Gospel Story Finder

By now our children had joined with us in the discussions, and the two sisters who had originally knocked on our door had been replaced by another pair of lady missionaries. I would put the baby in his playpen, and then we’d start bombarding the missionaries with question after question. We found that the two sticks mentioned in prophecy were the Bible and the Book of Mormon. “Do we get to see the Book of Mormon? When? When can I read it? Next discussion?” This was going to be a long week—I could hardly wait.
The week was long. I kept thinking about the Book of Mormon and could hardly wait to get my hands on it. The day finally arrived, and I hoped in my heart they wouldn’t forget the Book of Mormon. I even thought they might finally have a cup of coffee with us.
As we discussed the Book of Mormon, they told me of a wonderful promise contained in it. Yes, we’d give it a try. We’d pray about it.
It took only a few pages of the Book of Mormon to convince me that it was true. It’s true! This is the word of God! And so, each morning at 6:00 I would take my cup of coffee out on the back steps of the house in the cool morning air and read until the children woke up. How forceful were the words! Who could ever deny, after reading this book, that it was the word of God? It is the word of God! What a feeling of excitement, of discovery, of awe, of warmth, of wonder.

One day last year, my friend invited me to his house to have a tea party with him and his sisters. I thought they would have pretend tea at their party. Instead, they offered me real tea with honey. I remembered a story I had read about President David O. McKay. Once when he visited the queen of the Netherlands, the queen offered him tea. He politely refused it. I knew that if tea isn’t good for a prophet, it isn’t good for me.

My wife and I had the great joy of rearing our five children near the magnificent city of Paris. During those years we wanted to offer them rich opportunities to discover the marvelous things of this world. Each summer, our family took long trips to visit the most significant monuments, historic sites, and natural wonders of Europe. Finally, after spending 22 years in the Paris area, we were getting ready to move. I still remember the day when my children came to me and said, “Dad, it’s absolutely shameful! We’ve lived here all our lives, and we have never been to the Eiffel Tower!”
There are so many wonders in this world. However, sometimes when we have them constantly before our eyes, we take them for granted. We look, but we don’t really see; we hear, but we don’t really listen.
During His earthly ministry, Jesus said to His disciples:
“Blessed are the eyes which see the things that ye see:
“For I tell you, that many prophets and kings have desired to see those things which ye see, and have not seen them; and to hear those things which ye hear, and have not heard them.”
I have often wondered what it would have been like to live at the time of our Savior. Can you imagine sitting at His feet? feeling His embrace? witnessing as He ministered to others? And yet so many who met Him failed to recognize—to “see”—that the very Son of God was living among them.
We too are privileged to live in an exceptional time. The prophets of old saw the work of the Restoration as “a marvelous work … , yea, a marvelous work and a wonder.” In no previous dispensation have so many missionaries been called, so many nations been opened for the gospel message, and so many temples been built throughout the world.
For us, as Latter-day Saints, wonders also occur in our individual lives. They include our own personal conversion, the answers we receive to our prayers, and the tender blessings God showers upon us daily.
To marvel at the wonders of the gospel is a sign of faith. It is to recognize the hand of the Lord in our lives and in everything around us. Our amazement also produces spiritual strength. It gives us the energy to remain anchored in our faith and to engage ourselves in the work of salvation.
But let us beware. Our ability to marvel is fragile. Over the long term, such things as casual commandment keeping, apathy, or even weariness may set in and make us insensitive to even the most remarkable signs and miracles of the gospel.
The Book of Mormon describes a period, very similar to our own, that preceded the coming of the Messiah to the Americas. Suddenly the signs of His birth appeared in the heavens. The people were so stricken with astonishment that they humbled themselves, and nearly all were converted. However, only a short four years later, “the people began to forget those signs and wonders which they had heard, and began to be less and less astonished at a sign or a wonder from heaven, … and began to disbelieve all which they had heard and seen.”
My brothers and sisters, is the gospel still wonderful to you? Can you yet see, hear, feel, and marvel? Or have your spiritual sensors gone into standby mode? Whatever your personal situation, I invite you to do three things.
First, never tire of discovering or rediscovering the truths of the gospel. The writer Marcel Proust said, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” Do you remember the first time you read a verse of scripture and felt as if the Lord was speaking to you personally? Can you recall the first time you felt the sweet influence of the Holy Ghost come over you, perhaps before you even realized it was the Holy Ghost? Weren’t these sacred, special moments?
We should hunger and thirst every day after spiritual knowledge. This personal practice is founded on study, meditation, and prayer. Sometimes we might be tempted to think, “I don’t need to study the scriptures today; I’ve read them all before” or “I don’t need to go to church today; there’s nothing new there.”
But the gospel is a fountain of knowledge that never runs dry. There is always something new to learn and feel each Sunday, in every meeting, and in every verse of scripture. In faith we hold to the promise that if we “seek, … [we] shall find.”
Second, anchor your faith in the plain and simple truths of the gospel. Our amazement should be rooted in the core principles of our faith, in the purity of our covenants and ordinances, and in our most simple acts of worship.
A sister missionary told the story of three men she met during a district conference in Africa. They came from an isolated village far away in the bush where the Church had not yet been organized but where there were 15 faithful members and almost 20 investigators. For over two weeks these men had walked on foot, traveling more than 300 miles (480 km) over paths rendered muddy by the rainy season, so they could attend the conference and bring the tithes from the members of their group. They planned to stay for an entire week so they could enjoy the privilege of partaking of the sacrament the following Sunday and then hoped to set out on the return trip carrying boxes filled with copies of the Book of Mormon on their heads to give to the people of their village.
The missionary testified how touched she was by the sense of wonder these brethren displayed and by their wholehearted sacrifices to obtain things that for her had always been readily available.
She wondered: “If I got up one Sunday morning in Arizona and found that my car wasn’t working, would I walk to my church only a few blocks away from home? Or would I just stay home because it was too far or because it was raining?” These are good questions for all of us to consider.
Finally, I invite you to seek and cherish the companionship of the Holy Ghost. Most wonders of the gospel cannot be perceived by our natural senses. They are the things that the “eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, … the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.”
When we have the Spirit with us, our spiritual senses are sharpened and our memory is kindled so we cannot forget the miracles and signs we have witnessed. That may be why, knowing Jesus was about to leave them, His Nephite disciples prayed fervently “for that which they most desired; and they desired that the Holy Ghost should be given unto them.”
Although they had seen the Savior with their own eyes and had touched His wounds with their own hands, they knew that their testimonies might dwindle without being constantly renewed by the power of the Spirit of God. My brothers and sisters, never do anything to risk the loss of this precious and marvelous gift—the companionship of the Holy Ghost. Seek it through fervent prayer and righteous living.
I testify that the work in which we are engaged is “a marvelous work and a wonder.” As we follow Jesus Christ, God bears witness to us “with signs and wonders, and with divers miracles, and gifts of the Holy Ghost, according to his own will.” On this special day, I bear witness that the wonders and marvels of the gospel are anchored in the greatest of all of God’s gifts—the Savior’s Atonement. This is the perfect gift of love that the Father and the Son, united in purpose, have offered to each one of us. With you, “I stand all amazed at the love Jesus offers me. … Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me!”
That we may always have eyes that see, ears that hear, and hearts that perceive the wonders of this marvelous gospel is my prayer in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Another thing I learned from my father is gratitude. When I was a child, there was a severe drought in our community. Weeks and weeks passed with no water, and our small farming community was suffering. As the bishop, Father told the ward members to fast and pray for water. He also counseled them to settle any bad feelings among each other so that we could have feelings of love and unity in our ward.
I remember gathering for the special fast and testimony meeting we held to plead for water. During the meeting, it began to rain. It rained so heavily that we couldn’t leave the meetinghouse! We had to wait for it to stop before we could go home.
Our prayers were answered. In gratitude, my father invited the ward members back the next week for a second fast and testimony meeting—this one to thank the Lord for sending the water. I learned at a young age to thank Heavenly Father for the blessings He gives us.

