Gospel Story Finder

EZRA: So what am I doing here? I was walking down Main Street in Salt Lake City one day when Brigham Young, President of the Church, happened by. “Afternoon, Brother Cooper,” he said. “The Lord wants you in Long Valley.”
“Long Valley! What’s down there?”
“Nothing,” he said. “That’s why. But you won’t be on your own. We’re settin’ up the United Order. Settin’ it up all over the Church. Got to make the Saints one—start developin’ a perfect society.”
When I got my teeth back in my mouth, I said, “Brother Brigham, that’s impossible! There must be some mistake!” “There’s no mistake,” he said. “But don’t take my word for it. You go home and pray about it.”
So I went home and prayed about it. And here I am!
[He starts off again, then stops and smiles.]
Over seven hundred people, working, living, eating together—everybody equal, sharing the good and the bad. Oh, there are problems. Some say the meat cuts aren’t all the same size. But by and large [with pride], it’s working. And all because we try with our whole hearts—weak as they are—to live the greatest of all commandments—love!

One of my fondest memories as a small boy was the annual visit to our home on Butler Avenue in Salt Lake City of my Grandfather and Grandmother Ballard on Christmas morning. Melvin J. Ballard died when I was ten years old. I knew that my Grandfather Ballard was a very important man in the Church, but I did not understand what it meant to be an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ. To me he was Grandpa Ballard, and that was enough to make me always very eager for his visit to our home, and especially on Christmas morning.
I particularly remember one Christmas morning, just a year or two before Grandfather Ballard died. My father and mother gave to Grandfather and Grandmother a new set of luggage. This seemed so appropriate to me then, because it seemed like Grandfather was always traveling.
Reflecting back on those special Christmas mornings with Grandfather and Grandmother Ballard brings special fond memories since today I find myself as a member of the Council of the Twelve and I have a new and deeper appreciation for those special Christmas mornings with my grandparents. I hope now as my grandchildren come to visit me and I go to visit them, I can create memories for them that will live on long after I am gone.

Annette swung her blue vinyl scripture carrier back and forth as she ran down the sidewalk and leaped up the steps of the church. Even though she couldn’t read yet, she had wanted her own scriptures, and today she was bringing them to Primary for the first time. “Look, Sister Harris! Look what I got for my birthday!” she said excitedly, waving her scriptures.
“That’s great! We’ll be using them in Sharing Time today,” Sister Harris said, smiling.
Annette watched curiously as Sister Harris carried a big blue dishpan of water, some building blocks, and various other things into the classroom. Annette couldn’t wait for Primary to begin.
“Today,” said Sister Harris, “we are going to learn about some Book of Mormon people called the Jaredites. They lived in a place called Babel. Wicked people there thought that they could get to heaven by building a high tower instead of by keeping the commandments.”
Sister Harris placed a red block on a green one, then added blue and yellow ones to make a tower. “Heavenly Father was angry with what they were doing,” she said, “so He made it so that the people couldn’t understand each other. Voulez-vous m’aider?” she asked, motioning toward the blocks and looking around the room. “Personne ne me comprend?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
All the children giggled. “What are you saying?” Annette asked.
“I was asking if anyone would like to help me build the tower. You couldn’t understand me because I was speaking French,” Sister Harris explained. “That’s like it was in Babel. The people couldn’t understand each other, so they stopped building the tower. The Jaredite family was righteous, though, and Heavenly Father allowed them to keep their language. He told them that He would lead them across the ocean to a promised land.”
Sister Harris picked up a round plastic container with a snap-on lid. It was painted brown to look like a boat.
“The Lord told the brother of Jared exactly how to build eight barges. Each barge, which is a kind of boat, was built to be strong and tight—like this container—and each had a closable hole in the top and bottom so that whichever hole was out of the water could be opened.”
Sister Harris put the container in the pan of water and pushed it under to make big waves go over its top.
Annette looked puzzled. “But how did they see when it was dark?” she asked.
“Good question, Annette,” replied Sister Harris. “They didn’t have electricity like we do, so the Lord told the brother of Jared to think of a plan. The brother of Jared prepared sixteen small clear stones, one for each end of each barge.”
Sister Harris counted to sixteen as she took some tiny rocks out of a box. “The brother of Jared asked the Lord to touch the stones with His finger so that they could give off light. He did as He was asked, and the Jaredites were able to travel safely to the promised land.” She swished her hand in the water until the container reached the other side of the pan, then dried her hands on a towel and picked up her scriptures. “The story about the Jaredites is in the book of Ether, near the end of the Book of Mormon.”
Annette’s teacher helped her carefully turn the pages of her new scriptures till she found the right place. “Now,” she said, “to help you always find the story of the Jaredites, draw a picture of a barge right in your scriptures. Then your mom and dad can read it to you.”
Annette chose several of Sister Harris’s colored pencils. She drew a purple boat, squiggly blue lines for water, and two tiny yellow circles inside the boat for the stones of light. Then she drew a finger so that she would remember that the Lord had touched the stones.
After Primary, Annette hurried to the Relief Society room to find her mother. “Look, Mom,” she said, opening her Book of Mormon right to the picture she had drawn. “I can find the story of the Jaredites all by myself now! Will you read it to me right after dinner, please?”

