Gospel Story Finder

In 1995 I saw this joy personified as I accompanied the missionaries in Santiago, Chile, to visit some of their converts. At the Basuare home, eight-year-old twin boys, Nicolas and Ignacio, met us at the door, dressed in white shirts and ties, just like missionaries. Their father had been baptized three weeks earlier, and the following week he baptized his wife and sons. We talked of their conversion. They shared their feelings of love for the missionaries and the joy they were experiencing in living the gospel and keeping the commandments.
I asked Nicolas if he would like to be a missionary when he grew up. He answered yes, and we shook hands on the promise that he would prepare for the day. Then I asked Ignacio the same question. He hesitated and replied, “I’m not sure I can make that promise. I’m only eight years old.”
I persisted, “Nicolas made the promise. Wouldn’t you like to do the same?”
He still hesitated and said, “I don’t know if I could be ready.” I could see I had taken on more than I could manage, so I said, “Perhaps you had better talk this over with your father.”
He went to his father, who took him in his arms and said, “Ignacio, Jesus was a missionary. He walked the streets like Elder Sheets and his companion and made the people happy by teaching them to keep the commandments. Wouldn’t you like to be like Jesus?”
“Yes, Papi, I would.”
“Do you think if we work together, you can be ready to be a missionary when you are 19 years old?”
“I think so.”
“Wouldn’t you like to make the promise to Elder Mickelsen that you will do that?” He came to me, and we shook hands to confirm the promise. I marveled that this young father, a convert of just three weeks, could be so sensitive in helping his family follow the Savior and how he emulated the missionaries in teaching his son.

For instance, consider my friend Bob and his watchcare over an elder who smoked. Nearly every morning, Bob would see a fellow member of his quorum and pray with him to help him overcome smoking and then give him a pack of Lifesavers or package of gum to help him during the day. Later, Bob would see him and his wife with hands linked across the temple altar, sealed for eternity. What was it that changed and helped to bring this all about? The gospel and “the heart and a willing mind.”

We had a similar experience when we called another man to be the president of our stake mission. Through some discouraging experiences in Church service, he thought himself halfway on the road to apostasy and not at all sure of his testimony. He resisted his appointment vigorously, saying that it would deprive him of time to do some of the most enjoyable things in life. We explained to him how once again we had sought the direction from the Lord about who should preside over the mission. We told him that he was not being forced to accept the call, but that he should ask his Heavenly Father whether or not it was right for him to serve. The Lord gave him a powerful assurance that he was called to the work. The following year he, with his missionaries, baptized nearly ten percent of all the nonmembers in our stake. Later on, he was called to be a bishop.

When Edward returned from his mission, the country was in a depression and work was hard to find. Almost without money he fasted and prayed about the matter and felt impressed to pay his last two dollars as tithing. “Bishop,” he said in late November, “I know that I don’t owe this money yet, but I hope to owe it before the end of the year.”
The next day Edward continued to make his usual visits to offices and businesses in Salt Lake City, looking for work. He was leaving the last office when the foreman called him back and told him there was a job in Price, Utah, at the community newspaper (about 200 kilometers from Salt Lake City).
Edward arrived in Price the next day, the company having furnished his transportation money. By Christmas, with the overtime he had accumulated, Edward had earned $21.50. Fully repaid and with some to spare for having paid tithing, he said, “I could have the Christmas I desired.”

God uses another form of chastening or correction to guide us to a future we do not or cannot now envision but which He knows is the better way for us. President Hugh B. Brown, formerly a member of the Twelve and a counselor in the First Presidency, provided a personal experience. He told of purchasing a rundown farm in Canada many years ago. As he went about cleaning up and repairing his property, he came across a currant bush that had grown over six feet (1.8 m) high and was yielding no berries, so he pruned it back drastically, leaving only small stumps. Then he saw a drop like a tear on the top of each of these little stumps, as if the currant bush were crying, and thought he heard it say:

“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. … And now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me. … How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here.”

President Brown replied, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn’t intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and some day, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down.’”

Years later, President Brown was a field officer in the Canadian Army serving in England. When a superior officer became a battle casualty, President Brown was in line to be promoted to general, and he was summoned to London. But even though he was fully qualified for the promotion, it was denied him because he was a Mormon. The commanding general said in essence, “You deserve the appointment, but I cannot give it to you.” What President Brown had spent 10 years hoping, praying, and preparing for slipped through his fingers in that moment because of blatant discrimination. Continuing his story, President Brown remembered:

“I got on the train and started back … with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. … When I got to my tent, … I threw my cap … on the cot. I clinched my fists and I shook them at heaven. I said, ‘How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?’ I was as bitter as gall.

