Gospel Story Finder

“Before I tracked the time I spent, I thought it was going to be really hard to take time out and read the scriptures—but after realizing how much time I spent on social media, taking 10 minutes out of that felt super easy! I could read at lunch or right before seminary started.
“After I had read the scriptures, I was a lot more aware of what I looked at on social media. If I stumbled across something bad, with bad language or a negative message, I noticed it and tried to avoid it way more than before. I also noticed that my prayers were a lot more sincere and that I was receiving more answers to them. This is definitely something that I hope to continue for a lot longer!”
Izzie J., 16, California, USA

I know a woman with several small children whose husband served in a time-consuming Church calling. He often came home late from work—just long enough to say hello—then off he went to perform his Church duties. The children sometimes had to be reassured, and sometimes the mother had to reassure herself, by saying, “Aren’t we glad that Daddy is worthy to serve Heavenly Father so we can receive so many blessings?” A support instead of a murmur brought results that had a lasting influence on that home and family.

One day at school as I ate lunch and studied for my next class, I noticed a group sitting near me, talking and laughing. One young woman particularly caught my attention. She was tall, with beautiful black hair, dark skin, and high cheekbones. Her appearance was as unlike my pale, freckled face and red hair as anything I could imagine. She was one of the most beautiful people I had ever seen.
After a few minutes, the group rose to leave. But the young woman I had been watching stopped. I was somewhat embarrassed; I thought she must have seen me staring at them. Then something extraordinary happened.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but I want to tell you how beautiful you are.”
After a shocked pause, I started to laugh. “I was thinking the same thing about you!”
After she left, I continued to think about what had happened. We found our differences beautiful. At that moment I realized there is no single standard of beauty.

There is a power in goodness that is often learned in families. There is a void when it is lacking. I know one family that left what they described as “the good life” in a desire to do good. They agreed on a noble purpose that would take them to the Philippines for a year. The mother of this family reported, “We were flabbergasted it was so hard.” Without the normal routine and conveniences of home, she said, “We were just the same old ornery people.” Then they set a new routine—exercise at 5:30 a.m., 6:30 scripture study, then breakfast and school. Each afternoon they visited orphanages to play with the children.
Gradually the family started to notice a change—new levels of patience, gratitude, and respect. They started to talk to each other—to really talk and to really listen. The mother stated, “I will never forget the learning that took place for me and my family the day they brought a five-month-old baby into the orphanage whose tongue had been cut and an eye poked out.” When they learned the mother, a beggar, had injured her own child, it gave a new dimension to the social studies lesson they had discussed at home. A new level of compassion started to develop—greater reverence for the sanctity of life. This family put their “trust in that Spirit which leadeth to do good” (D&C 11:12), and gradually they started to experience the power to become changed.

My parents are members of the Church, but they’re not very active. This sometimes leads to conflicts because they believe family time should come before everything else—before going to church, magnifying my Church callings, and doing other activities.

Because I am a leader in the Primary and a member of the ward choir, my Church meetings sometimes interfere with family duties. One day when I was preparing to attend a general conference broadcast at our meetinghouse in Antananarivo, my parents reminded me that we had guests in our home.

“You’ll have to choose between your family and the Church,” my mother told me. “Either you stay here with us and miss conference, or you go to conference and face punishment.”

I decided not to get into an argument with my mother. Instead, I took a moment to ask Heavenly Father to give me courage and strength. I also asked Him to help me know what to do. Should I stay home with my family or go to church and hear the voice of the prophet?

As soon as I finished my prayer, I could feel the Holy Ghost. I could feel the Spirit encourage me to tell my mother how important it was for me to go and listen to the prophet. I felt that I should tell her that I would receive wise counsel not only for my life today but also for my future.

God can do miraculous things, and He softened my parents’ hearts so that they let me go to general conference without being punished. This was a remarkable experience in my life. It confirmed to me the truth of the scripture that says, “By the power of the Holy Ghost [we] may know the truth of all things” (Moroni 10:5).

I know that if we base our actions on the principles of the gospel and listen to the Spirit, we can always be happy with our choices. This experience strengthened my testimony that God is there for us and that the Holy Ghost helps us in our lives.

Another White House gift became a matter of life and death to young Tad Lincoln. A friend of President Lincoln’s, a successful turkey grower, sent one of his best gobblers to be served for a White House Christmas dinner. Tad quickly made friends with the handsome bird and named him Jack. The two of them spent many hours racing around the White House grounds. Finally, when it came time for the turkey to be readied for the holiday feast, Tad would not hear of such a thing.
“Father, you can’t let anyone kill Jack,” the boy pleaded. “He’s my friend!”
“But if we do not serve him for Christmas dinner, I might offend the man who gave us the turkey.”
“Then I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him Jack is my friend and that I want him to live.”
President Lincoln nodded, gently resting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Then Jack will be spared,” his father agreed. “A good friend is worth far more than a good dinner.”

William Prabhudas of the Bangalore Second Branch works in a courthouse. He knows how heart wrenching it can be to see marriages torn apart. That’s one of the reasons he and his wife were so eager to find strength in the temple.
“Like most couples, sometimes we have small issues to work out,” he says. “But working them out is so much easier when we both have an eternal perspective.”
His wife, Sheela, says that going to the temple has helped not only her and her husband, but it has also helped their children: Celesta, age 13, and Doris, 7. “We were sealed as a family,” Sheela says. “It was a good feeling. We forgot the outside world, and it was like heaven for us. We talk about it all the time.”
“What a blessing to be sealed to my wife,” Brother Prabhudas says. “And then they brought our daughters in, dressed in white, to join us. It reminded me of cleanliness—cleanliness in our lives and in our homes. Cleanliness and the temple go hand in hand. When we are clean, the Lord promises—in His house of promises—to bless us.”
Celesta recalls that her family worked, planned, and saved for two years to be able to travel to the temple. But most of all, she remembers being in the temple with her parents and that her aunt and uncle and cousins were also there to see her family sealed. “Afterward, we all held hands together. We looked in the mirrors and thought about eternity,” she recalls. “It was beautiful. I knew I wanted to belong to my family forever.”