Patrick’s older brother, Tom, returned from the California Ventura Mission in August 2009. He feels that Preach My Gospel is one of the best tools for missionary work. Although Tom appreciated what the book helped him do as a missionary, he notes that nearly all of the prophetic statements on missionary work appearing on pages 12–13 of Preach My Gospel talk about the role of members in sharing the gospel. He says that’s indicative of how much missionary work should be done by members and not just by full-time missionaries.
“As I was closing in on the end of my mission,” he recalls, “I was studying about the responsibilities of missionaries and why we—missionaries and members—are given this work to do. I read Moses 1:39 and thought about missionary work from Heavenly Father’s point of view. All He wants is for His children to return to Him. What we’ve been charged with doing, I realized, is helping our Father accomplish His work.
“Now as a member missionary, I know that with regular scripture study (including study of Preach My Gospel), prayer, and seeking the Spirit, we can succeed in any endeavor. And if we let the gospel be at the center of our lives and work to better our understanding of it, it will become easier to share and testify.”

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar. Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
In those days my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several such dolls were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper.
“If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and me mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm.
“We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“Ye’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it, but,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for ’tis a shame to waste good food.”
He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat. He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste.
We gave him the blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old, would-be sophisticate the plastic beads.
We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.”
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree.
“’Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction. “I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more. The sophisticate, I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the toy car for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?”
I produced them, wondering. She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”
She saw me looking and she explained: “’Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

It took my husband two years of studying—and a little bit of arguing—to join the Church. He was finally baptized in 1980, and then he got the priesthood. He became a very calm person, so that his own family members couldn’t believe how he had changed. He was cautious with the priesthood that he held and also to make sure he was always doing the right thing before the Lord. Without the priesthood, he says he would have gone for the honors and the glories of men. But with the priesthood, he found that the most important things are your marriage, your home, your family, and serving others.

