Gospel Story Finder

In 1904, he and a few others founded a settlement called Sauniatu (“Preparing to Go Forward”), a small sanctuary for the Saints in the mountains of Upolu. Shortly after the first chapel was built, the small cooking house behind it caught on fire and, despite the efforts of the people to carry water from the river, the fire spread rapidly, endangering the chapel itself. Then people noticed that Opapo had climbed atop the chapel and sat astride its roof-beam. Raising his right arm, he looked to heaven and said, “Father, we can spare the small house, but we cannot spare the big one. In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the holy priesthood, I command the wind to change.”
It did; the small house collapsed, and the chapel was saved. Not only was the chapel spared, but the Sauniatu Saints’ faith was strengthened at a very difficult time.

One day Daniel’s cousin Tyler came over to play …
Don’t go near the thorn patch!
OK!
Hey, Tyler! Let’s kick the soccer ball around.
Oh, no! We’re not supposed to go near there.
I think I can reach it.
Ouch!
Hang on! I’m going to get some help!
Are you OK?
Yeah, but I wish I didn’t fall into the thorn patch!
Mom warned you about the thorn patch because we care about you and want you to be safe.
I know. Thanks for helping me.
What do you want to do now?
Let’s play in the treehouse—and stay away from the thorns!

She was more emotional than I thought she would be about the news, and I found out why a few months later, on the day I was leaving for the MTC.
Mom found a minute to tell me this story. On the day I left to go back to Rexburg, without telling me, Mom had asked the family to join in a special fast for me, to ask that my heart would be softened and that I would make the decision to go on a mission.
The family gladly participated, and they closed their fast with a family prayer at nearly the exact time my car died on that lonely freeway.

I can honestly say that I’ve never really had a father. Although he is still alive, I have never had the opportunity to get to know him.
My memories of my father are limited to his coming home unexpectedly one night, after we had not seen him for some time, and my mother crying. All I really remember about my father is his absence.
My feelings towards my father gradually turned into complete confusion and dismay when his behavior caused my mother to become so ill that she had to go into a hospital. I was visiting her one day trying to comfort her, and my father came to see me. By that time, he was living with another woman. Somehow I found enough courage to ask him if he would consider coming back to live with his family. He simply laughed nervously and said, “No, it is too late.”
There is a tremendous emotional handicap that comes with the absence of a father. Although my mother constantly showed her love for me, I could not help feeling betrayed.
I could not live with such a feeling forever. The first change occurred when I joined the Church. As a member, I realized I had to find it in my heart to forgive my father. But I still felt confused. I understood that I could forgive him, but what exactly was I supposed to forgive him for? I never hated him or wished him any harm. But I was still angry. I felt sorry for him and upset at the choices he had made. My mother, although not a member of the Church, asked me to include him in my prayers and ask that the Lord might take care of him. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
As I learned more about the gospel, it seemed to make matters worse. When I learned the importance of the priesthood, the blessings that come when it is exercised properly in faith, it made me sad. Why didn’t I have a responsible priesthood holder in my family to go to in times of trouble?
But a chance was already in progress. As a member of the Church I began to see the world and the people in it from a different point of view. I turned aside from bad habits and tried to live the way the Lord wanted me to. I found great comfort in prayer. For I now finally realized I had someone in whom I could confide all my problems, my joys and little triumphs. It was a feeling that completely overwhelmed me, made me feel important. I knew He was listening.
I realized that I did indeed have a Father, that I literally was His son in the spirit. It filled my heart to know that there was someone willing to lend a helping hand to sustain and encourage me. I was given a great gift—the feeling of belonging. I was not alone. I knew the world to be literally filled with my brothers and sisters, all sharing a common Father. Sometimes I would look at people around me and think, I know something wonderful and I long to share it with you. We are related.
What the Lord gave me was strength, peace, and fulfillment. He made me see why a concept like forgiveness is truly all-encompassing and powerful. The Lord forgave me of my sins and transgressions at my baptism. And by sincere repentance I can still be forgiven. It was clear that I did not deserve this privilege if I did not find it in my heart to forgive my father. I learned that in spite of his habits and conduct, I should honor him and try to find a way to help him instead of silently condemning him.
It’s been a long, hard struggle for me, and I cannot say that I still do not long for the physical presence of my earthly father. But I know now that he needs help. And through prayer, work, and example, someday I may be able to help him truly realize that he, too, is a son of God.

