Gospel Story Finder

“Relax, boys. I’ve seen that kind of sign before.”
“Maybe so,” they shouted, “but that sign isn’t fooling!”
I glanced again at the Beware of Dog sign attached to a tall wire fence. Just beyond the fence were two large black and white dogs. I thought to myself, “An English setter and an English pointer; both breeds are considered fairly even tempered. In fact, they are usually very good family pets.” I was considering those thoughts when my eyes began to focus on the steam coming from those snarling jaws.
I was the replacement driver of a school bus route and was on my first run. It was late in the fall, and I had been thinking about the many things I had to do. Every half mile or so my thoughts, along with the bus route, changed course. I was enrolled in graduate school, as a teacher I had my school lessons to prepare, I had Church meetings to conduct, it was hunting season, my oldest son needed assistance with his Scouting requirements, there was firewood to be cut, and I was trying to finish extra rooms in our basement for our seven children. In light of that schedule, I suppose a reasonably sane person would definitely not be interested in driving a school bus, but we could certainly put the extra wages to good use.
At each stop the students would cheerfully give information about the sites along the route. I guess this job won’t be too bad after all, I thought. That is when the barking dogs snapped me back into reality. Big deal, I thought reassuringly, what are they going to do—eat the bus?
“Hey, Mister,” the kids yelled in unison, “you better get going before they jump that fence and eat this bus!”
“Very funny, very funny.”
However, I noticed that as I shifted gears and pulled away, I kept my eyes on the dogs.
When I returned home that afternoon I related the incident to my family. My three older boys were a bit mystified.
“Come on, Dad, you didn’t really believe those dogs could hurt you in that big bus, did you?”
“I guess I was just concerned about the students, but those dogs certainly looked like they wanted to get over that fence pretty bad.”
The conversation then jumped to the other events of the day, both at school and at home. At supper, my oldest son asked me to help him with his Scouting requirements. He was progressing toward Eagle rank but was having difficulty in completing the high jump skill in the Athletics merit badge. Although he was a fairly good athlete, he just couldn’t seem to find enough spring to jump the additional inch that was required for a boy his height and weight. In fact, he had finished every other skill rather easily, but the high jump seemed to be a tremendous obstacle.
I suggested he try the long jump alternate. He admitted he was even worse in that area and reasoned that he had given it his very best effort, failed, and now needed some extra reassurance. I watched him attempt the long jump. He was right. After inspecting his shoes for traces of Superglue we both concurred that the high jump was his best chance for success.
We went over to the school high jump pit. I reminded him that David had a difficult challenge in the person of the formidable Goliath. I stressed that a person can accomplish goals that appear to be impossible, if they have enough faith and work hard.
After a short warm-up and his first attempt, I was beginning to see how tall Goliath really was! We worked on his approach, his speed, his takeoff, his head position—everything I could think of. As failure began to take its toll, the inch became two, then three. The old wedge of discouragement finally found the mark and sunk deep into my boy’s heart.
“Dad, there is no way I’ll ever make that jump!”
He was trying to conceal his emotions, but it was obvious that his spirit was almost broken. His hair was tousled, his face was wet with perspiration, his shirt was torn, and he looked as though he had been through the first cycle in a washing machine.
“Rhett, the only limits you’ll ever know are the ones you place on yourself. I know you can do it. Just don’t give up. Now get up and …”
“Look, Dad,” he shot back, “I’ve given it everything I have. There’s nothing left to give. It’s not that I’m quitting. I’m just smart enough to know when I’m beat.”
“But Rhett …”
“Dad! Let’s go home. There are plenty of other merit badges I can earn.”
The winter months soon had our valley home in Idaho firmly tucked in under a blanket of deep snow. That year winter seemed determined to show off some muscle. It seemed that snow was falling continuously in record amounts, making driving hazardous and causing frequent cancellation of school. After a particularly severe storm I was proceeding along my bus route, being extremely cautious about the driving conditions. I was concentrating so intently that it wasn’t until all the students at my favorite stop had been seated before I even looked around at the surrounding scenery.
Ah yes, the dogs were barking viciously at the bus. As I reached toward the gear shift I found myself doing a quick doubletake. Both dogs were there, ears back, tails low, warning us in no uncertain terms that they were the meanest critters around. There was no doubt that they wanted to get at me, the students, or the bus itself, if only they had the chance. But that was the amazing part of the scene. At the sight of the bus, both dogs had raced the length of the yard and stopped abruptly where the fence was—I mean used to be! The deep snow had drifted completely over the fence giving it the appearance of a small ski ramp.
I couldn’t believe how ridiculous those dogs looked. The obstacle that had always prevented them from enjoying their meal of orange metal and rubber tires had been eliminated, yet they were stopped from pursuing us by some invisible force. Invisible, but apparently very effective.
While driving away, I noticed in my mirror that the dogs were still barking furiously but refused to give chase. As I pondered this scene, I considered how often people find themselves in situations very similar to the one in which the unfriendly canines were. How unfortunate that we place unnecessary limits on what we think we can achieve. Of course there must be a certain degree of realism in our goals, but if we are to attain great things we must set our standards high.
“High?”
Of course, the high jump! Rhett had talked himself out of a goal simply because he had failed and no longer believed he could surpass that invisible inch. I had to convince him that he was wrong. I couldn’t wait to get home and recall the story of the dogs to Rhett.
For some reason he didn’t share my enthusiasm, but I still encouraged him to try again. My pleading pep talk was beginning to wear down his resistance, so I applied the finishing touches. Assuming the role of Knute Rockne, the famous Notre Dame football coach, I sternly said, “Those dogs can’t fly, but Eagles can!” He was silent for a moment, but then agreed to train harder and continue jumping until he overcame his obstacle. I was pleased with his devotion. Every day he would jump rope, jog, do exercises, or practice his jumping form. It looked like he was getting serious.
In three weeks the weather began to clear, and the theory was put to the test. Rhett was measured and weighed again to make certain he was still in the same skill group. After a word of prayer and some warm-ups, he went to his starting point while I set up the bar. He was unaware that I had set the bar a full two inches above the required height. It was a gamble, but I could tell by the way he glared at the bar that he was determined to clear that height if it took all night.
He began to rock back and forth to establish a rhythm. As he took his first step I could hear my heart pound anxiously. His pace began to increase, and so did my pulse. Faster, faster until he gathered himself for that final spring. He grunted as he swung his arms high and arched his body toward the bar. There were three or four inches of blue sky between the boy and the top of his “fence.” It was hard to believe he had cleared it with such ease on his first attempt.
As he lay on the pile of foam rubber, staring wide-eyed into the sky, smiles began to appear on our faces. There was no “S” on his chest, no cape around his neck, he was not capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound. He had not earned an Olympic medal. Yet he had more than tripled the output necessary to achieve his goal. Perhaps he had gained something far more valuable than any award. He had begun to see the importance of hard work and determination.
I realized there is no reason for us to allow invisible fences to limit our righteous aspirations. Anyone who has overcome the barriers to success has had to eliminate the invisible fences that would prevent achievement. I am convinced that the prophet Alma taught a profound truth when he said: “by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).