It’s tough making the right choices when you’re 15 years old. But when your decisions affect the lives of hundreds of thousands of people, the pressure gets a little greater. That was the situation facing Amy Arreátegui Pozo when she was selected from 123 students to be the mayor of Trujillo, Peru, the third largest city in the country. Mayor for a day, that is.
When Amy was a Mia Maid in the Mousserat Ward, Trujillo Perú Laureles Stake, she attended a secondary school called the Academy of Engineering. “One of my goals,” says Amy, “was to become the student mayor [like a student-body president] from this school, and I did. That was my dream. My next goal was to win the ‘Mayor for a Day’ contest, and here I am. I finally made it. What helped me win was my confidence in myself.”
Of course, showing that she had a lot of great ideas about improving schools and neighborhoods in the city also helped. Coming up with these ideas for the contest was a lot of work, but deciding which ones to include was pretty easy. To decide, Amy used a method she’s come to depend on—a method that has given her the confidence she talks about. It’s the process of asking and receiving answers through prayer.
“Always go to Heavenly Father when you’re making a decision, and you will always make the right choice,” Amy says. That’s one reason she could handle the responsibility so well when the city of Trujillo issued the resolution recognizing her as “mayor for a day.” The city council acted to accept her activities during her 24 hours as mayor. All contracts, decisions, and authorizations would be legally binding.
Amy arrived at the city hall at 7:30 a.m., even before Mayor José Murgia Zannier, Trujillo’s mayor for more than 10 years. After being officially installed in her post, she met with Mayor Murgia to go over the day’s schedule and coordinate some details. Thus began her busy day as mayor.
In the mayor’s official vehicle, Amy made a visit to inspect a park where the city plans to build a sports and recreation center. She then visited a public school, where she met with the principal and surveyed the progress on the construction of two classrooms.
Back at city hall, Amy met with an official from the public defenders office and with the director of the San José Children’s Home. Amy quickly decided to send a group of workers to the children’s home to make some needed repairs. She also received visits from several other schools seeking funding.
At a press conference, Amy launched her teen leadership program, titled “A Challenge for the Future.” Since her program started, teen leaders from more than 100 schools in the city have met monthly with government officials to discuss the needs of education.
Then Amy presided over the city council meeting, opening the session and calling roll. She also planted a tree at the opening of a newly renovated city park and listened to the requests of neighbors living in the area. That evening, she attended a cultural event in one of the town plazas.
It was a busy day for Amy, a young woman one of the local newspapers described as “outstanding in intellect, sobriety, eloquence, and leadership abilities, but most of all in her great goals and objectives.”
The experience Amy had while serving as mayor for a day opened her eyes to the many needs within her community. One of those needs—education—was already a primary focus of Amy’s plans and programs. But Amy realizes that while school is important, there are other aspects of our lives that should take precedence over a secular education.
“I feel that here in Trujillo, which is considered the culture capital of Peru, many put the Church aside and put more focus on their studies,” Amy says. “There are many youth within the Church who don’t go on missions so they can continue with their schooling at the university or who stop going to institute classes and Church meetings.”
So while Amy studies hard in school and plans to become a psychologist, she also works hard in her calling as a Sunday School teacher and on her personal spiritual progression. She understands that there is a time for everything: a time for study, a time for church, and a time for friends, family, and fun.
It’s a question of perspective and priority. Amy explains: “The prophet wants the youth to get as much schooling as possible, and the Lord will always prepare the way for us to do it, so we don’t have to leave the Church to do something that is secular. Even though it’s important to get an education, it’s more important to do what our Heavenly Father commands.”
The youth in Peru face many of the same challenges youth face all over the world. The temptations to follow the ways of the world call loudly: pornography, immorality, and dishonesty.
“Fashion and all the trends like music are also a problem because most of us are surrounded by nonmembers, so at times it’s easy to be led by our peers and not our principles,” Amy says. She warns that we should not give in to pressure from those who would have us relax our standards. “Another problem,” she says, “is that when a young person joins the Church, he or she sometimes loses friends.”
Amy feels blessed that she has found friends and strength among her family, ward members, and fellow seminary students. They have been there to support and encourage her to follow the Lord.
Now that Amy has had a taste of what it’s like to be mayor of Trujillo, what are her plans for the future? “I will start out as a student mayor,” Amy explains, “and then perhaps become mayor of a local unit, and then mayor of a district, and then become the first woman president of Peru.”
Amy says that many young people lack the confidence to set goals and reach them because they don’t understand why they’re here on earth and what they should do in their lives. By building her life around the gospel, Amy has gained the confidence to succeed in whatever she righteously desires.
“I’ve grown closer to my Heavenly Father by praying and asking for His confirmation in whatever decision I have to make,” she says. “It is very special for me to feel His Spirit and know He approves of my choices. By having His approval, I feel that things will always, always turn out well.”

Mob persecution forced the Snow family to move often, leaving homes and friends. On one occasion, during the move to Far West, all the family’s food froze. So they soaked thinly sliced frozen bread in fresh warm milk from the cow for their meals. Eliza met hardships bravely and without complaint, and she helped to shelter and care for her elderly parents, who would later die on the journey to Winter Quarters.

