Gospel Story Finder

The bell rang. Molly put her books in her bag. School was over, and she couldn’t wait for the weekend!
“Remember to be ready for your history reports on Monday,” said Mr. Miller. “Have a good weekend, class.”
Molly looked over at Anisha. Her head was down, and she looked worried.
“Hey, Anisha,” said Molly. “Are you OK?”
Anisha sighed. “I’m scared to give my report on Monday. I’ve worked hard on my English since we moved here. But the words in our history book are hard for me to say.”
Molly thought about that. It would be so hard to move to a different country and learn a new language.
“Would it help if we practiced together?” asked Molly.
Anisha nodded. “I would like that. Maybe we can study our vocabulary words too.”
“Sure,” said Molly. “That would help both of us!”
On Monday morning, Mr. Miller stood in front of the class. “We will start class today with our reports.”
Molly turned and gave Anisha a smile. Anisha smiled back, but Molly could see worry in her eyes.
A few other people gave their reports. Then it was Anisha’s turn. People giggled as she walked to the front of the class. Some of them pointed at her and whispered.
Anisha took a big breath. The paper she was holding shook a little.
Molly said a silent prayer. Heavenly Father, please help Anisha do well on her report. And please help me know how I can help her.
The teacher asked the students to listen quietly. But Molly still heard whispering. When Anisha tried to say the hard words, a few people laughed. Molly wished she could make the kids stop giggling and whispering. She made sure to smile whenever Anisha looked at her.
When Anisha finished, she walked back to her desk. Molly saw tears in Anisha’s eyes. Anisha put her head down on her desk.
Then it was Molly’s turn. She walked to the front of the room. “Before I start, I want to say that Anisha did a great job on her report.”
Anisha looked up.
“She has only lived here for a few months, and she’s already so good at English. She works hard and doesn’t give up. I hope I can be brave like she is.”
After class Molly grabbed her books. She wanted to talk to Anisha. But lots of other students were already gathered around Anisha. They were saying nice things to her.
“Good job on your report, Anisha!” one boy said.
“Some of the names of people and places were very hard to say!” said another girl.
Molly smiled and said another silent prayer. She thanked Heavenly Father for helping her be brave like Anisha.

Case 7. Two missionaries struggled through barbed wire fences, sprinklers, mudholes, and ferocious dogs, but in the end they found a golden family—of members.
After the opening prayer, the projectionist hit the switch, and the evening was awash in cheers, laughter, and even a few friendly groans. Poor Cindy Ella, outcast because of her curly hair, did get to the governor’s ball (thanks to her fairy godperson) and fell in love with the governor’s curly headed son. A new banana eating record was set. The three junk food junkies did lose weight. The missionaries did keep tracting. Fun triumphed again. All seven wards had come up with their own idea of what the silver screen is all about, and all were pretty proud of what they had done.

For Ben H., 18, of North Lanarkshire, Scotland, the pageant was a great opportunity to share his faith and love of the restored gospel. Ben enjoyed his time performing, but the best lesson he learned was the importance of the gospel principles taught in the pageant. “The most important thing I learned was that the purpose of the production was to invite all to come unto Christ,” Ben said. While mingling with the audience at the end of a performance, Ben met a young man his age who had received a prompting during the pageant to serve a mission. The young man hugged Ben and thanked him for the performance. “He and I were both crying, and I was touched. I knew that was the reason I was there participating in the pageant.”
And even though he enjoyed his time on stage, Ben recognizes that the work doesn’t stop at the end of a performance or a pageant. “It doesn’t end when the production ends, because the production wasn’t the important thing. The important thing was that I was learning to be a missionary” and that others were learning about gospel truth.

Matthew tugged on his boots, put on his mittens, and headed for the clearing on the far side of the cottage. Everything looked different from the way he remembered it. The tall pine trees were now covered with snow. The apple tree he’d climbed last summer looked dark and bare against the winter landscape. Even the pond was frozen over, and Matthew wondered how the frogs and turtles were doing. But the worst difference was the terrible silence that Grandpa’s happy laugh should have filled.
Matthew had never been to the cottage during the winter. But Grandma had wanted to come now. Mom said that it made Grandma happy just remembering how much Grandpa had enjoyed it here.
But being here didn’t make Matthew feel happy. And remembering that Grandpa had died only made him feel worse.
He trudged through the snow to the old work shed and peered through a frosty window. The birdhouse he’d been helping Grandpa build last summer sat unfinished on top of the workbench. The rough edges needed to be sanded smooth before purple martins could move in, in the spring. Now it wouldn’t get done. Matthew walked away feeling even sadder.
He followed a path through the pines to the creek that ran through the woods. In summer the muddy bank held the tracks of all the animals that came out of the woods for a cool drink. Grandpa had taught Matthew how to recognize the tracks of the raccoons, rabbits, deer, and other animals that lived nearby. “All of God’s creatures have their own distinct footprints,” Grandpa had told him.
The only tracks visible in the snow now were those of a lone deer. In the hope of catching a glimpse of it, Matthew decided to follow its trail into the woods. He walked for quite a distance as the tracks zigzagged between the trees. The afternoon sun began to fade, and Matthew’s toes began to tingle from the cold.
Then he spotted not just one deer but a small herd. They were munching peacefully on the sweet bark and small twigs of a cherry birch tree. Holding his breath, Matthew took a few steps forward to get a closer look.
Oh-oh! One noticed him. The herd darted into the woods in every direction.
Matthew sighed deeply. “Oh, well,” he said to himself, “it’s time to go back, anyway.”
But when he looked around, he saw dozens of deer tracks in the snow. He wasn’t sure which set would lead him back to the cottage. He began to feel a little frightened as he realized it would be dark soon and that he was lost in the woods.
If only Grandpa were here! Matthew thought sadly. He’d know what to do.
Then he remembered what Grandpa had told him: “All of God’s creatures have their own distinct footprints.” Matthew looked around to find the familiar shape of his own boots pressed clearly in the snow.
It felt as though Grandpa was walking with him as he followed his own footprints back through the pines, along the creek, and into the clearing. The familiar outline of the cottage ahead filled him with happiness.
As he passed the work shed, he took another look through the window at the birdhouse. There was no reason why he couldn’t finish the sanding himself, he decided. And in the spring he would hang the birdhouse next to the apple tree in the clearing. Then every time he saw it, he would remember Grandpa and all that they had done together. Grandpa would like that.

