Gospel Story Finder

Marion almost cried when she saw her first term report card. “I must be stupid!” she wailed as she showed it to her parents. “I study hard, but nothing seems to stick in my brain. What am I going to do?” Later that night when she turned on the TV to study her algebra and decide whom she should ask to the girl’s choice dance, she was still shaking her head.
If Marion’s woes sound familiar, read on. There is hope.
First, you should know that studying is not a talent you are born with. It is a skill that must be developed. Psychologists tell us that the “bright” students are quite often simply those with efficient study habits.
The following suggestions can help make you one of those “bright” students. These tips will not only make it easier for you to learn difficult material but should reduce the time you spend doing homework.
It is an advantage to have a definite time of day to do your studying. It would be a good idea, in fact, to work out a schedule of some kind for yourself.
A certain number of hours for social activities, certain hours for recreation, and so many hours for study.
The room you study in should be quiet and without distractions. There should be no photographs, letters, or partially read magazines lying around. Keep the door closed so that you can’t hear the sounds from other parts of the house. Of course there should be no music blaring out from a radio or stereo.
You might want to do some of your studying at the public library. It has been found that students who make a habit of studying in the library as a general rule make better grades than those who do not. The reason for this is that the library gives a student the quiet he needs for concentrated study and at the same time makes him aware of why he is there.
It’s important that you have some understanding of what you are studying. To memorize meaningless words or vague passages out of a textbook, without an understanding of what is being studied, is a waste of time. Reading about the U.S. Civil War, without any knowledge of the events which led up to it or the effects it had on the eventual growth of the United States does little good. When you read Shakespeare or Chaucer, take the time to look up the words you don’t understand. If you don’t have a full understanding of your assignments, get help from your teacher.
Skimming is the preliminary glancing through a text or assignment before it is read more carefully. While skimming, note the important headings, concepts and definitions and perhaps underline them. Read summaries and briefly study illustrations and graphs.
Skimming gives you an idea of the basic material contained in the text and approximately how much time will be consumed in a complete study of it. Therefore, it’s always wise to start every new assignment by first skimming it.
Making an outline of your material helps you retain in your mind what you’ve learned. It will prove an invaluable aid too when you wish to review it at some future time. The questions frequently found at the end of a chapter are usually quite helpful. In fact, it’s often a good idea to read the end-of-chapter questions in advance. What better way is there to find out what a chapter is about?
After reading a paragraph or two of any text, stop and think over the information that has been presented. Part of this time should be spent in reciting to yourself important definitions and main ideas. Perhaps you might jot down a brief summary of what you have read. You might want to underline passages that you especially want to remember.
Self-recitation helps you to know what progress you’re making. You are duplicating what you will be asked to do later during examinations—reproducing the material in your mind without the aid of a textbook. Material that you haven’t learned well enough, of course, should be reread for better understanding.
The practice of actually putting on paper the things you want to remember serves a multiple purpose. It forces you to give the material your full attention during the process of writing. It enables you to visualize the whole thing more clearly, as does saying things out loud, because it puts you through the activity of producing a reminder. All these devices serve to strengthen your impression of your material, and that produces a memory that stays with you much longer.
According to psychologists, you will forget most of what you have learned very shortly after you have learned it. A graph of memory always curves steeply downward immediately after memorizing stops. Then the curve gradually levels off as time goes by. Therefore, try to review what you have studied before you would normally forget it.
The ability to recall something learned is at its peak soon after the initial learning. Students are apt to blame their forgetting on poor memories, assuming that ability to recall is an inborn trait. It is normal to forget. A way to offset this normal tendency must, therefore, be found. Overlearning is the way. This means the material must be studied beyond the point where it is first committed to memory.
Educators have found that short, consecutive periods of study usually produce better results than do single, prolonged periods. After you study for an hour, take a 15-minute break, then study for another hour, and so on. You’ll learn more by doing it this way, and what you learn will remain with you longer than if you spent three or four hours at your books without interruption.
Which brings us back to Marion. You will be happy to know that she applied these ten tips and enjoyed amazing results. Before long she not only stopped thinking she was stupid but became an excellent student. Studying stopped being a boring, monotonous task and became an interesting and challenging opportunity for growth. She even discovered eventually that it was really the knowledge that mattered, not the grades.
And if Marion was able to do all that, just think of what someone as smart as you could accomplish!

I want to tell you how I started receiving the New Era. At the National Scout Jamboree last summer I met Dallen Fisher from Rupert, Idaho. I am not a Mormon, but he told me about the Church and invited me to a fireside service one Sunday evening. Ezra Taft Benson and Marion D. Hanks spoke at the fireside. Brother Hanks gave a marvelous sermon on love for our mothers. Since I do not know my natural parents, I was very emotional by the end of the talk. I started writing letters to Dallen Fisher, and he sent me a subscription to the New Era for my 18th birthday. Dallen Fisher means a great deal to me because if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have been so open-minded about the Church.
Howard S. BurgmanRock Springs, Wyoming