As a young man, I was in the National Guard. I went to Fort Knox, Kentucky, to learn all about tanks and helicopters so that I could be an officer in an armored cavalry unit. While I was there, I made friends with a soldier who was not a member of our church. My friend often teased me because I did not drink or smoke, as he did. I told him about the Word of Wisdom and about other Church teachings.
One day our troop had to run a special kind of race. Every so often along the ten-mile course, we had to stop and pass a test. For example, we might have to figure out why a tank wasn’t running, adjust a machine gun, or do something else we had been learning in our training. My friend and I agreed that this race would be a good test of whose lifestyle was healthier—his or mine.
The men started the race one at a time in alphabetical order, with about a minute between each man. My friend’s last name started with A and mine with C, so he started the race a few minutes before I did. About a third of the way through the course, I saw a truck with a red cross on its side. Inside the ambulance was my friend. Because he did not take good care of his body, he was not physically fit and could not finish the race. I finished in good shape because I had always lived the Word of Wisdom.

“Let me tell you about a man named Emmanuel Ninger. The year is 1887, and the scene is a small neighborhood grocery store. A distinguished looking gentleman in his late 50’s or early 60’s is buying some turnip greens. He hands the clerk a $20 bill and waits for his change. As she starts to make change, she notices that the ink is coming off on her fingers which are still wet from handling the turnip greens. She is shocked and pauses to consider what to do. She thinks, ‘This is Emmanuel Ninger, a long-time friend, a neighbor, and a customer. Surely he would not give me a bill that was anything less than genuine.’ So, she gives him the change and he leaves.
“Later she had some second thoughts because $20 was a large amount of money in 1887. She sent for the police. One policeman was confident that the $20 bill was genuine. The other was puzzled about the ink that rubbed off. Finally they obtained a warrant to search Mr. Ninger’s home.
“In the attic they found the facilities for reproducing $20. As a matter of fact, they found a $20 bill in the process of being printed. They also found three portraits which Emmanuel Ninger had painted. Ninger was an artist, and he was a good one. He was so good, he had hand painted those $20 bills. Meticulously, stroke by stroke, he had applied the master’s touch so skillfully that he was able to fool everyone until a quirk of fate in the form of wet hands of a grocery clerk exposed him.
“After the arrest, his portraits were sold at public auction for $16,000—over $5,000 each. The irony of the story is it took Emmanuel Ninger almost exactly the same length of time to paint a $20 bill as it took him to paint a $5,000 portrait.
“This brilliant and talented man was a thief in every sense of the word. Tragically, the person he stole the most from was himself, Emmanuel Ninger. Not only could he have been a wealthy man if he had legitimately marketed his ability, but he could have brought joy and benefit to his fellowman. He had a choice, and he compromised his integrity” (Vital Speeches of the Day, pp. 40–41).

