Gospel Story Finder

Enduring Trials
“When [Kate] was 14, … one day her [seminary] teacher started to talk about trials and guaranteed that we all would face them. She said to herself, ‘I don’t want trials; I don’t want to hear this.’
“It was just a few weeks later that her father woke up … extremely ill. Kate said: ‘… Within 36 hours he had a massive stroke that shut down most of his body. … I remember seeing him and thinking, “Oh no, it’s happening. … I am having a trial.”’ Within a few days Kate’s father passed away.
“… Kate said: ‘It was so hard. … I knew I could make it a springboard for growth or allow it to be a roadblock. I didn’t want to let it ruin my life. … I tried to be as close to the Lord as possible. I read my scriptures a lot. … I prayed a lot. I wrote in my journal. … I kept my testimony vibrant by writing it down. I went to church and to Young Women every week. I surrounded myself with good friends. I kept close to caring relatives and especially to my mom. … I sought out priesthood blessings. …’
“These consistent choices, like those of the wise virgin, added oil to Kate’s lamp. … She wanted an eternal relationship with [her father], and she understood that staying on her covenant path would keep her life woven tightly with his. …
“Kate had this kind of faith because she understood the plan of salvation. She knew we lived before, that earth is a time of testing, and that we will live again.”
Mary N. Cook, former first counselor in the Young Women general presidency

For Chelsea Baugh, going to college was never really a question. “Education has always been important in my home,” she says. “My parents have encouraged college since we were toddlers.” So from the time she learned what college was, Chelsea worked hard to achieve her dream of attending a university.

Now a student in a four-year university undergraduate program, Chelsea is realizing that the hard work has just begun. Between classes, homework, friends, and the LDS institute of religion council (of which she is the youngest member), she is busy all the time. But Chelsea loves her college experience and is excited about the education she is receiving. “Education is important because even if you don’t get a job—if you decide to be a stay-at-home mom for example—you’re going to use your education in every aspect of your life.”

Life in college has been challenging at times. At one point, Chelsea decided to change her major, which can be a frightening choice because it will affect your entire future. “My decision involved a lot of pondering, a lot of thinking about what I wanted in life, and a lot of praying,” she says.

If you’re planning on going to college, Chelsea has some good advice: “Plan early. Start disciplining yourself in junior high school to study. Get involved in high school with athletics, clubs, friends—whatever you’re interested in. And take seminary and gain a testimony of it so that when you go to college you’ll have a desire to go to institute. That gospel learning will help you keep your life in balance.”

In 1895 my great-grandfather, Abinadi Olsen, was called on a mission to the Samoan Islands. Obedient to the call of the prophet, he left his wife and four small children, including my maternal grandmother, Chasty Magdalene, in the town of Castle Dale, Utah. He traveled by train and ship to the mission headquarters in Apia, a journey of 26 days. His first assignment was to labor on the island of Tutuila.
After many weeks of living in what he called a grass hut, eating strange food, suffering severe illnesses, and struggling to learn the Samoan language, he seemed to be making no progress in his missionary work. Homesick and discouraged, he seriously considered boarding a boat back to Apia and telling the mission president he didn’t want to waste any more time in Samoa. The obstacles to the accomplishment of his mission seemed insurmountable, and he wished to return to his wife and children, who were struggling to support him in the mission field.
A friend who heard Abinadi Olsen describe the experience some years after his return, quoted him as follows:
“Then one night, as I lay on my mat on the floor of my hut, a strange man entered and in my own language told me to get up and follow him. His manner was such that I had to obey. He led me out through the village and directly up against the face of a perpendicular solid rock cliff. ‘That’s strange,’ thought I. ‘I’ve never seen that here before,’ and just then the stranger said, ‘I want you to climb that cliff.’
“I took another look and then in bewilderment said, ‘I can’t. It’s impossible!’
“‘How do you know you can’t? You haven’t tried,’ said my guide.
“‘But anyone can see’—I started to say in objection. But he cut in with, ‘Begin climbing. Reach up with your hand—now with your foot.’
“As I reached, under orders that I dared not disobey, a niche seemed to open in the solid rock cliff and I caught hold. Then with my one foot I caught a toe hold.
“‘Now go ahead,’ he ordered. ‘Reach with your other hand,’ and as I did so another place opened up, and to my surprise the cliff began to recede; climbing became easier, and I continued the ascent without difficulty until, suddenly, I found myself lying on my pallet back in my hut. The stranger was gone!
“‘Why has this experience come to me?’ I asked myself. The answer came quickly. I had been up against an imaginary cliff for those three months. I had not reached out my hand to begin the climb. I hadn’t really made the effort I should have made to learn the language and surmount my other problems” (Fenton L. Williams, “On Doing the Impossible,” Improvement Era, Aug. 1957, p. 554).
It is hardly necessary to add that Abinadi Olsen did not leave the mission. He labored for three and a half years, until released by appropriate authority. He was an exceptionally effective missionary, and he was a faithful member of the Church for the rest of his life.

