Gospel Story Finder

William Shakespeare’s play The Life of King Henry V includes a nighttime scene in the camp of English soldiers at Agincourt just before their battle with the French army. In the dim light and partially disguised, King Henry wanders unrecognized among his soldiers. He talks with them, trying to gauge the morale of his badly outnumbered troops, and because they do not realize who he is, they are candid in their comments. In one exchange they philosophize about who bears responsibility for what happens to men in battle—the king or each individual soldier.
At one point King Henry declares, “Methinks I could not die any where so contented as in the king’s company; his cause being just.”
Michael Williams retorts, “That’s more than we know.”
His companion agrees, “Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the king’s subjects: if his cause be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes the crime of it out of us.”
Williams adds, “If the cause be not good, the king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make.”
Not surprisingly, King Henry disagrees. “Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own.”1
Shakespeare does not attempt to resolve this debate in the play, and in one form or another it is a debate that continues down to our own time—who bears responsibility for what happens in our lives?

Photographs by Sam Solaita
One day, Jonalin Y. received an unexpected phone call.
The groundbreaking for the Pago Pago American Samoa Temple was coming up, and area leaders asked 16-year-old Jonalin to share her testimony of the temple during the groundbreaking ceremony. There was only one problem. Jonalin had never been to a temple. She’d always wanted to go to be sealed to her family, but she didn’t know if that would happen anytime soon.
“When they announced that the temple was being built here, I wasn’t as excited or enthusiastic as everyone else,” Jonalin says. “I thought there wasn’t a point to be excited, because my dad is a nonmember and can’t come with us into the temple. A temple wouldn’t change the fact that my family isn’t sealed.”
Jonalin’s mother’s family has belonged to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for multiple generations. Her mother taught her and her four siblings the gospel of Jesus Christ, and they were baptized when they turned eight. But her father has chosen not to become a member.
For as long as Jonalin can remember, her family has tried to help her dad become converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ. She and her mother, three sisters, and brother invite him to church, and he often comes when he’s not working. They also have home evening and invite him to Church activities. Countless missionaries have walked through their door, but Jonalin’s dad hasn’t decided to move forward in the gospel.
Because of this, Jonalin was confused about being asked to speak about the temple. It seemed like all her friends were more excited about the temple than she was and couldn’t wait to go there with their entire families. “I just remember thinking, ‘I’m the girl with a nonmember dad. Why me?’” Jonalin says.
Soon Jonalin’s feelings about the temple started to change. “What changed my heart was being picked to share my testimony,” she says. “It was like God’s way of helping me know the temple is a blessing. I knew it was His way to put my doubtful heart at ease.”
“I’ve heard the temple is nice, it’s peaceful,” she says. “I’d really like to feel that for myself. Preparing to share my testimony gave me the opportunity to think about how amazing it will be to have a temple built so close to home. And it gave me hope that one day, according to God’s timing, my family will be sealed in the temple.”
Jonalin does her best to trust in God’s timing instead of her own. “God works in mysterious ways,” she says. “He knew the right time to build a temple in American Samoa, a time when everyone is in despair because of the pandemic, a time when the temple is needed by so many, and a time when he knew of my longing for my family to be sealed. His timing is the perfect time.”
One reason Jonalin wants her dad to be baptized is that the gospel has been such a blessing in her own life. “I love applying gospel teachings at school, and it actually really helps,” Jonalin says. “I’m very grateful to be a member and am excited to be part of this great and marvelous work.”
Jonalin also tries to share the joy of the gospel with her friends, most of whom are members of the Church. “Whenever I’m anxious about something, I wake up early in the morning and go watch the sky. It’s very therapeutic,” she says. “Sometimes while I do this, I feel like I should take some notes, like lessons I’ve learned from church. Then I send those notes to my friends in a group chat. I have one friend that’s not a member, and to see her respond with such a big heart—it’s really nice, and I love it so much.”
As Jonalin shares her faith with her friends, she is still hopeful that one day her dad will be converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ. “God sees my heart and knows how much I want my dad to be baptized,” she says. But she also understands that her dad has agency to choose. “There were times when I asked God why it was taking my dad so long. But Heavenly Father’s response remains the same: be patient. So, I will be patient.”
“I pray that one day my family will be sealed for eternity. I know that the gospel is true. It has blessed my family in so many ways.”
“I pray that one day my family will be sealed for eternity,” Jonalin says. “I know that the gospel is true. It has blessed my family in so many ways. I testify that God hears our prayers. I’m blessed to be part of His work and will continue to live according to His will.”

