Gospel Story Finder

In Lucerne, Switzerland, every Saturday morning Sister Martha Stadelmann is one of the first customers at the flower stands in the open-air market. She stops first for a few bright pink baby roses and then at another stall for some bright yellow blooms for two friends who have birthdays next week. After breakfast she fills her basket with the bunches of brilliant blossoms, and then she tucks in a muffin to give to another friend as thanks for her lovely prayer last Sunday. Then Martha is off to visit her sisters. She spreads joy in her small Swiss branch by remembering and thinking of others—and showing her thoughtfulness in acts of kindness.

Let me give you two examples of a fulfillment of this promise. One day while serving as the Executive Director of the Missionary Department, I received a phone call pertaining to a man who had received a call to serve as a mission president accompanied, of course, by his wife. His business partners, who could not understand the willingness of this man and his wife to leave their business, offered the church $100,000 if the call would be rescinded. I knew, of course, the answer but took it, nevertheless, to the member of the Quorum of the Twelve who was serving as the Chairman of the Missionary Executive Committee. His response was predictable. “Tell them we need the brother, his wife, and would appreciate the $100,000 as well.”

How much pressure do you think his partners applied on him before the money was offered to the Church? What risk was he taking after investing so much of his life in the business world? How difficult might it be when they returned to the business after their mission? Would there be anything there? I have watched that couple carefully since that day and can testify to you that the impact of their devotion and sacrifice has righteously influenced a multitude of people. Their sacrifices during and after that mission have “yielded much precious fruit.”

Recently our seven-year-old son, Wade, had his appendix rupture. The infection had spread throughout his abdomen, yet from outward appearances nothing seemed seriously wrong. Without proper medical care and attention he would have surely died. Like a person who has a serious physical illness, the spirit cannot heal itself after a major transgression without confession. The spirituality of a person can only remain weak, somewhat hesitant in fulfilling its immortal purpose, and could even wane and die.

Perhaps a point can also be made that as we do not visit a doctor for every little scratch, also we should not confess every “minor” sin to the bishop. President Brigham Young counseled, “Do not tell about your nonsensical conduct that nobody knows of but yourselves” (in Journal of Discourses, 8:362). The key is that we must be able to honestly differentiate between major transgressions and “nonsensical conduct.”

Franklin D. Richards reports a day that Joseph and Emma came down from Temple Hill on the muddy slope and their buggy capsized. Neither was badly hurt, but when Joseph came to a meeting that afternoon, he spoke of what Emma meant to him. "The Prophet Joseph remarked in the meeting. . .how he rejoiced in the love of his faithful wife Emma, who had given her hand, her heart and her soul to him in Harmony, Pennsylvania, when first he had been called to the work of the Lord, and had braved all these difficulties with him; and he made this remark, that whatever happened to Emma, he would go, if he had to go to hell, to find her and bring her home, that she might share with him the blessings of his exaltation as she had shared with him his sufferings. He rejoiced greatly in the anticipation of these eternal family relations in the future." (Collected Discourses, Vol.5, Franklin D. Richards, October 5, 1896)