In a historic first for West Cheltenham, the community embraced the tradition of the Passion Play, depicting the final days of Jesus Christ’s mortal ministry. Several Christian organisations in Cheltenham, including the Church of England, Catholic and Baptist Churches, and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, came together for a special musical presentation telling the Easter story. Spearheaded by Revd. Janice Hamilton, Pioneer Minister for the West Cheltenham Parish, the play was a roving outdoor performance, moving across various local sites to bring the story directly into the community’s heart.
Ruth Mulligan, who works with Revd. Hamilton on other local projects, served as the musical director for the event. Sister Mulligan, a member of the Cheltenham Ward, composed much of the music that underscored the emotional depth of the Passion Play, including solo, choir and orchestral pieces. "Music has a unique power to evoke emotion and elevate the storytelling experience,” Sister Mulligan remarked. “Writing words and music that convey how God’s love is manifest through His Only Begotten Son, was a wonderful spiritual experience, and this production has been an opportunity to help more of God’s children feel His love.”
At the heart of this inaugural production stood Brother Jon Ramsbottom, also a member of the Cheltenham Ward, embodying the pivotal role of Jesus Christ. The opportunity to portray Jesus was not only a personal milestone but also a profound expression of his faith. “Being chosen to portray the Saviour in West Cheltenham’s first Passion Play was a deeply humbling experience,” he shared. “It marked a new chapter in our community’s celebration of Easter.”
Assuming the role of Jesus Christ was more than just a theatrical endeavour for Jon; it was a sacred calling to embody the teachings and love of the Saviour. "Every moment of the performance was an opportunity to convey Christ’s message of compassion, forgiveness, and redemption,” he emphasised. “It required me to delve deep into the scriptures and prayerfully consider how best to represent His divine character.”
The full cast and production crew brought together over fifty individuals from all walks of life, many of whom attend various local Christian congregations. Other members of the Cheltenham Ward, including Caleb Williams and Jasmine James, contributed their wonderful talents to the acting ensemble, with Martin Giles taking the role of the Roman Centurion - bearing witness of the Saviour’s divinity with a heartfelt solo performance. Several youth and young adults from the Ward participated in the choir and orchestra, harmonising their voices and talents with those of the broader community and a combined primary schools choir.
Beyond the artistic collaboration, this endeavour has also fostered meaningful connections and strengthened bonds of friendship and faith. Sister Mulligan expressed, "This experience has helped me feel the love of the Saviour, and I will forever be grateful for the new friends that I’ve made who share my desire to be a disciple of Christ.”
Everyone involved in this special portrayal of Christ’s sacrifice, humbly sought to evoke the spirit and significance of the most pivotal event in human history. Despite difficult weather conditions over the Easter weekend, the play attracted an audience of family, friends and several hundred local residents. At the conclusion of the event on Easter Sunday, those watching were encouraged to ponder on their own relationship with God, as it is hoped that this pioneering initiative can serve as a catalyst for unity and spiritual enrichment within the community.

One woman I know had a father who was often angry and easily upset. She said, “For many years, I saw Heavenly Father the same way I saw my own—someone who for the most part kept his distance and was easily disappointed.” This impacted her ability to truly understand Heavenly Father. However, she shared that Heavenly Father helped her learn that “He is slowly walking me out of fearing Him and into the saving power of His love.” She began to see the real Him.

