Gospel Story Finder

At age fourteen, Robert, a native of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, secured an apprenticeship as a moulder. His work involved pouring liquid metal into moulds to create tools and other implements.1 During this time, Robert got mixed up in the ways of the world until one day his conscience hit him. “I felt hurt because I knew I was not doing right; my conscience smote me many times. I often thought of the grave, and hellfire and brimstone, and the wicked living there forever and ever.”2
One of Robert’s cousins, a Methodist and teetotaller, helped him to change his ways. Robert also became a teetotaller and although he attended religious services, he “never could join” the Methodists. At work, Robert met a young man who abstained from drinking and was the only colleague who was kind to him. It emerged that this young man was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In their conversations Robert found himself agreeing with everything his colleague said. Finally, despite his family’s opposition, he was baptised on 25 May 1850 by Thomas Greener, his colleague who had introduced him to the gospel. Of the experience, Robert wrote: “I felt that I was changed from darkness to light and from the Kingdom of Satan unto the light of the Glorious Gospel.”

Sometimes, being a good person feels like a lot of work.
I used to think of being Christlike as a hefty list of things I had to do and be. When I tried to set goals, I’d get overwhelmed thinking about how far I was from where I should be. I felt like I was failing in so many ways I didn’t know where to start—like when your room is so messy that you don’t know what to clean up first.
During a time when I felt extra inadequate, a scripture kept coming to my mind:
“Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself” (Matthew 22:37–39).
I realized that I’d been more focused on “doing” the gospel than becoming like the Savior. Somehow, with so many distractions, the love got lost along the way. But wasn’t love supposed to be the point? During His ministry, Jesus Christ taught the people a higher and holier law to love God with their whole hearts and to love others as they love themselves. Whenever I felt discouraged, I’d remember Jesus’s words and think, “As long as I make choices out of love for God and others, I’ll be on the right path.”
I decided to set a simple goal: “Do one thing each day to love God, others, and myself.”
I wrote it on the first page of a new journal. I’ve never been a great journal-keeper, but I thought it would be important to record what I was doing.
The first day was a fast Sunday. Before I went to bed, I wrote down what I’d done to work on my goal.
I wrote that I showed love for God by going to church and staying for both hours, even though I didn’t feel like it. I bore my testimony in sacrament meeting. And when I read my scriptures, I wrote down my thoughts for a more meaningful and focused study.
I wrote that I loved others by joining a family call with my parents even though I was tired. I fasted for a friend who I knew was struggling and sent her an encouraging message. I spent some time with my brother.
I loved myself by taking a nap and allowing myself to relax. And I went to bed earlier than usual so I could be more rested for work the next day.
None of these things were big, but when I looked over what I’d written, I felt peaceful. My day had been full of love, and that’s what Heavenly Father wanted for me.
All week I remembered my goal and wrote how I showed love. I went to the temple. I listened to people vent about their problems. I said kind things to others. I did things that made me happy. I took better care of myself. I made more space for the people in my life. I took time to reflect and connect with God.
After just a few days, I was amazed by the difference. With showing Christlike love as my goal, things that usually felt like a chore became expressions of love for God, others, and myself. I started looking for new opportunities to express love, whether it was getting a glass of water for my sister, making my bed, or pausing to say a prayer of gratitude.
I felt like I was seeing the world with new eyes, and as I looked for ways to love, I also noticed the love that was all around me every day. I added a new section to my journal entries: “How I’ve seen God’s love today.” I wrote down the thoughtful things people did for me and the kind words they offered. I wrote down nice things I saw people doing for others. I wrote down the small, tender mercies from God I noticed each day. I wrote down all the ways I felt uplifted, all the things that gave me hope.
Sister Susan H. Porter, Primary General President, taught: “When you know and understand how completely you are loved as a child of God, it changes everything. It changes the way you feel about yourself when you make mistakes. It changes how you feel when difficult things happen. It changes your view of God’s commandments. It changes your view of others and of your capacity to make a difference.”1
As I continued with my goal, I discovered how true this was. I could feel my whole heart changing, and I understood the power of God’s love better than I ever had.
After a month, I wrote this in my journal:
“I feel hopeful instead of stressed. I’m aware of my weaknesses, but I feel that as long as I keep inclining my heart to God, things will be OK, even if I’m never able to fix the weak and broken parts of myself. My heart is the thing that matters most, and a heart that loves God and others and tries to serve and uplift is a good heart.”
I wish I could say I’ve never missed a day in my journal. The truth is, I fall out of the habit sometimes, even for months at a time. But whenever I start again, I can feel the difference. I open my eyes once more to see the Savior’s love all around me—and all the ways I can add to it.
I’ve come to better understand the truth that “charity never faileth” (Moroni 7:46) because when I felt like I was failing, Jesus Christ’s love is what lifted me back up. When I feel the Savior’s love, I want to reflect it back into the world, and I know that as I strive to do this, He will bless me with a better, stronger heart—one that can love as He does.

It was December, 1886, Mary Ann Stokes Rich watched grimly as her tenth child fought to live. Born with rickets because his mother was malnourished during her pregnancy, the infant cried feebly. Mary Ann had already buried four children under similar circumstances; and how her husband had abandoned the family, leaving her with six children on an unproductive farm in Cassia County, Idaho.
Grieving, Mary Ann knelt to pray that her son might die quickly, thus sparing him a life of pain and poverty. But instead, she found herself pleading that her son’s “life would be spared, that he would be a comfort and a blessing to her in her old age.”
Her prayer was answered. Edward Stokes Rich grew to manhood, and when Mary Ann became old and feeble, he provided financially for her.