“Once, when I was about seven years old, Mother gave me a dollar bill and asked me to go to Joe Wood’s market to buy a pound of hamburger. As Joe Wood put the hamburger on the counter, I put my hand in my pocket for the money—but the dollar bill was gone! I just panicked. I said to him, ‘I’ll have to come back later,’ then ran out of the store and retraced my steps, looking for the money. I couldn’t find it. I got all the way back home without finding it.
“I couldn’t face Mother and tell her I’d lost the dollar, so I ducked under the kitchen window and went around to the coal shed. I knelt down on the ground and told Heavenly Father that I just had to find that money. Then I crawled back under the window and went down the street again. There in the parking lot I found the dollar! Gratefully, I picked it up and went into the store to pay Joe Wood his money and get the hamburger.

Chauncey was a demon for self-improvement. To make time for study, he rigged up an electric alarm system that aroused him in the morning around 5:00 or 5:30. Then he would usually work out for about 15 minutes swinging Indian clubs. He was especially motivated to go through these exercises in the cold winter months: getting the circulation stimulated helped to compensate for the two hours he was studying without heat. On January 10 the following scene occurred:
“This morning at 6:30 I was awakened very suddenly by my electric clock and bells. I made one jump and landed out of bed on the floor. Then my understanding was clear and I, knowing that if I did not in a minute shut my electric bells off from the strong current that the batteries would be run down and the neighbors would turn out thinking there was a fire, I jumped spryly in the direction of my electric clock, but I had barely got started toward it in the blind darkness than I ran against some living thing and turned a somersault the air and fell all in a heap, and the noise of the gong sounded louder and louder. After I got my understanding, I made another attempt, shutting off the electric current and lighting the lamp looking for the person that I had fallen over. It was a chair.”

Very early in my childhood, I became aware of the importance of prayer and the awesome power of the holy priesthood. During the fall of 1942, the United States was involved in a war. My father was trying to finish building our house. He couldn’t get a furnace because all building materials were needed for the war. As the weather became colder, my little sister, Patricia, and I became very ill. She had bronchitis, and my condition was even worse. I had double pneumonia. The doctor came and examined me but told my parents that he could do nothing for me. He offered little hope that I would live through the night.
Speaking of that “awful night of nights,” my mother said that she became desperate as she felt for my pulse and could find none. She said that I looked like a little statue lying there on my bed. She fervently prayed to the Lord, promising that if I should live, she would give me back to the Lord for His service. During the night, my father gave me a priesthood blessing. As he laid his hands upon my head, I became conscious and opened my eyes, and from that time on, I began to feel better. I know that through the prayers of my parents and the power of the priesthood, my life was spared.

In 1895 my great-grandfather, Abinadi Olsen, was called on a mission to the Samoan Islands. Obedient to the call of the prophet, he left his wife and four small children, including my maternal grandmother, Chasty Magdalene, in the town of Castle Dale, Utah. He traveled by train and ship to the mission headquarters in Apia, a journey of 26 days. His first assignment was to labor on the island of Tutuila.

After many weeks of living in what he called a grass hut, eating strange food, suffering severe illnesses, and struggling to learn the Samoan language, he seemed to be making no progress in his missionary work. Homesick and discouraged, he seriously considered boarding a boat back to Apia and telling the mission president he didn’t want to waste any more time in Samoa. The obstacles to the accomplishment of his mission seemed insurmountable, and he wished to return to his wife and children, who were struggling to support him in the mission field.

A friend who heard Abinadi Olsen describe the experience some years after his return, quoted him as follows:
“Then one night, as I lay on my mat on the floor of my hut, a strange man entered, and in my own language told me to get up and follow him. His manner was such that I had to obey. He led me through the village and directly against the face of a perpendicular solid-rock cliff. That’s strange, thought I. I’ve never seen that here before, and just then the stranger said, ‘I want you to climb that cliff.’
“I took another look and then in bewilderment said, ‘I can’t. It’s impossible!’
“‘How do you know you can’t? You haven’t tried,’ said my guide.
“‘But anyone can see’—I started to say in objection. But he cut in with, ‘Begin climbing. Reach up with your hand—now with your foot.’
“As I reached, under orders that I dared not disobey, a niche seemed to open in the solid-rock cliff and I caught hold. Then with my one foot I caught a toehold.
“‘Now go ahead,’ he ordered. ‘Reach with your other hand,’ and as I did so another place opened up, and to my surprise the cliff began to recede; climbing became easier, and I continued the ascent without difficulty until, suddenly, I found myself lying on my pallet back in my hut. The stranger was gone!
“Why has this experience come to me? I asked myself. The answer came quickly. I had been up against an imaginary cliff for those three months. I had not reached out my hand to begin the climb. I hadn’t really made the effort I should have made to learn the language and surmount my other problems” (Improvement Era, Aug. 1957, 554).

