Gospel Story Finder

I once visited a family in Chile. Their father had died in an accident a month before I came. One of the children was a boy named Benjamin. He was 10 years old.
Before his dad’s accident, Benjamin gave a family home evening lesson. It was about the stripling warriors from the Book of Mormon (see Alma 53:16–22; 56:42–57). He talked about how brave they were and how they trusted God.
When Benjamin’s mom heard about the accident, she thought of Benjamin’s lesson. She told her family, “We need to be brave like the stripling warriors. We have another battle to fight.”
It was hard for Benjamin’s family. It felt like their lives were turned upside down. They had to move to another house to live with their grandma. And they really missed their dad. But they knew they would be together with him again someday. They decided to be a stripling warrior family. Benjamin told us, “I’m being brave.”
I walked into their house wanting to comfort them. But I was the one who left feeling blessed. Benjamin and his family are fighting this battle so bravely. Their faith is inspiring to me.

Listening among the television audience to his very first talk as a General Authority was President Faust’s widowed mother; she wept with joy over the call that had come to her son. Not only was there fine parental training, but important training was given, too, by pioneer and convert grandparents. For instance, Grandmother Faust told young Jim stories of her having heard Brigham Young speak in the Tabernacle. Decades earlier, President Faust’s great-grandfather, a young German emigrant going through Utah on his way to the California gold rush, met a young lady in Fillmore. He was so attracted to her that he later panned just enough gold to pay for a wedding ring and then hastened back to marry her and later join the Church!

I was destined to be a Gershwin fan. While I was yet in the womb, my mom decided to try out some advice about playing music to unborn infants. Since one of her favorite composers was George Gershwin, I was quite familiar with his “Concerto in F,” “An American in Paris,” and a few others by the time the doctor spanked me. However, it wasn’t until my junior year in high school that George Gershwin really had an impact on me.
Though we lived in Pocatello, Idaho, one of the best piano teachers around taught at Utah State University in Logan, Utah. A series of unusual happenings landed me a tryout with him, and he agreed to take me on as a student. So every other Friday for the next two years, one of my parents would pick me up after school, we would drive 90 miles to my lesson, spend one hour in my lesson, grab a bite to eat, and drive the 90 miles back (usually in time to get me to the high school dance).
Throughout the trip we would talk and listen to either rock or classical music. My parents were understanding enough of my teenage interests to tolerate a good share of my tunes. It was usually my mom who suggested equal time for classical music. When classical time arrived, I automatically reached for the light classic “Rhapsody in Blue.” It became a tradition to listen to it at least once during the trip.
I can’t really say what made the difference that February day, but Gershwin’s “Rhapsody” captivated me as it never had before. Driving down that familiar two-lane highway with Mom, listening to Gershwin for the umpteenth time, I became totally absorbed in the music. My faculties became heightened, and my senses became more acute. I breathed deeply, immersed in the exhilarating thrill of the music. That day I realized that good music would always be a source of peace and enjoyment, even ecstasy, to me.
I glanced over at my mom, and things began to get blurry. I realized one day I would be a parent, trying to instill in my children similar feelings about music, hoping they would respond as I was responding. But more than that I hoped my children would love me like I loved my mom.
The tape ended as we pulled into the parking lot. I gave my mom a quick kiss, jumped out of the car, and walked toward the building. I looked back at her one more time before I went through the double doors.
I’ve looked back many times since.

