Gospel Story Finder

It has been almost a decade since my husband told me he was being investigated for a serious white-collar crime.
For a long time, no one knew what was happening except for our parents, our bishop, and our stake president. Not even our children knew. I felt as if I was living a double life, trying to smile and pretend that my world wasn’t crashing down around me.
Despite the turmoil, I had never felt closer to my Savior than I did during those months. I received a priesthood blessing and learned that I could pray to understand my husband’s feelings and needs. After months of prayer, I received confirmation that I needed to stand by my husband.
After a year of being investigated, we were financially ruined and not sure how to continue paying our legal bills.
I watched as my husband became depressed. He slowly began to shut us out, and he would often comment that he didn’t want to live anymore. Meanwhile, I had to go back to work and try to manage family life. It was overwhelming, and I was scared.
Before the court hearing, we each received priesthood blessings in the bishop’s office and felt peace. It was expected that my husband would be placed on probationary supervision for a short season. But as the judge pronounced the sentence of seven years in prison, I had a panic attack. I literally fell to the floor, and someone called the paramedics. I spent three days in bed after that, worried, scared, and confused.
My husband’s term of incarceration would begin in four months. During that time, our family searched for ways to cope and prepare. I remember how simple things like walking into church caused us debilitating anxiety, as we felt alone.
An inspired stake president started meeting weekly with us to set goals to help keep us from sinking further. Even with the generosity of family and friends, we knew nothing was going to make this go away. I was about to be a single mother! Even after years of living the gospel, I struggled to have faith that I could survive. Negative feelings and emotions flooded my mind. I felt worthless, broken, and alone.
Finally, the time came for my husband and me to travel to the prison where he would be incarcerated. I sobbed uncontrollably watching him walk into that facility. I didn’t know how I would be able to go home to my kids alone.
The challenges of supporting a loved one who is incarcerated seem to be endless. Because of the expense of traveling from our home to the prison, our family was only able to visit him about once every six weeks. After two years, he was transferred to a facility closer to our home, so our visits became more frequent. My children often missed school to see their dad and missed opportunities to be with friends and attend Church activities.
All of this took an emotional toll on the children. Our youngest child constantly worried that something bad was going to happen if he was not with me. He refused to go to activities unless he could call me, and I had a hard time getting him to attend school. He became quite defiant, especially toward his father.
So many life events took place while my husband was incarcerated. Our son got married, a missionary came home, and another missionary left. A child graduated from college, and another graduated from high school. Our first two grandchildren were born.
Going through these milestones alone was difficult. It was hard to keep our marriage intact, and at times even harder to feel close to God. Throughout it all, my children and I did our best to put our faith in God. We regularly attended professional counseling to deal with the anger, depression, and anxiety that came as a result.
The closer we got to my husband’s release date, the more excited and fearful I became. Of course I was excited to see him! But I feared that it would not be easy for him to integrate back into family life after so much time away. Everything that happened before he left came rushing back to my memory, accompanied by all the horrible feelings.
When my husband was released, he spent a month in a halfway house, which limited the time we could spend with him so he could gradually ease back into society. He was then released to home confinement for six months. Finally, he was home!
Since my husband has returned home, every single day has brought new triumphs and new struggles. We call it “cleaning up the debris.” There are still difficult moments, but we love and value each other more than ever. We are quicker to forgive and move on. Our treatment toward each other has improved as we serve each other, show kindness, and say “I love you.”
Meanwhile, we try hard to love our kids through their struggles as they continue trying to heal from this experience. Our family still has a lot of hard and painful work ahead of us. But, with help from God and professionals, we are slowly becoming unified the way we once were.
Honestly, the first six months after my husband returned home were spiritually tough. But now we feel more comfortable at church. We are again teaching the same Sunday School class we were teaching when my husband was incarcerated. Our son is in that class, and it gives him an opportunity to hear his dad’s testimony in a way that he has missed. Some Sundays are still filled with anxiety for both of us, but we are getting better.
We are forever changed. Although we have learned some good things from this experience, which I will describe below, I have to acknowledge that each member of our family is still haunted to some degree by the time my husband spent incarcerated. And we are still burdened by the aftermath of the financial, emotional, and social toll it has taken on each of us. Some days are harder than others. Some days I wonder if life will ever really feel normal. At the same time, I know that through Christ, complete healing and forgiveness are possible.
I’ve gained some things because of this experience. First of all, I have gained lifelong friends who did not allow me to get lost in this trial. I found friends I didn’t realize I had and met new friends who were in a similar set of circumstances.
Also, so much self-discovery happened while my husband was incarcerated. I learned what being committed to an eternal marriage really means. I learned to rely on God, and I gained a better understanding of His timing. I learned He answers prayers in ways that allow me to grow while still giving me light and hope.
I learned I have amazing, strong kids. I learned I can do the unthinkable: not only can I survive in the face of adversity, I can excel. I learned that it does not make me weak to need others. I learned to rely on and ask for priesthood blessings. I learned that no request is too small for my Heavenly Father.
I still have anxiety and am fearful of a lot of things, but every day brings healing. My husband and I have witnessed so many miracles these past eight years. I am no longer angry. I know Heavenly Father has been and will continue to be with us—before, during, and after this trial.
This I know to be true: friends, family, priesthood leaders, and the Lord helped my children and me make it through my husband’s incarceration.