Peace McBride, an apprentice seamstress, and her mistress, Mrs. Root, have heard the Prophet Joseph Smith preach, studied the Book of Mormon, and been baptized into the Church. Now Peace has received Sister Root’s permission and the necessary money to visit her family in a distant county to share her joy in the gospel with them.
On the eve of a brand new decade, December 31, 1839, Peace was bundled in a warm cloak and sitting on top of a coach. Only something as important as the gospel could make Peace take such a journey. Sister Root had tried for days to find someone who was traveling toward the town of Chester Springs, but there were few travelers this time of year. Even so, not a seat was left inside the coach, and no one had been willing to give up his seat to the young girl. I won’t think of the cold, Peace decided. I’ll think of how warm I was after my baptism, of Sister Root’s warm parlor, of anything but the cold.
Cheerfully she hugged a paper-wrapped parcel to her chest. It was Sister Root’s copy of the Book of Mormon. She had given it to Peace as the excited girl had boarded the stage. “I shouldn’t let you be doing this,” Sister Root had fretted. “But since you’re going, here, take the book. It won’t do you much good to just talk about it—your folks need a chance to read it.”
Feeling cold creep around her toes as the coach got farther and farther from Philadelphia, Peace wriggled them and thought about the past few weeks. There had been such a change in her employer! Peace could remember when sour words and slaps were served up regularly to her. Sister Root’s whole manner had changed from the time that she first listened to the Prophet.
Glancing around, Peace noticed that the slush in the road had frozen. She stomped her feet and moved her arms to keep warm. Finally she saw the inn up ahead. It was a two-day trip home, and whenever she made it, she always stayed there.
After a warm meal, Peace felt better and hurried to her room. She knew that the coach would leave shortly after dawn, and she needed all the sleep that she could get. Wrapping herself in the quilts, she drifted peacefully to sleep.
Several hours later she awoke as cold again gripped her. The cozy little room that she had enjoyed in the summer was far from any heat source. Seeing frost forming around the window and on the panes, Peace knew that it was frightfully cold. Reaching for her cloak, she hastily put it on over her nightclothes. Back under the covers, she shivered until she was warm enough to fall asleep again.
The frost was so thick on the panes when Peace awoke a second time that light from the feeble sunrise hardly penetrated the room. She dressed under the covers, then hurried to the gathering room. The other travelers were already huddled around the fire, so she had to stand behind them, where she could barely feel its warmth.
A warm breakfast and cheerful words from the inn-keeper helped. Bracing herself, Peace again took her seat on top of the coach. This time she wore all the clothes that she had brought with her. Yet, before noon, her throat was scratchy. By evening, she was really sick. As the coach approached Chester Springs, she was so ill that she hardly knew what was happening around her.
A kind farmer going her way agreed to take Peace to her family’s farm. It was only two miles outside of town, but to Peace the trip took forever. Each time the wagon hit a rut, her head seemed to explode with pain.
Hearing her mother’s voice was almost like being in heaven. Peace tried to rise from where she lay in the back of the farmer’s wagon, but she sank back weakly.
“Peace!” her mother cried. “Whatever are you doing here?” She bustled around and fussed as the farmer and Mr. McBride carried the girl into the house.
It was bliss for Peace to lie in a soft, warm bed in the safety of her home. Her mother helped undress her and started to take the paper-wrapped parcel from her.
“No!” Peace mumbled. “I need to keep this with me. It’s why I came here, and it’s very important.”
“Important or not,” her mother said firmly, “it’s going on the dresser. It will be there when you get better.”
It was a week before Peace felt well enough to even sit up. She had developed a fever and a deep cough and was able to do little but lie there and try to get well.
“You’re awake!” her mother said cheerfully one morning as she came into Peace’s room. “After breakfast and a wash, you’ll feel much better, I’m sure.”
Peace smiled at her mother. It was so good to be home. Looking over at the dresser, she noticed that the parcel was gone. “Where did my book go?”
“I have it, but not for long.”
Peace looked up in surprise at the angry tone of her mother’s voice.
“How did you come by such a book,” her mother asked.
“Sister Root gave it to me.”
“I should never have let you go off on your own.”
“But, Mother, you know I had to. It was an opportunity for the whole family for me to train with such a great dressmaker.”
“She promised to watch over you!”
Peace smiled at her mother and hoped to get her in a better mood. “She watched over me very well. Do you know anything about the Book of Mormon?”
“Reverend Thompson said that the book is of the devil. He told me to burn it!”
Peace sat up in bed. “You didn’t, did you?” she cried.
“Not yet.” Her mother’s face softened. “It seemed to mean so much to you. And you came so far to bring it to us. I’ll admit that I was a little curious about it, because you value it, so I read a little of it.”
“Did it sound like the devil wrote it?” Peace asked softly.
“Well, no,” her mother admitted and smiled back at Peace. “I read a beautiful story about the Savior visiting a strange people in a land that I never heard of.”
“Bountiful?”
“Yes, that’s it. I have to say that it was a beautiful tale!”
“Oh, Mother,” Peace said fervently, “it’s more than a tale. It’s true—every word of it! If you read about it and pray about it, you’ll know that too.”
“Reverend Thompson said that no God-loving person would get involved with this book. He’s a good man, and he’s been our minister since you were a baby.”
Peace didn’t know what to say. Reverend Thompson was a good man. He’d been more than kind to her over the years. “Have the Mormon elders been in this area?”
“Yes, they have,” her mother answered. “Why?”
“Did many people listen and join the Church?”
“Yes. In fact, the number of people in our church has dwindled. And Reverend Thompson is very unhappy about it.”
“There, Mother. That’s your answer. Reverend Thompson is afraid that he’ll lose his congregation.”
Now it was her mother’s turn to look thoughtful. “You may be right. …”
“Mother, will you and Father read the whole book—and pray sincerely about it? Then if you have any questions, we can ask the elders to come visit.”
“I’m still not sure.”
“Please? It means so much to me.”
Peace’s mother loved her oldest daughter very much. She had been parted from her for a long time, and she felt that it wouldn’t hurt to do as Peace asked.
“All right. I will read it, and I’ll ask your father if he will too. I can’t promise more than that.”
“I know,” Peace said understandingly. “Sister Root didn’t want to believe, either. She wouldn’t let me be baptized until she knew more about the Church.”
“Rightly so,” her mother agreed. “I guess that maybe she was caring for you well.”
With just a few days left till she had to go back, Peace spent all the time that she could with her two brothers and three little sisters. She talked to them about the big city and the things that she had seen. “Not long ago I went into a big church near Mistress Root’s shop. There was a man speaking there,” she told them. “His name is Joseph Smith. He’s a very great man, and he’s a prophet.”
“Like Moses?” Jimmy asked in wonder.
“Yes, like Moses. When he talked, I felt that he had great power. We all felt it, and it changed my life.” She told them all that had happened to her. She told them, too, about the Savior and His visit to the New World. They listened eagerly as she told them stories from the Book of Mormon.
Because it was winter, the McBrides spent most of their time indoors. Peace read the Book of Mormon to her father as he mended harnesses and to her mother while she knitted. They listened intently to what Peace read, and her brothers and sisters did too.
Peace attended sacrament meeting at the small branch. Afterward she invited the elders to visit her family. When they came, her father asked many questions. He didn’t say much but nodded his head as the elders answered him.
The time soon came when Peace had to leave. Her heart was heavy because her parents still had not committed themselves to joining the Church.
Her father took her in their wagon to the inn and placed her bag inside the boot of the coach. Peace had a seat inside this time. She also had a warm quilt that her mother made for her to wrap up in.
“Good-bye, Peace,” her father told her, giving her a big hug. “I know what you want from your mother and me. I’m proud of you for believing your religion enough to suffer hardship to try to bring it to us. We’re not ready yet. Don’t give up on us, though. Just give us time.”
Peace left with a warm feeling. She knew that no matter what happened, she had done what she could to teach her family. Now she would give time and the Holy Ghost a chance to finish the work.