“And then I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, ‘I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.’ The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness. …

“… And now, almost fifty years later, I look up to [God] and say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.’”

God knew what Hugh B. Brown was to become and what was needed for that to happen, and He redirected his course to prepare him for the holy apostleship.

And so it was. A year or so later, I stood at Joyce's bedside. She had spent a very painful night bringing our first son into the world. I held him in my arms and gazed in wonder at his perfect fingers, nose and tiny hands. He was magnificent. I looked at Joyce in amazement and said, "YOU HAVE DONE A MIRICLE!" And indeed she had. She was a daughter of God just as I had learned at girl's camp and He made her a partner with Him in creation. She gave a body to a spirit child fresh from God's presence. A body! A body that would one day be resurrected because of the great sacrifice of our Savior, "spirit and element, inseparably connected, receive a fullness of joy." She gave our son a sacred body, a temple that would bring him the possibility of great joy.

After school I’d go to my dad’s bakery, stand on a can next to him, and learn about running a bakery. When I’d leave to go play with my friends, one of my Primary teachers would step out from where she worked as a dishwasher, take hold of my hand, and say, “Are you being a good boy?” It didn’t matter what I had on my mind, whether it was good or not. I would say, “Yes.” If I had been planning mischief, my plans would change. I knew that she loved me.

Thwap, screeee!
Christine froze in her bed. Her heart beat so hard she could feel it squeezing in her chest. What was that noise?
Very slowly, she turned to look at the window. The blinds were closed, so she couldn’t see what was making the sound.
She kept hearing the scraping noise, and she kept imagining scarier and scarier things.
Her heart beat even faster.
She could just go into Mom and Dad’s room again. She knew they wouldn’t mind. But she was always so embarrassed the next day when she did that. I’m too old to be scared at night.
But she was scared. It could be anything, she thought. It wasn’t very loud, but she kept hearing it.
She closed her eyes and said what seemed like her hundredth prayer for the night. Heavenly Father, I can’t go to sleep. I’m too scared. But I don’t want to go to Mom and Dad’s room. I want to be brave. Please help me not be afraid.
She finished her prayer and took a deep, slow breath. It’s OK, she thought. I can do this.
Thwap, screeee!
Yeah, she was pretty sure it was something trying to get through her window. She was so scared she didn’t dare move a muscle. She didn’t know what to do.
I could ask David, she thought. That isn’t as embarrassing as sleeping in Mom and Dad’s room.
Carefully she peeled off the covers and jumped off the bed, landing as far as possible from the window. Without looking back, she tiptoed quickly to her brother’s room.
“David,” she whispered, shaking his shoulder.
“Gmmmblll.” David slowly turned over and opened one eye. “Hmmm. What?”
“Uh, there’s a noise outside my window. Will you check what it is?” she asked.
“Sure.” David got up and shuffled to her room.
When they reached the window, he pulled up the blinds and looked outside. It was too dark to see.
“I don’t hear anything,” he said.
“Just wait a minute,” Christine said.
Sure enough, there it was again. Thwap, screeee!
David opened the window and reached out. Snap! He pulled a small branch back in.
“It’s just the tree outside. This was scraping against your window,” he said, handing her the branch.
I was scared of a stick? She felt really silly. “Thanks for looking,” she said. “Sorry I woke you up.”
David smiled. “You can always ask me for help.”
“Thanks.”
“I can stay for a little while if you want,” he said.
Christine nodded. She jumped into bed and pulled her feet away from the edges. David sat on the end of her bed and scooted back to the wall.
“I wish I could be braver at night,” Christine said.
“You know what’s brave?” said David. “Asking for help.”
“No it’s not,” she said. “I was scared.”
David laughed. “Everyone gets scared—even me! But being scared doesn’t mean you aren’t brave. It takes courage to ask for help when you’re afraid.”
Christine smiled. It was still dark, but she didn’t feel as anxious anymore.
“I’m OK now. You can go back to sleep,” she said.
David gave her a hug and walked out. He stopped in her doorway. “Night. Sleep well,” he said.
“Night, David,” she said back.
Christine closed her eyes. There were no more scary sounds. Heavenly Father, she prayed silently, Thank Thee that David could help me. I’m glad I was brave enough to ask.