The pair of old skates had hung on the basement wall for as long as I could remember. When my brother Duncan told me they were Dad’s, I couldn’t believe him.
“You mean Dad?” I asked. “Our father. He skates?” Duncan nodded.
Dad just wasn’t the athletic type. On Saturdays, while the other kids’ fathers played ball or dressed in Argyle sweaters and went off to golf, my dad returned his overdue library books. Most fathers went fishing or dug in a garden in their spare hours; my dad read about the Roman Empire and the last days of Pompeii.
He loved books. He knew the date of every battle in British history. He knew how to conjugate French verbs and could mentally add up my math problems in seconds. He was a hero to the neighborhood kids when they needed help with their Latin or physics, but all his gray matter did little good when we needed an outfielder on Saturday mornings.
When the first signs of winter came to Ottawa, Canada, I waited anxiously for Dow’s Lake to freeze over. My brothers, sisters, and I would go down into the basement and drag out skates, scarves, and gloves in anticipation of the first skate of the season.
When I awoke one winter morning there were frosty patterns on the windowpane and a tingle in the air. I knew instinctively that the first day of skating had arrived. But I was not at all prepared for the announcement made at the breakfast table.
“I’m going skating with you kids this morning,” my father said.
“But Dad,” said my sister Eleanor, thinking quickly, “I thought you had to return library books. You have an overdue notice on your desk.”
“Figure eights,” he said, ignoring her remark. “I’m going to show you kids how to do the best figure eights this side of Lake Placid.” With that he stood up and headed for the basement.
We all looked at one another nervously. I thought of our friends and what they would say when they saw Dad dressed in a dark business suit out there on the ice. Dad always wore a suit and tie even on picnics.
When he appeared with his tube skates polished and thrown jauntily over his shoulder, I breathed a little easier. He had found an old rain coat that covered his suit. He did, however, have on ugly red ear muffs and a bowler hat.
We met Duncan’s friend Arnie halfway there. Arnie’s favorite subject was his father’s great athletic prowess. To hear him talk, you’d think his dad was Joe Montana, Michael Jordan, and Arnold Schwarzenegger rolled up into one man. He was telling us how his father had played for the Montreal Canadians (a claim never proven), when he caught sight of my dad’s skates. “You mean your dad’s going skating?” he snickered to Duncan.
“Yeah,” Dunc nervously answered. “Going to show us some figure eights.”
“Hope you brought along a stretcher,” Arnie needled.
Dad was walking several paces ahead of us, whistling nonchalantly. Dunc, loyal but worried, just stared straight ahead.
When we arrived at the lake most of our friends were already there. While Arnie spread the news of my father’s intentions, Dad quietly put on his skates, leaning on one of the high snow banks around the edge of the ice. Within a minute he was ready.
Dunc diverted the attention of his friends so they wouldn’t see the disaster about to happen. My ankles were always a little weak so I wobbled as I started out on the ice. Just then a figure glided by me, taking long smooth strides. I admired the ease and grace with which he moved. With shock I recognized the rain coat and red ear muffs. It was Dad! His hands were clasped tightly behind him, head down in top Olympic racing style. He glided over the ice so smoothly you could hardly hear the cut of his skates on the ice.
Dunc was racing behind him, trying to keep up. My sisters were screaming from the sidelines, “Look at Dad! Look at Dad!”
We all held our breath as suddenly he began to go into the long, graceful circles of a figure eight. Our friends applauded as Dad modestly demonstrated his technique.
Later, when we walked home, a soft snow began to fall. Our friends were trailing behind. One yelled at Dad, “Hey, Mr. Johnson, you want to play for our hockey team?”
Dunc walked beside him, trying to keep up. “Hey Dad,” he said hesitatingly. “Do you want to try the ski jump tomorrow?”
Arnie came up to Dunc, panting from the exertion of the skate. Arnie nudged my brother and chortled, “You should have seen my dad skate at the Olympics.”
Dunc rolled his eyes.

In 1970 I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was well prepared: I did not use alcohol, smoke cigarettes, or drink tea or coffee. I had quit all those things when I realized it was time for me to change my life and find a church where I could take my children.
My conversion had begun after my sister-in-law developed a favorable opinion of the Church and arranged for me to receive the Church magazines. I later read the Book of Mormon, and I recognized its truthfulness. My three children and I were baptized shortly thereafter. My husband was not keen on this new life his family was living, because he felt it would take us away from him. Yet he allowed us to attend.
For a few years, although I experienced opposition from some family members, I was very happy. Each Sunday I went to church with my children, and I loved it. The gospel was just what I was looking for, and it filled any emptiness left over from my troubled childhood with an alcoholic father.
But as my children grew older, things began to change. They wanted to be boating with their dad on Sundays rather than sitting in meetings. All of a sudden I found myself going to church alone. I was hurt. I would drive to church, sit by myself, cry, and go back home again.
Finally I told my stake president I was going to quit attending church because it was breaking up my family. He counseled me to ask Heavenly Father if that was what He wanted me to do. I accordingly went home to fast and pray, and I received my answer. My mind was impressed with the following words: “You are the link in the chain. If you break the link, everything will be lost.” These words sank deep into my heart, and I made a commitment that I would continue my activity in the Church.
It was hard for me to go alone because I was very shy, and I realized my children had been my security blanket. Once again, I took my problem to the Lord. This time I felt impressed to draw closer to my ward family. So I would go to church, look for someone else who was alone, and force myself to speak to that person. Over the years my fear has left me, and now I have many friends in my ward.
My commitment to faithfully attend church has also paid off. One by one my children have returned to the Church, and all three are active. They are raising my nine grandchildren in the gospel, and each one is walking in righteousness.
My mother and sister have been converted also. My sister’s husband is a bishop, and two of her children have served missions. My son also served a mission, and a grandson is currently serving. Our family is very close, and although my husband has not yet joined the Church, he has grown in many ways.
I thank Heavenly Father every day for my blessings and for the happiness and joy I experience in my family. I am so grateful I took to heart the answer to my prayer: “You are the link in the chain.”