Billy was sad—almost sad enough to cry.
“What’s the matter, Billy?” asked Grandma. “Why are you so sad?”
“Because tomorrow is Mother’s Day and I don’t have a present to give Mommy,” Billy replied.
“Don’t be sad,” said Grandma. “Here’s a lovely card. It says Happy Mother’s Day and it has a picture of a beautiful bouquet of violets. Print your name inside, and that will make Mommy happy.”
Billy printed his name in his very best printing. But he still felt sad. He loved Mommy so much that he wanted to give her a very special present.
Grandma could see Billy was still unhappy. She thought and thought, but she couldn’t think of a single thing that Billy could give his mother.
While Grandma was thinking, Billy had an idea. “I know what I can give her!” he cried.
“What?” asked Grandma.
“A bouquet of violets!” Billy said. “Just like the one that’s on the card!”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Grandma agreed. “I’ll help you pick some violets.”
“Thank you, Grandma,” said Billy, “but I’d like to pick the violets all by myself.”
“All right, Billy,” said Grandma. “But if you decide you need help, just call me.”
Skippity-skop went Billy’s happy feet out the door, down the steps, and right to the spot in the garden where the violets grew. He stooped down and began to pick.
He picked and picked.
He picked violets from here,
Violets from there—
From here,
From there,
From everywhere!
Billy began to get a little tired. I’ve picked enough, he thought.
But when he looked at his bouquet, he decided, This is only a little bouquet. I want a big bouquet for Mommy!
So Billy began to pick violets again.
He picked and picked.
He picked violets from here,
Violets from there—
From here,
From there,
From everywhere!
Billy’s back began to ache and his knees began to hurt. “I’ve picked enough,” he said to himself.
But then Billy looked at his bouquet of violets. This is only a middle-sized bouquet, he thought. I want a big bouquet of violets for Mommy!
So Billy began to pick again.
He picked and picked.
He picked violets from here,
Violets from there—
From here,
From there,
From everywhere!
Oh, thought Billy, I’m really tired and my back hurts. I think I’ve picked enough!
When Billy looked at his bouquet of violets, he was very happy. “Now I have a big bouquet!” he exclaimed. “A beautiful big bouquet of violets for Mommy!”
Billy forgot he was tired. Skippity-skop went his happy feet up the path, up the steps, and right into the house.
“See my big bouquet,” Billy said to Grandma. “Will you please tie it with a big ribbon, just like the bouquet on the card?”
“Of course!” Grandma answered.
As Grandma tied a pretty ribbon around the violet stems, she said, “This is a beautiful big bouquet, Billy. Mommy will like it very much!”
And Mommy did! When Billy gave his big bouquet of violets to Mommy, she gave him a hug and a squeeze and a kiss. She said it was the most beautiful bouquet of violets she had ever seen!

Recently, you may have read about Sister Ella Hoskins, who at 100 years old was called to help the young women in her ward with Personal Progress.20 About two years later, at 102, Sister Hoskins earned her Young Womanhood Recognition award. The young women, the ward and stake Young Women and Relief Society presidencies, and family members gathered together to celebrate her accomplishment. Boundaries of age, organization, and marital status faded away in faithful service. Young women expressed gratitude for Sister Hoskins, for her teaching, and for her righteous example. They want to be like her. Afterward, I asked Sister Hoskins, “How did you do it?”
She promptly responded, “I repent every day.”

For Brett Allen and Ben Marwick of Perth, it started with simple friendship, but it really got going the night they spent several hours riding their bikes in circles.

You can see why Brett and Ben became friends in the first place. Both quick-witted. Articulate. Fond of taking a subject apart and looking at it from all angles, arguing opposite sides just for the sheer pleasure of it.

You can also see how their first gospel discussions must have been frustrating for both. Ben, the nonmember, his mind racing ahead, full of detailed questions. Brett, the member, wanting to keep things simple at first, focusing on testimony.

It all started with friendship, when Brett moved and started attending the same school as Ben. As Ben tells it: “We became pretty good friends, and occasionally I used to call him up in the morning—in the first term this was—and he was never there. His dad would say, ‘He’s in seminary.’”

Ben knew a seminary was where people studied religion, and that aroused his curiosity a little more. He and Brett had already been having those frustrating religious discussions, including the infamous evening when they were riding their bikes home from school and started talking about the Church. “I just rode around in circles with him for several hours, talking,” Ben recalls. “When you get involved in that kind of thing, you don’t notice what the time is. So of course we drove to our respective homes and got blasted for the lateness of the hour.”

Later, during the holidays, Ben was at Brett’s house with a couple of Brett’s LDS friends, who were there studying to finish off the seminary term. That’s when they invited Ben to join them at seminary. “I thought I might as well see what it was all about,” Ben says simply. So he started attending early-morning seminary, riding his bike to Brett’s house, where the class was held. The subject was Old Testament. Ben took to it like a frog to flies, completed the rest of the seminary year, and even received a certificate.

In fact, Ben didn’t just enjoy seminary. As Brett puts it, “He stole the show. All of us sort of viewed seminary as something that you needed to do if you wanted your parents to let you live. But Ben thrived on it.”

Once Ben started attending seminary, it wasn’t long before he, his sister, Josie, and his mother, Eleanor, were receiving the missionary discussions. They had the usual struggles and challenges, but all three were eventually baptized, and now Ben is thinking about his own future mission. He’s also continuing those gospel discussions with Brett, but from a very different perspective.

