed and washed his shop, polished every surface that he could find, went out and brought in green branches and sprigs of holly, and dressed his shop up to make it as beautiful as he could for his great guest. Then lovingly he set the table and prepared the food, and when all was in readiness he took his place at the work bench and sat there shaping and stitching shoes. Hours and hours went by. He thought about what he would do when the Savior came; how he would wash His feet and offer Him fresh water and drink. Finally, they would sit together and eat.

As the day wore on, it rained—a cold, driving rain—and as he was looking out the window waiting for the Savior to come, he noticed a beggar slowly making his way along the street. The poor man limped as though his feet were terribly sore. So, full of pity and being people-oriented, Conrad called to him and asked him in and made him a gift of a fine pair of shoes. The beggar then went away, walking more easily because of the fine new shoes.

A little later an old lady came by carrying a heavy load of firewood on her back. She looked weak and ill. Conrad stopped her and made her rest in his shop and gave her some of the food that he had prepared for his coming guest. Still later as the sun was going down, a small boy stood at Conrad’s door crying bitterly. He was lost and too frightened to find his way home. So, the good shoemaker took compassion on the child and took him across town to his home and left him safe in his mother’s arms. He hurried back fearful that he might have missed his great guest.

As night came, Conrad began to wonder if he had misinterpreted his dream, and he said, “‘Why is it, Lord, that your feet delay? Did you forget that this was the day?’ And then soft in the silence a voice he heard, ‘Lift up your heart for I kept my word. Three times I came to your friendly door, three times my shadow was on your floor. I was the beggar with bruised feet. I was the woman you gave to eat and I was the child on the homeless street.’”

It has been thus ever since. I wrote these beautiful words as President David O. McKay spoke them to a small group some years ago. Said he:
“As absolute as the certainty that you have in your hearts that tonight will be followed by dawn tomorrow morning, so is my assurance that Jesus Christ is the Savior of mankind, the Light that will dispel the darkness of the world, through the gospel restored by direct revelation to the Prophet Joseph Smith.”

Last year’s Mutual theme, “Arise and Shine Forth,” reminded me of a girl I went to high school with named Lisa. She was a cheerleader. It was a large school, and I didn’t know her well.

One Saturday night I went to a farewell party for Lisa and her younger sister, who were moving to Idaho. Some kids were drinking alcohol, and they repeatedly offered beer to Lisa and her sister. I even heard one person shout, “Come on, just one drink! It’s your party, just one drink for us!”

But Lisa and her sister both refused the drinks. They just smiled and said no. I thought being a popular cheerleader meant that you did the “popular” thing—drink. I wasn’t a member of the Church then, but their strength and courage surprised me.

It was into this environment that a newly arrived single sister senior missionary was placed. Sister Betsy Thornton, from Utah, had accepted a calling to serve in the Ghana Accra East Mission. On her arrival, despite not having much experience in the subject, she willingly accepted the assignment to teach an institute family history class, having faith that Lord qualifies those He calls. With the aid of fellow institute instructor, Eric Osei Asare, help from some tech-savvy Pathway students, support from other resources, and by exercising a lot of patience, she put her shoulder to the wheel, and her class began to thrive.
Sister Thornton invited missionaries who were serving at the Tema Gathering Place to come teach about the importance of not only building FamilySearch trees but of also uniting those efforts with the blessings of the temple. As they learned about the importance of family history and began to build their trees, the students experienced great joy in discovering their ancestors and other family members on FamilySearch.org/Africa. In concert with the teachings of the temple, students began to be curious about the gospel of Jesus Christ. That curiosity turned into spiritual affirmations of truth and instilled in the members a desire to be baptised for their deceased loved ones. As for the friends, many of them felt the desire to be baptised themselves.

The only girl in her Primary class, Corissa was a missionary in the Purdue Mission at the Primary quarterly activity. After the Primary, missionaries put on their name tags, they played “Name That Missionary” by guessing who the “missionaries of the past” were in slides that were shown.
Next, the Primary missionaries learned the importance of scriptures by having a scripture chase: They were divided into teams, and each participant was given a picture. At a signal, each Primary missionary raced to the other end of the cultural hall and found the scripture that the picture illustrated.
Then Corissa learned about food preparation as her missionary district made graham cracker bars. From the kitchen, she returned to the cultural hall, where she raced to put on missionary clothes—shoes, jacket, hat, and tie or scarf—and carry a set of scriptures while she “knocked on doors.”
Finally she got her “missionary picture,” which was made by getting her whole body traced; then she colored the tracing.

