Gospel Story Finder

As we’ve tried to implement our plan, we are learning that inviting the influence of the Holy Ghost into our family discussions will take practice and time. But we refuse to get discouraged or give up. Just the other night, our 10-year-old daughter, prompted by a verse from the Book of Mormon we were reading as a family, asked in sweet sincerity, “How do you learn by the Holy Ghost?” I smiled. I knew we were getting somewhere!

Women in the Apia Samoa East Stake told us,

We . . . decided to approach the government if it was all right for the Stake Relief Society sisters to plant some flowers around the town clock. We chose the town clock because it is right in the middle of the town, and we felt it would be just the right place to have a beautiful garden. Its flowers would bear the theme of the Relief Society, “Charity Never Faileth.” The government was thrilled. . . . They thanked us wholeheartedly, and then they asked us if there was any way we could paint the 20-foot clock tower as well. We told them . . . we would see what we could do. . . . The stake did not have money, which did not worry us a bit. We only wanted them to approve it, as we had a strong feeling and belief if it was the will of the Lord, things will work out. . . . Paints and equipment were donated, professional painters offered themselves and their time, and the priesthood of our . . . stake also helped out with the work. The sisters of the eight units of our stake worked in scraping the old paint off, scrubbing and cleaning the clock tower, and, of course, in planting the flowers. We will be taking turns in maintaining the gardens there for the whole year. Again, the sisters were generous and willing.

While still living at home, Beatrix began sending illustrated letters to Noel, the son of a former governess. He read the letters with such delight that Beatrix decided to make a book. She lengthened the Peter Rabbit story and submitted it to Frederick Warne & Co., a London publisher. Although it was rejected, Miss Potter had faith in her rabbit story. She felt so strongly that children would like it that she had it published privately. The book sold quickly for one shilling and twopence a copy. During the next eighty years, over twenty million copies were sold!
The Tale of Peter Rabbit has been translated into thirteen languages. Sightless children can also enjoy the book in Braille.

Photo illustration by Cody Bell
I can still picture them. Those unforgettable, incredibly quiet Sundays spent outside in a neighborhood filled primarily with Latter-day Saints—and I wasn’t one of them.
I used to imagine a tumbleweed rolling slowly down my street as they did in old Western films, indicating that no one was around. I knew where my neighbors were (at church), I understood why my friends couldn’t play on Sundays, and I knew why only my family would be outside doing yard work on a blistering Sunday afternoon. At least, I thought I knew. Little did I realize that seminary and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints would give me true insight and change my life for the better.
Fast-forward a few years from those childhood days: I was baptized when I was 11 years old. I’m not sure if an 11-year-old can choose to be baptized for the wrong reasons, but I believe I did. I didn’t fully understand the role of the Holy Ghost, and all I remember about my baptism was thinking, “I will finally be like my friends.”
To my dismay, I was still nothing like them. I assumed that once I was a member of the Church, my family would automatically attend church with me. When I realized my family was not going to attend church, I wondered if my friends knew how lucky they were. They would talk about how they didn’t like going to church or how they seemed to dread saying family prayers. I wanted so badly to tell them they shouldn’t be wishing away something so precious. I knew they had something special.
Yet I also didn’t fully embrace all that the gospel and the Church had to offer, even though I was baptized.
Then one day when I was a freshman in high school, something happened that changed everything: I ran into Brother Esplin.
“Excuse me,” he said as I tried to walk past him.
“Yes?” I replied.
“I’m Devin Esplin, Melissa Esplin’s husband. My wife talks about your volleyball potential all the time, and I just wanted to formally introduce myself.”
I stood there silently until a lightbulb finally went off in my head.
“Oh! Right, I love Coach Esplin!”
“Me too!” he said. “Anyway, I’m the seminary teacher here, and I was wondering if you would like to transfer into my class.”
“Well, I would, but I can’t,” I replied. “But I promise that next year I will!”
“I sure hope you do. It will be a great experience.”
“I will! I promise,” I said as I walked away. As I walked back to class, I couldn’t hide the smile on my face. This was my opportunity to find out for myself what the Church had to offer. This time I was going to learn about the Church for the right reasons. I was given a second chance, and I wasn’t going to pass it up.
My sophomore year was incredible. I was so excited to go to seminary and learn! The first few weeks were pretty crazy. I felt like a little child—I had a lot to learn. People would use words like repentance and the Atonement, and I felt ashamed because I had no idea what those terms meant. Mercifully, my class helped me learn and never made me feel like an outsider.
As the year progressed, I found myself craving more knowledge. I was amazed by the things that my peers would discuss. I learned that I wasn’t the only one who suffered trials. I was saddened that I had made it so far in life without focusing on the Savior and the gospel. As I began to understand what being a Latter-day Saint is all about, I knew I never wanted to give it up.
My junior year was the major turning point of my life. Because of seminary, I read the Book of Mormon for the first time. As I studied daily, my testimony grew, and I grew closer to my Heavenly Father. I learned that I can strengthen my testimony every day. I understood that I’m never alone.
Seminary is a blessing that has altered the course of my life forever. Every day, I now think about how grateful I am that I have my Savior to get me through trials and temptations.