In the Central Valley of California, there are 44 teenagers who will never forget the city of St. George, Utah, with its hospitable people and its beautiful white temple.
The youths’ 18-hour stay there was the culmination of six months of planning, hard work, and cooperation between the youth and adults of the Tulare Ward (Visalia California Stake) and those of the St. George Second Ward.
The moment the weary travelers arrived at the Second Ward chapel after their 500-mile journey, they were met by an enthusiastic crowd of St. George youth who immediately sought out, tagged, and friendshiped each California teenager. Together these new friends shared the experiences of that day and the next. The anticipation of their meeting and their bond of common beliefs seemed to create an instant, comfortable friendship on both sides.
After an official welcome by Bishop Ross Taylor, the young people toured the tabernacle built during the same period in which the temple was constructed. Everywhere there was evidence of pioneer skill, artistry, and devotion.
Following the tabernacle visit, the group toured the Brigham Young Winter Home and caught a glimpse of the life of that great prophet and the times in which he lived.
After dinner in the homes of their hosts, the youth met at the templegrounds for the long-awaited tour. A lovely scene met their eyes. To one teenage girl, Shawna Brown, “the temple stood out like a gleaming jewel, shining forth with the Spirit of the Lord.” In this small, quiet town was the most magnificent building most of them had ever seen, a great sparkling building surrounded by deep-green lawns, a building normally brilliant white, bathed now in the golden glow of a setting sun. As the young people joined the long lines of those waiting to enter, they huddled for warmth in the unfamiliar chill of the southern Utah evening.
Inside there was peace and calm and cheerfully whispered “hello’s” between the white-clothed temple workers and the awed young visitors.
“What impressed me most,” said Julie Peterson, a convert of one year, “was that the workers in the temple were so at peace and so nice. I want to work there when I become older. Most of all, I know that I’ll marry in the temple, no matter what!” Liz Myers, a young investigator, commented, “It was beautiful, just walking through. It made me feel so clean inside. It was a great feeling!” Michelle Meadows said that being in the temple felt to her “like a little bit of heaven on earth—it was so peaceful and so beautiful.” As the group was passing through the last sealing room, one of the workers whispered to Claire Forman, “This is where you’re going to be married.” She answered, “Oh, yes!” Now, recalling that experience, Claire says, “There is no way I would even consider marrying outside the temple.”
The tour was over too soon. Too soon they stood once more outside the great building looking up at its inscription, “Holiness to the Lord.” But the influence of those few minutes may never end. To David Anderson, it brought greater meaning to going on a mission, coming back to get married for time and all eternity, and living a righteous life.
“We realized,” said Ruben Ruiz, “that the temple is the house of the Lord and that it was built for a purpose. We realized that the work done in the temple is sacred and that you need to be worthy to enter.”
Following the temple visit, the combined fireside in the Second Ward cultural hall concluded the evening. Three young St. George couples related the strength and meaning that temple marriage had brought into their lives.
The final event of the trip occurred the following morning among the red sandstone cliffs of Snow’s Canyon. Never had pancakes—complete with juice, bacon, and eggs—tasted so good. Following breakfast, the youth—lured by the cliffs around the little tree-and-sagebrush-covered valley—clambered up the sloping walls, which seemed almost stair-stepped for their benefit. Campers who chanced to be in the canyon that morning must have been startled as the hills literally burst forth into song. The final rendition was “I Am a Child of God,” sung by the Tulare teenagers from their mountaintop loft to their bishop, who stood looking up from the sands below. It was an impromptu, heartfelt expression of their love for him that neither he nor they will ever forget.
As the two groups exchanged addresses and goodbyes—the St. George youth to return to what was left of their late October Saturday, and the California young people to their journey home—no one doubted that all were spiritually richer than before. Bishop Taylor said that because of the enthusiasm of the California youth in their desire to visit the house of the Lord, the hearts of those in St. George had been reawakened to a remembrance of the great blessing of the temple and the particular privilege of living within its very shadow.
The feelings of all might be best summed up by the statement of Tulare’s Laurel class president, Karen McPherson, as she bore her testimony in sacrament meeting the day after the trip: “Bishop Dredge has been pounding into us for years, ‘Get married in the temple! Get married in the temple!’ And now I know why!”