Since my previous medical work took Sister Nelson and me to a number of developing nations, we have been exposed to many challenging scenes. In one country, so many people were sleeping in the streets and on sidewalks that we literally had to step over them as we walked. In another nation, our compassion was stretched almost to the breaking point as we yearned to help countless people in need. Young mothers with babies bundled on their backs begged for money while paddling their little sampan boats, which served both as their shelter and as their mode of transportation. And, oh, how our hearts ached for young men and women of another country who, one by one, were strapped as beasts of burden to wooden-wheeled carts heavily laden with weighty cargo. As far as our eyes could see, the endless caravan of vehicles continued, pulled by dint of human toil.

In a long-ago time, near the village of Kincoolee O’Doon, lived a boy named Rory. He lived with his mother in a tiny white cottage at the bottom of a green hill in the Irish countryside. They didn’t have much money. Sometimes they didn’t have as much as one potato between them. Rory knew this worried his mother.
One morning he said, “Mother, I am strong, and I’m tall for my age. Let me go to the city to seek my fortune.”
“And what is it that you’ll be doing to earn your way?” asked his mother. “We have not even a lamb or a chick to sell in the marketplace.”
“I will find work to do. I will make it known that I am hardworking and honest.”
“Very well,” said she. “But as you go, always watch for ways to serve others. And if ’tis gold you seek, Lad, faith and ’tis sure, none will you find more precious than the teaching to love your brother as yourself.”
“I will remember,” promised the boy.
Rory packed a knapsack with bread and cheese, kissed his mother farewell, and started his long walk to the city.
Along the road Rory saw a bird trying to fly. It flapped only one wing. The other hung limply at its side.
Rory said, “Poor bird, you have broken your wing.” He made a nest by cupping his hands and gently lifted the bird. “My good mother taught me, ‘Whatever you wish that men would do to you, so do to them.’” He grinned. “What can a wee bird do for me? No matter. I will carry you with me. Perhaps in some way I will help you.”
Rory walked along until he came to a cottage where he saw an old woman trying to split logs. “Perhaps she will make you well, little bird,” he said.
“Is it not hard for you to chop wood?” he called to the old woman. “I will do it for you if you will care for this bird with a broken wing.”
The woman held out her hands for the bird. “Aye, the poor, wee bird. Sure, and I can make it better. And a fine lad you are to help an old woman who has kinks in her knees and a crick in her back.”
Rory chopped until he had wood stacked almost as high as the cottage.
“So kind you are,” she said. “How can I repay you? So little I have to offer.”
Rory shook his head. “I want no pay. Glad I am that you will nurse the wee bird.”
“You must come inside for some hot soup,” she urged, and led him into her cottage. The old woman brought him a bowl of steaming nettle soup and some soda bread. The walking and wood chopping had made Rory hungry. The food tasted good, just like his mother’s.
While Rory ate, the old woman took a green woolen stocking cap from a cupboard and said, “Wear this cap, lad. You’ll be needing a covering for your head when you are on the open road.” She put the cap on Rory’s head. “I wove it meself. Wondrous powers it has. You will walk twice as fast, and never will you tire.”
Suddenly Rory’s tiredness left him. He believed he could travel the many miles to the city in no time at all. He thanked the old woman and went on his way.
He skipped along and he trotted along, and as the sun climbed high at noonday, Rory came upon an old, old man sitting on a rock. The old man’s face was very red. “Why do you not sit yonder in the shade?” Rory asked. “The sun is too hot on your head.”
“Aye, too hot for me head, but warm for me old bones. And too tired I am to move from here to there.”
Rory put the cap on the old man’s head. “You need a covering for your head. This cap has wondrous powers. You will walk twice as fast, and never will you tire.”
The old man sat up, a look of great surprise on his face. He laughed and clapped his hands. “Sure, and ’tis young again I feel!” He jumped up and danced a jig.
Rory saw a handsome shillelagh (stick cut from an oak or a blackthorn sapling) leaning against the rock. The piece of wood had been polished to such a luster that it shone like gold in the sunlight.
“ ’Tis a fine shillelagh you have,” said Rory.
“Take it,” said the old man. “’Tis a new life you’ve given me. And a lad should carry a strong club to ward off beasties and things that lurk in the forest at night.”
“I cannot take your fine shillelagh.”
“The shillelagh is yours. I’ll hear no more of it,” insisted the old man.
Rory sat beside the old man on the rock and shared his bread and cheese with him. As they ate, the man told Rory how he had made the shillelagh. “I cut the branch from a strong, gnarled oak tree meself. And many’s the hour I sat polishing it. Once I slew a bear with this same shillelagh.”
The sun and the long journey made Rory drowsy. He fell into a deep sleep. Hours later he woke to find the shillelagh beside him, but the old man was not to be seen.
Rory picked up the shillelagh and started up the road. The shillelagh was heavy. As he went, it got heavier and heavier. He thought of the long walk to the city. The heavy club would slow his pace. But he must not throw away such a fine oaken shillelagh. He must try to find the old man and give it back to him.
Rory called, “Old man who gave me this fine shillelagh! Where are you?” He called and called. But he heard only the echo of his voice and the moan of the wind that seemed to cry, “Go-o-ne! Go-o-ne!”
Finally Rory decided to return home with the shillelagh and go another day to seek his fortune. Up hill and down glen he struggled. He carried the club in his arms. He put it across his shoulders. He dragged it behind him. When he came to a hilltop, he rolled it to the bottom.
At last Rory climbed to the top of the hill where he could see the thatched roof of his own cottage. He gave the shillelagh a strong push down the hill. The crooked stick leaped over rocks and patches of heather like a nimble rabbit. Faster and faster it went until it reached the bottom and struck the door of the cottage, thrusting it open wide. With a crash and a clatter the shillelagh burst apart!
Rory could see the glint of gold flying up in the light of the moon. He tore down the hill. Hundreds of gold pieces lay scattered about. They had spilled out of the shillelagh and into the cottage. His frightened mother stood in the midst of the golden coins.
Rory hugged his mother and cried, “Sure, and I did find two fortunes this day—these coins that are soon spent, and gold in the words whatever you wish that men would do to you, so do to them. Such golden words are priceless, and forever will they last.”