Archie noticed the red-orange reflection in the mirror as he walked through the family room on his way out the door. He had seen that color thousands of times in his life. He had grown fondly accustomed to the vibrant orange hue that surrounded his roundish face. Every time Archie looked in the mirror he was reminded of the fact that he was not only a redhead, he was the personification of the brightest, most intense, flaming red that ever graced the top of a young man’s head.
He recalled several years earlier when he was living with his parents in Africa that people would pat him on the head because they thought red hair was an omen of good luck—a symbol of good fortune.
His pleasant reflection was startled by the “MEEOOOP!” of the horn from the enchanted yellow bus that would carry him to his first day of junior high.
Archie anxiously gathered his books and papers and rushed to the front door where he was greeted by a proud reception line composed of his mother, his two little brothers, his grandmother, and his dad. After all, it isn’t every day that the oldest son in the family takes off for the first day of junior high. A little embarrassed and hurried, Archie kissed his mom on the cheek, waved to his grandma and brothers, and shook his dad’s hand as he galloped off to his new adventure.
Archie slipped through the folding doors of the bus, only to find himself staring into the faces of dozens of different and older students who would also be attending Jefferson Junior High School.
With a sigh of relief he focused on Jimmy, his best friend, who had saved a seat for him by the window.
Archie plomped into the seat as the bus rumbled down the road. Jimmy said, “Greg said that we’d better watch out today at school or he and his ninth grade friends will sit us on the fountain or write on us with lipstick.”
Archie asked, “Why do they do that?”
“He said it is called initiation to junior high. Sort of like when you have to do something scary to join a club.”
While Archie’s face showed no fear, he suddenly became intensely aware of the bigger kids at the back of the bus who were laughing and joking.
Finally the bus halted in front of the big sign that said Jefferson Junior High. As he and Jimmy jumped down from the bus, his combined excitement, joy, fear, and anticipation made his heart thump twice as fast as normal.
As he reached the top of the stairs he pulled open the big metallic doors that led into a whole new world. He gazed down the hall and saw hundreds of jostling, laughing, bustling students who all seemed to know where to go and what to do. Even his friend Jimmy had wandered down the hall on his own. Now Archie was alone in the strange and exciting new environment. As he walked down the hall he felt as if everyone was staring at him. Just then he saw one of his pals from grade school.
Walt yelled across the hall, “Well, if it isn’t red Archie!”
Archie cringed when he heard the word red, and his face blushed to fit the description. Suddenly he wished that he had a hat to cover his bright thatch of red hair.
Just then the “ZZIINNGG!” of the bell sounded to go to class. He hurried down the hall to his locker and spun the dial to his combination, but nothing happened. Again he tried … 37 to the left … 15 to the right … and 22 to the left. His locker still wouldn’t open!
Frantically he pulled on his locker door but to no avail. “ZZIINNGG!” went the second bell, and Archie realized that he was tardy for the first period. He gave up on his locker and ran down the hall to his first class. As he-entered the room everyone looked at him and he hurriedly went to one of the empty desks and sat down. The teacher called the roll, “Steve Cranbrook … Archie Crenshaw … Richard Daines …” until he had called out all twenty-six students in the homeroom.
Mr. Williams, the teacher, closed the rollbook and said, “I remember the first day I went to junior high. I was so scared that I had to walk around the block twice before I dared go in. Then I couldn’t remember where my locker was and was late to every class for the first week. The worst thing was that everyone teased me.”
As Mr. Williams talked, Archie felt a grin blossom on his face. The teacher went on to explain how the first day is always the worst, and after that you get to know your way around and have a good time.
From that moment on, Archie felt a lot better about being in junior high. He didn’t even mind if kids called him Red. In fact, his bushy red locks became his trademark. Archie became confident and happy (and finally figured out how to open his locker). And it all started with Mr. Williams in social studies class.
Archie’s parents were both proud and happy that their son was doing so well in school. Nearly every day Archie had something good to say about Mr. Williams and what he had learned in social studies.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw were interested in meeting Mr. Williams, the man they had heard so much about from Archie. Finally the day came for parent-teacher conferences for Jefferson Junior High. Archie couldn’t wait for his folks to go and talk to Mr. Williams. He even drew them a map of how to get to his room so they wouldn’t get lost!
Archie’s mom and dad walked into room 29 with the sign that said Mr. Williams and suddenly understood everything they had heard about him. As they went in Mr. Williams gave them a glowing grin that was accented by the brightest, curliest, flaming red hair imaginable.