On a cold December afternoon, Tia C. walked through the doors of the Church History Library. History is one of Tia’s favorite subjects, so she was excited to help show Friend readers some of the library’s fascinating historical treasures. Tia met Elder Marlin K. Jensen, who is the Church Historian. He showed her some very special journals and photographs. He told Tia it is important for every boy and girl in the Church to keep a journal. “Two or three times a week, sit down and think about how Heavenly Father has blessed you, protected you, and kept you from temptation,” he said. “Mainly, it is important to write about your feelings.”
Tia watched a video about a pioneer girl named Mary Jane Millett. Mary Jane’s father had a special experience that he wrote about in his journal. Mary Jane copied it into her own journal. Mary Jane’s journal is in the Church History Library, and Tia visited the conservation lab to see how it is being preserved.
Tia loves writing stories. Now she knows how important it is to write down her own special experiences. “Visiting the Church History Library was the best experience ever!” Tia said. “I will never forget it.”
But just in case, she went home and wrote about it.

Take eight lively people, mix them in a small van for 40 hours, adding mechanical failure, rain, car sickness—even seasickness, and what do you get? “Heaven,” according to the Marrero family.
“It was the most spiritual experience of my life,” said Raquel, 14, of her family’s trip to the temple, to be sealed together for all time and eternity.
For many people, a temple trip isn’t quite the sacrifice that it was for the Marreros. They live on the island of Tenerife, which is one of Spain’s Canary Islands, located about 50 miles off the coast of Morocco. When they were finally prepared to go to the temple, the nearest one open was in Germany, so that’s where they headed, crossing the ocean and passing through three countries to get there.
The cost of plane fare would have been outrageous for the family that consists of Luci, 6; Fabio, 8; Oliver, 10; Raquel, 14; Desiree, 16; Oscar, 18; and Miguel and Angela, the mother and father. They worked for two years as it was, the father doing carpentry, and the rest of the family taking on odd jobs at home, like assembling game pieces and cards for a toy factory, to earn the money to travel the way they did.
The way they traveled was in a van, or furgón, as they call it, that Miguel had used his carpentry skills to convert into a camper with two beds. They loaded it onto a ferry and traveled by water the 500 miles to Spain.
“We all got seasick,” said Raquel. “We were glad to see dry land again.”
But that was only the beginning of the journey. Ahead there were hours and hours of driving through Spain, France, and Germany, and sleeping under the stars at night. “To pass the time we’d honk and wave at others with Spanish license plates,” said Desiree. “And we sang every hymn and typical Spanish song we knew—many times over.”
“Dad drove and fixed the car,” added Raquel. They had electrical problems, among other things, which made it difficult to drive at night without stopping every few minutes to fix the headlights. Finally, when they made it to Frankfurt, they pulled over and waited for dawn, so they could drive undistracted to the temple in the light.
Well, almost undistracted. It seems the temple is located in Friedrichsdorf, outside of Frankfurt, and with their limited German, the Marreros couldn’t find it. They finally hired a Spanish-speaking cab driver to show them the way.
“When at last we saw the Angel Moroni on top, it was such a joy,” said Raquel. “It was beautiful—even more beautiful because we’d suffered so much to get there.”
Oh, and the things they found inside! “It was so wonderful when we were sealed—everyone in white, even the little ones, looking so beautiful,” said Desiree. “Now we know that we can be together forever with the ones we love.”
The Marreros spent about four days at the temple, the parents doing sealings, the children who were old enough doing baptisms for the dead. They were reluctant to leave, when the time came, especially since they knew all about the tedious road trip that lay ahead.
But their lives had changed in those four days. “We didn’t quarrel as much,” Raquel noted. “We knew we were an eternal family.”
“The trip was a lot like life, really,” observed Desiree. “You go through some tough times, and you work really hard, but it is worth it when you make it to the celestial kingdom. We made a lot of sacrifices so that everyone could arrive together.”

Sometime around my 17th birthday, I had achieved my full growth with the usual bulges and ripples in the right places. Dad and I were alone together on the farm since my older brothers were married or at college. One day we were stacking bales of alfalfa hay. I was placing them from the truck on a long conveyer that carried them to where Dad was placing them in the right position on the haystack. The sound of the small motor drowned out any possibility of talk, so, lost in my own thoughts, I worked rapidly to finish the job. I was startled when Dad yelled. I looked up to see that I was sending bales of hay up to him faster than he could place them. After waving for me to stop, he sat down to rest. Dad pulled out a red bandana handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. At that moment I realized I was no longer a small child following my father’s footsteps in the snow. My father was more tired than I was.
I had never before realized that this was natural since I was 17 and he was 55. I was instead a bit shocked by the recognition that he was no longer going to be the person I compared myself to in order to see if I was doing all right. Truthfully, I felt a bit anxious as if I were suddenly without a leader and were on my own. As I sat looking at him, a wave of emotion passed through me. I could not understand all of it, but I knew something significant was taking place. He suddenly looked a bit older to me and more tired than I had been willing to notice.
As we began to work again, and I more slowly, my father seemed a bit less than he used to be. I felt a little disappointed and even resentful. Some fate had robbed me of a security I had as a child, but I gained an understanding that has been a wonderful part of my life. I understood that more than an unattainable example of manhood, my father was just a man. He was a mortal like me, and what he did I could someday do too. Knowing this was far better than trying to be like someone and never succeeding. My father became to me a real person who had feelings and ideas, strengths and weaknesses, hopes and dreams.
My disappointment was brief, and I began to view him differently, even feeling protective of him. As the days followed, I became more responsible in doing my chores and tried in many ways to be more helpful to him. I began to tell him more things about myself, and we became closer. Though he was by nature a reserved and quiet man, we became more openly affectionate with each other. We are not equals. I am better in some areas because of an advanced education he gave me. He is wiser because of his experience.