It is hardly necessary to add that Abinadi Olsen did not leave the mission. He labored for three and a half years, until released by appropriate authority. He was an exceptionally effective missionary, and he was a faithful member of the Church for the rest of his life.

One of these experiences began a few years ago when I was assigned as a home teacher to a young man who had been raised in a faithful Latter-day Saint family. After he left home to attend school, he chose other paths. Month after month my home teaching companion and I visited him without success; it seemed he didn’t even hear what we said to him. But when the tempests came and he was confused, not knowing what to do to resolve his problems, it was his home teachers he sought out.
At the time I was his stake president. He told me he remembered something his mother had taught him: “The Lord hears the prayers of those who sincerely seek Him.” As he confided that he had returned to praying and reading the scriptures, I saw with joy that the Lord had touched him.
I decided to follow up with him more closely, so I asked that he be assigned as my home teaching companion. Each month he and I visited four homes, and each month I prepared four different messages in an effort to strengthen my friend and help him in his return to gospel activity. Eventually he made the decision to repent, to faithfully attend his meetings, and to sincerely partake of the sacrament. The Lord’s sacrifice was having an effect on his life.
Today the family remains active and totally integrated in the ward, and they have been sealed in the Lord’s temple. My companion continues to progress rapidly in the gospel. He married a wonderful young woman in the temple, and they now have two children. They are happy and contribute valuable service to our ward and to the Church.
Six people were converted to the gospel as a result of that experience. A collective miracle! I felt the joy described in the scriptures:
“And how great is his joy in the soul that repenteth!
“Wherefore, you are called to cry repentance unto this people.
“And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!
“And now, if your joy will be great with one soul that you have brought unto me into the kingdom of my Father, how great will be your joy if you should bring many souls unto me!” (D&C 18:13–16).

“Wake up, girls. The neighbor just came with a message that we need to go to the ranch right away.”
Mom’s voice was quiet but filled with urgency. We were in the process of moving to a ranch several miles away, and Dad was living there by himself until we could join him.
“Why do we have to go to the ranch?” I thought. But the reason for going didn’t really matter as I pulled my nine-year-old body into the pickup truck and went back to sleep.
As Mom pulled the truck up to the house I woke up and saw Dad coming out. He went to Mom and in a low voice told her something that made her gasp, then cry. What was it? There was a stillness in the air that seemed to shout at me, a deathly stillness. My heart began to beat a little faster though I couldn’t understand why.
We walked into the house to find Grandpa seated on the couch. Why was he here, and where was Grandma? Suddenly I knew, without being told, why the stillness was so empty and why my grandfather was sitting there without my grandmother. I found myself hoping against hope that I was wrong.
The next few minutes were spent in listening to my father call the mortuary (a foreign word to me) and trying to get rid of the big lump in my throat. I wasn’t going to cry; I was simply scared. Soon Dad took us upstairs to put us to bed. I silently waited for what was coming, still hoping I was wrong.
“Girls, something happened to your grandma today. She was in a car accident, and she was killed. We won’t see her anymore.”
Simple, quiet, direct, and powerful. Oh, how powerful! I started crying but not just for the loss of my grandmother. Something more consuming had entered my mind. The lump returned to my throat and my heart began to beat even faster.
Was she really dead? Of course she was. But was she really? What was death? Could she feel anything now? Could she see me thinking about her? Was she just floating in space? I couldn’t imagine her life just ending and nothing more. Something inside me told me it wasn’t right for death to be so permanent. I imagined myself dying, and panic seized me. It didn’t seem possible that when I died I wouldn’t feel, hear, think, smell, see, or anything. The thought was unbearable to me, and I slammed a door against my fear, locking it away.
Six years later as I lay in bed, my thoughts wandered aimlessly back to that quiet June night. I could almost hear my father’s voice telling us Grandma was dead. Grandma! Like lightning the door of the mind opened, and my fear was released. “No!” I screamed silently, turning over in bed and closing my eyes. Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to imagine what death was like. There were no pictures to imagine, only darkness and emptiness. And again something inside me told me that darkness wasn’t right.
I arose, went to my window, and gazed into the night, concentrating on the shadowy forms of trees and distant sounds of crickets and cattle. Soon the fear was behind its door again. But for how long?
Summer passed, school started, and before I knew how it happened, my best friend had introduced me to the missionaries, I had no prior religious affiliation, and I was not really aware of who they were, but they were friendly and I couldn’t help but like them.
One day, late in the fall one of the elders approached me. “We have a movie we’d like you and your family to see,” he said. “Could we set up a time when we could come to your home and show it?”
“Well,” I hesitated, “I don’t know if my dad would like that or not.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” continued the missionary. “We’ll only come if he wants us to. We’d like to show it next Monday night if we can.”
“Okay,” I said, inwardly eager for my parents to meet these two young men. I was sure they would like them if they met them. But would they want to meet them? I approached my father cautiously that night, expecting a negative reply to my request, but to my surprise and delight, he consented to have the missionaries come the following Monday evening. The next day I contacted them and told them the good news. I then began to look forward to their visit wondering what kind of movie they were going to show, having no idea of the effect it would have on my life.
Monday evening came, and at the appointed time there was a knock on our door, I let our guests in and introduced them to my parents. The two young men talked easily with them while setting up their equipment. I was disappointed as I watched them prepare a filmstrip projector instead of a movie projector. “This looks like something we’d see in history class,” I thought.
“Where did I come from? Why am I here? Where am I going?” The words rang through my mind. As I watched the movie and my fears were let loose again, there were answers to greet the fears. I imagined death, and this time there were pictures in my mind—pictures of people, waiting together. There was no more darkness, and the something that had been telling me all along that darkness wasn’t right was now telling me that the pictures in my mind were right. I felt a burden lifting.
“What did you think?” asked one of the elders at the conclusion of the filmstrip.
“Very nice,” my parents commented politely. I had no comment. I was still thinking of all I had just heard. I felt a peacefulness I had never felt before, and I wanted to know more.
The missionaries returned to our home with the discussions, and within a few weeks I was baptized. A whole new life began for me. No longer was I living from one day to the next, wondering when my fear of death would overtake me. No more did I feel terror at the thought of death.
Now I knew that end was only another beginning.