Actually, the missionary work never ends. Emily wants to be married in the temple and raise her children in the Church. Ben plans to go on a mission. At last report Sally was working to introduce a friend to the gospel. But first it has to begin. And it begins with friendship. It begins with letting your membership and your values be known. And it begins with faith that if you do your part, the Lord will do his.

Even with the school yard empty, LeeRoy listened to the playground sounds. He heard the clanking of the rings swaying in the hot October wind. The chains of the swings were banging gently against the poles. Sometimes a tumbleweed got caught under the slide. It would finally be freed by a gust of wind and continue on its way out into the Arizona desert.
His small western town had lots of sounds that LeeRoy knew very well. The playground sounds were very faint, yet he could hear them as he sat inside his third grade classroom.
School was supposed to be fun. All the other kids really liked school. They were always laughing and crowding around the teacher and raising their hands. They got the right answers. Their papers had lots of stickers that read, “Good job” or “Superstar” or “Terrific.” LeeRoy could see their papers from his seat in the back row of the room. He never raised his hand. His papers got no stickers. His papers got comments like “Better” or “Keep trying,” made with a red marker. He sat holding a paper the teacher had just handed back, marked “Try harder, LeeRoy!” Although this was only the fifth week of school, he sighed, feeling as though he had been there forever.
“Today I have a special surprise for all of you,” the teacher announced.
LeeRoy looked out the window. He watched a tumbleweed free itself from under the slide. She has no surprises for me, he thought. I’m just a dumb kid. He heard a faraway train whistling its arrival. There were seven train whistles every day before lunch. He knew because he listened for them.
“Our town newspaper has invited each class in our school to write a story about how we know our town,” the teacher continued. “The class that writes the most unusual, interesting one will get their story printed and will receive awards.”
There was instant chattering in the classroom.
“Raise your hands to talk,” the teacher reminded them.
“What do eight-year-olds know about a town?” Lisa asked as she raised her hand and spoke at the same time.
“Just think about it. We know a lot of things,” Miss Anderson said, including herself as a part of the class.
“I know about catching crawdads in the creek,” Tom boasted.
“Oh how gross!” Molly put in. “How about the new library?” The class had been to it twice, and it was indeed a fine library for a town of only six thousand people.
“That’s boring, Molly,” Danny said, without adding any suggestions of his own.
Miss Anderson quieted the class. She went up and down the aisles, asking for more suggestions. “What do you know about the town, Fred?” she asked. Fred simply shrugged his shoulders. “Keith?” she questioned as she started down another row.
“My dad says we’re going to get tons of snow this winter,” Keith announced.
“It has to be something we know,” corrected Susan. “What about our city park? We all go there.”
“That’s a good idea,” agreed Miss Anderson. She reached the end of the row. “What do you know, LeeRoy?”
LeeRoy looked from the window up to the teacher and said, “Huh?”
“LeeRoy, what do you know about our town?” she repeated, looking disappointed that he had not been paying attention.
LeeRoy looked up again and barely whispered, “I know noise.”
Bursts of laughter broke out. LeeRoy lowered his head and heard his heart pounding, punishing him for being so dumb.
“That’s very interesting, LeeRoy,” Miss Anderson said, waving her hand for the others to be quiet. “Tell me about the noises you know.”
“Just listen,” LeeRoy slowly began. “The playground rings make sounds, and the chains on the swings, and the wind, and the clock, and the trains …” He looked up.
The class got very quiet, surprised to hear LeeRoy talk. The fan on the top of the teacher’s file cabinet whirred as it turned from side to side, clicking each time it stopped and started the other way.
“Listen to the fan,” Molly said, breaking the silence.
Everyone listened until Fred said, “I hear the lights humming.” Again silence fell as everyone held his breath and listened to the lights hum. LeeRoy watched as they all listened.
“That’s a neat idea, LeeRoy!” Tom said. The class listened for more sounds that they hadn’t really thought about before.
“We all know noises,” remarked Susan. “Let’s use LeeRoy’s idea for our story. We could write about the noises in our town.”
“That’s a wonderful suggestion, Susan,” Miss Anderson agreed. “Do we all agree?” When the class yelled its excited approval, she asked, “May we use your idea, Lee Roy? And will you help us learn about your special noises?”
LeeRoy nodded, and a shy grin broke out on his face.
The next day the class members listed all the noises that they’d heard after school and during the night. LeeRoy told them about the sounds that he liked best: the popping of the popcorn in the street vendor’s cart and the squeaking of the film moving in the movie theater. He liked the way the planks of the classroom floor creaked when the heater went on.
The story from Miss Anderson’s third-grade class was titled “My Town’s Noise.” It told about how quiet a desert town like theirs was, yet how alive it was with noise. In describing their noises, they had described their town.
The newspaper printed their story on the front page with a picture of the big blue first-prize ribbon next to the story. Under it was a picture of the class members and their teacher. In the front row, with a big grin on his face, stood LeeRoy.

