Gospel Story Finder

Later in my life, I was preparing to leave college and I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do. I went to a meeting where information was given on several different kinds of work. I got excited about printing and decided that I wanted to be a printer. I made an application and was offered a position with a printing company. I had a vision in my mind of being in charge of a big printing press.
On the first day of work, I was delighted when the supervisor took me to a very large machine that was printing in two colors. I thought he was going to say to me, “This is your machine.” I didn’t realize how much training I would need to perform that responsibility. The supervisor assigned me to work with the man in charge of that machine, which I did for six months. All I did that six months was move the paper to be printed on into the machine.
After that, I was put on another machine, and I worked with somebody else. Then I was assigned to a third machine, which was a handfed machine. That means that I “fed” each sheet of paper into the machine by hand. I could do that because by that time I had learned to handle paper well.
A few weeks later, the supervisor came up to me and said, “We feel that you have come to the point where you can be in charge of this machine.”
I was excited. This machine put glazing on the labels that were used for a very popular product in the United Kingdom.
The supervisor said to me, “Before I leave you in charge, you need to spend a little while longer developing your skill. There are a few more things that you need to know.” He stood by me while I was feeding paper into this machine and said, “There is one special thing you need to know—you need to listen for a particular sound. It’s sort of a clicking sound.”
The noise of the machine running with its gears rolling, along with the noise of twenty-five other machines, made it difficult to distinguish sounds, but I confidently said, “Yes, I hear that.” I thought that I was hearing what he was describing.
He said, “That’s all you need to know. As long as you can recognize that, you’ll be fine.”
He left, and I fed the paper into the machine for forty-five minutes. Suddenly the machine came to a grinding halt, making an incredible noise. All sorts of parts were knocking together. The other workers came running to see what had happened.
My supervisor came back and said, “Did you hear the sound?”
I said, “I thought I did.”
He said, “Let’s clean the machine up.” There was paper on the rollers and the cogs, and it took us about thirty minutes to clean up the machine. When he turned the machine on, he said, “Listen, there’s a sort of clicking sound. That’s the best way I can describe it. Can you hear it?”
I listened and just heard all the same noises that I’d heard before, but I said, “Yes.”
He said, “Fine.”
About thirty minutes later, the same thing happened. The supervisor said to me, “You can clean the machine by yourself this time.”
It took me over an hour to clean the paper off the rollers and out of the cogs and get the machine ready to run.
The supervisor came back and stood beside me and asked again, “Can you hear the clicking sound?”
Suddenly, above all the other sounds, I heard a sound that I hadn’t heard before, and the best way I could describe it was that it was a sort of clicking sound. The supervisor explained to me that the sound was made when the paper separated from the printing plate. The sound was determined by the consistency of the gloss that was glazing the paper.
If that sound changed, it meant that the gloss was getting too thick and too tacky. And when that happened, the paper would jam up in the grippers, causing a big pileup of paper that stopped the machine. Once I discovered that sound, I could fix the consistency of the gloss, and my machine never stopped again unless I myself turned it off.

When I was a recent convert and living in Colombia, a very special family from my ward invited me to family home evening. It was the first time I had attended home evening, and the spirit of love and faith I found there surprised me.
Once everyone had gathered together, we had a prayer and then shared what we had done during the past week. After we talked, we had an activity.
With the lights turned off, we wrote certain phrases onto colored paper hearts. When we had all finished, we turned on the lights and displayed what we’d written. Some had done not so well, some terribly, and others like me wrote with much difficulty; I think my writing was the worst of all. Of course, the lesson was very clear: when we don’t have the light of the gospel in our lives, everything looks dark, is distorted, and difficult.
This lesson reached me deeply. And in the years since that day, I have tried to ensure my life has taken a course filled with gospel light especially so that I can be an example to my children.
Dina del Pilar Maestre, California, USA

I never knew that winning a championship baseball game could make me so miserable. Well, actually, winning the game felt great. It wasn’t until afterward that I began to feel miserable. Coach announced that the regional play-off was just five days away. On Sunday!

Until a few weeks ago, it wouldn’t have mattered to me what day the play-off was. Then Mom and I began meeting with the LDS missionaries, and we liked what they were teaching us. We were even reading the Book of Mormon. We had talked about keeping the Sabbath holy, and I didn’t think that playing in ball games—even regional play-offs—was doing that. But how I wanted to play in that game!

Dad and Mom ran to meet me on the diamond. They were as excited about the victory as I had been at first. "Son, you were fantastic out there!" Dad crowed.

"I knew you’d do it, Kimball!" Then Mom looked at me closely and asked if I was OK.

Dad answered for me. "Sure. He’s fine—just a little tired after a game like that. What he needs now is some celebrating. How about going to the Palace for a pizza?"

I didn’t worry about the game for the rest of the evening—no one worries about anything when Dad is around. If I ever want to be cheered up, I go to him. But if I ever need help with problems, Mom is the one I talk to.

While waiting for our pizza, Dad "interviewed" me. Picking up a breadstick, he pointed it at me, saying, "Don’t be afraid of the microphone, young man. Speak right into it and describe exactly how you made that fantastic catch."

That night, when Mom came in to say good night, all my concerns returned.

"All right, Kimball, out with it. Something happened at the baseball game, didn’t it?"

"Coach told us that regional play-offs are this Sunday—when we talk with the elders." Dad had agreed to let us meet with the elders as long as we did it on Sundays, and in the front room (so that we would be out of his way). To Dad, church or anything religious was for Sunday. He didn’t want it interfering with the rest of the week.

Mom sat down on my bed. "What’s on your mind?"

"Well, would it be wrong for me to play that one game?" I hit my pillow. "I just don’t know what to do. Could the elders tell me?"

Mom looked thoughtful. Then she said, "Kimball, I’m glad you care so much about doing what’s right." She asked me to read 1 Nephi 16:17–32 [1 Ne. 16:17–32] and discuss it with her in the morning.

The next morning after Dad left for work, I helped Mom clean up the breakfast dishes. "Kimball, what did you get out of those verses?" she asked.

"Well, one time Lehi and his family were traveling in the wilderness and needed food. Nephi was hunting and broke his bow, and since his brothers’ bows were broken, too, he made himself a new one."