Lucy was happy whenever Daddy was home. But she was sad when he had to go on business trips. When he came home, though, he always had a surprise for Lucy in his suitcase.
Once the surprise was a doll from Mexico with a red ruffled dress and a tiny red rose in its hair.
Once the surprise was a white fan with a pretty design from Japan. It folded and unfolded with a click.
Another time the surprise was a paper lei from Hawaii. Daddy said, “A lei means ‘hello’ and ‘good-bye’ and ‘I love you.’”
On his next trip, Daddy brought Lucy a shell from the ocean. It was chalky white and pink on the outside. The inside flashed bright green and purple when she turned it. “Put it next to your ear,” Daddy said, “and it will sound like the ocean.”
One day Daddy came home from a trip with two surprises. The first one was a tiny blue box to put things in. But the other surprise was even nicer: “I’m not going on any more trips,” Daddy said. “I’ll be here every night from now on.”
Lucy clapped her hands. “Hurray!” she shouted. “That’s the best surprise of all!”

Some years ago a lovely young woman, Jami Palmer, then 12 years of age, was wheeled into my office by her parents. She had been diagnosed with cancer. Surgery would be required. The treatments would be many and the time of recovery long. It was a solemn moment as we visited. Father requested me to join him in blessing his crestfallen daughter who had just had her dreams, her hopes, her plans placed on hold. All of us were weeping. The priesthood blessing was provided.

I have maintained contact with Jami and her family. The years have flown by. She has rendered unlimited service to others through being a spokesperson for the Make-A-Wish Foundation, which blesses youth afflicted with life-threatening diseases. Jami has grown into a beautiful young woman. She is now a student at Brigham Young University. She is healthy. She has been through the refiner’s fire and has had her life prolonged. She gives thanks to all who aided her through these difficult years and especially to her Heavenly Father for her very life today.

A turning point in Jami’s life came early in her treatment for cancer. She and the youth in her ward had planned a hike to Timpanogos Cave. You who have made that hike know the way is steep, and it seems to take forever to reach the cave. Sadly Jami said to her friends, “I won’t be able to make the hike with you.”

“Why not?” they asked.

Jami replied, “I can’t walk.”

There was a silent moment, and then one replied, “Jami, if you can’t walk, then we’ll carry you.” And they did—up and back!

I remember being impressed one time with the need to teach obedience. I was on a new job working long hours, and I guess I was somewhat neglectful of my family. My son seemed to crave more time and attention. He was finding all sorts of ways to attract my attention. One day when I came home, his mother had him prepared to take me downstairs to see what mischief he had recently created. As we descended the stairs, he sheepishly opened the door to our food storage room. There I found he had been using his dart set to practice his marksmanship on our food storage. He caught my attention all right, and made me realize he was looking for the metes and bounds we expected of him in our family government. When they were outlined, and when I gave him the proper attention, then he was very obedient. How important it is that we teach obedience early in the lives of our children, especially to the commandments of the Lord!

Then in February a new convert named Keith moved into our small branch. He had been a member for five months and had the enthusiasm of four new missionaries in one. When the college we attended announced a foster grandparent program involving a local rest home, Keith suggested that we, the only LDS students on campus, should join and be good examples. We talked about visiting two branch members who lived in the rest home, but we took no action.
Then one Sunday President Harrison gave a talk on faith. He said faith was putting your words and beliefs in action. That afternoon Keith and I decided to visit the sisters in the rest home.
Our first visit was a disaster. We visited each sister alone, and we didn’t really get beyond “How are you?” “Fine.” As we left we knew to things: first, they needed us; second, we could do better. And even though we spent much of the next Sunday afternoon driving the 150 miles home from district conference, Keith and I convinced Les Harrison, his sister LeAnn, and Portia (a nursing student) to visit the women with us.
We wheeled both sisters into a quiet corner. Keith read an article from a Church magazine, Les read a scripture, and Portia offered a beautiful prayer. We felt good about the experience, and the next Sunday we came with seven Young Adults and youth. With President Harrison’s permission, Les and Keith blessed the sacrament and passed it to the sisters. We then wheeled them into a small chapel in the rest home and sang a hymn. We took turns reading an article from the Church magazines, then a poem and a scripture. We had a closing hymn and prayer.
It was three o’clock before we left, and since we were all hungry, Les invited us to his house for soup and crackers. So that Sunday afternoon I was again in the branch president’s home—but this time it was very different from the Sunday I went there looking for someone to play ice hockey. During the week the seven of us were scattered about the town, and many of us were without families in the Church. But for two hours that Sunday afternoon, we sat around the table and talked with each other and Les’s parents, sharing jokes, stories, and the problems of being lone Latter-day Saints out in the mission field. It was truly an inspiring experience.
When I finally returned home at ten o’clock after several other meetings, I had no time left to work on my genealogy or write a letter to a missionary as I had planned. As I knelt for prayer that night, I realized there were more “dos” for the Sabbath than I could ever fit into one short day. I thanked my Heavenly Father for the special day he had set apart to bless us.