Called as a new Apostle in 1943, Elder Benson soon received from the First Presidency a most challenging and significant assignment. He was assigned to give assistance to members of the Church in Europe who had been devastated by World War II. He witnessed the ravages of war. He saw the hungry, the cold, the destitute.

Frederick W. Babbel, called to serve as executive secretary to Elder Benson while he was in Europe, wrote to his family:
“The Lord knew what he was doing when he sent [Elder] Benson over here. He is a living apostle of God in every way. … I continue to marvel at his unwavering faith, his unflinching courage, his resolute determination and undaunted spirit. … He not only speaks to God, but he listens, and I’m sure God speaks with him even as he did with his apostles of old. … [He is] one of the humblest, most devoted men I have ever known, so kind in spirit and manner … a man surpassing all men I have known.” (On Wings of Faith, p. 125.)

In this special assignment, President Benson was responsible for perhaps the largest distribution of welfare supplies to members that has been undertaken. Thousands of tons of food, clothing, bedding, and medical supplies were delivered to Saints in thirteen nations. It is significant that he will now be sustained as the President of the Church during the fiftieth anniversary of the welfare program.

During that historic mission away from his family, Elder Benson held meetings with the Saints, reorganized the branches and missions, and lifted members’ spirits. To them he was an angel of mercy.

Only by prayer and divine intervention was he able to accomplish that mission and gain entrance into some countries. He said, “I assure you I know the source of the success which attended our labors. … It would [have been impossible] … to accomplish the mission … without the directing power of the Almighty.” (In Conference Report, Apr. 1947, p. 152.)

Twelve-year-old Tim, ten-year-old Jake, and eight-year-old Jill closed their books for the day.
“Awesome history lesson, Mom,” Jake said.
“Totally!” Jill said. Mom made history so fun. It was Jill’s favorite subject.
“Thanks, kids,” Mom said as she gathered up her teaching supplies. “You’re all doing great. Your teachers next year are going to be so impressed with you, I just know it.”
Jill’s stomach did a little somersault. With the new baby coming, Mom had decided she would be too busy to teach homeschool next year.
“I’ll miss having you as my teacher,” Jill said.
Mom put a hand on Jill’s shoulder. “I’ll miss being your teacher too, sweetheart. But I’m still your mom.” She grinned. “And a mom is always a teacher!”
As Jill got ready for bed that night, she thought about what Mom had said. A mom is always a teacher.
Jill had never really thought much about it before. Mom had worked so hard. Right then and there Jill decided to somehow give Mom a gigantic “Thank you!” for being her teacher. It would have to be something special. But how should she do it? She prayed for help.
Several days later Jill still hadn’t thought of the perfect way to show thanks for Mom. She thanked her out loud all the time. But she wanted to do something more.
“You kids have done so well,” Mom said. “You’re definitely ready to graduate from homeschool.”
Jill’s hand froze in place, her pencil hovering above her paper. A fabulous idea popped into her head. Graduate! They could throw Mom a surprise graduation party! Mom would love it. It was the perfect way to say thank you.
Jill told Tim and Jake her plan. They soon began working to throw a great surprise party.
Jill had a hard time focusing on math the next day. She kept picturing Mom’s face when they surprised her.
Finally it was time to put their books away. When Mom turned around to wipe the chalkboard, Jill gave a thumbs-up to Tim and Jake to show that it was time. As quietly as possible they pulled out the secret party supplies they had hidden under their desks.
“Surprise!” they all yelled as Mom turned around. Jill ran over and gave Mom a rolled-up paper that she’d tied carefully with a ribbon. She’d worked hard on that homemade diploma.
“What’s all this?” Mom asked with a laugh. Tim put a graduation hat made of black construction paper on her head.
“It’s a graduation party!” said Jake. “From all of us.”
Jill gave Mom a big hug. “We wanted to thank you for being such a great teacher.”
“Happy graduation!” Jill and her brothers all shouted. Tim pulled out a party noisemaker and blew it loudly. “Come into the kitchen!” he said. “It’s time to get this party started.”
Mom laughed again and adjusted the graduation hat on her head. Then she followed Tim and Jake into the kitchen for the treats they’d planned.
Jill felt good inside. They had made Mom happy.
Next school year was going to be great, Jill decided. And if she ever had homework questions, she knew just who to ask for help. With a huge smile, Jill ran into the kitchen to join the party.