by Shirley F. Berlin
It was the night of the annual basketball game between the “Young Men” and their “Old Men” church leaders in the 30th Ward, Ogden Utah East Stake. In the stake center bleachers, ward members, families, and friends excitedly shouted encouragement to both teams.
Bob Blair of the Old Men had just connected, closing the Young Men’s lead to one point at 16–15, with 4:41 left in the second quarter.
“We’re going to walk away with it—take it from the coach,” Darold Rawson, Sr., of the Young Men said confidently.
The competition had begun five years before when the youth were planning a fund-raising project. They challenged their priesthood leaders to a game of basketball, certain that they could easily beat such out-of-shape old folks. But the Old Men won! A surprised group of Aaronic Priesthood boys immediately planned a comeback. They would have another game next year, and the next, and the next.
Over the years, the boys had grown stronger and taller, and their leaders had grown … well, older. The Young Men had won three times, and their leaders had won twice. This one could be anyone’s game.
Earlier in the evening, the excitement started as the Young Women introduced the players on each team with words from original songs. The Old Wives Cheerleaders waved their pom-poms. Dressed in jeans rolled to mid-calf, with shirts emblazoned with big “O’s”, they were poised for the grand entry of their husbands.
As the Old Men burst energetically through their “We’re the Greatest!” banner, the crowd went wild.
Then, all eyes turned to the opposite corner where the Young Men were eagerly waiting their turn behind the banner reading, “We’re #1.”
Unexpectedly, Zan Treasure casually tore an opening through which the boys stepped with dignity, one at a time. Then Mike Ward ceremoniously placed some steps a few feet from the basket and stood at attention. Suddenly, Jim Berlin streaked past and went up for a spectacular slam dunk. The fans roared as the Young Men sprang into action. Following the tip-off, Darold Rawson, Jr., quickly scored the first point.
Bishop Arlo Ward, who has played in all the games, said, “They’ve been highlights for me. They are an opportunity for the Young Men to really get the best of their leaders. They haven’t always done it, but as they have prepared and developed, they have given us a challenge. The games bring out a closeness that you don’t always get.”
When asked how many practices the Old Men had before the game, Bishop Ward smiled. “Zero. But we’re so good we don’t need any.”
However, his counselor Gary Saunders didn’t sound so confident. He admitted that when the Old Men heard that the game would be played on the large stake center floor instead of the small one in the ward cultural hall, “We decided to play with two teams—one defense and one offense so we wouldn’t have to run up and down that big court.”
The Young Men hadn’t had many more practices than their elders. Term papers, final exams, jobs, and dates interfered. However, some mornings at 5:30, the more eager ones jogged. On moonlit nights they played ball in the driveway of the home of three participating brothers. But even when the boys weren’t actually practicing, they were “psyching up.” In fact, one night after the youth had been boasting in the Elliott Berlin living room, Brother Berlin commented, “There’s enough hot air in here to dry a corn field.” But they won anyway.
All of the original Young Men will be on missions, married, or will have “graduated” to Old Men status by the next game. New loyalties will have to be formed as rivals become teammates. A different group of hopeful young players will challenge their leaders, and an enjoyable tradition will carry on.
Visitor Brenda Gilbertson summarized the feelings of many when she said, “I’m really impressed with your ward. You do such fun things. I can see why your boys stay active.”
Indeed, the 30th Ward surely demonstrates that a ward that plays together stays together.

I am reminded of an article I read some years ago about a group of men who had gone to the jungles to capture monkeys. They tried a number of different things to catch the monkeys, including nets. But finding that the nets could injure such small creatures, they finally came upon an ingenious solution. They built a large number of small boxes, and in the top of each, they bored a hole just large enough for a monkey to get his hand into. They then set these boxes out under the trees and in each one they put a nut that the monkeys were particularly fond of.
When the men left, the monkeys began to come down from the trees and examine the boxes. Finding that there were nuts to be had, they reached into the boxes to get them. But when a monkey would try to withdraw his hand with the nut, he could not get his hand out of the box because his little fist, with the nut inside, was now too large.
At about this time, the men would come out of the underbrush and converge on the monkeys. And here is the curious thing: When the monkeys saw the men coming, they would shriek and scramble about with the thought of escaping; but as easy as it would have been, they would not let go of the nut so that they could withdraw their hands from the boxes and thus escape. The men captured them easily.
And so it often seems to be with people, having such a firm grasp on things of the world—that which is telestial—that no amount of urging and no degree of emergency can persuade them to let go in favor of that which is celestial. Satan gets them in his grip easily. If we insist on spending all our time and resources building up for ourselves a worldly kingdom, that is exactly what we will inherit.