Not everyone can go to BYU, at least not in his freshman year when he lives only 15 miles from another college, Mark thought as he made his way to a desk in the large amphitheater prior to his first class at State College.
He glanced at the 60 other strangers who had also elected to take Sociology 119. Many of them were also freshmen, opening their cellophane-wrapped notebooks for the first time.
He looked to see if he could recognize any members of the Church. As far as he could tell, he was the only Mormon on campus.
Two rows ahead of him was a girl who caught his attention. It was not her long hair flowing softly over her shoulders or her high cheek bones that caught his eye. She was reading a Bible.
The instructor, Dr. Guthrie, entered the classroom. He wore a turtleneck sweater and carried an old pipe that he carefully filled with tobacco as he waited for the bell to ring. He looked to be about 30 years old. Mark’s adviser had told him that Dr. Guthrie was one of the most popular teachers on campus. He had won teaching awards for the past three years.
Dr. Guthrie began his lecture by telling the class that he was a little “hung over” from a party the night before, but that he’d try to muddle through. He opened with a joke.
Mark looked around at the others in the class. For the most part they were happy to find an instructor who was “human.”
Dr. Guthrie talked for a few minutes about the course requirements, then switched to another joke that ended with a string of swear words.
The class roared its approval.
The girl in front of him raised her hand.
“Yes,” Dr. Guthrie said.
She stood up, cradling her Bible in her arms. She stood with dignity and said calmly, “I’m a Christian, Dr. Guthrie, and I believe the Bible is the word of God. The Bible teaches that taking the Lord’s name in vain is a sin.”
Mark stared at this beautiful girl with no make-up who had the courage to face 60 people and declare her standards. At the same time he felt embarrassed for her, knowing the reaction of the rest of the class.
Dr. Guthrie studied her thoughtfully for a moment, trying to decide whether to humiliate her in front of the class or let it go.
“What’s your name?”
“Sara Taylor.”
“Okay, Sara. Thank you. I’ll try and control my language.”
Dr. Guthrie examined his notes for several seconds, and then, looking up with a sly grin, announced, “Sara has just wiped out half my lecture.”
Loud laughter pulsed through the large amphitheater.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ve got four jokes I won’t be able to tell today, but if anybody wants to hear them,” he said, with a mischievous grin, “come down after class and I’ll whisper them to you.”
“Just send her out in the hall when you want to tell a joke,” someone suggested.
“I’m afraid she’d be in the hall all the time,” Dr. Guthrie kidded.
He’s the Pied Piper of State College, Mark thought.
After class, while the rest stayed to hear the jokes, Mark followed Sara out of the amphitheater into the hall.
“Sara?” he called after her.
“Yes?” she turned to face him.
“I agree with what you said about the Bible.”
“Do you? I didn’t hear you say anything in class.” She turned and hurried away.
As Mark drove the 15 miles home that night, he rehearsed in his mind that first class, trying to picture himself standing up as she had done. Deep down, however, he knew he couldn’t have done it.
As he drove, he remembered his disastrous first-grade school year in a small farm community, reliving the panic as he attempted to answer a teacher’s question but stuttered so badly she finally turned to someone else for the answer. On the playground that year, other boys in the class had mimicked him day after day until finally he would not even go out for recess.
They had moved to a larger town after that year, and careful professional therapy had helped him overcome the problem, but the emotional scars were still there. He couldn’t speak to large groups.
The next class started out with Dr. Guthrie being careful to control his speech. He was an excellent teacher, Mark had to admit, and only used the jokes as a diversion to keep everyone awake.
Halfway through the class, sensing students beginning to tire of sociology, he told a joke that would have made any truck driver blush. There was raucous laughter from a group of guys who sat on the last row.
Sara’s hand shot up again.
Dr. Guthrie saw her and, with a grin, announced, “Oh, oh, I’ve been a bad boy. Yes, Sara.”
Again she rose to her feet, and with a calm voice said, “The Bible teaches that adultery is a sin.”
“That may be true, Sara, but I don’t believe the Bible. I’m an agnostic, and any reference you make to the Bible is meaningless to me. I am more interested in what can be verified and proven. Please confine your statements to something having intellectual merit.”
She sat down. I wonder if Dr. Guthrie ever loses, Mark thought.
After class, Mark stopped her in the hall.
“Can I buy you a donut and a glass of milk?”
“Why?”
“I want to talk with you.”
They went to the student union cafeteria and found a table in the corner.
“Sara, I admire you for your courage.”
For the first time, she seemed to relax, realizing that he wasn’t going to argue with her.
“I know I don’t do it very well, but I have to say something. I just can’t let him walk over everything I cherish.”
That she dunked her donut in her milk made her seem a little more human to Mark.
She continued: “Before class today a girl came over and said that she hoped I wasn’t trying for a good grade in the class. I asked her if she had been quiet in class because of wanting a good grade, and she said, ‘Sure, I’ll believe whatever he wants me to believe for an A.’”
“Oh,” Mark said, feeling a little condemned by the story.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked as gently as she could.
He looked at her eyes, trying to decide if he could confide in her. She did not carry with her any arrogance.
“I’m afraid,” he answered honestly.
“Anybody would be nervous; that’s natural.”
“No, it’s more than that. When I was young, I had a speech problem. I overcame that, but the fear of being laughed at is still there.”
“Exodus, chapter 4, verses 10, 11, and 12 [Ex. 4:10–12],” she answered with a grin.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Here, I’ll write it down and you look it up later.” She wrote the reference on a napkin and gave it to him. He put it in his wallet.
“Are you a Christian?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, wondering how much more he should tell her.
“Someday you’re going to have to show it. Jesus will help you.”
He wondered why this girl, who had only a fraction of the scriptural knowledge about the Savior that he had could be so much better at showing her love for Him.
“Will you help me?” he asked her.
“Yes, of course.”
“Dr. Guthrie knows his business, but maybe we could be more effective if we could meet him in his own arena, you know, ‘intellectual merit.’ My Sunday School teacher is a trial lawyer. He knows how to present a case before a jury. I’m sure he’ll help us. Will you come with me to my Sunday School?”
“What church is that?” she asked.
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The one we go to is 15 miles from here. I could pick you up at your dorm.”
Sunday he picked her up at 7:30 in the morning so he could attend priesthood meeting. She attended a Sunday session of Relief Society.
After class he saw her coming out of the classroom. She was upset.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Take me back to the dorms or I’m walking.”
“Why?”
“This is the Mormon church.”
“Yes, that’s another name.”
“And you’re a Mormon?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been deceived,” she said, turning and walking quickly out of the building.
He ran after her. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Back to the dorm.” She stopped and accused him, “You’re not a Christian.”
“How can you say that? How could a church that is named after the Savior not be Christian?”
“What about the Book of Mormon?” she said. “That’s your Bible, isn’t it?”
She turned and ran from him. He ran after her. After half a block she slowed down to a fast walk. She wouldn’t allow him to walk beside her, and so he maintained a ten-foot distance behind her.
A few blocks from the church, a family driving to church who knew Mark stopped and asked him if he needed any help. He asked them to tell his parents that he’d be late. Before they left, he asked if he could borrow a copy of the Book of Mormon. They willingly agreed.
He had to run to catch up with Sara. By this time they were outside the small town and were walking along a gravel road that eventually led to the highway back to the college.
“Sara, you can’t walk 15 miles.”
“Watch me.”
“Sara, listen to me. I’m going to read you the flyleaf from the Book of Mormon.” She sped up, but Mark stayed close enough so she could hear him: “‘… to the convincing of the Jew and Gentile that Jesus is the Christ, the Eternal God, manifesting himself unto all nations …’”