At the end of my junior year of high school, I was looking forward to my senior year. I believed that nothing was going to go wrong. But was I ever mistaken.
That summer I started dating a boy named Tom. We had been friends for about six years. Tom had had a few problems with the Word of Wisdom and morality, but that was in the past. I was sure I could change him.
Tom and I dated each other for a few months with no problems. He knew where and what I stood for, and he was okay with it. After four months, Tom moved 1,500 miles away to college. I thought I was so much in love that I couldn’t live without him. I knew he loved me. After all, he had told me so.
Tom called every other day, and we would talk into the night. Then Tom started coming home almost every month. That’s when the trouble started. Tom kept telling me we were going to get married after he finished his first year of college and I had graduated from high school. I wanted to believe we could get married and live happily ever after. I thought I was so in love with him that I gave in slowly to the pressure he put on me. We ended up necking and petting. Then he would go back to school and leave me for another month. I would wait by the phone every night for his call.
I started feeling guilty after a while and would take my frustrations out on others. I started fighting with my family and friends, and my grades started going down. I couldn’t eat or sleep, and I was feeling more and more alone.
One night my friends and I were sitting around my kitchen table talking about our futures. Right then it hit me. Everything I had ever wanted was being thrown away just because I knew if I didn’t give in to my boyfriend for a few minutes, he might leave me. I realized I wasn’t even worthy of a temple marriage right then.
I decided to call my bishop. I told him I would like to talk to him for a few minutes and made an appointment for the next night. I hung up the phone feeling better than I had felt in a long time. I knew this was the right thing to do.
I found myself sitting in the bishop’s office the next evening, nervous and unsure of myself. After a brief bit of small talk, the bishop asked what he could do for me. I started crying and told him I had had a few problems with Tom. I wanted to get rid of all the guilt and anguish I had building up inside of me. We talked about how to fully repent. And if I really wanted to fully repent, I would probably have to stop seeing Tom. Then the bishop explained some reasons why. I left his office feeling refreshed and more sure of myself. Now I had to tell Tom.
I went home and prayed that night in a way I had never prayed before. I really talked to Heavenly Father as if he were sitting next to me. I poured out my heart and soul that night and many nights after.
I didn’t know if I could bear breaking up with Tom. The night before he was to come home, I got down on my knees and asked the Lord to let me know that what I was supposed to do was right. Almost immediately I had such a feeling of peace and calmness come over me that I couldn’t deny I was about to do the right thing.
The next day I told Tom everything I was feeling. I told him we couldn’t see each other any more. He was upset and said some hurtful things, but I knew I was doing the right thing.
After I broke up with Tom, everything didn’t immediately fall into place as I thought it would. It actually got harder for a while. I was feeling miserable and made the people around me miserable too. But my Young Women leader gave me a quotation that says, “If a man is unworthy to take you to the temple, then he isn’t worthy of your undying love.” I think about that every time I catch myself wondering if I could still be with Tom.
I have learned through all of this that true happiness is feeling the Lord’s spirit where you are and in everything you are doing. If you can’t feel at peace doing something by yourself or with friends, then it probably isn’t the right thing to do. I have also learned if a boy really does love you, he won’t just tell you so; he will show you by treating you with respect and by helping you reach the righteous goals you have set for yourself.
Look to the Lord for his guidance and listen for his still, small voice, which will help you make the right decisions, and you will find what true happiness is.

Photographs by Ntebaleng Twala and courtesy of the family
She rides her horse. She stands up on top of her horse. But that’s not all. This 12-year-old from South Africa even sails over jumps with her horse!
It takes a special kind of relationship between horse and rider to pull off such feats safely. And Kelly K. truly is quite close with her horse, Delta. Yet if you ask what her most important relationships are, she’ll probably tell you about her family.
“My siblings are really important to me,” Kelly says. Her parents are important to her as well, of course. Kelly explains that sometimes it’s harder for teens to stay as close to their parents when they get a bit older, but she’s found some strategies that help. “For me, it’s just the simple things, like talking with my parents or spending time with them that has improved our relationship.”
That closeness makes a huge difference in her life.
As Kelly says, staying close as a family starts with spending time as a family. One of the ways they enjoy spending time together is to get up close and personal with some of the biggest animals on the planet! “We go on safari rides several times a year,” Kelly says. Plenty of great memories have piled up during these rides.
“The funniest memory is when it was pouring rain one time,” she says. The safari ride was going full speed, which made those raindrops sting. So her family huddled close together, laughing, to form a sort of human shield against the rain. And it worked! “We made each other warm!” she says.
Sports are another big part of her family, especially among her siblings. It’s another way they spend time together, both in playing together and in cheering each other on. As the youngest of five, Kelly has found that the easiest way to bond with her older siblings is to make the effort to learn more about their sports. “I love watching my older brothers play rugby or golf. And I also try and learn their sports a little so that when they’re practicing we can interact and play together.”
Kelly’s older sister is also into riding horses, so that’s a great and natural way for the two of them to connect. Kelly also enjoys running track, and her siblings love to support her.
In addition, the whole family loves playing cards and other games together. As President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, then-Second Counselor in the First Presidency, has said, “In family relationships love is really spelled t-i-m-e, time.”1
With Kelly’s family members being some of her greatest friends, they also help fill in gaps when other friendships hit bumpy patches. For example, there aren’t a lot of Church members where Kelly lives. Sometimes the difference in values between Kelly and her friends has been a challenge for her.
“When I was younger, I kind of got lost in what my friends wanted me to be,” she says. “But reading the scriptures and praying helped. I also turned to my family.
“One time I asked my friends to change their bad music, but that didn’t really work. They just said, ‘If you don’t like it, go home.’ So I prayed and asked Heavenly Father what I should do. He told me to call my parents and go home.”
Come what may, she knows she can rely on her family for help. “My mom and dad, they’re always there.” And so is the rest of her family! One time, two of Kelly’s friends moved away. This was especially tough because Kelly had grown very close to those friends. Once again, her family made the difference.
“My family was there for me when I needed a shoulder to cry on or just to talk,” Kelly says about that difficult time. “They always know how to help me and just wrap me up in a blanket when I need it.”
With all she loves about living in South Africa—the weather, the safari animals, the temple in Johannesburg—there are also a few hard parts about living without many other Church youth nearby.
However, she knows the gospel and her faith in Jesus Christ have been her strength. “I don’t know where I’d be without the gospel,” Kelly says. “I am grateful that the Church is there. The scriptures really bless my life. And Heavenly Father is always going to be there. I live my standards because they help me feel happy and safe. And I don’t really want to be like the kids who get into a lot of trouble. I’d rather choose the right, because I know the gospel is true.”
There’s another massive motivation to Kelly for living the gospel—and that’s her love for her family. “I know that I can be with my family forever if I stick to the right path,” she says. “And I want to be with my family.”