Rusty Rooster wanted to crow. Although he had never crowed before, he declared, “Today I’m going to crow! I’ll fly up on the fence post, flap my wings, and crow, Cock-a-doodle doo! Then all the hens will hear and look at me and I’ll be so proud.”
Up on the fence Rusty Rooster flew. He flapped his wings, stuck out his chest, flipped his tail, opened his mouth, and out came a squeaky, “Cock-a-diddly-dub!”
“Oh, my!” he said to himself when he heard these strange sounds.
The hens down on the ground laughed noisily in a cluckety-chuckly way.
Pussycat Pete stopped on his way to the barn and stared at Rusty Rooster.
Dubby Duck came waddling from the pond. “Poor fellow,” he said.
Rusty Rooster flew down from the fence post as fast as he could and hurried off to a far corner of the pasture. “I’m no good for crowing!” he said, hanging his head. “I guess I’ll never amount to anything. I just can’t crow!”
Pussycat Pete and Dubby Duck felt sorry for Rusty Rooster so they followed him to the pasture.
“You just need more practice,” said Pussycat Pete. “It takes time to become a good crower.”
“Please try again,” begged Dubby Duck. “We won’t laugh at you!”
Rusty Rooster looked at them and smiled. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “I’ll try once more.”
Then he jumped up on a rock, opened his mouth, stretched his neck, and crowed, “Cock-a-diddly-dub!”
“It’s no use. I’ll never be able to crow!” he sighed.
“Yes, you will,” said Pussycat Pete. “You can start by making a soft sound like this—Meow! Try it!”
Rusty Rooster tried. “Meow!” he said in a quiet voice.
“Fine! Fine! Beautiful!” cried Pussycat Pete.
“Now,” said Dubby Duck, “make loud clear sounds like this—Quack, quack, quack!”
“Quack, quack, quack!” said Rusty Rooster much louder.
“Excellent! Wonderful!” said Dubby Duck. “You see, you can do it. Now keep practicing.”
Pussycat Pete and Dubby Duck went back to the barnyard while Rusty Rooster practiced in the meadow. He practiced all day. When evening came, he ate a few grass seeds and then practiced some more before he went to sleep.
“Where is Rusty?” the hens asked early the next morning. They looked everywhere for the little rooster, but no one could find him.
The next day the hens asked again, “Where is Rusty Rooster? We hope he isn’t lost.”
All the hens clucked when they saw Rusty Rooster come strutting into the barnyard later that afternoon.
“Going to criddle-crow again today, Rusty?” one hen asked with a chuckle.
“I’m going to crow,” Rusty answered firmly as he flew to the top of the fence post. He proudly flapped his wings, flipped his tail, and fluffed out his chest. Then he opened his mouth and crowed loudly, “Meow! Meow!”
The hens that were gathered below gasped in astonishment. Pussycat Pete’s tail stood straight up in surprise, and Dubby Duck’s eyes began to blink open and shut, open and shut.
But before any of them could say a word, Rusty Rooster stretched his neck and crowed, “Quack, quack, quack!”
The hens stood silent and Pussycat Pete and Dubby Duck couldn’t move either.
Then Rusty Rooster threw back his head, stuck out his chest, and crowed, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” The sound was loud and clear and sure.
The hens cackled with joy and danced about making scritchy-scratchy markings on the ground with their yellow feet.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” they cried, spreading their wings and flipping their tails. “Rusty Rooster can crow three ways! He’s a marvel—the best in the country!”
From high on the fence post Rusty Rooster winked at Pussycat Pete and Dubby Duck. He nodded his head to say thank you, and Pussycat Pete and Dubby Duck smiled and winked back.