One day I went to the store with my mom. I was wearing my patent leather shoes that I call my “church shoes” because I usually wear them only on Sunday. I was very proud of my shiny shoes. The lady who was helping my mom noticed me wiggling my feet and asked me about my shoes. When I told her they were my church shoes, she asked me which church I attended. I looked at my mom because I wasn’t sure I could remember the full name of the Church, and I wanted to make sure I said it right. My mom reminded me of my favorite Primary song. I sang, “I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” (Children’s Songbook, 77). The lady smiled and told me that was great. I’m glad the song helped me to remember the Church’s name.

On October of 1992, a new freshman without much enthusiasm for life arrived at Page (Arizona) High School. Darryle had spent the last several years in a boarding school for the handicapped. He was confined to a wheelchair because of cerebral palsy; he had no ability to speak, see, or walk; and he had limited use of his arms. When he first arrived, he was very scared, and nobody seemed to know how to help him.
As teachers we were becoming quite frustrated trying to find something that would capture his interest. Things changed when someone brought in a tape of Navajo drum music. That perked Darryle up. He loved this music, and we knew we had to capitalize on this.
It was arranged for Darryle to attend the band class, something he seemed to enjoy. I, too, was excited, but I knew I only had the personnel to take Darryle to the class once a week.
Enter Brad Ross. Brad was a quiet, shy sophomore with a great love for music. The next afternoon, about the time band began, Brad walked into my special education classroom. He was very quiet, and I could tell he was nervous. But that didn’t stop him. He marched up to me and asked if he could take Darryle to band with him.
I was stunned. I let Brad take Darryle, but I remember thinking that it wouldn’t last.
What followed was the most honest expression of heroism I have ever witnessed. For the next three years, Brad never missed a day. Each day he would come to my classroom and escort Darryle to band practice. Darryle became as much a part of the band as any other member. Every day, Brad would set Darryle up with different percussion instruments. With eager delight, Darryle would sense the music and gleefully join in the rhythms he felt. Under Brad’s patient tutoring, Darryle learned to play the snare drum, bass drum, tambourine, maracas, and the triangle. Even though Darryle’s rhythms did not always match the rest of the band’s, Darryle was totally involved.
Many changes had to be made to accommodate Darryle, but Brad always made them—never asking for help.
The things Brad did were thoughtful actions that required discipline and sacrifice. His heroic efforts affected the other students and touched the hearts of many teachers and parents. He had the bravery necessary to walk into a classroom full of special education students, make friends with someone who needed a friend, create a new program for a peer, and provide the selfless service necessary to see it through.
Brad recently completed an honorable mission in the Oklahoma City Oklahoma Mission.