Many, many years ago, woodcutters went deep into the jungle of Chiapas, Mexico, in search of precious wood. Because of the difficult terrain, they could not take their families with them. When they finally reached their work site, the men raised temporary rustic huts of thick branches, roofed with palm leaves.
Night after night, after long days of woodcutting, the men would sit around the fire and talk or sing. The songs they had learned from their ancestors floated away on the night wind. But the men were lonely, and there was sadness and even bitterness in their voices. There was a great need for some cheerful music to accompany the sad choruses that penetrated the jungle.
Among the woodcutters was a handsome young boy named Quetzal Feather. This boy loved the murmur of the jungle more than anything or anyone in the whole world.
One evening as the sun was about to set, Quetzal Feather went deep into the jungle. He was guided by the music of the wind in the foliage. Suddenly he stopped. He thought he heard the sound of voices high in the branches. He went forward cautiously until he was almost at the foot of a tasseled palm. The palm was speaking sadly to a majestic-looking silk-cotton tree.
Quetzal Feather hardly breathed as he listened to what the trees were saying.
“My friend,” said the palm, “because of my great height, I can see the place from where those heartrending songs come. Just before nightfall, I saw the woodcutters with their eyes fixed upon the jungle. How sadly they sang!”
The robust silk-cotton tree shook its branches in protest. “Man should not live sunken in sadness!” it declared.
“We should do something,” responded the palm tree.
Quetzal Feather, hidden in the underbrush, listened in wonderment to the conversation. Then, he heard another voice, shy and nervous. It sent a shiver through him as he strained to catch every word.
“Friends and companions,” said the voice humbly, “the sad songs of the woodcutters have moved me to my very roots. But—perhaps I can do something to help.”
Quetzal Feather poked his head out of the underbrush and saw the tree that had just spoken. It was an hormiguillo tree that stood not far from the stately palm.
The great silk-cotton tree answered first, a little doubtfully. “If you can help, please do so!” it begged.
“Yes,” agreed the palm, “but what can you do? How can you lift the sadness from the woodcutters’ hearts?”
“For a long time now,” began the hormiguillo tree with more self-assurance, “I have been storing under my bark the torrent of nature’s harmony. For a long time I have held the songs of the birds and the cricket, the murmur of wind and rain, and the sound of water cascading over rocks. I have treasured up in me the soft sound of doves in flight and the roar of the tempest.”
Suddenly, before Quetzal Feather had time to realize what the tree had said, beautiful chords began to come from the hormiguillo tree.
“What music is this?” Quetzal Feather asked himself in amazement. “Even the jungle trembles in delight!”
The branches of the palm and the silk-cotton tree swayed in surprised and happy approval.
Trembling with excitement, Quetzal Feather fled from the underbrush. He wished to tell the woodcutters all that he had heard.
But the woodcutters did not believe him, judging him to be a strange and imaginative boy. Wearily they entered their huts for a night’s rest. And Quetzal Feather was left by the dying fire, alone and confused. Then just before sunrise he arose and ran straight as an arrow to the place where he had hidden in the underbrush the night before. The hormiguillo tree was silent now, yet in spite of its silence, some strange love kept Quetzal Feather beside the tree.
Days and nights passed, but the youth, hugging the hormiguillo tree, heard not a single happy note of the heavenly music he had heard before.
The woodcutters were very fond of Quetzal Feather, in spite of what they thought were the boy’s strange imaginings, and they tried to persuade him to leave the tree. But it was of no use. “The tree has bewitched him,” the Old Ones said sadly.
At last, Quetzal Feather became so weak and tired that he fell asleep at the foot of the tree.
“Now,” said the oldest woodcutter, “we can help him. While he sleeps deeply, we will cut the tree down and free him from his bewitchment.”
With their sharpened axes, the woodcutters began to chop at the hormiguillo tree. But to their great surprise and fear, beautiful musical sounds came from the tree at each stroke of their axes.
Quetzal Feather, hearing the music, awoke and clung to the wounded tree that seemed to be moaning with pain.
“Finish cutting me down at once!” begged the hormiguillo tree. “Take my wood. It is full of harmony!”
The next day when Quetzal Feather gathered up the pieces of the fallen tree, he discovered to his great delight that the sticks of wood when tapped by other sticks sent out beautiful happy chords.
Day and night he worked without rest until he had arranged the small pieces of the hormiguillo tree into a rustic instrument.
Thus the noble forest of Chiapas had furnished a lively and happy accompaniment to the tired and sad voices of the woodcutters. The marimba was born, and to this day men search the jungles of Chiapas and Guatemala for the musical wood of the hormiguillo tree.