I have been thinking this morning of a friend of mine whom I knew when I was on a mission in London thirty-six years ago. I remember his coming to our apartment through the rain of the night. He knocked at the door, and I invited him in.

He said, “I’ve got to talk with someone. I’m all alone. I’m undone.”

And I said, “What’s your problem?”

And he said, “When I joined the Church a little less than a year ago, my father told me to get out of his home and never come back. And I’ve never been back.”

He continued, “A few months later the cricket club of which I was a member read me off its list, barring me from membership with the boys with whom I had grown up and with whom I had been so close and friendly.”

Then he said, “Last month my boss fired me because I was a member of this church, and I have been unable to get another job and I have had to go on the dole.

“And last night the girl with whom I have gone for a year and a half said she would never marry me because I’m a Mormon.”

I said, “If this has cost you so much, why don’t you leave the Church and go back to your father’s home and to your cricket club and to the job that meant so much to you and to the girl you think you love?”

He said nothing for what seemed to be a long time. Then, putting his head down in his hands, he sobbed and sobbed. Finally, he looked up through his tears and said, “I couldn’t do that. I know this is true, and if it were to cost me my life, I could never give it up.”

He picked up his wet cap and walked to the door and out into the rain, alone and trembling and fearful, but resolute. As I watched him, I thought of the loneliness of conscience, the loneliness of testimony, the loneliness of faith, and the strength and comfort of the Spirit of God.

Great-Grandfather Eyring met Swiss immigrant Mary Bommeli when he joined her pioneer company on his trek to Utah following his mission. Mary, whose family joined the Church when she was 24, had been incarcerated in Berlin, Germany, for sharing the gospel. The night she was arrested, she wrote a letter to the judge who was to hear her case. She told the judge, “a man of the world,” about the Resurrection and the spirit world, encouraging him to repent in order to save himself and his family from “great sorrow.” The judge soon dropped the charges, and Mary was released from jail. Henry and Mary married shortly after reaching the Salt Lake Valley.

A few years ago when I was serving in the Europe Area Presidency, I was assigned to a stake conference in Lisbon, Portugal. As part of the agenda for Saturday morning, I invited the stake president to identify some families that we could visit briefly together. As we drove to one particular home by appointment, the president told me of this wonderful man and his family. The father had served a full-time mission, had married a wonderful woman, and had four precious children. But he had slipped away from activity. He had been distracted.
The president explained how much this man was needed in leadership in the ward. When we arrived for our visit, we found a beautiful family, all dressed in Sunday best on a Saturday morning, waiting for us. We gathered in a circle in their living room. Their oldest son, age 15, was the teachers quorum president in the ward. I turned to him and asked, “What are you planning to do three years from now?” He responded immediately without any hesitation, “I will be serving a mission.” Then I asked the key, inspired question: “Who will help you to prepare?” Without any hesitation, he looked directly at his father, pointed his extended arm and finger right at him and said, “He will.” The Spirit came into that room with such power. The father began to weep and, after a moment’s quiet contemplation, asked me if he could bear his testimony to his children and to his wife. He did so with tears streaming down his cheeks. In that moment, his son had prompted his heart to change. He knew instantly what he needed to do.
As we were closing our visit, which was a mixture of English, Spanish, and Portuguese, I taught the parents through the children three words in English as a reminder of the little things they needed to do as a family each day: “Read, pray, and obey; read, pray, and obey; read, pray, and obey,” we chanted together.
The following morning, the family came to stake conference, sought me out, and wanted a picture of their family with me. Today, the son is on a mission, and the father is a counselor in the bishopric.