“Did anyone work problem number 12?” Mr. Bentley asked the class.
The students all shook their heads.
Except Jeff. He raised his hand. “I did.”
“Oh?” Mr. Bentley said with raised eyebrows. “What did you get for your answer?”
“(X-Y)/(X + Y).”
Mr. Bentley looked at him strangely. “That’s what I got too. Did anyone else work it?”
Silence.
Mr. Bentley looked at Jeff with newfound respect. “It’s a hard problem. Did it take you very long?”
He modestly shrugged his shoulders. “Not really.”
“Would you like to show the class how you got your answer?”
“No, that’s all right. You go ahead.”
He was a senior in high school. His family had just moved to town because his father was the new superintendent of schools. The reason he appeared so bright in math was because he’d used his dad’s stationery and written the publisher for the teacher’s supplement that had all the problems worked out.
After putting the problem on the board, Mr. Bentley turned to Jeff and asked, “Is that how you did it?”
Jeff casually nodded his head. “More or less.”
The class bell rang, and it was time for lunch.
He ate alone. He didn’t care. There was nobody in this town he wanted to know anyway.
When school was over he went downtown and continued to look for a job.
A week later he found a job at an expensive men’s clothing store. He worked after school and on Saturdays. They didn’t actually let him sell anything; he unpacked clothing, cleaned the rest rooms, dusted, and ran errands.
Upstairs the store was mahogany and marble, but in the store’s basement there was no need for a good impression because no customers ever ventured that far. Alterations were made in the basement, and there was a large steam press which hissed clouds of steam. The two women who worked there were grumpy and were always complaining about everyone else.
Beyond the alterations room was an entire area full of mannequin parts—a bin for heads, and another for arms. And scattered along the dimly lit hall stood headless, armless bronzed torsos on the roughened cement floor.
Another section was filled with remnants of past window displays—signs which define for us what the “Man of Action” is wearing. But the “Man of Action” changes every season, and the signs were for last year, so the signs lay in stacks gathering dust, waiting for the window man to finally decide what to keep and what to throw away.
Jeff spent much of his workday in the basement. Starting from cardboard slabs he made up suit and tie and sock boxes. He also mailed altered suits to out-of-town customers. Also it was in the basement where they kept the supplies for polishing and dusting the mahogany upstairs.
One day he walked to the end of the dreary hallway. The lighting was bad and the clutter more evident as he proceeded.
What a mess, he thought. He moved aside a sign and saw a stack of men’s magazines. He was embarrassed by the cover on top. Making sure nobody was around, he opened it up and quickly thumbed through its pages. There was a centerfold picture.
I’ve got no business looking at this, he thought, closing it and walking away.
Four days passed, and he never returned to the magazines. He congratulated himself on his self-control.
But one day he returned. It was a day when it seemed as if the world was against him. At breakfast his parents scolded him for driving the car but never putting any gas in it. His dad warned him that he’d better spend more time studying if he ever expected to get a college scholarship. At school he said hello to a girl, but she looked coolly at him as if he weren’t even there.
He forgot the combination to his locker and had to go to the principal’s office to ask for it. The girl working there smirked and suggested he write it on his hand so he wouldn’t forget it. He flunked a world history exam. After school his boss yelled at him as soon as he walked in because two days ago he’d switched two suits and sent an old suit to a state senator who’d bought one especially for a press conference.
On that day, when the world seemed to be tumbling down on him, he found himself in the basement lifting up the old signs to again gaze at the stack of magazines.
Life was the same dull routine day after day. Besides that, nobody really cared about him anyway. What good did it do to try to live right when things just turn out rotten anyway?
He picked one of the magazines from the bottom of the stack and quickly stuffed it in his school notebook and walked away.
Later that night, at home, after family prayer, when his mom had embarrassed him by insisting on a good night kiss, he went to his room and closed the door and read the magazine from cover to cover.
The next day at work he returned it to the bottom of the stack, and nobody was any the wiser. It was his little secret.
Over the course of the next two weeks, in the same way he read every magazine in the stack.
It doesn’t matter, he thought. I’m still the same. It hasn’t affected me at all.
Shortly after, he met Holly. She was from a small branch in a town 50 miles away. She was a sophomore and he was a senior, and they met at a seminary Super Saturday. She had blonde hair and blue-green eyes. Her high cheekbones made everything about her face seem more dramatic. Her laughter reminded him of wind chimes.
After the first scripture chase, he sat behind her so he could watch her every move.
After the lesson, they all went to the gym to play volleyball. He stood next to her. Before the game started, she turned to him, smiled, and said, “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
They talked. He couldn’t remember what he said, because he was so anxious to have her like him. The game started and they lost, but he didn’t care because she said she enjoyed getting to know him and that she hoped to see him again sometime.
When it was all over, he walked her outside to her parents’ car, he asked her if he could come up and visit her sometime, and she said she’d like that.
“Do you think we’ll be good friends?” she asked.
“I hope so.”
“I do too.”
He asked her for a picture, and she said she’d mail one to him.