“Li-sa Lar-son!”
The double L rings out again as the announcer names the scoring player. Lisa, a 17-year-old senior from New Trier High School in Chicago, Illinois, has just scored two more points. Her long ponytail whips from side to side as she runs down the court, stops, and darts back and forth in front of one of the opposing players.
Then suddenly Lisa lunges at the ball, steals it, and a few seconds later, the loudspeaker booms again—“Li-sa Lar-son!” By the time the game is over, Lisa has scored 23 points.
When Lisa plays basketball, she explodes with energy. But it isn’t only on the basketball court that she demonstrates such enthusiasm.
“Lisa’s first word was more,” says her mother, Maya. “I guess that was a promise of things to come.”
Lisa lives in Northfield, Illinois, close to Lake Michigan, and belongs to the North Shore First Ward, Wilmette Illinois Stake. But if you met Lisa at church, you might not recognize her as the same girl who can dominate the basketball court. She is quiet and a little reserved. She attends early-morning seminary. You can often find her deep in thought.
“Time passes faster now than it did when I was younger,” Lisa says. “That worries me. I don’t want life to go by too fast. The gospel helps me put more value on time, and I want to do as much as I can with the time I have.”
When Lisa isn’t on the basketball court or at a Church activity, there’s another place you may find her. She loves animals; horses are her favorites.
“Some neighbors needed someone to watch their stable last summer, so I volunteered, just so I could be around the horses. Horses have a peaceful spirit, and I like to be with them.”
“The horses can tell she cares about them, and they really respond to her,” says her grandfather, James Larson.
Lisa is also interested in piano, tennis, dance, water ballet, and community service. “I want to learn as much as I can,” she says.
The Trevians’ girls’ basketball team is one of Illinois’s strongest. Lisa is cocaptain and the only Mormon—which presents interesting opportunities.
“Once we were playing a tough game, and I was standing at the foul line next to a big girl from the other team. She turned and asked, ‘Why don’t you ever swear?’”
Lisa smiles as she tells the story. Then she gets more serious. “I know that because I’m LDS, the other girls are watching everything I do. I want them to know that being a Mormon can make you work harder, not just in sports but in everything. I think they’re starting to understand that my standards give me more physical drive and help me think clearer when things are moving fast. The gospel makes me stronger in everything I do.”
This priority on gospel standards influences Lisa’s non-LDS friends. They come to her for advice, knowing they can trust her. “During a junior prom, I was able to talk a couple of my friends out of doing something that could have been real trouble for them. My friends are amazed that I can enjoy life without drinking or drugs.”
There are only about 20 LDS students at New Trier, but in spite of their small number, Lisa says, “when we talk about religion, almost everyone listens. They want to know what we have to say, and why we believe the way we do. They keep us busy answering questions about the Church, especially when there’s nothing else to do during bus rides to field trips.”
Last year, Lisa dislocated her shoulder and missed a chance to go to the Blue Star Basketball Camp to be seen by college recruiters. She was disappointed, but she didn’t give up. “I knew that I’d kept my body clean and strong and that it would heal fast.” She came back playing even stronger.
Lisa’s coach, John Schneiter, says, “In my 35 years of coaching, I’ve never seen a harder working athlete.”
Lisa comes by a lot of that determination through her family. The Larsons are like many active LDS families throughout the world. They echo gospel ideals in many of their activities. Their conversations are sprinkled with LDS catchwords. And they relate well with their non-LDS neighbors and friends. The Larsons also have an unusual number of family traditions which seem to bind them together. Visit them in December, for example, and you’ll probably see their family enactment of “The Night before Christmas”—with all of the lines changed for comic effect.
Lisa has two brothers and one sister. Josh, 15, is the oldest brother, just younger than Lisa and also an up-and-coming basketball player; then come Brigham, 12, and Brittany, 9.
Lisa relates well to her father’s athletic background as a college football player. “He’s been a great influence on me,” she says. “He loves sports and is a real fighter. He helps me stick with it when I get discouraged.”
What’s in Lisa’s future? “I’ll always be interested in sports,” she says. “But there’s more. I want to go to college—to BYU and major in dance. And join a dance troupe later on. And then teach.”
She pauses again.
“I’d like to go on a mission somewhere in the middle of all that. And of course get married and raise a family.” And more, and more, and more, and more.
In many ways, Lisa is just a good LDS girl, whose life is continually influenced by her membership in the Church. But because she’s always trying to do the best she can, for her more isn’t just a word; it’s a lifelong challenge.
Editor’s note: Since this story was written, Lisa has graduated from high school and is attending BYU.