With so much at stake, it is not surprising that Satan's efforts to destroy the prophet and the Church were so intense in the early 1840s. The winter of 1843-44 was a particularly trying time. Knowing that his time on earth would be cut short, Joseph met frequently with members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to instruct them and give them priesthood keys necessary to govern the Church. Then, in March 1844, he called the brethren together and "charged them to govern the Church after his death, explaining that he had conferred upon them all the ordinances, authority, and keys necessary to do so."[15] Joseph said, "I roll the burden and responsibility of leading this church off from my shoulders onto yours. Now, round up your shoulders and stand under it like men; for the Lord is going to let me rest awhile."[16]
What relief he must have felt when he was able to confer the priesthood keys on the quorum of twelve apostles. Finally, others would share the responsibilities. No longer did it all depend on him. The Twelve were fully vested fellow travelers on the journey.

I had lunch recently with Elder and Sister John Hess of Ashton, Idaho. “We’re just old potato farmers,” John told me, but that is precisely what the nation of Belarus in the Russia Moscow Mission needed. For years the very best potato yields on government plots of ground there had been 50 sacks of potatoes a hectare. Considering it takes 22 sacks of seed to plant a hectare, the return was poor indeed. They needed help.

Brother Hess asked for ground just three feet away from the government plots, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work with the same seed, tools, and fertilizer available in Belarus. Come harvest time they began to dig, then called on others to dig, then called on everyone to dig. With the same rainfall and soil, but with an extra measure of Idaho industry, experience, and prayer, the plots planted by the Hesses produced a whopping 550 sacks per hectare—11 times better than any prior yield on that land. At first no one would believe the difference. They wondered if secret teams had come in the night or if some wonder drug had been used. But it was none of that. Brother Hess said, “We needed a miracle, so we asked for one.” Now just little more than a year later, in that community young proselyting missionaries are finding much more success just because an “old potato farmer” from Idaho answered the call of his church.

I can think back to one Christmas in which our family budget was extremely tight. We were supporting one of my brothers on his mission to Chicago, and that required us to skimp on nonessential items. The only gift-wrapped item I got that year was a fleece blanket. Nothing extravagant, just a plain blanket. I tried to talk it up to my friends at school and make it seem like it was a really great gift, but there was no use. It couldn’t compare to a video game console.
Since then, that blanket has come to symbolize much more to me. That gift was one of warmth. Yes, it warmed me on those few cold Arizona nights, but it also warmed me with love. My parents gave me more: they gave me fun family traditions, a firm sense of belonging, and a knowledge that true gifts are ones of service, love, and sacrifice. My parents sacrificed their money for my brother’s mission, but they never sacrificed their love for me, our family, and everyone around them as they served that year.
I wish I could go back to the school cafeteria table when my friends asked, “What did you get for Christmas?” I wish I could have answered them proudly: “I got a blanket, a blanket that warms me with the true love of the most wonderful time of year.”