“Do you like our bishop?”
Robby thought for a minute. He remembered the time the bishop came to his house when his mother was very sick and couldn’t care for the family. After that, some church ladies came by to help take care of them and his sick mother. The bishop seemed really nice. “Yeah, I think he’s OK.”
“Well, believe it or not, I used to be his Primary teacher.”
“Oh.” Robby nodded. “I guess you could have been; you are pretty old.” Robby blushed when he realized what he’d said.
Sister Jensen laughed heartily. “That’s true! He was a sweet little boy, just like you. You and he have a lot in common—his parents never brought him to church, either. I used to pick him up all the time. He even sat with me in sacrament meeting.
“When he was about your age,” Sister Jensen continued, “he decided to make choices that would help him the rest of his life. He had a little problem with angry words, and he decided that every time he became upset, he’d say ‘How exasperating!’ I told him that that was a good start, but that he also needed to fill his mind with good things. That way only good things would come out of his mouth.”
The next Sunday, Sister Jensen picked Robby up in time for sacrament meeting. The bishop was conducting and seemed to be having a difficult time with some of the announcements. Finally he put down the paper he was reading, smiled at the ward members, and exclaimed, “How exasperating!”

Ron Rasband never doubted that he would serve a full-time mission. The only question the 19-year-old had while opening his mission call was where he would serve.
“My dad went on a mission to Germany. My older brother went on a mission to Germany. My future brother-in-law went on a mission to Germany,” he recalls. “I thought I was going to Germany.”
But the Lord had other plans. Ron had been called, instead, to the Eastern States Mission, headquartered in New York City, USA. Disappointed, he took his call to his bedroom, knelt by his bed, said a prayer, randomly opened his scriptures, and began reading:
“Behold, and lo, I have much people in this place, in the regions round about; and an effectual door shall be opened in the regions round about in this eastern land.
“Therefore, I, the Lord, have suffered you to come unto this place; for thus it was expedient in me for the salvation of souls” (D&C 100:3–4; emphasis added).
Immediately, the Holy Ghost confirmed to Ron that his call to the Eastern States Mission was no mistake.
“I went from being disappointed to having my first of many scriptural impressions that this is where the Lord wanted me to go,” he recalls. “That was a pivotal spiritual experience for me.”

But being an all-star can go to your head. Every now and then Scott has to remind himself what’s really important.
“Once you put the hockey jacket on it’s instant popularity,” he says after practice. Scott’s with his older brother, Troy. They sit cross-legged in their basement, trading hockey cards and playing video hockey. “Some of the guys think they’re pretty hot. Once in a while I might join them and put somebody down—let it go to my head. When I put somebody down I always end up thinking about my brother, Troy.”
Troy, 17, has had a slight motor-skills problem and learning disorder since birth. It’s not serious enough to affect his life much, but it does make him a little different from the other kids. “When he was in elementary school he got picked on a lot,” adds Scott. “I think about that and stop. I try to get the others to stop, too.”

After 50 years, the living posterity of a French Polynesian couple has returned to the Hamilton New Zealand Temple for a glorious anniversary celebration of their parents’ lives and legacy.
In September 2023, fifty years after their first trip to New Zealand, the remaining Mou Tham children and other family members gathered in the Hamilton New Zealand Temple for this incredible anniversary.
“Our family on both sides, my father in New Caledonia and my mother in Raiatea, have unforgettable memories about those times,” Gisele shared. “Being here 50 years later, it’s a wonderful way to thank Heavenly Father for the help He gave us to make that dream come true.”
She said the family is united in gratitude to their parents for the gospel legacy they left, and their example of temple work. “We deeply felt their presence around us, as well as the presence of our beloved ones who are gone.”
“We are aware of the huge responsibility it is to pass on this legacy to our children, grandchildren, and next generations,” Gisele continued to share. “The light our parents started must stay strong. It will guide our steps on the covenant path leading to our celestial home.”
Her brother Gérard, who never returned to Raiatea after working with his father in New Caledonia, adds: “The blessing of this temple sealing 50 years ago is with me every day of my life. It helps me to stay strong in my faith and in the testimony of the true house of the Lord.”
As he attended the temple, he said he also felt his parents’ love there. “I felt their joy to see all their children in the temple so many years after their first visit. I felt Heavenly Father’s love through the Atonement of His Son, Jesus Christ.”
As President Monson pointed out to a worldwide audience, the Mou Tham family is an example of perseverance and faith in the Lord in two island nations. They stand as an example for future generations.