Wanda’s brown eyes stared blankly at the empty loom. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her long black hair danced in the breeze. For weeks Grandmother and twelve-year-old Wanda had planned and prepared for this rug. They had sheared the sheep and then washed and dyed the wool, using native dyes made from roots, berries, nuts, and plants.
Grandmother’s wrinkled hands had showed Wanda how to card the wool and spin it into yarn. Wanda had watched carefully, for this was to be her first rug, her very own creation.
Grandmother’s head peeked out of the nearby hogan, her hands busy patting a piece of fry bread into shape. “You must work, Wanda Kieyoomia. The rug will not weave by itself.”
“But Grandmother, won’t you draw out the design like you have before and just let me weave it?”
“No, Wanda. You cannot become a real Navajo by weaving the designs of others. You must weave your own story into the rug. You must prove yourself worthy of your people.”
Wanda turned back to the empty loom. She picked up a ball of black yarn and stared at it.
What can I weave? she wondered. I have not had a frightful experience of bravery as Kathy Silentman did. I have never met a great person as Elvira Tak did. I have nothing important to weave into my rug.
Wanda threw the ball of black yarn to the ground and walked into the hogan. Mother and Grandmother were just finishing the fry bread.
“We have made fry bread just for you,” Mother smiled. But Wanda did not seem to hear.
Mother’s long skirt rustled and her silver and turquoise jewelry clicked to the rhythm of the crackling fire. Finally she asked, “Have you decided whether you will go to the white man’s school next year, Wanda?”
Wanda shook her head. She did not want to go; she was a Navajo and had no use for white man’s ways. But how could she tell Mother? Why were there so many problems and decisions all at once?
“You must decide soon,” Grandmother reminded her. “The time is growing short.”
Wanda did not want to talk about her decision just yet. After she had finished the dishes, she tried to get away while Mother put the little ones to sleep, but Mother stopped her.
“Wanda,” Mother said as she pulled the covers over two-year-old Roberta. “You cannot delay longer. The man from the placement bureau must be told the day after tomorrow. And there is one other thing, my daughter.”
Mother Kieyoomia walked to the door and motioned for Wanda to follow. They walked to the loom. Mother smoothed her beautiful Navajo skirt around her as she sat down. “Wanda, do you remember cousin Victoria?”
“Yes, she’s been at the white man’s school for three years now.”
“And do you remember how she tells of the many things she has learned? Now she is helping her family by teaching them.”
“I know she has learned many things,” Wanda answered, “but Mother, they are white men’s things. We are Navajos, and I only need to know how to cook and weave and take care of my hogan.”
“That is what I wanted to tell you, Wanda. I am glad that you are proud to be a Navajo, but we must progress with the white man’s world. Your father and I have decided to move to one of the new houses on the reservation.”
Wanda jumped to her feet. “A white man’s house? Move from our hogan?”
“Yes, Wanda. It will be much more comfortable for our large family.”
Wanda stared first at the balls of yarn and then at her mother. Then she turned and ran into the sagebrush-covered hills. Her long skirt wrapped around her ankles as she ran.
Suddenly she fell into the sand, panting hard to catch her breath. Slowly she rolled over and looked at the fluffy white clouds floating through the sky. A white man’s house? How could they do this? We are Navajos. I will always be a Navajo! I will not adopt the white man’s ways.
Her eyes began to fill with tears, but she choked them back. A Navajo does not cry, she reminded herself.
Suddenly she had an idea. I will weave into my rug the story of our people, she decided. I will remind Mother and Father of how our people have been treated. Then they will not want me to go. She jumped up and walked back to the hogan, thinking about the design of the rug.
The news that Wanda had started her rug spread quickly among the women. It is an important event when a girl weaves her first rug all alone. Everyone smiled as they agreed, “Wanda will be an asset to our people just as Victoria has been. We will be proud of her.”
The words stung Wanda’s ears, making her weave faster and faster. But Victoria left our people for three years. How can they compare me to her? I will not go to a white man’s school! I am a Navajo!
Wanda’s fingers ached as she gathered up the balls of yarn for the night. “It will be a beautiful rug,” a voice from behind said. Wanda looked up, startled.
“Hello, Victoria,” she said softly as she went back to her work. “I did not hear you come.”
“I’ve been watching you. Your fingers are nimble and sure. What will your rug tell, Wanda?” Victoria asked. “My first rug was about my grandfather.”
“You wove a story rug?” Wanda questioned.
“Of course. I am a Navajo.” Victoria sat down next to Wanda and ran her fingers through the sand.
Wanda stared at her. “But you have been living with white people and going to white schools!”
“Yes, to help my family and my people. I have learned many things from the white man, but I am a Navajo. I want our people to have the best of both cultures. Then we will have both the good things that the white men have and the good things that our people have always had. Someday you will go to school so you can help too.”
When Victoria left, Wanda’s old thoughts and feelings buzzed through her head as she compared them with what Victoria had just told her. All night she thought of it, tossing and turning as she tried to sleep.
As the delicate half-light of morning was beginning to creep into the valley, Wanda hurried out to her loom.
Her hands worked fast and sure as they had done the day before, but on her face was a smile of peace. By nightfall the rug was completed, and everyone gathered to see Wanda’s work.
Father Kieyoomia was the first to see the small rug. He looked at it a long, long time. Finally he turned to Wanda. “I am proud of you, my daughter,” he said. “Most girls tell of things that have happened. They are past; they cannot be changed. But you have told of the future, a future you will help to make by going to the white man’s school and learning about the world. Then you will bring the good things you learn back to us, your people. You are a real Navajo.”

Mike has learned a lot about many things because of his involvement with amateur radio. He learned about family love as his parents, brothers, and sister helped with construction of the tower: “It’s a sacrifice for my parents to let me have it, and we’ll probably take it down while I’m on my mission. But everybody sure pitched in to help me build it.”
Mike paid for the tower himself, mostly from money he earned on his paper route. That taught him how to budget and how to work for what he wants. He also had to obtain building permits and file applications with the county in order to have permission to erect the tower. “I had to decide where the guy lines should go, how big of a tower to put up, draw the designs, and make the calculations all on my own. Now I know how the permit system works in case I ever want to build a home or remodel.”

One evening on board ship, while sailing from Yokohama, Japan, to Seattle, Washington, after the end of World War II, I began talking to the officer in the bunk next to me about the Book of Mormon. He was not a member of the Church, but he lived in the Worland, Wyoming, area, and so he knew quite a bit about the Mormons. We had a lengthy but interesting discussion.
The next morning the officer in the bunk above me, who had listened the night before but hadn’t joined in the discussion, came to me and said, “Where can I get a copy of that Book of Mormon you were talking about last night?”
I said, “Give me your address, and I’ll send you a copy just as soon as I return to Salt Lake City.”
I sent it along with a few tracts and had his name referred to the missionaries, that he might be contacted.

A turning point for me came during a deacons quorum class in Spanish Fork, Utah, when I was 12. The lesson was on missionary work, and to me the lesson seemed pointless, because I wasn’t going on a mission. But as I sat there, a clear voice in my head asked, “Travis, what if it’s not just about you?” This simple question shifted my perspective. A mission, I realized, was about what God wanted me to do, not just what I wanted. A mission wasn’t solely about blessings for me, but also about being a blessing to others.