“Do you have several wives?” she snapped.
“I don’t even have one, and if all women are as unreasonable as you, I may keep it that way.”
She kept on walking.
A few minutes later, he tried again. “Sara, I’m going to read from the Book of Mormon about the Savior. Did you know that he visited people in the New World after his resurrection?”
No answer.
Mark began reading aloud in chapter 11 of 3 Nephi [3 Ne. 11]. As he began, she again sped up, trying to get out of hearing range of his voice.
It was difficult to both read and watch where he was walking. He fell down once but quickly got up and continued.
After a few pages she slowed down.
He read aloud to her to the end of 3 Nephi. It took two hours.
Then, finally, she stopped and turned around. “What you’ve been reading, it’s in the Book of Mormon?”
“Yes.”
She began walking toward him. She passed him, standing there, and kept on going, now heading back to town.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
“Back to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Sara?” he called after her.
“What?” she asked, not breaking stride.
“Can I walk beside you?”
She stopped and turned around. It was the first smile he had seen from her that morning.
By the time they reached town, the other ward was about to begin their sacrament meeting. He ushered her to the second row.
It was fast and testimony meeting, and it was one of those meetings that you hope will never end. At one point he looked over and saw tears streaming down Sara’s face.
After the meeting they drove to the home of Brother Packard, who was a lawyer and Mark’s Sunday School teacher. He agreed to help them debate the concepts presented by Dr. Guthrie. They stayed so long that they were invited for a light supper. While Sara helped Sister Packard in the kitchen, Mark called his parents to explain what had happened. He also called the elders to arrange a time for the missionary discussions for Sara.
During the next week Mark and Sara prepared to debate the opinions of Dr. Guthrie. They spent several hours a day in the library taking notes from reports that would sustain their position in regard to chastity, family life, and use of drugs. They used a shoe box to file their notes. On Thursday they met with Brother Packard who coached them.
Friday night Sara received her first discussion.
On Saturday morning Mark took her rock climbing in the mountains near the college. She had never climbed before, so he chose an easy route.
The air was crisp, and the leaves on the aspen trees along the canyon had begun to turn various shades of gold and yellow. They were both quiet as they made their way up a rock cliff, talking only when necessary, somehow trying to disturb as little as possible the beauty around them.
Finally they reached the top of the rimrock and sat down. He pulled two apples from his small pack. They munched on the apples slowly and watched the morning progress into day.
She looks best out here, he thought to himself. On campus, if she were placed alongside a girl who uses make-up, Sara would look plain, but out here where simplicity is a mark of beauty, she looks good.
“Last night I woke up and started to cry,” she said quietly.
“What for?”
“The problem I face is, what if your teachings are true?”
“They are.”
“Mark, you can’t be right. God would’ve told more people. How many Mormons are there?”
“Four million.”
“And those four million are right, and everybody else is wrong?”
“The priesthood has been restored.”
“I know that’s what you believe.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked her. “What’s really bothering you?”
“Okay, I’ll tell you. My mother. All last night I worried about my mother. She’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” she said, fighting back the tears. While she waited to gain composure, she picked up a small gold leaf from the ground and examined it.
“My mother was a good person. Dad and Mom were always dedicated Christians. I never was. When I was 14, I rebelled against them. I did everything I could to hurt them. When I was 17, I ran away from home. I wound up in California, living with a group of other girls who had also left their homes. We were pretty wild.
“One day I went with some other girls to hear an evangelist speak. We went on a lark, but as he spoke, my heart softened and all the bitterness left me. I made a promise to dedicate my whole life to Jesus. As soon as I could scrape up the money, I took a bus home.
“All the way home on the bus, I thought how happy Mom and Dad would be to see that I’d finally accepted Jesus as my Savior. When I arrived home, I found that my mother had died four weeks earlier. She never saw me as a Christian. We were never united as a family.”
She let the leaf slip from her hand and fall to the ground. “What about my mother? Is she to be condemned for never hearing about Joseph Smith?”
He reached into his pack and pulled out his Bible and also his three-in-one combination.
“Do you have an answer?” she asked, surprised at seeing his broad smile.
“The most beautiful answer in the world,” he said, turning to the Pearl of Great Price.
In the afternoon they found a path in the woods and followed it for miles. They talked about many things, both large and small, but once, during their walk, she turned and asked if they could talk about the Savior, and it was like two people getting together and sharing news about a cherished friend whom neither had seen for some time, each sharing memories of his experience with that friend. Sara told of His mission to bring salvation to the world, and of His love for even those who have sinned. Mark told of His appearances to Joseph Smith and other prophets, and that He was speaking to a prophet in our day.
As he said good-bye to her at the dorm, she said, “Mark, I must tell my father that I’m learning about Mormonism. I owe him that.”
Sunday night she received the second missionary lesson.
Tuesday night he picked her up at the library at closing time, and they drove to a diner on the highway for a snack. She seemed very distant and tense as he drove.
When the waitress came to take their order, Sara said abruptly, “I’ll take a cup of coffee.”
After the waitress left, Mark asked, “Why? Why did you order coffee?”
“Why not? Do you think I’ll be damned if I have one cup? Are you that close-minded?”
“You’ve never ordered coffee before,” he argued.
“There’s no reason I can’t drink coffee. I’m not a Mormon, you know.” Her voice was sharp, her face hard.
“You’re drinking it just to spite me.”
The waitress put down two rolls and her cup of coffee and his glass of milk. Sara eagerly took a sip.
“Would you like some?” she taunted.
“No.”
“Why not? Afraid it will kill you?”
“Why are you acting this way?”
“My father received my letter today. He called me tonight after supper and read me some things about Mormonism from a book he’d found in the library. They are quite different from what you’ve been telling me.”
“And you’re going to believe him?”
“Why shouldn’t I? He’s my father.”
“Will you at least finish reading the Book of Mormon and taking the missionary lessons?”
“No. I’m through.”
“And so you’re just going to believe what is in some anti-Mormon book without completely investigating our teachings?”
“I’m past the rebellious stage. Do you know what I put my father through when I ran away from home? I can’t hurt him anymore. I love my father.” She hastily got up. “Good-bye, Mark.”
She hurried out of the diner. He threw down a dollar bill on the counter and ran after her.
“Where are you going?” he asked, running to catch up with her as she ran along the side of the road.
She stopped to confront him. “Leave me alone!” she yelled. “Go find someone else to convert!”
“Look, you say you love your father. Fine. I’d expect that of you. But do you love your mother?”
“She’s dead.”
“I believe she’s waiting for you to accept the message of the Restoration. At least give me five minutes.”
They turned and walked back toward his car. He drove her to the parking lot near her dorm and parked the car. During that time, he tried to decide what to say, praying in his mind for help.
“Sara, you know a lot about the Bible. I want to talk about something that is in the Bible. When Jesus was on the earth, he was not accepted by most people as the Messiah. One of the reasons was that he was from Galilee, but the scriptures testified that the Messiah would come from Bethlehem. Do you agree with me on that?”
“Yes, but he was born in Bethlehem.”
“I know. Hundreds of people rejected him because others, some of them influential and smart men, ‘proved’ that Jesus was not a true messenger. Any one of those people who rejected him could have asked Jesus about the apparent contradiction, and he would have told them that he had been born in Bethlehem.”
“I wouldn’t want to have made that mistake,” she said.
“Sara, don’t reject our message just because someone says that we’re wrong. Study it out. Finish reading the Book of Mormon. Finish the missionary lessons. Pray and ask God if it’s true. That’s all I’ll ever ask. Will you do that much?”