Like many college freshmen away from home for the first time, I gained 20 pounds my first year at Dixie College in St. George, Utah. While my gym teachers affectionately called it the “Freshman 20,” my brothers and I just called it fat.
As spring approached I became determined that I would somehow make time to include daily exercise. I really love to run, and I decided this would be the way for me to get back down to my normal weight. I plotted my running course very carefully. It was a beautiful one-mile route which included the block around the St. George Temple.
My only obstacle was getting out of bed. Morning after morning I would just turn off the alarm, roll over, and go back to sleep. One morning, however, I felt unusually alert and awake as I turned off the alarm. I decided this would be the day I would begin my running program. I quickly dressed, stretched, and walked outside, only to find that a light fog had settled in the valley. It was still fairly dark, and I began to feel discouraged.
As I ran I could sometimes hear other joggers’ footsteps coming from the other direction, but I could not see them until they were right in front of me.
I expected to see the temple soon with its beautiful whiteness illuminated by lights, but block after block I couldn’t see the temple. I found myself wondering why I couldn’t see the temple and many questions entered my mind. “Am I on the right route?”
Finally, though, I could see a faint glow as soft as candlelight in the distance. I came upon the west side of the temple. I can’t express the excitement I felt in my heart as I circled the temple, rejoicing in its beauty, marveling that I had not been able to see it just seconds before.
After my experience that foggy morning, I knew without a doubt that just as the temple was still there, though I couldn’t see it, so is eternal life and exaltation. Though some of our long-range goals are not tangible, they can be reached if we will just keep going in the right direction, despite the clouds of doubt.

Finances were tight for our young family in 1979. I was a student at Colorado State University. Meager funds from loans and my wife’s enterprises were deposited directly into a savings account. Then we would withdraw a budgeted amount every week for expenses. As Christmas approached we recognized that this holiday would be a frugal one.
One Friday evening we decided that I would take the two oldest of our four children to explore the excitement of the local shopping mall. En route we made our bank withdrawal, electing to withdraw the full December amount at the beginning of the month to cover the increased expenses of the holidays. I took the full amount in small bills.
Although no snow had fallen, the weather was cold and raw with an icy wind. Arriving at the crowded mall parking lot, I hurriedly extracted the boys from the van, eager to get inside the bright, warm mall.
For well over an hour we wandered from store to store, enjoying the rich sights and smells. At last we agreed to cap our outing with some ice cream. With shock, however, I immediately discovered that my shirt pocket was empty of its recent bulge of money.
I fought down a rising panic as we quickly retraced our steps. But with each negative response to our anxious inquiries about someone finding some money, our sense of loss increased. After making a last, futile stop at a security desk, we sadly returned home.
We related the bad news to my concerned wife. How could we buy food, pay the rent and utilities, and cover other expenses for the month, let alone provide a few extras for Christmas? The children began to softly cry and whisper among themselves. Somberly we gathered in family prayer to ask for guidance. Then, as we were discussing every possible but unlikely avenue to compensate for the loss, the phone rang.
It was the security guard at the mall. “Are you the people who recently reported the loss of some money?” he asked.
“Yes, we are,” I answered.
“How much was it, and in what denominations?”
After we gave him the information, he asked if we could return to the mall.
With guarded anticipation we made the short journey back. The security guard told us that several people had turned in numerous small bills found scattered by the wind in the parking lot. A count revealed the exact amount we had lost. There was no one to thank, for these honest souls left no names. The guard smiled and wished us a merry Christmas as he handed us the small stack of bills. Much relieved and profoundly grateful, we drove home.
We then knelt as a family and offered our thanks for the blessings given. Christmas was saved for our little family, and an eternal lesson was learned. These honest people were wonderful examples to us. What better way to give thanks to our Heavenly Father for the birth of His Son than by living the true spirit of Christmas?

After several weeks of formal discussions, the missionaries asked if I would be willing to be baptized. I told them sure. Then they told me that before I could be baptized, I needed to be living the Word of Wisdom.
I hadn’t been drinking or abusing drugs as much as in the past. Things were changing in my life; I felt more hopeful than I had in ages—but surely those habits would be impossible to break completely. Besides, I had already given up so much in embracing the gospel—including several friends who thought I was crazy for showing interest in the Mormon Church. I had persisted because I felt that the gospel was true. But could I completely abandon long-standing addictions?
The missionaries offered to give me a priesthood blessing to help me. Immediately afterward, I threw away all the drugs and alcohol I had. And that night the desire to partake of anything that was against the Word of Wisdom left me. It was a true miracle.
I was baptized in June 1978. A little more than a year later, Bruce and I were married in the Washington D.C. Temple.

There is a story told of an old Cherokee teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.
“It is a terrible fight, and it is between two wolves. One is evil: he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.”
He continued, “The other is good: he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you—and inside every other person too.”
Illustration by Allen Garns
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