Many years ago, on a Halloween night, it was my privilege to be of assistance to one who had temporarily lost his way and needed a helping hand to return. I was driving home from the office rather late. I had been stalling on Halloween, letting my wife handle the trick-or-treat visitors. As I passed St. Mark’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, I remembered that a dear friend, Max, lay ill in that very hospital. As he and I had become acquainted years before, we discovered that we had grown up in the same ward, although at different times. By the time I was born, Max and his parents had moved from the ward.
That Halloween night, I drove into the parking lot and entered the hospital. As I stopped at the desk to inquire as to his room number, I was informed that when Max had registered at the hospital, he had listed as his religious preference not LDS but rather another church.
I entered Max’s room and greeted him. I told him how proud I was to be his friend and how much I cared about him. I talked about his career in banking and as an orchestra leader on the side. I discovered that he had been offended by a comment or two from others and so had decided to attend another church. I said to him, “Max, you hold the Melchizedek Priesthood. I would like to give you a blessing tonight.” He agreed, and the blessing was provided. He then informed me that his wife, Bernice, was also very ill and was, in fact, in an adjoining room. At my invitation, Max joined me in giving a blessing to her. He asked me to help him. I coached him. He anointed his wife. There were tears and embraces all around as I sealed the anointing with Max, his hands on his wife’s head with mine, making that Halloween evening one ever to be remembered.
As I left the hospital that night, I stopped at the desk and told the receptionist that with the permission of Max and his wife the record should be changed to reflect their membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I waited and I watched until it was changed.
My friends Max and Bernice are now both on the other side of the veil, but they spent the last period of their lives active and happy and receiving the blessings which come with testimonies of the gospel and attendance at church.

Dear Miss A,Just a note to say hello and let you know of my love. I hope all is well.Love,Miss Antaloop
Julia folded up the note, then, in red marker, wrote, “Miss A,” in an extravagant, cursive style that didn’t resemble her own handwriting.
The bell rang, and the second grade classroom exploded in a frenzy of activity—backpacks zipped, desks slammed, and children noisily exited the room. Julia set the envelope on her teacher’s desk without being noticed and left with her classmates. She was determined that Miss Allen, or Miss A, as her second grade students called her, would have no clues about the mysterious Miss Antaloop.
A month earlier, Julia had overheard Miss A telling another teacher that she had nowhere to go for the upcoming Christmas holiday. Julia could not imagine a Christmas without family.
“I heard Miss A say she had nowhere to go for Christmas,” Julia told her mom after school. “Why doesn’t she go home to her family?”
“Julia, Miss Allen told me once that she was an only child, and I know that both of her parents have passed away. She probably doesn’t have any family to go to.”
Julia’s face twisted into a frown. “That’s so sad! Why, Miss A is the nicest, most wonderful teacher ever!” She paused, thinking. “Hey—can we be her family?”
“She is a very special teacher,” Mom agreed. “I’ve invited her to come to dinner before, when David was in her class. I also invited her to his mission farewell, but she didn’t come.”
That night Julia wrote her first letter to Miss A from the make-believe Miss Antaloop. Most of the students loved Miss A. But Julia wanted to find a way to show her that she was loved as a friend, not just as a teacher who might be forgotten. So she made up the character of Miss Antaloop. Julia wasn’t sure of Miss Antaloop’s age or background, but she knew that Miss Antaloop loved adventure and loved Miss A. The second letter established England as Miss Antaloop’s home.
Dear Miss A,I’ve heard all about you and what an incredible teacher you are. I was hoping we could be pen pals and friends. I’ve been in Italy, painting, and just moved to London to design jewelry for the Queen of England. You are pretty and a great teacher.Love,Miss AntaloopP.S. I’ve enclosed one of my latest jewelry designs. I hope you like it.
Julia carefully wrapped a bracelet she’d sculpted out of tinfoil in some tissues and placed it in a brown paper bag with the letter. The next morning she arrived at school early. She tiptoed into the main office, placed the brown sack in Miss Allen’s mailbox, and then ran out before she could be spotted.
Later that day, Miss A was wearing the silver foil bracelet.
“Hey, Miss A, where’d you get that silver thing?” Tommy asked.
“Why, it’s a bracelet all the way from England,” Miss A said with a big smile. Julia looked up from her spelling book with a start.
“Who gave it to you? Is it from a kid?”
Miss A put her finger to her lips, signaling Tommy to use his quiet voice.
“Is it from a kid?” Tommy repeated in a fierce whisper.
Julia swallowed.
Miss A’s blue eyes sparkled. “It’s from a special friend,” she said. Since the first delivery, Julia had noticed her little gifts and letters appearing on Miss A’s bookshelf.
On the day before school was to close for the Christmas break, Miss A let the children share their holiday plans. Phillip was going sledding. Andrea was going to California to visit her grandparents. Tommy planned to eat all of the candy in his stocking in one day.
“What are you going to do, Miss A?” Andrea asked.
“I am going to spend my holiday at home.”
“Why don’t you come to my house?” Julia asked.
“And then come over to mine!” Phillip echoed. Suddenly the classroom broke out in a chorus of second-graders begging their teacher to join them for Christmas.
“You’re all very sweet,” said Miss A, “but you have your families to celebrate with and, as you’ve just told me, many activities planned. I’ll be right here by my desk at the first of January, waiting to see you and hear about all of your fun.”
The bell rang. As Julia walked slowly out of the room, Miss A said, “Good-bye, Julia. Merry Christmas!”
Julia’s house buzzed with Christmas preparations over the next few days.
While Julia helped wrap presents and bake food, she kept thinking of Miss A’s face as the different students described their holiday activities with their families. She had smiled, but her blue eyes had looked empty with loneliness. Julia decided to do something about it.
“David, David,” Julia whispered as she knocked on her brother’s bedroom door.
The door swung open, and David looked down at his little sister. “Hey, Jules, what’s up? Are you being a Christmas elf?”
“No,” Julia said. “I need help.”
David crouched down to look Julia in the face. “OK, Jules, what’s up?”
“I need you to help me—it’s very important. I want to deliver this to Miss A.” She held up a large white box. “Dad said you could take me.”
“What is it, Jules? I thought you already gave her a Christmas present.”
“I did, but this is a special present.”
David lifted the box lid to see the nativity scene that Julia had made with salt dough in Primary last year, nestled in tissue paper. Last year Julia had been so proud of it that she insisted that it be displayed in the living room.
“Your nativity set? But you love this.”
“I know.” Julia lovingly touched the Baby Jesus in the manger. “But I think Miss A feels lonely. I think she forgot that Jesus loves her.”
David smiled at the misshapen dough figures. “OK,” he said, picking up the box in one arm and Julia in the other. “Then let’s go, little elf.”
The car cut through the snowy, dark streets and stopped at a brown apartment building.
“I guess this is it.”
“Are you sure?”
“This is the address in the phone book,” David said. Julia looked doubtfully at the long staircase and dark windows.
“Jules, do you want me to do it?”
Julia’s face relaxed into a smile. “Will you?”
“Hand it over,” David laughed.
Julia straightened the bow so that “Merry Christmas from England! Love, Miss Antaloop” was visible. “Be careful, and run fast so she doesn’t see you,” she whispered.
Julia quickly changed into a Sunday dress and came down for the annual Christmas Eve family home evening. The family had just settled in the living room, when the doorbell rang. “Who could that be on Christmas Eve?” Mom wondered aloud. Dad went to answer the door and returned, followed by Miss A.
“Miss A!” Julia ran up to her teacher.
“Miss Allen, what a wonderful surprise!” Mom said. “Come in.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But I received a very special present this evening, and I had to come thank the person who gave it to me.”
“What … but … how did you know, Miss A?” Julia asked, embarrassed she’d been discovered.
Miss A smiled. “Julia, you must tell Miss Antaloop thank you for bringing some light into my Christmas.” She hugged Julia. “I had just sat down to watch a Christmas special on television, when the doorbell rang. I was surprised to find a present there and to open it and find such a beautiful reminder of the reason for Christmas!” Miss A’s eyes sparkled.
“Miss Allen, why don’t you take off your coat and stay. We’re going to have a little Christmas program, then dinner,” Mom said.
“Yes, please stay!” Julia begged.
“Come on, Miss A,” David chimed in.
“Well,” Miss A said. She looked around at the faces looking back at her with hopeful, welcoming expressions on them. Suddenly she did not want to return to her empty apartment. “OK—I will.”
“Hurray!” Julia cried.
“I’ll have to stay if I want to catch Miss Antaloop,” she whispered to Julia with a wink.
Julia smiled. She knew that Christmas wasn’t about make-believe friends. It was about love.