She studied his face carefully for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders and replied, “Okay, I will do that.”
Just before she left him outside the dorm, she reached out and held his hands. “Mark, I think we had better quit seeing each other. I will do as you’ve asked, but I don’t want to feel any pressure to accept your teachings because of my feelings for you. That wouldn’t be honest.”
And so they quit seeing each other except in their sociology class. Mark asked the missionaries after every discussion about her progress. She was having a difficult time.
Sara continued to voice her opposition to some of Dr. Guthrie’s views, but it was in her own way, and many in the class enjoyed seeing Dr. Guthrie systematically destroy her arguments.
Mark inherited the shoe box with references on recipe cards because Sara did not feel comfortable using them, but he had not yet spoken in class. The fear of being laughed at, as he had been when young, prevented him from speaking out. At night he would resolve that tomorrow would be different. He would practice in front of his mirror what he would say. But when morning came, he faltered.
Sara never did falter.
Another month rolled by. As Mark began his fast on Saturday, he decided to pray for help so that he could overcome his fear of speaking. He spent the afternoon in his bedroom praying for help.
Sunday morning, as he drove to priesthood meeting, he was stopped by the state police.
“Could I see your driver’s license?” the officer asked.
“Here it is,” Mark said, pulling it out from his wallet. “Is something wrong?”
“Your back license plate is about to fall off. You better get it fixed before you lose it.”
“Thanks. I’ll take care of it right away.”
After the policeman had left, Mark put his driver’s license back into his wallet. He noticed a small piece of napkin tucked in with the other cards. He pulled it out. There was writing on it—Exodus, chapter 4, verses 10, 11, and 12 [Ex 4:10–12]. He read the scripture while still parked alongside the road.
He saw Sara at church and went with her to the class taught by the missionaries. Near the end of the class, one of the elders asked what her reactions were after learning about the Church.
“It’s been very interesting,” she said lightly. “I think everyone should learn about other beliefs.”
Mark turned to her, “Is that all you can say?”
“What am I supposed to say? I told you my father doesn’t want me to become a Mormon.”
“Is the message true?” Mark asked. “That’s the first question to answer.”
“I love Jesus,” she answered. “Isn’t that enough?”
“How much do you love him? Enough to be baptized into his church? Enough to follow a prophet who receives revelation from Jesus?”
“Mark, when we’re together, why is it that I always end up crying?”
“Sara,” one of the missionaries gently asked, “will you pray and ask God if the Book of Mormon is true?”
She stared at the wall for several seconds. Finally she answered quietly, “I don’t need to ask. It is true. I’ve known that for days.”
“If you know that, will you be baptized?”
“Don’t you understand? I love my father. All he’s ever wanted from life is that I follow in his faith. He doesn’t want me to be a Mormon. It would hurt him deeply, and I’ve already hurt him so much. How can I ask him to let me be baptized?”
Mark placed his hand on her shoulder. “Once you gave me an answer for one of my problems. You told me, ‘Jesus will help you.’ Sara, he’ll help you too.”
On Monday, Mark arrived late and didn’t get to talk to Sara before class. Dr. Guthrie stated that they would discuss changes in the past ten years regarding dating and marriage. He quoted a number of surveys that showed a marked change in these areas.
“Have these changes been healthy?” he asked. “I think they have. The old religious philosophy of damnation for doing what was labeled sin is almost gone, and good riddance.”
Sara objected. “I believe that kind of physical intimacy is reserved for marriage.”
“And who reserved it only for marriage?” Dr. Guthrie asked, obviously baiting her.
“God,” she answered.
“I see,” he said with a smirk that was shared by many in the class. The group of guys on the back row began to boisterously sing “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Dr. Guthrie smiled and asked them to stop.
“Sara, I’m afraid your opinion is fast leaving the contemporary scene. Does anyone else feel the way Sara does?”
Mark knew that he must finally defend his beliefs.
“I do,” he said boldly, standing up to face Dr. Guthrie.
“Oh?” Dr. Guthrie asked, surprised at finding anyone else who would support Sara’s position. “And are you going to quote the Bible too?”
“Dr. Guthrie, I can understand that two people may have an honest difference of opinion, but you have delighted in making Sara look bad. I felt the implication from you that anyone who believes in Christianity is foolish. And I have sat by and let you do it. I should have stood long ago to defend my beliefs, but I didn’t. This is hard for me to do. Is there anyone else in here who has felt uncomfortable with the way Dr. Guthrie has treated Sara?”
A girl’s hand went up. Then another. Slowly, soberly, others raised their hands until there were 15 hands in the air.
“Thank you,” Mark continued. “You seem to take great sport in poking fun at the Bible. Have you ever read the Bible?”
“No. Not completely. I’ve got more important things to do.”
“Is it fair then to say that you are not an authority on the Bible?”
Dr. Guthrie’s smile had disappeared. “Yes.”
“On what basis do you choose to reject a book you’ve never read?”
“That’s beside the point. This is a sociology class.”
“I’ll get to that in a minute, but will you agree that there may be merit to the teachings of the Bible, but Bible study has been outside your area of expertise, and so we may treat your opinions on that subject differently than we might were you to speak about your area of research? Is that a fair statement?”
“Yes,” Dr. Guthrie said grimly.
“Thank you. I’d like to make one small suggestion about your teaching. I can see why you are rated so highly as a teacher. You deserve the tribute you receive. However, I have noticed that you seldom present more than one side of any issue. That to me is not very scholarly.”
Mark wished he had time to write out what he was saying in order to filter it. He was making mistakes, angering Dr. Guthrie, but he had to muddle through as best he could. He felt the sweat pouring down his shirt, and he knew that he was blushing.
“Last week you chose to speak about the legalization of marijuana. The week before we discussed open-coed dorms. In each of these issues your opinion matched that of the majority of the class. Today we will discuss a subject that, when we are through, will end up with you agreeing with the majority of the class that traditional religious sanctions on dating are old-fashioned. I am curious why you have chosen topics upon which you must know beforehand that there will be agreement between you and the class. Is that the price you pay for popularity as a teacher?”
There was utter silence in the room.
Too strong, Mark thought.
“Are you through?” Dr. Guthrie asked curtly.
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I don’t want to change anything in the class except to add a more balanced approach to the topics we discuss. If you would not be offended, I am prepared to present tomorrow an opposing viewpoint to your position concerning the subject of dating standards.”
After class Sara met him in the hall. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “Can we go for a walk?”
It was snowing lightly that morning. Large flakes settled gently on the lawn and trees and her hair.
“I called my dad this morning, and I told him that I loved him, and that I loved my mother—more now than ever before. I told him that Jesus has restored his gospel to the earth. I told him that this church holds the only opportunity that our family can ever have to be united together in heaven. I asked him to give me permission to be baptized. Mark, he said yes.”
He threw his arms around her, lifted her off her feet, and they spun around and around until they both fell down on the snow, laughing, crying, bubbling.
In a few minutes they continued their walk.
“After I talked to my father, I phoned Sister Packard and asked her to help me fill out a form so that someone can be baptized for my mother in the temple.”
“You’ve had a busy morning,” he said.
“We’ve both had a busy morning,” she said, squeezing his hand as they approached the cafeteria. “But you know what? It’s just the beginning of busy mornings and afternoons for both of us.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“This morning, when I phoned the missionaries to tell them I wanted to be baptized, we also talked about something else. Who do we need to contact about setting up an LDS institute program on campus?”