"Then what did he do?"

"He didn’t know where he should go to hunt, so he asked his father, Lehi." All of a sudden I knew what Mom was getting at, and it scared me. "You think I should ask Dad about playing ball on the Sabbath?" I wasn’t sure he even knew what the Sabbath was!

"Why not, Kimball? He’s your father, the head of our family."

"Mom, that worked for Nephi—his dad was a prophet. But Dad doesn’t know anything about religious stuff."

Mom got out the Book of Mormon. "Kimball, read verse 20 to me." She pointed. "This part."

"‘… and also my father began to murmur against the Lord his God,’" I read.

"So even Lehi was complaining. Does that sound like the way a prophet, or a father, should act?"

I shook my head.

"But Nephi went to him anyway and asked him where to hunt. And you know what? Lehi was sorry for complaining and for not behaving like the head of the family should. He repented and made himself worthy to get an answer from the Lord so that he could give Nephi an answer."

Then I saw that to my mom, this wasn’t just about playing ball on Sunday. It was about trying to help Dad begin to change—like Nephi had helped his father to get back on track. When the missionaries had talked to us about the plan of salvation and temples and sealing and things like that, Mom’s eyes had been shiny with tears. Now I realized just how much she wanted Dad to be a part of it. I wanted it too. "OK, Mom. I’ll give it a try."

I still wanted to talk to the elders, though, so I called Elder Adams and told him my problem and what Mom had said. He just told me what a wise mom I had. Since he wasn’t going to tell me what to do, I had to gather my courage and ask Dad.

That night after supper, as Mom headed for the kitchen to get dessert, she looked straight at me. I took a deep breath. "Dad?"

"Aye, me mate," he answered in his best Australian accent, which didn’t make it any easier to get serious.

"My championship game is coming up, you know, and I’m wondering if I should, well, maybe not play in it." Dad looked shocked, so I hurried and added, "Well, it’s on the Sabbath—I mean, Sunday—and I don’t know what to do."

"Ah, a spiritual matter. Have you talked to your mother?" he asked, a little amused.

"She said I should get your advice."

"Oh? What about those two young men? Isn’t that what they’re for—to solve the world’s problems? Did you talk to them?"

"Yes. They said I should talk to you, the head of our family." I was sort of embarrassed to say that last part, but I thought it might help to point it out to him.

Dad was quiet. Finally, pulling the water pitcher to him, he stared at it and said, "Let’s take a look in our trusty crystal ball. Now, to play? Or not to play?" He studied the pitcher for a long time. "The crystal is cloudy. Maybe I need to change the water or something." He shrugged. "Sorry, son. I just don’t know. Talk to Mom about it again. Here she comes now, with an awesome dessert."

That was the end of our talk, the talk that was going to help me make my decision and to bring us closer together as a family. Dad had joked his way through it. I managed to keep back the tears of disappointment and embarrassment until I got to my room. Then I prayed. It helped some to ask Heavenly Father to help me not be mad at Dad and to know about playing on Sunday.

Mom came to my room before I went to sleep. She tried to comfort me, but she was as disappointed as I was. When I told her that I had decided not to play the game, she felt a little better. I didn’t, exactly.

The next morning, I told the coach that I wouldn’t be playing in the game because it was on Sunday. I could tell that he didn’t agree or even understand. But on the way home, I had a nice, peaceful feeling and I knew that I had made the right choice.

None of us mentioned the game again until Sunday morning. Dad looked out the window and commented on what a perfect day it was for a game. But he didn’t do his usual weatherman imitation.

That day at church, I figured the elders would ask me about my decision, but I didn’t see them at the meetings.

Pulling into our driveway after church, we saw their bikes in front of our house. Before, whenever they beat us home, they waited for us on the porch. But they weren’t there. We walked in and heard voices—not from the front room, our usual place, but from the family room. Dad was with the missionaries! On the end tables were scriptures, pamphlets, pictures, and glasses of lemonade.

As Mom joined Dad on the sofa, he squeezed her hand, smiled, then looked at me. "The other night, Kimball, you gave me the shock of my life by asking for my opinion on Sabbath ballplaying. I was caught off guard. I felt bad that you wanted spiritual advice and I couldn’t give you any. I responded the only way I knew how, by joking. I apologize, son."

Dad paused. I’d never heard him speak this long without cracking a joke.

"I figured that the elders could solve your problems easier than I could, so I was even more surprised when you said that they told you to come to me. Then, when I realized that they cared more about helping our family than gaining converts, I was impressed."

Elder Adams interrupted. "Your wife gave Kimball that counsel first, sir."

Dad looked at her in surprise.

"It was something I picked up from Lehi and Nephi in the Book of Mormon," Mom said, winking at me.

"Well," Dad went on, "when I saw that this church wants to build me up as the father in the home, I decided to hear what they have to say. That’s when I called these two young cyclists and caught them before they took off for the ‘Tour de France.’"

Mom spoke up, "Why don’t we continue this discussion over some lasagna. It’s in the oven, just waiting for us." Eagerly we started for the kitchen.

As I set the table, I thought about Dad calling the elders and about his apology, and I thought, Dad might have some Lehi in him, after all.

Then I started thinking about Lehi and his family. They had a hard life in the wilderness. I wondered if Lehi ever joked around with them, just to help make their lives a little happier. Dad would have done that, I thought. Grabbing a breadstick, I spoke into it. "Listen, everyone. I want you to meet my dad—a modern-day Lehi!"