On Monday of the next week, his math teacher asked him to sign up for the special college preparatory exam because if he did really well he could get a scholarship next year and anyone as bright as he was should be able to get a full-ride scholarship anywhere in the country.
“I’m not that smart,” Jeff said.
“I think you’re too modest. I’ve noticed the way you do all the homework. You’re the best student I’ve ever had. I insist you take the exam.”
Monday afternoon Holly’s picture came in the mail. He sat at his desk and looked at it and dreamed that they’d fall in love and that someday she’d let him kiss her.
He phoned and thanked her for the picture.
“I hope we can be good friends,” she said.
“Me too.”
“Can I tell you something? Last summer I met this guy and we really got along well and it was the first guy I’d every really dated. But after the second date he just quit. He didn’t ever call me or say what was wrong. I figured it was probably something that I’d said. Of course my parents said not to worry, but that’s what they say about everything.”
“He was a fool to quit dating you,” Jeff said. She smiled. “Thanks. I needed that.”
He took the standardized math exam, but he didn’t do as well as people expected. “I think I had the flu that day,” he explained to Mr. Bentley when the results came in.
He checked the magazine pile every week. Another new issue appeared on top of the pile. He told himself he wouldn’t read it, but after a few days he broke down and did.
He always promised himself it was the last. Somehow promising himself made him feel better.
Another Super Saturday rolled around again. He sat next to Holly in class. Afterwards everyone went roller skating. He skated with her the whole time.
He asked her if she’d go with him to the junior-senior prom, and she said yes.
The next week Mr. Bentley asked to speak with him privately. “I don’t understand how you can do so well on homework and so poorly on the hour exams.”
“I get nervous taking exams,” Jeff said.
“Is that the real reason?” he asked.
The junior-senior prom came. Holly had made arrangements to stay with Church members in town.
After the dance he drove out to a country lane and parked. He kissed her for the first time.
He kissed her again. Suddenly, uninvited, came a flood of images from the magazines. He didn’t like the thoughts racing through his mind. He tried to make them go away, but they wouldn’t.
Suddenly he was afraid of himself around Holly. He started the car and drove to where she was staying that night.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked.
He felt terrible. He realized that if she knew what he’d been thinking, she would hate him. “I’d better go now. Good night.”
“What did I do wrong?” she asked him.
“Nothing,” he said.
“You won’t ever call me again, will you? What’s wrong with me? At least tell me that.”
“It’s me. There’s something wrong with me.”
As he drove home, he hated himself. He decided not to date her anymore because of what he might do if he listened to the thoughts put there from the magazines.
He promised himself not to read the magazines anymore, but he did. They didn’t demand much from him except that he turn the pages.
One day Mr. Bentley called him in after class. “I think you’ve been cheating on the homework, but I can’t prove it. For your own sake, if you have, then admit it. No class is worth damaging your integrity over. Just confess what you’ve been doing, and I won’t flunk you. I’ll give you a C—a good, clean, honestly earned C.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mr. Bentley had to give him a B because there was no proof.
Graduation day finally came. Jeff came down with the flu and asked to be excused from commencement. It was better that way.
Throughout the summer his father kept asking him to apply for college, but he didn’t feel like it.
One Sunday his Sunday School teacher told him he’d been chosen in the premortal existence to be alive at this time to help prepare for the second coming of the Savior.
She doesn’t know me, he thought. She doesn’t know the way I really am. Nobody does.
His bishop asked him to get ready for a mission, but Jeff knew he wasn’t that kind of guy.
He had no plans.
One Sunday in July, his bishop asked to speak to him in his office.
The bishop talked about being made an elder. Rather than having to explain why he didn’t want to be an elder, Jeff went along with the idea.
The bishop gave Jeff an interview. It started out easy enough, but before Jeff knew it the bishop was in deep waters.
Jeff wasn’t ready to confess. So he lied.
Perhaps because he had no reason to suspect any misconduct, the bishop wasn’t as penetrating with his questions as he should have been. When it was over, he told Jeff he’d passed the interview. “Stake conference is next Sunday. We’ll see you then. Your parents will be proud of you. Now the only thing you have to do is go see the stake president.”
“What for?” he asked.
“He needs to interview you too.”
The executive secretary had set up all the interviews on Sunday after church, but he’d set them too close together, so there was a line of people waiting to get in. Two of the guys from his ward, also graduating seniors, were also in line.
Holly and her father showed up in the hallway too because her father had a meeting to go to.
“Is it all right if I stand next to you in line?” she asked.
“I guess so.”
He looked at her. She was more beautiful than he’d remembered.
“What are your plans now that you’ve graduated?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“I hope you go on a mission,” she said.
“Why?”
“I know you’d be a great missionary.”
He shook his head. “I doubt it.”
She touched him on the sleeve. “You’ve got to have faith in yourself. I think you’re … special.”
He shook his head. “No I’m not.”
“There you go again.”
He couldn’t look her in the face because she reminded him of what could have been.
“You quit coming to Super Saturday.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Why?”
“I got busy.”
“I wished you hadn’t been so busy,” she said quietly. “But I learned from it.”
“What did you learn?”
“That you can’t depend on other people to make you feel good about yourself. It’s got to be inside you.”
For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of looking into her eyes. She was not afraid anymore. He looked away.