I can remember well the first time I noticed Jamie. Her long dark hair was braided and pulled neatly behind her small head. Her eyes, large and soft with a brownish luster, peered timidly around the room as Sister Jones, one of the Primary presidency, led her to a seat. It was my first day as a Primary teacher in a new ward, yet even with my many thoughts about my recent marriage, new friends, and new calling, something about Jamie attracted my attention.
After we separated for classes I became absorbed in my lesson for the Valiant A class and for a time forgot that moment when I noticed Jamie. Five minutes into the lesson, however, a quiet knock sounded at the door and Sister Jones escorted Jamie to a chair within the circle we had formed. Her pretty face looked at the floor, glancing up only occasionally to reveal her high cheekbones and fine features. Her expression held a look of innocence and intelligence, which was hidden once more as her attention returned to the tiles on the floor. As the hour progressed, she became more and more involved in the activities, smiling frequently and answering questions about the prophets that we were studying. She listened with complete attention to the entire lesson, keeping her arms folded and talking only when discussion was invited.
When the other children had left for sacrament meeting, I turned from erasing the chalkboard to see her still sitting patiently, as though waiting for me to finish.
“Aren’t you going to sacrament meeting?” I asked, sitting down on the tiny chair beside her.
She smoothed the pleats of her neatly ironed dress and slowly looked up at me.
“Yes. May I go with you?” Her voice sounded wistful, as though the request might displease me.
“Of course,” I replied. “I’ll help you find your parents, but we’ll have to hurry—the meeting will be starting soon.”
“My mom doesn’t come to church.”
“Oh, well, then it must be your grandma. Where is she?”
The small hands ceased their smoothing motions and dropped to her lap.
“No one comes with me. I just come by myself.”
“No one? Surely you have friends or relatives that bring you.”
She shook her head simply and took my hand as if to go. “May I sit with you, please?”
I smiled at the earnest little face. “Of course you may.”
She smiled, a warm expression radiating the love that small children can give spontaneously, and pulled me out the door toward the chapel.
After the meeting, the Sunday School president approached while Jamie was talking to my husband, Dave.
“I see you’ve met Jamie already. I was hoping that she would be assigned to your class.”
I pulled him farther aside. “Jamie told me that no one comes to church with her. How does she get here? Does one of the bishopric pick her up?”
He shook his head and smiled in a funny, confused way. “No. She just shows up on the doorstep of the chapel every Sunday, waiting for the meetings to start—and I mean every Sunday.”
As he left to attend to other business, I sat down and watched Jamie as she spoke to Dave. What inspires a child of her age to such diligent church attendance? Was it possible for a nine-year-old to possess that level of spiritual maturity? I decided to find out more about this puzzling little girl.
The week passed quickly as work and homemaking activities filled my time. Then it was Sunday, and my class was coming into Primary. It wasn’t until five minutes after the meeting had started that I saw Jamie, a little out of breath, slip into the back row. After class, she came up to talk as usual. Seeing her solemn expression, I couldn’t resist teasing her.
“That must be the first time you’ve ever been late to church in your life! You looked as though you had run all the way.”
She gazed up at me, taking in my comment with complete seriousness. “I’m sorry I was late. Last night, my friend invited me to sleep over, and I forgot that today was Sunday until very late. I ran home then, but I must have slept in.”
I was stunned. “You mean that you went home from your friend’s house all on your own?”
She nodded slowly, as though it had been a confession. My attitude of joking was quickly replaced by one of love and admiration. I resolved again to find out more about Jamie’s background.
Late that Sunday afternoon I went to Jamie’s house to deliver some class preparation materials. I walked up to the screen door and knocked. As the door swung open I was overwhelmed by the smell of thick cigarette smoke that hung in the darkened front room. The sour smell of beer blended with it to make my eyes water. Standing at the entrance was a large, heavyset man dressed in faded pants and an undershirt. His face, wide and unshaven, regarded me coldly, looking first at my Primary manual, then directly into my eyes. His own were red and bloodshot, but they gazed unblinking as I stammered to say something—anything.
“Is Jamie here? I have some things to give her for class.” I thought briefly that mentioning the nature of the class might be unwise. To my surprise, however, his features softened slightly. He seemed to have decided that I wasn’t a salesperson of any kind. He motioned for me to enter, so taking a deep breath, I stepped into the room.
The smoke hung about the ceiling, making my throat itch when I breathed. Through the haze I could see a shabby brown couch and matching chair. Sitting there, playing cards on a table, amid a pile of beer bottles, were two other men and a woman. The heavy drapes were drawn closely, allowing no sunlight into the room, which was lit only by a single bulb suspended from the ceiling.
The woman looked up at me with a puzzled expression. Though her hair was much lighter than Jamie’s, I could see features similar to Jamie’s behind the dark lipstick and eye makeup. The men, dressed much like the one who had answered the door, continued their game as if I wasn’t there. I repeated my question to the woman: “Is Jamie here? I have some things from class to give her.”
She nodded slowly and shuffled out of the room, returning in a few minutes.
“She’s not here. I think she’s out playing with a friend somewhere.”
“I see. Well, would you please give her these things? They are from a project that we did in class today.”
She took the pictures and book and placed them on a chair. The man standing by the door opened it for me and I emerged into the bright sunlight and sweet fall air.
As I walked home, my mind was filled with thoughts and pictures. How could that little girl have such spiritual maturity and devotion? Again and again I saw the darkness of the room contrasted with the light that shone from Jamie. Would she be able to continue attending church? How would she learn about the gospel outside of the classroom? What would motivate her to keep trying as the years passed? Then I paused as a scripture suddenly came to mind: “For behold, the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil.” (Moro. 7:16.)
The words echoed in my mind—every man, every woman, every girl, every little girl, no matter where she lives! How brightly that light shone within Jamie, magnified to brilliance by the darkness of her surroundings! I resolved to help her small light maintain its glow until it had a chance to grow and stand alone.
From then on, every week after church, Jamie spent some time at our house playing games, eating, and just talking. As time passed, we came to admire her inner strength more and more. She possessed a peace and serenity that affected everyone around her.
Then, as we were walking home one day, unexpectedly she said, “Sandy, I want to be baptized. I’m nine years old, and it’s time for me to be baptized, but I can’t get anyone to do it.”
I was filled with an overwhelming love for her as those big dark eyes gazed up at me with unusual intensity. I gave her a big hug and we skipped home together hand in hand.
Jamie was baptized a few months later by one of the missionaries assigned to our area. He and his companion went through the discussions with Jamie, and her mother consented for her to be baptized. Dave and I sat on the fourth row, just behind Jamie’s mother and sister. Her mother looked different somehow—a little happier since I had seen her at home. At first, she seemed a little uncomfortable in the chapel, but the spirit of the meeting seemed to put her at ease. When Jamie came out dressed in white, my heart swelled with love and wonder. She looked beautiful and pure, walking down the aisle. She smiled as she passed us, the happy smile of a nine-year-old, the loveliness of a daughter of God.
As the missionaries gave talks about faith and obedience, I watched her listening intently as always, and knew that those words were being taught by the Spirit even as the elders spoke. Then it was time to go to the font. Jamie didn’t hesitate as she stepped into the water. A thrill went through me, and the words of Christ, when he spoke, “Suffer [the] little children to come unto me” (Luke 18:16) took on new meaning as I watched a little one do exactly that. She was then confirmed, and I was grateful to hear an inspired priesthood bearer ask Heavenly Father to bless her family to support her as a Church member. I said “amen” to his prayer with particular enthusiasm, knowing that Jamie now had a Companion to guide her throughout her life in any circumstance. With the aid of the Holy Ghost, her tiny light will indeed grow, and she will know great joy in the kingdom of heaven.