Next Bob planned for his English exam. They had studied 12 authors, but there were only three essay questions on the famous authors. If he reviewed two authors a night, he’d still have Sunday without any studying. A light review before the exam and he would be ready. Bob hoped the plan would work. He always tightened during tests and forgot almost everything.
Meanwhile, for the English test Bob had made some calculations on which three authors Miss Elgart would ask about. She seemed to have four favorites. Bob talked to some of the students who had taken English from her the year before. He found out that she didn’t ask trivial or tricky questions. He studied all twelve authors but put extra work in on her four favorites.
Bob smiled broadly to himself as he looked at the test. He was two-thirds right. Two of the three questions asked about the authors he had singled out. “Not bad!” he said to himself.
Bob prepared to make an outline of each author. There were 45 minutes left in the class period when they received the test. It consisted of three questions, allowing 15 minutes per question. The first question was, “What were the main influences on Hemingway’s writing style?” Bob rewrote the question at the top of his outline: “What happened in Hemingway’s life to make him write the way he did?” The following is his outline using the facts he knew about Hemingway:
Born in a small town in Minnesota.
Father educated as a doctor.
Reporter for newspaper.
Short, brief newspaper style.
Factual.
Service with Italian army.
Saw death and destruction.
Was hurt himself.
Spanish Civil War.
Politics.
More destruction.
Personal Reactions.
Sadness over human misery.
Anger at human folly.
Greatest war story: “A Farewell to Arms.”
By Friday the test results were back. Drew got a 91 on the math test. He missed half of one problem, but had even been given part credit for his work on the one he hadn’t finished. Ninety-one was third best in the class and better than Drew had ever done. Joan’s history score was the highest in the class. Bob was walking on air when he got his English exam back. He had never done better than a C+ on an English test. The A- he received was better than he had dared hope. He had come from his usual C- to a B+ in history. But Drew felt prouder than both. Bob and Joan. He had gone from his usual D+ to a solid B on his history test.

Tina’s brown eyes flashed as she rechecked her duffle bag, making certain she had everything she would need on the vacation.
“Is everyone ready?” Dad asked. “It’s time to go.”
Soon the car was crammed with luggage and camping gear. Tina saw a suitcase next to the cooler chest. Surrounded by beach towels and sleeping bags, the suitcase looked out of place. Suitcases were for dressy clothes, and dressy clothes were for special days like Sunday. This vacation would take ten days, Dad had said, so they wouldn’t be home for Church meetings.
As Tina thought about being away from home on Sunday, she remembered what Sister Gustafson, her Primary teacher, had told the class about Sunday being a day of worship and rest. Sister Gustafson was going to ask each child how he had spent his Sundays for an entire month, and she would pay special honor to those who had kept the Sabbath days holy. Tina worried that she would probably be the only one in the class who would miss any Primary and sacrament meetings. How can Sunday be a holy day when we’re camping at the lake? Tina wondered. She turned to wave good-bye to the friend who would take care of her little kitten while she was gone.
As they drove past the church and the school and out of town, the family sang, “Give, Said the Little Stream,” “The Golden Plates,” and Tina’s favorite, “Book of Mormon Stories.” Because Josh liked “Smiles,” and because he was the youngest in the family, they sang it again and again. Mom said she liked that song, too, because it made her happy.
As soon as they arrived at their lakeside camp, everyone went swimming. After supper was over and all the marshmallows had been toasted and eaten, Tina and Josh got ready for bed and climbed into their sleeping bags. Mom and Dad listened to their prayers and kissed them good night.
All week long the children played in the sand and swam in the lake. They fished. They climbed hills. And they fed potato chips to bushy-tailed squirrels.
On Saturday evening Tina helped Mom fix a picnic lunch for the next day. Then her mother asked everyone to help carry enough water to shampoo their hair and bathe. As Tina carried her small bucket of water from the lake, she laughed and sang,
“Saturday is a special day,
It’s the day we get ready for Sunday.
We clean our tent,
And we gather the wood
So we won’t have to work until Monday.
We brush our clothes,
And we shine our shoes,
And we call it our clean-up-our-camp day.
Then we tote the water
To shampoo our hair,
So we can be ready for Sunday.”*
Tina liked feeling clean, and she was glad that the picnic lunch was already made, because that meant no cooking the next day.
Because the next day was Sunday, Tina remembered her teacher’s words, “Sunday is a day of worship and rest.” Well, she could rest, and she wouldn’t play, but how could they have a regular worship service when their family was camping?
That night, as Tina sat watching the campfire, Mom brought the suitcase from the car and opened it. Dad took a piece of wrinkled paper out of it, smoothed it with his hand, and with a twinkle in his eye announced, “Tomorrow we’re going on a treasure hunt. This map shows where we can find something to help us to be happy for the rest of our lives.”
Then Mom took four books from the suitcase. Keeping one for herself, she gave one to Tina, one to Josh, and one to Dad. Tina opened her book. It was full of blank pages. Josh’s book was the same. Someone had written in Mom’s book, and in Dad’s, too, but most of their pages were also blank. What kind of books are these? Tina wondered.
Josh was given a turn to take something from the suitcase. He found some postcards and stamps. Then it was Tina’s turn. She looked in and found her favorite Sunday dress! And there was Mom’s green dress and Dad’s suit and tie. Josh’s best outfit was there too. Then Dad said, “We’ll wear our best clothes on our treasure hunt tomorrow.”
The next morning the family got up early and dressed in their Sunday clothes. When they got into the car, Tina helped read the treasure map, directing Dad to cross a bridge and then to take Ryre’s Road west for eighteen miles to where a large red star had been penciled in on the map. That must be where the treasure is! Tina decided.
Dad drove for eighteen miles and stopped right in front of a meetinghouse.
“That’s it—the treasure is where we learn about the gospel!” Tina declared excitedly.
It was wonderful going to church in that little town. People they didn’t even know smiled at Tina and her family.
After the meetings, the family returned to camp. Taking the picnic basket, the blank notebooks, and the postcards, they walked to a small wooded area. After lunch, mother read from her little book, which she called a journal. She showed Tina and Josh how they, too, could keep a journal of the things they did.
Tina and Josh wrote in their special books. Tina also wrote some postcards to send to her friends. The message she liked best was the one she sent to her Primary teacher. It said:
“Dear Sister Gustafson,
Please tell all the class that I kept the Lord’s Sabbath-day commandment. Sunday was a day of rest and worship for our family on our vacation. It was the best day of my vacation.
Love, Tina.”