The second example is from the life of Willard Bean, a remarkable man who became known as the “fighting parson.” In the spring of 1915, Willard and his new bride, Rebecca, were called by President Joseph F. Smith to serve a mission for “five years or longer” in Palmyra, New York (Vicki Bean Topliff, Willard Bean: “The Fighting Parson” [Huntington Beach, Calif.: n.p., 1989], p. 87; for the account of their life in Palmyra, see pp. 86–131). Their task was to occupy the recently acquired Joseph Smith home and farm and to reestablish the Church in the hostile environment which still existed at the time in Palmyra.
The Beans were rebuffed on every front as they settled into the Smith home. The townspeople would not speak to them or wait on them in their stores. Passersby would pause in front of the home and shout obscenities. Their children were assigned to sit in the back corners of the schoolroom and were shunned by the other children in class.
Willard, who was an accomplished athlete and had been a prize-winning boxer, decided to improve public relations by putting on a boxing exhibition in Palmyra. A ring was set up in an old opera house, and the “fighting parson” challenged all comers to a boxing match.
When the night of the exhibition arrived, the toughest men in Palmyra sat in the first few rows. One by one they entered the ring, only to be carried out again in a matter of seconds! This continued until the seventh challenger was similarly disposed.
Brother Bean’s fighting abilities were more spontaneously employed on another occasion as he walked along the unfriendly streets of Palmyra. A man watering his front lawn one afternoon suddenly turned the hose on Willard and taunted, “I understand you people believe in baptism by immersion.” The spry, athletic Willard reportedly vaulted over the fence separating them and replied, “Yes, and we also believe in the laying on of hands” (Willard Bean: “The Fighting Parson,” p. 14).
Although Brother Bean’s methods were a little unorthodox and definitely not compatible with the current approved missionary program of the Church, they were nonetheless effective. The people of Palmyra began begrudgingly to yield and to accept the Beans as the good people they were. In time, they were invited to participate in local churches and to join the civic organizations of the day. They established a branch of the Church and helped acquire the Hill Cumorah and the Martin Harris and Peter Whitmer farms. The “five years or longer” mission to which the prophet had called them stretched to nearly twenty-five years before it concluded. During that time, the attitude of the people of Palmyra had changed from hostility toward the Beans to toleration, then admiration, and finally to love. The power of good lives is truly great.

At school, Tre and Joe are in the same class, because Tre has dyslexia and has had trouble reading. So Joe has become Tre’s unofficial tutor. They often do their homework together.
“Tre has always learned from experience,” Sister Pennington explains. “Joe learns from books. Even though they’re in the same class, they’re not jealous of each other or embarrassed to be seen together. They really help each other.”
“It’s a little strange being a sophomore instead of a senior,” Tre admits. “But it doesn’t matter. The most important thing is to work and to learn.”