Billy Fisher pushed his cap off his forehead and wiped the beads of sweat off his warm brow. It was a good five miles from Horse Water Junction to his place on the flats, and the road under his feet was hot. But aching as he was to stop and rest under the shade of a big cottonwood tree, he knew he’d best keep traveling the rutted stage trail that pointed toward the sod house.
The sun was more down than up, and Billy had chores waiting for him, and he needed to study for a big test the following day at school. Mr. Beecher’s a tolerable enough schoolmaster, Billy pondered, but he’s awfully strict—especially toward me. “Is it because I’m a Mormon, Ma?” he had asked one day as he helped fetch water for washday.
“We are the only Mormons in all of Spillman County, but only God and Mr. Beecher know for sure, Billy,” his mother had replied as she dragged the huge black kettle into the yard.
“Why do the Saints get so tromped on sometimes, Ma? It doesn’t seem right.”
Billy’s mother had walked with him back down to the creek that trickled by the family’s vegetable garden. “Now, Billy,” she had started, with a gentle wisdom that the boy often stood in awe of, “the Lord doesn’t backhand a good person, but He just might bless him with a little trial and tribulation every now and again to keep him meek and humble. Like the bumps on the road between our place and town, there’s just enough of them to keep a body watchful.”
Billy’s mother had sat down on a fallen tree by the creek and pushed a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. Billy had plopped down beside her and let his bare feet dangle in the cool water.
“I do believe,” she had continued, “that if the righteous could stack all their hard times under them, they could rise almost to heaven.” She had brushed at the tangles in the boy’s matted hair. “I suspect a rose without a thorn is only half a rose, honey. And if the rain can make the flowers grow, why not the rest of us too?”
Billy sighed as he plodded along toward home. What his mother had said made sense, just as it had when she’d talked about a light shining its brightest when surrounded by the blackest black and about having to fight and maybe even die for what’s right. Yet, the knowledge that what Ma said was true didn’t always make life any easier.
Billy stopped to rest a moment and to pat his dog, Banjo. The dog was hitched to a travois loaded with supplies from J. D. Hollins’s mercantile store. Billy dug into his huck shirt and withdrew a crumpled list his mother had given him. “I’d better make double sure we got everything Ma wanted, Banjo,” Billy said. “It’ll be a long walk back to town if we forgot anything, and I just have to study for that test Mr. Beecher is giving us tomorrow. Let’s see. We got the flour, hardtack, dried beef, salt, four yards of gingham, the new bullet pouch for Pa, the whetstone, and the—”
“Hey, Holy Joe!” a derisive voice shouted. “You haven’t shown me your horns yet!”
Billy whirled around. The voice belonged to Silas Marsh. Twelve-year-old Silas had taunted Billy on more than one occasion, and the jeers were usually followed by shoving and blustery threats. Besides being considerably larger than Billy and most of the other children in and around Horse Water, Silas had a mean streak in him. Billy had seen the effect of that meanness more than once. He stiffened as Silas swaggered up, grabbed him by the shirtfront with one hand, and rumpled his hair with the other. “Where’d you stash those horns, Mormon?”
Banjo growled.
“You’d better let go of me,” Billy sputtered weakly, “or my dog will—”
“What could that mutt do,” Silas snarled, pulling a knife from his boot, “with this toad-sticker between his ribs?”
“Please don’t hurt him, Silas,” Billy pleaded.
Gloating because he had the upper hand, Silas slit the leather straps binding the mercantile goods to the travois and dumped the bundles out onto the road. “Looks like you had a little accident, Mormon,” he sneered, grabbing Billy by the arm. “And you’re going to have an even bigger one tomorrow after school if you don’t give me the answers to that test. I’ll pound you so far into the ground that they’ll have to drop a light to find you!” Giving Billy one last shove, Silas tromped off down the road.