When I was about your age, I learned the importance of a straight and narrow path and how difficult it was to be focused and stay on it. I grew up in a very small town in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies. My dad was a farmer, and I learned to work! Every summer I drove the tractor for him, mowing and raking hay, hauling hay bales, and plowing fields. I remember when I first started to learn to plow and cultivate a field. Dad explained the importance of plowing a straight furrow or a straight line. If you went crooked, there would be spots missed in the field and the weeds would take over. He said: “If you will keep your eye focused on the fence post across the field and let that be your goal, you will plow a straight furrow. Don’t let the bumpy terrain throw you off. It’s when you start looking at the end of the tractor that the holes and bumps take you off course and you begin to go crooked.” Then he left me to do the job.
I remembered about the fence post across the field for several rounds, then I started singing songs to make the time pass. I sang every song and hymn I knew, and those I didn’t know I made up. I was singing at the top of my lungs and having a good time when I noticed my dad walking through the field towards me. I stopped the tractor and he said, “Can you tell what has happened to the straight lines?”
I said, “What do you mean?”
He said: “Look at the line. Your first few rounds are straight, but evidently you quit paying attention to where you were plowing. You must have quit looking at the fence post across the field—your goal. Can you see that gradually each time you’ve gone around, you’ve just gone a little crooked until now there are big spots in the field?” He got on the tractor and drove a few rotations to straighten out the lines. As he got off to let me try again, he said, “Sharon, always pay attention to where you are going.”

New converts have blessed and been the lifeblood of the Church throughout its history. One example is particularly precious to me. When I was a young bishop, two marvelous sister missionaries were teaching the William Edward Mussman family. The father, a very capable lawyer, was general counsel of a major corporation. His devoted wife, Janet, was helping the family strive to live a more Christlike life.

Their exceptional son and daughter, both in their early 20s, were also being taught. All four had received the lessons and were attending church. The sister missionaries had emphasized reading the Book of Mormon and praying for a testimony of that sacred scripture. Remarkably, the family prayerfully read the entire Book of Mormon in a short time.

The stake missionaries, both of whom were prior ward Relief Society presidents, accompanied them to sacrament meetings.

As the family was nearing baptism, they received a barrage of literature critical of the Church. This was before the internet, but the material filled a large cardboard box.

The sister missionaries invited me as a recently called 34-year-old bishop to help answer the questions being raised. When we gathered in their living room, the large box of pamphlets critical of the Church was in the middle of the room. I had prayerfully approached this assignment. During the opening prayer, the Spirit whispered to me, “He already knows it is true.” This was important. The sisters believed that the rest of the family already had a testimony. They were unsure about the father.

I immediately informed him that the Spirit had prompted me that he already had a testimony. “Was that true?” He looked at me intently and said that the Spirit had confirmed the truth of the Book of Mormon and the Church to him.

I then asked whether it would be necessary to review the pamphlets, if they already had a spiritual confirmation.

The father replied that it would not be necessary. The rest of the family concurred with his answer.

He said he did have a significant question: One reason they had received so much literature opposing the Church was that they were members of another faith. In addition, he had made a large pledge to help build a new chapel for that faith. He informed me that the sister missionaries had taught him about the importance of tithing, which he gratefully accepted, but he wondered if it would be wrong to also honor the pledge he had previously made. I assured him that payment of the pledge would be both honorable and appropriate.

The Mussmans with their son, daughter-in-law, and daughter.

The entire family was baptized. One year later they were sealed as a family in the Oakland California Temple. I was privileged to be present. The son completed law school, passed the California Bar Exam, and immediately served a faithful mission in Japan. I have watched over the years as the succeeding generations have remained faithful to the gospel. I was privileged to officiate at the sealing of one of the granddaughters.