One Christmas I gave several pass-along cards to my friends and teachers at school. In January a teacher I had given a card to told me she had called the number on the card and received a Christmas DVD. She watched it and liked it very much. I think the pass-along cards are special. When I give them out, I can feel the Spirit. It makes me happy to share the gospel. I know that Jesus Christ lives and loves all of us.
Raiane R., age 11, Brazil

When the phone call came, I could hear my mother in another room, talking quietly with her doctor—the tone of her voice steady but concerned. I instantly felt worried. I needed to find out what was happening, and something inside me told me the news wouldn’t be good.
“The cancer is back, and this time it’s in my liver,” my mom told me when she got off the phone. “The doctor wants me to come in for more tests to see how far it’s spread.”
Although I was just a sophomore in high school, this wasn’t the first time our family had received news that our mom’s health was in jeopardy. When I was just four years old, my dad sat me down during our evening storytelling time to explain that my mother had breast cancer.
Since then, she’d undergone rounds of surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation. The treatments had always seemed to work, but with each new discovery of cancer in her body, her chances of survival grew dimmer.
Over the next few weeks after this most recent phone call, I started to feel hopeless as I watched my mother struggling to cope with her illness. Despite doing all the things I knew I should be doing, like going to seminary, reading my scriptures, praying, and fasting, I still felt a looming cloud of despair hang over me.
Peace seemed to elude me, until one morning when I was getting ready for school. I was eating cereal at our kitchen table in my usual hurried fashion and was running late to try to catch the school bus. Suddenly I looked up and saw a painting of the Savior’s face with the words “You Are Never Alone” printed in bold letters above it. It was a Mormonad poster that my mom and I had taped to the side of the fridge a few months earlier. I took a closer look and read the scripture at the bottom of the poster: “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you” (John 14:18).
I instantly felt a comforting feeling wash over me. The scripture on the Mormonad was a simple statement, but it seemed to pierce my heart. The Savior’s promise that He would always be by my side lifted my spirits and increased my faith. From then on, I knew that no matter what happened, I would be watched over through my trials. My prayers to find comfort during a troubling time had been answered. My testimony that I am a daughter of God and that He knows me personally was strengthened that day. Since that morning I have known that I will truly never be alone because the Savior is always with me.
Jonelle M., Utah, USA
See the Mormonad at lds.org/go/93Peace.

Hirobo Obeketang sits back on his couch and smiles. He and his wife, Linda, have just finished holding family home evening with four of their children and the sister missionaries. They also treated the missionaries to a fish dinner, complete with eyes and tail—a tradition in Majuro, the capital of the Marshall Islands. As Hirobo describes his life, he expresses how grateful he is for the Church, the gospel, and his family, especially his wife.

It is June 2009. One day earlier the Majuro Marshall Islands Stake was created, and Hirobo was called to serve as the first stake executive secretary. Hirobo, as new stake president Arlington Tibon describes him, “is very, very strong,” one of the faithful leaders of the island.

But Hirobo is the first to point out that until recently that wasn’t the case. In fact, he credits his wife with being the strong one—the one who made the difference in his life. He explains, “I was baptized when I was eight years old, but when I was 16, I became less active.”

A few years later he and Linda began living together, though they weren’t married. Linda was not a member of the Church. In 2000, shortly after Linda discovered that Hirobo had been baptized as a child, she became interested in the Church and began meeting with the sister missionaries.

“She studied for two years and decided she wanted to be baptized,” Hirobo recalls. “We had to get married first, but I wasn’t interested in getting married. I was confused; I was really into the world’s temptations. I didn’t understand the importance of family, and I didn’t really care or listen to anybody.”

Linda, though not baptized, raised their children in the Church. Every year she asked Hirobo to marry her so she could get baptized; each time he said no. Over the years two of their daughters were baptized, but Hirobo did not attend their baptisms.

Then, in 2006, their nine-year-old son, Takao, passed away from a seizure and high fever. About 300 members from the Majuro district came to the funeral to support the family.

“Their support was a really big thing for me,” Hirobo says. “I started to think that God was probably telling me something.”

He began thinking about how he was the reason his wife couldn’t get baptized, even though he was a member of the Church. “She was getting stronger and stronger. She was really inspiring me,” he recalls.

“So I sat down and thought about how I was halfway through my life. I asked myself, ‘Am I going to continue doing what I am doing? Do I have a chance to work for God for the second half of my life?’ I started saying my prayers and thinking about coming back to church to start working for God.”

Hirobo began studying with the missionaries and relearning doctrine. President Nelson Bleak of the Marshall Islands Majuro Mission befriended him, as did other members, including then-district president Arlington Tibon. Finally, Hirobo committed to return, and the next thing he knew, he was attending not just sacrament meeting but also Sunday School and priesthood meeting. At last, Hirobo made up his mind.

“When I came back, I said, ‘This is it. This is what I’m going to do.’ And it changed my life completely.”

Hirobo and Linda were married on August 30, 2008. He soon received the Aaronic Priesthood and baptized his wife. Two months later Hirobo received the Melchizedek Priesthood and was called as the district executive secretary.

Hirobo looks at his wife and smiles. “She couldn’t believe I was the one who baptized her,” he says. “Imagine—it took her eight years, from 2000 to 2008. She is amazing.”