During adversity and suffering in post-Soviet Russia, Anatoly and Svetlana Reshetnikov chose righteousness over worldliness. After joining the Church, they were persecuted. He was demoted from his position at work. Valiantly they thought, “Now we have more time to serve God!” They repeatedly received threats, yet they chose to live gospel-centered lives. Elder Anatoly Reshetnikov was called as the first Russian Area Seventy. Through their choices the Reshetnikovs continue to choose eternal life.

This story happened in the USA.
Xóchitl lay in her bunk bed, looking up at the bed above her. Her family had just said family prayer, and it was time to sleep. She hadn’t said her own prayer before bed yet.
Why do we need to pray? she wondered. Her family always said the same things, like thanking God and asking Him for good dreams. Were their prayers really answered? Sometimes she still had bad dreams anyway.
What would happen if she stopped praying? Ready to test her new idea, she turned over on her side and fall asleep.
For the next few days, Xóchitl didn’t pray. Then the days turned into weeks. Nothing really changed. She didn’t feel that much different.
She finished the rest of the school year, and soon it was summer. Xóchitl had fun going to swimming lessons and playing with her dogs. She got to see her cousins at a big family gathering.
Every night, she joined her family for prayer. But she still didn’t pray on her own.
Soon summer had to end, and Xóchitl started to get ready for school. But she wasn’t excited at all. A few days before school started, she met her new teacher, found her locker, and got a new backpack. Whenever she thought about going to school, she felt sick. Every day the feeling got worse.
One night she stayed awake in her bed, thinking about school. I don’t want to go. It’s scary, she thought. Then she remembered what her parents taught her about prayer. They said she could pray anywhere and that she could pray for help and comfort.
Xóchitl knelt down next to her bed and took a deep breath. For the first time in months, she said her own prayer. She prayed to Heavenly Father. She thanked Him and asked Him for good dreams just like they did in family prayers. When she finished, she didn’t feel much different inside.
The next night, she tried again. And again. She asked Heavenly Father to bless the prophet and her family. Soon she was telling Him her feelings and what she hoped for at her new school.
“Heavenly Father,” she said one night, “I’m so scared about school. I can’t sleep. Can you help me not feel scared anymore?” She felt a strong feeling of peace wrap around her, almost like a warm blanket. Right away, she knew it was the Holy Ghost.
So this is why we pray, she thought. To feel Heavenly Father’s love. It was an amazing feeling. For all those months she didn’t pray, she had been missing out on this feeling.
Xóchitl smiled. She was still nervous to start school, but she felt much stronger knowing God could comfort her. She really could pray for comfort anytime, anywhere, because God really was listening.

I was amazed at how proud I still felt of our new chapel as I attended seminary that morning. It was so beautiful!
I heard the voices of my fellow brothers and sisters, my best friends, and Sister Payne, our seminary teacher. They all greeted me with smiles and good mornings. My heart was full, and I knew that was where I should be.
After a song and a prayer, we began our lesson. Soon I was thinking about my friend who had recently stopped attending Sunday meetings. I was feeling guilty because we had had a disagreement that now seemed senseless. And I was thinking that my friend’s inactivity was a result of our disagreement.
My thoughts were interrupted by Sister Payne reading Doctrine and Covenants 64:9–10 [D&C 64:9–10]:
“Wherefore, I say unto you, that ye ought to forgive one another; for he that forgiveth not his brother his trespasses standeth condemned before the Lord; for there remaineth in him the greater sin.
“I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.”
Then I realized that I had been too proud to even apologize to my friend.
At that moment, I knew what to do about my friend. I would go to her and apologize. And I knew that once again, through the scriptures and a teacher, Heavenly Father had given me the strength to do what I knew in my heart was right.

In 1837, when the Church was struggling in Kirtland, Ohio, the Prophet Joseph Smith called Heber C. Kimball to go to England to open the work there. Brother Kimball exclaimed in self-humiliation: “O, Lord, I am a man of stammering tongue, and altogether unfit for such a work; how can I go to preach in that land, which is so famed throughout Christendom for learning, knowledge and piety … and to a people whose intelligence is proverbial!”
But then on reflection he added: “However, all these considerations did not deter me from the path of duty; the moment I understood the will of my Heavenly Father, I felt a determination to go at all hazards, believing that he would support me by his almighty power, and endow me with every qualification that I needed; and although my family was dear to me, and I should have to leave them almost destitute, I felt that the cause of truth, the Gospel of Christ, outweighed every other consideration.” (Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball [Bookcraft, 1967], p. 104.)
He traveled over the sea and commenced the work in Preston, Lancashire, with the very devils of hell opposing him and his companions. And thus began a work in that part of the world that has blessed for good the lives of hundreds of thousands. The great conference recently held in Manchester was but the lengthened shadow of that fearful but faithful beginning.