You see, I am a Mormon. When I was 13, I had lived with a foster family in Salt Lake City and, after receiving permission, had been baptized into the Church. Upon returning home I found my family very much against my new religion. They forbade me to attend or participate in Church activities, and I obeyed. During the last half of my senior year in high school, however, I was contacted by two missionaries, Elder Michael Morris and Elder Gene L. Peterson, and was retaught the gospel. They encouraged me to seek further education and even go on a mission if it was my desire. It was ironic that now these two options were being offered to me—but in a different way than I had expected.
I thought of every reason why I should accept the offer. My future would be secure, my dreams of a master’s degree in art would be realized, and I could devote my time to studying without having to worry about working. Was there really a difference in serving a mission for the Methodist church instead of the Mormon church? Weren’t they both Christian churches? My friends and teachers were encouraging me to take the offer. Their concern for my future was genuine, and I appreciated their love—I didn’t want to disappoint them. My personal desire to say yes to the Methodist church was strengthened by my fear of facing my friends if I did not.
“How could I turn down this offer?” I asked myself. But a still small voice, much quieter than the voices around me, whispered, “How can you accept it? How can you live a lie?” I realized then that if I accepted I would have to keep secret the fact that it was not the Methodist church I desired to serve. I could not use their support to achieve my goals. They were such wonderful people, so generous in their nature. The voice was right. How could I? I could not. My decision was made, and I had to find the strength to face it no matter how unrealistic it seemed to my friends. I wrote the council and explained that I was a Mormon, and though their offer was something I would never forget, I could not accept it. They answered my letter, expressing appreciation for my honesty with them, and wished me luck in my future endeavors.
Since then, through a lot of hard work and help from many people, I have graduated from Brigham Young University with the art degree I so much wanted. I was privileged to enjoy several teaching assistantships there plus the companionship of some of the greatest people I’ve ever known. When faced with similar decisions since then, I’ve reflected back on this experience of standing against the advice of friends and loved ones and listening instead to the whispering of one small voice that only I could hear. I have learned that no matter how great the problems and pressures or how difficult the decisions, Heavenly Father is always there to guide us.