The next person in line went into the stake president’s office.
“Did you pass?” someone asked the one coming out.
“What do you think?”
“I doubt it, but hey, if you can pass, anybody can.”
They all laughed.
His face turned crimson red because he was next in line.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No, why?”
“Your face is so red. Do you have a fever?”
“Yeah, I guess I do. You’d better stay away from me.”
She smiled. “I’ll take the chance it’s not contagious.”
“I hope it isn’t.”
Several minutes passed. He turned to her and said quietly, “I have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You need to tell someone. You can’t keep a problem to yourself.”
The door opened again. President Rossiter came out and shook Jeff’s hand and asked him in.
They went through the same questions again, and again he lied just as he had to the bishop.
When they were finished, President Rossiter looked uneasy.
“Is something wrong?” Jeff asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe you’d better tell me.”
“What?”
“I just don’t feel good about what you’ve said.” Jeff wiped his forehead.
“Let me explain something, Jeff. You could probably lie to me or your bishop and get away with it. We’re only human, and we might never know the difference. But when I ask these questions, I represent the Lord as if he were asking them, and if you don’t tell the truth, then it’s as if you were lying to the Lord. Now let’s go over some of the questions one more time.”
They went over the questions one by one. Again Jeff lied, but by the time the questions were over his face was dripping with sweat.
President Rossiter shook his head. “I’m sorry, but there’s something wrong. Would you like to talk about it?”
Jeff shook his head. “There’s all those people waiting in the hall. If you take too much time with me, they’ll know there’s something wrong.”
“Telling the truth doesn’t take any longer than lying does.”
Jeff sat there stone faced.
“God knows what the problem is. Let me know too, so I can help you with whatever it is. You are important in his eyes. He reserved you to come to earth at this time to help bring about the Second Coming.”
Jeff shook his head. “I wish people would quit saying that. It’s not true about me. You don’t know me. Nobody knows what I’m really like.”
“Then why don’t you tell me,” President Rossiter said quietly.
“All right, I will. I lied to my bishop, and I lied to you. I’ve cheated in school, and I’ve read magazines. Bad magazines. Don’t tell me to stop. I’ve tried that, but no matter how hard I try, I’m just not strong enough anymore. It’s like it’s got control over me, and no matter how hard I say to myself I won’t ever do it again, I can’t stop. How can you possibly know what it’s like? I’m not like any of the people waiting in the hall out there. I’ve got a dirty mind.”
He tried to make the shame come out quietly, but it didn’t. It was the first time he’d cried since he was six years old. So now, he thought bitterly, on top of everything else, I’m not even a man, and everyone in the hall knows it because they can hear me crying.
President Rossiter put his arm around his shoulder. Jeff wondered if he’d talk about this in stake conference, and if after that people would stand in the halls of church and secretly smirk as he walked by.
He asked President Rossiter about it. “I don’t tell anyone, Jeff, not anyone.”
Jeff finally opened up and told it all—about the magazines and the thoughts that wouldn’t go away, and about cheating on homework, and about all the lying he’d done to cover it all up. He told every secret thing he’d done until it was all out in the open, and there was nothing left to hide. When he was finished, he asked, “Will you excommunicate me now?”
“Jeff, your bishop and I are going to work with you to help you repent, so you can wipe the slate clean again.”
Jeff looked up. “I can start over?”
“If you repent, you can. Your bishop will outline some steps to follow.”
“But I’ve disappointed the Lord.”
“Yes, you have.”
“But how can he forgive me for what I’ve done?”
“Because he loves you.”
“And if I do, someday will I be able to be an elder and go on a mission?”
“Yes, but it’s up to you. You can be forgiven if you turn from your sins and repent.”
“But what about the bad thoughts?”
“Replace them with good ones.”
Half an hour later he walked out into the hall again.
“It’s about time,” one of his high school friends complained. “What were you two talking about in there?”
President Rossiter smiled. “Bob, come on in and find out for yourself.”
Jeff started down the hall. He walked past Holly. He turned away. He didn’t want her to see his eyes because they were bloodshot from crying.
“Are you all right?” she called out after him.
He stopped walking and turned around to face her. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Can I walk with you?” she asked.
He smiled at her. “I’d really like that.”
The next day at work he put all the magazines into a box and lugged it up to the floor with the mahogany and marble.
The store was momentarily without customers.
“Hey, do these magazines belong to anyone?” he announced loudly.
All the salesmen came up to the counter where he’d set the box. They looked at the box full of tattered, dusty magazines. One by one they all denied that the magazines belonged to them.
“If they don’t belong to anyone, I guess nobody will mind if I just toss ’em out, right?”
Nobody objected.
He went outside and dumped them in a trash can just in time to see the garbage truck coming down the alley.
The hydraulic ram on the garbage truck crushed the box and mixed it with other garbage collected on that block wilted brown lettuce and old potato and carrot peelings and a large pail of darkened, deep-fat grease from the restaurant next door.
On his way inside again, he started whistling a hymn to himself. He decided he’d call Holly after work and ask if she’d go with their family on a picnic next week out at the lake. Maybe he could teach her how to water-ski.
Inside again, he passed a mirror customers used to look at themselves when they tried out clothes for the “Man of Action.”
He smiled at his reflection in the mirror. He liked what he saw.

