Gospel Story Finder

Some time ago, my wife and I became concerned about a pattern of behavior developing in some of our teenage children during family scripture study, family home evenings, and even our impromptu, one-on-one gospel-centered conversations. They were meeting a minimum learning standard—a physical presence, occasional eye-contact, and one-word answers—but they were not engaging in active learning.
We knew that in order for them to gain strong testimonies and to experience deep, personal conversion by the power of the Holy Ghost, they needed to do more. The Savior wants His disciples to not just hear His words—He wants them to act on His teachings with faith (see Teaching in the Savior’s Way [2016], 30).
One night we talked with them about our feelings. Our intent was to counsel with them in a Spirit-guided discussion. Our discussion, however, quickly deteriorated into a one-way lecture. Our boys heard our message, but their minds and hearts remained unaffected.
That experience troubled us, so my wife and I began to ponder how we could help our children become more proactive in their gospel learning, inspiring them to act instead of being acted upon by our speeches and lectures. Our questions led us to develop a plan based on what we learned from searching the scriptures, the words of latter-day prophets, and other Church resources related to teaching and learning. Our plan reads:
Cultivate love and respect. Love softens hearts. Expressions of love will help prepare our children for the influence of the Holy Ghost. It will also nurture their desire and willingness to engage in active, spiritual learning. Respecting our children by listening to and validating their perspective and feelings will help them feel safer and more willing to share what they are feeling.
Teach by the Spirit. Carefully observing and listening to our children will prepare us to discern by the Spirit what to say next, what question to ask, or what invitation to extend that will lead them to seek the Holy Ghost’s influence in their learning.
Anchor every discussion in the word of God. While sharing our own thoughts and opinions about the gospel together can be helpful, the scriptures and the words of latter-day prophets will often provide a deeper, more powerful connection to the Spirit (see D&C 84:45).
Make the Savior the basis of all gospel-centered discussions. Substance and power will come to our discussions as our children see how what we are discussing relates to the Savior and His Atonement, “the very root of Christian doctrine” (Boyd K. Packer, “The Mediator,” Ensign, May 1977, 56).
Ask inspiring questions. Effective questions will lead our children to draw truth and understanding directly from the scriptures and words of the prophets with the Spirit’s help. What they learn in that way will mean more to them than our clearest explanations of the very same material.
Encourage family members to do the talking. When our children use their own words to express what they are seeing, thinking, or feeling, they invite the Holy Ghost to help them know what to say and how to say it. That process will help them see and understand more clearly what the Lord wants them to learn and feel.
Be patient! The Holy Ghost will work with our children as they search their minds and hearts for truth and understanding. We need to resist the temptation to cut their search short by prematurely jumping in with personal opinions and self-conceived solutions.
Lead by example. Striving to learn and live the gospel in the same way we ask of our children will help us qualify for the support and guidance of the Spirit in our discussions.
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!

A few years ago, I began to notice that things around me were beginning to darken. It troubled me because simple things like reading the print in my scriptures were becoming more difficult. I wondered what had happened to the quality of the lightbulbs and wondered why manufacturers today couldn’t make things like they had in years past.

I replaced the bulbs with brighter ones. They, too, became dim. I blamed the poor design of the lamps and bulbs. I even questioned whether the brightness of the sun was fading before the thought occurred to me that the problem might not be with the amount of light in the room—the problem might be with my own eyes.

Shortly thereafter, I went to an ophthalmologist who assured me that the world was not going dark at all. A cataract on my eye was the reason the light seemed to be fading. This certainly gives you my age. I placed my faith in the capable hands of this trained specialist, the cataract was removed, and behold, light again flooded my life! The light had never diminished; only my capacity to see the light had been lessened.

This taught me a profound truth. Often when the world seems dark, when the heavens seem distant, we seek to blame everything around us, when the real cause of the darkness may be a lack of faith within ourselves.