Billy kicked his foot in the dirt. He didn’t like the idea of looking at the world through a couple of black eyes. He’d seen it happen to Stanley Jackson, the boy who sat three seats behind him. Silas had told Stanley to give him the piece of cherry cobbler packed in his lunch. Without thinking, Stanley had said no, and Silas had blackened both of Stanley’s eyes and had taken the cobbler too.
Won’t slipping Silas a few answers be better than taking a beating? Billy wondered.
In school the next day Billy felt a breeze on the back of his neck from the open window. It was a welcome relief as he sweated over the test questions. He had studied the night before, and although the questions were difficult, he was prepared.
Then Billy felt something else on the back of his neck—Silas Marsh’s eyes.
Silas sent a note saying, “Write the answers on this paper and slip it back to me. Or else!”
Sweat trickled off Billy’s forehead and salted his eyes. He blinked back the sting and stared numbly at the slip of paper, then glanced at Mr. Beecher. The schoolmaster was seated at his desk, busy with paperwork. Billy’s heart pounded, and his lips were dry.
The memory of Stanley Johnson getting a beating skittered across Billy’s mind. Still, Billy thought, if I cheat, I’ll have to live with my conscience a lot longer than with two closed eyes and a swollen lip. Then he remembered what Ma had told him about trials and tribulatons. Finally he wrote on the back of the note, folded it, and slipped it back to Silas.
Silas, grinning from ear to ear with cocky assuredness, opened the paper. His grin disappeared as quickly as Billy wished he could after school. On the paper Billy had written, “I won’t give you any answers. It’s just not right. I’ll meet you out back after school. I know what you are going to do to me. I can’t stop you. But I won’t let you do it without fighting back. Billy.”
An hour later the class began to file out of the sweltering one-room building. As Billy reached for his cap hanging on a wooden peg by the door, a hand rested firmly on his shoulder. Billy’s muscles tensed and he turned around, expecting to see Silas’s fist. Instead, it was Mr. Beecher grasping him. “William Fisher,” he intoned.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Beecher,” Billy responded with an unmanageable lump in his throat.
The schoolmaster displayed a piece of crumpled paper. “I procured this from the trash bucket. Silas Marsh passed this note to you.”
“You saw him pass it?” Billy blurted out with surprise. “But you were—”
“Mr. Fisher,” the schoolmaster clipped, “there are two things that rarely elude me: One is mischief, and the other is good judgment—though in relation to the latter, I must admit I have badly misjudged you.” He gestured toward the paper, and a smile trickled across his face. “I also read your response to Mr. Marsh’s demands. You did well, William. Very well indeed.” He started to turn away, then hesitated, looked back at Billy, and added, “May God be with you. Judging from the tone of that note, you’ll be needing Him.”
“Yes, sir,” Billy replied. He put on his cap, girded himself up, and walked out.
Mr. Beecher sat back down at his desk and stared at the door that closed behind Billy. That boy has more gumption than I thought he did, he mused. Then he smiled and went back to his work.
Silas was waiting for Billy when he came walking around the corner of the schoolhouse. Billy stopped a few feet from his adversary, doubled up his fists, and looked the big, brawly youth right in the eye. “Well,” Billy got out in an as-bold-as-he-could-muster voice, “let’s get it over with. I have chores waiting for me at home.”
Silas just stared at him. Then he twisted his face up like a tree knot and stared some more. “Just what is it with you Mormons?” he finally said, looking as perplexed as anyone could be. “Don’t you remember what I said I was going to do to you?”
Billy nodded.
“Well, aren’t you afraid?”
Billy nodded again. “My ma says that the time comes when a body has to face up to his fears. So here I am.”
Silas shook his head. “You’re really something, you know that?” He threw up his arms and started to walk away.
“You mean you’re not going to beat me up?”
Silas looked back, scratched his head, and said, “Maybe tomorrow.” Then he fidgeted a little and looked questioningly at Billy.
“What is it?” Billy asked.
“Nothing,” Silas returned, “except … well, you and me, we take the same road home. I was wondering if we could walk together.”
Billy tried to swallow his surprise. “Sure, I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.”