“What can I do for you?” Michele asked. Michele was my ministering sister and one of my best friends. Her question rang in my ear, and I felt bothered that I had again failed to give her a straight answer.

Heartbreaking circumstances had recently troubled my extended family, and I knew I needed help. I did not, however, want to look weak asking for Michele’s help.

Often I would compare myself to others like the Latter-day Saint pioneers who sacrificed everything for their faith or that friend on Facebook who seemed to have it all together. I knew that none of these comparisons were fair. Yet I continued to hold myself in isolation when the comfort of a loving brother or sister in the ward could make all the difference.

For years, I had been putting off well-meaning friends with myriad versions of the phrase “I’m fine.” Ironically, I was frustrated to receive the same answer from those I served. How often had I pridefully turned away people God had sent as an answer to my prayers? My recent circumstances, however, forced me to put down my pride and ask for help.

At first, I didn’t know what to say when I called Michele, but as I poured out my feelings of grief and loss, she cried with me and listened to me. I told her I just wanted someone to give me a snack, wrap me in a blanket, and put me to bed with assurances that everything was going to be OK.

Michele told me she had been praying to know how to comfort me but didn’t know how because I wasn’t talking about my grief. Once I finally opened my heart to her, however, she was able to better understand and know how to help me.

The next day she showed up on my doorstep with a bag of cherries and the warmest, softest blanket I have ever touched. Her ministering companion, Linda, came soon after with a meal for my family and fuzzy socks for me.

Now when grief howls inside me like a storm, I wrap myself in the warmth of Michele and Linda’s love and know I’ll be OK. Their love is a reminder of Christ’s love—something I can call upon anytime I need it (see Romans 8:35, 38–39).

The author lives in Utah, USA.

During World War II he had served in an infantry battalion in an area where constant combat covered the earth with blood, pain, and death. His squad was commanded by a sergeant who had earned the hatred of his men through extraordinary harshness. One terrible night a mortar shell exploded not far from the sergeant, critically wounding him. The commanding officer stopped a dilapidated truck that often passed by to pick up the wounded and dying and take them behind the lines to be cared for or buried.
The squad watched the fate of their dying leader from a distance. Not one went to help him. The officer asked for a volunteer to carry the man to the truck and accompany him behind the lines. No one volunteered.
Then, after something of a pause, Brother Thamas stepped forward. “Moved by compassion,” he told us, “I decided to carry the unfortunate fellow and go with him on his trip. I took care of him the best I could during his long and painful ride.
“I returned later in search of my squad. When I reached the front, I learned that fierce bombardment had wiped out a large number of men on the awful night of my departure. Not one man from my squad had survived apart from myself. And then I understood. I thanked God for having moved me to compassion. He saved my life and gave me a chance to hear the restored gospel.”

Just twenty-three years ago this fall, I entered Chapman College in Southern California as a student. I came under the wonderful influence of Dr. Guy M. Davis, philosopher, educator, and teacher. Twenty-three years later, just three weeks ago last Friday evening, I saw this magnificent man, with so brilliant a mind, become as a little child, as he entered the waters of baptism and became a member of the Church.
I thought of another scripture as I witnessed that baptism experience of my friend. The Lord, admonishing his chief apostle Peter, as Luke records it, gave this simple counsel and direction: “… when thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren.” (Luke 22:32.) I pray the good bishop, the home teacher, the congregation of the ward to which Guy and his family have now been assigned will strengthen my brother.
Permit a personal experience for just a moment. Strengthening one’s brother, I think, comes closer to home when we think of fellowshiping and friendshiping our family. Some time ago when my youngest daughter was faced with the reality of attending a different school, she looked forward to the new experience with great anticipation and excitement but with the usual anxieties and concerns. Her mom and dad tried to make her experience meaningful, and one that would be positive, and we spent several hours attempting to prepare her mind for the new experience. We even planned a time when we could shop for new clothes and other special school supplies.
Finally, the long-awaited day arrived. A special evening was planned to help give spiritual comfort and guidance. Later she put her clothes out in anticipation of the next day. As she retired to her bed, seemingly all was well, but about an hour later she appeared at my study door where I was making some preparations.
“Dad,” she said, rubbing her tummy, “I don’t feel very well.”
You know the sign; and I thought I understood it, so I invited her in and sat her on my lap. We put on a little music that we liked to listen to together. I rubbed her tummy, and she soon fell asleep. I took her back upstairs, placed her in her bed, tiptoed toward the door; and she broke the silence with the announcement, “I am not asleep yet.”
I went back and lay down on the bed with her, stroked her head, gave what fatherly counsel one could under the circumstances, and reassured her. Finally she fell asleep. The next morning she appeared at breakfast in her petticoat. She said, “Dad, I don’t think I had better go to school today.”
I said, “Why not?”
She said, “I think I am going to get sick.”
You know what she was trying to tell us, don’t you? I don’t know how to handle a new situation, Dad. Will I make friends? Will my teacher like me? Will I fit into the social group? Will I be accepted? These are the concerns that all of us experience, as we find ourselves in new and different social situations.
She knew what my answer would be and agreed to have me drive her to school. As we got in front of the school building, the warning bell sounded. The tears started to come to her eyes. I got out of the car and assisted her. We walked about ten feet, and she grabbed hold of my leg. It was as though she were a tackle on some football team. And then, as only a child can do to a father, she looked up at me and said philosophically, “Dad, if you really love me—if you really love me—don’t send me in there.”
I said, “Honey, this may be beyond your comprehension, but it’s because I do love you that I am taking you in there.” And I did. When we got inside the door, she grabbed hold of the other leg and held on. Numerous students came and went, and finally the little miracle happened that changed everything.
From I don’t know where came a delightful, wonderful friendshiper, a fellowshiper who knew how to lose herself in serving others; one who would now take the admonishment of the Savior to strengthen her friends. With the exuberance of youth this little girl said, “Kellie, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“What is your home room?” And she told her. “Tremendous. I had that home room last year. Come on, and I will take you to it.”
And before Kellie knew it, she had let go of my leg and got about ten paces away, then realized what she had done. I will never forget her expression and the sermon she taught as she looked back. “Oh,” she said, “Dad, you can go now; I don’t need you anymore.”
Thank God for the little people as well as the big people who know how to friendship and fellowship.
Thousands of people are coming into this church every month. I pray that we have the genius to follow the counsel of the Lord to strengthen our brethren. I pray that a great bishop and a wonderful home teacher and other members are taking care of my friend, Guy Davis.