Twelve-year-old Will hurried through the stony fields of the English countryside, driving his sheep against the bitter wind. But when a crippled ewe slowed down again, he stopped and lugged her, puffing and panting, down to the fold where Cyr the shepherd waited.
Will had dallied too long with Brother Gregory again today, and he wondered what excuse he could give the master shepherd this time. Still, he had learned three new letters today! He could hardly wait for another meeting with the shepherd-monk. Brother Gregory seemed eager to hear what Will could tell him about life at the castle—where the great hall and the count’s chambers were and about the rich fur-trimmed robes the count wore. All these splendors impressed the monk, for in the monastery the brothers knew poverty and lived simply. Will didn’t think of Brother Gregory as he did the solemn monks he had seen before. He was witty and wise and a good friend.
“Late again, lad,” Cyr grumbled as Will eased the animal to the ground.
“The ewe has a bad leg, and I can’t leave her alone tomorrow. It looks like I’ll not be sharing in the Christmastide feasting.”
The older shepherd smiled, “I’ll tend the ewe, lad,” he offered. “I’ve seen many a Christmas feast, and if I’m lucky, I’ll see one or two yet. Besides, I’m waiting to hear more news of the Duke of Wormsley from the castle guard,” the older man added with a sly grin, as though he were keeping a great secret.
“What news?” asked Will, curious.
“He’s burned two outlying huts as a warning to Count Hector. You mark my words, there’ll be battle between the two lords over their inheritance.”
The following evening Will glanced about the great hall. Surrounding Count Hector, Lady Ursula, and other nobles at the large raised table were tables for lesser folks—wandering priests and lute-playing minstrels and traveling merchants and adventuring knights. Beneath these the peasants were gathered, Will among them. Attendants carried salvers heaped with food, and children scurried about underfoot. Dogs growled and snarled under the long trestle tables, waiting for choice scraps. Huge meat pies were served and peacocks and fragrant new bread, washed down by tankards of mead.
Suddenly, Will stared in disbelief. In his black hood and cassock, Brother Gregory sat gaily chatting with the guests around his table. But when he rose slightly to scoop up a second helping of meat pie, Will glimpsed a sharp glinting beneath the folds of the monk’s robes.
Beads of sweat broke out on the boy’s upper lip when he realized that Brother Gregory was carrying a dagger! Will knew that true monks did not go to Christmas festivals, nor did they carry daggers. The monk is an imposter!
Anxious about what might happen, Will slipped from his place into the kitchen. Attendants were hurrying in and out, and the place smelled hot and steamy. A cook motioned to a huge meat pastry and said gruffly, “You, boy. Take this in to the count.”
Will obediently grabbed the pie and hefted it to a corner of the busy kitchen. Then grasping a butcher knife, he quickly scratched into the crust the words BLACK HOOD in the same large block letters that the false monk had taught him. His eyes blurred from the steam and he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He wondered if Brother Gregory had seen him too.
Holding the huge pastry high to shield his face, Will bore it in to the great hall and set it directly before the count. The lord and his group were laughing and talking, but when Count Hector leaned forward to grasp his goblet, he spied the words. Peering at Will, and then around the tables, he spotted the only black hood in the hall. Before Will could blink, Brother Gregory had whipped the dagger from the folds of his black robe. It zinged past Will’s ear just as the count ducked to one side. As the imposter raced for the door, an alert guard grabbed him around the neck and forced him down.
The week after the Christmas holiday was over, Will was silently packing a poultice on the ewe’s bad leg. Cyr watched admiringly with weary eyes. “I think you’ll do well as a shepherd, lad. It would be wise to be content in your place.” He shook his head. “I know that idea is painful to you now, Will, since your friend Brother Gregory disappointed you. It’s too bad he turned out to be a spy of the wicked Duke of Wormsley.”
Will shrank from the words and stared at the sheep’s festered leg, his eyes burning. Now that it was known that he had been used by the imposter-monk to gain information about the castle and its lord, he felt he would be shamed forever.
As Cyr went out of the fold for a moment, a page beckoned Will from the doorway. “The count wants to see you, lad,” he rasped.
A few minutes later Will sat on a stool in the count’s chambers, afraid to look at the man who had summoned him. After what seemed a terribly long silence, the count finally spoke, “The whole castle knows of your association with the Duke of Wormsley’s spy, lad, but I believe you meant no harm.” He paused. “Did he teach you to make those letters?”
“Yes, my lord,” Will whispered.
The count leaned forward and his bright eyes pierced through the boy like a knife. “Those letters you wrote saved my life!”
At the fervor in the count’s voice, Will looked up. Count Hector settled back in his chair and continued, “The monastery is without a shepherd these past days, and the abbot tells me that if I consent to let you tend their sheep, they’ll teach you more letters and such that the imposter began. He tells me that if this arrangement is made, in a few years I would have a new scribe to copy books,” Count Hector concluded. Will sat in stunned silence, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. The count snapped his fingers impatiently. “Well, boy?” he demanded.
“I—I think the plan is excellent, my lord!” breathed Will, his eyes bright. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you!”

Not all battles are waged on foreign soil. Nor do the participants always bear arms, throw grenades, or drop bombs. I witnessed such a conflict on the fourth floor of a California hospital. There were no shrill sounds of mortar fire to be heard, no fields of men or equipment to be seen. Yet a life or death struggle was in progress. Happy, handsome Paul Van Dusen, age fifteen, had just lost the first fight with the feared enemy called cancer.

Paul loved life. He excelled in sports. He and his parents hoped, then prayed that the doctors” fears would not be confirmed—that his precious right leg would not be amputated. Devastated, they accepted the sad news. To save his life, he must lose his leg.

The surgery completed, Paul rested.

Entering the room after Paul’s surgery, I was attracted immediately by his cheerful smile. He radiated a spirit of hope and goodness.

The crisp, white sheet lay noticeably flat where once there had been a leg. Flowers from friends surrounded his bedside. Parents, grateful for his life, stood close by.

Paul invited me to read the get well cards he had received. One carried the message: “We love you, Paul. We’re praying for you.” It was signed by members of his Sunday School class. From his classmates at school, “May you get well soon. We think you’re great.” Still another from home teachers had the inscription, “May god bless you. Tomorrow we’ll visit you again.”

What did the Carpenter from Nazareth say of such people? “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:40.)

The spirit of prayer came easily that day. A perfect peace filled the room. Smiles of confidence crept across lips moist with tears. From distant Capernaum we seemed to hear the echo, “Be not afraid, only believe.” Then Paul said, “I’ll be all right.”

We beheld a faith-filled heart and a countenance that reflected gratitude. Faith in whom? Gratitude for what?

Jesus of Nazareth,
Savior and King!
Triumphant over death,
Life thou didst bring,
Leaving thy Father’s throne,
On earth to live,
Thy work to do alone,
Thy life to give.
(Hymns, number 86.)

Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?
From Nazareth came example.
From Nazareth came sight.
From Nazareth came strength.
From Nazareth came life.
From Nazareth faith.
From Nazareth came peace.
From Nazareth came courage.
From Nazareth came Christ.
To him Nathanael declared, “Thou art the Son of God; thou art the King of Israel.” (John 1:49.) I testify that he is Lord of Lords, King of Kings, precious Savior, dear Redeemer. Jesus Christ of Nazareth. There is no other name under heaven given among men whereby we can be saved.

May we live his teachings, may we emulate his example, may we follow in his footsteps to life eternal.

I couldn’t concentrate. The city library buzzed like a beehive under attack. In my irritation, I momentarily forgot just why I was studying here rather than taking advantage of the mature silence and concentration of the university library. Then my reason walked by.
She was the assistant librarian and was easily the most beautiful girl ever to walk the earth. Her name tag told me she was Miss Burton, but that was all I knew about her. She was the motive that had driven me here for the last three nights just hoping for a chance to learn her first name. So far she hadn’t even said, “Sh-h-h, you’re in the library,” much less “hello.”
But I kept coming back, hoping that this night would be better than the last. With zero enthusiasm, I turned to my books, but it was impossible to study. I pushed American History to the side, folded my arms, and gazed at Miss Burton busily working at her desk. Occasionally she would cast a furtive glance in my direction. When she did, I would grin broadly and wink at her. She’d quickly duck her head to hide her blushing cheeks, but at least she knew I existed.
I admired her beauty and grace, but I was equally impressed by her modesty. Instead of wearing faded denim jeans and a sleazy blouse, so typical of my friends, Miss Burton was wearing a dress. One that actually came down to her knees! Her make-up was not heavy; in fact, unless you looked closely, you couldn’t even tell that she wore it. Her long hair adorned her head and shoulders like a veil. Her clothes, her actions, her very appearance declared that she was a lady!
It was weird that I should be so attracted to her. I could have passed for her exact opposite. My hair and beard were both shoulder length; I wore an old pair of faded jeans, an embroidered denim vest, and worn out sandals; I looked like the king of rebellion—she was the epitome of virtue and conformity.
I had chosen my way of life; she had chosen hers. Our differences stood as an impregnable barrier between us. To penetrate that barrier, I knew I would have to cut my hair and conform to society. No, I would not put on a suit and tie again, not even for her!
The pencil snapped in my hand. Why was I so upset over a prudish librarian? Because something in her eyes, in her smile, in her very essence affected me deeply; in spite of myself, I felt I was beginning to care about Miss Burton, and I still didn’t even know her first name!
I wondered if she could ever adopt my life-style. As she stood replacing books on a nearby shelf, I tried to imagine her with kinky, frizzed hair, but it was futile. The Mona Lisa would adjust to that more readily than Miss Burton!
She finished replacing the books and turned to walk toward the desk. Her eyes caught mine; slowly, a smile crept to her lips. As she walked by me, I pushed back my chair and unfolded all 193 centimeters of me. I stood at attention, tipped a make-believe hat and whispered loudly, “How do you do, Madam!” It was a whisper, but my voice rasped loudly enough to echo through the library, causing her face to turn a glowing crimson. A ripple of laughter flowed through the library and I sat down with a wide grin on my face.
Shortly after Miss Burton had returned to her desk and the color in her cheeks had returned to normal, a freckle-faced girl, probably about 13 years old, approached her. The girl obviously had not asked the usual “where do I find” question, because Miss Burton looked deep into her eyes and placed her slender hand over the girl’s chubby one. I caught the word rebellion as they spoke with each other.
Quietly, I moved to a table closer to the desk; I was interested in what Miss Burton had to say on the subject. Holding an open magazine as a guise, I leaned back in the plastic chair as far as I dared. I strained my ears to catch every word.
The girl spoke: “I need books on rebellion so I’ll know how to act when I go to 9th grade next year.”
I started to laugh, but Miss Burton’s serious tone told me that she did not think it was funny.
“And you think you’ll stand out in the crowd if you don’t rebel, is that right?”
“Sure! Everybody rebels! Like my sister: she’s at a demonstration tonight at the university because the president won’t make it legal to smoke marijuana on campus. And my brother, Mom and Dad are always yelling at him to cut his hair, and he won’t do it even though it’s almost as long as his.” I could feel her pointing at my direction.
She continued: “My dad is on a strike, and Mom’s always away fighting for women’s rights. That’s rebelling, too, isn’t it?”
Lines of concern wrinkled Miss Burton’s smooth forehead. She seemed deep in thought. At length she spoke:
“When we rebel, we’re being selfish. We want things done our way, and if others object, we rebel. It’s like throwing a temper tantrum. We refuse to listen to the other side of the argument because it might prove that we are wrong.
“It takes courage to do what’s right, especially when it’s easier to do what’s wrong. Remember this: cowards rebel; brave men and women obey the laws and do what they know is right. When something is wrong, though, they have the courage to speak out against the wrong doing.” I was incensed! I felt personally attacked by the girl I was beginning to care for. With effort, though. I managed to control my emotions. Maybe she hadn’t said what I thought. I’d keep listening, and maybe she would clarify or retract her statement that cowards rebel.