Sam Basnet, baptized in 2009, is also the only member in his family. Doing missionary work at the Oslo center helped him to share the gospel with his relatives when he returned to visit them in Nepal. He told them about the priesthood and the Book of Mormon, having already helped the missionaries teach other people the same principles in Oslo.
“My family wanted to feel the way that I was feeling,” said Brother Basnet. “They had seen the difference between ‘Sam-before’ and ‘Sam-after.’ Before, I had no hope. I was not positive. After my baptism, I used to come into the center and everything was higher than before.”

When we consistently study the scriptures, it can change not only our perspective, but also the way we deal with problems. At the end of an especially tiring day, Susan Wyman of Canton, Georgia, was preparing dinner while balancing her baby on her hip and trying to entertain her active three-year-old. In the midst of the confusion, her toddler pulled a carton off the counter, splattering eggs all over the newly scrubbed floor. Sister Wyman says her normal reaction would have been anger—but this time she noticed the shock and remorse on her son’s face. She knew that he had not made the mess intentionally. She was able to calmly clean up and cope with his awkward attempts to help.
“Even as I did this,” she remembers, “I wondered where my patience had come from. The Spirit let me know that it was because I had risen that morning and studied the scriptures.”

“You don’t have to be a child to enjoy the activities in the children’s section of the Liahona,” says Martha Mabel Martínez of the Caleta Olivia Ward, Comodoro Rivadavia Argentina Stake. “Our family consists of my father, my mother, and me—their grown daughter. It used to be very difficult for us to hold family home evening, but ever since we started using the children’s section, everything has improved—especially the good spirit we feel when we’re together. Sometimes other members of our family just happen to come by, and they participate too and are just as enthusiastic about family home evening as we are.”

After a walk along a dirt road to the bus stop, followed by a long bus ride, followed by a subway ride, I was happy to get on the streetcar. It was my first Sunday morning in Vienna, Austria, where I was staying for the summer, and I was looking forward to going to church. I felt a sense of relief when I noticed a sign on a small building with the words: “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Visitors welcome.” I clutched both my English and German scriptures tightly as I entered the building. I followed the sound of hymns to the chapel and sat at the end of a bench.
After the hymn, an opening prayer was given, but I didn’t understand much of it. Then the man I assumed was the bishop addressed the congregation. Few of his words made any sense to me. Suddenly I felt conspicuous as I sat alone. I felt lost and hopeless.
I blinked back tears. Then, one of the men got on his knees and began to bless the sacrament. The words were in German, but I knew what was being said, and the message was clear and powerful. As I listened to the promise that we can “always have His Spirit,” I was filled with peace.
As I sat in a small chapel surrounded by people, a city, and a language that were all foreign to me, I savored the familiarity of the sacrament. I felt a sense of belonging. I knew that the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and the Church unite us, and the comfort and blessings of the gospel are available to all, no matter where we may be.