“If I weren’t Mormon” seemed to be my favorite phrase this month. If I weren’t a Mormon I wouldn’t be getting up at 5:30 in the morning enduring 6° C. and less temperatures just to go to seminary. If I weren ’t a Mormon I’d be more accepted at school, and I’d have fun going to “all weekend” parties with friends, and I wouldn’t have to endure all those jokes about my religious beliefs. If I weren’t a Mormon life would be so much easier.
When I finally reached school that morning I was irritable, depressed, and tired. I wouldn’t be like this if I weren’t a Mormon, I thought. I missed the bus because Dad likes long family prayers. And Mom couldn’t drive me to school because she had to go to some Relief Society meeting.
I was late for class so I took a shortcut through the back of the library where I saw my old boyfriend with his beautiful new girlfriend. We had stopped seeing each other because I wasn’t willing to compromise my standards. Seeing those two together was more than I could handle. I ran into a nearby empty room and cried.
I finally arrived at my class just before I was marked absent. The daily notice sheet was read out loud reminding us of the upcoming long weekend and the camp planned at The Entrance, a coastal holiday town about five hours north of Sydney, Australia. That’s just what I needed. I wondered if Dad and Mom would let me go? No, they wouldn’t because I have to go to church Sunday and I have to go to family home evening Monday.
I was so bored in my mathematics class that I calculated how much more pocket money I’d have and all the things I could buy if I didn’t have to pay tithing.
The next morning the alarm went off at 5:30 as usual. Time to go to seminary again. Why should I have to go? Why get up at 5:30 every morning? Then I heard Mom’s happy voice telling me that if I didn’t get up I’d be late.
The topic that morning was, “What has Joseph Smith done for you?” I could answer that easily. If it weren’t for Joseph Smith I wouldn’t be a Mormon.
“Will you read Doctrine and Covenants, section 122, verses seven and eight, please?” my teacher asked.
Wearily, I took out my scriptures and started reading. At first I was not really listening, but then something made me start to pay attention to the words.
“And if thou shouldst be cast into the pit, or into the hands of murderers, and the sentence of death passed upon thee; if thou be cast into the deep; if the billowing surge conspire against thee; if fierce winds become thine enemy; if the heavens gather blackness, and all the elements combine to hedge up the way; and above all, if the very gates of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.” [D&C 122:7–8]
I choked out the last verse as my eyes filled with tears. “The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?”
A few days later I was standing on the balcony of the Opera House, overlooking Sydney harbor. I couldn’t remember why I had felt so restricted because of my religion. My problems seemed pretty small and insignificant compared to those of Jesus Christ and Joseph Smith. I felt selfish as I asked myself, “Art thou greater than he?”
The lights of the city seemed to be almost as bright as the stars above. “I’m so proud of my country,” I said to myself. “It’s so full of unique beauty, people, and culture. I thank God for our beautiful plants, animals, and freedom. And I’in proud to be a part of the ever-growing and only true church in the world.”
My favorite phrase still is, “If I weren’t a Mormon,” but in a different way. If I weren’t a Mormon I wouldn’t have such a wonderful family, such great friends, and such a clear understanding of the purpose of life.
By the way, I calculated how much tithing I have paid, and when I look at how much God has given me, there’s no comparison.

Some years ago when our first son was about a year old, I was the source of some seemingly unnecessary suffering. We were attending college, and one evening I had been playing with my boy on the floor. I left the room to study, and as I closed the door behind me he apparently reached for me, raising his hand up behind his head, and his finger went into the hinged side of the door. When I closed the door he suffered a rather severe injury to his finger.

We rushed him to the emergency room at the hospital, he was given a local anesthetic, and a doctor came in; he assured us that it could be repaired. Almost paradoxically, at that point the only thing my one-year-old wanted was to be held by his dad. As long as he could see me he resisted any efforts to bind him for the delicate surgery. When I left the room he calmed down, and the doctor was able to proceed.

During the process I was anxious and would draw close to the open door and look around the corner to see how things were proceeding. Perhaps by some unseen sense, as I would peek noiselessly around the corner, which was located behind him and to the side, his head would come up and he would strain to see if I was there.

On one of those occasions, as I saw him with his arm pinned out from his side—his head arched, searching for his father—the thought came to my mind of another Son, His arms stretched out, nailed to a cross, searching for His Father, and to my mind came the words, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” What was a very traumatic moment in my life suddenly became very sacred.

As I have pondered that event with my own son so many years ago, it has provided new insights and perhaps even deeper understanding of the magnitude and magnificence of the Atonement. I have a deeper appreciation of what a Father was willing to allow His Son to go through for me and for each of us. I had a new personal insight into the depth and breadth of the Atonement. I could not imagine that I would willingly have let my son suffer even in this small way; and our Father “so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son.”

Although we have never discussed it, my son, too, would have the op-portunity to appreciate the passage where the Savior explains, “Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.”

Although I would not suggest that anything here can approach the holy Atonement, the scar on my son’s hand is continually before him, and he has the opportunity, if he chooses to take it, to use his scar as a reminder of scars in the palms of the Savior—suffered for our sins. He has the opportunity to understand in his own way the love the Savior has for us in willingly being scarred, bruised, broken, and torn for us.

I recall that as a graduate student I wrote a critique of an important political philosopher. It was clear that I disagreed with him. My professor told me that my paper was good, but not good enough. Before you launch into your criticism, she said, you must first present the strongest case for the position you are opposing, one that the philosopher himself could accept. I redid the paper. I still had important differences with the philosopher, but I understood him better, and I saw the strengths and virtues, as well as limitations, of his belief. I learned a lesson that I’ve applied across the spectrum of my life.

It was an important occasion. The president-elect of the United States, Dwight D. Eisenhower, had assembled his cabinet members for their first meeting. He greeted his new advisers warmly, smiling broadly as he chatted and shook hands.
But when everyone was seated, his smile gave way to seriousness. He turned to his Secretary of Agriculture. The incoming administration had great need for divine inspiration, the president said. Because of that, he was asking Ezra Taft Benson to open the cabinet meeting with prayer.
Even though he was taken by surprise, Ezra Taft Benson was a man used to praying, both in public and private. He offered a beautiful, sincere prayer, and it became a tradition to begin all cabinet meetings with an appeal to the Lord.
That was in January 1953.