Caleb waved goodbye to Mom. He and his brother and sister were going to spend a whole week at his aunt’s house. It wasn’t too far from where Caleb’s family lived in the Philippines, but it still felt like an adventure. They were going to have so much fun!
They all got in the car. Dad drove them to their aunt’s house. Caleb ran to give his aunt and his cousin a big hug.
“I missed you!” he said.
His aunt smiled. “I’ve missed you too! Come on, I made some treats for you.”
For two days, Caleb played with his siblings and cousin all day long. They played video games. They drew pictures. They ran outside. But on the third day, Caleb didn’t feel well. His body felt weak and achy.
“You must be tired from playing so much,” his aunt said. She gave him a glass of water. Caleb went to bed early.
When he woke up, he felt even worse. He could hardly move! A rash had spread all over his legs. His aunt was worried. She called Mom.
Soon Mom and Dad picked Caleb up and took him to the hospital. The doctor did some tests. He told them that Caleb had a sickness called dengue fever. It sounded scary.
“It’s good that you brought him in,” the doctor said. “He needs to stay here for a while so we can watch him.”
A nurse took them to a room with three other sick children. Mom helped Caleb get into his bed. She hugged him tightly and said a prayer. Then Mom and Dad left.
Caleb was scared. He began to sing a Primary song to help him feel better.
“Heavenly Father, are you really there?” he sang. “And do you hear and answer every child’s prayer?”
The other children listened. “What was that song?” a boy asked.
“I learned it in Primary,” Caleb said. “It makes me feel brave. It reminds me that Heavenly Father is always there for me.”
“Will you please sing it again?” a girl asked. “It’s beautiful.”
As Caleb sang the song again, his fears went away.
“What’s Primary?” asked the other girl. Caleb told them all about church and Primary. He shared his testimony of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
Caleb sang Primary songs to the other kids every day until he went home. He also shared scripture stories. It made him feel better, and he knew it helped them too. He was glad he could share the gospel, even in the hospital.
This story took place in the Philippines.

Before school let out for the summer, the club members put their muscle into helping a local care center for abused children store its stock of winter clothes and unpack its summer supplies. The club also spent a creative afternoon making scrapbooks for children.
With so much planning and organizing, everyone in the club became better team players. Carrie and Rebecca contributed service ideas from their youth group while Victoria found other service opportunities in the community. “The club helped me learn how to let other people share their ideas and do things their way,” Rebecca reflects. “I’ve learned how to better interact with others.”

A couple of months ago, we were heading home from Church to go eat lunch. As we were biking, a woman sitting near the roadside, called out to us. We pulled our bikes over to her to see what she needed. She introduced herself as Florence and asked us if our Church prays for people. She was thinking in the ways of healing, not just in general. We explained a little bit about how the Church is run but told her we didn’t really pray about people in Church. She then explained to us that she was a single mother to a young boy.
She said that her son was almost 4 years old and couldn’t walk or talk. She talked about how she had taken him to many different places to try and heal him from his sickness. We listened to her and responded by teaching about priesthood blessings. She then asked us if that was something we could give to her son. We agreed and followed her to her house to meet her little boy.
On arrival, we met her little boy. She told us his name was Edem and showed us a little bit of his skills. He was able to crawl well and was very flexible. He made some noises but could not speak words. She also showed us that he could walk a little if you held his hands. After some talking, we had him sit down on a stool so we could give him a quick priesthood blessing. We blessed him that he would continue to develop and gain strength in the Lord’s due time.
After the blessing, we thanked his mother and told her we would come back soon. Every so often, over the next couple months we checked up on Edem and his mom to see how they were doing. Each time Edem seemed to be just like before, happy and curious. We also noticed that he was able to walk a little easier just by holding onto one of his hands. After a few weeks we visited again. This time around we found Edem playing in the sand with his mom nearby. She seemed happy and told us she wanted to show us something. She had us sit and watch as she stood Edem up on his two feet. After holding him up for a second, to help him balance, she let go. With no help, Edem began to walk! One little step in front of the other, he began to make his way across the sand. We were amazed.
It was so amazing to see this young boy making progress. We knew the Lord was helping Edem.
We know the Lord truly has power and does works wonders for us in these days. Miracles may not be instantaneous, but they are a work in progress.