At home Tom Monson came under the influence of parents whose sturdy roots extended into Scandinavia and Great Britain. The father was of Swedish and English descent; the mother, Scottish. They taught him charity and hard work, among other virtues. Because the Terrace was not far from the railroad tracks, transients often knocked at the Monsons’ back door and asked for food. Gladys Monson never turned one away. Moreover, she would invite them into her kitchen to sit at the table while she prepared a sandwich, served with a glass of milk. President Monson also remembers taking plates of hot food his mother had prepared to a lonely neighbor fondly called “Old Bob.” “God bless you, my boy,” Old Bob would say, his eyes often filled with tears. “You have a wonderful mother.” These were not isolated cases of kindness; they illustrated a consistent pattern of charitable conduct. The example was not lost on the growing boy.

With greasy fingers from succulent fried chicken and over-salted but perfectly deep-fried French fries accompanied by the chilling gulp of a milkshake during what should have been math class, I was introduced to a new religion I hadn’t heard of through a close friend—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Little did I realize that I was being divinely guided, meeting people and having experiences that Heavenly Father had perfectly planned for me.
I had developed a belief in God early, being raised Catholic. But as I entered college, I distinctly remember having the thought that I wanted to know more. I wanted an even closer relationship with God. That very thought and openness to the Lord allowed for my friend to introduce me to the gospel and invite me to church.
When I attended The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for the first time, I was a little shy, but I felt warmly welcomed because everyone was so kind, inviting, and genuine. Though I had never met these people, I was treated like family. I started going regularly, and after a lengthy investigation and a life-changing priesthood blessing, I joined the Church. But after a solid five months of being active and involved in Church activities, my faith was to be tried. I was guided to go back home.
Back in my home city, I attended my new ward and was even given callings. I tried to remain active, but everything in life felt like it was against me, resulting in my dwindling church attendance.
I continued along on a crazy rollercoaster ride through life but never lost faith in what I believed in. I knew that the Church held the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ and everything I needed in life.
I had occasionally attended different wards during those years of being less active and saw the difference between being welcomed and being unnoticed. Fortunately, missionaries bridged the gap and ministered to my needs until I finally came back to church. My home ward truly welcomed me home. I felt like I belonged the moment I stepped through the doors. Because of those welcoming members, I continued to attend and enjoy all the blessings of the gospel.
I believe you should attend church for yourself and not for the people. But it infinitely helps when you are lovingly welcomed. Luckily, there are things you can do to make yourself and others feel more welcome at church.
How you can help yourself feel welcome:
Attend institute, service projects, and Church activities. Though daunting at first, especially not knowing anyone, putting yourself out there opens up doors to meeting new people and making lifelong friendships.
Surround yourself with like-minded people. This is especially important when you’re a convert or returning member. Surrounding yourself with people who are like-minded means you not only won’t be compromising yourself but you can also learn a lot from them and gain good support.
Attend the temple. Striving to attend the temple means you are making choices that align with the Lord’s will. You will find you become strengthened in obedience.
Remember who and why. Who are you doing this for? Who is important to look toward, and why are you here? It can help you put into perspective what is beneficial for your progression.
How you can help others feel welcomed:
Show love. Be a genuine friend. We are all on different journeys. Getting to know others will help you find the best way to support them. Inviting them to activities, keeping them in the loop, and introducing them to new people at church will help them make connections and new friends.
Listen to the promptings of the Spirit and trust in the Lord’s timing. I strongly believe that Heavenly Father guides us and places people in our paths intentionally. Doing your best every day will bless you and allow you to bless others.
Heavenly Father truly does know us and love us individually. I hope that you are able to feel His love but also that you are able to see yourself—and others—as He does. I hope you will share the love He has for you with others, especially visitors, new converts, and those who are returning to church. I know I am so grateful for every single person who reached out to me, and I now look for opportunities to do the same.