Thank you for “Preparing for My Endowment” by Rachel Barton Morris in the October New Era. This article has excited me for a temple marriage and given me strength to find an eternal companion with whom I can be sealed for time and all eternity. I will continue to live by my standards and date young men who have a strong testimony of the gospel as well. Thank you, Rachel, for your inspiring words!Liberty Nelson, Clifton First Ward, Preston Idaho North Stake

In Belo Horizonte, 500 boys and girls gathered in a plaza and from there divided up and visited 12 nursing homes. In one of the homes, Maria do Carmo, a 98-year-old resident who has no grandchildren of her own, for one day gained many of them. “This is so wonderful,” she exclaimed. “What can I say? I’m so happy!”

When I was eight years old, our family went on a vacation to the state of New York. I learned that many important events in Church history took place there.
My parents had taught us about Joseph Smith and his prayer to seek wisdom from God. They taught us about Joseph’s experience in the Sacred Grove. They also taught us about the gold plates that were buried in the Hill Cumorah. We had heard these stories many times before in family home evening, in Primary, and in our church meetings.
When we got to New York, we visited the site where Joseph Smith lived with his parents and brothers and sisters. We were reminded that the Smith family loved the Bible and often read from it and prayed together. Then we went down the lane to the grove of trees where Joseph went to ask Heavenly Father which church was His true church.
As our family walked into the Sacred Grove, my heart began to pound. There was a peaceful, wonderful feeling there. I felt something very special as I thought about Joseph Smith and his prayer for wisdom. He actually saw our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. I knew it was true. My parents later explained that the special feeling I felt was the Holy Ghost.

This past month I watched a young couple draw enormous strength from the sealing promises of the temple as their precious baby boy was born but lived only one week. Through the ordinances of the priesthood, this young couple and all of us receive comfort, strength, protection, peace, and eternal promises.5