When my family and I lived in Rhode Island, a minister of a local Methodist church invited me to join with the pastors, priests, and rabbis in our area to help fight a number of problems in the state, such as the prospect of casino gambling. I was happy to help.
One day after our meeting, these ministers were talking about the sense of calling they had, a great inner feeling, that led them to become ministers, pastors, rabbis, and priests. They discussed how, during the course of their career, they had the feeling they should leave one congregation and “seek another pulpit,” as they call it.
I was most interested in this conversation. Then this good friend of mine, the Methodist minister, said, “Well, there may be some here that have a different idea of what a calling is.”
I said, “There’s only one person here who has a different understanding, and that’s me, so let me tell you a little about my own experience.
“When I was 12 years old, the bishop called me to be the music leader for the young men and the young women. I knew nothing about music and couldn’t sing well. But the bishop called me, so I did it.
“A Young Women president told me, ‘Okay, Robert. We’re going to make a conductor out of you.’ And she began to wave her arm one, two, three, four. And within 20 minutes I felt ready to conduct the Mormon Tabernacle Choir!”
Then I told these ministers, “Later I was called to other positions in the Young Men and in Scouting. I didn’t want to do those any more than I wanted to be a music leader, but the bishop called me and so I did it.
“And then one day I got a call to serve as bishop. I had observed what bishops do, and I really didn’t want to be called to be a bishop. But I was called, so I accepted. Later when I was called to be a stake president, I didn’t want to be a stake president, but I was called by an Apostle of the Lord, so I did it.
“Why is it that I accepted all these calls, even though I didn’t really want to do them? It was because I believe that a man must be called of God, by prophecy—which is by revelation—and by the laying on of hands by one having authority to preach the gospel and administer the ordinances” (see A of F 1:5).
I continued, “I do not believe that a call comes from within. It is not a feeling that you have within you. It is a call that comes from God, through the servants who have also been called and set apart to that very purpose.”
In the course of that conversation I perceived what an unusual understanding of callings that was to them. No one saw a call that way, even though that is the biblical understanding of a call (see John 15:16).
As bishop, stake president, and now as a General Authority, I have participated in calling people. I have had remarkably inspiring experiences of joining with another, generally a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles or an Area Seventy, to interview men we did not know. Yet the Lord revealed whom to call. Through these experiences, I began to get an even more powerful witness that the Lord does inspire and reveal who should serve.

When I served as a mission president in Canada more than 50 years ago, one young missionary who came from a small, rural community marveled at the size of Toronto. He was short in stature but tall in testimony. Not long after his arrival, together with his companion, he called at the home of Elmer Pollard in Oshawa, Ontario, Canada. Feeling sorry for the young men who, during a blinding blizzard, were going house to house, Mr. Pollard invited the missionaries into his home. They presented to him their message. He did not catch the spirit. In due time he asked that they leave and not return. His last words to the elders as they departed his front porch were spoken in derision: “You can’t tell me you actually believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God!”

The door was shut. The elders walked down the path. Our country boy spoke to his companion: “Elder, we didn’t respond to Mr. Pollard. He said we didn’t believe Joseph Smith was a true prophet. Let’s return and bear our testimonies to him.” At first the more experienced missionary hesitated but finally agreed to accompany his companion. Fear struck their hearts as they approached the door from which they had just been ejected. They knocked, confronted Mr. Pollard, spent an agonizing moment, and then with power borne of the Spirit, our inexperienced missionary spoke: “Mr. Pollard, you said we didn’t really believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I testify to you that Joseph was a prophet. He did translate the Book of Mormon. He saw God the Father and Jesus the Son. I know it.”

Some time later, Mr. Pollard, now Brother Pollard, stood in a priesthood meeting and declared, “That night I could not sleep. Resounding in my ears I heard the words ‘Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I know it. I know it. I know it.’ The next day I telephoned the missionaries and asked them to return. Their message, coupled with their testimonies, changed my life and the lives of my family.” Brethren, teach the truth with testimony.

I love the story about how chiasmus was discovered in the Book of Mormon. In the summer of 1967, a missionary elder by the name of John W. Welch, who now goes by "Jack," was serving in Germany. While out proselyting one day, he saw a poster advertising a lecture to be given by a Catholic scholar on the New Testament. Since the lecture was taking place on his preparation day, he and his companion decided to attend. The professor spoke of a form of Hebrew poetry in the Bible known as chiastic parallelism or chiasmus. It was the first time Elder Welch had heard of the topic. He was intrigued and subsequently read a book on the subject recommended by the Catholic lecturer. The book was The Literary Art in the Gospel of Matthew, written by a man named Paul Gaechter. I'll now quote from Brother Welch's own account:

So far . . . the idea of finding chiasmus in the Book of Mormon had not entered the picture. That discovery occurred on August 16, a few days after I had finished Gaechter's book and my rereading of Matthew. Early that Wednesday morning, I was awakened by what seemed to me to be a voice, whose words were these: "If it is evidence of Hebrew style in the Bible, it must be evidence of Hebrew style in the Book of Mormon." . . . I got out of bed. . . . It was still dark. I went over to the desk on the other side of our one-room apartment. Picking up the copy of the German Book of Mormon I had been using that summer, I wondered: If it is here, where? I felt clearly prompted to begin reading where my companion and I had left off the night before, which happened to be in King Benjamin's speech. I read Mosiah 4. When I turned the page to Mosiah 5, the classic chiastic passage in verses 10-12 jumped off the page. I do not believe that I ever would have found this through my own intellectual efforts ("The Discovery of Chiasmus in the Book of Mormon 40 Years Later," Journal of Book of Mormon Studies, 16/2: 79).