Andrew sat on the front porch step. He could see everyone who went around the corner. He took a bite out of his toast with grape jelly on it. He was very careful not to get his new shirt and pants dirty.
A milk truck stopped in front of Andrew’s house. The milkman jumped out and rushed up the sidewalk. He carried a wire basket filled with bottles of milk.
“Where are you going in such a hurry, Mr. Jones?” Andrew called to him.
The milkman put two bottles of milk on Andrew’s porch. “I have lots of milk to deliver this morning,” he said. He hurried back to his truck and drove around the corner.
Doctor Smith walked quickly down the sidewalk. She carried a black bag in one hand. She was huffing and puffing.
Andrew called, “Where are you going, Doctor Smith?”
Doctor Smith stopped and smiled at Andrew. “I’m on my way to the hospital. I have many people to take care of today.” She hurried around the corner, pushing her glasses up farther on her nose.
Mr. Wilson dashed past Andrew’s house. He carried lots of books.
Andrew called to him, “Where are you going, Mr. Wilson?”
Mr. Wilson stopped. His chest went up and down like a big balloon. “I’m on my way to school. I have many children to teach today.” He put his head down and hurried on around the corner.
Andrew’s father rushed out of the house. He stopped to smile at Andrew. “Anybody interesting going around the corner this morning?”
“Everyone sure is in a big hurry today,” Andrew told him. “Are you in a hurry, too, Daddy?”
Andrew’s father smiled. “Yes, I don’t want to be late to work.”
Andrew’s mother ran out of the house. “Wait, honey—you forgot your lunch,” she shouted to Andrew’s father.
Andrew’s father took the bag, waved good-bye to Andrew, and walked swiftly around the corner.
It seems like everyone is going somewhere today, Andrew thought. He sat and watched some more and was still very careful not to get his new shirt and pants dirty. He watched two girls running down the sidewalk.
Andrew shouted to them, “Where are you going so fast?”
One girl yelled to Andrew. “We’re meeting our friends on the school playground.” They waved to Andrew as they raced around the corner.
Andrew sat and watched the corner some more. After a long while, the letter carrier pushed his mail cart slowly up the sidewalk. He stopped to mop his wet face with his big blue handkerchief. “Good morning, Andrew,” he said. “My, you look extra happy today.”
“Today I am going somewhere, too,” Andrew told him.
“Yes, I know.” The letter carrier put two letters in the mailbox on Andrew’s porch, then pushed his cart back down the walk and around the corner.
Andrew sat and watched the corner the rest of the morning, but everyone who was going somewhere had already gone by.
Andrew’s mother called him in to eat lunch. He was very careful not to spill any of it on his new shirt and pants. “Is it time to go now?” he asked when he finished.
Mother smiled. “Yes, it’s time for us to go now.”
Andrew raced down the sidewalk then waited for his mother. Today was his turn to go around the corner. “Today I am going somewhere, too!” Andrew shouted happily. “I’m going to kindergarten!” Then he and his mother disappeared around the corner.