The little girl’s black hair was as shiny as patent leather, and her bright ebony eyes seemed to hardly ever blink. She was always so busy examining something, turning it upside down or inside out, that blinking seemed a waste of time.
Lynette Wood was her name, but she preferred being called Ettenyl. People laughed and nodded tolerantly at one another. And her mother humored her when she remembered to, which wasn’t very often. “What’s that you said your name was?” she would ask. Why couldn’t they remember? Lynette wondered, then decided that there was nothing to be done except to answer to both names. Once in a while even Lynette forgot, especially when she was involved with turning something inside out.
“Lynette! Lynette! I’ve called you to supper five times! If I have to call again, I’m going to give your share to the dog!” her mother threatened.
“You didn’t call me by my name,” Ettenyl muttered, but she hurried inside, anyway.
The little girl was usually happy. Her mother let her take clocks apart, and she laughed when Ettenyl made sand buckets into hats. When she built towers that tottered on one small block with six across the top, her father said that she was smart. Every time she turned around to look, the shapes of things changed. If she walked backward and watched, the trees changed colors and got smaller.
When the leaves grew scarlet and her mother said, “Lynette, it’s time for you to go to school,” Ettenyl was excited and a little scared.
Her teacher, Miss Morris, had beautiful, flowing, golden hair. It fell across her eyes, and great blue circles peered through like discs on a magic screen. Ettenyl was so enchanted that she forgot to answer a question that the teacher had asked her. The teacher frowned and pushed away the golden curtain. Her voice slashed at the little girl. Ettenyl’s stomach tightened up and tried to run away inside her body. She caught her stomach and sat very still with her hands pressed against it.
The next day Ettenyl was determined to do better. She labored hard over the paper, printing her name. Try as she might, she could not get the pencil to make the lovely round circles. Finally she got all the letters copied. She was the last one to finish, but her last letter was the best circle that she had ever made.
“That’s very good, Lynette,” her teacher said, “but this last letter isn’t quite right. Your last name is Wood.” The teacher pointed to Ettenyl’s “perfect” little circle and said, “You have written Woob.” She corrected it with a big, red mark.
Ettenyl’s stomach revolted. She sat still and tight.
The teacher held out a pencil and said, “Please write the d correctly at the end of your name.”
Ettenyl couldn’t move; her hands were stiff from holding her stomach.
“Lynette, please take the pencil.”
She took the pencil and drew a straight line.
“Good. Now put the circle on it.”
Ettenyl bit her lip, and she managed to draw a squarish circle.
“No, Lynette. That’s a b. Your name ends with a d, like this.” The teacher demonstrated.
Ettenyl spent the rest of the week trying to do it right. But each time that she tried, Miss Morris looked so disappointed that Ettenyl started to cry, and the children teased her about it on the playground.
The following week Miss Morris asked Ettenyl’s mother to come to school for a conference after classes were over.
“Don’t look like that, Lynette,” her mother said. “I’m just going to talk with her. Lots of parents visit with their children’s teachers at school.”
Ettenyl went home and waited and waited. Just when she thought that she couldn’t stand it any longer, she noticed the rocket plane that she had made the day before. She had tossed it into the air to make it fly, and now it leaned at a rakish angle against the table leg. Suddenly she had an idea. If she removed the tips of the wings, turned the body on end, and stuck the wings on the bottom, it would be a robot. She was so engrossed with her project that she didn’t notice when her mother came home.
Every night after that, Ettenyl’s mother helped her read and write. Sometimes it took so long that her mother bit her lip angrily. Ettenyl’s stomach hurt, and she hated going to school. The letters floated like the noodles in her alphabet soup. She burst into tears.
“Lynette! Stop crying! You can’t do anything if you cry!” Her mother was cross. Ettenyl cried louder. “Why are you crying?”
“I can’t read. I’m stupid!” she blubbered soggily.
“Oh, Lynette, you’re not stupid. Reading is very hard work,” her mother comforted her.
“You’re mad at me.”
“I’m impatient. Being patient is hard work for me just like reading is hard work for you.”
Ettenyl had an idea. “If you have to help me read, then I can help you to be patient,” she offered.
“That’s a good idea!” her mother agreed.
They worked and worked and worked, and finally Ettenyl put the letters in the right order, even though she knew that there were other ways to see them. After reading, Ettenyl turned her toys inside out. She learned to make one toy into a helicopter, a boat, and even a funny-looking person.
“That’s wonderful!” her mother laughed. “What is it?”
“It’s a ‘twistup.’ I can twist it all up—see?”
As Ettenyl grew up, she invented more twistups, and she became a famous toy maker by turning things inside out and upside down for happy children. Grown-up Ettenyl called herself Lynette and almost forgot her old name. Eventually she married and had a fine son, Kevin, who had shiny black hair and bright eyes that almost never blinked. She read him stories and turned him upside down until he squealed with delight. One day she took Kevin river-rafting. They loved bouncing and swirling in the rushing water, but no matter how she tried, they always went through the biggest rapids backward.
“I can’t see where we’re going,” Kevin complained.
“That’s the way Ettenyl would do it,” his mother answered.
“Who?” he asked.
She just smiled mysteriously and said, “Wasn’t it fun that way? Hold on tight!”
They laughed together as they swooshed backward through another wall of foamy water.