Now, fast forward 28 1/2 years after my father’s death. I was serving as a bishop and our stake presidency was going to be released. All bishops and members of the high council were going to be interviewed by Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve and Elder José A. Teixeira of the Seventy. As I walked into the stake president's office that Saturday morning for the interview, I went to shake Elder Scott's hand and got a big hug instead. He then started to go over the information sheet we provided and noticed that I worked at BYU-Idaho. He asked me how long I had worked there. After I responded, he then said, “Thank you for your many years of service and sacrifice.” He then asked me one question: "Why do you hold your temple recommend sacred and dear?” I told them about the experience my father had the first time he went to the temple and how he had returned to the temple just before his death. I explained that I was not sure if he had gone back for the right reasons. So, I wanted to show him how important the temple was to me and that through my actions, he might understand its importance.

We then finished the interview, and he thanked me for my service as a bishop and told me the Lord would bless me as I served those of my ward. As we stood to leave, I again went to shake his hand, but Elder Scott was a hugger. So after a second hug, I turned and proceeded to leave the room. About halfway out the door, I heard Elder Scott say, "Bishop Clements.” I paused and looked back as he said, “I just want you to know that your father is accepting those covenants he made in the temple." I thanked him and hurried home to relate the experience to my wife. I knew that I had to tell my mom, so we invited her up for dinner after stake conference the next day. As I related the happenings of the previous day, she began to cry and told me that she had been wondering the same thing for years.

My falling away from the Church was gradual. It began in the fifth grade, when I met some new friends. We used bad language and got into all the wrong things. Once junior high came around, we entered into all the wrong groups, and by high school, things started to get really bad.
I became really depressed. I was wearing more and more black and kept insisting on thickly layering dark eye makeup. To me, life became something just to get through and not to enjoy. My thoughts were often suicidal, and I had no confidence. I almost completely shelled up. I never really talked to anyone, never told people what was going on. I knew I was loved, but I just didn’t care.
I almost completely fell away from the Church. I say almost because I was never allowed to skip church, and my parents always expected me to take seminary during high school. But I wanted nothing more to do with the gospel or the LDS Church.
My family and loved ones saw this downward spiral, and they tried to help. I often spent time on Sundays in the bishop’s office, and just as many days trying to avoid the bishop. He showed a lot of support and interest in me, looking into the things I believed in so that he could better understand me. My parents kept trying to help, but they didn’t know what to do. There were times when my dad and I were near tears trying to talk about our differences.
During my sophomore year, I hit a turning point when a foreign exchange student from Japan came to live with us. She was a softball player, and she convinced me to play that year. That experience alone did a great deal of good for me. The coach helped me raise my self-esteem, and the experience of belonging to and working on a team gave me the blessed feeling of belonging somewhere.
That summer I went to Japan to stay with the family of our foreign exchange student for five weeks. During my stay, I went four weeks without going to church. Finally, in the very last week, we stopped by the Tokyo Japan Temple to take pictures. In a strange country where the language and customs were so foreign to me, it was the most comforting feeling to finally be in a familiar place. The Spirit there was so strong.
That Sunday we found a ward building, and I attended church. It was amazing to experience sacrament meeting and Sunday School in Japanese, but what hit me most was when I went to Young Women. Seeing those few Japanese girls rise and say the theme, I realized that the gospel was just as strong halfway across the world as it was at home. I knew that many of these members didn’t have the support from friends and family that I did, but they still believed. Again, I felt at home.
Shortly after I returned to Utah, my brother Richard came home from his mission. Rich noticed my struggles and made it apparent that we would be having a lot of talks. He got me to pray with him.
But what really hit home was seminary. My dad found out I wasn’t enrolled for my junior year and was surprised. It wasn’t long before I was called to meet with the seminary principal. It was very nonconfrontational; he just talked to me, conveyed friendship, and expressed concern that I wasn’t enrolled. Finally I agreed to take seminary. I met my teacher, went to class, and that was it. I never skipped and rarely begrudged going.
I’m not sure when the transition took place, but I started to feel comfort. I began to pray regularly again. It was really hard at first, but I stuck with it. I read my scriptures and knew that they spoke truth. Life began to look up. I had more energy, confidence, and ambition. I felt better about the new friends I began associating with. I tried out for plays, immersed myself in my artwork, and started singing again. I tried out for my school’s select choir group and made it. I was no longer the shy, introverted girl I had been for so long.
I was also called to serve on the seminary council, and that was when I knew that I would be okay. If someone had told me a year ago that I would be where I am now, I never would have believed it could happen. I’m a completely different person. And I’m grateful to my friends, family, and teachers, who gave me their love and patience. Their faith in me was the constant in my life that I could always fall back on in my darkest hours. And now I’m so grateful for the gospel. I feel it really has saved my life. If I hadn’t made the turnaround when I did, who knows how far off the path I would have gone. I’m grateful I’ve never had to find out.
The Church is true; I know that with all of my heart and mind. Heavenly Father loves His children, and Jesus Christ is our Savior. Having the restored gospel on earth is one of our greatest blessings, and I pray that someday all of God’s children will come to know the truth and feel the same gratitude and love for Him that I have in my heart.