Elder Justin Hill set down his Book of Mormon and looked out the window. The morning sun was just beginning to reflect off the glistening blue and gray tile rooftops of the Japanese houses below his apartment, and he knew that meant his study time was almost over.
“Hey, Rob, I mean, Elder Crosby, what are we doing for breakfast this morning?”
“Not my problem, Elder,” Rob answered without looking up from his scriptures. “As senior companion in this apartment, I delegated breakfast to you, remember?”
Justin got up off his futon, folded the quilts, and walked over to the cooking area of their small gray apartment. “Let’s see,” he said as he looked through the canisters that sat on a metal shelf over the sink. “We’ve got rice … more rice … or mugi.”
“If we’ve got any sugar left, let’s have mugi, okay?” called Rob.
Justin dumped three cups of milled wheat into a pot of water and set it to boil on the stove. The heat and rising steam from the pot took some of the chill off the room, and as Justin stirred the boiling and bubbling mush, his eyes wandered to the calendar pinned on the wall over the kitchen table. April 22.
“Hey, Elder, our birthday is exactly one month from today.”
Rob rolled over and looked at the calendar. “Sheesh,” he said, “we’re going to be 21 years old. Can you believe it?”
Justin nodded. “I can believe that, but it’s still hard for me to believe I’m on a mission, and even harder to believe that you’re my first companion.”
He gave the now vigorously boiling wheat a few stirs. “Back when we first met in high school in Tucson, I thought you were such a jerk that I wanted nothing to do with you, much less your church.”
Rob chuckled. “Hey, I was as surprised as you were, Elder. Who would have thought the old Tucson Twosome would be reunited in Japan?”
Justin nodded and grinned. The Tucson Twosome. He’d never forget how they got stuck with that nickname. It marked the beginning of his interest in the Church.
Ms. Hornbaker tried. Justin had to give her credit for that. English composition isn’t exactly a hot topic with high school students, but she did her best to make it interesting.
The students filed into her class one day to find that she had pushed all the desks to the back of the room and had taped 12 pieces of paper on the floor, each with the name of a month written on it.
“Okay, everybody,” she said when class began, “find the paper that has your birth month and stand by it.”
Students milled around for a while looking for their places. Justin found his—May—and stood next to it. In a few minutes, the entire class was separated into 12 groups, each group with two or three students in it.
“Now what,” someone wisecracked, “are we going to square dance?”
Justin hoped not. The only other person in the May group was Rob Crosby.
“Sorry,” said Ms. Hornbaker, “this is an English class, remember?”
“Oh, no,” a kid moaned from the back of the room. “That means we’re going to have a writing assignment.”
Ms. Hornbaker smiled, “How perceptive. Today you’re going to do some comparison/contrast writing.”
They had to interview a person in their group, come up with at least three similarities and three differences, and then write a paper comparing and contrasting themselves with the person they interviewed.
“You’ve got 20 minutes to talk. Rough draft’s due Friday.” Her directions finished, Ms. Hornbaker told the class to pull the desks from the back of the room, get into their groups, and start working on the assignment.
Rob slid his desk up to Justin’s and sat down.
“So you’re a May baby too. When’s your birthday?” he asked.
“May 22.”
“No kidding? So is mine. I can’t believe it. We’re practically twins.”
Great, thought Justin. Robert Crosby was the last guy in the world he wanted to be twins with.
“What time were you born?” asked Rob.
“What difference does that make?”
“Because,” Rob said with a grin, “I want to know who’s older, me or you.”
“Sometime around noon,” Justin’s mother said that evening, “but I’d have to look at your birth certificate to be sure. Why?”
“Nothing, really,” replied Justin, concentrating on his supper. “Just curious.”
Mr. Hill folded the evening paper and set it on the table next to his plate. “Justin, how’s the basketball team shaping up?”
“All right, I guess.”
“Is that hot dog Crosby kid playing?”
“Guard,” Justin nodded. Losing the tailback spot to Robert in football had been almost as hard on his dad as it had been on him. Since then, Rob Crosby was one of the least popular topics around the Hills’ house.
“Coach Simmons still have you at forward?”
Justin nodded. “He said I’m too big and slow for guard, and too small and slow for center.” He was relieved that in basketball he wasn’t competing with Robert for the same position.
“Well, Mount Vista should have a decent team then. With a gunner like Crosby at guard and you at forward, it’s going to be tough stopping you guys. Still, I’d rather see somebody else at guard. Crosby’s too selfish. Granted, he’s a great shot, but he’s got to learn to be a team player.”
“He’s not that bad, Dad. He’s just really intense.” That was a first—Justin defending his arch rival.
Mr. Hill frowned. “I’ve never liked that kid. He’s one of those Mormons. You knew that, didn’t you, son?”
“He mentioned it once.”
“Of course he did. That’s how they operate. Next thing you know he’ll be pushing Mormon propaganda on you, inviting you to his church, or sending missionaries here to pester us. Best thing you can do is stay away from him.” Mr. Hill made it sound more like a warning than advice.
It was funny he felt that way because, if anything, Rob had a positive influence on Justin. Sure, Justin didn’t like Rob’s ego, but competing with him helped make Justin a better athlete. In sports, he always knew Rob was giving 100 percent, and it made him determined to give his all too.
And, no doubt about it, Robert’s cockiness—at least a little of it—had rubbed off on Justin. After spending a football season as Robert’s teammate, his own confidence increased, not just in sports, but in school as well. He didn’t mind talking in class as much as he used to, and he was more comfortable around girls than he had ever been. Justin’s new motto had become, “If Rob Crosby can do it, so can I.”
It was at one of those Friday night after-the-game parties that Justin first talked to Liesel Smith, the great-looking blonde who graced the seat in front of him in English class. Parties ranked second only to dances on Justin’s Ten Most Hated Things list, but at Rob’s insistence, he went to one that celebrated their team’s 10th straight basketball victory.
The beat of the music mingled with laughter echoed from the house and down the street. Without bothering to knock, Robert swung open the front door and walked in. Justin followed and was immediately swept up in a flood of people.
“Hey, look who’s here,” someone yelled, and kids turned to watch them make their entrance. Rob loved the attention. Justin looked for someplace to hide.
He recognized a few basketball players and other kids from school, but there were also a lot of people he didn’t know. Feeling as comfortable as a boxer in ballet class, he was ready to turn right around and walk out when someone tugged on his shoulder.
“Justin, I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” It was Liesel Smith.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, well, Rob talked me into it. I usually don’t go to parties and stuff, but I finally got all caught up with my knitting and decided to go out and celebrate.”
Liesel giggled and playfully slapped his shoulder. “Rob said you were crazy.”
“So what did you think of the game?”
“It was great. That’s 10 in a row, isn’t it?” Liesel moved a little closer so he could hear her over the party noise. “Do you think you guys will go undefeated?”
Justin shrugged and looked for a place where they could sit down. Liesel was only about five-foot-four, almost a foot shorter than he was. He had to bend halfway over to hear her. “I sure hope so,” Justin said. “We’ve still got 10 games left, but after the game tonight Coach Simmons said that if we keep playing like we have, we might be able to pull it off.”
It was his first time to see Liesel up close, face to face. He had long admired the back of her head from his seat behind her in English class, but she was even better from the front. Her brown eyes were riveting, the kind that seem to open wide and swallow you up. From such close range, Justin noticed for the first time that she had a dash of freckles over her nose and cheek bones, and he recognized the delicious aroma of the perfume that he had become so familiar with in English class. There was no doubt about it—Liesel was gorgeous.
They finally found a place to sit down and continue their conversation.
“So what’s the deal with you and Rob?” Justin asked.
“Huh?”
“I mean, why would he bring someone like me to this party when he could’ve brought you? You two are, according to Rob, very close friends.”
“According to Rob? Well, according to me, Rob and I are only friends. We just happen to go to the same church.”
“Yeah, he told me.”
Liesel was quiet a moment, obviously trying to think of something to talk about. Finally she said, “I think that nickname Ms. Hornbaker gave you and Rob is cute.”
“The Tucson Twosome? Cute to you maybe, but I don’t think it’s very cute to be paired with Robert Crosby just because we were born on the same day. He’s much uglier than I am.”
Liesel laughed. “Rob said that Coach Simmons is using it on you guys too.”
“Yeah. In football, I blocked; Rob ran. In basketball, I rebound; he shoots. So Coach thinks we make a pretty good one-two combination. And I guess we’re okay.”
As the night went on, Liesel’s bubbly friendliness put Justin completely at ease. The party was fun, even Rob’s balancing a spinning basketball on his nose stunt and the wild peanut butter and cracker eating/whistling contest.
By the time Liesel looked at her watch and announced that she had to be home by midnight, Justin felt that he had made a new friend. Not a girlfriend-friend, not yet, but a friend-friend. Who knows, he thought as she waved good-bye and stepped out the front door, what might develop later?
Justin was stuck at the party for another hour waiting for Rob to give him a ride home. When they were headed for Justin’s house, Rob asked, “So, you liked the party?”
“I could tell you did. I thought we’d never get out of there.”
“Yeah, well, I was having a blast, but my dad’s kind of strict about my curfew. If I’m late, no car for a month. Hey, didn’t I see you talking with Liesel?”
Justin had been hoping he hadn’t. “We talked.”
“And?”
“And what? We talked. That was it.”
“Nice girl, huh?”
“Yeah, she’s real nice.”
“She’s one of us, you know. A Mormon.”
“Well, I’m not going to hold that against her.” It suddenly occurred to Justin that many of his friends lately were Mormons. He hadn’t planned it that way, but if his father ever found out, there’d be fireworks. Well, he’d worry about that if and when the time came. He certainly wasn’t planning on joining their church, but he didn’t see any harm in having Mormon friends. “You know, seems like I’ve been surrounded by you guys lately.”
“We were hoping you wouldn’t notice. See, we’ve got this plot all figured out. We’re going to keep hanging around you until our good influence rubs off, and then sometime when you’re standing by a swimming pool, we’re going to shove you in and make you one of us.”
Justin just rolled his eyes.
Rob went on, “What’d you and Liesel talk about?”
“Us.”
Rob broke into laughter and pounded on the steering wheel. “Wooo-ee! It’s more serious than I thought. You sure don’t waste any time, Justin.”
“Not ‘us,’ me and Liesel, you jerk; ‘us,’ me and you. She asked about the Tucson Twosome.”
Justin’s house came into view. Rob stopped in front of Justin’s house to drop him off. He held out his hand, palm up, to Justin before he left the car. “Hey, dude, the Tucson Twosome.”
Justin slapped his hand and turned his over to receive Rob’s return slap. “See you Monday,” Rob said before driving off. “And, Justin, don’t worry about the Mormon stuff. We’re not out to get you or anything. Just friends, know what I mean?”
Justin knew, and it made him feel good. “Thanks,” he said, and he waved as Rob drove back into the street.
Justin switched off the gas and set the mugi to one side to cool off. In the end, he thought, his dad had been right. Rob had influenced him. So, fortunately for him, had Liesel. And there had been fireworks—plenty of them—first about Mormon friends, and later when he announced he was going to get baptized. But, after a time, his dad got used to the idea of having a Mormon son, and when Justin was ready to go on his mission, almost a year after Rob had left, his father was surprisingly supportive. “Guess there’s a heck of a lot worse things you could be doing,” he said as he embraced Justin at the airport.
Justin scooped the mugi into two bowls and set them on the kitchen table. Today would be his first day of tracting in Japan, and he was a little nervous. “Hey, Elder,” he said after the food had been blessed, “about today … you know, my Japanese still isn’t too hot, and I was wondering …”
“No sweat, Elder,” Rob stirred a slab of butter into his mugi. “You knock; I’ll talk. The Tucson Twosome will blow ‘em away. Know what I mean?”
Again, Justin knew, and it made him feel awfully good.