The little girl was puzzled. “But were George Washington and Thomas Jefferson cowards? They rebelled against England didn’t they?”
“No honey they weren’t cowards, and they didn’t rebel against England. You see, Great Britain was being unfair to the new colonists in America. She taxed them heavily, but then she wouldn’t give them a voice in government. Had she been fair to them, there never would have been a Revolutionary War.”
This is madness! I tried to stand up. I had forgotten I was leaning back and fell crashing to the floor—pulling my books down with me. Before I realized what had happened, Miss Burton and half of the library’s occupants were surrounding me.
“Are—are you hurt?” she stammered, quickly surveying the disaster area.
“No, just a little shocked,” I muttered.
As I untangled my legs from the wreckage, Miss Burton ushered the crowd away. Much to my surprise, she remained.
“Did I say something that surprised you?” she asked.
“You sure did!” I blurted, a little too brusquely. I quickly scanned her face to see if I’d offended her. More gently, I added, “Miss Burton, you’ve got some strange ideas about rebellion!”
She nodded. Her silence urged me on.
“I don’t understand how you can say that rebels are cowards! And then you say that the forefathers of the United States didn’t rebel against England! You—a librarian!” I consciously restrained myself from saying any more.
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you …” Her voice trailed off. Walking toward us was a quaint-looking man who could have been a twin to the tall, thin character in a story by Washington Irving (an American author).
“It’s the head librarian!” she whispered. She mouthed the word later, squeezed my arm, and quickly returned to her duties at the main desk.
Sitting down again was a painful experience, but the thought of talking to Miss Burton after the library closed served as a local anesthetic to my bruises. I mulled her words over in my mind: “Cowards rebel; brave men and women obey laws …”
She’s wrong! I argued. Just like all the others. It takes courage to be different and to rebel against the traditions of society! A coward wouldn’t dare to have “long hair” and storm administration buildings! It takes fortitude to stand up for what you believe in!
An unbeckoned thought crept into my mind and whispered, “But, Dan, what do you believe in?”
“Freedom!” I retorted.
Again it whispered, “Freedom from rules, obligations, and ties that bind?”
I fell silent. I was unable to answer these queries from within. I knew that I had not displayed courage by rebelling; rather, I had taken the easy way out. Home and religion had been too restricting. I wanted to have fun, my way, with no obligations or responsibilities.
I remembered how upset Dad had been. Mom cried. I hated myself for hurting them, but still their disappointment was easier to bear than the scoffs from my friends. I grew further and further from my family. I acted like I didn’t care, but it really had hurt me, deep inside.
“Cowards rebel! Could she be right?” I asked aloud. I smiled and breathed deeply. I felt as though a heavy yoke were being lifted off my weary shoulders. For the first time in years I felt really free.
I sensed the presence of someone near and turned around. Miss Burton smiled radiantly.
“It sounds like you’ve been having an interesting conversation with yourself,” she said.
“I have, but I’d rather have one with you!”
“Could I give you a ride home?” I asked.
“I live just a few blocks from here, so I usually walk.” Pause. “But if you would like to walk me home … ”
I responsed instantly to her cue, and soon we were outside enjoying the crisp autumn twilight. We walked in silence for a minute or so.
“Miss Burton,” I said at length, “do you have a first name?”
She laughed, “Why yes, I believe I do. Before I started to work at the library, people used to call me Rebecca.”
“Becky Burton!” I said. “That’s cute!”
“Rebecca—not Becky.” We fell silent. Then, as if to pick up the strands of conversation again, she added, “Rebecca was the wife of Isaac in the Bible. Remember?”
I nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Dan,” I replied.
“Daniel was a biblical name, too.” she offered. “Have you ever read the Bible?”
“Parts of it a long time ago,” I had not really planned to discuss the Bible tonight.
“You know, Dan, if the library were to catch on fire, I think I’d rescue that book before all the others!” Her eyes were shining. Religion must be an important part of her life.
Sensing that I didn’t share her enthusiasm, she stammered, a little embarrassed, “I—I guess I really shouldn’t be talking about the Bible right now.” Then, almost childlike, she asked, “Are you a Christian?”
“Am I a Christian, Rebecca?” I asked, as I came back to the present. “Let’s say I used to be.” She sensed my need for silence.
We walked along the dark, tree-lined street; only the crunching sound of autumn leaves under our feet interrupted the silence. I felt so alone in the cold, dark world. More than anything else, I wanted Rebecca’s friendship. She seemed so sure of herself, so at peace with herself. I wanted to draw from her strength, to learn from her wisdom. I looked down at my feet, afraid of her warm eyes.
“Rebecca,” I whispered softly. “What is it that makes you so special?”
I could have guessed that she would say it was her belief in Diety; she impressed me as a deeply religious girl. I wondered, though, which religion was to receive the credit for making her so sensitive, tender, and caring.
I pressed further, “What is your religion, Rebecca? Are you Catholic, Protestant, or something else?”
Her lips held just a hint of a smile. “I guess I fall into the ‘something else’ category, Dan. I’m searching for truth wherever I can find it. I discover it in some unusual places. But I can’t help but wonder one thing. Is there one religion that contains all of the truth?”
Her question pricked me deeply. Her eyes were searching mine, imploring. I looked away—my past blazed before me. Silently, I bowed my head and prayed. I hadn’t done that in years! After a long moment, I returned her gaze.
“Rebecca,” I slowly began, “what do you know about the Mormon church?”