A little red truck slowed to make the turn into the school yard of the Wyoming Indian High School on the Wind River Reservation. It kicked up a trail of dust as it crossed the parking lot. A young girl was driving.
Could she be the one I was waiting to meet?
All I knew was her name—Ann Abeita.
Ann’s brother James had called to tell me what great things she was doing her last year in high school—elected president of the student council; chosen by her teachers as Student of the Year; selected as Eastern Shoshone Powwow Queen and Ethete Powwow Queen; invited to testify before Congress; named by the other contestants as Miss Congeniality in the Miss Indian World competition; plus the usuals like playing varsity basketball and volleyball, attending seminary, and participating in most of the clubs at school.
The little truck pulled up beside me and the girl glanced over. She was very pretty with black hair cut in a style that enhanced the wave in her hair. Then came a smile. It was a smile fit for a Miss Congeniality. It was Ann.
Ann Abeita and her brother George are the two youngest in their family and live with their mother and stepfather in Fort Washakie on the Wind River Reservation in central Wyoming. Their brother James is serving a mission in the California Ventura Mission, and their sister Cornessa is attending Ricks College. Other older brothers and sister are married and living nearby.
Ann and her brothers and sisters are descendants of Chief Washakie, a great Shoshone chief who knew Brigham Young, joined the Church, and introduced the gospel to his people. Ann says, “A lot of our people still talk about him and how he led the Shoshone people, especially in the Church, because a lot of people were baptized.”
After we talked for a moment, Ann suggested that I follow her home, where we could talk. She jumped into the little red truck and drove out onto the long, straight road that traverses the valley. The Wind River Reservation is in a beautiful location. It is a valley ringed by purple mountains with a fringe of snow. There are fields of hay and horse pastures. Among the neat ranch houses, I saw one lodge, or teepee, set up in someone’s backyard. I had to smile. There was a satellite dish right next to it.
The little red truck slowed down and turned through the gates of a small cemetery. Ann pointed to a large headstone with the name Chief Washakie carved prominently in the granite. An additional phrase simply said, “Chief of the Shoshone.” This was Ann’s great-great-grandfather.
In addition to Chief Washakie, Ann’s family is also related to one of the most famous Indian women in history, Sacajawea, who helped guide Lewis and Clark in their explorations of the American Northwest.
Even with such illustrious ancestors, Ann and George are much like teenagers anywhere in the Church. They are concerned about doing well in school, staying close to Church teachings, and being with their friends.
But Ann, because of her school leadership responsibilities, has had to juggle her schedule to accommodate the demands on her time. She even has to find a way to turn down a date to go to the movies without hurting any feelings because she’s got a previous commitment to talk to a reporter—me. Whenever the phone rings, she races to answer it, and it is usually for her.
When George walked in with earphones on, I asked what he was listening to. He said, “Michael Jackson.” He has a set of barbells that he uses to try to build his muscles, and early in the morning the rhythmic thump, thump of the basketball on the driveway announces that George is taking a few shots before catching the bus for school.
Ann has learned the value of education from her older brother James and from her mother, Zedora. She maintains high grades and has been awarded a leadership scholarship to Brigham Young University, where she plans to major in business management. Great-great-grandfather Washakie would have been pleased.
In many ways, Ann and George are like most teenagers, but when they get dressed in their native costumes and participate in Indian dancing contests at local powwows, it’s like going back in time. Both Ann and George are skilled and often win or place in the dancing competitions. They move to the rhythm of the drums just as their ancestors did. They respect the old ways and are sensitive to the beauty of the land and the feeling of their people.
Ann loves her home valley. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.” The valley is a legacy given to the Shoshones by Chief Washakie. He has the distinction of being one of the few Indian chiefs that were allowed to choose the location of the reservation set aside for his tribe. He would like the fact that his great-great-granddaughter feels the same love for the valley as he did.
Even though the Wind River Reservation is beautiful, there are problems. One of the big problems facing Indian youth is a lack of summer jobs, but Ann has found a solution for herself. She gets involved and stays busy with worthwhile activities. “I really like summers. They are fun for me. I like going to the rodeos and the powwows where there is Indian dancing. But for those that don’t have an outfit or who aren’t interested in Indian dancing, there isn’t very much to do.”
Dressed in her traditional beaded buckskin dress, with its knee-length necklace and colorful shawl, her hair braided with fur strips, Ann tries to maintain a dignified, perhaps even somber expression that seems in keeping with the way she is dressed, but her natural exuberance is more than she can control. She can’t help but smile.
Yet there is nothing frivolous about Ann. She has faced some of the most powerful men in the country in a congressional hearing, has spoken freely about the problems youth on the reservations face, and has impressed many with her clear thinking and eloquent speech. Great-great-grandfather Washakie would have been proud.
Ann was chosen to go to Washington, D.C. to testify in a congressional hearing on the merits of an Indian Alcohol and Drug Prevention Act. She and another boy from the Wind River Reservation were asked to speak to the senators and congressmen. Ann said about that experience, “When I was in Washington, I was sitting there listening to the other representatives, who were all my age. They were prepared, but they didn’t really speak up. It was hard to hear them. When I got up there, I made sure I spoke up. I was honest, and I spoke from my heart. When they asked me if I had any more to say, I had a lot more. I was really honest. It was on television and on the news. A lot of the people saw it, and they were upset by some of the things I said. I think the parents know how bad the problems with drinking in my high school are, but they don’t want to face the truth.”
For Ann the problems faced by some of her fellow students are very real. “I bet if I wasn’t Mormon, it would be really hard. There is so much peer pressure. Sometimes they try to make the parties with drinking sound real fun, but to me it sounds childish. Being a member of the branch helps because we always have activities. With that and with student council and with other clubs, I really keep myself busy. I just wish other students would get involved because they always say it’s so boring, but they don’t get involved.”
As I sat talking with Ann about the things that mean the most to her, I sensed her strength of conviction. This girl really means what she says and has her mind made up to live what she believes. Ann is becoming the kind of leader her great-great-grandfather was. She sees clearly what is good for herself, her family, and her people.
Ann was a little worried about her graduation night. She and George and two of their friends were the only ones she knew of who were not going to a graduation party. They had chosen not to go because they were quite sure that there would be drinking at the parties. Even though Ann is president of the student body, she would not give up her principles for that night or any other.
Ann tries to teach her friends more about the Church. “My friends admire me for not drinking and would like to do the same, but they are afraid of being different. I’m not afraid of being different. When I try to teach my friends about the Book of Mormon, they know that it’s true. But when I ask if they want to be baptized, they say they would if there wasn’t the Word of Wisdom. It makes me mad.”
As I was leaving Fort Washakie, I stopped at the trading post to look at some of the beautiful beadwork that the Shoshones are known for. As I was trying to decide which of the colorful strings of beads I wanted to buy, the saleslady came over and asked if she could help me find something. I asked her if she knew Ann Abeita.
Her face lit up when she said what everyone I talked to on my visit seemed to say, “Oh, yes, I know Ann. She’s a wonderful girl.”

Oliver Granger was accustomed to having the authority to get things done. Before joining the Church in the 1830s, he had been a county sheriff, a colonel in the militia, and a licensed exhorter in his church. After joining, he served two missions and was a member of the Kirtland high council. But then Joseph Smith gave Oliver the almost impossible task of settling the business affairs of Church leaders who had been driven out of Kirtland.4
Feeling like a failure, Oliver went to Joseph and heard the Lord say, “I remember my servant Oliver Granger; … and when he falls he shall rise again, for his sacrifice shall be more sacred unto me than his increase” (D&C 117:12–13). From Oliver, we learn that the result God is looking for is not always for us to come up with the right solution to our challenges, but for us to grow from facing them.