My little brother Patrick is a pain! Patrick is a pest. At least, that’s what I used to think. This morning I found Patrick sitting on my bedroom floor surrounded by lots and lots of potting soil, lots and lots of flowerpot pieces, and three messed-up marigolds.
Just a few minutes earlier, that potting soil, those pieces of flowerpot, and the three marigolds all added up to one wonderful Mother’s Day gift. But not anymore.
The moment Patrick saw me, all he could say was, “Uh-oh, Kwissie. Uh-oh.”
Patrick is almost three, and he still can’t say his Rs. I can sure say mine, and boy did I ever say them to Patrick.
I said, “Patrick! You just ruined my Mother’s Day present. You are in really, really big trouble!”
Mother’s Day is tomorrow, and I had been all ready for it. My class had made Mother’s Day gifts at school. First we decorated flowerpots. Mine was beautiful. It said, “To the very best mom in the world,” and it had bunches of bright blue butterflies fluttering all over it. (I’m really good at drawing butterflies.) Next we filled our flowerpots with potting soil. Then we poked three holes in the soil, put a marigold seed into each hole, and filled the holes up again. We watered our plants every other school day, and we waited and watched until our marigolds finally appeared.
My teacher, Ms. Stockton, says that growing things takes a lot of patience, and she is right. Everyone in my class cheered when our marigolds began to bloom. My marigolds were bright yellow and made me think of sunshine. But now my perfect present was ruined!
“Uh-oh, Kwissie,” Patrick said again. “Sowwy, sowwy.”
“Well, you should be,” I said, glaring at him.
That’s when Patrick started to howl. Mom came racing into my bedroom.
“What’s going on, Krissie? What’s this mess?” she demanded.
“This m-m-mess,” I said, trying to swallow the lump in my throat, “this m-m-mess is your M-m-mother’s Day present. Happy M-m-mother’s Day, M-m-mom.” Then I started howling right along with Patrick.
It took Mom a while to calm us down. When she finally did, I told her all about her Mother’s Day present and how it took lots and lots of patience and lots and lots of work to get those marigolds to grow. “Now look at them,” I sobbed.
“Hmmm,” Mom said, giving me a hug. “Marigolds sound a lot like little brothers.”
“What?” I whimpered.
“Little brothers,” Mom said, “need lots of patience and lots of care to help them grow up too.”
“But, Mom—” I said. And before I could say another word, Patrick crawled onto my lap, wrapped his chubby arms around my neck, and said, “Don’t cwy, Kwissie. I gwow up.”
Well, that did it. Mom and I started to giggle, and then Patrick joined in. Before we knew it, all three of us were laughing and hugging right in the middle of that big Mother’s Day mess, and it felt great!
“This feeling is the best Mother’s Day present ever,” Mom said. “I love it.”
I grinned. “Me too.”
“Me. Me,” Patrick added.
I used to think my little brother was a pest. But then I realized … What was I thinking? I love my little brother!

Sister Chen is now battling a new disease and the aftereffects of a minor heart attack. Twenty years after first asking God why He had left her, she found herself asking the same question—and receiving the same answer. “Haven’t I already told you?” she felt Him say. “You still have temple work to do.”
So Sister Chen continues to spend one week per month at the temple.
“These are things we have to do for our ancestors that they cannot do for themselves,” she says. “With my situation, I don’t have the time commitments that others have with work and such. I need to work hard now while I can.”

Elder Kay’s father died when Arthur was eleven years old. “My youngest sister was born just three weeks before Father passed away,” Elder Kay recounts. “So there were five children younger than I. Mother had been afflicted with a series of strokes that left her partially paralyzed. But the things that I remember most about her were her faith, her courage, her devotion, and her trust. Whatever our family circumstances, Mother’s faith never waned. And she never complained. She was the town clerk for a number of years, and even though her lower limbs were not very functional, she had an excellent hand and kept immaculate records. She earned a few dollars that way; the farm supplied the rest of our income.

“I have fond recollections of my aunts, uncles, and cousins too. We were a close family and met together often for fun and for family dinners. A special treat was the five-gallon freezer of ice cream that Grandmother often made.

“I can’t think of anything in my life that I would change, except, perhaps, my reactions to some things. As I look back now, every experience has been a blessing. I know absolutely that God lives and that the Savior is real and that He is our Redeemer. I have a strong testimony of the divine calling of the great men who preside over the Church.

“Several times my life has been preserved because of the warning of the still, small voice. I’ve learned to listen to that voice. I’ve also learned to trust the Lord with all my heart, might, mind, and strength. And I tell the children of the world that I know that He hears and answers prayers.”