Before sharing this final story, it's important to mention that this took place in Ecuador, in the 1990s. I want to emphasize that everything turned out okay.

My mission companion and I found ourselves in the countryside, about 5 or 10 miles outside of town, as the sun began to sink toward the horizon. Facing a long walk back, we decided to hitchhike from a busy road. Within minutes, a bus pulled over, and the driver called for us to hop on.

I was unsure about the offer, seeing the bus was full of passengers. So full that some were clinging to the outside of the bus. Instead of squeezing inside, we made a quick decision to climb onto the roof, where bundles of produce and luggage were secured to a metal rack. Within moments, I found myself on top of a bus speeding down a winding Ecuadorian highway. Leaning back against a bunch of plantains, I gripped the metal bars, questioning my life choices at that moment.

However, my initial regret dissipated as the once hot and humid air became a cool, refreshing wind. I began to marvel at the lush, rolling hills from the elevated vantage point and unobstructed view. The bus made a turn near the crest of a hill, revealing an even more breathtaking scene. The sun's golden glow bathed the landscape, casting light over the town and the distant ocean coast. The sun and clouds near the horizon painted an unforgettable sunset. At that moment, my heart swelled with gratitude, offering a brief but powerful glimpse of Heavenly Father's love for me and all His children.

I've reflected on this moment many times and feel it lines up with my message today.
When these three things came together, I felt the Spirit in a powerful way that has stuck with me and sustained me for many years since.

My conversion to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints started with the word no. It doesn’t sound like a very good place to start anything, but those two letters changed my life. I never dreamed that such a negative word could bring me such joy. I especially didn’t know it at the time.
There was going to be a dance at school, so I asked a friend of mine if he would accompany me. He turned me down. He explained that he was a Mormon and that he had a personal standard to only date young women who were LDS. I was very upset, and I thought he saw me as being beneath him since I wasn’t a member of the same religion. I had been raised to believe that we’re all children of God, and I didn’t understand his view.
He’s not a bad person and he knew I had been hurt by his response, so he called me on the phone so he could explain. We talked for 45 minutes that night. It was strange because I opened up to him completely. We chatted like old friends. He asked me if I would read the Book of Mormon if he gave me a copy. Reluctantly, I said I might (not really believing that I would). He gave it to me the next day, and I got through Second Nephi the first night. I finished it two weeks later. Shortly after that, I wrote this in my journal:
I went to sacramentmeeting today and it was one of those meetings where the members bear their testimonies. It was really moving. I wanted to go up and say something, but I couldn’t. Then my heart started pounding and the Spirit moved me and I knew I had to go up there and speak. I did and I was crying, but I felt good.
I met the missionaries for the first time that night, and a few weeks later I decided to be baptized. After some trials I was baptized. When the day finally arrived, this is what I wrote:
Tonight was my baptism. The water was really warm. Then the bishop confirmed me and then there were lots of people hugging and congratulating me. It finally happened! It really was such a brief wait and I know it was worth it. This has been an amazing day. I have been so blessed.