My senior year in high school brought me an experience that taught me much about obedience and prayer. I had joined the Church about six months previously, and now I had my first job with a regular paycheck: I was the projectionist at the downtown movie theater. I loved movies, and getting a salary for showing movies was like getting paid for having fun. Also, the job required my strict attention only about 5 minutes out of every 20, when it was time to change reels. As long as the film didn’t break or something else didn’t require my attention, I was free during most of my time in the projection booth to read, do schoolwork, or simply enjoy the movie.
The job had its downsides. One was that I would be required to work on Sunday nights.
After some weeks on the job I could tell that my spirituality was declining. I was becoming moody and depressed. My schoolwork suffered. But I still thought I had a wonderful job, and I didn’t want to give it up.
I asked my boss, Mr. Harper, if I could have Sundays off. He told me that Sunday was their biggest day, and he couldn’t spare me. A coworker agreed to work in my place on some Sundays. I thought that would be a great help, but my dark feelings, as well as my grades, continued to get worse.
Then I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. I would give what I earned on Sundays to the Church as a special donation. I’d even add an extra 10 percent for good measure. Since I wouldn’t be profiting from my Sunday work, surely the Lord would accept my sacrifice and give His blessing to my activities.
I found myself praying while I was alone in the projection booth one night. “What should I do?” I asked aloud. “Should I keep going as I am now? Should I quit? Should I donate my Sunday earnings?” I truly wanted to know, and my questions were sincere.
When I asked if I should quit, I felt a warmth stir inside me. Was that an answer? If it was, I didn’t think it made sense. Why would the Lord refuse my offering of my Sunday earnings? Surely, I thought, He would consider my sacrifice the best possible option. I must have misunderstood what I felt. (If I had remembered that Heavenly Father prefers obedience over sacrifice, I would not have been so confused [see 1 Samuel 15:22].)
I stayed at the job. I added my Sunday earnings to what I was already paying for tithing and fast offerings. I thought I was doing the right thing. Why wasn’t I feeling better? After several weeks of soul-searching I concluded that I had chosen to do what I wanted to do when I decided to stay on the job, even though it violated the Lord’s commandments. I wouldn’t get better until what I wanted to do matched what the Lord wanted me to do. I enjoyed being a movie projectionist, but I wanted to enjoy being a good Latter-day Saint more. I found someone to recommend as my replacement, and I gave Mr. Harper my two weeks’ notice.
Around this time my priests quorum class discussed what the Lord told Oliver Cowdery about answers to prayer: “You must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right” (D&C 9:8).
When I thought about my prayer in the projection booth, I realized that what I had felt when I had asked if I should quit was that promised burning in the bosom. At the time I either hadn’t recognized it for what it was, or I hadn’t had faith that it came from God. Now I knew it had come from Him. I promised myself I wouldn’t be past feeling His words again (see 1 Nephi 17:45).