“Look,” Jessica said, pointing to the window. “It’s snowing.”
We ran to look outside. The tiny flakes started falling faster and faster. Then the flakes got bigger. They fell in swirls and swoops, and sometimes we could hardly see the barn through the curtain of white. By the time we finished lunch, the snow was three feet deep.
We watched from the window, feeling snug and warm inside the house. The cedar trees bent and swayed under their load, and the mailbox wore a thick white muff. Every now and then we heard a sharp crack as a limb broke under the weight of the snow.
Suddenly the lights blinked—once, twice. We held our breaths. Mom hurried about, setting out candles and filling the oil lamp on the mantel. The lights flickered again, then gave up.
“Listen to the quiet,” said Jessica. There was no television, no radio, no hum from the refrigerator. The only sound we heard was the tick of the grandfather clock by the front door.
David brought an armful of wood from the shed for the fireplace and soon had a blaze crackling and popping. We all gathered around the hearth, bundling into our warmest clothes. Our dog, Duke, crept closer to the fire and curled up for a nap.
The wind howled around the house, and I was glad to be inside. “What about the ponies?” asked Jessica. “Will they get cold?”
“They’re safe inside the barn,” said Dad. “I put extra straw in their stalls.”
For supper we roasted hot dogs in the fireplace and ate off of paper plates. It was just like a picnic. We toasted marshmallows for dessert. I let mine burn on the outside so that they were crisp and almost black. Inside they were gooey and hot.
“Mmmm,” said Jessica, licking her sticky fingers. “I wish the electricity would go off every day.”
“I’ll bet you’d soon get tired of that,” Mom said.
“Well, it’s time for family home evening,” Dad said and brought out his guitar. He played while we sang “I Am a Child of God.” David said an opening prayer. Then, by the light of the oil lamp, Mom read us the story of the brother of Jared. The flickering candles made spooky shadows against the walls. I sat close to Dad, glad to be by the fire.
Afterward, we sang “Over in the Meadow” all the way through, and “Bingo” and “Old MacDonald” and “Frosty the Snowman.”
“We can make a snowman tomorrow,” I said.
David turned Duke out. When he came back inside, he looked like a snow dog. Jessica dried him off with a towel.
We knelt together for family prayer, then went to bed early in our warmest pajamas and with extra blankets piled on our beds. “May we have waffles for breakfast tomorrow?” I asked as Mom tucked me in.
“We’ll have cold cereal if the power is still out,” Mom reminded me.
The moon was bright, and I could see its reflection on the snow from my window. Everything looked strange and different. The house sounded different too.
I woke up in the middle of the night. My nose was cold. Suddenly, I heard a click and a hum. The electricity was back on! I heard the furnace start, and I snuggled deeper into my blankets. The house would be warm again by morning. Maybe there would be waffles for breakfast, after all.

Not too many months ago I received a letter from a man who once thought he could have it both ways. He has now repented and has brought his life into compliance with gospel principles and commandments. I want to share with you a paragraph from his letter, for it represents the reality of flawed thinking: “I have had to learn for myself (the hard way) that the Savior was absolutely correct when He said, ‘No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.’ I tried, about as hard as anyone ever has, to do both. In the end,” said he, “I had all of the emptiness, darkness, and loneliness that Satan provides to those who believe his deceptions, illusions, and lies.”

This story as told by Mary Frost Adams provides an additional example:

While he was acting as mayor of the city, a colored man called Anthony was arrested for selling liquor on Sunday, contrary to law. He pleaded that the reason he had done so was that he might raise the money to purchase the freedom of a dear child held as a slave in a Southern State. He had been able to purchase the liberty of himself and wife and now wished to bring his little child to their new home. Joseph said, 'I am sorry, Anthony, the law must be observed, and we will have to impose a fine.'