“How many more boards do you think we need?” Jordan* asked as he and Derek huffed and puffed up the driveway to Ben’s backyard.
“Oh, maybe one more load,” Derek said. “My dad says we can use all the scrap wood we need from the pile in our backyard.”
The boys were hauling wood in Derek’s wagon for the treehouse they were building in Ben’s oak tree. When it was finished, it would be their clubhouse.
During the summer, the boys had formed a club. The treehouse would make their club extra special.
Jordan and Derek dumped their load on the pile of boards. Jordan called up to the tree, “How’s it coming?”
“Pretty good,” Brandon answered. “The floor is a little crooked, but we’ve nailed it in tight. We’ll start on the walls next. Send up a couple of really straight boards.”
All week long they worked on the treehouse, and even when it got really hot outside, they didn’t mind. Ben’s mom sent out frozen treats, and the four boys sat in the tree, eating the treats and talking about how fun their treehouse would be when it was finished.
Finally the treehouse was ready. It was getting close to dinnertime, so they all climbed on their bikes to go home. Derek yelled over his shoulder, “Remember, Jordan, ten o’clock tomorrow—our first meeting in the treehouse!”
“I’ll be there!” Jordan hollered back.
The next morning, Jordan wolfed down his scrambled eggs and toast, then hurried through his chores. “May I go now, Mom? We’re having our first club meeting in the treehouse.”
“Sure, Jordan. Just be back at noon.”
Jordan hopped on his bike and headed to Ben’s house. He could tell by the bikes in the driveway that his friends were already there. As Jordan climbed the wooden planks nailed to the tree trunk, Derek popped his head out of the treehouse door.
“Stop right there, Jordan,” he said. “You have to give the password first.”
“Huh? We’ve never had a password.”
“Well, we do now. It’s—”
As Derek said the password, Jordan got a sick feeling in his stomach. “But that’s a bad word,” he thought. Aloud, he said, “Derek, what are you talking about? I’m not going to say that.”
“Then you can’t be in our club!”
“Come on, Derek, I don’t feel good about saying that, and I really want to try out the treehouse today.”
Jordan heard laughs and snickers coming from inside. It was Brandon and Ben.
“Jordan’s chicken!”
“Come on, Jordan—we all said it.”
Jordan was quiet for a minute. Then he squared his shoulders and said, “I guess I can’t be in the club, then. I won’t say that.” He climbed down the steps, got on his bike, and slowly rode home.
When he came in the back door, Mom said, “Hi, buddy. You’re home early.”
“I guess I didn’t feel much like playing today.” His lip quivered just a bit.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
Jordan hesitated, then blurted out, “The treehouse is finished, but the others say unless I say the password, I can’t be in the club.”
“Well, what’s the password?” Mom asked.
“I can’t tell you. It’s not a nice word.”
“I see.”
Mom walked over to the refrigerator, poured him a glass of chocolate milk, and sat down at the table. She was quiet for a minute, and then said, “Jordan, do you know the story of Abinadi and King Noah?”
“Yes, Sister Nielsen told us that one in Primary.”
“Well, when Abinadi was brought before King Noah and tried to teach the king and his priests about Jesus Christ, Abinadi told them to repent. Do you remember what King Noah thought about that?”
“Didn’t he tell Abinadi that if he didn’t take it all back and deny Jesus Christ, they would kill him?”
“That’s right. And what did Abinadi do?”
“He wouldn’t say it, because he knew it was wrong.”
“Well, isn’t that like what you did today?”
Jordan was puzzled. “I don’t get it, Mom. What does that have to do with my club?”
“Well, Abinadi wouldn’t say something he knew was wrong. He stood up for what was right, and so did you.”
“I guess you’re right, Mom.” He took another gulp of chocolate milk. “But even though being kicked out of the club isn’t anywhere near as bad as getting burned to death, choosing the right can be hard sometimes.”
Mom smiled. “That’s true. But don’t you feel better for making the right choice?”
“Yes, I do. You’re right, Mom. Thanks.”
Just then the doorbell rang. It was Brandon. “Jordan,” he said, his head down a little, “I’m sorry. We never should have had that crummy password. I wish I could have been brave like you. Can we still be friends?”
“Sure, Brandon! What do you say we go over to the park and shoot some baskets?”
“OK! I’ll go home and grab my ball!”
Jordan smiled as they rode their bikes to the park. “Mom was right,” he thought. “It feels lots better to choose the right!”

Q. So the gospel helps you with your composing?
A. Musicians don’t just write notes; we write feelings. And there aren’t any deeper or more spiritual feelings than what is inspired by the gospel. Since I joined the Church after my senior year in high school, everything has become more meaningful to me.
Plus the gospel gives me balance in my life. As important as music is, it’s not the most important thing. Once upon a time, the glitz and glamour of the business got to me, and I started worshipping the wrong things. I began to be depressed all the time and didn’t do a good job in my music. But I went through a reawakening and was able to put things back into perspective.
Q. What caused your reawakening?
A. A number of things, but part of it was my family. I have two daughters, and both were born with spina bifida, which basically means they’re paralyzed from the knees down. When Kristin was born nine years ago, she helped me realize some very important things. She was happy. I became aware that although she’d probably never perform great physical feats, she had everything she needed to be happy in this life and to return to our Heavenly Father. So I asked myself, “What are you doing, Brother Bestor? Why are you going for the fame and fortune of the world? You don’t need all that.”