I served mass in the Catholic Church virtually every Sunday, from the age of nine to the age of twenty-one. In this experience, my religious experience, I was taught that any prophet that comes forth in modern times would be a false prophet. When I talk about doctrinal baggage, that was a problem for me. From day one, Joseph Smith could not be a prophet for me because I had been taught prophets in the latter days would be false prophets. With that kind of beginning, and then to be introduced to Joseph, how does one break through that barrier of doctrinal baggage and other baggage – and come to the knowledge of the truth?
Part of my doctrinal baggage was a belief system that declared a God incomprehensible to understand by definition and by logic. I had to work through that with the help of the true doctrines of Christ revealed through the Prophet Joseph Smith. I was introduced to the idea of a Restoration of the gospel through Latter-day Saint friends at Washington State University. My wife today and other young people were my first contacts with the teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith.
At the age of 21, a returned missionary seminary teacher invited me to attend the first early morning seminary class taught in the state of Washington. It was in Pullman, Washington where I was a senior at Washington State University and was taught by a young man named John Madsen. Brother Madsen was a fellow university student, yet he invited me to come to his class with the young high school students and learn about seminary. I thought that was a curious thing: seminary was where I would have gone to become a Catholic priest. What were these Mormon youth doing in seminary?
During the first few weeks into the course on Church History; who was the major character in Church History? You can’t go a day without learning about Joseph Smith. Some six weeks into the course, Brother Madsen played a tape that most of you have probably never heard. It was called “Profile of a Prophet” by Hugh B. Brown, a former member of the First Presidency of the Church. It was a Friday morning, and in that setting, I still remember the words “under girding and over arching” his testimony as they came into my soul about this prophet, Joseph Smith. I received a powerful witness that morning that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet.
Joseph Smith was truly the latter-day prototype of “asking God.” When we ask the right questions, what can be the answers? I was yet to learn many glorious things. I had said thousands of prayers in my life, but I had not yet learned to pray.
I testify to you that many years ago after one year of investigation of this Church, none of my experiences of past years have been any more powerful, more revealing, more convincing than on a special Friday morning 42 years ago. After going back to my little apartment following the seminary class, having heard the words of President Brown concerning the “Profile of the Prophet”, after having been invited to read selected passages from the Book of Mormon; I was prepared to ask God in sincere prayer “if these things are not true”. As invited to do so by the prophet Moroni in Moroni 10:4-5, I asked with real intent, having faith in Christ that he would reveal it unto me by the power of the Holy Ghost. I desired to know the truth of all things. I asked the right questions, finally. Is Jesus the head of this Church? Is Joseph His prophet? Are there living prophets on the earth today and in this Church? Is this the true Church and should I join? Is the Book of Mormon indeed the word of God? What must I do?
As Moroni promised to the readers of the book, “by the power of the Holy Ghost, you may know the truth of all things.” In that moment of humble prayer, standing reverently and humbly in my little room in my apartment, from the top of my head to the soles of my feet there was burned out of my being every doubt, every concern, every worry, every question that I had about joining the Church. I was still a Catholic, I had never met a missionary, thus what does one do? I sought out those who taught that the Restoration of the gospel had occurred in these latter-days through the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Coming to know the Prophet Joseph Smith was the key to my conversion, along with reading the Book of Mormon, the keystone of our religion. I learned then, as I have continued to learn in these years as a convert, that Joseph Smith’s remarks about the Book of Mormon are true. “A man can get nearer to God by abiding by the precepts of this book than by any other book.”[13] I know that to be true, and that is my personal experience. I have been able to shed the doctrinal baggage that I learned as a youth and I now have been able to understand what God has revealed from the heavens. Through His prophets, through His Christ, through His records, I know these things are true. As I have learned the doctrine of Christ in the plain and precious teachings of the Book of Mormon, I have drawn nearer to God and I know that He lives and He has helped me walk the paths of life.

One Saturday in the family history centre, I was drawn to a drawer of microfiche, which store miniature images of vital documents. In it, I found a pile for Kent, England, which were filed under the wrong country. As I took them to their correct drawer, I noticed that they were from the same area as my extended family, so I sat down to read each fiche. Suddenly, I came across a family of parents and six children whom I was able to link as a sister to my uncle’s family. Until then, we did not know they existed. This was a clear example of how the Spirit always guides us in this sacred work.

But even knowing about God and our relationship to Him and doing the things that will enable us to understand those truths at a deeper level will not lead us to a full understanding of who we really are. For just as there is a difference between knowing about something and doing something, there is an equally big difference between doing something and being something.

Let me explain what I mean. In my opinion, the greatest basketball player of all-time was Bill Russell—Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryant notwithstanding. In 21 seasons of playing organized basketball, Bill Russell won 18 championships, including 11 NBA championships, 9 of them in a row. He won an NCAA championship, an Olympic gold medal, and an NBA championship—all in a single year. Russell obviously knew a lot about basketball. And he just as obviously knew how to do (or play) basketball.

Russell tended to stand out in a crowd. He was 6"9" and had a unique goatee. He was also notoriously unapproachable. When he was traveling, people regularly asked him if he was a basketball player. He always said no. His teammates often were exasperated with this answer—thinking Russell was being sarcastic or condescending. After seeing this scenario repeat itself yet again in an airport, one of his teammates, John Havlichek, finally summoned up the courage to ask Russell why he denied being a basketball player when it was obvious that he was and that he was one of the best known basketball players of his time. Russell's answer was profound: "Basketball is what I do, it's not who I am."

Bill Russell understood that there is a difference between doing something and being something. That is true of our quest for a full knowledge of who we are as well. Our divine destiny is not to "do" something, but to "be" something—to be gods and goddesses.