While the boys were hiking, sharpening axes, and canoeing, Tami was learning to talk with her hands.
Tamara Anderson, 16, was spending the summer with her father at Scout camp. The camp had hired an interpreter for the deaf, and while dad was busy making sure the camp ran smoothly, Tami cornered the interpreter and soon had him teaching her to “sign.” “Signing” is the use of hand gestures to communicate with the deaf. Before the summer was over, Tami had the system fairly well mastered.
Returning home to Burley, Idaho, Tami found that a new family with a girl her age had moved in next door. Lee Anne Whitesides was deaf. Tami’s summer experience helped her to communicate with Lee Anne, and the two girls became best friends. Tami says her mother appreciates her friendship with Lee Anne because “we are two of the quietest teenagers she has ever seen.”
With practice Tami’s skill increased. She began interpreting for Lee Anne at sacrament meetings, bishop’s interviews, and other special events. Talking with her hands soon became as fun as talking on the telephone. “One good thing about sign language is you can talk with your mouth full—but the problem is you can’t talk with your hands full,” says Tami.
Tami’s abilities came to the attention of her stake president, and she was called as a regional Sunday School teacher for the deaf. The program for the deaf had just been started, and Tami was called to teach the children’s classes.
Sunday mornings Tami climbs into the family car and drives ten miles, picking up her students to take them to Sunday School. The first week of the program Tami and her students taught a few signs to the members of the ward where the Sunday School is held so they could communicate with the deaf students. During opening exercises Tami sits on the stand and interprets the talks and announcements for her students.
For the class itself, Tami has had to use a lot of ingenuity. Although she uses Church course materials, many of her lessons are her very own because of the mixed ages of her students. “I just use what I have learned about our Heavenly Father.”
It has been challenging to hold the children’s interest in class. Because her students learn by looking, Tami has to have good visual aids. One of Tami’s innovations is her teaching assistant—a Raggedy Andy doll that uses its hands to “talk” to the class. “I work the hands of the doll to make a few simple words and phrases like ‘My Heavenly Father loves me, and he loves you too.’ They really understand what Andy says. I only wish he could say more.”
After Sunday School Tami drives her students back home. “It’s a job to be driving and have the kids signing to me while I’m trying to watch the road.”
During sacrament meetings Tami sits at the back of the chapel with Lee Anne and interprets the meeting for her. Tami’s hands fly deftly, and Lee Anne seldom misses a word of the meeting. Sunday evening Tami starts to work on next week’s Sunday School lesson. In showing her love for the deaf, her actions as well as her hands speak louder than words.

by James Wright
While attending Brigham Young University, I had a dream that grandpa had died and I had not recorded his life story on tape. I couldn’t sit still until I had arranged to go to San Francisco and record all those stories he had told my brothers and sisters.
Ever since we were kids, I remember visiting grandpa on the weekends and listening to the stories he would tell about life in the old days and about all our relatives whom we had never met.
It was the last week of April that I finally made it to see grandpa. I remember the day well. It was then, for the first time, that I started to take grandpa’s stories seriously.
He started out by saying that he was born in Lockport, Illinois, and that his father and grandfather were both from Lockport. Great-great-grandfather was a volunteer in the Civil War. I was fascinated by the stories and was glad they were finally being preserved.
I walked away from grandpa’s apartment that day feeling I had met the real Edward Lewis Wright. He had worked hard, lived hard, and played hard. He had managed to support a wife and raise six children while working in the steel mills. As I drove back to Provo to begin a new semester at BYU, I had plenty of time to think about my interview with grandpa. Having worked as a sound engineer, I decided I would process the tape. That is, I would run it through the compressor and the equalizer to take out all the background noises. I thought I would then make copies of the interview and send one to each member of the family.
It was while I was equalizing the tape that the idea for the song came. It didn’t take long before I was doodling with my pen, playing with words and phrases, slowly putting the ideas into a poem. I wrote the words first, and then the melody came. The song was titled, “Like a Man.”
I remember playing the song to grandpa. I put his voice at the beginning and then the music faded in as his voice faded out. When dad heard it, he proclaimed it the family song, and it has remained such. I made copies of the song for most of the relatives, and everybody got a good taste of their own history.
I am now working on a whole series of songs about my family and its history. I guess the reason I wrote the song is to give, in some small way, a fitting tribute to my grandfather. I love him and am grateful he has shared his life with me. I hope I have managed to preserve his story for my future children and grandchildren.

What do you do when you run into pornography? One day Christian Monzón of Asunción, Paraguay, borrowed a cell phone from a friend at school to play games on it. He discovered that the phone had pornography stored in it.
There was no doubt in Christian’s mind what his friend should do about that, so Christian helped him see the need to get rid of the offensive pictures. Christian calmly explained how damaging material like that can be. He said, “If you were a father, you wouldn’t want your son looking at that.”
Part of what Christian told his friend came from For the Strength of Youth. Christian says the pamphlet helps him in every phase of his life. “I wouldn’t be where I am without it,” he says. He has also given copies to a couple of friends at school. They told him it gave them guidance they needed with specific problems.