My new husband and I knew the importance of family home evening in helping families learn to love each other and grow together, but our children were grown and on their own. It was hard for us to hold a family night until we decided to invite my husband’s mother. At the time my mother-in-law was 74 years old and belonged to another church. She worked in a flower shop and scarcely ventured from her routine of going to work and then home.
At first she was a little hesitant to come because she knew nothing of our faith, but now she looks forward to Monday nights. We share dinners, laughter, and music and have become very close. We know that she does not want us to try to convert her, but she does allow us to share stories about our faith. One evening I read a talk from one of the Church leaders. We all felt the Spirit. We have had opportunities to show her the Ensign, and she looks at every page. We have taught her what temples are for, and she has watched Church videos. We do these things sparingly, as the Spirit guides us.
Before one of our family home evenings, I asked her to teach the lesson. She brought pictures of herself when she was young and of my husband when he was a baby. I heard stories of aunts, uncles, grandmas, and grandpas. The happiness in her eyes as she relived these experiences made my heart almost burst. I realized then that the commandment to have family home evening is divine instruction from our Father in Heaven.
Many doors have been opened for my mother-in-law to learn things pertaining to the gospel. I don’t know that she will become a member of the Church during her life on earth, but I do know that our family has been strengthened and our love increased.
Dani Jeanne Stevens, Logan Ward, Huntington West Virginia Stake

When I was called on a mission to Argentina, I spent three months at what was then called the Language Training Mission. We had a test every Saturday, and I kept getting low scores. I was used to getting good grades in high school, and I was not content with the grades I was getting on my tests at the LTM. The price to get better at Spanish was to get up earlier than anyone else there and practice. At the time, we memorized discussions. When I arrived in Argentina, I had memorized six lessons. When I gave my first discussion, I looked at my companion to see if I had done it right. It was far from perfect, but I felt that the Lord knew I was trying, and He helped me with the language. Learning Spanish was important so that I could serve. I served in Argentina for two years. Later I was called to serve as a mission president in Bolivia for three years and then lived in Central America for three more years, so learning Spanish has blessed my life.

A woman who took refuge in a Mormon chapel during the typhoon found out afterward that her home had been destroyed when coconut trees fell on it. She and her family did not have the means to fix it, but volunteers helped her to build a new house, and she is now helping another family to construct a home. “I learned to work together with those who are also in need here, so we can recover from [the typhoon] together,” she said.

Marie and her husband, David, had been married many years and were respected members of their community. But then one day Marie learned, unbeknownst to David, that he had become involved in a relationship with another woman.
Marie came into my office, feeling a mix of anger, grief, and sadness. As she sobbed through her story, she knew she needed to tell David how she felt but not in an angry way, so that the Spirit would be with them.
After prayerful preparation, she told David she loved him but that she was devastated to learn of his relationship with another woman. They would need to meet with the bishop and consider the fate of their marriage. David didn’t want to lose his wife or his family. With help from the bishop, he began the process of repentance.
Marie knew there were things each of them would need to do to find healing individually and as a couple. Marie asked David to stay at his parents for a time while she sorted her feelings out. She spent time in the temple, asking the Lord for help. She remained in therapy, strengthening her communication skills and learning to set appropriate boundaries.
Together, Marie and David:
Read scriptures each night.
Prayed.
Shared the happenings of each day.
Had a date night once a week.
They communicated more openly. Marie said what she thought, and David listened. They began to talk with each other as they had when they were first married.
Marie reported that it wasn’t just David who changed; she changed also. She felt stronger and more confident in herself. David remained repentant and came home.
Including the Lord in their daily lives brought greater trust and love to their relationship. Both felt that the effort to overcome this challenge with the Lord’s help had strengthened them.

A little girl taught me a profound lesson on this subject. Surely you are not above learning from little children. Much of what I know that really matters I have learned from being a father.

Some years ago I returned home to find our little children were waiting in the driveway. They had discovered some newly hatched chicks under the manger in the barn. When they reached for them, a protective hen rebuffed them. So they came for reinforcements.

I soon gathered a handful of little chicks for them to see and touch.

As our little girl held one of them, I said in a teasing way, “That will make a nice watchdog when it grows up, won’t it?” She looked at me quizzically, as if I didn’t know much.

So I changed my approach: “It won’t be a watchdog, will it?” She shook her head, “No, Daddy.” Then I added, “It will be a nice riding horse.”

She wrinkled up her nose and gave me that “Oh, Dad!” look. For even a four-year-old knows that a chick will not be a dog, nor a horse, nor even a turkey. It will be a chicken. It will follow the pattern of its parentage. She knew that without having had a course in genetics, without a lesson or a lecture.

No lesson is more manifest in nature than that all living things do as the Lord commanded in the Creation. They reproduce “after their own kind.” (See Moses 2:12, 24.) They follow the pattern of their parentage. Everyone knows that; every four-year-old knows that! A bird will not become an animal nor a fish. A mammal will not beget reptiles, nor “do men gather … figs of thistles.” (Matt. 7:16.)

In the countless billions of opportunities in the reproduction of living things, one kind does not beget another. If a species ever does cross, the offspring cannot reproduce. The pattern for all life is the pattern of the parentage.

This is demonstrated in so many obvious ways, even an ordinary mind should understand it. Surely no one with reverence for God could believe that His children evolved from slime or from reptiles. (Although one can easily imagine that those who accept the theory of evolution don’t show much enthusiasm for genealogical research!) The theory of evolution, and it is a theory, will have an entirely different dimension when the workings of God in creation are fully revealed.

Since every living thing follows the pattern of its parentage, are we to suppose that God had some other strange pattern in mind for His offspring? Surely we, His children, are not, in the language of science, a different species than He is?

What is in error, then, when we use the term Godhood to describe the ultimate destiny of mankind? We may now be young in our progression—juvenile, even infantile, compared with Him. Nevertheless, in the eternities to come, if we are worthy, we may be like unto Him, enter His presence, “see as [we] are seen, and know as [we] are known,” and receive a “fulness.” (D&C 76:94.)