That involvement and the support network that comes along with it make it easy for all the LDS students to let their gospel light shine. In every group and on every team, people notice that the Mormon kids seem to have their own fan club, which leads to questions about the gospel. Lisa Arrington, a recent convert to the Church, became interested in the gospel because she was friends with Mark. She wanted to know more about the friends that seemed to always surround him and why they always seemed so happy. Now Mark isn’t just her friend; he’s also her home teacher.

When I was in high school, I had the same thoughts as you do. I did poorly and was close to failing. I dropped out in my junior year. I thought I was miserable in school, but it was worse in the working world. Employers are biased against those who don’t hold a high school diploma. Most better-paying jobs require a college degree. If you hate high school now, how will you adjust to college? It’s no fun to work low-paying jobs and not be eligible for better employment. The best thing you can do is to stick it out. It’s a small investment of your time. Pray to our Heavenly Father for the strength and patience to finish high school. If you pray with a sincere heart he will help you.
I am currently in prison. I wish I had the words to tell the hardships I have encountered by dropping out of high school. Not all dropouts end up here, of course, but I’d say at least 80 percent of the population here are dropouts.
Name withheld

There is a silver-haired Argentine sister who knows the Shepherd. She has given a long life of service to the Lord, his Church, and her fellowman.
The first time Sister Herta Mellor attended a Latter-day Saint church service, she was brought by the missionaries. They felt that she was the most sophisticated, cultured, and best-educated investigator they had ever met. They held a few meetings in her lovely home, and when they invited her to accompany them to a Sunday church meeting, she readily agreed. The service was being held in an old building. The members attending were of somewhat humble circumstances compared with the new investigator.
The service did not go well by the standards of the two missionaries hoping to impress their guest. The branch leaders had just been recently called, and they were still learning their duties. There was some confusion at the pulpit. There was an interruption at the sacrament table at the most sacred moment. The sermons seemed to be less interesting than those desired by the eager missionaries. The reverence was threatened from time to time by children moving or crying. There was no organ to provide deep, religious sounds. The missionaries agonizingly thought of the negative impressions their elegant investigator must be receiving. They knew she normally worshiped in a very fashionable cathedral where everything would have been highly professional and the congregation would have been of the highest level of local society.
On the way home, one of the missionaries began to reflect his embarrassment. He explained: “Please excuse our present building. Some day we will build a lovely new chapel.” Then he added: “Please excuse our new leaders. We have a lay priesthood, so we take turns conducting, and the new leaders are still learning how to conduct services.” He was just about to give another excuse when Sister Mellor turned to him and said somewhat sternly: “Elder, don’t you apologize! It must have been like this at the time of Christ!”
With her spiritual eyes and her knowledge of the Shepherd, acquired through studying the holy scriptures, she saw through centuries of tradition. She saw past cathedrals and organs. She saw back through the corridors of time to the Shepherd meeting with his humble fishermen-Apostles, with some sinners, and even with leper outcasts. She saw the early Saints meeting in a small, rented, upstairs room. She saw children, with the Savior smiling at them lovingly. Because she knew the Shepherd, she could say with profound and deep insight, “It must have been like this at the time of Christ.”
She exemplifies to me the admonition which many have followed: “Fill your mind with thoughts of Christ, your heart with love of Christ, and your life with service to Christ.”

As I stare into the bathroom mirror each morning at the beginning of a new day, I resolve to follow an example that was set for me long ago. In fact, glancing into any mirror takes me back years to one childish incident that has helped shape my entire life.
It was a Monday morning—but one that was a little more hectic than usual. I had slept in half an hour late. I couldn’t find the clothes I wanted to wear, and the hairdo I had tried to copy from Seventeen magazine for the month of November was (to say the least) not too attractive on me. My mother informed me in the midst of my frustrations that if I missed the bus I would be walking to school. But the real clincher was the announcement that I would not be allowed to leave until I made my bed and vacuumed my room.
As a 13-year-old, I had a difficult time coping with all of this responsibility. I flatly told my mother I was sorry, but I had more important things to do. Unfortunately, my mother does not accept refusals, and so I began a tirade of excuses, listing every unappreciated task I had ever carried out since age five. As the tears of anger and frustration slid down my cheeks, my temper mounted. Knowing I couldn’t win this argument, I ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and pouted.
Sitting on the edge of the counter, knowing I had missed the bus, and knowing I would be walking to school, my anger boiled over. I grabbed a bright red tube of lipstick that was lying in the open drawer and viciously scrawled the words “I hate you” across the mirror. Feeling I had avenged my hurt, I snuck out of the bathroom, grabbed my books, and trudged on to school through the autumn leaves.
All day long, the guilt and shame I felt at writing those words ate at me like acid. How could I have possibly told my mother that I hated her? I knew I loved her and hadn’t meant those words written in such haste. But what about my mother? Did she know that? Could she love me at all after what I had done?
Dragging my feet on the way home from the bus stop at the end of the street, I dreaded facing my mother. Quietly creeping through the back door, I snuck into the bathroom so I could wipe the lipstick off the glass. There I saw a neatly printed sentence right below mine. It too was done in bright red. As I stared at it, the words flooded my mind with new insight and understanding. “I love you” stared at me from the mirror, and in that one reflective moment I realized that no matter what I did my mother would always love me.
It is this knowledge that has helped me to feel accepted and important in life. And it is my mother’s love and charity that has taught me what love really is. For I truly believe mothers come closer to having a perfect love, as the Savior taught, than any other beings on earth.