Everyone in the mission knew about Madame Dupont. Her husband, President Dupont, was the branch president of one of the smallest branches in France. He had labored faithfully for years to establish The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in his hometown in the Pyrenees Mountains. In all that time, however, his wife had opposed his membership in the Church. She didn’t like his “folly.” She wouldn’t listen to his testimony. And she wouldn’t allow missionaries in her house—not even in her courtyard!
The day I arrived in town as a brand-new senior companion, my junior informed me that the branch president’s wife was just getting up and around after a short sickness.
“Great,” I said, “let’s take her some flowers to wish her well. Maybe it will help to fellowship her.”
“You don’t know Sister Dupont,” he said. (We called her sister anyway.) “She’ll probably just snarl.”
I couldn’t believe anyone would refuse flowers after an illness. I was wrong.
I held the bouquet while Elder Granville knocked timidly at the gate.
“She’ll never hear you if you don’t knock louder than that!” I said, and I rapped on the wood. A small, gray-haired woman in her 60s peered at us through the window. I knocked again, and the front door of the house opened.
“Go away!” the lady said.
“But we have something to give you,” I replied.
“If it’s for my husband, just leave it at the gate,” she said.
“Let’s go,” Elder Granville whispered.
“We have something for you,” I said again, trying hard not to sound like I was yelling.
She opened the door and walked toward us from the house.
“Oh no!” Elder Granville whispered, pulling at my coat.
By now the short little woman was nearly up to us.
“What could you possibly have for me?” she asked.
“Flowers,” I said. “Flowers to wish you—”
“Don’t like flowers.” She cut me off. “Never did.”
“But—”
“Don’t like flowers. Don’t like missionaries either. Now leave me alone.”
“But there must be something you like,” I said, almost in desperation.
“Yes,” she said, “I like fruit. Fresh fruit. Never get enough of that around here. Now thanks for bringing the flowers, but I really don’t want them.”
And she turned around and walked back to the house.
“Au revoir,” I shouted after her. “Ayez une bonne journée!” It wasn’t the most authentic French, but I did want her to have a good day.
“Brother, were you ever lucky,” Elder Granville sighed as we walked away. “When Elder Stokeley and I said hello to her one day, she slammed the gate in our face.”
I handed him the bouquet of flowers.
“Let’s go tracting,” I said.
The next day was preparation day, and we were shopping at the market near our apartment. It was then that I saw the bushel of apples.
“Hey, Elder Granville,” I said, “I’ve got an idea.”
I picked up the basket and started toward the check-out stand. Visions of a month of apple crisp at every meal must have danced through Elder Granville’s mind.
“We can’t eat that many apples!” he said.
“They’re not for us. They’re for Sister Dupont.”
That left him speechless. For a moment.
“Elder Romney, you’re the craziest senior I’ve ever had!”
“I’m only your second companion since the LTM.”
“Well, you’re still the craziest senior I’ve ever had.”
By now the clerk was wondering what two Americans were doing arguing in English about a bushel of fruit. I set it on the counter.
“Nous prendrons toute la corbeillée,” I said.
“You’ll take the entire basketful,” the clerk repeated (in French, of course). “Très bien, monsieur.” Then, in an effort to be friendly, “Vous devez beaucoup aimer des pommes.” (“You surely must love apples.”)
“They’re not for us. They’re for a friend,” I said.
“For a friend.” The clerk tried hard not to be amazed. “Très bien, monsieur.”
“The whole bushel!” Elder Granville moaned.
“And we could have spent the grocery money for yogurt!” He picked up the rest of the groceries, and we headed for the door.
We did eat some of the apples. We even made some apple crisp and a pie. But most of the fruit went to Soeur (Sister) Dupont. We never delivered the apples in person. Each day we would leave one, with a note attached, in her mailbox. Sometimes the note would simply say, “Ayez une bonne journée.” Sometimes it would say, “Bon rétablissement!” (“Get well soon!”) One day I even stepped out on a limb and tried to translate “An apple a day keeps the doctor away” into French. I’m sure “Une pomme tousles jours vous protégera contre les maladies” lost something in the translation, but once again the wish was sincere. By the end of the month, when the apples started to shrivel, we would cut paper into the shape of an apple, write a note on the paper, and leave that inside the mailbox instead.
All this time Elder Granville kept telling me I was crazy. And all this time we never heard a word from Sister Dupont. At church President Dupont was as cordial and friendly as usual, but he never said a word about the apples.
We were having a dish of soup for lunch one day when we heard a knock at the door. I stepped from the kitchen into the hallway to answer it. I couldn’t believe it when I opened the latch and neither could Elder Granville. There stood Sister Dupont, with our latest apple message in her hand.
“What’s the deal with all these apples?” she asked. “Who do you think I am, Eve?”
“We just wanted to let you know we care,” I said.
“I thank you,” she managed. And she actually tried to smile. “But please, I’ve had enough apples for a while.” She pulled her black shawl more tightly around her head. I was about to invite her inside when she turned to go.
“Oh, by the way,” she said when she reached the top of the stairway, “my husband says I should invite you for dinner on Sunday night.”
“Dinner?” Elder Granville gasped from somewhere behind me. “With Sister Dupont?” I thought he was going to faint. But as soon as the door closed, we both whooped for joy.
Sister Dupont was a marvelous cook. There’s no cuisine like French cuisine, and it’s even better when it’s homemade. That first Sunday evening we mostly ate well and offered compliments. We also watched hope glimmer in Brother Dupont’s eyes. It had been a long, long time since he’d had missionaries in his home. This was the first time since his baptism some 17 years before. We returned for dinner the following Sunday, and the next, and the next. Through bits and pieces of the conversation, we patched together the Duponts’ story.
Before he met the missionaries, Brother Dupont said, he had been like a wanderer in a drought-ravaged land. Then suddenly he stumbled into a lake of water. The gospel was rich and refreshing to him, and he could not drink his fill. In his exuberance to immerse himself in his new-found treasure, he could not understand why others did not want to savor the same message. This lack of communication spilled into his marriage. His wife didn’t understand what had changed her husband.
As we ate, she told us of the war years, when he was bedridden. She had managed to find food for both of them, even during shortages. She had nursed him daily. Even after the war, he had required her constant care for several years before he gained the strength to walk. Then he had spent more years training and rehabilitating himself while she supported the family. No sooner had he started working again than two Americans began talking religion with him. Then he joined their church—he was the only member in town, and they baptized him in the river—and more and more of his life belonged to his church, not to her. She felt deprived, then embarrassed when parishioners laughed at her, the wife of the town fanatic.