The tears just wouldn’t come anymore. I had squeezed out the last one. Now my eyes were stiff and dry like a lemon that has been wrung out for lemonade.
Crying wasn’t any use anyway. I’d tried it all afternoon and I was still lost. Whatever direction I looked I couldn’t see anything but sand—and more sand. There had been hills of it this morning, but now, as the evening shadows stretched out, the sand dunes looked more like mountains. Just the thought of climbing another one made me too tired to start.
I knew now I would never find my way back to the wagon. Soon it would be night and even if someone came looking for me, it would be too dark for them to see. Have they even missed me yet? I wondered. In a family the size of ours we had to learn to look out for ourselves. Maybe Ed has missed me and will come looking, I hoped.
“Mama! … Papa! … Ed!” I called again, but only a hollow echo came back, hoarse like my voice.
The sun was gone now. I had to find a place to spend the night while I could still see. I knew there would be no light from the moon, because I had seen the silver sliver sink out of sight soon after the sun had set. The thought of darkness brought to my memory the howling of coyotes. When I’d shudder up to Papa for comfort as I listened to them at home, he’d always say, “Don’t be afraid. They are clear out in the sand dunes. They’d never come this close.”
Now I was out in the sand dunes, too, and a new terror took possession of me. How can I protect myself from those demons of the night? I worried.
There was only sand, endless sand and the prickly bear grass that hugged it into little clumps. I wanted to be near the top of a hill so I could see as far as possible, but I knew a hollow would be warmer when the sun left the sand and the chill of night settled down, so I dug a little cave near the largest bunch of grass I could find. I pulled a handful of the spiny stems to beat back the coyotes if they came near, and I backed into my cavern.
I tried to figure out how our annual plum-picking outing that had started so happily could be ending so sadly. Our Indian Grandma had told us where to find the reddest and sweetest of the marble-size fruit, and we came every year and picked as many as we could find. The plums were beautiful, all rosy-cheeked on the sun-kissed side, golden yellow on the stem side, and frosted with a gray sheen that made them shine like silver balls underwater when we put them in the pan to wash them. They tasted mealy and sweet at first bite, but sour if chewed close to the skin or pit. They were especially good for jelly, jam, or when bottled fresh. Plum picking became an annual outing with a picnic for lunch. This day I had become tired and ached to go rest in the shade of the wagon for a little while.
Papa said, “Do you know the way back to the wagon?”
“Sure I do, Papa. You go straight back over those first three hills and it’s just a little way from there.” I pointed out the direction.
“That’s right,” he said, and I started off.
I couldn’t figure out where I’d gone wrong. I’d spent all afternoon climbing hills and looking for the family, but all I saw were hills—more and more hills. My bare feet were used to the prickles of the bear grass and the heat of the sand and I had wandered for a long time. Now I was lost and maybe miles from the wagon.
I’d been so sure I could find my way back that now I was ashamed to be lost. I hadn’t even bothered to ask Heavenly Father to help me. But now I had to ask Him. If I didn’t get some help soon, I might have to stay here until I died. So I talked to Him about it as I crouched in my little hideaway and I soon felt better.
I watched the sky as the stars came out one by one, until it was filled from edge to edge with little pinpricks of light. They seemed to twinkle a message of hope. But when I heard the lonely wail of a far-off coyote, the prickles on my skin lifted into little goose bumps, and the hope of a moment before turned into fear.
Then I noticed a new light, bigger than the stars, and it seemed to be moving in circles. Someone’s looking for me, I thought excitedly.
I wanted to run and find whoever it was, but I decided to stay in the same place because Papa had always told me to do that if I ever got lost. I crawled out of my hole, stood at the top of the hill, and tried to call but I couldn’t utter a sound. I tried again, but it was no use. My throat was as dry from calling all day as my eyes were from crying.
I watched the light. Finally I decided to start toward it, for I just knew it was my only chance.
As I went down the hill, I lost sight of the lantern, but I could see it again when I came to the top of the next knoll. I never quit looking in the direction of the light, even when it faded from view as I went up and down, and at last I could tell I was getting closer. I ran the last few steps and grabbed the legs of the person swinging the lantern. I couldn’t let go.
“You all right, Dora?” a man’s voice asked. It was Mr. Cooper, our neighbor. He gave the signal that I was found and carried me back to the wagon.
Then there was such excitement! All the neighbors had been looking for me. Mama grabbed me in a tight hug and kissed me like I never remembered before, and no one scolded me for getting lost.
Later Papa made a hole in the wagon rim that left a little rounded hump in the dirt every time the wheel made a complete turn. After that it was easy to spot the wagon’s track and to follow it, and it led us to where we wanted to go.

Not long ago while sitting on the stand during the closing session of a youth conference, just as the young priest conducting the meeting stood to bring the meeting to a close, Kathy, sitting next to me, jumped up and unhesitatingly slipped in front of the young man, took her place at the pulpit, faced the audience, raised both hands in front of her with outstretched fingers, and said, “I’ll bet you’ve all been wondering why I’ve been wearing this ugly green nail polish.” A soft ripple could be heard across the audience, and I realized I was not alone in my curiosity.
“Well,” she said, “it’s like this: I knew my responsibilities as one of the leaders of this conference were big. I knew I had some real challenges ahead, and I didn’t want to be sorry after the chance was gone that I didn’t do what I really wanted to do.
“You see, I needed something that would remind me of what I really wanted to do and help me through the things I didn’t want to do. So I thought of a plan. And it worked! You see,” she went on, “I wanted something that would remind me of what I really wanted to make myself do. I knew my fingernails would always be right there.”
After further details, and bearing a strong testimony of the joy that comes when you do what you should, she took her seat. From this insight I was reminded of the message of the Apostle Paul as he was counseling the Corinthians:
“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things” (1 Cor. 13:11).
Kathy had helped us all understand the importance of reminders, but it was the combined voices of young people singing the closing song, resounding like a sacred sermon, that brought forth new appreciation for sacred reminders. They sang:
I marvel that he would descend from his throne divine
To rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine;
That he should extend his great love unto such as I,
Sufficient to own, to redeem, and to justify.
(“I Stand All Amazed,” Hymns, no. 80)

My mother was born in Poprad, Czechoslovakia (now Slovakia). Her father served in the Czech army during World War II, and his was one of many military families that fled into nearby woods for safety from German occupiers. For five days, my grandparents huddled under a blanket with my mother and her sister, ages one and five, eating a ration of sugar cubes.
My grandparents were not members of the Church at this time, nor did they pray often. However, during this ordeal, their hearts were softened. My grandmother wrote in her journal, “This very night I felt a longing for kneeling down to ask for help from someone who had a higher authority. So I went a little ways into the forest, knelt down, and prayed with a broken heart and a contrite spirit. I pleaded for help.”
Her prayer was answered. Some families in the woods were killed upon discovery, but my grandparents and their two daughters were miraculously protected. Through this exhausting and trying experience, the Lord planted a seed of faith and trust in my grandparents’ hearts.