Today is the first day of camp, and we did the swimming merit badge. A leader threw a brick into the pool, and we each had a turn to jump in and get it. I wasn’t sure how Bryant would do, but I tried my best to help him know where to go. I shouted directions to him from the side of the pool. He probably couldn’t hear underwater, but he didn’t give up. He kept feeling around until he found the brick. He finished on time and earned his badge. It was awesome!

A few days after my father passed away, family and friends gathered for his funeral in Las Cruces, New Mexico. At my mother’s request, the grandchildren sang “Families Can Be Together Forever.”1 After the closing song and prayer, the grandsons escorted my father’s casket to a hearse outside the chapel.
As the hearse pulled away, one of my younger brother’s toddler grandsons called out, “Bye-bye.” We then traveled to the cemetery, where I dedicated the grave and the rest of us said, “Bye-bye.”
Afterward, I drove to my parents’ home. As I entered their cul-de-sac, I stopped for a moment. I thought about the many times over the previous 30 years I had pulled into their driveway, had dropped off our children to spend part of their summer vacation with Grandma and Grandpa, and had celebrated Christmas there.
As I relived memories, I was almost overcome by sadness. I realized that most of my grandchildren will never know the welcome sight of my parents’ home after an all-day drive. They will never smell the aroma of my mother’s cooking. They will never hear the laughter echoing from the walls of my parents’ home. They will never hike the nearby sand dunes with my parents, hunt crawdads with them, spend time in their mountain cabin, or attend their friendly ward.
For my grandchildren, my parents will be little more than fading names etched on gravestones. We still have my mother, but after she passes away, my grandchildren will probably never travel to southern New Mexico.
I’m thankful that these sad thoughts soon left. Almost as quickly as they came, peaceful thoughts from the Holy Ghost replaced them.
I thought of the plan of salvation and of the great welding link that connects us to our ancestors and our posterity. I thought of the blessings of family history and temple work. I thought of my responsibility to preserve memories and photos and stories. I remembered that the family I have here on earth, I can also have in heaven. And I thought of who makes that possible.

When I was three, my Uncle Jim was serving a mission. His father, my grandfather, died while he was gone, but he was allowed to come home for the funeral. Uncle Jim was impressive to me—tall (6?6?/2 m) and good; I wanted to be just like him.
I decided I would serve a mission so that I could be like Uncle Jim. There was never a question in my mind about serving a mission after that. And that single decision had a great impact on my life. Once I knew the direction I was headed in, I took advantage of opportunities that came along that helped me prepare myself. With a future mission in mind, I had a greater desire to learn the gospel throughout my Primary years and my youth, and I enjoyed many experiences that helped me prepare for it.

This story about the Aaronic Priesthood begins with a young woman, 16-year-old Lauren DellAquila of the Cary Second Ward, Apex North Carolina Stake. Lauren hadn’t come to Church for years. She had never been baptized and confirmed, “but I just knew in my heart that the Church was true.”
She also knew David Christison, 16, and Andrew Hill, 15, who attend the same school, are Latter-day Saints. “I’m in marching band with David and had a couple of classes with Andrew last year,” she says. And she knew they stood by their beliefs. “It meant a lot to see their example, because most teens at our school don’t have values like they do,” Lauren explains.
Then one day after band, some other classmates were making unkind comments about the Church. Lauren told them if they really wanted to know the truth, they shouldn’t repeat rumors; they should find out for themselves. Afterward, David thanked her and asked how she knew so much about the Church. “She said that when she was really young she went to Church, but then her parents divorced and she stopped coming,” David says. “So I invited her to come again.”
“People had tried to get me to come back before, but for one reason or another it had never happened,” Lauren explains. “But when I told David and Andrew that I did want to try again, they were excited. I started coming to meetings, and they introduced me to the bishop, the missionaries, and the young women in the ward. They helped me feel at home.”
Soon Lauren was baptized and confirmed, and today she’s a happy, confident Laurel who recently gave a sacrament meeting talk about the importance of the priesthood. “If the gospel had not been restored,” she says, “I wouldn’t have seen two young men honoring their priesthood. And I wouldn’t have had the opportunities I have had to make covenants and to draw close to the Savior.”

My wife, Mary, and I have someone we love dearly who has struggled for much of her life with certain aspects of the Church. She loves the gospel, and she loves the Church but still has questions. She is sealed in the temple, is active in the Church, fulfills her callings, and is a wonderful mother and wife. Through the years she has tried to do those things that she knew to be right and refrain from doing those things that she knew to be wrong. She has kept her covenants and continued to search. At times she has been grateful to hold on to the faith of others.
Not long ago her bishop asked to see her and her husband. He asked them to accept a temple assignment to act as proxies for those who needed temple ordinances. This calling surprised them, but they accepted and began their service in the house of the Lord. Their teenage son had recently participated in family history research and found a family name for whom temple ordinances had not been completed. In time they acted as proxies and did the temple ordinances for this person and his family. As they knelt at the altar and the sealing ordinance was performed, this wonderful, patient woman who has searched for so long had a private spiritual experience by which she came to know that the temple and the ordinances performed therein are true and real. She called her mother and told her of her experience and said that while she still has some questions, she knows that the temple is true, that temple ordinances are true, and that the Church is true. Her mother wept with gratitude for a loving, patient Heavenly Father and for a daughter who patiently continues to search.
Patient covenant keeping brings the blessings of heaven into our lives.17

I was in Arizona a few years ago, and the president of a stake told me about one of his boys having been called to go on a mission. The boy went to the patriarch before he left, and the patriarch gave him a blessing. He told the boy that he should be satisfied with the assignment he would receive. And he said, “You shall see floods to the right of you and floods to the left of you, and your life will be protected and preserved.” He was assigned to the East Central States Mission, and while he was serving there, there was a major flood. This missionary was marooned in Louisville, Kentucky, in a house from which he had to be rescued in a boat, and he lived to see floods to the right of him and floods to the left of him. I ask you, how could the patriarch have known that when he gave that blessing, except by the inspiration of the Almighty?