President Dupont repeated over and over again that the Church was true, that he knew it was true, and that he would do whatever he could to share it with his wife. “But,” he said, “she just won’t listen.”
“Can’t you see?” I said one night after they had been sharp with each other. “What you’re really saying is that you love each other. Sister Dupont, all these years you’ve been asking your husband to spend more time with you. That’s important and it’s right. And President Dupont, all you want to do is share with your wife the thing that’s most precious to you. Right?”
He nodded yes. I turned to Sister Dupont.
“Can’t you see that he wants to share the gospel with you because he loves you?”
She didn’t say anything, but you could tell she was thinking. We excused ourselves quietly and went home.
Elder Granville’s prayer that night was straightforward and concerned.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help the Duponts to understand each other. They’re both good people.”
“Amen,” I said. And it sounded so good that I said it again in a whisper.
We had teaching appointments elsewhere for the next two weeks, and then we had to go to Bordeaux for district conference. Although we stopped to see President Dupont on branch business a couple of times, it was almost a month before we were asked back to the Duponts’ home. President Dupont delivered the invitation.
“You won’t believe it,” he said. “My wife’s been reading Church books! And she’s asking questions—good, honest questions. I try to answer them, but I get too pushy. She really wants to talk to you again.”
If we hadn’t had another teaching appointment, we might have rushed over right then.
“C’est incroyable!” Sister Dupont said the next time we all sat in the kitchen. “It’s incredible. Or it’s stupid! A 14-year-old boy can’t talk to God. And the Bible. It’s complete. Why should we need any more scriptures than we already have? And the priesthood. My husband’s never been to divinity school. Why should he be able to hold the priesthood?”
Good questions, all right. How could we handle this? I could imagine Elder Granville thinking this was more like the Sister Dupont of old. Maybe the niceness had been too good to last.
“Sister Dupont,” Elder Granville’s calm voice interrupted my thoughts, “we can answer all those questions for you. But we can’t answer them all at the same time. We have a series of discussions that will answer them one at a time. Would you be interested in listening to those discussions?”
She said yes.
How about that! I said to myself. There’s hope for this junior companion yet!
I wouldn’t exactly say that Sister Dupont became a golden investigator. But she did become our friend. She listened intently to the first discussion. She even joined us as her husband kneeled in prayer. And she invited us to dinner again the following Sunday. It was while we were finishing a serving of the thin mashed potatoes the French call purée that Elder Granville told Sister Dupont a story.
“Did you ever hear about the missionary who was eating dinner and asked his companion to pass the butter? The butter was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it because it was so close.”
“What?”
“Simple. It’s like you and the gospel. All these years your husband has had it right here in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because it was so close. You keep asking where the butter is when it’s right in front of your plate.”
It may not have been the strongest analogy, but Elder Granville was trying. When we got home that night, he brought me a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Why don’t you sign this with me?” he said, turning to a dedication on the flyleaf. “It’s for Sister Dupont.”
I looked at what he’d written.
“Voici le beurre,” it said. “Here is the butter.”
During the next two months Sister Dupont read the book—at least, she read more than half of it. And she had two more discussions, and prayed, and was talking to her husband more and more. And he was seeming happier and happier all the time. That’s when my transfer letter came.
I was moving north to Brittany where I would finish my mission. Elder Granville would be getting his third senior. The letter had been delayed by postal strikes. I would have to catch the first train in the morning.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to leave, Elder Granville,” I said. “We’ve been working so well here. The branch president’s happy and excited again, and the members are working with him. We’ve got some inactives coming out to church and a couple of solid investigators. The Marcellas family is getting ready for baptism. I guess I’ll just have to leave it up to you.”
A knock at the door.
“President Dupont!” Elder Granville greeted the visitor. “Come in, come in.”
President Dupont looked at me.
“I heard about the transfer,” he said. “I know you’re leaving tomorrow. My wife wants you to come say good-bye.”
There was a lot of packing and farewelling to take care of, but I knew I had to visit his wife.
“Of course we’ll be by,” I said.
The living room was dark, illuminated by a single bare bulb as many French living rooms are. The wallpaper, however, was a bright combination of browns, yellows, and tans. Sister Dupont was seated on the orange couch, a tray of cookies and hot chocolate before her.
“Hello, elders,” she said. “Have a seat. What’s this about Elder Romney leaving?”
“I’m afraid that’s right. Tomorrow morning.”
“That means there will be a new missionary here, too.”
“That’s right. Elder Taylor. He’s from New York.”
“I guess I’ll have to get to know him, too.”
I could see the smile on President Dupont’s face.
“I hope you will,” I said.
“Will you write to us?”
“Of course I’ll keep in touch,” I promised. “Trust me.”
“If you can’t trust the elders, who can you trust?” she said.
I thought I might cry.
I did keep in touch, especially five months later when I got home from my mission. It was hard, and President Dupont wrote to me more than I wrote to him. But we did exchange photos (I still have a nice picture of the Duponts with their grandchildren on vacation on the Spanish coast), and Christmas cards, and news of our families. Whatever I sent, even a postcard, I always got letters back, scrawled out in President Dupont’s longhand. He would let me know when he heard from one of the elders, especially from Elder Granville. He always included greetings from his wife, but I never received anything written personally by her. Other missionaries told me that she remained friendly and supported her husband, but she never joined the Church. Every once in a while I would write to her personally and bear my testimony to her through the mail.
I’ve been home for several years now, and this week I received an unusual letter from France. The address was strange, the handwriting unfamiliar. I opened it before I got to my desk.
“Dear Elder Romney,” it began, “I’ve wanted to write to you many times over the years, but I always figured my husband kept us in contact with you. Now my husband is gone. I wanted to let you know so that you could tell the other missionaries. He loved them all so much. Let them know the Church members held a funeral for him.
“I remember much of what you both told me about life after death. Perhaps my husband is there waiting for me, as you said he would be. I never did understand all you tried to tell me, all that he wanted to share with me, but I know you both believed it was true. I’m living with my daughter and her family now. Please write to me if you will.”
You know I will, Sister Dupont. You know I will.