In 1965, Dr. Nelson was presented with an extraordinary opportunity to assume the position of professor of surgery and chairman of the Division of Thoracic and Cardiovascular Surgery at another major university. Included in the offer was a generous salary and an arrangement to pay fully for the college education of all his children when the time came.
The Nelsons were overwhelmed by this offer and were inclined to accept. But before making a decision that affected not only their family but also his service as stake president, he sought the counsel of President David O. McKay.
After hearing the details of the situation, President McKay closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and pondered the matter for some time. Then he said, “Brother Nelson, it doesn’t feel good to me. I don’t think you should go.”
“That was it,” says Dr. Nelson. “We declined their gracious offer with many thanks. And here we stayed.”

Take 24 youths, add 176 hours of energetic activity, combine with 21 gallons of paint, and you have one freshly painted house, seven tired adult leaders, and one happy homeowner.
The housepainting was one project developed and completed by the youth of the Mt. Pleasant (Utah) Second Ward. The recipient of the work was 80-year-old Hugh Barton, who had been born in the house in 1895.
The old home took on a new appearance last May when members of the Aaronic Priesthood scrubbed away loosened paint and applied the first coat of new paint. On the following Saturday they put a second coat of cream-colored paint on the transformed house. The Laurels provided refreshments, helped add the white trim to doors and windows, and cleaned the windows in addition.
After completion of the project, the workers posed in front of the two-story home with its grateful owner.

“Could I … ah …” The dark haired girl in front of me shifted awkwardly. “I mean, I was wondering … if we could talk.”
I had been teaching the 15-year-olds in Sunday School for only a month and had just finished my weekly lesson.
“How about right now?” I asked.
“It’s about …” she began. “Well, I have this friend see, and the other day we were talking and …” Her unusual seriousness puzzled me. This was the girl who always talked and laughed with her friends (even during my lessons). What could be so serious that she would now be this solemn? I tuned back to her words, “… and this friend said he doesn’t believe in Joseph Smith anymore because he was a gold digger and a thief and he drank a lot.” I smiled. She continued, “My friend has these books to prove it!”
So that was the big life-and-death matter. This 15-year-old had finally had her first taste of the cold and nutritionless dish called “anti-Mormon literature.”
She went on, “Those books—they say the Church isn’t true! They say Joseph Smith was a con man and that all he wanted was money and …”
“Hold it!” I stopped her. How many reading assignments had I given in the last month which had gone unfulfilled by my whole class? I had to turn cartwheels to even get these kids to skim the scriptures, and here this girl was reading entire books of her friend’s anti-Mormon publications. I faced her. “Not all that stuff you’re reading is true.”
“But it’s in a book,” she responded innocently.
I tried to explain, “Just because something is printed, sold, and even accepted and popular doesn’t make it true.”
“I know that.” She was embarrassed. “But how do you know when something you read or hear is true?” A very good question—and here is what we finally decided:
Anything heard or read about another person, idea, or belief needs to pass what we called the
H O G M E T test. Each letter stands for a question.
My 15-year-old friend was ready to leave. She smiled, “Next time that guy ever says he has another book for me to read, I’ll have a few questions for him first.”
“Good luck,” I offered.
“Oh, I won’t need luck.” She started down the hall, “Now I have H O G M E T!”