In His love for us, God has decreed that any worthy man, regardless of wealth, education, color, cultural background, or language may hold His priesthood. Thus, any properly ordained man who is clean in hand, heart, and mind can connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood. I learned this well as a young missionary years ago in the South Pacific.

My first assignment was to a small island hundreds of miles from headquarters, where no one spoke English, and I was the only white man. I was given a local companion named Feki who was serving a building mission and was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood.

After eight seasick days and nights on a small, smelly boat, we arrived at Niuatoputapu. I struggled with the heat, the mosquitoes, the strange food, culture, and language, as well as homesickness. One afternoon we heard cries of anguish and saw a family bringing the limp, seemingly lifeless body of their eight-year-old son to us. They wailed out that he had fallen from a mango tree and would not respond to anything. The faithful father and mother put him in my arms and said, “You have the Melchizedek Priesthood; bring him back to us whole and well.”

Though my knowledge of the language was still limited, I understood what they wanted, and I was scared. I wanted to run away, but the expressions of love and faith that shone from the eyes of the parents and brothers and sisters kept me glued to the spot.

I looked expectantly at my companion. He shrugged and said, “I don’t have the proper authority. You and the branch president hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.” Grasping at that straw, I said, “Then this is the duty of the branch president.”

No sooner had I said this than the branch president walked up. He had heard the commotion and came from his garden. He was sweaty and covered with dirt and mud. I explained what had happened and tried to give the young boy to him. He stepped back and said, “I will go and wash and put on clean clothes; then we will bless him and see what God has to say.”

In near panic, I cried, “Can’t you see? He needs help now!”

He calmly replied: “I know he needs a blessing. When I have washed myself and put on clean clothes, I will bring consecrated oil, and we will approach God and see what His will is. I cannot—I will not—approach God with dirty hands and muddy clothes.” He left me holding the boy. I was speechless.

Finally he returned, clean in body and dress and, I sensed, in heart as well. “Now,” he said, “I am clean, so we will approach the throne of God.”

That marvelous Tongan branch president, with clean hands and a pure heart, gave a beautiful and powerful priesthood blessing. I felt more like a witness than a participant. The words of the Psalmist came to my mind: “Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? … He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart” (Psalms 24:3–4). On that tiny island a worthy priesthood holder ascended into the hill of the Lord, and the power of the priesthood came down from heaven and authorized a young boy’s mortal life to continue.

With the fire of faith glowing from his eyes, the branch president told me what to do. Much additional faith and effort was required, but on the third day that little eight-year-old boy, full of life, was reunited with his family.

I hope you understand and feel these truths. This was a tiny island in the midst of a huge ocean—with no electricity, no hospital, no doctors—but none of that mattered. For in addition to great love and faith, there was a branch president who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, who understood the importance of cleanliness of hand and heart and its outward expression in cleanliness of body and dress, who exercised the priesthood in righteousness and purity according to the will of God. That day his individual power in the priesthood was sufficient to connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood over earthly life.

When I look into the heavens at night and contemplate the endless galaxies therein, I am amazed at what a tiny dot our little earth is and how infinitesimally small I am. Yet I do not feel afraid, alone, insignificant, or distant from God. For I have witnessed His priesthood power connecting with clean hands and pure hearts on a tiny island in a vast ocean.

Some years ago I returned home to find our little children had discovered some newly hatched chicks under the manger in the barn. As our little girl held one of them, I said in a teasing way, “That will make a nice watchdog when it grows up, won’t it?” She looked at me quizzically, as if I didn’t know much.
So I changed my approach: “It won’t be a watchdog, will it?” She shook her head, “No, Daddy.” Then I added, “It will be a nice riding horse.”
She wrinkled up her nose and gave me that “Oh, Dad!” look. Even though she was only four years old, she knew that the little chick would grow up to be either a hen or a rooster—much like its mother or father.
All animal life produces after its own kind, and little ones grow up to look and to be like their parents. That is true of people too. Small boys and girls grow up to be big boys and girls, then men and women.
I testify that God is indeed our Father. When we reach our full growth and destiny, we have the promise that we may be like Him. Just as all life follows the pattern of its parents, so can we grow toward the image of our Heavenly Father if we will live righteously and be obedient to His commandments.