When I started meeting with the missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, they used a spectacular way to motivate me to read the Book of Mormon. Whenever I had a question, they opened it and read the answer from it. I wondered what kind of book it was. Finally they asked me if I wouldn’t like to read the book. I said, “Yes, I would!” They gave me a Book of Mormon as a gift, and I was extremely glad. I read it in three weeks and was very impressed with its teachings. At the end of that time, I was baptized into the Church. I have a great testimony about the influence of the scriptures in the life of a person.

One day I was walking with my friend Alexis. Out of nowhere an older schoolmate said to me, “Move, nerd!” I asked myself, “What would Jesus do in this situation?” I told her that I liked the way she does her hair and the way she picks out her clothing. I felt a good feeling inside telling me I did a good job. My friend Alexis asked, “Why didn’t you say anything mean to her?”
Later after class, the girl came up to me and told me she was sorry. I accepted her apology.

Ashley counted the days as her fingers ran across her braille calendar. Only five more days until her eighth birthday!
“Five days is too soon!” Ashley said to herself. “How can I ever do it?”
Like most children, Ashley looked forward to her birthday each year. She loved the excitement of birthday parties, cake, ice cream, and, of course, gifts. But even the thought of gifts wasn’t enough to make her want her birthday to come this year. I’ll never be able to do it—never! she thought with despair. I’m too afraid.
Ashley was born blind. She had never seen even the ordinary things that other people take for granted, like grass, flowers, and trees, houses, schools, and buses. She had never even seen her family. But she had felt their faces often, and in her mind she knew what they were like. Mom was beautiful and Dad was strong and handsome. Her brother Jake was always smiling. Josh was more serious but was always kind.
All her life Ashley had to work hard to do things that were easy for others, like walk from one room to another without bumping into walls or furniture. Getting herself dressed and her hair combed each morning was a job in itself. Each day was filled with new things to learn.
With the help of her family, though, Ashley had learned to be very independent. She tried to face each day with a smile, and she met each task as a challenge to be mastered.
But the thought of going into water even a few inches deep terrified her. She took showers, never baths, because bathtub water scared her. Thoughts of dangling her feet in a stream or a swimming pool sent her into a panic. So although she wanted with all her heart to become a member of the Church, the idea of getting baptized was almost more than she could bear.
“Five more days, just five more days,” Ashley said again. She knew that her parents wouldn’t make her be baptized until she had overcome her fear, but she didn’t know how to do that. How can I ever go into water that deep, let alone be put under it? She started to shake just thinking about it.
She heard her mother come into her room and felt loving arms go around her and hold her tight. After a few minutes, Mom said, “Thinking about being baptized again?”
Ashley nodded. “My birthday is only five days away, and I really do want to be baptized, but I get so scared just thinking about it!”
“I’m sorry this is hard for you,” Mom said. “Do you think talking to Bishop Felix would help?”
Ashley remembered how worried she had been about her baptismal interview, but the bishop had made her feel at ease and had even made her laugh. Maybe he could help her. “Do you think I could talk to him tonight? I don’t have much time left.”
“We’ll see what we can do.” Mom gave Ashley a reassuring squeeze.
As Dad went with her into the meetinghouse that evening, she felt nervous. “Here’s the bishop’s office,” Dad said. “Would you like me to come in with you?”
“Yes, please.”
Soon she heard Bishop Felix say, “Hello, Ashley. Come right in. It’s nice to see you.”
Just by hearing his voice, Ashley knew that she had made the right decision. After a short prayer by Dad, Ashley started to explain her problem. Afterward the office was quiet for a few minutes. She knew Bishop Felix was thinking.
“Ashley,” he finally said, “I’m glad that you came to me with this problem. I know that you understand the importance of being baptized and that you have a strong desire to be baptized. And I can understand your fear of water, even the baptismal water. It’s wonderful that you and your parents have discussed the problem and prayed about it. That’s the first step, and you have taken it. Prayer is a powerful tool, but sometimes it, too, needs strengthening. I’m sure you know what fasting is,” he said.
Ashley nodded. “It’s going without food and water.”
“That’s right. But when we fast, we should fast for a specific purpose or blessing. And we should let Heavenly Father know what that purpose is. Fasting with prayer is a very powerful tool.”
“Do you think it would help me?” Ashley asked hopefully.
“I’m sure it will.”
“The whole family will fast and pray with you,” Dad said, squeezing her hand.
“I’d like to fast and pray with you, too,” Bishop Felix offered.
Ashley had faith in prayer, so if fasting strengthened prayer, she knew it would work. “Thank you,” she answered. “With everyone’s help, I’ll try it.”
As she and Dad left the church, Ashley felt good inside, almost peaceful. She knew getting baptized would still be a hard thing to do, but her faith was strong.
All the rest of the week, Ashley was prayerful about her baptism, and it wasn’t quite so frightening. She and her parents planned a short program, with both Bishop Felix and Dad speaking before the service. Afterward they would have birthday cake and ice cream for refreshments at home. Mom had already made Ashley a beautiful white dress to wear.
Soon it was the day before her birthday. After a light supper, her family began their fast with a prayer that she might overcome her fear of the water, at least while she was being baptized. And that night as Ashley knelt to pray by her bed, she felt very humble. She still feared the water, yet she knew deep down that Heavenly Father loved her and would help her.
“Happy Birthday!” Ashley woke to the family singing.
She could tell by the sounds of their voices that they were all smiling. They knelt by her bed for their morning family prayer. Mom said the prayer and asked Heavenly Father to be with their family that day as they fasted and prayed for Ashley and for her to have the courage and strength to enter into the waters of baptism. As Ashley said “Amen,” her stomach growled.
Instead of reading the scriptures around the breakfast table, the family sat in the living room. As they read, Ashley heard another stomach growling. It made her feel good to know that her family loved her enough to fast for her.
All day long Ashley’s stomach begged for food. She hadn’t realized before how hard fasting could be. But when thoughts of hamburgers, french fries, and pepperoni pizzas kept popping into her head, she pushed them out with a short prayer. With each prayer, Ashley felt stronger.
Finally it was time to leave for the church. Fear started to creep into Ashley’s heart. “Dad and Mom, could we say another prayer before we leave?”
The family knelt on the floor in a circle, holding hands. “Dear Heavenly Father,” Ashley started softly. “I’m thankful for this special day and for my family. Please help me so that I won’t be afraid to be baptized.”
As Dad guided Ashley down the baptismal font steps, she could feel the water covering her feet. Then it was up to her knees. She had never been in water this deep before, but she wasn’t afraid. The water was up to her waist when they stood in the middle of the font, yet she felt no fear. She listened to Dad and concentrated on the words as he spoke the baptismal prayer. Then he laid her gently into the warm water.
Instead of fear and panic, she felt peace. As Dad lifted her out of the water, her heart was bursting with joy, She had been baptized! She knew that fasting and prayer had helped her overcome her fear.
What a wonderful birthday gift from Heavenly Father! she thought. It’s the very best gift I could have received!