The Savior said, "My peace I give unto you." Oliver Cowdery had been in Joseph Smith Senior's home and prayed to know the truth of the Book of Mormon. There he received a convincing assurance of peace, but he never told Joseph Smith of this experience. Some time passed and human nature took its toll. No doubt he wondered if that experience was some psychological feeling or an impression from heaven. So he went to Joseph Smith and asked him to request a revelation that would be a witness to him that the Book of Mormon was true. Joseph Smith, unaware of Oliver's previous experience, sought a revelation from the Lord. It came in D&C 6:22-23:

"Verily, verily, I say unto you, if you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things. Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?"

Oliver had received peace. The Lord reaffirmed his prior experience and feelings. There was no way Joseph Smith could have known of Oliver's earlier experience except through revelation. This was the Lord's confirmation that peace comes only from Him.

A lack of action is a choice. Whether we choose by acting or not acting, those choices have consequences. Branch President Jonathan Joel Torres Santos, and counselors Carlos Ortiz and Hilario Beltre, together with Young Women president, Sister Juana Lissette Falcón Saba, and counselors Vivian Guzman and Ana Luisa Valdez chose to act and make a difference.
In a monthly branch missionary meeting, the topic of discussion was a group of boys in the Don Gregorio neighborhood who would frequent the church to play ball, socialize, and on occasion venture into one of the Church’s activities. As leaders, it was decided to make a plan to involve these boys and others. Included in the plan were eight steps:
Get to know their names and their families.
Help others in the branch get to know them.
Encourage youth members with common interests to get to know their needs, passions, and goals.
Every week assign a youth to invite them to Church and offer to drive or walk with them.
Invite them to activities of all kinds, including games, seminary, even trips to the temple.
Opportunity given to the youth to speak in Church and to share their testimonies.
Opportunities for service offered, allowing each person to be aware of others.
Always follow Church guidelines.
Over time, many boys of varying ages came to play basketball at the church court. They weren’t members of the Church but were welcomed with open arms. It started with an evening of games in the parking lot followed by treats. Soon after, information was shared, and invites were given and accepted. One by one, nine boys came to Church and felt the Spirit. The boys were baptized, and as they came of age, received the priesthood. Today those nine boys wear a white shirt and tie as they perform priesthood ordinances and serve together in the Don Gregorio Branch.
This effort was a success because everyone in the branch felt that a choice was a call to action.

When my husband Steve and I were first dating here at BYU–Hawaii, he was not a member of the Church and had spent the first two years of his education dodging missionaries. Then he met me, the great-great-great granddaughter of Kerisiano Te’o. Soon after our first date, we realized that we were heading down a path that most probably had marriage at the end of it. To me, that meant setting a date in the big white house on the hill. That meant that Steve needed to join the Church.

We set up lessons with the missionaries at my family’s home here in Laie, and Steve began to go to church with me in the Laie 2nd Ward. He would pick me up for church with his surfboard in his car, covered by a towel, and right after Sacrament meeting, he would say, “See you later!” and spend the rest of the day in the water on his beloved board.

After a while, not being known for my patience, I finally asked him what the hold-up was:
“Is it Joseph Smith?”
“No, I believe Joseph Smith had the First Vision.”
“Is it Jesus Christ?”
“No, I believe in Christ.”
“Is it the gospel?”
“No, I believe the gospel is true.”
“Then what?!”
“If I get baptized I won’t be able to surf on Sundays anymore,” he said.

That may seem like a small thing to those of us who are not surfers, but to Steve, who would surf before, in-between, and after classes, who came to BYU–Hawaii because it was the closest university to Sunset Beach, the consequences of becoming a member of the Church was to give up the one day when, as all surfers know, or at least Mormon surfers, that the waves are always the best.

Steve’s choice to take action 31 and a half years ago early in the morning at Clissold’s Beach where my dad baptized him has meant that we can be together forever, that our eight children are also ours forever. It doesn’t mean that it has become forever easy—he still won’t go check the waves on Sunday because it is not worth placing himself in temptation’s way.