As I sat in the motel room anticipating the next day’s state cross-country race, I kept wondering if I was talented at all as an athlete. I was struggling with all the difficult emotions a 16-year-old could have. I felt I was running worse than when I was a freshman. I felt ugly. The fact I’d never had a date or a boyfriend like all of my other friends compounded my feelings of insecurity. And I wanted so badly to feel accepted.
I had gone to bed early, and my teammates thought I was asleep. I heard them giggling, and then they nudged my shoulder and said, “Here, Jenny. Have some water.” I could distinctly smell that it was not water.
I was angry at my supposed “friends” for trying to play a trick on me. Did they think I was stupid? I was scared they might force the liquor down my throat. I wanted to run away to the security of my mother’s arms, yet that seemed so childish for a teenager who yearned for independence.
A thousand questions raced through my mind. By drinking the liquor, would I be part of the “in” crowd? Would the alcohol make me beautiful? Would it give me a boyfriend? Would I be able to run faster, or even win the race?
I knew all the answers to these questions, so I boldly said, “No, that’s not water and I’m not going to drink it.” I believe both of those girls beat me in the race the next day. However, I knew I had won a race in the Lord’s eyes because I had kept the Word of Wisdom.
The bus trip home seemed particularly long. I was anxious to return home to my family and tell my mother what happened. The next night at the dinner table Mom presented me with a gift. I didn’t recall ever receiving a present unless it was Christmas or my birthday. My five brothers and sisters watched me open it. They were all thankful for and proud of my decision.
Around that dinner table is where I felt talented, beautiful, and accepted—an acceptance that I may never find at school or on a cross-country team.

Christmas away from home. My favorite gift was my first Christmas away from home, when my parents, sister, and I went to visit my brother and his family.
We were used to family Christmases at our house, but this year my other siblings were going elsewhere, and we decided to visit my brother, Josh, and his family because they couldn’t come home. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I thought that if we weren’t home for Christmas, it wouldn’t be fun. It seemed that Christmas just wouldn’t be the same. My parents, sister, and I had already opened our presents to each other before we left home.
When my brother picked us up at the airport, my four-year-old niece, Kialey, started to sing Christmas songs, and I started to feel better. On Christmas morning I enjoyed watching the faces of my nieces and nephews light up as they opened their presents. It was nice, instead of focusing on what I got, to look at others opening their presents and to feel their joy.Hannah S., Montana, USA

One of those “great friends” was his brother Joaquim. When Tino invited Quim (pronounced “Keem”) to his baptism, Quim was surprised to learn that his brother had even been attending a church.
The brothers had developed different interests through the years, and Quim used drugs, lived a dissolute life, and claimed not to believe in God. He was on a downward spiral. “Maybe if I hadn’t learned about the Church, I wouldn’t be alive now,” Quim reflects. But because Tino wanted some of his family to attend his baptism, Quim agreed to go.
The chapel was a different world to Quim, with its wholesome atmosphere and well-groomed people. After the baptism, Quim was invited to hear a missionary discussion, so he stayed. He responded positively to all of it. “I was surprised at myself,” he says.
At the end of the discussion, Quim was asked to offer the prayer. “I had never offered a prayer in my life,” he says. But the missionaries taught him how to do it. “I never have offered a better prayer than I offered at that moment,” he recalls. At the end of it, “I stood up—and I felt like I was flying!” He asked the missionaries repeatedly: “What is this? I don’t understand. What is this I am feeling?” A great sense of peace, light, and joy had come over him. All evening, Quim kept talking about what he had felt.
By the next day, however, he had almost convinced himself that the experience hadn’t really been so important. “Listen, Tino,” he said, “I don’t want to go to your Church anymore.”
But during the following week, the desire to know why he had experienced such wonderful feelings after that prayer built up in him. Quim’s resolve to stay away from Tino’s church collapsed. It was late at night, Tino recalls, when Quim shook him awake to say, with some intensity, “I want to go to church tomorrow.”
“And from that moment, I wanted to be baptized,” Quim says. “As soon as I heard the other discussions, I believed.” It was a joyful discovery to learn “that our Father cares about each of his children.” He was baptized just three weeks after his brother was.