In 1898, President Wilford Woodruff recounted an experience he had as a new member in 1834 at a priesthood meeting in Kirtland. He related: “The Prophet called on all who held the Priesthood to gather into the little log school house they had there. It was a small house, perhaps 14 feet [4.3 m] square. … When we got together the Prophet called upon the Elders of Israel … to bear testimony of this work. … When they got through the Prophet said, ‘Brethren I have been very much edified and instructed in your testimonies here tonight, but I want to say to you before the Lord, that you know no more concerning the destinies of this Church and kingdom than a babe upon its mother’s lap. You don’t comprehend it. … It is only a little handfull of Priesthood you see here tonight, but this Church will fill North and South America—it will fill the world.’”4

Scouts in Ogden, Utah, learned about their heritage as well as held a Scout-o-Rama. The event was held in a wooden fort erected for the activity complete with outlook posts, bearded mountain men with muskets, and Indians in teepees. The activities of the day attracted the attention of the community, and Scouts manned over a hundred booths and displays. Included on the schedule were flag ceremonies, old-time fiddlers, square dancers, a pinewood derby, and band concerts.
The old western fort was the idea of Brother Vince Quan, who has a keen interest in the history of his new home town. Brother Quan is originally from California. One of his projects, completed with the help of the Scouts, was the placement of a monument in honor of Peter Skene Ogden, a British explorer, for whom the city was named.
After the activities were completed, the fort was dismantled, yet the old West atmosphere lingered. The Scout event is well on its way to becoming an annual community event.

One of the most telling of these experiences occurred in 1978, in competition for the coveted France Cup—a trophy sought by soccer clubs throughout France and its territories. Since the Tahitian football league is affiliated with the Fédération Francaise de Football, Tahitian teams also vie for the France Cup.
By a long-standing arrangement, two top clubs from Tahiti, together with two leading teams from the French-administered territory of New Caledonia, play off to see which South Pacific club will travel to France to compete against the French professionals in the annual France Cup competition. The playoff locations alternate each year between Tahiti and New Caledonia.
In 1978, Erroll’s club, Central, qualified for the local play-off with the New Caledonians, but it was to be played outside of Tahiti and the final was fixed for a Sunday. Not even the persuasive talents of Napoléon Spitz could get the New Caledonians to move the game to another day. And so, as he had the previous year after leading his team to the France Cup finals, Erroll stayed away from the game. While his teammates spent that Sunday morning preparing for the all-important clash later that day, Erroll went to Church. When the whistle signalled kick-off, Central’s captain was alone, back in his hotel room.
“I’ll never forget that day,” he recalls. “Towards the end of the match I had the strongest feeling that things weren’t going well. I wondered whether it would be right to pray to the Lord about a soccer game, but I knew He was aware of my situation and that I had tried to do what was right. Finally, I knelt and asked the Lord to help my team players do their best.”
Erroll learned later that Sabbath day that Central had been a goal down with only 60 seconds to go when the Tahitian club had equalized the score at 2–2. In the mandatory extra time that followed, Central took the winning goal. It was one of the most memorable of Central’s matches.