A good example of compassion and service making a difference is the example of Don and Marian Summers. While serving in England, they were asked to serve the last six months of their mission in the Swindon Branch to teach and assist in activating members. For 80 years Swindon had been a branch with a faithful few and with many good members becoming less active.
Don and Marian wrote: “Our first visit to Swindon Branch was a bit disheartening as we met with the Saints in a cold, rented hall. The congregation numbered 17, including President and Sister Hales and 4 missionaries. Still wearing our winter coats, we all huddled around a small, inadequate heater while we listened to a Sunday School lesson.”
The letter continued: “A branch member approached me one day: ‘Elder Summers, can I give you a bit of advice? Never mention the word tithing to the Swindon members; they really don’t believe in it, and all you will do is upset them.’”
Brother Summers said: “We did teach tithing and all the other gospel principles. With example and the encouragement of a branch president, there was a change of heart, and faith and activity started to increase. The membership records were completely updated as we visited every member’s home. When the leaders started caring, the members began to respond, and a whole new spirit pervaded the branch. The members became excited again about the gospel and helping one another. …
“One young couple had a difficult adjustment to make as their customs, manners, and dress were different. They became offended at suggestions for changes. The couple twice wrote to the bishop [since by then it was a ward] and asked to have their names removed from the Church records. In the last letter they forbade any of the members to visit them, so [we] went to the florist and purchased a beautiful plant of chrysanthemums and had it delivered to the young couple. It was a simple note: ‘We love you; we miss you; we need you. Please come back.’ Signed, Swindon Ward.
“The next Sunday was fast and testimony meeting and our last Sunday in Swindon. There were 103 members in attendance, compared to 17 six months before. The young couple was there, and in bearing his testimony, the husband thanked the Swindon Ward for not giving up on them.”

Many years ago, while I was serving as a bishop, I had one of my beautiful Laurels come into the bishop’s office to let me know that she and her boyfriend had been nibbling on the cookies—meaning passionate kissing—which had escalated to eating the entire cookie. During the conversation she said, “But Bishop, we are going to get married.”

I said, “If it is true that you are going to get married, you have demonstrated to each other that you aren’t wise enough to avoid nor strong enough to resist the cookies. You have demonstrated to each other that you can’t fully trust each other.”

After marriage, when life has become routine and less glamorous than during courtship, will you be able to fully trust your husband when an attractive woman at work or elsewhere—not a chocolate chip cookie this time but a cute little snickerdoodle—starts flirting with him? What will your level of trust be in him when he has demonstrated to you his weakness with cookies?

And will he be able to fully trust you when life becomes a little humdrum, you are feeling neglected by your husband, and some other man begins to make you feel important and shows interest in you? Not a chocolate chip cookie this time, but a white-chocolate-chunk macadamia cookie?

The best wedding gift you can give your future spouse is the gift of trust, a gift given by covenant at the altar in the temple but created as you mutually demonstrate respect, loyalty, and strength of character with each other during courtship. For a marriage that did not begin with this priceless gift, the trust can be earned, but only through sincere repentance. It will also take some time, as trust is built on demonstrated behavior as evidence of the truly penitent.

At one of the stake conferences to which I was assigned, a home teacher was invited to be a speaker at the general session on Sunday morning. He began by telling about a man who accidentally fell into the waters of the Niagara River some distance above the falls. As he was carried downstream by the current, he called out repeatedly, “Which way to shore? Which way to shore?” There were people along the banks on both sides of the river who saw and heard this man but they were slow to act. They noticed that he could swim and was keeping himself afloat, so they concluded that he was engaged in some kind of a publicity stunt and gave him no further attention. However, when he reached the point where he was precariously close to the falls some of the people along the banks went into action and tried to get ropes to him to pull him from the water. But they had waited too long and he went over the brink of the falls and was killed. When his body was recovered and identification made, the horizons of those along the banks of the river were pushed back and their understandings improved and increased. Yes, the man could swim, but he could not swim with purpose or direction because he was blind.

I’d first like to tell you a story. This is a story that you’re familiar with. It’s one that Elder Sill has repeated. It’s a story about Joan of Arc. You’ve heard this story, and you’ve studied about this young lady. As you know, she was a French peasant maid who heard angelic voices calling her to aid her country. Unlike the fictional story of Don Quixote, the story of Joan of Arc was taken from the court records of the great trial that convened in her behalf in 1431. Her biography comes to us under oath, from the witness stand.

Joan of Arc found her bankrupt country helpless and hopeless, lying in chains, enslaved by an alien conqueror. Joan said to the uncrowned king, “Be not afraid, for God has sent me to help you.” Then she laid her inspired hand upon her withered country and by the power of her calling broke the siege of Orleans, drove out the British, saved France, and crowned the Dauphin the king of Rheims.