Hannah and Ellen Joy trust that the Holy Ghost can guide them. Hannah said, “The Holy Ghost can help me anywhere! I have to wash my hands a lot and be careful and listen to the Holy Ghost to help me.”
When Ellen Joy was five, she wanted to eat her friend’s chicken nuggets. But she got a feeling that she shouldn’t, so she ate her own lunch. She found out later the chicken nuggets had milk in them and could have made her sick.

Later that summer Leann came to my house and said that she was my visiting teacher. This seemed strange and wonderful at the same time, especially since I was not a member of the Church. Here she was taking time from her busy schedule to share a spiritual thought with me and to see if there was anything she could help me with. I knew from her spirit that she was sincere. I’ve never forgotten Leann and the messages she shared with me.

Maggie By My Side Beverly, still struggling with grief over the death of her previous guide dog, must cope with being retrained herself with Maggie. Along with “accompanying” Beverly at the training school, we are with her to see Maggie’s introduction to the family cats, and her reaction to snow and the “monsters” that result when people dress for severe Wisconsin winter weather.Beverly Butler11 years and up

Caleb grabbed his shovel. It was time to work in the garden!
He helped Mom carry the tools. There was a little rake. And there was a shovel for Mom too. They were ready to start working.
Mom and Caleb walked to the garden. Oh no! It was full of weeds! There were short, spiky weeds. And there were tall, wispy weeds. So many weeds!
But Caleb knew what to do. He got right to work. Caleb dug under the weeds. Then Mom pulled the weeds out of the dirt. They made a great team! Soon they had a giant pile of weeds.
It was time for a break. Caleb took a big drink of water.
“What are we going to do when the weeds are gone?” Caleb asked.
Mom brushed some dirt off her hands. “Once the weeds are gone, we can plant seeds. Like tomatoes and beans and—”
“And corn?” Caleb asked. He loved corn.
“And corn,” Mom said. “We can’t forget that!”
Caleb stood up. “OK. Let’s get back to work.” He picked up his shovel. He needed to make room for corn plants.
Caleb dug and dug. It was hard work. But Caleb was a hard worker. He could do hard things. Together, he and Mom made another pile of weeds. Then another. Then another. So many weeds!
Finally Caleb and Mom had pulled out all the weeds. Caleb flopped down on the grass. He was so tired! Mom flopped down next to him.
“You are such a hard worker,” Mom said. “Those weeds would have taken me all day. You made it fast and fun.”
Caleb smiled big. He was a hard worker. “It’s good when we work together.”

Last Christmas I talked to the proprietress of a Salt Lake City nursing home. From the hallway where we stood, she pointed to several elderly women assembled in a peaceful living room. She observed, “There’s Mrs. Hansen. Her daughter visits her every week, right at 3:00 p.m. on Sunday. To her right is Mrs. Peek. Each Wednesday there is a letter in her hands from her son in New York. It is read, then reread, then saved as a precious piece of treasure. But see Mrs. Carroll; her family never telephones, never writes, never visits. Patiently she justifies this neglect with words which are heard but do not convince or excuse, ‘They are all so busy.’” Shame on all who thus make of a noble woman “mother forgotten.”

Grandpa, you’re bald.Thanks for noticing.
When you get resurrected, will you still be bald?Certainly not! I plan to have a magnificent head of curly black hair. Do you think you’ll still know me?
Hmmmm. Will you still be old?As a matter of fact, I expect to be rather young and handsome.
Will you still have your same happy smile?Well, it may be even happier.
Will you still love your Mandykins?More than ever.
I’ll know you, Grandpa.I’ll know you, too.

When Neil was older, he wanted to serve a mission. But he was a little worried. “How can I serve a mission when I know so little?” he prayed.
He felt the answer in his heart. “You don’t know everything, but you know enough.”
That answer gave Neil courage. He obeyed and served a mission in France. Before he left, he went to the temple. There he made special promises, called covenants, with Heavenly Father. He was blessed for going to the temple.