Geoffrey got off his bike in front of Bob Tschaggeny’s home and sat down on the front steps with him.
“Monday it will start all over again,” said Bob. “School isn’t bad except for that first day. The teacher looks at my name ‘Tschaggeny’ on the card and doesn’t know how to pronounce it. He’s embarrassed and so am I. The same thing happens every year.”
“I know just what you mean,” said Geof, “but it’s my first name they can’t pronounce. The teacher starts to say ‘George,’ then tries ‘Geeof,’ and then ends up with ‘Jeff.’ Half the time they just call me George and I have to explain that my name is pronounced ‘Jeff.’”
“What would it be like to have a simple name?” mused Bob.
“Hi, Geof,” called their friend Mary who was walking along the sidewalk. “What are you two talking about? You look like the end of the world has come.”
“Not the world,” said Geof. “It’s the end of summer.”
“I’m glad,” said Mary. “I like school.”
“You would,” said Bob, “with a name like yours.”
“My name is dull,” responded Mary. “Mary Jones—how plain and ordinary!”
“Right,” said Geof, “but you don’t have to spell it or tell people how to pronounce it. Bob hates to have his name said wrong too. No teacher has said my name right yet.”
“But your names are distinguished. They’re different. They make you a somebody. Mary Jones—how bland. I wish my name were exciting. One year a girl named Huttaballe sat in front of me. The teacher said to her, ‘What an interesting name. What nationality is it?’ Then she looked at my card and just said, ‘Oh, Mary Jones.’”
That night Bob said to his parents, “Isn’t there something we could do with our name so it would be easier to pronounce? Why do we have a silent T in front?”
“Tschaggeny is an honorable Swiss name, son. You should be proud of it,” Father replied. “Our name has been on the records since 1500.”
In the Gordon home that night, Geof said to his mother, “Why did you have to name me after the old poet Geoffrey Chaucer? If you wanted to call me Jeff, why didn’t you spell it J-e-f-f?”
“We didn’t name you after the poet, Geof,” said his mother. “We thought that spelling your name with a “G” looked better with Gordon, and it seemed to suit you very well.”
As Mary Jones helped her mother with the dishes that night, she said, “I always thought it would be nice to have a distinctive name, but Bob Tschaggeny and Geoffrey Gordon are disgusted because they have to spell and pronounce their names for our new teacher every year. I guess none of us are satisfied.”
“Mary,” said her mother, “every time I say your name I remember all the lovely Marys I’ve known or read about. It makes your name even more beautiful to me.”
Monday morning, Bob, Geof, and Mary were seated at their desks in school, waiting to welcome their new teacher. He stood behind his desk, very tall and very straight. He nodded to the class and then wrote the word “One” on the chalkboard.
When the bell rang, the teacher said, “You will each notice a number on the upper left-hand corner of your desk. That number will identify you. We will no longer use names. Your number should be put at the top of all your papers too. You are to address me as ‘One.’”
The class began, and through reading, social studies, arithmetic, and gym, each student was called by a number. No names were used. Bob and Geof thought the idea was great. Their problem seemed to be solved.
During supper that night, Bob’s father asked him if the new teacher could pronounce his name correctly.
“He didn’t have to,” laughed Bob. “We don’t have names this year. The teacher gave each of us a number instead.”
“Do you like that better?” asked his father.
“Well,” said Bob, “It’s been great so far.”
“So you really don’t need a name,” his father questioned further. “It seems very impersonal to me.”
“I still like it fine,” Bob insisted, but he didn’t sound quite so sure this time.
When Geof came home from school his mother asked, “Well, who is it this time? George, Geeof, or Geof?”
“None of those,” said Geof. “This year I’m ‘Ten.’” Then he explained the new teacher’s system of using numbers.
“That’s interesting,” said Mother, “How does he call the numbers? Does he say each one loudly with a different feeling or tone?”
“Nope,” said Geof, “he just stands tall and straight and says numbers without a smile or a nod or any feeling.”
“Guess what? We don’t need names this year,” Mary told her mother when she reached home after school.
“What do you mean?” asked Mother.
“We all have numbers so we don’t use any names. And would you believe it, I’m ‘Thirteen.’ Isn’t that different for me to be called something distinctive?”
In a few weeks the novelty of being known as numbers had worn off. Mary, Bob, and Geof were glad when Friday night came so that for two days at least they would be called by their own names. All the children agreed that school didn’t seem the same as it had other years. Everyone was disinterested. There was no spirit of competition or sharing and little concern about success or failure.
One Monday morning on the way to school Mary saw Bob and Geof just poking along.
“What’s wrong now?” she called.
“What fun is it to go to school and just be ‘Ten’ again?” Geof asked.
“Or ‘Thirteen’” Mary replied. “I don’t like being called ‘Thirteen.’ I like the way my mother calls me ‘Mary’ and I wish everyone else would too.”
“Well, I wish …” But Bob’s wish was cut off by the sound of the bell, and the three friends hurried to class.
At the door of the classroom the teacher stood smiling. He handed each of them a piece of chalk and said, “Good morning. Please take this chalk and write your full name on the board with the others.”
After the last student sat down, they all looked up at the chalkboard. It was covered with the names of everyone in class and it looked good! Across the top in large letters the name SAM SMITH was written.
The teacher turned to the class. “Thank you,” he said, “for cooperating with me in my experiment these past weeks. You helped me prove something. When you became a number, you each seemed to become less of a person. You were interested and excited boys and girls at the beginning of the school year. Now you don’t seem to care much about school or each other.”
The students looked around at their classmates as the teacher continued, “My name is Sam Smith. I’m glad to know each of you by your names—Thomas Ward, Robert Tschaggeny, Geoffrey Gordon, Mary Jones, John Martin. …”
Mr. Smith looked at each one with a friendly smile on his face as he said the names. “Now let’s remember who we really are and work together,” he suggested.
“Thank you, Mr. Sam Smith,” Bob said.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Smith,” the other boys and girls chorused. “That’ll be great!”