Carrie’s older brother tugged one of her thick blond braids. “Hey, Freckles, you ought to have the sheepshearers do you too.”
“Yeah,” chimed in her twin brother, “you have more wool than old Tim Buck.”
Nine-year-old Carrie made a face at her brothers. All three children were perched on top of the strawstack at the far end of the sheep shed. Sheep, waiting to be sheared, milled about below them, blatting nervously. The shearing clippers buzzed, and men shouted orders as they threw the fleeces up into the wool bag.
Tim Buck, the huge lead ram, seemed to be the only calm one amid the confusion. He was penned apart and was munching on hay. Whenever he shook off flies, the large bell around his neck jingled.
“Carrie Helen!” shouted her dad. “Carrie Helen Shultz, please come here.”
Always anxious to please her father, she hollered back, “Coming—on the double!” Scooting off the strawstack, she ran to meet her dad.
“Carrie, I need you to go with Tim Buck to lead the sheep we’ve already sheared over to the south pasture. There are about a hundred ewes or so, plus the lambs. We have to make room for the next ones.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, grinning up at her brothers and throwing her shoulders back proudly.
Dad fastened one end of a stout rope to the lead sheep’s collar and handed the other end to Carrie. “OK, Carrie, Tim Buck’s ready. Remember what his job is.”
Without hesitating, Tim Buck started out of the holding pen. Once an orphan lamb, he showed no fear of Carrie and looked up at her with soft brown eyes, eyes filled with warmth and wisdom.
Confident of her own importance and of Tim Buck’s love, Carrie stepped out in front of the old sheep. She walked through the noisy ewes, which responded immediately to the sound of the lead sheep’s bell. As they followed Carrie and Tim Buck out of the corral gate, she felt their excitement as they rushed forward. They seemed to know that they were free now to go to the south pasture. Sensing their anticipation, and sure of her responsibility, Carrie tugged at the rope fastened to the sheep’s collar, pulling him toward the narrow bridge and her favorite shortcut to the south pasture.
But Tim Buck resisted Carrie’s tugging and headed toward the hill and the longer, usual route. Again Carrie pulled at the rope, trying to head the old sheep toward the bridge. Again Tim Buck resisted.
“Oh, why can’t you do it my way!” Carrie stamped her foot impatiently as Tim Buck firmly planted his feet, refusing to move. Though she pulled hard, her sixty pounds were no match against the weight of the huge sheep. When her arms began to tire, Carrie glared at Tim Buck and grouched, “All right! I’ll do it your way this time. Come on. Let’s go up that long hill. At least we can cut across the hayfield and not have to take the long road around it.”
The ewes, confused at the delay, had begun to push forward, baaing worriedly. As Tim Buck moved forward, his bell started jingling, and the sheep quieted. When Carrie, walking a couple feet in front, quickened her step, Tim Buck quickened his. The hungry ewes also increased their pace. Out of breath, Carrie rushed to the top of the hill. “Now’s my chance,” she said, pulling tightly on Tim Buck’s rope, forcing his head toward the hayfield.
Tim Buck butted Carrie gently, loosening her grip. Then he moved toward the well-used road.
“Why, you ornery critter! Can’t you see how much easier it would be to cut across that field instead of going around it!” She yanked at the rope, trying to drag Tim Buck toward the hayfield. He looked at her questioningly, then shook his head forcefully. The bell jangled, and the ewes pressed forward as Tim Buck pulled away from the hayfield and moved quickly onto the familiar road. The rope started to slip through Carrie’s hands, but she held on tightly.
Half running, Carrie tried to get ahead of Tim Buck. But he only walked faster. The more she tried, the faster he went, and the faster he went, the faster came the ewes and lambs. Soon Carrie was sandwiched between Tim Buck and the rushing sheep, and the rope was slipping out of her grasp. She clutched it desperately, even though it was burning her fingers.
Familiar with the road and quickened by hunger, the sheep hurried toward the open gate to the south pasture, where Tim Buck saw his own shortcut! He swerved suddenly from the road and down a steep slope. The sudden movement sent Carrie sprawling, and the rope was jerked out of her hands. The sheep quickly moved away from her and down the slope, following Tim Buck through the open pasture gate.
Carrie lay bewildered, hurt, and defeated. Sobbing, she struggled to her feet. With skinned knees and stinging hands, she stumbled back toward the sheep shed. With each step, she imagined her brothers’ teasing and her father’s disappointment.
Her dad met her in his truck before Carrie reached the shed. Stopping his truck, he got out and hurried over to her. Then, tilting her tear-stained face up for him to see, and putting one hand on her shoulder, he said, “It looks like you’ve had some troubles, honey.” He looked at her intently, but his voice was gentle and matter-of-fact. Seeing Carrie’s ropeburned hands, he dampened his bandanna in some clean water and gently patted them while she blurted out her story.
“So you wanted the sheep to take the shorter path across the bridge?” her father said when she had finished.
“It would have been much faster.”
“Do you think that all those sheep could have safely crossed that narrow bridge together?”
“Well,” Carrie hesitated. “I—I guess not. But they would have had plenty of room to cross the hayfield.”
“But, Carrie, do you remember how sick the sheep get when they eat too much hay? Do you know that most sheep can’t stop eating fresh hay once they get started?”
“Oh, Dad, I’m sorry,” Carrie sobbed.
“You’re lucky, Carrie, that Tim Buck wouldn’t allow the sheep to take a dangerous path.”
“Yeah, he’s really stubborn,” Carrie said, starting to fume again.
“Perhaps he’s not as stubborn as he is committed to doing what he knows is right. Remember, Carrie, that he’s the lead sheep. He guides the others in the paths that will get them safely to where they want to go, just as Mom and I try to lead you along the right pathways so that you can return to live with Heavenly Father.
Dad and Carrie got into the truck and he looked at her hands again to make sure that they weren’t seriously hurt. Then he drove toward the south pasture and stopped. Carrie was surprised when he got out of the truck and lifted her out too.
“All right, Carrie Helen. Now that you know why Tim Buck behaves as he does, do you think that you can take him back to get another bunch of sheep?”
“Yes, Dad. And this time I’ll let him lead the way.”

Jason fixed his gaze on the carpet below him.

It had been only two months since he had started going back to church after having been a runaway for four months.

A lot can happen in four months when you’re just going with the flow, doing whatever seems like a good idea at the time. He had done things he thought would make him happy—and yet, strangely enough, they eventually made him feel worse.

He had quit high school, left home, and moved in with some friends across town. One night late, after he’d been drinking, he was hit by a car as he tried to cross the street.

The next thing he remembered was the sound of a familiar voice. “I’m Jason Miller’s mother. How is he?” she said to the nurse in intensive care.