“As I watched the tray come down my row, I couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. This Sunday would be the first time in my life I hadn’t been worthy to partake of the sacrament. The tray was quickly coming closer to me, and I was drowning in feelings. What would my parents think when I didn’t take the sacrament? My little brother and sister? I was supposed to be their example.
“When the tray came to me, I quickly passed it on, bowing my head. I felt as if everyone in the chapel was looking at me.
“The week before, I had talked to my bishop. I entered his office and started crying in shame before I even sat down. As I told him everything I had done, I thought he would be angry with me or say I had no hope of being forgiven. Instead, I noticed he was crying too. He let me know he was very pleased I had come to him. It felt good to know that he had been called by the Lord to help me with my problems. It felt good to know that I had someone to talk to while trying to apply the principles of the Atonement in my life. I knew I could trust the bishop and I could share my feelings with him.
“When I finished talking with my bishop, he told me he loved me. ‘I am going to help you as much as I can to get through your problems,’ he said. At that moment I knew everything would eventually be all right.
“My first time not taking the sacrament was hard, and I have to relive that experience every Sunday until the bishop tells me I can once again partake. But I am grateful to have the blessing of repentance in my life. I know I can be clean again through the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Because of this experience and the struggles I am going through, I never want to be unworthy again. Not partaking of the sacrament is hard. But it has helped me more fully appreciate my Savior’s sacrifice for me.”

Dwight (center) with his mother and friend Jeff on his baptism day.
Photograph courtesy of Dwight G.
I grew up learning Christian values. I knew I was created by God and that He would protect me as I kept His commandments. But eventually I drifted away from my faith and was filled with doubt. In 2020, my friend Jeff, who is a member of the Church, explained BYU–Pathway Worldwide to me, how it can help students learn English and earn a bachelor’s degree online.
I wanted to learn more!
In my country, most young people can’t afford to go abroad for a better education. BYU–Pathway was the solution I didn’t know I needed. My fear of the future was replaced with a new hope that blazed within me, and I knew God hadn’t abandoned me.
I learned many valuable habits and skills in my classes, like how to manage my finances, improve my English, and be a proactive employee. I quickly discovered that BYU–Pathway is not only an educational journey but a spiritual one too. In my classes, I also learned about Nephi and modern-day prophets and came to know that their teachings were true. And I realized that, if I wanted to fully grasp what I was learning, I needed to learn more about the Church.
I shared my feelings with Jeff, and he immediately contacted the full-time missionaries. Each day of study I had with the missionaries filled me with a light that brightened my view of the world. I was like a lost child who was finally coming home. I discovered I am a son of God, I have a purpose, and there’s another book (the Book of Mormon) written by ancient people who recorded the miracles that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ provided for them.
Eventually I was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church of Jesus Christ. And my faith in Jesus Christ has reached a height I never thought possible.
Dwight G., Maritime, Togo

Page 10: Have you ever felt afraid or lonely? Sister Neill F. Marriott, second counselor in the Young Women general presidency, shared what happened before her wedding. She was far from home and would be staying with a relative of her future husband whom she had never met. When she arrived at the relative’s home, Sister Marriott said, “The door opened … and Aunt Carol, without a word, reached out and took me into her arms.” That moment melted away her fears. “Love is making space in your life for someone else,” she said. Is there someone you can make room for?

Two weeks after Sage was burned, the Volkmans were offered the more specialized care available to burned children at a special hospital in Galveston, Texas. Sage was flown the 1,500 kilometers to Galveston on November 6. She was still in a coma.
Among the hospital staff were two Latter-day Saints. Jonathan Brough and Rob Durrans had seen burn victims before, but this case was different. “I had always been able to recognize what part of the patient I was looking at,” Rob wrote in his journal, a copy of which he later sent to the Volkmans.
“When Sage arrived, the doctors were not very optimistic for her future,” he observed. “‘If she makes it through the night, and that’s a big if,’ they emphasized, ‘we are expecting brain damage, loss of vision, chronic lung problems, inability to walk, and probably a major loss of hearing. Anything short of that will be a miracle.’”
In an entry he made in his journal, Jonathan describes what happened next: “Rob and I were asked to give Sage a blessing. We entered the little girl’s room, robed as if for surgery. We approached the bed to find an unresponsive, motionless figure. The respirator was pumping next to the bed, and tubes—for her lungs, for pumping her stomach, and for giving nourishment—entered every opening of her face. She was severely disfigured. Only her small feet were recognizable as those of a formerly beautiful child. If ever I wanted to give a blessing of release from this life it was then. I envisioned the unsurmountable challenges this girl would have to face, as well as the sacrifices her parents would have to make in order to nurse her back to any degree of independence.
“Rob anointed the frail remnant of that little girl’s body and then we both placed our hands on her head to seal the anointing. Few times have I felt the Spirit speak as powerfully through me as it did at that time. To my surprise I heard myself bless her with the strength to overcome the destruction that her body had sustained.”
Both Rob and Jonathan were shocked at the blessing they had just given, especially the promise of full recovery. “Yet we had both been instantaneously told that everything would be all right,” Rob wrote. “As we closed the blessing, I let my fingers linger for a moment on her head—there was a feeling that she was drawing upon my strength, and when I lifted my hands I felt completely drained.”
During the next few days Sage hovered between life and death. Bleeding ulcers set back plans for surgery, and her coma continued. Donations from friends had allowed Ruth DeBuck to come to Galveston to be with Denise, and the two would often stroke Sage’s feet and tell her stories or sing her hymns, hoping that something would get through to the dream world she was in.
Then one day Denise was lying on the bed with Sage. She looked into her daughter’s ruined face and said, “Oh, I love you, Sage.”
And Sage whispered back, “I love you, too.”