A Relief Society presidency in Pleasant Grove, Utah, met with their bishop to discuss ward goals before planning Relief Society classes. Based on those goals, Relief Society leaders planned a meeting where a sister in the ward shared how she uses Preach My Gospel for family home evening. They also arranged several gardening workshops, including how to store food from one’s garden. Of the presidency’s meetings with the bishop, the Relief Society president says, “We feel our bishop’s love, knowing he is praying to the Lord in our behalf.”

Some time ago, as director of LDS Charities, I was in a meeting when I got an urgent plea regarding Christian refugees who were purged from Mosul, Iraq, by Islamic State forces and were pouring into Kurdistan. The Anglican vicar of Baghdad had 5,000 people jostling for space in his church courtyard, and they had no food to eat. The Latter-day Saint humanitarian missionary couple was asking for emergency funds to purchase rice, beans, oil, and blankets, and we responded immediately so they could get dinner that evening.

Because of my work, these are the kinds of things in front of my face every day. Being forced to see the broad picture so often, I ask myself, what is the best use of my energies? As we seek answers, let us search the doctrines of the gospel. “Looking beyond the mark” (Jacob 4:14) or becoming obsessed with one question or one practice often shifts our focus and time from gospel living.

Bonnie L. Oscarson, Young Women general president, spoke of remaining anchored in the gospel as we seek answers: “We can choose whether or not we are going to stick with what we have already felt. There are not answers to everything, but we choose whether we will be true to what we have felt from the Holy Ghost. Let’s keep working to make things better, but keep our faith in the meantime.”7

Our practices will continue to change in the Church as we learn to apply our doctrine in better and more perfect ways. I hope the next generation is even more fair and equal in its practice of the gospel. But I also believe that the large foundational stones are in place and are enough to nurture our faith and our testimonies.

The March day felt almost like summer as Raybell walked down the quiet country road. Her parents had gone to dinner the night before and had brought her two fortune cookies that she carried in a paper bag. She wanted to give one to her best friend, Linda.
Raybell looked out over the fields that were just beginning to turn green and thought how very quiet and empty her little farming town was. The sun felt warm on her head and shoulders, and a meadowlark broke the lonely silence with its call from the telephone lines.
Raybell hurried up the long walkway to Linda’s house and knocked on the door. She waited and then knocked again. The house was silent. Maybe Linda’s family had gone into town. Raybell sat on the steps and waited for about ten minutes, though it seemed longer. Finally she got up and wandered across the road to the church, a white building with pine trees in front. She sat down on the church steps where she had a view of Linda’s house. She could also see Judy’s house across the field, and she began to think about what had happened after Primary one day last month.
Now Raybell sat on the steps in the warm sunshine and remembered the feelings of that day. Judy hadn’t spoken to her in the last month, but she had never been very friendly. Raybell looked across the field at Judy’s run-down house, surrounded by old, broken-down cars.
Raybell looked again at Judy’s old house. She looked at the paper sack sitting on the steps with the two fortune cookies in it. She picked it up and climbed through the fence into the damp, plowed field.
As Raybell approached the house, she saw Judy sitting on her rickety front steps wearing an old army shirt and baggy pants. She watched Raybell with a hostile expression, and Raybell wished she hadn’t come. She tried to smile.
“My mom and dad went out to eat last night—”
“So?” Judy said.
“Well, they brought these fortune cookies, and I thought we could open them and read our fortunes.” Judy’s expression was puzzled but not angry. “Judy, I’m really sorry about putting snow in your boots.” She stood there not knowing what else to say.
“What do I care if my boots are wet? It doesn’t bother me,” Judy said.
“Well, I’m sorry anyway. I’d hate it if my boots were all wet inside. I guess I’m not as tough as you.”
Judy shrugged her shoulders. “So are you going to give me one of those fortune cookies or not?”
“Oh, sure.” Raybell sat down on the steps and handed a cookie to Judy. They broke the cookies in half and read the slips of paper. “What does yours say?” Raybell asked.
Judy sat up very straight. “It says I will be rich and famous one day. How about yours?”
“‘You are a good leader and should consider politics or business,’” Raybell read. They both laughed.
Judy took a bite of her cookie. “I prefer chocolate cookies, but they’re not bad.”
“Me too,” Raybell said. They both laughed again. Raybell munched her cookie and thought that the spring sunshine felt even warmer here on Judy’s steps.

I knew we are all supposed to share the gospel, but I had never had any success. Then, during a Spanish course I was taking, I met a young man named Tiago. We became friends and often walked home from school together. One day we passed an LDS chapel that had recently been built.
“I have been a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for several years,” I said. I shared with him some of the things that we believe, and told him how much my family and I have been blessed because of the gospel. I invited him to attend meetings that coming Sunday at 9:00 a.m.
Sunday arrived and I anxiously waited, but he did not come. During the week, I invited him again. This continued every week for two or three months. He always gave me a reason why he hadn’t shown up: “I slept late,” “I was tired,” “There were problems.” But I kept asking him anyway, and he didn’t seem to mind.
One Sunday morning I sat down on one of the benches toward the back of the chapel. There were still a few minutes to go before the meeting began when someone quietly called my name. I looked toward the door, and there was Tiago!
“Didn’t I promise you I would come one day?” he said. He attended sacrament meeting, and to my surprise, stayed for the rest of the meetings and seemed pleased when I introduced him to the missionaries. He began meeting with them regularly. Tiago and I continued to talk as we walked home from school, but our conversations were about the truths he was learning. I was able to answer questions and bear my testimony. Finally, he gained a testimony of his own and joined the Church.
Today I am a full-time missionary in the Brazil Santa Maria Mission. Before I left for the mission field, Tiago also submitted his application to be a full-time missionary, and he is now serving in the Brazil Manaus Mission.
I recently received a letter from him. “Thank you for inviting me again and again to come to church,” he wrote. “I will be eternally grateful.” I am happy not only to share the gospel each day but also to know that Tiago is doing the same.