Tyler loved tomatoes. He loved their bright red color and smooth skin. He loved the way their seeds spurted out when he bit into them. He loved to dip tiny tomatoes into salt, and he loved the big ones sliced thin in sandwiches.
“Let’s grow some tomatoes in our yard,” Tyler’s dad suggested one day.
“Could we?” Tyler was surprised. He’d never thought of growing tomatoes at home. He thought it would be wonderful to have his very own supply of tasty tomatoes ready to pick whenever he felt like it.
Tyler and his dad chose a sunny spot to plant the tomatoes. Then they dug and prepared the soil until it was loose and fine. While they were working, Mr. Bradley leaned over the back fence. “Going to have some pretty flowers?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Bradley. This is for my tomatoes,” Tyler told him.
“Humph!” Mr. Bradley growled, frowning. “I’ve never had any luck growing tomatoes here.”
“Dad says we can,” Tyler answered, and he kept raking the ground to make it smooth.
The next morning Tyler and his dad planted six tiny green tomato plants. Tyler watered them carefully. In just a few days they looked bigger. “See, Mr. Bradley,” Tyler said, pointing proudly to his plants, “they’re growing.”
“Just wait, Tyler, just wait,” Mr. Bradley replied smugly.
In several weeks Tyler’s tomato plants blossomed with dozens of star-shaped yellow flowers. “I’m going to have hundreds of tomatoes,” he predicted.
“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Mr. Bradley told him.
Soon tiny, hard green tomatoes replaced the yellow blossoms. Tyler’s mouth watered as he watched them grow into large tomatoes. Morning and night he checked the plants, hoping to find a ripe tomato. One morning he thought one of the plants seemed smaller. The next day he was sure it had lost some leaves. And the following day it looked scraggly and thin. Tyler noticed some small black droppings under the plant too.
He knelt on the ground and examined all of his plants, leaf by leaf. He studied the shriveled one very carefully. Suddenly he jumped up and hollered, “Wow! Dad, Dad, come quick! There’s a dragon out here.”
A large green worm the size of a thick, round pea pod was greedily munching the leaves of Tyler’s wilted tomato plant. It really did look like a miniature dragon as it inched its fat, segmented body along the stem of the plant, waving the little “horns” on the top of its head from side to side as it moved. It seemed to eat as much as a dragon, too, devouring every leaf in its path.
“How did you ever find it, Tyler?” Dad asked. “That worm is so well camouflaged that it looks just like part of the stem. Only really sharp eyes could have seen it.”
Mr. Bradley leaned over the fence to see what all the excitement was about. “Better spray,” he advised. “The pests get all the prizes, I always say. Give ’em a shot of bug spray—that’s what they deserve.”
“I think we’ll try the old-fashioned method first,” Dad said. He carefully picked the worm off the tomato plant. “Now, Tyler, you check the plants every day, and if you notice any other worms, take them off and kill them. They should be easier to spot now that you know what to look for. Be careful, though—their bite might not be dangerous, but it could sure hurt.”
“Found any more dragons?” Mr. Bradley asked the next time Tyler was out watering.
“Nope,” Tyler answered, “but the tomatoes are finally turning red. Look!” The plants sagged under the weight of the plump tomatoes—some still green, some pale yellow, and some a promising orange.
Finally the day came. “This one is ready, isn’t it, Dad?” Tyler asked as they inspected a big red tomato.
“You bet, and it’s all yours. You grew it, and you get to eat it.”
Tyler gently twisted the tomato from its stem and washed it carefully with water from the hose. Then he sat down on the lawn and took a big bite. Still warm from the sun, the tomato burst in his mouth, spurting juice and seeds down his chin and onto his jeans. Tyler grinned with pleasure.
“Ummm! It’s so good!” he exclaimed, wiping his chin between bites. “Next week, after I eat a few more myself, I’ll pick some for Mr. Bradley. Maybe next year he’ll want to grow tomatoes too.”

Now I come to the FIFTH and last principle, that of BEING TRUE TO YOUR COVENANTS. Last week I received a phone call from a sweet young Latter-day Saint wife and mother. She was distraught. Her husband had just informed her that for the past several months he has been unfaithful to her.
As I was finishing this talk last Friday, she called again. She said that he had just told her that he was going to divorce her, also leaving behind his young son and daughter.
She was devastated. How could this be happening to her? She had been so careful in her selection of a husband. He had been a faithful Latter-day Saint. He had been an outstanding missionary. They were sealed in the temple. She had been faithful to her covenants. What went wrong?
As I listened to this young woman, I was heartsick. I felt so sorry for her. I felt even more sorry for him. This young man had been one of my missionaries when I served as mission president. I loved him as my own son. I took great joy in his successes. Now I feel overwhelming sorrow at his failure.
How could he throw away everything that he had believed in and lived for his entire life? I wept because of the tragedy of it all. I feel distraught and sick at heart as I think of it now.
How could this happen? We must first understand that there is opposition in all things and that God has given us our agency. God promises us eternal happiness as we keep the covenants that we have made with him. In contrast, Satan desires that "all men might be miserable like unto himself." Satan hates you and will do everything within his power to destroy you. Your safety lies in following the counsel of the prophets and in keeping your covenants.
When a young couple kneels across the alter in the sealing room, first and foremost, they enter into a covenant with God; and, secondarily, they enter into a covenant with each other. As you are sealed for time and all eternity, Heavenly Father promises you exaltation and eternal life if you live faithful to your covenants.
Inherent in that temple sealing is the covenant that you will be faithful to your spouse, both mentally and physically.