I considered it the better part of valor not to probe too deeply into just where the boys got the watermelon for our picnic. After all boys would be boys, I told myself. And when they offered, what could I say? They ought to be involved somehow in the preparations. In any case, stealing a watermelon was a minor infraction. Why, we had all been involved in such things at some time or other.
I soothed my conscience with these rationalizations until I learned where they had gotten the watermelon. And then there was no help for it. Obviously it was a sin to steal a watermelon, and that would have to be the topic of our next priesthood lesson.
Not only was it a sin to steal a watermelon, but it was a greater sin to lie about it. And that was the thing that really rankled in my brain after our visit to Sister Wagner’s house.
My young companion, Tom Learner, had made the appointment. And he seemed perfectly at ease as he rang the doorbell.
“Good evening, Sister Wagner,” Tom’s voice was sincere and friendly.
“My home teachers. Come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“And how are you, Sister Wagner?” I asked.
Her answer was noncommittal. I sensed there was something she was not saying.
I discussed the message we had prepared on chastity—not a subject that Sister Wagner needed to be greatly concerned about. Tom offered a beautiful prayer.
Then as we were preparing to leave, I said: “And how are you really, Sister Wagner? Is there something we should know about?”
With a quick glance at Tom, she said: “Come with me out back. There’s something you should see.”
Sister Wagner, widowed now 15 years, was proud of her garden. Many times as we visited in her home she had taken us to look at the tomatoes and carrots and peas. And, oh yes, the one watermelon plant.
You could almost see the hunger in her eyes as she talked about eating the two large green watermelons that were growing on that vine. Tom and I had joked about them, saying that they were almost like children to her and that she probably would not have the heart to eat them when they did get ripe.
Now as we came into her backyard she pointed at the garden. She was very near to tears. “If they had just taken the watermelons, I could have accepted that. But look at my tomatoes. It looks like a herd of elephants had been running through them. All that lovely fruit spoiled! And the watermelon! Do you know what they did with the watermelon? They threw it in the street out front—smashed to pieces.”
Weeping now in earnest she fled from us to the sanctuary of her house.
“Who could have done such a thing?” Tom fumed as I drove him to his house. “I’m gonna find out who it was and make him pay.”
He was putting on a good act. There were real tears in his eyes, and he almost convinced me. But the circumstantial evidence was just too great. Tom was the one who had suggested that he knew where they could get a watermelon for the picnic. I felt sure that he had involved the other members of the teachers quorum in the theft.
Sick at heart, I began to prepare the lesson I would give the following Sunday. I had enjoyed working with these boys. They were good boys basically.
Where had I failed them? It was difficult for me to believe that they—Tom especially—would steal Sister Wagner’s watermelons, knowing what they meant to her. Both of the melons had been taken, though only one made it to the picnic. The other one, as Sister Wagner pointed out, was dropped in the street in front of her house. Insult added to injury.
“Well, guys?”
They knew before I opened my mouth that this was not going to be the usual lesson.
“You want to tell me about it, guys?”
“What’s he driving at?” Mark Fenton asked. Tom’s face was a blank.
“Hey, fellows, when you offered to get a watermelon for the picnic I assumed …”
Slowly the light began to dawn in Tom’s eyes. I could see it expand and grow from a vague suspicion to certain knowledge.
“You, you think we took Sister Wagner’s watermelon?”
“What am I supposed to think, Tom?”
Suddenly the boys were all talking at once, each one pleading innocence. I had obviously taken them by surprise. Had I really misjudged them? Or had they simply not expected to be found out?
“Okay. Okay, guys!” I raised my arms for silence. “Perhaps I did jump to conclusions. If so, I’m sorry, and I beg your forgiveness. But would you just tell me one thing? Where did you get that watermelon?”