I caught the vision of family history by realizing I’m not so different from my ancestors. My great-grandma and I have always had a really special connection, so for a Personal Progress project, I decided to compose a family history book dedicated to her. Writing this book was such an amazing experience because it created a closer bond to my ancestors. I’m so grateful for this new perspective of family history work.
Ashley N., 16, Utah, USA

If you had been in the small town of Wales, Utah, one Friday afternoon last June, you would have seen a miracle—bone-tired teenagers running uphill to go do some more hard work.
About 200 youth and leaders from the Orem Utah South Central Stake had already put in two days of hard labor. Sweating alongside the residents of Wales, they had cleaned weeds and brush from the town cemetery and cemented fence posts around it, painted the town hall and the pavilion in the town park, repaired roads and removed trash and debris, roofed and painted the water treatment chlorinator house, demolished old sheds and chicken coops, and repaired and painted barns and fences. They had installed a handsome new “Welcome to Wales” sign at the town park.
Now, as quitting time neared, most of the projects were completed. But the chain link fence around the cemetery was only about a third finished, and the workers there were exhausted. So a call went out for volunteers from among the tired youth who had finished their own projects.
Almost instantly, truckloads of young men and women came pouring into the cemetery. And those who couldn’t find a place in a truck came running up the hill. Within 40 minutes the fence was completed. There were high fives and handshakes, and a smile on every sweaty, sunburned face.
The project had begun with stake leaders searching for an activity that would not merely entertain the youth, but stretch their souls through service. The result was a “call” to the “Coalbed Mission” for every youth in the stake between the ages of 14 and 18.
The 12 youth from Wales were also called to the mission. The contingent from Orem nearly doubled the population of Wales. All were housed with local residents, and friendships quickly formed.
Since the project, young men and women from Orem have gone back to Wales every chance they get. Letters go back and forth. Long distance calls appear on phone bills. There are photographs of Orem youth on walls in Wales, and photographs of folks from Wales tacked on walls in Orem.
“The event had a big positive effect on Wales,” said the bishop there, Dennis Roberts. “All the memories come back every time we ride by the park or look at the post office or the new fence.”

Two young women in this seminary class, both 16, are named Brigitta. “From my classmate Seres Brigitta I heard about the Church for the first time,” says Bozó Brigitta. “I began attending sacrament meeting and made a lot of friends here. So when youth conference came, I naturally thought I needed to go. At the conference, I felt for the first time that I needed to belong to this church. I was baptized a week later.”

Two months after Brigitta’s own baptism, her mother and her 15-year-old brother, László, were baptized. (Her father had died six years earlier.) “Now the three of us—our whole family—are members of the Church. It’s wonderful!”

“At first I thought just my friend would be baptized,” says her classmate Seres Brigitta. “I was amazed that her family also joined the Church.”

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.”