Louis Kossuth says that Joan of Arc was the only person of either sex who ever held supreme command over a great national army at the age of seventeen. By nineteen this untaught girl had become the deliverer of France and the savior of her country. She explained her power by saying something that’s significant: “When God fights, it’s of small consequence whether the hand that holds the sword is big or little.” Everyone knew that in her heart was something that raised her above the greatest men of her day. She had the mysterious ability to turn mobs of cowards into armies of patriots. Her soldiers went into battle with joy in their eyes and a song in their hearts. Her own soul was the embodiment of nobility and righteousness. Although she lived in the most brutal, wicked, and rotten period since the Dark Ages, she did her job as well as anyone that any nation has ever produced. She was perhaps one of the few entirely unselfish persons whose name holds a high place in history. She lived when crime was the common business of mankind. She was truthful when lying was the ordinary speech of man. She was honest when honesty was a lost virtue. She maintained her personal dignity unimpaired in an age of fawning and servility. She had dauntless courage when even hope had perished in the hearts of her countrymen. She was spotlessly pure in mind and body when most of society was foul in both. She was the genius of patriotism. She said that even the rude business of war could be better conducted without profanity and other brutalities of speech. Few could understand why Joan continued to be alert, vigorous, and confident while her strongest men were exhausted by long marches and severe extensive exposure.

On one occasion, with an almost impossible objective ahead, she said, “I will lead the men over the wall.” One of her generals said, “Not a man will follow you.” Then she said something else that’s very significant. Joan said, “I will not look back to see whether anyone is following or not.” Then, with a flash of her sword, she gave the signal and led the way, and the soldiers of France followed her. With her unshakable belief in her mission glowing in her heart, she swept everything before her. She sent a thrill of courage and conviction through the French army such as neither King nor patriot could produce.

When her country was safe, she declined the highest honors and the most profitable employments that a loving and grateful country could bestow upon her. As she was planning to return to her family, she was treacherously betrayed into the hands of her foreign enemies. For many weary months she was kept in chains as she underwent a long and wicked trial on trumped-up charges of witchcraft and sorcery. She was threatened and abused. The judges and jurors were carefully selected enemies; she was finally condemned to die for witchcraft. As the fires were being lighted around the stake at which this nineteen-year-old French peasant maid would be burned alive, she was given an opportunity to obtain her freedom by denying what she believed. In choosing the fire above her freedom, she said this, and this is significant:

I know this now. Every man gives his life for what he believes. Every woman gives her life for what she believes. Sometimes people believe in little or nothing, and yet they give their lives for little or nothing. One life is all we have, and we live it as we believe in living it, and then it is gone. But to surrender what you are and live without belief is more terrible than dying, even more terrible than dying young.

Let me say that as a stake president long ago, we had a flood in the Duncan Valley in Arizona. As soon as we overcame the excitement of the first report of it, my counselors and I formulated a telegram and sent it to Salt Lake City and said, “Please send us $10,000 by return mail.” I found that I was learning about welfare programs when no $10,000 came. When President Lee, President Romney and President Moyle came down and took me back in my little office in my business place we sat down around the table and they said, “This isn’t a program of ‘give me.’ This is a program of ‘self-help.’” And so we learned much from those brethren.
The other stakes in Arizona over the weekend gathered many hundreds of dollars and the presidents of those stakes came rushing in and I remember Lorenzo Wright of the Maricopa Stake in Mesa pulling out of his pocket checks, and bills, and cash, and that was all given to us. After we got in gear and saw that the problem was ours and that we had plenty of people who hadn’t been distressed and plenty of people who had the means, we went to work. My office was on Main Street and every day I would see passing my office truckloads of hay and wire and posts going up to Duncan because the flood had washed out the valley fences, barns, and haystacks. It had torn down all the fences, and had left hills where there were hollows and vice versa. Then we got the county to let us use some of their big equipment and it wasn’t so very long until the land was leveled; the fences were built; the clothes had been cleaned that were hanging in the closets and covered with mud; and we had helped ourselves; and we had relieved the problems that had brought distress to so many people.
Now it would have been an easy thing, I think, for the Brethren to have sent us that $10,000 and it wouldn’t have been too hard to sit in my office and distribute it; but what a lot of good came to us as we had hundreds of men go to Duncan and build fences and haul the hay and level the ground and do all the things that needed doing. That is self-help.