I would like to share a few details of one of these stories to illustrate how remembering the experiences of others can strengthen us.
When the Saints arrived in Utah, there was a need for doctors. Brigham Young called many women to be midwives or nurses. At least two of my ancestors received this call—talk about an intimidating calling! One of them, Ellen Clegg, recounted feeling she was not capable when she was first called. However, after Brigham Young told her she had been called of God in a vision, she accepted the calling and served admirably. A biographical sketch of Grandma Clegg provides these details:

“Sometimes she would go to the sick bed of a mother on horseback or on a mule or sleigh. Other times she had to walk and hold to the horse’s tail as she plowed through the deep snow and blizzards, many times arriving at the home of the sick, her shoes and stockings frozen to her, but these were minor troubles and her greatest desire was to help those who were suffering and in need. One time she was sick and was called to take care of a confinement case. A man came for her on a mule and grandma, although very sick, got behind the man on the mule and, on the way to the sick bed of the woman, the mule threw them off, breaking grandma’s arm, but she attended her patient in this condition and brought happiness to them.”
I get emotional thinking about the army of good women who accepted callings as nurses and midwives despite limited training. They dedicated their lives to quietly serving and caring for their fellow Saints. For any of us who feel unprepared or not good enough to accept a calling, this story can give us confidence that the calling is from God and He will qualify us for the work.

“Get your coat. He’ll be waiting for us.” That’s all Dad said. I’d seen him mad and sad and disappointed and a whole bunch of other things, but not all at the same time.

“I’ll take it back to Brother Gordon’s store,” I said, pushing the shaving cream across the table. “I’ll pay for it too. It only costs a dollar and thirty-nine cents.” I swallowed hard. “I’ve got that much in my drawer.”

Dad didn’t say anything more. He just looked at me. He looked at me so hard that I felt real funny inside, and finally I had to stare at the floor or start bawling.

“I can pay for it,” I said again. “You can have the money right now.”

“Get your coat.” He almost whispered it. “And while you’re at it, bring the dollar and thirty-nine cents.”

There was nothing more to say. I guess no kid can win in a fight against his dad. There’s something about being a dad that gives him a head start. When your dad says that David killed Goliath or that Joseph was sold into Egypt, then that’s what happened. When he says that you need to go to church every Sunday, then a guy knows where he’d better be on Sunday. And when a dad says, “Get your coat and bring your dollar and thirty-nine cents with you,” then there isn’t much a person can do but get his coat and money.

I went to my room and counted out three dollars. I figured that paying more than double would make things easier on me when I got to the sheriff’s.

On the way over to Brother Gordon’s store, I got to thinking about Harry and Carl. This was all their fault, not mine. I hadn’t even wanted to take the shaving cream, but they’d said I wouldn’t be stealing. All I was supposed to do was talk to Brother Gordon while they did the stealing.

I explained all that to Dad, but he said that helping someone else to steal is still stealing and that this was even more my fault because I’d taken advantage of Brother Gordon’s trust in me. I guess he was right, but I sure didn’t think it was fair that I was getting blamed for everything. I only brought the shaving cream home with me because Harry and Carl didn’t want it after they got out of the store.

The more I thought about Harry and Carl, the madder I got. Before I knew it, I could feel tears in my eyes, and I started to sniffle. By then we were in front of Brother Gordon’s store, so I hurried and dried my eyes with my coat sleeve and got out of the car.

As soon as we walked into the store, Brother Gordon saw Dad and came over. Dad had called the sheriff already, but Brother Gordon still didn’t know anything about my stealing. Dad said I would have to tell him.

“Hello, Dick,” Dad said. “Robert has some business with you to take care of.”

“What can I do for you, Bobby?” Brother Gordon asked.

I looked at his belt buckle and held out the shaving cream. “I stole it.” That was all I could say. Brother Gordon didn’t say anything, and Dad wouldn’t help me either.

“I stole it,” I said louder. “I stole it and I’m sorry. You always said you could trust me, but I guess you couldn’t, because I’m just an old robber. But I won’t ever do it again.”

I was bawling real good by then, and I just wished I had never seen that shaving cream. I set it on the counter and dug into my pocket for my money. “The shaving cream only costs a dollar and thirty-nine cents, but I’ll pay three dollars.”

Brother Gordon didn’t know what to do. He told me to keep the money, but Dad said no. I didn’t care because I didn’t want the money, and most of all I didn’t want that old shaving cream.

I figured that since I’d bawled good and paid the money and told Brother Gordon I was sorry that Dad wouldn’t take me to the sheriff, but I was wrong.

When we walked into the sheriff’s office, the first thing I saw was his gun. He wore it down on his leg like cowboys in the movies do. Dad had told me once that the sheriff could shoot a gun better than anyone around and that he had ribbons and trophies to prove it.

The sheriff showed me into another room and told me to wait for him while he talked to Dad. I wasn’t too scared until I noticed four rifles chained to a rack on one of the walls. There was a desk in one corner with two chairs in front of it. I sat down on one of the chairs and looked at the guns on the wall and wondered if those rifles were still used to shoot robbers.

The sheriff came into the room without Dad and shut the door. Then he walked over to the desk and straightened some papers. After a second he sat down and leaned back in his chair.

“I hear you got into a little trouble. Is that so?”

I just nodded.

“I guess you know that stealing’s wrong?”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“I guess you know that it doesn’t matter how many people do it. It’s still wrong.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A person can get thrown into jail for stealing.” He didn’t smile. He just stared at me. Now when Dad’s upset, his eyes can make you feel funny and kind of twitchy inside, but when the sheriff looked at me, it hurt. I looked at the floor a couple of times and dusted off my pants, even though they didn’t need it.