I didn’t think I’d ever want another dog after Lady. She was a beautiful black cocker spaniel with a happy smile. She went with me everywhere, following me to the bus stop in the morning and waiting there for me after school.
Then one day Lady wasn’t there. As soon as I burst into the kitchen and saw the look on Mom’s face, I knew. As gently as she could, she told me how Lady had been hit by a car. Dad helped me bury her. I left that little mound in the meadow with a huge, hard hurt in my chest.
Maybe it was harder for me to lose my dog than for some people, because I lived out of town on a little farm. I didn’t get to play basketball or Little League. I had too many chores. But no matter what chores I had, Lady was always with me.
After Lady was killed, I didn’t want another dog. Every night before I went to bed and every morning when I rolled off my mattress, I prayed that the terrible hurt would go away and that I could be happy again. I did that for two weeks straight, but the hurt was still there.
Then one afternoon as I was bringing the cows in from the meadow, she was there, lying under a tree, her tongue hanging out, her ears pricked up.
I looked around, expecting to see her owner. But there was nobody—just that dog, the cows, and me. “What’s your name, dog?”
She started thumping her tail on the ground, just begging me to pet her. I patted her on the head, then scratched her ears. You’d have thought I’d given her ten pounds of steak the way she carried on.
From then on I couldn’t go anyplace without her tagging along. “She’s just like a second shadow,” my little sister, Stephanie, said.
I smiled. “Stephanie, you just named my dog for me—Shadow!”
“What kind of dog do you think she is?” I asked Dad that first evening.
He studied Shadow. “I can’t be sure. I’d guess she’s a German shepherd-collie mix.”
“Daniel,” Mom said, “you shouldn’t get too attached to Shadow. She belongs to someone.”
“Someone just let her loose,” I argued. “People from town do that sometimes. And she didn’t have a collar or anything.”
“Maybe so, but she’s too good a dog to have just been turned loose. She’s been well fed and groomed. Somebody’s probably looking for her.”
“She’s mine,” I said stubbornly. “You’ve told me all along I ought to pray for things.”
“Did you pray for another dog?” Dad asked.
“Not exactly,” I said slowly. “But ever since Lady was killed, I’ve prayed that the hurt would go away. Well, it’s gone, Dad. As soon as I saw Shadow, I didn’t hurt anymore. I didn’t pray for a dog, but I guess Heavenly Father thinks I need one.”
“I still think you’d better try to find the owner,” Mom said. “Then if no one claims her, she’s yours.”
I didn’t want to, but I made some handwritten signs and hung them along the highway in front of our house. But no one ever came.
Shadow was the greatest! When I got up in the morning, she was waiting for me. It didn’t matter if I was milking the cows, weeding, or hauling hay. She swam with me in the creek and lay beside me on the big gray boulder as we dried off.
I could talk to her, and she’d look right into my eyes as if she understood every word I said. Every day I thanked Heavenly Father for her.
One afternoon I went with Mom to the supermarket. While she shopped, I studied the notices on the bulletin board. People were selling beds, washers, dryers, and a bunch of other stuff.
I spotted the corner of a pink flyer—and wished I’d never gotten close to that old bulletin board. “Lost in the Sanderson Park area,” the flyer proclaimed in big, black letters, “a light brown and white dog, German shepherd-collie mix. Answers to the name Trina. $20.00 reward.”
I didn’t want to believe that Shadow was that lost dog. I tore the flyer down, stuffed it into my pants pocket, and headed for the car. All the way home, I tried to tell myself that Shadow wasn’t the missing dog. Sanderson Park was clear on the west side of town. We lived over two miles north of town. How could a dog get way over there?
That evening as I finished feeding the calves, Shadow was at the end of the manger. “Come here, Trina,” I called softly. Shadow’s ears perked up. She gave me a puzzled stare, then looked about as though searching for someone. “Come here, Trina,” I repeated dully. She bounded toward me and began looking around again. A horrible hurt exploded inside me.
“They can’t have her,” I raged out loud. “I found her. I fed her and looked after her. She’d probably be dead now if I hadn’t come along. She’s mine!”
As hard as I argued with myself that I was the rightful owner, I couldn’t convince myself. The hurt that I’d felt when Lady was killed didn’t seem nearly as sharp and painful as what tore at me now.
I hardly touched Mom’s mashed potatoes, gravy, fried chicken, and hot rolls at dinner. “Are you feeling all right, Daniel?” she asked.
“I guess I’m just not hungry. May I be excused?”
I went to my room and lay on the bed, blinking back the tears that kept welling up in my eyes. Slowly I pulled the pink flyer from my pocket. Whoever lost Shadow has probably already given up hope, I argued with my conscience. It’s been weeks since she showed up here. They probably think she’s dead by now.
It was late when I dragged down the hall to the kitchen, where Dad was thumbing through a stack of bills. I pushed the pink flyer in front of him. He glanced at me, then read the flyer. “Do you think Shadow’s this missing dog?” he asked.
“Maybe she was, but she’s mine now. You can’t make me take her back.”
“Daniel, I’m not going to make you take Shadow back. That’s your decision.”
“Why would Heavenly Father take back what He gave me?” I choked out. “She was the answer to my prayers.”
“I believe she was,” Dad agreed. “But,” he added gently, “she might not be the answer you think she is. Do you remember the story of Nephi and the brass plates? When Nephi returned to Jerusalem to get the plates from Laban, he didn’t know how hard it was going to be. He didn’t know he’d have to give up his gold and his silver. He didn’t know his brothers would attack him. He didn’t know he’d have to kill Laban. Those were all things he would rather not have done. Why do you suppose he did them?”
“He was doing what the Lord commanded him,” I mumbled.
“That’s right. He had grasped the iron rod his father, Lehi, later saw in a vision. The iron rod is the word of God. In other words, it’s the things the Lord commands or asks us to do. No matter where that iron rod took him, Nephi was going to follow it because that was what the Lord wanted him to do. When you found Shadow, she was an answer to your prayer, but Heavenly Father might have thought you needed something more than you needed another dog.”
“Like what?” I protested. “What did I need more than Shadow?”
“Maybe the Lord wanted to see if you’d be like Nephi, choosing the right when it was the hardest thing to do. He answered your prayer, Daniel. Now you have to be willing to accept His answer. And maybe you’re the answer to someone else’s prayer. Maybe some other people are praying that Shadow will return to them. How their prayer is answered might depend on what you choose to do.”
I didn’t sleep very well. Most of the night I kept telling myself that no matter what happened, I was going to keep Shadow. But by morning I knew better. “I’m taking Shadow back,” I announced quietly at breakfast.
“I’ll drive you over,” Dad offered.
“I’d like to take her alone,” I answered. “I’ll ride my bike.”
It was all I could do to ride away from the house, with Shadow tagging along. The address on the flyer was for a house at the end of a dirt lane. As I started down it, Shadow yapped twice and darted ahead. Two girls playing in front of the house spotted Shadow. “Trina! Trina’s back!”
A man and a lady came out of the house on the run. The whole family gathered around Shadow, hugging her and burying their faces in her shiny coat. No one even noticed me standing there. Then Shadow dashed over and rubbed against my leg. She was as happy as any dog could be.
“I guess you’re the one who brought Trina back?” the man said, smiling. After I nodded, he said warmly, “We sure appreciate that, Son. We were afraid that she was gone for good.”
I held out the pink flyer. “I saw this down at the store.” I felt a lump form in my throat. “I found Shadow—I mean Trina—a few weeks ago.” I told how I’d put up signs looking for the owner.
“Well, we appreciate your bringing her back.”
“Give him the reward, Dad,” one of the girls called out.
“That’s right!” The man reached for his wallet, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to me. I didn’t take it. He pulled out a second twenty-dollar bill. “This is for taking care of her.”
“I didn’t bring her back for the money,” I said softly. “I didn’t want to give her up. I hope you’ll take really good care of her.” I turned and started pushing my bike down the lane to the main road.
“Son,” the man called after me. I stopped and turned. “I know how you feel, giving up a dog that you love.” He glanced down at Shadow. “It won’t be long before Trina’s old enough to be a mom. If you’re interested in a dog, you can have your pick of her pups. That’s a promise.”
There was still a big hurt inside, knowing I was leaving Shadow behind, but I was glad that I’d followed the iron rod Dad had talked about. And I suddenly realized that even though the answer to my prayer was different from what I’d expected, Heavenly Father had known what I needed. “I’d like that, Mister,” I said, my voice cracking a little. “I’d like that a whole lot.”