The next day Brother Joseph presented Anthony with a fine horse, directing him to sell it, and use the money obtained for the purchase of the child.[16]

Second, get involved. Each of us seems to learn the importance of giving of ourselves and the value of working with others at different points in life. While I still have much room for improvement in this area, I had an experience or two as a student here that have helped to shape my attitude about getting involved.

I returned from my mission in October and decided to live at home and commute to school from Saint Anthony for a few classes during the second block. On one of my first days on campus, I was approached by a student body officer I knew who said, "Hey Shane. You should consider getting involved in campus activities. We need someone to chair the annual Christmas Tree Lane event. Would you be interested in doing that?"

My first thought was, "Oh no. Not me. I remember coming to that event on this campus from the time I was just a young boy and it was bigger than life. What would I know about doing something like that? I don't have time for that." Well, I must have been saying "no" on the inside and something kind of like "yes" on the outside because, before I knew it, I was being whisked into some office in the Manwaring Center and lined out for my new assignment. I soon found myself looking around campus for people to help on the committee and diving into something that turned out pretty well despite my weaknesses. I enjoyed it. I felt I was somehow investing in my future and helping with a needed project.

I went back for more. The following spring I threw my hat in the ring to run for student body president. And guess what happened? I didn't win. At that time at Ricks College, there were several elected student body offices and a couple of appointed positions on the council. A couple of days after the election, the student who did win the election asked to speak with me and asked me if I was willing to serve in the appointed capacity of Student Relations Officer. I agreed. For the next year, I was out of my comfort zone. I had a variety of experiences I could not have foreseen. I learned something about serving in a different way. I made new lifelong friends.

I have always been fond of a story from the era of the Great Depression. The Mayor of New York City, Fiorella LaGuardia was an unusual leader. New York named an airport after him and perhaps that has something to do with how he cared for his people. While in office he sometimes presided at the Police Court just to keep in touch with what was happening in the streets. One bitter cold day the officers brought in a trembling, ragged man charged with stealing a load of bread. He defended his actions by explaining that his family was starving.

"I've got to punish you," declared LaGuardia. "The law makes no exception." So he fined the man ten dollars. But, as he said that, the Mayor reached into his pocket and brought out a $10 dollar bill which he tossed into his hat. "The fine is paid," he said. "And I'm going to fine everybody in this courtroom fifty cents for living in a town where a man has to steal bread in order to eat. The Bailiff passed the hat and the incredulous man, with a light of heaven in his eye, left the courtroom with forty-seven dollars and fifty cents.

One teacher expressed thanks for the bathroom, the painting of the classroom, the fans and the cosmetology room for boys and girls. Another teacher exuberantly described how grateful she was for the fans. She said that prior to the donation of the fans, students complained about the heat and she tried on numerous occasions to share her fan with her students, but it was still not sufficient for all. Now they ask her to turn off the fans because they are cold. She is grateful to know the students are now comfortable while learning.

“Bye, kids! We’re going on our temple date,” Mom said.
“Be good and have fun,” Dad said as he pulled the door shut behind them.
“Yay!” I said. “We can do whatever we want now!”
My older brother Matt sighed. “Not me. I’ve got to do homework so I can go to the dance tomorrow.” He disappeared into his room.
I felt a little jealous. He was old enough to go to stake dances—but I still had another four years before I could go. I didn’t have much homework, so I decided to see what was on TV.
As I flipped through the channels, I saw a movie I’d really wanted to watch last year, but hadn’t because of the rating. I could finally see it now that it was edited for TV!
I settled down on the couch. This movie was going to be great. But just a few scenes in, I started to feel uncomfortable. There wasn’t anything horrible going on, but I started to wonder about the scenes and words that had been cut out.
When I heard Matt’s bedroom door open, I quickly changed the channel so he wouldn’t see what I was watching. I was a little nervous. I didn’t want him to ask about the movie and the rating. He walked by me and went into the kitchen. I flipped back to the movie. When I heard him walking back, I hurried and changed the channel again.
“What are you watching?” Matt asked.
“Nothing,” I said, flipping through more channels.
Matt shrugged and went back to his room.
I flipped back to the movie and watched for a few more minutes. But I wasn’t really focused on it anymore. What am I doing? I thought to myself. If I don’t even want Matt to know what I’m watching, and I feel uncomfortable, why am I watching it?
Finally I decided to just turn off the TV. I sat there holding the remote, trying to think of something good to do to stop thinking about the movie. I didn’t want to start watching again just because I was bored.
I wandered up to my room and looked around. I hadn’t written in my journal in awhile, and I had that drawing I’d been working on. I knew I’d feel better doing those things than watching the movie.
I turned on some good music and wrote about the experience in my journal. I had a warm, comfortable feeling. I’d been missing that feeling during the movie. Instead of that good, peaceful feeling—the Holy Ghost—I’d felt worried and kind of embarrassed.
I don’t want to do things I feel worried and embarrassed about, I wrote in my journal. I want to do things that the Holy Ghost can stick around for.
When my parents came home a couple of hours later, I showed them my finished drawing.
“Glad to see that you spent your time well,” Dad said.
I smiled. “Me too.”