Amy Roberts, 15, of the Warwick Ward, Perth Dianella Stake, is a descendant of the Nyunghas, the original inhabitants of the southwest part of Western Australia. Aboriginals make up less than 2 percent of the Australian population. Amy has received recognition for the play she wrote, entitled The Bird, which is based on themes from aboriginal folklore, combined with gospel teachings.
“By combining the two, I can pass on to other teenagers messages about strengthening family ties, obeying the Word of Wisdom, and maintaining spiritual values to overcome the pressures of living in the world today,” Amy says. The Aboriginal Youth Theater Group of Western Australia is planning on producing Amy’s play sometime this year.
Amy is a Theater Arts student at Girrawheen Senior High, a Perth performing arts school. In addition to her award-winning theatric skills, she gets high marks in English and art, is a basketball referee, and coaches a team of 10–12-year-old boys.
What most people don’t know about Amy is that she was born hearing impaired. This has not kept her from full participation in just about anything she chooses. Amy is currently studying for university entrance exams, and is planning a career as an anthropologist.

Eleven-year-old Beth Burroughs pulled the reins gently but firmly to the right and guided her horse, Ebony, down the side of a rocky dry wash. The homemade wreath of flowers she had slung over the saddle horn bounced as she maneuvered her animal down the little zigzagging ravine. By taking this route, Beth would save herself a good mile and a half of riding time on the road. She had to get to Heaven’s Gate Cemetery and back home so that she could help her mother with the wash.

The predawn light had turned the mist that hung over Hampton Lake into silver lace as Beth galloped along its south shore. Her horse was starting to show signs of strain, so she decided to pull up and let him rest.

Looping the reins about a large dead limb that protruded from other woody shore rubble, Beth knelt at the water’s edge and gazed at her rippled, distorted reflection. If it had been someone’s first view of her, she thought, she would have been as badly misrepresented as Rebecca had been.

Ebony lifted his dark head, shook his mane, and went back to drinking. Beth gazed fondly at him a moment, then her eyes returned to the rippling water. She remembered her father talking about the worth of the individual soul, about how each person that ever was, is, or ever would be is a child of God and therefore special in his or her own way. He said that no one should judge anybody else by appearance because his character, like his soul, is inside and can only really be seen by Heavenly Father.

But somehow, Beth painfully recalled, her father’s teachings had been hard to put into practice whenever Rebecca was around—until the day of the field mouse. …

Ebony lifted his head again, his thirst now satisfied. Beth lingered a minute or two, watching her reflection clear and sharpen in the settling water. Then she remounted Ebony and continued down the road.

Mr. Flannagan chugged by in his Model T, waving and honking as he traveled in the opposite direction. Such a noisy, happy machine, Beth thought, then decided she was wrong. Machines might be noisy, all right, but they didn’t have feelings. People could feel happy. She had been happy, very happy in the time she had spent with Rebecca after the day of the mouse’s burial. Beth had made more and more visits to the yellow house on Banberry Road. She and Rebecca had helped Sister Johnson bake cookies, walked the fence in the big grassy field just down from Tucker’s Mill, and lain on their backs, watching the clouds sail wildly by in the yellow sky.
Rebecca had a smile for everyone, a smile, Beth was sure, that could light up the world. She was like a little child. But had not the Savior Himself taught that “of such is the kingdom of heaven”? Beth hadn’t minded the funny looks some of her old friends gave her every now and again after she became friends with Rebecca. Her real friends respected her for her feelings. Besides, she knew Heavenly Father approved, and He was her most valued friend.

As Beth’s horse clip-clopped past the bright red covered bridge a half mile from Heaven’s Gate Cemetery, she couldn’t help but think about Rebecca’s death a year ago. Rebecca had disappeared into a neighbor’s burning house and lowered a small child out a window into someone’s waiting arms just before a section of roof collapsed on her, burying her beneath the fiery timbers.

Beth laid the homemade wreath of flowers on Rebecca’s grave. A couple of minutes later she again climbed onto Ebony’s back and rode out of Heaven’s Gate.

The sun seemed to perch on top of the mesa as horse and rider turned up the little treelined path toward home.

“Did you have a good ride, honey?” Beth’s father asked as he stepped from the barn, leading a plow horse.
“Sure did,” Beth replied, walking her horse toward him. “There’s a lot to see when the sun comes up. First you see a little of this, then a little of that. Pretty soon everything is all lit up as pretty as can be. As pretty as a good memory. As pretty as Rebecca Johnson.”

This was well illustrated in my father’s patriarchal blessing. He was told in his blessing that he would be blessed with “many beautiful daughters.” He and my mother became the parents of five sons. There were no daughters born to them, but of course they treated the wives of their sons as daughters. This last summer when we had a family reunion, I saw my father’s granddaughters moving about tending to the food and ministering to the young children and the elderly, and the realization came to me that father’s blessing had been literally fulfilled; he has, indeed, many beautiful daughters. The patriarch who gave my father his blessing had spiritual vision to see beyond this life. There was a disappearance of the dividing line between time and eternity.