With the dedication of the Frankfurt Germany Temple in 1987, they became its president and matron. Sister Busche had never been a temple worker, so President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) advised her at a training seminar, “The most important thing is to have love and love and love.” She took his counsel to heart. She asked temple workers to make it their top priority to help patrons feel God’s Spirit.

An old Jewish legend tells of two brothers, Abram and Zimri, who owned a field and worked it together. They agreed to divide both the labor and the harvest equally. One night as the harvest came to a close, Zimri could not sleep, for it didn’t seem right that Abram, who had a wife and seven sons to feed, should receive only half of the harvest, while he, with only himself to support, had so much.
So Zimri dressed and quietly went into the field, where he took a third of his harvest and put it in his brother’s pile. He then returned to his bed, satisfied that he had done the right thing.
Meanwhile, Abram could not sleep either. He thought of his poor brother, Zimri, who was all alone and had no sons to help him with the work. It did not seem right that Zimri, who worked so hard by himself, should get only half of the harvest. Surely this was not pleasing to God. And so Abram quietly went to the fields, where he took a third of his harvest and placed it in the pile of his beloved brother.
The next morning, the brothers went to the field and were both astonished that the piles still looked to be the same size. That night both brothers slipped out of their houses to repeat their efforts of the previous night. But this time they discovered each other, and when they did, they wept and embraced. Neither could speak, for their hearts were overcome with love and gratitude.