Just a few years later, Leander’s mother, who had been living with them, died of tuberculosis. In 1917, Leander also died of tuberculosis, leaving Lena Sofia a widow and pregnant with their 10th child. That child—my father—was born two months after Leander’s death. Lena Sofia eventually buried 7 of her 10 children. It was a very difficult struggle for her, an impoverished peasant woman, to keep intact what remained of her family.
For nearly two decades she did not get a good night’s rest. She hustled at odd jobs during the day to scrape together enough food to eat. At night she nursed dying family members. Death literally hung over their heads. In those days timber was split and often put in the roof rafters to dry. Those timbers were then used to make coffins for those who died. It is hard to imagine how Lena Sofia felt.
On the day I met her in 1963, I had just turned 11 and she was 87. She was stooped from a lifetime of hard labor. She was so bowed over that when she stood from her chair, her height did not change. The skin of her face and hands was weather-beaten—as tough and textured as worn leather.
She stood as best as she could, pointed to a photo of Leander on the wall, and said to me in Swedish, “Det här är min gubbe” (This is my hubby).
I had enrolled in a Swedish-speaking school earlier that fall and was just relearning Swedish. I thought my grandmother had incorrectly used the present tense of the verb when she said, “This is my hubby,” because Leander had been dead for 46 years. I pointed out to my mother that Lena Sofia should have said, “This was my hubby.” My mother simply told me, “You don’t understand.”
She was right. I didn’t understand—not as I do now. Since then, I have reflected many times on the meaning of that experience and what my grandmother had taught me.

On the 6th day of April, 1830, while in the process of organizing the Church, the Prophet received a revelation commanding the Church to appoint an historian and to keep a faithful record of all things. (See D&C 21.)

Oliver Cowdery was set apart as “Church historian.” At the conference of the Church on June 9, 1830, he was released because of other duties, and John Whitmer sustained in the position. Unfortunately, the records kept by these men as historians are brief and incomplete. From the founding of the Church, the Prophet Joseph faithfully kept a journal and collected together various letters and documents that proved invaluable in the compilation and writing of his history of the Church in 1838.