“So far he’s stable, but he’s still unconscious.”

“My husband will be coming soon. He was out of town when we got the news. I phoned him, and he’ll be here in an hour. Is it okay if I stay here with my son?”

“Of course. I’ll get you a chair.”

Jason felt her hand on his. “Jason, I’m here.”

“He can’t hear you,” the nurse said.

Jason could hear his mother though. He just couldn’t let her know. There was some kind of a barrier.

“Jason, I love you. I’m sorry about your accident. Everything is going to be okay. As soon as your dad gets here, he’ll administer to you. He’ll be here in just a short time.” She paused. “Jason, you don’t know how many times I’ve prayed for you. Every day, several times a day. I’ve prayed that when you grow tired of being rebellious, that you’ll know we love you and come back. We made some mistakes as parents. Maybe we were too critical of you, too quick to find fault, but we did our best. There are some things we’d do differently now, but we did the best we could at the time.

“There’s a story the Savior told—I’ve thought so much about it lately. A father had a son who wanted to be independent. He asked for his inheritance and took it to live in another town. He lived a wild life. But then there was a famine, and he ran out of money and was forced to get a job feeding swine. He was so hungry he thought about eating the husks he was feeding to the pigs. But then he thought about his father’s servants, how much better off they were than he was. He decided to return home and ask his father if he could be just one of his servants.

“His father was in the field the day the son came home. The scriptures tell us he saw his son from afar off and ran out to greet him, and when he saw him, he threw his arms around him and welcomed him back and requested the servants to prepare a celebration dinner.

“I’ll tell you a secret. It was no accident that the father saw his son from far off, because I think he looked down that road for his son many times every day. Like your father and I have. Sometimes we’ve left the lights on all night just in case you might come home during the night. We wanted you to know you were welcome, but you never came.”

His mother broke down crying.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to be a parent. You’ll find that out someday. It’s hard to wait for a prodigal son to come home. We love you, Jason. All we want is what’s best for you. Heavenly Father loves you. Jason, please, when you’re able, come home. Live the gospel. It’s not too late to come back.”

Jason had heard everything his mother said, but he couldn’t seem to make any movement to tell her.

Later Jason was aware that his father had come into the room with another man. He felt their hands being placed lightly on his head. And then they administered to him.

The next day Jason came out of his coma. A week later he was well enough to go home.

And now he was working with the bishop on plans to someday serve a mission.

Jason stood up, cleared his throat, and began his testimony. “I’m glad that Christ gave the parable of the prodigal son …”

John and Cathy visited a counselor for help with their marriage. “John can’t control his temper,” said Cathy. “He’s angry all the time, and I usually don’t even know why.”
As the conversation progressed, John became steadily more agitated. Suddenly, he stood up and yelled at his wife, “I don’t have to listen to this! You’re the one who needs counseling, not me!” Then he stormed out of the room, leaving Cathy trembling and pale.
It is impossible to have the Spirit when we are angry. The Savior told the Nephites that “the spirit of contention is not of me, but is of the devil” (3 Ne. 11:29). When we allow the spirit of anger into our homes, we provide an atmosphere in which Satan can drive wedges between family members. Anger is self-serving; it feeds only our own worst emotions.
The Savior spoke against anger in the Sermon on the Mount: “Whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire” (Matt. 5:22).
Notice that this scripture tells us not to participate in name-calling. How often do family members use belittling names and phrases in an attempt to hurt?
The alternative to anger is self-control. This doesn’t mean that we should never express our displeasure or correct offensive behavior. But when we do, we need to keep in mind that it is the behavior that is offensive, not the individual being corrected. The Lord’s counsel is that we should exercise “gentleness and meekness, and … love unfeigned; …
“Reproving betimes [quickly] with sharpness [clarity], when moved upon by the Holy Ghost; and then showing forth afterwards an increase of love toward him whom thou hast reproved, lest he esteem thee to be thine enemy” (D&C 121:41, 43).
The keys are self-control and love. These attributes are developed over time and take patience.
Keys to Overcoming Anger
When you feel angry, ask yourself, Who will benefit if I express my anger? If a criticism will not benefit the one toward whom it is directed, don’t say it.
If it is necessary to reprove, practice the principle of correcting quickly and clearly and then showing afterwards an increase of love toward the one reproved.
Avoid name-calling, especially in anger.
Work on increasing your self-control in other areas of your life.
Seek to have the Holy Ghost in your life. You cannot feel the Spirit of the Lord and the spirit of anger at the same time.

There is a living God who loves us and is constantly nearby and available. Doubt need not be part of our lives. The reality of God’s influence is felt by all Church members who comply with divine laws. It can also be tangibly felt by non-members, when it is his will. This is evidenced by the following experience in the Sao Paulo Temple.

The temple was opened to the public during the month of September 1978 before being closed in preparation for the dedication. Among the many visitors who felt the influence of this special temple was a certain nonmember newspaper reporter.

During the tour he eventually arrived at the door of the celestial room. Those few people who were accompanying him saw him abruptly stop and bow his head. He remained in that position for some time, with his eyes closed and head bowed. Then he slowly moved his head from side to side and at the same time opened his eyes, as if to inquire by this gesture “who is there?” or “Is anyone there?”

After some time his head was raised and his eyes opened. His expression indicated that he knew something holy was there, and those about him witnessed the tears streaming down his face. He had felt the beautiful influence of the Spirit found so often in the temples. He knew something good was there and felt joy inside. It was a real, tangible feeling.