Recently, while giving a lesson in my ward, I asked for a show of hands of those who wanted to hear words of counsel from the Lord’s prophet. Everyone raised their hands. Then I said, “The best way to receive counsel from our President and the other Brethren and to bring their messages into our homes is to subscribe to the Liahona (Spanish).”
Now I am the ward magazine representative! I am very happy to have this calling, and the Lord blesses me as I respond to the call.
Marcelo Imaldo Castillo NavarreteAlmirante La Torre Ward, Los Angeles Chile Stake

“As soon as I was old enough to milk a cow, that became one of my chores. I didn’t particularly enjoy that job, but it was a very good lesson in responsibility. We always had a cow, and I milked it every night and morning. I can remember milking it when the temperature was forty degrees below zero. When it was that cold, you could hear the crunch of the snow for a long distance when somebody walked on it. If you touched a piece of metal with your bare fingers, your skin would stick to the metal. You only did that once.”

President Henry B. Eyring recently shared a personal example of this truth with the students at the LDS Business College. He related how he felt overwhelmed when taking some physics and math classes as an undergraduate. He said:
“As time wore on, my discouragement led me to feel that it was useless to study. . . . I began to think of quitting and doing something easier.
“It was on a night during that time of discouragement when I received the help that made all the difference for me. . . . Help came as a voice, an actual voice in my mind. . . . The words voiced were these: ‘When you realize who you really are, you will be sorry that you didn’t try harder.’
“I didn’t know then all that those words meant. . . . But I knew then what to do. I went to work. I felt that I must have more ability to learn than I could see in myself. . . .
“I began to try to understand that message of encouragement. By pondering and working during the years that followed, I came to realize who I really was. I was a spirit child of God. I had inherent in me the potential to learn what He knows. Because of the Atonement of the Lord Jesus Christ and my faith in Him, my sins could be washed away. . . . I could receive the gift of the Holy Ghost as a companion. And I came to know that by the power of the Holy Ghost, we may know the truth of all things.”
President Eyring stated that this experience, and others like it, “gave [him] the confidence to keep trying harder, even when the learning was difficult.”

If we choose the wrong road, we choose the wrong destination. For example, a friend of many years told me that her husband, always a “good kid” in high school, took a few drinks he thought would help him forget some problems. Before he knew what was happening, he was addicted. Now he is not able to support his family, and he is ineffective at almost everything he tries to do. Alcohol governs his life, and he cannot seem to break free of its grip.

Gary watched his brother Geof giving directions to their two younger brothers. Geof was waving his hands excitedly and talking very fast. Gary could not see all Geof was saying, but he caught the enthusiasm and excitement of his brothers.
Dad had taken Mother to the hospital earlier that morning, and the boys could hardly wait for him to come home and tell them about their new baby sister. They were sure the baby would be a girl, that she would be soft and pink, and they would call her Tammy.
Gary was sure he would love her at first sight. Sometimes his stomach would get all tight inside just thinking about having a baby sister at home to laugh with and to love.
Gary watched closely as Geof stood directly in front of him and carefully repeated what he had been saying. “When Tammy comes to live with us,” he said, “we’ll have to keep our trucks and bicycles out of the way so she won’t get hurt, and we can’t throw balls in the house, and we can’t yell too loud when she’s sleeping. Isn’t that right?”
Gary nodded enthusiastically.
At an important time like this, Gary wished he could talk and hear like everyone else. Sometimes it was hard being deaf, but he tried not to show his frustration.
Gary was learning to read at the school for the deaf, and he could use his fingers when talking in class. But at home his family spoke carefully and directly to him so he could lip-read what they said. With their patient help, he was learning to sound out many words so they could understand him.
Geof usually took charge of the brothers whenever Dad and Mother were away even though Gary was older. And Gary was usually glad because he knew that Geof was a good leader.
Gary was certain that it would be different with Tammy. He wanted to help take special care of her. He wouldn’t mind doing anything at all to help her and make her happy.
Gary and his brothers gave Geof their full attention as they made plans for their new little sister.
It was almost evening before Dad came home. The boys were keyed to a high pitch after the long wait.
They crowded around Dad.
“What does she look like?” Kent asked.
“How much does she weigh?” Karl questioned.
“Does she have dark hair? How long before we can see her?” Geof wanted to know.
Gary looked at his father soberly, “Is she all right?”
Father bent down and gathered his four sons into his long arms and said huskily, “The baby is all right. It weighs almost ten pounds and has dark hair and beautiful dark eyes and looks like Mother. But the baby is a boy.”
“A boy,” Karl said in disbelief.
“But what about our sister? We already have boys,” said Geof.
Gary looked up into his father’s face and smiled. “But if he’s okay, that’s all that matters,” he said with rapidly moving fingers. “When can we see him?”
A few days later Mother came home with the new baby. Gary took just one long look at his red wrinkled face, little clenched fists, and thin kicking legs, and he loved him immediately. Gary let the baby’s fingers curl around his own big finger. He liked the tight way the baby held on.
Here is someone, Gary thought, who can use some special help from me.
The family decided to name the baby Tommy.
Each night while Mother prepared dinner, Gary sat in the big rocker crooning softly to Tommy. Gary felt sure the baby understood him, and he was happier than he had ever been before.
All day long Gary looked forward to this hour before dinner when he could hold Tommy and put into song all the things he felt and had never before been able to say.
One day in school Gary’s teacher said, “I hear something special has happened at your house. Would you like to tell us about it?”
Gary went to the front of the class and began to describe his new baby brother. His fingers couldn’t move fast enough to tell all the wonderful things he felt about Tommy.
That night when Gary went home, he sat down in the big rocker as he did each evening. As he held the baby, Gary tried to sing all the things he had told his classmates. But Tommy was not feeling well. He wriggled and squirmed and cried even though Gary tried to quiet and soothe him.
Finally Mother said, “Perhaps Tommy needs to lie on his stomach. I’ll put him back in his crib for a while.” She took the baby from Gary, and soon Tommy stopped crying.
Mother came back into the kitchen. Gary watched her for a few minutes, and then he quietly went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Even Tommy doesn’t like my singing, Gary thought. He must know I have no real words ever to give anyone. And suddenly all the hidden hurt of a lifetime was inside of him and Gary began to cry. Once the tears started, he couldn’t stop them.
For a long time Gary stayed inside the bathroom, but finally he washed his face, opened the door, and went out to have dinner with the family. Mother gave him a quick hug as he sat down at the table, and Dad gave Gary one of his special smiles.
Later that night when the dishes were done and everything was put away, Gary went to bed in the room he shared with Kent, but he couldn’t get to sleep. A few minutes later Mother came in carrying Tommy, who was all ready for bed and wrapped in a soft blanket.
Mother bent low over Gary’s bed so he could read her lips in the soft night light. “Gary, are you still awake? I know Tommy would love to have you hold him for a few moments and sing to him. Cuddle him close and sing again the song you were singing this afternoon.”
Gary put out his arms and Mother gently put Tommy into them. Gary looked down at his little brother and held him close. Then he began to sing with all the love he had in his heart.
And Tommy seemed to understand. He looked up at Gary and smiled.