All of a sudden the sheriff stood up and took off his gun holster. “There’s no sense in my telling you that you’ve done something wrong,” he growled. “You know that. You broke the law, and your dad wants me to do something about it.”

He stopped talking while he slowly pulled his gun out of the holster. I had thought he might throw me in jail, but I hadn’t figured he’d shoot me, not for a stolen tube of shaving cream. My spit dried up, and I grabbed the chair real tight, then held my breath, closed my eyes, and waited for the BANG! There was just a quiet thud, though, when the sheriff put his gun into his desk drawer.

Well, my spit came back, and I started to breathe again. It was pretty jumpy breathing for a while, but it was real good to know I could still do it.

The sheriff coughed and sat down. “Most dads don’t bring their boys to the sheriff. But your dad isn’t like most dads.” He leaned forward. “You’re going to grow up to be a good man, Bobby, but you won’t grow up that way because you came in here and talked to me. You’ll be a good man because you have a good dad. Right now it might seem that you’re getting all the blame for what Harry and Carl did. But some day you’ll realize that your dad isn’t being hard on you. It’s Carl’s and Harry’s dads who are being hard on them.”

The sheriff leaned back in his chair and just stared at me for a while. Finally he opened his desk drawer and pulled out five paper cups. He carried the other chair across the room and set the cups on it. Then he pulled a long black horsewhip from his desk.

All of a sudden he jerked the fat end of that whip, and the skinny end shot out of his hand with a loud bang and hit one of those paper cups and tore it to pieces. It happened so fast that I jumped out of my chair. My eyes bulged, and I felt my heart beating so hard up in my throat that I thought I’d choke. He snapped that whip three more times, and then there was just one cup left on the chair.

The sheriff started talking again. “It used to be that when someone stole something, he was given a good thrashing with a whip like this.” He looked straight at me. He didn’t smile, and I knew he wasn’t playing a game. Before I could blink my eyes, that horsewhip shot out and ripped the last cup off the chair.

“I don’t whip people for stealing.” He cleared his throat and added, “But there is one thing I might whip a boy for.”

The sheriff began to roll up his whip while he talked. “You know, Bobby, dads are pretty good fellows. They take you on camp-outs, teach you how to play ball, fix your bike tires when they’re flat, tell you stories, and somehow are always around when you need a friend. Most of all, they’re there to set you straight when you get off the right track. If the world’s a good place to live in, it’s because there are lots of good dads.”

The sheriff stopped talking, and I figured he was done. But he wasn’t. He took a deep breath and started tapping his fingers on the desk. “Do you know why your dad and I are such good friends?”

I shook my head.

“My dad died before I was even born. When I was growing up, your dad was the one who fixed my bike, showed me how to play ball, and was around when I needed a friend. He was a dad to me.”

I looked up at the sheriff, and I could see that his eyes were moist and shining. He wasn’t bawling or anything, but shoot, the sheriff’s about the toughest guy around!

He was real quiet for a long time. Then he looked at me, picked up his coiled whip, pointed it at me, and said quietly, “Now, I’m going to tell you how you can get a horsewhipping. I won’t give it to you for stealing things from Mr. Gordon’s store or for fighting or breaking windows or anything like that. Those things are bad, but they won’t get you a horsewhipping. There’s something worse than doing those things. If you hurt your dad … if you ever do anything that makes him feel real bad, or if I hear you calling him ‘old man’ like some of the other boys call their dads, I’ll come looking for you. And believe you me, I’ll horsewhip you, because you have the best dad in the world, and any boy who would do those things to a dad like yours needs a good horsewhipping. Do you understand me?”

I nodded my head. I sure did understand.

Finally he smiled. I was glad to see that he remembered how.

When he told me I could go, Dad was waiting for me. I was sure glad to see him. When we walked out to the car, he put his arm around me like he does lots of times. He told me he loved me and just wanted me to be a good boy. I knew he meant what he said, and I remembered what the sheriff had said about him.

It’s been a while since I went with Dad to see the sheriff. I haven’t stolen anything else from Brother Gordon, and he still trusts me and says I’m a good boy.

The sheriff always waves to me when he passes in his truck, and whenever he talks to me, he asks me about my dad. I haven’t ever asked him if he still has his whip. He probably does, but I’m not afraid of it—or him—because there’s no reason for him to come looking for me. You see, I’ve got the best dad in the whole world, and I know it.