Nathan and his cousins were playing by a large irrigation ditch. They knew that they shouldn’t play so close to it, but it was fun to throw rocks into the water, and it was cooler near the water on this hot summer day. Suddenly Nathan slipped and fell in. His cousins yelled for help. Fortunately the aunts and uncles were not far away. Uncle Gary jumped the pasture fence, ran to the ditch, and pulled Nathan from the water just before he went into a culvert under the road. Uncle Gary saved Nathan’s life that day.
You can probably imagine how grateful Nathan’s family was to Uncle Gary that summer day. How much more grateful we ought to be to Jesus Christ! His Atonement made it possible for us to live again forever. His Atonement paid the price for our sins if we repent. No wonder we celebrate Easter! In some parts of the world, people greet each other at Easter time by saying, “Christ is risen!” And their friends reply, “In truth, He is risen.” Jesus Christ—our Savior and our Redeemer—is risen! How great is our joy!

What do you get when you combine a small airplane with an overwhelmed mother and an irritable little boy? A very stressful situation. From a few rows behind, I watched the drama unfold. It went something like this:
Little boy: I’m hungry!
Mother: Well, let’s look in my purse and see what I have.
Little boy: Nooooo!
Mother: But aren’t you hungry?
Little boy: Give me that!
Mother: Give you what?
Little boy: Thaaaat!
Mother: Honey, you can’t have my necklace.
Little boy: I want it!
You get the idea. Over the next 20 minutes, the mother used a range of tactics to try to calm him down: bribery, diversion, humor, even one or two mild threats. Nothing worked. “It’s only a short flight,” I reminded myself. “She’ll be OK.”
But she wasn’t OK. Her stress was mounting, and she began wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. Although I didn’t know her, I felt drawn to help her. Reflexively, I started praying for them both.
I wasn’t the only passenger affected by the scene. Just as the strain on her emotions peaked, another passenger came to her aid. She was a much older woman, seated immediately across the aisle. Radiating kindness, she turned to the young mother, quietly spoke a few reassuring words, and took her hand. That was it. And that was enough.
These two women held hands across the aisle throughout the remainder of the flight. Although the little boy continued to rant with spectacular intensity, his mother appeared serene. It was a miracle.

The teaching of Mary Bommeli touched more than those women around the loom and the judge. My father, her grandson, talked to me during the nights as he approached death. He spoke of joyous reunions that were coming soon in the spirit world. I could almost see the bright sunlight and the smiles in that place of paradise as he talked about it with such assurance.
At one point I asked him if he had some repenting to do. He smiled. He chuckled softly as he said, “No, Hal, I’ve been repenting as I went along.” The doctrine of paradise that Mary Bommeli taught those women was real to her grandson. And even the doctrine Mary taught the judge had shaped my father’s life for good. That will not be the end of Mary Bommeli’s teaching. The record of her words will send true doctrine to generations of her family yet unborn. Because she believed that even a new convert knew enough doctrine to teach it, the minds and hearts of her descendants will be opened, and they will be strengthened in the battle.

A group of Laurels and priests in one Wisconsin ward also wanted the opportunity to have a formal dance with high standards. So in 2009 they invited youth from their stake and a neighboring stake for a formal dance at their ward building. The night was a success, and the stake leaders decided to hold it again in future years. They moved the location to a bigger venue, and it’s continued to grow. Last year, 250 youth from four stakes attended the dance.
Because of the less-than-wholesome environment at their school proms, many of the youth in the area now consider this prom as their only prom. Some even turn down invitations to school proms and instead invite their school friends to attend their prom.
Before attending the dance, all of the youth meet with a bishop and sign a dance card saying they will uphold the standards. No one has ever had a problem with this commitment.
Stephen P. says the prom was an amazing experience: “Being able to not worry about immoral music or dancing was an incredible burden off my shoulders,” he says. “It allowed my friends and me to just be able to enjoy ourselves. The leaders who helped plan it did a fantastic job making sure everyone was included and their needs were taken care of. I actually chose to go to the ‘Mormon prom’ instead of my school prom because I knew our prom would have a more positive environment and the Spirit would always be with us.”

I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was in boarding school. A brother in the Church invited me to attend, and I was very eager to know what the Church was all about. The sister missionaries started teaching me, and after a few months I decided to be baptized. I called home to talk to my family about my decision to change my faith but did not give them much more information about the Church; I knew that the holiday would be the best time for me to share more.
I started preparing for my holiday by buying Church magazines, DVDs, the Doctrine and Covenants, and hymns in order help my family understand the reason why I decided to join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
When I went home, I talked to my family about my new faith and how I knew it was the only true Church. To help them understand, I held family home evenings with them every night. We covered the topics of obedience, scriptures, Church history, family responsibility, faith, and prayer.
My mum was very happy to hear about the Church, and she even told me she would love to come to church one day and hear for herself what I shared with her.
When I returned to school, I left them with magazines, DVDs, CDs, and hymns, because my father really enjoyed the hymns I played every morning when sweeping the house. Today I am a very happy person because I have shared with my family about the true Church.