On yet another occasion we visited a home where two little girls were sent to meet us at the door by their alcoholic parents. The little girls said through the screen door that their mother and father were asleep. The bishop kept talking to them, smiling and praising their goodness and their bravery, for what seemed to me 10 minutes or more. As I walked away at his side, he said quietly, “That was a good visit. Those little girls will never forget that we came.”

I am the only member of the Church in my neighborhood. My best friend, Jared, lives in the home behind mine. One day, I invited Jared to come to church with my family. He couldn’t come that day, and I decided to give him a Book of Mormon. I hoped that he would read it. I thought that maybe he wasn’t ready to come to church yet and that I would ask him another time. Mom didn’t think we had an extra Book of Mormon, but I went to the basement to look for one, anyway. I found three copies that our family had forgotten were there.
I combed my hair, put on a white shirt and a suit coat, and got some cookies from Mom to take to Jared. When my four-year-old brother, Cameron, found out that I was going to “be a missionary,” he wanted to go as my companion. He held the plate of cookies, and I knocked on Jared’s door. Jared and his mom invited us in, and we gave them the cookies and the Book of Mormon.
One Monday night Jared came over. Mom and Dad said that he could stay for family home evening. It was my turn to start with prayer. I asked Heavenly Father to bless Jared and all of my other friends. Then Cameron and I sang “When Jesus Christ Was Baptized.” Our lesson was on honesty, and we watched a filmstrip about it. After the lesson, Mom asked Jared if he wanted to say the closing prayer. He said yes, so Mom showed him how to pray. He did a great job!
It makes me feel good inside when I share the gospel with Jared.

Only two hours after I had gathered the parts, some coming from as near as the trash can and broom closet, I was aiming my homemade telescope into the night sky. At first all I saw was a bunch of smeared blotches, but by moving the eyepiece in and out I was able to focus my telescope, and what a spectacle opened before my eyes! I saw four of Jupiter’s moons, not to mention the huge planet itself, craters on the moon, and the rings of Saturn. As the year progressed, I was able to see the crescent of Venus and the white polar caps of Mars. I even saw the white oval of our nearest galaxy, Andromeda, the nebula in Orion, and the Pleiades (a cluster of stars shining through some interstellar gasses). I saw double stars, the Milky Way, and many other beautiful celestial bodies. I even tried looking at the sun, but it didn’t take long (about a millioneth of a second!) for me to find out that looking at the sun is not a safe thing to do! I managed to get around the problem, without buying a special sun filter, by projecting the sun’s image onto a piece of paper. I held a piece of white paper behind the telescope, about four inches away from the eyepiece, and much to my surprise, there was the sun. It was a very bright circle with little black dots covering its surface. I later learned that these dots were sun spots, regions on the sun’s surface where the temperature is somewhat cooler.
The telescope I built was a very simple one. It consisted of one big lens that I attached to the front of a mailing tube and two smaller lenses out of which I built an eyepiece that slid into the bigger tube. The big lens was salvaged from an old camera, while the two smaller lenses were toy magnifying glasses I bought from the drug store. I even hammered three broom sticks together and made a simple yet sturdy tripod on which I mounted my scope.