There followed a silence as profound as the outburst of protest that had preceded it. Tom looked at Mark Fenton. Mark squirmed in his seat and glanced at Billy Chavez. Eduardo, Billy’s younger brother, seemed to be profoundly interested in the pattern of the floor tiles. He studied those tiles as if he were hypnotized. The attention of the class focused finally on Eduardo, the shyest and quietest member of the group. They had chosen Eduardo as their spokesman, whether he liked it or not.
“You know something you’d like to tell me, Eduardo?”
He looked at me with something like panic in his eyes. I wanted to let him off the hook. But if the answer did not come from him, there would be no answer.
“Tell me about it, Eduardo. Where did you get the watermelon?”
Soft, like the southern breeze in September, came his voice.
“From old m-m-m-. …”
“Would you repeat that, please, Eduardo?”
“From Old Man Peters.” He seemed relieved after it was out.
Relief washed over me like a mountain wind in summer. They had not stolen Sister Wagner’s watermelon. They had taken one from Old Ma … Mr. Peters’ big field. He had so many. Surely he would not miss one. Still, I had set out to make a point.
“Hey, guys. I do apologize for thinking you would do something like that to Sister Wagner, a widow with only one small plant. But you know stealing is stealing. Were you all involved in this?”
They nodded their heads affirmatively.
My plan would require only minor alteration, a change of characters. “Well, fellows, you know what I think we had better do?”
They knew all right but were hoping I would not say it.
Each agreed that, since I insisted, he would go with me to visit Mr. Peters later that afternoon. At the appointed time I picked each of them up and we drove out to the Peters’ farm at the edge of town.
I had not talked to Bill Peters in a long time, though we went to school together some years back. He was not a member of the Church but had married into a prominent Latter-day Saint family. His children were totally inactive. I must confess that I felt somewhat ill at ease going to see him. I wondered if it was worth it for one small watermelon. But we were already committed.
He was tinkering with his tractor when we pulled into the yard. I got out of the car and approached with some trepidation.
“Hi Bill.”
“Walt? Been a while.” He extended his arm to shake hands and then drew it back. “Hand’s covered with grease. You won’t want to shake with me.”
The boys were still keeping to the security of the car. I motioned them to join me.
“Looks like a delegation,” Bill Peters said.
“Oh … uh … how are things going, Bill?”
“Been better. Tractor won’t run. Cow got into the lucerne the other night and bloated. Still might lose her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Bill. You have a nice looking watermelon patch.”
“Hmph! Had is more like it. Kids got into the field and knocked the best melons off the vine. What they didn’t ruin the cow did, on her way to the alfalfa field. Whoever got into the melon patch left her gate open.”
The boys were beginning to squirm noticeably.
“Well, Bill, that … that was what we came to see you about.”
“Figured it was when I saw you coming.”
“We’d like to pay for the damage, if we could.”
“Walt, I wouldn’t know what to charge. Probably a couple hundred dollars all told. But, kids! They don’t know what they’re doing. Did you ever steal a watermelon? They think it’s fun. Isn’t when you’re on the other side. I donno. I wouldn’t feel good about taking their money. I will accept an apology.”
Each of the boys in turn expressed his regret to Mr. Peters. They were deeply penitent. And none of us felt like we had really solved the problem. I did not know what more we could do.
Two weeks later I learned what kind of stuff that teachers quorum was really made of when I got a call from Bill Peters.
“Walt?”
“Yes.”
“Bill Peters. I just had to tell you how much it has meant to me …”
My pause must have suggested to him that I did not know what he was talking about.
“Your boys,” he said. “That Learner kid’s a great mechanic. Got my tractor going like a charm. Brought his big brother with him, who works at the garage. And the other boys have been working around the place.”
I was speechless.
We talked about it during priesthood meeting the following Sunday.
“Don’t you guys know it’s a sin to lie?” My voice was quavery as I said this.
“Lie?” Tom Learher’s voice was indignant. “We didn’t lie.”
“No,” Mark Fenton broke in. “We just didn’t tell you everything.”
“We wanted to surprise you,” Eduardo spoke shyly.
Suddenly I needed a tissue. After wiping my nose, I asked: “Did you learn anything else from this experience?”
“It’s a sin to steal a watermelon,” Billy Chavez spoke for the group.