Then later on he had a heart condition, and I think President Kimball won’t object to me telling just a little of the details. He was so seriously ill that he felt that something had to be done. Dr. Russell Nelson (noted Utah heart surgeon) was his doctor. He told him that his chances were about fifty-fifty. But if he didn’t have the operation, he couldn’t expect to live many months, but if he did, there was greater hope. We discussed it in President Lee’s office for some time. Finally, President Kimball said, “I think I should be operated on.” I said, “President Kimball, you’ve made the right decision, I’m sure.”
Then he asked to be administered to by President Lee and myself. We administered to him and Dr. Nelson said, “To be operating on the President of the Council of the Twelve, an apostle of God, is a great, great responsibility, the greatest I’ve ever had.” And he said, “President Kimball is going to have a double operation.” At that time he was the only one in history I believe who had undergone, or was going to undergo, a double heart operation at that age. And Doctor Nelson said, “I’d like to have a blessing by the priesthood that I might be guided and directed and do the things that will help to save his life.”
Now, brethren, does the priesthood mean anything to you? It doesn’t mean anything to you unless you live worthy of it. So whether you are a boy twelve years of age, or whether you are seventy years of age, wherever you are, live worthy of the priesthood. Honor that priesthood. Thank the Lord that you are a bearer of the priesthood, and pray night and morning, every day, with a determination that you will do those things which the Lord would have you do. And I want to assure you that you will be happier, you will be more successful, you will be more loved and respected, and the Lord will be pleased with you if you do that which he has asked you to do.
Let us do those things which will make us happy and successful and will prepare ourselves to go back into his presence, I humbly pray in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

I was called to serve as a counselor in the Relief Society in my family’s new ward. During our presidency meetings, we would go over a list of names of Relief Society sisters in our ward and consider how to help them and their families.
I was drawn to a sister in the ward named Mirta. She had been a member of the Church for many years, but for some reason, Mirta had not been attending for several years.
I noticed that her husband was the elders quorum president but that their children, who were members, did not attend church either. Each Sunday I would see her husband attend alone.
I felt that we needed to help this family return to church together and enjoy the blessings that the Lord wanted to give them. During the following presidency meetings, I shared my hopes of helping Mirta return to church. We planned activities in which we could include her in a special way, and we identified a few assignments we could give her.
When we visited her, she accepted each one of the assignments and afterward fulfilled them perfectly. We noted that she would eagerly wait to be picked up by one of us for Relief Society activities.
When we organized the visiting teaching companionships as a presidency, I asked the others to consider the possibility of Mirta and I becoming companions. Each month, without fail, Mirta and I would go visiting teaching. Every time we went out to visit the sisters was an opportunity to talk and get to know each other more.
Each time I invited her to attend church, she would merely say, “When I feel like I’m ready, I’ll go.” I didn’t understand, but I respected her decision. Eventually her answers became, “Maybe I’ll go on Sunday.”
I would wait for her anxiously every Sunday. She never came, but I continued to keep her in my prayers. A sudden move caused my family to return to where we had previously lived, and I didn’t have a chance to say good-bye to Mirta. When we left the ward, she still had not returned to church.
Some months later I was told that Mirta had returned to church and was a counselor in the Relief Society.

Bit by bit, and blissfully unaware, I was poisoning myself. OK, I use the term “poisoning” a bit loosely here, but to a teenage guy in high school, the word seemed appropriate. I had turned my skin orange.
Without realizing it.
You see, I was trying to kick a soda habit and did so by rather unconventional means. I started drinking freshly-made carrot juice. My dad had bought a juicer that extracted nothing but juice—which means you cruise through plenty more carrots that way (and consume a lot of beta-carotene).
Fun fact: beta-carotene, at those levels, enters the bloodstream and starts painting you from the inside out. It’s harmless to your overall health but becomes oh-so-visible over time. Somehow, though, I still hadn’t noticed the effects unfolding until a friend squinted at me in the sunlight one afternoon.
“Um, Dave, is your skin … orange?” she asked.
“No!” I laughed. What an absurd question.
Then she held her forearm next to mine for comparison. I glanced down in shock. My skin looked like it was slathered in pumpkin puree compared to hers. From that moment on, I cut way back on the carrot juice.
Back to my beta-carotene fiasco for a moment. In the end, I swapped in some celery sticks and apple slices to replace most of the carrots in my not-quite-as-good-as-soda beverage. And, in time, my skin returned to its normal hue. Whew! Though it was a huge relief at the time, that particular snag was a small one in the grand scheme of eternal matters.