Brother Obando Vindas, Area planning manager in the Frankfurt Area Office, said that the personnel department announced that young service missionaries were going to be called to service in Europe and some would serve in Europe Area offices.
A request was placed for a service missionary to help Area planning manage its statistical data. That is how Elder Ammon Hutchinson from the Merthyr Tydfil Stake, Wales became part of the team. He inquired about the scope of his assignment, and the tools and training available for him to be able to carry out his expected duties. He took online Excel training that prepared him for his service.
Elder Hutchinson has had various assignments over the last nine months, including working for the Europe Area offices. One project involves the data entry of statistical information, such as the number of members in Europe. He is finding it interesting to see the growth patterns throughout Europe, and how the Church has been changing over time. What has assisted him in the work for these projects is access to software and other types of training courses. He has learned so much from the courses and has been able to complete the tasks to a high standard and in a manner suited to his pace. He is grateful for the support he has received from Brother Vindas, with his insights and ability to improve the presentation of the data.
He has been a great help and a joyful person to work with! He continues to learn and to improve his skills; the next step is getting specific online training to allow interactive data analyses for managers and leaders in the area office.

I received an answer to a prayer when I was very young and living in Pocatello, Idaho. I had a pet rabbit that was very important to me. One day it got out of its cage and could not be found. I was worried that the neighborhood dogs and cats might hurt my rabbit. I looked everywhere, then decided to go behind our wooden shed and pray. As my prayer ended, I instantly knew where to find my rabbit. I looked under a pile of boards and found it. Our prayers can be answered by the Holy Ghost putting thoughts into our minds.