Let me help you understand how this pattern of making early commitments can help you by relating the experience of one Church leader. As a young man he decided that he would always keep the Word of Wisdom and never use alcohol or tobacco. He does not remember what prompted him to make that important commitment at the time, but a crucial victory was won in his heart, and on his knees he made a commitment with the Lord to always keep that commandment. Over the years there were invitations to use these substances, but he learned that “No, thank you” was a good answer. There was no personal battle over the Word of Wisdom, because years before he had made a commitment in his heart, and he had sincerely made a commitment to the Lord to obey that law.

Cassie was the opposite of Denice. She never wanted to leave gymnastics. “You could put her in the gym at eight o’clock in the morning and come back for her at eight o’clock at night and she’d still be working hard,” says Robby. She loved the practice as much as competing—the thrill of nailing a move that only a handful of girls in the world could make.
But along the way Cassie had her own obstacles to overcome.
In December of ’89, Cassie was coming off a remarkable year. She had placed 13th in Canada her first year as a high performance senior (the highest class of amateur—Denice competes in the Open Class, 13- and 14-year-olds). But then, as she was performing a routine on bars, she slipped and tore ligaments in her back. For the next six months she was in pain, at first barely able to move. She rested, did all the right things, but Canadian nationals came and practice and competition were still painful.
She convinced her coaches and parents to let her compete anyway. The night before the meet, Cassie said a prayer that her back would be better. That morning, as she was warming up, her grandmother came up and said she had been fasting and praying for her, to help her through the competition.
“My back had hurt for all those months. It was hurting all the time. But at that moment it stopped.
“I’d always prayed before a competition, but that was the first time I realized Heavenly Father does answer our prayers, that he is there to help us get through the tough things in life.”
Although she missed most of the year due to her injury, she was able to place 13th again, one spot off the 12-person Canadian international traveling team.
From then on life and gymnastics were different. They meant even more. It was like the Lord was there, always, and it was through him that anything was possible.

While I was president of the mission in Atlanta, Georgia, I went to the study of Dr. Peter Marshall. He was the pastor of the Presbyterian Church there and we spent an hour or two together. When he died he was the chaplain of the United States Senate. You may have read his book, A Man Called Peter, or may have seen the movie depicting his life. Many of the things he stood for he learned from us down in Atlanta. He used to send over to the mission office to get the MIA books and other Church material for his young people because he felt we were stealing them all away from him.

As I sat in his study with him, I asked him what was the attitude of his church with respect to the principle of eternal marriage, and the eternal duration of the marriage covenant. He said, “Well, Mr. Richards, we are not allowed to teach that in our church, but in my mind I have some stubborn objections.” He went on, “When you take the kitten away from the cat, in a few days the cat has forgotten all about the kitten; when you take a calf away from the cow, in a few days the cow has forgotten all about the calf; but when you take the child away from its mother’s bosom, though she live to be a hundred years old, she never forgets the child of her bosom.” He added, “I find it difficult to believe that God created love like that to perish in the grave.” Thank God we know that he didn’t create love like that to perish in the grave. Love is eternal.