It was 10 minutes until show time.
Piles of fake snow covered the stage. Shiny ornaments sparkled. It was the annual Christmas show, and Charlotte was the star. Well, that’s what Mom told her. But Charlotte knew the star of the show doesn’t stand in the second row of the choir.
She would’ve been the star if the director had given her the big solo.
Near the end of the show, one singer got to sing a song all by herself. Charlotte had wanted to sing that solo more than anything. But she didn’t get to. Brianna did. And it just wasn’t fair. Everyone said Brianna had a beautiful voice, but Charlotte didn’t think Brianna sounded that good.
Charlotte plopped down next to Anne, Stacey, and Jenny. They all wore the same glittery green dresses. Charlotte thought that together they looked like a giant Christmas wreath.
“Brianna is so lucky,” Anne was saying. “They’re going to have all the spotlights on her.”
Charlotte wished they were talking about her. That she was the one in the spotlights.
“She looks kinda nervous,” Stacey said. “Maybe she’ll pass out!”
They all giggled.
“I don’t know why she got the solo,” Charlotte said. “She can’t even sing that well.”
As soon as she said it, Charlotte felt guilty. She knew she shouldn’t say mean things about anyone. But she liked the way her friends grinned at her. They had all wanted Brianna’s solo too.
Just then, their choir director swept in. “Places!” she called. “It’s show time!”
They followed her to the stage, and the show began.
Charlotte was surprised at how much fun she had. She liked singing—even from the second row. And she had to admit, Brianna did a great job. But when the show was over, she saw Brianna run from the stage.
Was she crying?
Charlotte remembered what she had said about Brianna and felt guilty again. But Brianna hadn’t heard, so it didn’t matter, right?
So why was Brianna crying?
“I’ve gotta tell you something.” Stacey grabbed Charlotte’s hand and pulled her into the changing room. “Jenny told Brianna you said she’s a bad singer.”
Charlotte felt like a lump of coal dropped into her stomach. Maybe that’s why Brianna was crying. Oh no. She hurried out of the room.
Charlotte hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. She was just talking! Why would Jenny tell Brianna? It was all Jenny’s fault!
But that wasn’t true. Charlotte knew she shouldn’t have said what she did.
Charlotte felt sick. She wanted to go home. Maybe she could just avoid Brianna. Forever.
She sighed. She knew what she had to do.
Charlotte walked outside. She saw Brianna with her family. It looked like she was still crying. Charlotte really didn’t want to face them all, but this was the right thing to do. She prayed for help and walked toward them.
“Brianna, can I talk to you?”
Everyone looked at Charlotte. They didn’t look very happy to see her, but Brianna nodded and followed Charlotte.
“Brianna, I know Jenny told you what I said, and I’m sorry,” Charlotte said.
“It was mean,” Brianna said, looking down.
“I know. And it wasn’t true. You’re a great singer,” Charlotte said. “Can you forgive me?”
Brianna smiled a little. “Do you think I did OK?”
Charlotte nodded. “You were amazing! The star of the show!”
She gave Brianna a hug before she went to find her family. Charlotte looked back to see Brianna smiling.
“Hey, Charlotte!” Brianna yelled as she got into her car. “Merry Christmas!”
Charlotte smiled. Heavenly Father had answered her prayer. Her guilty, jealous feelings were replaced with happiness that sparkled as bright as any star.

I had always planned to go on a mission. In the spring of 1950, I was eighteen and finishing my sophomore year at the University of Utah. I was studying for my final tests when my father, who was also my bishop, came into my room and asked me, “Are you ready to go on your mission?”

I said, “Yes, Dad, I am.”

He asked, “Is your life in order?”

I said, “Yes, it is.”

“Good,” he said. “You’ll leave in two months.”

I immediately submitted my papers and soon received my call from President George Albert Smith. Before I reached the British Isles Mission two months later, the Korean War had started and there were restrictions on the number of young men who could serve missions. If I had waited to go, I might not have been able to serve a mission.

I was busy gathering my things after teaching a Mia Maid lesson, and my husband, Garry, stood in the back of the room holding our one-year-old boy. Our three-year-old son, Zach, slipped past us into the crowded hall and followed someone toward the meetinghouse doors. Because my husband and I each thought the other had Zach, it took us a few minutes to realize he was missing.
Just as we realized he was gone, Zach appeared at the end of the hall. But something was wrong. His cheeks were red, he had tears streaming down his face, and he was clutching his right hand. Our bishop, who was ushering him toward us, looked concerned. A pit of guilt settled in my stomach. My son had gotten hurt, and I hadn’t been there to help him.
The bishop had heard Zach’s urgent cries and had hurried to his aid. Zach’s predicament was immediately clear, but the solution was not. His fingers had become wedged between the heavy outer door and its frame. Opening or closing the door only exacerbated the injury; the swing of the door further pinched his fingers and pulled his hand, causing significant pain.
As the bishop and a couple in the ward frantically tried to figure out how they could release Zach’s fingers, a brother from another ward that met in our building saw what was happening. He took a screwdriver from his pocket and inserted it into the space between the door and its frame. Then, using the screwdriver as a lever, he widened the gap enough to release Zach.
Amid sighs of relief, the brother explained that as he prepared for Sunday services that morning, he experienced what seemed like an odd prompting to bring a screwdriver to church. The impression was so strong and clear that he slipped the tool into the pocket of his dress pants.
This kind act of service resulting from heavenly inspiration touched me deeply and filled my heart with gratitude. Heavenly Father was watching over my three-year-old boy and prompted a good brother to respond.

When a single adult friend of mine moved to a new geographic ward where he did not know anyone, his way of creating a community of faith was through service. He actively volunteered for elders quorum projects, from helping people move to assisting older members. As he did, he was able to get to know the members of his quorum and the people they were serving—both members and neighbors. He shared his faith and developed friendships with his new community.

President Russell M. Nelson taught that we should “learn to listen, and listen to learn from one another.”3 As you listen with the intent of learning about others, you will be in a better position to understand their needs and hear promptings about how you can care for those around you as the Savior would.

A story from Elder Holland illustrates the power of listening:
“My friend Troy Russell pulled his pickup truck slowly out of his garage. … He felt his back tire roll over a bump. … He got out only to find his precious nine-year-old son, Austen, lying face down on the pavement. … Austen was gone.
“Unable to sleep, unable to find peace, Troy was inconsolable. … But into that agonizing breach came … John Manning. …
“I frankly don’t know on what schedule John and his junior companion made visits to the Russell home. … What I do know is that last spring Brother Manning reached down and picked Troy Russell up off the tragedy of that driveway just as if he were picking up little Austen himself. Like the … brother in the gospel he was supposed to be, John simply took over the priesthood care and keeping of Troy Russell. He started by saying, ‘Troy, Austen wants you back on your feet—including on the basketball court—so I will be here every morning at 5:15 a.m. Be ready. …’
“‘I didn’t want to go,’ Troy told me later, ‘because I had always taken Austen with me. … But John insisted, so I went. From that first day back, we talked—or rather I talked and John listened. … At first it was difficult, but over time I realized I had found my strength in the form of [John Manning], who loved me and listened to me until the sun finally rose again on my life.’”4