Angie Miller is on the volleyball and softball teams. She can encourage the younger students to keep trying even though it can get discouraging. “When I started playing volleyball, I wasn’t very good. I sat on the bench a lot. Then things started clicking. I wouldn’t have the good friends I have now if I had quit. I used to be so shy. People in church helped me a lot. I’m not so self-conscious about what everyone thinks of me now.”

“Hey Trista, are you still aiming for that celestial kingdom you told me about?” my cousin asked.
I was unprepared for her question, and I stammered for a moment while I tried to decide what it was she was talking about. Then I remembered. Last summer, during my family’s visit to California, my cousin and I had been talking late into the night, when somehow we got to discussing the Church. My cousin is not a member and knew very little about our Church, so when she asked me to tell her about it, I gladly agreed. I told her what I could: the Joseph Smith story, our beliefs, my dreams, and my fears—including my goal of reaching the celestial kingdom. I bore my testimony to her, and told her I knew the gospel was true. I told her how I wanted to live forever with a chosen companion, and to have my family with me. She listened carefully and asked me a lot of questions which I answered as best I could. We went to sleep that night, she was thinking about the things I had told her, and I was feeling rather pleased with my missionary work.
Now seven months later, I was amazed that she remembered what I had told her.
“Well are you?” She was looking at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.
I swallowed hard and stared out my window at the falling snow, watching each individual snowflake merge with millions of others. If only life were that simple.
“Am I still reaching for the celestial kingdom?” I asked myself. I thought back over the last few months and knew I hadn’t been trying very hard. My school grades weren’t as high as they should have been, my best friend wasn’t my best friend anymore, family relationships were not as good as they could have been, and most important of all, I was gradually becoming less active in the Church. As I sat there, I took a new look at my life and realized how empty it had been. I turned and looked at my cousin and said quietly but firmly, with my eyes full of tears, “Yes, I am.”
Oh how thankful I am to have a Father in Heaven who loves me enough to remind me of my goals. With his help I can reach the celestial kingdom. And when I doubt myself, I just remember those three words, “Yes, I am,” and I know that my Father in Heaven is with me.

Alia twisted the new CTR ring on her finger. At church today her Primary teacher had given everyone in the class a CTR ring. Alia loved the shiny green shield. She took her ring off to show Mom.
“What does ‘choose the right’ mean?” Mom asked.
“It means you do what Heavenly Father wants you to do,” Alia said.
Mom nodded. “You choose the right in lots of ways. Like when you’re kind to your brother and sister, or when you help Dad and me at home.”
Alia smiled and traced the letters on the ring.
She kept a close eye on her ring while she stacked blocks with Ethan and Grace. She liked the way the letters shone. She was careful with it during dinner. She didn’t want it to fall into the mashed potatoes! When she helped clear the table, she kept her fist clenched so the ring wouldn’t slip off.
Mom and Dad were washing dishes when Alia remembered to ask, “Why wasn’t Mikayla at church today?”
Mikayla was Alia’s newest friend. They’d met at church a few months ago, and Mikayla and her mom were planning to be baptized soon.
“I don’t know,” Dad said. “Maybe you could visit her tonight.”
“Could we take her some cookies?”
“Good idea,” Mom said. “After Ethan and Grace are in bed, we can take some of the cookies we made yesterday.”
As they got in the car later, Alia said, “I think I should give my CTR ring to Mikayla.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I guess we could just give her the cookies, but …”
Has the Holy Ghost ever prompted you to do something hard?
“I know you love your ring, so you decide. Listen to the Holy Ghost,” Mom said. “Then follow that prompting!”
“But how do I know if it’s the Holy Ghost?”
“You’ll feel peaceful and happy inside. Why don’t we pray about it? If you feel good, then you know that’s the Holy Ghost.”
“OK. But if I give her my ring, can I get another one?”
“Yes, but it might take a while to come in the mail.”
After the prayer, they drove to Mikayla’s house.
“I’ll give them the cookies,” Mom said as they walked to the door. “I won’t say anything about the ring—that’s up to you. Just tug on my sleeve if you decide to do it.”
Alia twisted the ring around and around on her finger. She thought hard about what she should do.
Mom rang the doorbell. Mikayla’s mom answered and invited them in.
“We missed you at church today,” Mom said. “We wanted to let you know we were thinking about you.”
“Thank you. These cookies look great. Mikayla, come say hi.”
They talked for a few minutes. Mom was saying goodbye when Alia tugged on her sleeve. Mom looked down and smiled at Alia.
“Looks like there’s one more thing.”
Alia slid her ring off and handed it to Mikalya.
“Alia wanted to give you this,” Mom said. “We prayed about it before we came. She wants you to have it.”
Mikayla put the ring on her finger. “Thank you!”
Alia grinned. “It means ‘choose the right’!”
As Alia and her mom walked back to the car, Mom said, “Well, how do you feel?”
“A little sad that I don’t have the ring anymore, but glad I listened to the Holy Ghost.”
“I’m proud of you. And now you know what the Holy Ghost feels like!”
Alia smiled. “Can we get lots of CTR rings? In case the Holy Ghost tells me to give more away?”
Mom hugged her. “Good idea,” she said.

“Economically, our family had its ups and downs. Like many Americans, we did well during the 1920s. My father started making lots of money in real estate, in addition to his other businesses. For a few years we were actually wealthy. But then came the Depression.
“No one who’s lived through it can ever forget. My father lost all his money, and we almost lost our house. I remember asking my sister, who was a couple of years older, whether we’d have to move out and how we’d find somewhere else to live. I was only six or seven at the time, but the anxiety I felt about the future is still vivid in my mind. Bad times are indelible—they stay with you forever.” (Lee Iacocca and William Novak, Iacocca: An Autobiography, New York: Bantam Books, 1984, p. 7.)