One day I was moved by a hymn I heard. I learned the hymn in my own language, Portuguese, and as I struggled to translate it into English, I remembered that my Latter-day Saint neighbor, Jesuina, often received American missionaries in her home. I asked her if the missionaries could translate it for me. The next day they left a translation with a short note that read, “It was a pleasure to be able to help you. One day we would like to meet you.”
When I met the missionaries a week later, they invited me to visit their church. But I did not like Mormons. Members of my family and leaders of other churches I had investigated criticized them, calling them a dangerous sect. They made many absurd criticisms that I believed to be true. One rainy Sunday shortly thereafter, however, I awoke with a great desire to visit their church—to repay them for their kindness but also out of curiosity. During the first meeting, people went to the pulpit and testified they knew that the Church and the Book of Mormon were true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Somewhat disturbed, I left the meeting and went to Sunday School.
When the teacher mentioned scriptures or stories from the Bible, I was eager to participate. But when she spoke about the Book of Mormon, I remained quiet and pensive. Why another book if we already had the Bible? Before I left, the teacher thanked me for my participation and then surprised me by giving me her copy of the Book of Mormon.
When I returned home, I went to my room, knelt on the floor, and began a sincere conversation with Heavenly Father. I told Him that I felt something special about the Mormon Church but that I didn’t want the adversary to delude me. I prayed that He would help resolve my confusion and show me which church was true.
Afterward I felt a great desire to read the Book of Mormon. I prayed again for strength and direction. During my prayer, I felt a strong and good feeling—an interior warmth. I knew I was not alone at that moment. A thought came instantly into my head: “Read the book!”
I opened it and began reading. Before I had finished the introduction, tears began running down my face as the Lord revealed to me the mystery of the Native Americans. The Book of Mormon seemed prepared especially to respond to my concerns. I felt great joy to have my questions answered. It was as though the ancient Americans had spoken from their graves to tell me about their lives and to testify that they also knew Jesus and that He had suffered for them as well.
Amazed with my discovery, I sought out the missionaries and listened to their lessons. On Easter Sunday, March 31, 1991, I descended into the waters of baptism—the best decision I had ever made.
I feel immensely grateful to Heavenly Father for His mercy and great wisdom. I know that He is just, that He has not forgotten any of His children, and that He is eager to reveal His plan to all humankind. I know that the Book of Mormon is a sacred book. It is true.

Mindy liked to help her mother. After her sisters and brothers left for school, Mindy and Mother made their beds.
First they made Mindy’s bed. They pulled the sheet and blankets back and put the pillow on a chair. Then they billowed the sheet and blankets over the bed.
Mindy patted the places where ripples appeared. And she helped pull the covers tight. She punched and plumped her pillow into a marshmallow shape. Then she plunked it over the folded-down sheet and bedspread.
Quickly Mindy and Mother slid the bedspread over the pillow and ironed any wrinkles flat with their hands.
Then they made Mother and Dad’s bed the way they had made Mindy’s bed. It was so big and bouncy that Mindy wished she could jump on the bed.
One morning just after they had lifted Mindy’s bedcovers into place, Mother hurried into the kitchen to answer the telephone. When she came back, she couldn’t see Mindy. But she did see an enormous mountainy wrinkle in the covers.
“Oh, oh,” said Mother, pretending to be surprised. “I see a great big wrinkle. I’d better smooth it out.” So she patted the wrinkle, and it twitched.
“My, my,” said Mother, “this wrinkle is hard to get out. I’ll have to poke it a little bit.” So she poked the big wrinkle with her finger, and it began to giggle and wriggle.
“Goodness, gracious,” said Mother playfully, “this wrinkle giggles and wriggles. I guess I’ll have to see what’s under the blankets.” So she threw the covers back. There was Mindy, laughing and kicking her legs and flapping her arms in the middle of the bed.
“Oh, Mommy, I fooled you,” laughed Mindy.
“So you were the wrinkle in the blankets!” exclaimed Mother in mock surprise.
“Now, Mommy, I’ll help you make my bed without a single wrinkle,” said Mindy, scrambling out of bed.