Our camp near the ice caves at Banff, Alberta, was the scene of my first effort at getting along with guys who couldn’t cook, who argued over who got to light the fire, and who complained more than I did after a long hike. It wasn’t quite like home, but we set up camp and decided on rules to make things run smoothly.
The first night my feet were freezing, and I wanted to climb into my sleeping bag to warm up and go to sleep. I learned a lesson when the patrol leader suggested that a better way would be to do what the group wanted and warm my feet by sitting near the fire for a while instead of going to bed. Another time a fellow hurt his ankle. This meant he had to be carried down to camp. Some of the boys had to stay with him until everyone else finished exploring the caves. We solved the problem of who was to stay, and other similar problems that came up, by the discussion/vote method. “Choose a number from one to one hundred,” the patrol leader would say, and then if you chose the wrong number, you smiled, stayed, and cleaned camp or buried garbage.
Scout camps help fellows become real friends. We learned to help each other, to serve, to give in sometimes, and to abide by the rules of the camp for the benefit of all. If casual friends can get along and have a great time living together by the common consent method, I guess real families ought to be able to, too.

I remember a missionary who had just recently returned from the mission field who came into the Institute of Religion when I was there. He had committed a grave mistake that caused him to think that his life was ruined forever. And I said to him, “God loves you just as much today as he did last Thursday,” and he couldn’t believe it. The thought had never occurred to him. He wept like a child. You know, sometimes we think that God loves us to the extent that we please him, to the extent that we’re good boys and girls, good men and women. Love from God is not earned. It is not merited; if it is, it is justice and reciprocity and reward. Love comes from a loving heart, and God’s love is unconditional. And he loves the worst of us and the best of us equally, I believe. We cause him to suffer when we do wrong, when he sees us live our lives in ways that destroy us, and when he sees us hurting other people—this must cause him pain.

When I was 12, my mother died of cancer. After her death, I thought I was dying of cancer, too. I didn’t really have cancer, but my thoughts were very real to me. I didn’t talk to anyone about it. I carried the burden alone and was quite troubled.
I knew that when we have a problem we should go to the Lord in prayer. I always said my individual prayers at night and would think my prayers in my head as I knelt by my bed. But this particular time, I felt I needed to pray out loud.
Now, it was not easy to find a time to be alone in our house. I had five brothers and sisters and shared a bedroom with a sister. One afternoon I remember coming home from school to an empty house. I went into the living room and poured out my heart aloud to my Heavenly Father. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to suffer as my mom had suffered. I pleaded with the Lord.
Immediately after I had closed my prayer, a peaceful, strong feeling surrounded me. It was as if loving arms were around my shoulders and as if a voice said to me, “You are fine. You are fine.”
My prayer had been answered. I felt very loved, and I knew I was okay. A huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders. My thoughts of dying left me. Since that time, I have prayed to my Heavenly Father for answers. The answers never have come as quickly as they did that day, but I know prayers are answered—even if it is in the Lord’s timing and not mine.

Before I was baptized, I had led a youth group in many Sunday afternoon recreational activities, ranging from touch football to kite flying. I saw nothing wrong with it, even after I joined the Church. I felt it contributed to the solidarity of the group and increased camaraderie between the members. But one Sunday afternoon in particular caused me to think about what I was doing.
The group wanted to play ice hockey, but we were short of players. I had a great idea. Why not call the Harrisons—the branch president’s family? Four of their seven children were old enough to play. That would double our number, and it would be a good way to acquaint the youth with some Church members. I called Les, who was the oldest, and he eagerly agreed.
But as I stepped into the house while I was waiting for them to gather skates and extra jeans, I could sense something was wrong. President Harrison looked displeased, and Les looked bewildered, so I knew I had interrupted a serious discussion between the two of them. Finally the silence was broken when the president looked at me and said kindly that his children had their agency, but he didn’t approve, and did I know it was Sunday? Three of the four went with me, but I left the house feeling pretty guilty.

Another happy day she remembered was the day she met the missionaries.

“I have been a member about three and a half years. My mother—she’s not a member—says it happened by chance. Two elders knocked on our door and my father opened it. They taught us right then. My father, my elder sister, and I later joined the Church. My mother and my two brothers, 14 and 8, didn’t join. It’s a hard thing not having the whole family in the Church. Sometimes mom wants me to stay home and do chores instead of going to meetings. My sister and I try to do our best to keep up with the housework and to help each other out so we can still go. I need to have the Church and feel the Spirit. It’s worth all my life. When I don’t get to go to a meeting, I can tell I haven’t been. It’s easier to get depressed or upset. When I do go, my life feels more complete. I feel happy. My daily chores are a breeze.”