I remember when I was about your age wishing the Spirit would tell me something different. I grew up in a small town in Canada. There were 10 people in my high school graduating class, so I graduated in the top 10 of my class! One evening my sister Shirley and I were going to the same party at a friend’s house. Mom and Dad reminded us to come right home after the party. Shirley was a year younger than I and went with her group of friends, and I went with mine. After the party Shirley went directly home, a clear indication to Mom and Dad that the party was over. I was not as wise. With my group of friends we began driving around the exciting places in town—the grain elevators and the cemetery!
As time passed I got the strong feeling that I should be home. But how could I be the first one to say, “I have to go home”? So I didn’t. I stayed with my friends, laughing and pretending I was having a good time. The feeling that I should go home grew stronger and stronger. Finally I laughingly said to my friends, “If you see a blue car ahead, it’s just my dad looking for me.” No sooner had I said those words than there indeed was a blue car and my dad standing in the middle of the road (there wasn’t a lot of traffic), waving his arms for us to stop.
Dad came around to the car door, opened it, and said quietly, “Sharon, you’d better come home with me.” I wanted to crawl under the floor mats of the car and never come out! How could my dad be so cruel and insensitive, and why didn’t my sister wait outside the house so Mom and Dad wouldn’t know when the party was over? I talked to my sister recently about this, and she said, “I did wait outside until I almost froze to death.” At the time I was sure it was everyone else’s fault that I was so humiliated in front of my friends!
Through the lens of time and reality, I see more clearly what really happened. I was prompted and warned several times—not by a legion of angels or even one small angel, but a still, small voice. Actually, it was just a feeling I had. It was so subtle, so quiet that it could be easily brushed away and I could pretend it wasn’t really there—and my friends were!
I had overstepped something that was expected of me. I had chosen to be popular with my friends instead of pleasing my parents and the Lord. But even when I deliberately chose not to obey, the Spirit was still there prompting me. You can’t do wrong and feel right. Pretending the Spirit isn’t prompting you when it is, is like putting the wrong answer down on a test when you know the right answer.

“Time to get up, sleepy head!” Mom softly whispered in my ear. “Oh, Mom, do I have to?” I moaned in discomfort as she gently tried to raise me from the dead for seminary one more time.
As I sat in that state of semiawakeness, it occurred to me that Mom was always there to wake me up and that she was as reliable as any alarm clock, only a little more caring. I thought about what the world might be like in a few years and wondered how many things could really be automated. For instance, would a cold metal arm protrude from the ceiling to wake me up some day in the future, or would my bed just dump me on the floor as it folded back up into the wall?
Would I go on a mission with an IBM companion, or would I have a real human being? I knew, of course, that that was just silly and I didn’t worry about it too much, yet they were making a lot of advances in the field of robotics. It’s strange to see what was once just science fiction beginning to come true in this world of high technology.
I got up out of the warmth of my bed, and as my feet hit the cold floor I felt that electrically heated floors wouldn’t be a bad idea for chilly mornings. On my desk a fresh pile of clothes had been thoughtfully laid out by a mother who cares so much about me. Those clothes were always fresh and clean smelling. It was totally amazing how one lovely mother could keep the house so clean and all the clothes washed and still have time to feed the family. I knew that with six children it was a job indeed. Even a myriad of machines would not replace Mom.
Now almost dressed, I rushed down the stairs to the aroma of hot cereal and toast. I saw Mom hurrying to put everything on the table. She really was great. As I sat down to eat this delicious breakfast, so lovingly prepared, I wondered how much longer it would be until we just had pills to eat, eliminating all of the time mothers spend “over a hot stove.” It always amazed me how Mom was able to come up with so many different meals. Her brain must work like a computer, or does a computer work like her brain? I hurried and ate and then took my dishes over to the sink. We didn’t have one of those standard household dishwashers; ours was still “manual.”
I lazily walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth, wondering how much longer until they give teenagers dentures and eliminate the worry about decaying canines. After all, they already had braces, electric toothbrushes, and other dental hardware. Just about then Mom yelled to me that, although she loved me, my seminary teacher might not if I was late for her class. Seminary was one thing that I wished I could get on videotapes. I would then have a lot more time for some of the luxuries in life, namely more sleep.
Mom gave me a parting hug as I zipped out the door to the waiting car full of people. Her enthusiasm and motivation were the only things that kept me awake and going in the mornings. Mom was always there whenever I needed anything. It really dawned on me that no one could ever replace someone who cooks, cleans, and cares like my wonderful mom!