I remember a story about cows that was told many years ago by one of our church leaders. He said that he had a city cousin who came to their farm to stay with them. This city cousin didn’t know where milk actually came from. He thought it just came in bottles. When the family told the boy that milk came from cows, he didn’t believe it. Then when he saw the cows eating green grass, he felt sure that they couldn’t turn it into white milk! But when milking time came and he saw streams of white milk coming right from the cow, he was confused.

After the cows were all milked, it was time to feed the calves. He watched in amazement as one of the boys put two of his fingers in a calf’s mouth so it would start sucking. Then the boy put his hand and the calf’s nose right down into a bucket of warm milk. The calf got its milk by sucking on the fingers submerged in the milk bucket.

About this time it suddenly dawned on the city cousin what was happening. “Hey, now I understand!” he said excitedly. “You put it into them when they are little, and you take it out of them when they are big!”

Well, most people understand that it isn’t quite that simple, but this story serves as an example from which you can learn. Your parents and teachers put a lot of training, teaching, and helping into you, and the day will come when the Church and the schools and the businesses and the government will need to get it all back out of you.

It was a hot day in Foz do Iguaçu, Paraná, Brazil. I had traveled several hours and was tired. As a leader in the Church Educational System, I had matters to address with the bishop, who was meeting me at the church. However, he was unavailable for a few minutes when I arrived.
While I waited, a lady entered the church. She approached me and humbly asked for a small amount of money to buy bread. She explained that she and her husband were hungry, and despite being embarrassed for asking, she said she didn’t have any other choice. “Just for a little bread is all,” she added.
I was moved, and I took a little money from my pocket. She thought it was a lot. I told her, “Buy bread, milk, and some meat.”
She was grateful and told me that her husband had been promised a job for the next Tuesday. She wanted to pay me back as soon as he received his payment.
I told her that she didn’t need to. She insisted.
I told her, “Instead of paying me, you can come back to this chapel on Sunday morning. When you get here, tell anyone you see that you want to talk with the missionaries. OK?” She agreed.
The woman left. I resolved what had to be discussed with the bishop and continued traveling through Paraná, doing my work.
Many months passed, and another opportunity took me to that same meetinghouse in Foz do Iguaçu for a conference. The choir was beautiful and performed sweetly. When the conference ended, one of the members of the choir approached me. She stretched forth her hand, greeting me with a beautiful smile, and said with emotion, “Thank you, brother. You gave me not only bread to satisfy my hunger and my husband’s; you also gave me the bread of life. Thank you.”
I felt an immense joy as I recognized the woman as the one who had asked me for a little money several months earlier. I realized that the gospel of Jesus Christ—who declared Himself to be the Bread of Life—transforms the life of whoever accepts it.

In a neighboring village Aunt Toini was living in comfortable surroundings, but she was not comfortable at all. Her past haunted her. Though she had always been well off and had plenty of everything, her sister had not.
Her sister had had a family—a husband and three-year-old twin daughters. Her sister’s husband had been severely injured in an accident at work. After a short while she had become sick with tuberculosis and in desperation went to Aunt Toini asking for the small sum of 20 marks and bread for her girls. But in selfishness Aunt Toini had refused to give help in any way. A short time later Aunt Toini’s sister died of tuberculosis, and her husband died as a result of his injuries. Strangers adopted their three-year-old girls.
“It was my fault that my sister died and those little girls had to be adopted,” Aunt Toini confided to me that day I first met her. Tears blurred my vision as I listened to her sad story, and I sensed she was seeking forgiveness.
“My sister lived in this very house,” she told me. She looked me in the eye and handed me 20 marks. “Here you are. Pray that God will forgive me.” After a little while she pulled herself together, stood up, and said, “Well, let’s get to work. I’ll bring some wood so we can make supper.”