“Come on, Benjy, cut me a slice,” my little brother, Jake, whispered to me as we hid in the bushes and looked down at Mom’s peach pie.
I looked over at my friend Jared, who was kneeling next to Jake. He was staring at the peach pie. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, took out my pocketknife, and pushed the blade into the flaky crust sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Slowly I carved a jagged line across the pie.
“You don’t think we’ll get caught, do you?” Jared whispered as I handed him a piece of pie dripping with yellow peach filling.
I shook my head, not a bit sure; but I didn’t want Jared and Jake to know that. “No,” I said. “No one will ever know. Mom made five pies that she asked us to deliver. She probably won’t remember that we were supposed to give a pie to Brother Piper.”
In no time at all we were licking the last of the stickiness from our fingers.
“I think my stomach’s going to bust,” Jake moaned. “I’ve never eaten so much pie in my life.”
“I wish we hadn’t eaten it so fast,” Jared complained. “It doesn’t taste as good when you have to eat a huge piece of pie in three bites.”
“Yeah,” Jake moaned again, rubbing his stomach. “I feel kind of sick.”
I nodded, feeling sick, too, but it wasn’t just because we had eaten a whole pie. Deep inside I knew that the main reason I felt sick was that we had eaten a stolen pie. As I looked at the empty pie pan, I wished that we had taken the pie to Brother Piper.
We all stumbled from the bushes and headed for home, with the pie plate hidden under my shirt.
Mom was in the living room when we slipped into the house and tiptoed to the kitchen. We washed the pan and slipped it into the cupboard. Then we dashed for the door.
“Oh, Benjy,” Mom called out just as we reached the front door. “Did you deliver the pies?”
I gulped and caught my breath. “Everybody was happy to get your pies, Mom.”
“And what did Brother Piper say?” she asked excitedly. “It’s his birthday today. I’ve been promising him a peach pie for weeks. He didn’t think I would remember.”
“You promised Brother Piper a peach pie?” Jake asked.
Mom nodded and smiled. “I’ll have to call him later this afternoon and wish him a happy birthday.”
“I thought you said she’d never know!” Jake accused me as we walked down the front steps.
“Yeah,” Jared said, “we’ll be caught for sure. Now what are we going to do?”
“How was I supposed to know it was Brother Piper’s birthday?” I snapped. “Besides, it was your idea, too.”
“We have to get another pie,” Jake said.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, “and before Mom calls Brother Piper.”
“I know!” Jared spoke up. “My mom is at a Primary meeting. Let’s go to my place and make a pie.”
“We don’t know anything about making pies,” Jake said.
“Well, we’ll have to learn!” I said.
“What do we do first?” Jake asked as we crowded around Jared’s kitchen table.
“I’ve watched Mom a few times. All we have to do is make the crust, fill it full of fruit, and throw it in the oven.”
“But how do we make the crust?” Jake asked.
“Get me a bowl and some flour and shortening,” I growled. “Do I have to do everything? We just mix it up, roll it out, and put it in a pie pan.”
While Jared poured in the flour and Jake scraped in big lumps of shortening, I took a wooden spoon and tried to mix the two ingredients together. It was a lot harder than I had thought.
“It doesn’t mix too well, does it?” Jake commented.
“Maybe it needs some water. Pour in some water,” I ordered.
“It looks better than when we started,” Jared said a few minutes later, “but it still doesn’t look much like piecrust.”
“It’s not piecrust,” I snapped. “Not yet. It’s just dough. Maybe if we roll it out, it will look better. It’s when Mom rolls hers out that it really looks like a piecrust.”
The dough either kept falling apart or clinging in greasy lumps, but we kept at it, pounding it with our fists, poking it with our spoons, and squeezing it with our fingers. When we finally got it into the pie pan, there were still a few bumpy spots, and the edges were kind of ragged.
“Now what do we do for the insides?” Jake asked.
“Do you have some peaches?” Jared slapped the flour from his hands and looked in the pantry. He came back with a big can of peach halves. “Will these do?” he asked.
I nodded. “They’ll have to do.” We spooned the peach halves onto the crust, then drank all the juice. We couldn’t make one big piece of dough for the top crust, so we put on a lot of little pieces and pinched them together.
“It doesn’t look much like one of Mom’s pies,” Jake mumbled.
Jared nodded. “It needs something.”
“Cinnamon and sugar!” I proclaimed, grinning. “Mom always puts cinnamon and sugar on top.”
Jake grabbed the sugar, and Jared grabbed the cinnamon, and they both began to sprinkle.
“Is that enough?” Jared asked.
I shook my head. “This pie needs lots of cinnamon and sugar to cover up the bad places.”
It was late in the afternoon when we finally pulled the pie from the oven.
“It doesn’t look exactly like the one Mom made,” Jake said.
“It doesn’t look like anything anyone would want to eat, either,” Jared said.
“Maybe Brother Piper doesn’t know a good pie from a bad one,” Jake said.
“He probably doesn’t,” I commented hopefully. “He likes brussels sprouts. Anybody who can eat brussels sprouts can eat this pie.”
“Maybe we’d better cover it with a napkin,” Jared said. “We can hand it to him and leave before he sees it.”
The pie was still warm when we dragged our feet up Brother Piper’s walk. I swallowed hard as I rang the bell. Jared and Jake crowded behind me.
“Well, hello, boys.”
“We brought you a pie,” I burst out, pushing the pie into his hands. “Mom wanted us to bring you a pie.”
“Well, how nice of her, Benjy. She said that she was going to make me one, but I thought that she would forget. You don’t know how much I love your mom’s pies.”
We started to go.
“Don’t leave, boys. Come in and have a piece of pie with me.”
“Well, we really”—I was getting a sickening twitch in my stomach—“We … uh … don’t want to eat your pie.”
Before we knew it, we were sitting at Brother Piper’s table. After he pulled the napkin off the pie, he just stared at it. Then he looked at us and back at the pie.
“Everybody has a bad day,” Jake said. “You can’t make a perfect pie every time. Not even Mom.”
Brother Piper shrugged and took out a knife to cut the pie. The whole top of it crumbled into a hundred pieces as soon as the knife touched it. Brother Piper glanced over at us, but we didn’t look up. We kept staring at the pie. The peaches were all shriveled and brown, and the crust was too doughy in some places and too floury in others.
We all tried to eat some of it, but it was no use. Looking at it was bad enough—eating it was impossible. Even Brother Piper put down his fork and took a big drink of water. “Did your mother really make this pie?” he finally asked, poking at the stuff on his plate.
I knew that I couldn’t lie about it. I didn’t even want to. “Mom made you one, but we ate it. When we found out afterward that it was your birthday and that Mom was going to call you, we made you this one. Are you going to tell her?”
Brother Piper laughed. “You did bring me a pie. Was the first pie pretty good?”
We nodded sadly as I added, “But it was no fun eating a stolen pie. It just made us sick.”
“Well, I’ll just tell your mom that she made a great pie. After all, she did, didn’t she?”
I nodded and looked down. “We’re sorry, Brother Piper. It won’t happen again, honest.” Jared and Jake nodded their heads in agreement.
A few minutes later we walked slowly into my kitchen. Mom smiled when we came in. “I saved you something,” she announced. “You know how you’ve always wanted your very own pie?”
We nodded.
She walked over to the counter and picked up a big, beautiful peach pie. “I made this one just for you,” she said.
I could feel my stomach do flip-flops. The last thing that I wanted was another piece of pie. I looked at Jared and Jake, and they looked back at me. Their faces seemed a little green.
“Mom,” I said, holding my stomach, “I don’t think we’ll eat it, if it’s all right with you. But,” I added quickly, “Brother Piper would love one of your pies.”
“But he’s already had one of my pies. I thought that you liked my pies,” she said, looking a little hurt.
“We do like your pies, Mom. In fact, we ate Brother Piper’s pie.”
“But it didn’t taste very good,” Jake chimed in. “It wasn’t your fault,” he added quickly. “It’s just that stolen pies don’t taste very good.”
“Yeah,” I said, “so we’d better take this one to Brother Piper. The one we made for him was awful.”
“You made Brother Piper a pie?” Jared shook his head. “I’m not sure you’d call it a pie. It looked more like a bad disease.”
“But we learned a lot,” I spoke up. “From now on, when you ask us to take a pie to someone, you can be sure we’ll do it. And that’s a promise.”