Isabella walked into Grandmother’s nursing home with her rag doll tucked under her arms. She carried the doll almost everywhere she went, even though she was, maybe, too old for that now.
She and Mama walked down the long hall, holding hands. Isabella always felt nervous in this huge place full of old people, and she was glad to have her doll under one arm and Mama holding her other hand.
Sometimes the old people made strange noises or called out to them, asking questions. A woman with wispy hair asked, “Where is my baby? Has anyone seen my baby?” And a man stuck his cane out in front of Mama and Isabella one day and stopped them. “Who is feeding my hogs now?” he demanded.
Mama always smiled and nodded at the old people, but Isabella kept her head down. She was afraid of their long, skinny fingers pointing at her. She was afraid of their eyes, sunk deep in their lined faces. She was afraid of their questions, too, because she couldn’t answer them.
At last they were at Grandmother’s door. She sat, frail and alone, in her hard, straight-backed chair. Mama had brought in a softer, more comfortable rocker, but Grandmother never sat in it.
Isabella, however, loved the big plaid chair. She bounced up into it now, settling down with her doll while Grandmother and Mama talked.
At least, Mama talked. Grandmother just sat very still and stared out the window.
That was scary too. Grandmother had always chatted with them. She’d always listened to all their questions and ideas and told them what she thought. But now she might as well not have been in the room at all!
When Mama went out to talk to the nurse, Grandmother turned and looked at Isabella. “I had a doll like that,” she said.
She spoke so suddenly that Isabella jumped.
“I had a doll like that,” Grandmother said again.
Not knowing what to say, Isabella looked around for Mama.
“I had a doll like that,” Grandmother repeated, louder this time. Isabella saw tears running down her wrinkled cheeks.
What should I do? Isabella wondered. She looked around again, and this time she saw Mama coming. She jumped up and scurried over to her. “Mama,” she whispered, “Grandmother was talking about a doll.”
“That’s nice, honey.” Mama turned to Grandmother. “That’s nice, Mom, that you’re talking with Isabella.” Taking a hanky from her purse, Mama wiped Grandmother’s cheeks.
“I had a doll like that,” Grandmother whispered.
“Of course you did, Mom,” Mama said.
After lunch—gelatin and cottage cheese and boiled vegetables and milk in little cartons with straws—in the big old dining room with the high ceilings, Mama said that they had to go. She kissed Grandmother’s dry, wrinkly cheek.
When Isabella leaned over to kiss Grandmother, she heard a tiny whisper in her ear: “I had a doll like that.”
When Isabella turned to wave, she saw that Grandmother was holding the fringe of the shawl that was tossed across the bed, just as if she were holding the fingers of someone’s hand.
Outside, the air smelled fresh, the sun was high in the sky, and Isabella felt lighter than she had in the nursing home. Still, she kept thinking about what Grandmother had said about the doll. “Mama, why is Grandmother like that?”
Mama didn’t ask, “Like what?” She just said, “She has a disease that takes away her memory. She can’t think of things the way we do, anymore.”
“She kept talking about my doll.”
“Oh? What did she say?”
“She kept saying, ‘I had a doll like that.’” Suddenly Isabella’s throat ached. She wrapped her arms around her doll and stood still, crying for Grandmother, who couldn’t remember things, crying for Mama, who had to see her mother like this, and even crying for herself, because her laughing, cookie-baking, fun-loving Grandmother was gone. Now there was just this old woman with no life in her eyes, saying, “I had a doll like that.”
Finally she heard Mama talking gently to her. “Well, you know, Isabella, Grandmother made that doll for you.”
“She did?”
“Yes, years ago. You were too little then to be aware of it, but Grandmother made that doll and all its clothes.”
“Even the bonnet?”
“Yes.” Mama took the sweet-smelling hanky from her pocket and wiped Isabella’s cheeks.
“And she sewed the face on and everything? The eyes and everything?”
“Yes.”
Isabella looked at the face of her beloved doll with its black eyes and long lashes stitched on, and a little red bow mouth. “So that’s why she remembers this doll.”
“Probably.”
Isabella made up her mind. “Mama, let’s go back.”
“What?”
“To the home—let’s go back.” Isabella turned and ran, Mama behind her, all the way to the home, all the way down the long hall, all the way to Grandmother’s room. She stopped to catch her breath just inside the door.
Grandmother looked up at her and said, “I had a doll like that.”
“I know, Grandmother. And now you have her again.” She put the doll in Grandmother’s lap.
Grandmother folded her arms around the tiny body. “This is my doll?”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
Grandmother looked up, and this time her eyes were alive. The corners of her mouth went up in a smile. “Rock the dolly,” she said.
Mother and Isabella helped her up from the hard, straight-backed chair and into the big soft one. She held the doll close, and began to hum, rocking back and forth.
Mama and Isabella said good-bye again, but Grandmother did not look up from the doll.
As they walked slowly down the hall, Mama put her arm around Isabella’s shoulders.
“It was Grandmother’s doll, wasn’t it, Mama?” she said. “It always was, and she knew it.”
“I think maybe you’re right, Isabella.”

When I was newly called as an Area Seventy, I participated in a radio interview in Puerto Rico with different ecclesiastical leaders of various religions. Among them was a leader who held a doctoral degree in theology. He asked me why Mormons, referring to members of the Church, believe that in heaven we will be married. He indicated that our belief of eternal families was incorrect since the Holy Bible, in the book of Matthew 22:30 indicated that, “For in the resurrection, they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven.”
I answered clearly, simply and with love. I explained that at that moment Jesus Christ was answering people who did not even believe in the Resurrection, let alone all the saving truths as indicated in the Holy Bible and the Book of Mormon, another witness of Jesus Christ. Those who live according to the way of the world, if they do not repent and come to the truth, will not be worthy of obtaining the fullness of the reward in the hereafter. I explained that in the same Holy Bible, the Lord through the Apostle Paul teaches us in Ephesians 3:14–15, that there are families in heaven and on earth, “For this cause I bow my knees unto the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
“Of whom every family in heaven and earth is named.”
No doubt there are families in heaven.