The day that changed everything for the Quashigah family was the day that Vincent attended a funeral in Kpong for a relative. The funeral was held at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Vincent was not familiar with the Church and did not recognize it as the same church that Esinam’s Book of Mormon had come from. However, he was deeply impressed with the dignity, peace, and simplicity of the funeral service, and he promised himself that he would find out more.
The following week he searched online for anything he could learn about the Church. His search was directed by the Spirit, and he felt a peaceful satisfaction as he learned exciting teachings and principles. He felt the Spirit bear witness to him of these things, found the location of the nearest chapel, and attended church meetings the first Sunday following the funeral. After asking for membership, he met with the full-time missionaries (Elders Tameklo and Ntambwe) and was baptized three weeks later. His family attended the baptism and Sabbath meetings the following day.
Brother Quashigah subsequently received the priesthood and was able to baptize Sister Quashigah and the eligible children after they had met with the missionaries. Sister Quashigah is quick to point out, with a smile, that the family became members of the same church that she attempted to introduce to them when she was given that first Book of Mormon several months earlier.

When I was 16, I didn’t get along with my twin brother at all. We fought about everything. One day he humiliated me at school with an intensely critical and personal attack in front of a group of friends. His actions and hurtful words left me devastated in a way my teenage self could not bear. Even when our parents confronted him about the incident, he never said he was sorry. For years I held onto the pain.
He was still on his mission when I received my own mission call. I was preparing to enter the temple and began to reflect on my life to find where I needed to change to feel prepared to go to the temple. I realized that even though I didn’t often think about what my brother did, I still needed to forgive him.
My brother had hurt me more than anyone else, and I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to forgive him. So I prayed for help from Heavenly Father.
With His help, I decided to start writing my brother regularly on his mission. Before that, I’m sorry to admit, I hardly wrote him at all. Then I sent him a package. When I left on my mission, he came with my parents to the missionary training center and gave me a hug. He even wrote me a few times.
I know that even though it may take time, with Heavenly Father’s help, we can let the past remain in the past.

The Scout-Beehive breakfast had been a big success. Everyone had eaten and now it was time for the big hike. The last pancakes had barely missed the light of day when the shout went up, “Let’s get in the cars and head up the canyon!”
As they piled into cars, Sister Larson, the wife of the Scoutmaster, remained quietly behind with the ward custodian and his wife to clean up the mess. But Steve, who had planned the activity, asked his patrol to stay and help with the cleanup. The word spread. Cars that had been full of anxious hikers emptied. The tables and chairs were put away in record time. The mess in the kitchen was wiped and shined away. Soon not one syrupy fingerprint was left. Now it was time to head up the canyon.
In another ward the young people were assigned to take care of sections of the meetinghouse garden. They grew their own plants, watered them throughout the summer, and weeded, pruned, and pampered them. Not only has the ward won civic beautification awards year after year, but “we never have any trouble with misbehavior in our building. Everyone knows it’s the Lord’s house and that it’s up to us to keep it clean,” said the ward custodian.
Both groups of Aaronic Priesthood-age youth know the elbow action needed to make a meetinghouse suitable for worship. They care about the house of the Lord and recognize that fast breaks should be limited to activity night basketball games and not chapel exits. The way you and your friends act will reflect on others’ ability to feel a reverent and spiritual environment. Some young people have spent sunshine-filled Saturdays cleaning kitchen cupboards and straightening ward supply cabinets rather than lounging at the beach. Others have vacuumed stairways and hand-polished podiums while their friends mopped floors and squeegeed taller-than-tall windows. But there are other young people who need to see and follow these examples.
“I don’t think most youth are basically ill-mannered. They don’t mean to be rude or tear up the buildings. Maybe they aren’t totally conscious that this is a house of the Lord,” said one custodian in American Fork, Utah.
Although the phrase “the house of the Lord” refers specifically to temples, meetinghouses, like temples, have also been dedicated to Him. But the quiet reverence and respect common in temples is sometimes lacking in ward houses.
“We’ve had coatracks pulled off the walls by youth swinging on them as they run around the halls playing tag. We’ve even had curtains on the stage ripped by someone swinging on them,” added the custodian.
“In the three years I’ve been here, we’ve replaced six stolen fire extinguishers and several windows inside and outside the building. Most of the broken windows are caused by slammed doors or balls thrown against the side of the building. Almost all broken windows are accidents, but they shouldn’t happen.”
Even in chapels you will often find papers stuffed in hymnbook holders, programs strewn about, songbooks torn apart, and gum on the floors. Carelessness has led to broken microphones, piano benches, stage props, and chalkboards. One bishop walked into the rest room to wash his hands just in time to see flames reaching up the wall by the sinks. Someone had overturned the wastepaper basket and set it on fire. He stamped it out before it did much damage, but the wall was blackened.
What causes rowdiness in buildings? Does the old cliché “boys will be boys” excuse wrestling matches in the foyer?
Most reverence problems in meetinghouses aren’t malicious. Whoever set the trash on fire in the rest room probably didn’t want to burn the building down. One custodian for several buildings put it this way: “The youth don’t mean to cause trouble. The problem is, they just don’t stop to think what they are doing. Maybe they’ve never been told in their homes how to behave and have respect. But a lot of times kids don’t stop to think that somebody is going to have to clean up after them. If the boys would have to help me clean up the rest rooms each week, they’d think twice before they emptied the trash cans all over the place again.”
Actions are expressions of attitudes. People misbehaving in meetinghouses don’t stop to think where they are. And if they don’t stop to think where they are, they probably don’t pay any attention to why they are in church either.
“On Sunday when the older youth should be in sacrament meetings, some of them are roaming the halls,” said another custodian. “I have to lock the rooms, because if there happens to be an open one, I find the chalkboards written on and chairs turned over. Many of the young people who do stay in the meetings sit on the back row and talk. I would have to say that our basic problem is lack of reverence.”
A lack of reverence. Thoughtlessness. Failure to realize where you are. These are the problems.
What can you do? First, if your ward or branch has a reverence problem, be sure you’re not part of it. Then you and your friends get to work on the solution.
“I like the new program of youth leadership. I think it’s great. I was involved as a Scoutmaster,” said one custodian, “and if the kids want to, they can really carry the program.”
Young people are really the ones who can solve problems of misbehavior. If you and your friends put pressure on those who are acting up, it won’t be “the thing to do” anymore.
To find out what the warning signals of irreverence are, the bishop’s youth committee of the Butler Second Ward, Salt Lake City, was asked to detail some of the problems they’ve had with misbehavior and how they solved them.
“One of the first things to look out for,” said Brad Townsend, “is people standing around with nothing to do. Be sure your friends don’t come to activity night too early or stand around for hours after it is over.”
“Leaders should never leave before everyone is out ot the building,” added Mike Heiner.
“During activity night, the rowdier the activity, the rowdier the kids are going to be,” said Dianne Hansen.
“And if everybody is dressed in their grubbies, they will tend to act grubbier,” said Lori Burt.
“Be aware of who is interested in certain activities,” added Kim Asay. “Something may interest the priests but bore the Scouts. Be sure your activities are geared for the right people.”
“If something is poorly planned, watch out,” added Karen Graehl. “Nothing can cause rowdiness like an activity that falls through.”
The Butler bishop’s youth committee had one real problem to take care of—the back row at sacrament meeting. It was always full; and it was generally noisy. Whispering and giggling could even be heard during the sacrament. The committee decided to do something about it. They started a “Sit with Your Parents” campaign.
At first it wasn’t easy. The leaders would go to their friends and suggest they sit with their parents during meetings instead of on the back row.
“They thought we were a little weird to ask them,” admitted one class president, “but after they tried it, they began to like it. They found it was much easier to listen and enjoy the meeting when they sat with their parents.”
Anyone sitting on the back row gets pretty lonely now.
The youth committee also came up with several suggestions for problems that many wards face:
Start and end activities on time. This really does help keep reverence.
Plan activities thoroughly. Gear them to the ages of those participating.
Set an example. If someone sees the president of the class goofing off, he’ll goof off too. If youth leaders set the proper example, problems will disappear.
Dress according to the activity. If you come to activity night in grubby pants, then you feel like acting grubby. You act differently when dressed up.
Remind each other about your conduct in the meetinghouse. “I know my mom has told me many times to be quiet,” said one Laurel, “but if I hear it from a friend, it stuns me. If your friends remind you to act your age and they mean it, you are going to listen.”
Remember that the meetinghouse is for your use. It is dedicated to the Lord, but you have a responsibility to keep it reverent. You wouldn’t run and shout in your parents’ front room when company is there; why should you in the meetinghouse?
The bishop’s youth committee’s ideas are good. And they appear to have worked for others as well. One ward spent a lot of money on broken light fixtures. During basketball season the past three years, it had been necessary to replace all the lights in the halls around the cultural hall. Boys bouncing basketballs off the ceilings in the halls caused the problem. When the Aaronic Priesthood quorum presidents met with the bishop to discuss athletic programs, they set down a rule. “No bouncing of balls outside the gym.” They enforced it themselves.
So far this year not a single light fixture has been broken.
President David O. McKay once said, “I do not know how to define reverence, but I do know how to classify or place it as one of the objectives of nobility, indeed, one of the attributes of Deity.”