When my father, Elwood Allred, was young, he helped his mother gather eggs. He would crawl under the granary to retrieve some of them—the hens loved to lay their eggs in that dark, tight area. One day after he’d gathered the eggs there and was starting to squeeze out, he heard his mother say, “Elwood, don’t come out the way you went in. Please come out the other side.”
“But Mom,” he protested. “Do I have to?”
“Please do it for me,” his mother replied. “I’ll meet you on the other side.”
My father wasn’t happy about it, but he obediently crawled through the spider webs and dark to the other side of the granary, where his mother swept him in her arms. “Thank you for being obedient,” she said. She took my father’s hand. “I want to show you something.”
Father and his mother walked to the spot where he would have crawled out, and Father was frightened to see a rattlesnake coiled up. Listening to his mother had most likely saved his life!
My father often shared that story with me, and I learned early in life the importance of being obedient! I always tried hard to listen to my parents because I knew that they understood and knew things that I didn’t. I knew, too, that they loved me and wanted only the best for me. I also recognized early that Heavenly Father loved me and wanted only what was best for me.

Cami felt her mother’s arm around her shoulders. As she wiped away more tears, she couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the cemetery was. The warmth of the sun felt good on her swollen eyes and calmed her as people came across the grass to hug her and her family once more.
“Give yourself time, Cami,” Sister Bowen, her Primary teacher, said. “These things take time.”
Cami nodded without really listening. She was thinking about how strangely peaceful it was here. It was like those pictures of Easter morning she had seen in Primary—the beautiful flowers, the smell of the lilac bushes, the breeze in her hair. It was very different from the hospital room where she had watched her father take his last breath. There, it had been like another planet with a room crowded with people who loved him and didn’t want to let him go, everyone softly crying and hanging on to whomever stood nearby.
“It isn’t supposed to happen this way,” she thought. “Dad was much too young to die. Dads aren’t supposed to die when you’re only ten years old.” But he had died.
She saw movement from the corner of her eye and looked just in time to see a white bunny and then a speckled one hop and stop, hop and stop from behind a gravestone, their noses twitching in the air. Then they scurried safely under some bushes.
“Are you ready to go, Cami?” Mom’s voice was tired. “We’ll visit here anytime you want to, sweetheart.”
Cami nodded. But as she rode in the car with her brothers and sister, she wanted right then to turn around and go back to the cemetery. Home reminded her of Dad when he was alive. Home made the sadness seem too huge to hold. She thought of Sister Bowen’s words, “These things take time.”
“How much time? How can I survive till then, whenever then is?” She forced herself to think good thoughts. Thinking about Jesus, about His Resurrection, and about the promise of her dad’s resurrection helped.
At home, she just sat all afternoon, not sure of what to do or how to feel or of how long before the next tears would fall. “Will I ever stop crying? What will it be like to have birthdays and Christmas and go on vacation without Dad? To have dinner, to go to church, to have family prayer without Dad?”
As evening came, the sadness seemed even bigger. She didn’t feel like praying, but she went ahead anyway, in her heart.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help me. I feel so sad and lonely. I know that I’ll see Dad again. I know that Jesus was resurrected after He died, and I know that someday Dad will be resurrected, too. But that’s someday. What about now? How do I get through today? Please help me know what to do to stop hurting so much.”
As Cami ended her prayer, she heard Mom calling everyone together for family prayer. Without even thinking, she went to Dad’s bedroom closet, pulled down his Sunday jacket, and put it on. It was gigantic on her ten-year-old body, but it was Dad’s. It felt like him, it looked like him, it even smelled like him. She pulled the collar up around her face and took in a deep breath. She felt safe. Now she could feel like he was near during family prayer.
When she went into the living room, the rest of the family was already kneeling. They looked up and stared at her. She didn’t care. She just went to the couch, knelt, and bowed her head.
No one started to pray, so she peeked to see what was happening. Her family was gone—but just for a minute. One by one, they came back. Her big brother had on Dad’s slippers. Mom had on his robe. Little Jimmy clomped in wearing Dad’s big shoes, and her older sister had on Dad’s favorite sweater.
Everyone knelt as Mom began to pray. She thanked Heavenly Father for the beautiful funeral services and for all the love that friends and neighbors had shown them. She thanked him for the good memories with Dad. And she thanked Heavenly Father that they could feel Dad close by.
It wouldn’t be easy with Dad living in heaven instead of at home with them, but for now—for tonight—with something he had worn close to each of them, waiting to see Dad again would be a little bit easier. For Cami, it was like being wrapped in his arms—just for now.