In 1991, my beloved husband, Gilberto, lost his life in a truck accident in Pôrto Alegre, Brazil. His death was a shock. We had all been happy and healthy. We had even recently rejoiced in Gilberto’s baptism. The rest of the family—Gisele, Pablo, and I—had been members of the Church for some time.
Unfortunately, the children and I did not overcome our loss very quickly. Days ran into nights and into days again, and nothing seemed to lessen our pain or our sense of abandonment.
Then we learned that we would not be able to get an insurance settlement because we lacked the necessary documentation. We had to sell our house and all the furniture because we could no longer make the payments. Three months later, we were able to buy a small apartment. But it seemed as if nothing could cheer us.
We spent three very unhappy years in that apartment. The school where I worked became more unpleasant with each passing day. The children were having problems at school, too. They were persecuted by the other students for being members of the Church. Rather than improving, life seemed to become more unbearable. We began to lose hope and even stopped going to church.
After a time, we decided to move to a city in another state. We felt that by moving to Florianópolis, we might be able to leave our grief behind.
We arrived with the modest funds we had received from the sale of our apartment. But everything was very expensive, and we soon became discouraged. Then, during Easter vacation in 1994, we went to look at a new house in a place called English Beach. We went only out of curiosity, not expecting to like it much and certainly not realizing the blessings Heavenly Father had in store for us there.
We arrived at the house and met the owner, a man from Argentina who needed to return to his country. He was ready to sell for any amount, as long as the money was available immediately. It was a wonderful house, very large and very beautiful. We knelt down and thanked our Heavenly Father for such a wonderful blessing. We felt guilty for having had so little faith in him. But the house itself was only the beginning.
Two months later, we met the LDS missionaries in the area and learned where church meetings were held. Soon we were attending regularly. The members were very concerned about us. They showed us that we were members of a large family—the family of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Day by day, we grew happier.
With the arrival of spring a few months later, the rental rates in town went up, and it became very expensive for the branch to stay in its quarters. So the branch began to meet in our home. We opened our home to the branch, and the branch opened their hearts to us.
When we came to Florianópolis, there were few members. Now our little chapel is full. Both of my children have been called as stake missionaries. I serve as the organist and teach in the Relief Society. Our family is planning to go to the São Paulo Temple to be sealed.
Today, I know that even in our most desperate times, there is a purpose to our trials. We realize now that it was necessary for us to come to English Beach, and our years of struggle taught me that there is no greater happiness than doing the Lord’s work. Now I know that even though my husband was taken from us, our Heavenly Father has not abandoned us. He will always provide.

A little over 34 years ago, when yet a high school student, I was first contacted by the missionaries—who invited me to attend MIA and join their basketball team. Not knowing anything about the Church, but being very interested in basketball, I attended MIA. Later I attended Sunday School, then sacrament meeting.
After a year of attendance and studying the gospel with the missionaries, and having read the story of Joseph Smith’s first vision, I accepted the invitation to be baptized into the Church. That evening, I returned home, having committed myself to baptism, to ask my widowed mother for permission to be baptized.
Suddenly I saw tears in her eyes. I asked her why was she shedding tears. And she answered, saying, “These are not tears of joy, but of sadness”—for she had just lost another son. In her widowhood she had lost a son—my brother—and so she said she had just lost another son to a Christian church.
She later explained that at my father’s deathbed she had promised and covenanted with him to raise the children honorably in the Buddhist faith. I quickly assured my mother that in the year that I had been associating with the missionaries, I had always been lifted up and had learned nothing but good things from them.
I promised her that if she would permit me to be baptized and later found that through my behavior I had caused her any embarrassment—or committed some shameful or dishonorable act—then all she had to do was ask me to stop going to church, and I would, without question, obey her will.
However, on the other hand, if I became a better person—more attentive to her needs as a widow, more kind toward the demands of home, brothers, and sisters—then, I said, “Would you permit me to continue to go to church? Because I know that this is the place where I can gain an education for an eternal life.”
It is my testimony today that I never had to leave the Church nor cause my mother any concern about my behavior. As I lived the gospel principles taught by the missionaries, and as I studied the principles myself, I had the assurance from my Father in heaven that my future outcome would be one that I would never have to worry about.

Again, it is a wonderful gift to know that we are children of God with a divine purpose. While in Hong Kong a number of years ago, my mother and I went on a tour of that beautiful city and surrounding area. The young woman tour guide became interested in us and asked about our homeland. We told her we were from the state of Utah. We also volunteered that we were Latter-day Saints and asked her if she had seen any Mormon missionaries there. She replied that she had heard of them, but she had no interest in religion or even in a Supreme Being. She then said: “I believe in only one thing, and that is myself—that is how the young generation feel in this city.” She went on to say: “We call it egoism. We believe in doing and accumulating all you can for yourself—no one else matters.”

Many people live their lives this way. It appears that all they care about is themselves. But I had never heard anyone admit to such a philosophy. I was surprised and realized that she was searching for a way to make her life meaningful. I thought of the scripture in Matthew 16:25–26:

For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.

For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?

The young lady did not understand who she is. She was not able to enjoy the gift of knowing that she is a daughter of a Heavenly Father and that her life has purpose beyond herself.

Payton opened the pickup truck door and stepped out into the snow. Snowflakes fluttered through the air. Payton and her family had just gotten home from visiting Grandpa and Grandma.
Dad looked into the back of the truck. “Where’s Tessa?” Their six-month-old black lab wasn’t on her blanket. “She must have jumped out. No one will know who she belongs to because the tags fell off her collar last week.” Dad climbed back into the truck. “I’ll go look for her.”
Payton imagined Tessa alone in the cold night, and tears spilled down her cheeks. “Mom, what will happen to Tessa?”
Mom hugged Payton. “Don’t worry. Dad will find her.”
Even when Payton put on her warm pajamas, she felt cold inside. The wind blew outside, and a branch scraped against her window.
Payton knelt down and asked Heavenly Father to help her puppy. The knot in her stomach loosened, and she felt warm and calm.
“How are you doing?” Mom asked when she came to tuck Payton in.
“I feel better. I know Tessa is OK.”
“How do you know?”
“I prayed, and then I wasn’t scared anymore.”
“I’m glad you chose to pray and listen,” Mom said as she kissed Payton goodnight.
The next morning, Payton jumped out of bed and went to find Tessa, certain her prayer had been answered.
“Where is she?” Payton asked.
“I don’t know,” Dad said. “I looked for hours, but there were no tracks in the snow.”
“But I said a prayer. Why can’t it be answered now?”
“It doesn’t always work that way,” Dad said. “Heavenly Father answers our prayers, but not always the way we want them answered. We have to be patient.”
“Being patient is hard,” Payton said.
“Yes, it is,” Dad said. Then he smiled. “Why don’t we make some signs with Tessa’s picture and our phone number?”
“That’s a great idea!” Payton said.
Dad and Payton made the signs, and they posted them on the roads between Grandpa’s house and their own.
A week went by. Payton and her family prayed for Tessa every day. Whenever they went out, Payton watched for a black puppy with a red collar. When Payton was sad, she thought of the feelings she’d had when she first prayed for Tessa.
Then one afternoon, the phone rang. It was someone saying they had found a black lab puppy with a red collar.
“Let’s go get her!” Payton exclaimed.
“Slow down,” Dad said. “We’re not sure it’s Tessa yet.”
The short drive seemed to take forever. Finally they drove down a long driveway to a red farmhouse. When Dad opened the front gate, a black streak bounded through the snow and knocked Payton off her feet. She giggled as Tessa licked her face.
“It’s definitely Tessa,” Mom said.
On the way home Dad told Payton, “Now we know why there were no tracks in the snow. That family was behind us when Tessa jumped out of our truck. They put her in their car and tried to follow us, but we were too far ahead.”
Mom smiled at Payton. “You were right. Your prayer was answered. Someone was taking care of Tessa the whole time.”
Warmth spread through Payton. She pressed her cheek against Tessa’s fur.
“Heavenly Father was taking care of her, just like He took care of me.”