When we would go out to eat before, I would usually order a sweet tea, but Kevin would say, “You don’t need a sweet tea; get something else.”
One day I went to a fast food restaurant for my lunch break and ordered a sweet tea. A few minutes later, an employee said, “At the very moment you ordered a sweet tea, the machine broke.”
She said it would take about an hour to fix the machine. I only had 30 minutes for lunch. I just ordered a soda instead. At that point I laughed and said, “All right, I get it now!”

“Father grew up on a farm, the oldest of eleven children. He has always taught us the value of hard work. He tells us of the fun they used to have on bobsled rides when he was a young boy and about how beautiful his mother was, especially her long hair which she brushed every night. She never came out of her room in the morning until she was immaculately dressed. He said his mother never raised her voice, as far as he could remember, except one time when Father caught his finger in the wringer washer and she ran outdoors shouting for his father to come in quickly to help.”

Elder Neil L. Andersen and his wife, Kathy, visited the Democratic Republic of the Congo in Africa. They had a Church meeting outside under tents. Around the tents was a big fence. Elder Andersen could see children watching them from the other side of the fence. Kathy asked him, “Neil, do you think you might want to invite the children to come in?” Elder Andersen walked up to the man at the microphone. He asked the man to invite the children to come in and join them.
The children came running! They were all smiling and excited to be a part of the meeting.

I could tell Mom was upset by the look on her face as she hung up the phone.
“Who was it?” I asked.
“That was Tim’s mom,” Mom said.
Tim was a friendly boy from my class in school last year. He was a good basketball player, and once he brought his pet lizard to class.
Mom sat down next to me on the couch. “Tim’s mom said the doctors just found out that Tim has cancer,” she said.
Mom explained that cancer is a sickness, but not like a cold or the flu. She said Tim would have to stay in the hospital for a long time. It would be so expensive that Tim’s family might have to sell their home.
That night during family prayer, Mom asked Heavenly Father to bless and comfort Tim’s family. Then she said, “And please help us to know how we can help Tim.”
As I lay in bed a little while later, I thought about Mom’s prayer. But what could I do to help? I said a short prayer. “Heavenly Father, please let me know what I can do to help Tim.”
When I opened my eyes, I looked around my darkened room. I noticed a dump truck that I hadn’t used in months and a puzzle that was too easy for me now. Suddenly, my heart started to get warm.
The next morning I burst into the kitchen and announced, “I want to sell my old toys and give the money to Tim.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Mom said.
We found a big box and filled it with toys and games I no longer played with.
“I’ll bet Grandma has some old toys,” Mom said.
“Maybe our neighbors do too,” I said.
We drove to Grandma’s house, and she helped us round up toys from her basement. Then we walked around our neighborhood and collected more. By the end of the day we had quite a few boxes full of toys and games. My heart pounded when I looked at them and thought about Tim.
On Saturday, we had a yard sale. A table in our front yard overflowed with dolls, trucks, stuffed animals, and board games. I put a picture of Tim on a large can. I told people that all of the money from our yard sale would go to help Tim and his family.
By afternoon, almost all of the toys were gone, and our can was filled with dollar bills and change.
That night I wrote a letter to Tim telling him that we were thinking of him and praying for him. I told him about our yard sale and put the letter and the money in the envelope. My heart felt warm, and I knew that I was doing a good thing for Tim and his family.
About a week later, I got a letter from Tim and his mom. They said they were filled with gratitude that I had thought to do such a thing. I knew it was Heavenly Father who helped me know how I could help. All I had to do was ask, listen, and then do it.

I grew up in Norway. The nearest temple was in Stockholm, Sweden, an 8- to 10-hour drive away. Needless to say, any trip to the temple took careful planning and deliberation. Our stake planned two visits to the temple for the youth each year; several wards would rent a bus and go to the temple for a weekend. It was fun to go with other youth, but my family and I wanted to go to the temple together sometime.

So one year we decided to go to Stockholm during our summer vacation. It was a great experience, and it soon became a pattern for our summers. We would camp at a campground close to the temple. Each morning we would get up early for a baptismal session with other families from Norway who had come to the temple. Afterward we would play football and go swimming at the campground.

These summers are sacred memories for me now. Although we didn’t live close enough to the temple to go there each month, it was always a special occasion when we could go. And even though the car ride was long and tedious, the Lord blessed us for our sacrifice. The spiritual experiences I had at the temple helped me develop my love for the temple and its ordinances. They also brought us closer together as a family.