“What are you doing, Grandpa?”
At first, I didn’t think he heard me. He was lying under the great elm in our backyard, his head resting on his arms, his eyes closed. Then he blinked.
“What are you doing?” I tried again.
Grandpa didn’t answer right away. Grandpa was like that. He seemed to think a lot about what he was going to say before he actually got around to saying it. “Taking pictures,” he finally drawled.
That was something else that Grandpa did a lot, too—say things that didn’t seem to make sense, except to him.
“You don’t have a camera,” I observed.
“Do too.”
“Where?”
Grandpa tapped his forehead with a long, crooked finger.
I sprawled on my back next to Grandpa. It was a hot day, but the shade of the elm and a cool breeze made me forget that.
“The camera’s in here,” Grandpa said again, pointing at his forehead.
“Well, I don’t have a camera in my head, Grandpa.”
“Sure you do. The trick is knowing how to take pictures with it. Close your eyes.”
I obeyed, certain that at any minute Grandpa would start laughing and tell me it was all a joke.
“Now, breathe in,” he instructed. “Like this.” Grandpa closed his eyes and sucked an enormous amount of air into his lungs, like a thirsty man guzzles water.
I copied him as best as I could. “That makes me kind of dizzy, Grandpa.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll clean out that dusty attic in your head. Now smell.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“Well, don’t expect it to come up and bite you on the nose. Do it like this.” Again Grandpa closed his eyes and began sipping in air, slower this time, and through his nose, tilting his head this way, then that. A smile crept across his face.
I followed Grandpa’s lead. This time, I detected the faint smell of freshly cut hay. “Hay,” I pronounced, feeling as if I had accomplished a great feat. “But when do we get to the picture-taking part?”
“Now don’t let the pigs out of the pen until you have the slop ready, lad. We’ll get to that in a minute.”
We had never owned pigs, and I didn’t have the slightest idea what slop was, but Grandpa’s message was clear enough.
“Now,” Grandpa continued, “listen.”
“To what, Grandpa?”
“Just listen.”
I tried. I really did. But there wasn’t anything to hear—at least in my mind. “No one’s talking, Grandpa. There’s nothing to listen to.”
“Son,” Grandpa said softly, “most of what’s worth hearing in this world has little to do with talking. Now, try again.”
I closed my eyes tightly and concentrated. No voices. No words. Nothing. Then I started to hear things. A breeze gently shook the tree, and the leaves above me whistled softly. A robin cheerfully called a greeting. A cricket strummed its one-note song in the woodpile. Sounds tumbled through the grass to me. “Now I see what you mean!” I exclaimed. “There are lots of things to hear, aren’t there, Grandpa?”
“If a man has the ears to hear with, there’s plenty,” he agreed. “Ready for the next part?”
I pulled my shoulders back and wriggled deeper into the grass. “Ready.”
“Feel,” Grandpa whispered.
This time I didn’t ask what Grandpa meant; I just got down to the business of feeling. I soon discovered there was plenty to feel too. The grass—like tiny, green feathers, it gently tickled my bare feet and arms. The wind—it laughed and danced over my face, kissing my cheeks and spinning away. The sun—tiny flecks of heat dribbled through the leaves, leaving warm prints on me like footsteps on a sandy beach.
I revealed these wonders to Grandpa, who listened and nodded with a shadow of a smile etched on his face.
“Ready for the most important part?”
I quietly nodded.
“Good. Now I want you to see.”
“There’s too much to look at, Grandpa,” I protested.
“I didn’t say anything about looking,” Grandpa replied. “I’m talking about seeing. Some people spend their whole lives looking at this and that, and never really see anything. Once you take your first picture with that camera inside your head, you’ll know what I mean.”
For the next few minutes I squinted at the elm overhead. At first, I didn’t see anything—at least, not anything I hadn’t seen a hundred times before. Then, very slowly, colors and shapes started appearing. It was just like those pictures in children’s magazines, with animals hidden in the drawings. You stare and stare, then wham! there’s a turkey hidden in someone’s shoe, or an upside-down pig in the chimney.
At that moment I understood what Grandpa meant by seeing. The edges of the leaves sliced pieces from the sky like tiny cookie cutters; the brown, wrinkled arms of the elm reached toward heaven in silent prayer; the blur of brown sparrows hopscotched like daredevils through the tree.
“Now put it all together,” Grandpa whispered in my ear. “The smelling, the hearing, the feeling, the seeing. Roll it together into one big picture.”
I took a deep breath, smelled the air, heard the leaves gently rustle like giggling children, felt the breeze tickling my skin, and saw the whole picture come together in one big splash of color.
“Click!” said Grandpa. “You just took a picture. A mighty fine one too! Anytime you want it, it’ll be there. Ten years, twenty years—it doesn’t matter. When you want that picture, it’ll be there for you. And you will want it. Someday when you’re feeling down, all you’ll have to do is remember it and it’ll pop right back into your head just the way it is now—the elm, the leaves, the smell of the hay, the feel of the grass prickling at your neck, the whole thing.”
I lay quietly, listening to Grandpa’s words until they faded away on the wind, wondering where they went and if anyone else would ever hear them. “Grandpa?” I finally asked, “do you have any pictures of Grandma? I don’t remember her so well.”
“Lots,” he replied simply. “A man can never have too many pictures of the ones he loves.”
The wind began to blow stronger, spinning around the tree as if confused about where it was heading. The elm, bending ever so slightly, guided the swirling air through its branches.
“I believe it might rain this afternoon,” Grandpa observed.
A distant rumble of thunder rolled over the cornfields in confirmation.
“And if I’m not mistaken,” Grandpa continued, sitting up, “when we were doing all that smelling, I smelled fresh-baked apple pie coming from the general direction of your mom’s kitchen. Interested?”
As Grandpa and I headed inside, it felt good knowing that there was a picture of all this inside my head, a picture I could remember any time I wanted.
And I did remember it, just as Grandpa said I would: the huge, solid elm, the canopy of leaves overhead, the pillow of grass beneath me, the sounds and smells—and one more thing. Something Grandpa had not mentioned was in the picture as well—the best thing in it: Grandpa himself. He was there, too, whenever I wanted to remember him: solid, kind, patient, knowing everything about everything, and taking the time on a warm afternoon to show a young boy how to take pictures with the camera inside his head.

If I may speak now for a moment in a personal vein, I wish to express before you my appreciation for them. It is now almost three years since I was called by President Kimball to serve as a Counselor in the First Presidency of the Church. During a substantial part of that period I have humbly tried to carry a great and awesome responsibility. I have known something of loneliness and worry and deep concern. I have prayed earnestly for direction and strength and guidance. I have called on these my beloved Brethren of the Twelve. They have freely and generously given of support, assistance, and inspired counsel.

When I am filled with strong desire
And ask a boon of Him, I see
No miracle of living fire,
But what I ask flows into me.