Young Women in the San Jose California South Stake are wondering why everyone tells such horror stories about boot camp. As far as they’re concerned, it’s about the greatest thing to do with their free summer days.
Of course, their “boots” were a little different than those worn in the military, and it was a training camp for living a Christlike life, rather than serving as a soldier. BOOT (which stands for “building our own testimonies”) camp had a lot of the same activities that all girls’ camps have. But the highlight of camp was having poems written by the girls set to music by their stake president. The songs were then sung by a guest soloist at a special camp fireside, and tape-recorded for the girls to keep.
“It made my poem sound so good,” says April Gustavson. “I couldn’t believe it was something that I wrote.”

Of these women, the only one I had known was my cousin Olga.
Olga, who was from Italy, married at a very young age, but sadly, her husband was violent and unfaithful to her. With the help of her father and her brother, Olga decided to escape when she was expecting her fifth child.
She went to live with her parents and brother. After the birth of her child, Olga passed away. Olga’s parents never recovered from the shock of her sudden death.

As a bishop, I worried about any members who were inactive, not attending, not serving. Such was my thought as I drove down the street where Ben and Emily lived. They were older—even in the twilight period of life. Aches and pains of advancing years caused them to withdraw from activity to the shelter of their home—isolated, detached, shut out from the mainstream of daily life and association.
I felt the unmistakable prompting to park my car and visit Ben and Emily, even though I was on the way to a meeting. It was a sunny weekday afternoon. I approached the door to their home and knocked. Emily answered. When she recognized me, her bishop, she exclaimed, “All day long I have waited for my phone to ring. It has been silent. I hoped that the postman would deliver a letter. He brought only bills. Bishop, how did you know today was my birthday?”
I answered, “God knows, Emily, for He loves you.”
In the quiet of the living room, I said to Ben and Emily, “I don’t know why I was directed here today, but our Heavenly Father knows. Let’s kneel in prayer and ask Him why.” This we did, and the answer came. Emily was asked to sing in the choir—even to provide a solo for the forthcoming ward conference. Ben was asked to speak to the Aaronic Priesthood young men and recount a special experience in his life when his safety was assured by responding to the promptings of the Spirit. She sang. He spoke. Hearts were gladdened by the return to activity of Ben and Emily. They rarely missed a sacrament meeting from that day to the time each was called home. The language of the Spirit had been spoken. It had been heard. It had been understood. Hearts were touched and lives saved.