When school bus number 882 finally turned onto the dirt road, I had never felt happier to see our house.
I was still upset from the argument that had exploded between me and my friends three days earlier. Or should I say ex-friends? Now I thought of them as stubborn and selfish.
When the bus stopped, I marched down the aisle past Connie and Vicki, determined never to speak to them again.
That night I tossed and turned as contention filled my dreams.
By morning I had a headache. I also woke up late and had to hurry to get ready for school on time. I grabbed my books and slammed the front door without saying good-bye to my mom and little brothers and sisters as I ran to the bus stop, arriving just as the bus pulled up.
I walked quickly down the aisle, finding a seat away from Connie and Vicki. I could feel their eyes watching me, but I sat close to the window and pretended not to see them. I vowed that we would not be friends again until they changed.
I reached for my history book to read my assignment. I was surprised when I saw in my hands Pathways to Perfection by Elder Thomas S. Monson. I had grabbed the book by accident as I raced out of the house. It had fallen open to what I needed to read most: a chapter titled “Love As Jesus Loves.” The words seemed to be directed to me as I read Matthew 22:36–39:
“Master, which is the great commandment in the law?
“Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.
“This is the first and great commandment.” [Matt. 22:36–39]
Then these words penetrated my heart:
“And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.”
Those verses took on new meaning for me. Tears filled my eyes as I felt my Heavenly Father’s love for me. And I realized that it wasn’t Connie and Vicki who needed to change. It was me!
That morning on the bus I made a commitment to serve and love the Lord through loving those around me.

About a year after my father’s baptism, he became very ill. Early one Sunday morning, he called my mother, my brothers, my sisters, and me to his bedside. There, he looked at me and said, “My son, I hope you will serve a mission.” After saying these words, he died.

My father’s dying words impressed me so deeply that I did wear the “uniform” of a full-time missionary. I served in the Philippines Quezon City Mission.

One Sunday morning I was asked if I’d like to have home teachers visit me. I had just recently been divorced and was having a hard time facing my new life as a single mother with two small children. I said I would appreciate a visit. At the time, I was feeling bitter about my situation and felt alone in my struggles.
The following week, two good brothers came to my home. During their visit they asked the usual questions and shared a short gospel message with my family.
Then these good brothers asked, “Sister Nereida, what can we do to help you?”
Without thinking much about it, I told them the light bulbs were out above the stairs going up to the second floor. I had replacement bulbs, but I couldn’t reach high enough to change them, and I worried about using a ladder on the stairs. I also told them that I had no working lights in the backyard.
Right away they got up. One went out to his car and returned with a tool chest. He was almost six and a half feet (1.9 m) tall, so he climbed the stairs and changed the bulb without any problem. Meanwhile, his companion went to the backyard and noticed the wire connection was reversed. In no time he was able to fix it.
How grateful I have been to my home teachers over the years for their simple act of kindness, love, and dedication and for the wonderful lesson they taught me. My home teachers were truly angels who not only brought light to our home but also brought the peace, hope, and safety of the gospel, which brings light to any kind of darkness.

I always thought that I was one of the lucky exceptions to some gospel standards. So I did my own thing, deciding which standards were important and which weren’t. One of the standards I saw as optional was not listening to profane and vulgar music (see For the Strength of Youth [2011], 22). I didn’t think that the music I listened to made a difference in how I acted and how I felt about the gospel. I still had a strong testimony of Jesus Christ, and I did my best to serve others and attend my Church meetings. I told myself that it was unfortunate that those musicians didn’t live virtuous lives, but I was OK listening to their music—after all, it didn’t keep me from living a gospel-oriented life.
As I prepared to serve a mission, I didn’t think twice about how the music I listened to was stifling my spiritual progression.
However, within hours of opening my mission call, the scripture Alma 32:27 came into my head: “But behold, if ye will awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words.”
And then I thought of that one word: experiment. If I wanted to receive the blessings I was missing out on, I had to experiment. So for the next three weeks, I went without my inappropriate music. It was hard at first, and I had many relapses. But after a few days, the peaceful feelings I began having every day were enough to get me through. On top of that, as a college student, I began to do better in my classes. I could focus more, and I was more in tune with the Spirit in a time of my life where heavenly guidance was especially important.
I found that even my desires changed. I wanted to have every blessing that Heavenly Father is waiting to give me. My experience in changing my music habits helped me realize that there are no optional standards and that every commandment we are given is designed to deepen our relationship with our Heavenly Father and make us more like Him. Skipping out on ones we don’t like will only deny us His promised blessings.