Lillie couldn’t wait for the lunch bell to ring. She watched the clock as the hands slowly moved to 12:00. She was supposed to be reading quietly, but she was too excited to concentrate. Lunch was her favorite part of the day—a time to be with her new friends, talking, laughing, and making plans for after school.
Lillie had moved a few months ago, and at first she had felt alone and afraid. The first week in Primary, she met one other girl in her class, but she lived far across town and went to another school. Luckily, on Lillie’s first day of school, she was placed in the same sixth-grade class as Teresa. Teresa was very friendly, and now Lillie was part of a fun group. It was hard being the new girl in school, but Teresa and her friends made Lillie feel welcome.
Finally the bell clanged and Lillie grabbed her sack lunch from inside her desk. Teresa called, “Wait for me by the door. I have to grab my backpack.”
Lillie saw Jackie coming from a classroom down the hall and waved. “Hey, Lillie,” Jackie called over the noisy chatter. “Are you ready for lunch?”
“I am now,” she said as Teresa came up beside her and linked arms with her. Together they followed Jackie to the lunchroom and found a table where everyone could sit. Lillie sat between Jackie and a boy named Brad and quickly unwrapped her lunch. Brad asked if she had seen the game on TV the night before. Jackie discussed her birthday party coming up the next month. Lillie ate her lunch happily.
After lunch most of the others scattered, but Lillie and her friends pushed back their chairs and continued talking. Brad told funny jokes that made everyone laugh. Jackie described something funny her little sister had done. Lillie wished she had something witty and wonderful to say too, but nothing came to her mind.
Lunch was almost over. The cafeteria workers began cleaning the tables. Teresa imitated a popular movie star, and everyone laughed. Lillie took a deep breath and decided to do something she had never done before. She took the Lord’s name in vain, giggled, then said, “That was so funny, Teresa!”
Suddenly, the lunchroom fell silent. Lillie felt her face grow red with embarrassment as everyone looked at her. Brad shook his head slowly. “Lillie,” he asked softly, “aren’t you a Mormon?”
“Yeah,” Jackie said, “I thought Mormons didn’t swear.”
Lillie felt sick. She couldn’t say anything. The bell rang, and everyone shuffled back to class. Teresa walked beside Lillie, but she didn’t say a word.
All afternoon Lillie wondered why she had said such a thing. She knew it was wrong. She had never said it before. Her teacher asked her several questions about the day’s lesson, but she shook her head and said she didn’t know. She couldn’t wait for school to end so she could go home and hide under her bed.
After school Lillie told Teresa she had to hurry home. She ran from the building, tears in her eyes and a big lump in her throat. When her mother asked about her day, she was too ashamed to answer and hurried to her room.
How had it happened? She had been eager to impress the others, but she had hurt her spirit instead. She knew she had to ask for forgiveness. If her actions had disappointed her new friends, how much more must they have disappointed Heavenly Father.
That night Lillie couldn’t eat her dinner, and it was hard to look at her parents. Finally her father gently asked what was troubling her. The story spilled out, mixed with bitter tears. “Dad, I am so sorry. I feel terrible,” Lillie cried.
Her father put his arm around her shoulders. “That’s an important part of repentance, Lillie. You truly have to be sorry for what you do—or say.”
Lillie wiped her eyes. “Oh, I am, Dad. I’ll never swear again. Never!”
Her father nodded. “Good. Now go tell Heavenly Father what you just told me, and I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.”
As Lillie knelt beside her bed and prayed, she felt her heart would break. She thought of other mistakes she had made and wondered how Heavenly Father and Jesus could continue to love and forgive her. But as she whispered, “I am so sorry,” she felt the peaceful warmth of the Holy Ghost. Finishing her prayer, she was filled with the strength to do one more thing she needed to do.
Lillie shakily dialed Teresa’s phone number. She could barely speak, but she managed to say she was sorry for what she had said at lunch. Then she called Jackie and Brad.
“Do I have to go to school today?” she asked her mother the next morning. She didn’t want to face her friends. What must they think of her?
Her mother hugged her. “Yes. If you don’t, it will be harder tomorrow.”
Teresa found Lillie before school and gave her a quick hug. “I can’t believe you called everyone and said you were sorry. I never could have done that!”
Jackie called from the doorway of her classroom. “Lillie! I have to talk to you about my birthday party, OK? See you at lunch.”
Lillie gave a small sigh of relief and slid into her chair. She never wanted to feel the hurt of a wrong choice again. Even if her friends hadn’t known she was a member of the Church, she would have felt the sting all the same. She was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and from now on she intended to act like it.