The wind whirled flakes of fallen snow around the corner of Temple Square. Brother Arnold’s message still stirred in the corners of Faye’s thoughts: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these …” She pulled up the collar of her new, red suede coat, caressing it with her cheek. It didn’t prevent the wind from finding new pathways up the sleeves and under the hem. She shivered and hurried down the sidewalk, hugging the buildings closely to avoid the wind. The fresh odor of pine and spice spilled from the candy and furniture store doorways, blending in the street to form a sea of Christmas smells.
As she breathed in the aromas, she glanced at her watch. 9:25. It was getting late. Shivering again she thrust her hands inside her pockets and balanced her purse against her hip. As she gazed at a glittering array of diamonds in a jewelry store window, she came within inches of crashing into an old man who was huddled against the building. She tripped to avoid a collision and dropped her handbag. As she stooped to retrieve the purse, he stooped with her, grabbing it with bare, crooked fingers. The light from the streetlamp reflected eerily from the old man’s eyes like two flames in the dark. He smiled, and the glow revealed a broken tooth. Faye jerked back and covered her mouth.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Din’t mean ta scar ya so. Wouldja like ta buy a bright Christmas pencil?” he rasped in a scratchy voice, handing her the purse. She fumbled in her pocket and found a quarter she had put there for her little brother, Ronny. “Thank ya,” he said “and Meery Christmas.” He bowed low, extending an imaginary hat with his hand.
She stopped at the corner only a few yards away to await her bus, rested a hand on her pounding chest, and took a deep breath. Squeezing closely to the wall, she found herself engulfed in the shadow of a cafe marquee. Magnetically the old man pulled her eyes back to him. He crouched there in the doorway of the candy store in an oversized, earth-brown coat and scuffed logger boots. A black felt hat was pulled over his ears and held in place with a scarf tied under his chin. He shuffled back and forth against the building holding his metal box filled with pencils. The bare, gnarled hands alternately shifted the box and slipped inside his coat for warmth.
Faye had seen an old man like him many times as a child. He had stopped regularly at their door at Christmas and in the summer, each year appearing more wrinkled and more stooped in the shoulders. Her father dragged out old suits and shoes while her mother prepared sandwiches for him. Faye remembered shivering from fear in the corner behind the great folds of drapes, aghast at his long, spiney whiskers and the layers of flesh that hung loosely about his face.
Faye shivered now in the cold as she watched the people rush past the old man as store closing times approached. Many times his hand reached out, “Wouldja like ta buy …” and fell limply to his side.
A woman approached with her hair wound around her head in a beehive of braids and curls. She paused, and then grasping her bundles tightly, circled around the man huddled in the doorway, and hurried down the street.
The old man shuffled faster as he blew into the empty hand. Two gentlemen with briefcases hurried by. One in a double-breasted tweed coat spoke aloud to the other, gesturing in the air with his hand. “Be realistic, Walt. If I could anticipate a drop in the market,” he reached mechanically into his pocket, “I’d make us all a fast buck.” He flipped a silver coin, which sailed through the air and landed with a clink into the metal box and bounced out onto the ground near the scuffed logger boots. The gentleman’s stride never broke as the old man reached for a pencil and waved it noiselessly in the air. The briefcases shrunk in the distance. The old man turned, mumbling, and spat on the ground. He stared down at the coin for an instant and then stooped and picked it up. He grew smaller as he slumped into the doorway. The metal box scratched the cement as he placed it beside him, and he rubbed his gnarled hands together blowing warm breath into them. Faye looked down at her own gloved hands, straight and soft under the warm pigskin.
Her bus rolled up to the corner, and the doors slid open inviting her to return to the warmth of home. She started toward the bus, paused, and stared back over her shoulder at the old man. Brother Arnold’s voice echoed in her memory with a new clarity, “Inasmuch as ye do it …” She looked down at her watch. There would be another bus. She turned and marched down the street, disappearing into the dime store.
She chose some large leather gloves lined with fur and had them carefully gift wrapped with a gold bow on top.
Reappearing on the street, she couldn’t see the old man. Her eyes widened as they searched the sidewalk and finally caught sight of a dark figure at the crosswalk. She ran.
“Sir! Wait, sir!”
He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes, sir, you. I have something for you,” and she handed him the package. His lips parted as he glanced down at the package and back up at Faye. His shaggy brows knitted together as he gazed at her through moistened eyes. He rummaged in his metal box until he found two bright, gold pencils and handed them to her. They searched each other’s faces as he stretched forth a tremulous hand and lightly touched her arm. For an instant the rough, earth-brown coat rested gently on the soft, red suede. Faye lowered her eyes. She suddenly pulled back her arm, turned and hurried toward the bus stop. She leaned her weight against the wind without shivering.

President Spencer W. Kimball will celebrate his eighty-fourth birthday on March 28.
Last year he helped the town of Snowflake, Arizona, celebrate its 100th birthday. Everyone took care to make Snowflake shiny and clean. Primary children planted flowers in honor of his visit and made a carpet of flowers for him. Many other children in the area also came to see President Kimball.
He paid tribute to the pioneers and talked about Brigham Young who sent them to Arizona 100 years ago. “As the successor of the man who sent you here, I am proud of you,” he said. “I am pleased to be with you. Little did I think when I was on my milk stool as a boy in Thatcher, Arizona, that I would be here celebrating with you today.”
Happy birthday, President Kimball. We hope you live to be 100, too!

Amanda can make gelatin. She is the “little mom” of the family and helps out with the three younger girls. In stores, people often stop and stare at the seven children, and Amanda likes to lag behind and answer questions. As her eighth birthday approached, she counted down the days until she could be baptized. Due to unusual circumstances, the water in the font at the stake center was freezing, but she didn’t mind the cold. Her father did, though! “I had to do it,” she said. “I wanted to be baptized so much!” Dad just hopes the next baptism comes in the summer.

Our beloved prophet, Thomas S. Monson, is our example in this regard. The stories of his attention to the whisperings of the Spirit are numerous. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland relates one such example:
Once while President Monson was on assignment in Louisiana, a stake president asked him if he would have time to visit a 10-year-old girl named Christal, who was in the final stages of cancer. Christal’s family had been praying that President Monson would come. But their home was far away, and the schedule was so tight that there wasn’t time. So instead, President Monson asked that those who offered prayers during the stake conference include Christal in their prayers. Surely the Lord and the family would understand.
During the Saturday session of the conference, as President Monson stood to speak, the Spirit whispered, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”
“His notes became a blur. He attempted to pursue the theme of the meeting as outlined, but the name and image of [the little girl] would not leave his mind.”
He listened to the Spirit and rearranged his schedule. Early the next morning, President Monson left the ninety and nine and traveled many miles to be at the bedside of the one.
Once there, he “gazed down upon a child too ill to rise, too weak to speak. Her illness had now rendered her sightless. Deeply touched by the scene and the Spirit of the Lord … , Brother Monson … took the child’s frail hand in his own. ‘Christal,’ he whispered, ‘I am here.’”
“With great effort she whispered back, ‘Brother Monson, I just knew you would come.’”