The moon was big and round and bright, just as it should be on the night of the Moon Festival. I held my glowing paper lantern higher, hoping that the Old Man in the Moon would see me amid the other children. The whole park gleamed with our brilliant Chinese lanterns.
I ran up the hill to where my parents and sisters sat on a blanket, eating moon cakes. My eldest sister, Mei Lai, was gazing at the moon. I knew that she was probably dreaming about that boy who took her to the dance last Saturday. That’s a girl for you! I thought. I’m glad that I’m not a girl.
Not that Mei Lai didn’t have a right to think about love tonight. Everyone thought about love during the Moon Festival, or Mid-Autumn Festival, the proper name that my sister preferred to call it. On this night the Old Man in the Moon supposedly wove an invisible red thread around couples who would one day get married.
Even I was thinking about love. But not that kind. I was thinking about how I could love my neighbors.
My Primary teacher had told us last Sunday that we should, and ever since then, I had been wondering how I could ever do it. I couldn’t think of any neighbors in our apartment building that I even liked—especially not that new boy down the hall! He didn’t even speak Chinese! The first time I saw him, I just kept looking at his eyes. I had never seen such blue eyes!
Once I had tried talking to him in the English that I was learning in school. “Where are you from?” I asked.
Looking at me oddly, he lifted up his large nose and declared, “I’m an Aussie.”
Whatever an Aussie was, I certainly didn’t know. I went home and asked Mei Lai, who knew English well.
“An Aussie is someone from Australia,” she told me.
My mother’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Sun Ling, it will soon be time to go home.”
“Oh, let me run once more through the park.”
“Well, you be careful with that lantern. Remember that you have a lighted candle in it.”
“I will.” As I sprinted down the hill, I looked up at the Old Man in the Moon to see if he was still watching me and my shining paper lantern. I ran and ran, with my eyes turned upward toward the beautiful full moon.
Suddenly—CRASH! Was it a wall? No, it was a body. Another person and I tumbled over and over each other. It was the Aussie. When we finally stopped, we raised our tousled heads and looked at each other. I blurted out, “What are you doing here? This is a Chinese holiday!”
It was a good thing that he couldn’t understand my Chinese. I indignantly grabbed my lantern, which miraculously lay unharmed on the grass. In my mind I grumbled, Even if I wasn’t looking where I was going, it wasn’t really my fault because he’s the one who doesn’t belong here.
A sizzle and a flare made us both jump up. His colorful paper lantern was in flames. My mother’s words flashed through my mind, “Be careful with that lantern.”
I looked at him. Then I tilted my head in amazement. There were tears in those blue, blue eyes! It had never occurred to me that an Aussie could cry too.
The boy’s lips began to quiver, and he said, “My dad gave me that Chinese lantern.”
I didn’t understand all his words, but I understood what he meant. And I felt awful! I tried to remember how to say I’m sorry in English, but all my words came out in Chinese.
Suddenly, in Chinese, he said, “I’m sorry too.”
I blinked with surprise. He did know some Chinese words. He smiled at me. I smiled back.
The next day I strode into the house, banging the door happily behind me.
“What’s that huge grin for?” Mei Lai asked.
“Oh, I’ve been learning to love my neighbor. Jim is my friend now.”
“Who’s Jim?” she asked.
“He’s the Aussie I told you about,” I replied, perching myself on a nearby stool. “Do you know what? Before he came here, Jim had never even heard of moon cakes. So I gave him one with an egg-yolk center. When he bit into it, he sort of wrinkled up his nose and tried to smile. I could tell that he didn’t like it.”
“So, do you think he’s still your friend?” Mei Lai laughed.
“Well, I did let him try a lotus seed moon cake after that, and he ate every bit of it and smacked his lips.”
“I’m glad that you gave him something he likes,” said Mei Lai.
“I did give him one other thing that I hope he likes. I gave him my Book of Mormon.”
“Your Book of Mormon!” exclaimed my sister. “Why did you do that?”
“Well, because it’s the most special thing I could share with a friend,” I answered.
“But how do you expect him to read it?” she said. “He doesn’t even read Chinese.”
I looked at my sister intently. “I don’t know, Mei Lai, but I’m still glad that I gave it to him.”
It was the week before Christmas. Someone knocked at our door, and Mei Lai opened it to blond-haired Jim. My friend didn’t see me sitting in the corner, so he spoke in English to my sister. “I read your book,” he said, holding up a blue book with Chinese characters Book of Mormon engraved on it.
“You read it!” she gasped. “But—but you don’t know Chinese, do you?”
“No. What I meant to say,” Jim explained, “was that my tutor read it to me. He comes every day to teach me Chinese, and so we have been reading it together. In fact, my tutor was wondering if he could get a copy of his own. Also, would it be possible to get a copy in English for my father?”
My sister finally closed her mouth from her astonishment. She smiled, motioning to me.
Jim turned and saw me. “Oh, Sun Ling,” he said in halting Chinese, “this book you gave me is very interesting. I am curious to find out more about it. Can you help me?”
“I’ll be happy to help you,” I replied slowly to make sure that he understood my words. “I can think of no better way to love my neighbor from Australia.”

It was the Sunday before Christmas. As soon as I got up that morning, I had the feeling it was not going to be a good day. To begin with, my hairbrush was missing. I suspected my three-year-old brother, Jeffy, had taken it, and sure enough, I found it in his toy box. “Mom,” I complained, “I’m getting sick and tired of Jeffy getting into my things!”
Mom was busy giving the baby a bath, and she acted as if she hadn’t even heard me. “Amy,” she said, “we’re going to need to change our plans for tonight’s family Christmas program. Daddy just called from church, and that new family, the Hansens, are still living in a motel. He’d like to invite them for dinner and to spend the evening with us. There’s nothing less like the Sabbath than the place they are staying.”
“But Mom, you can’t do that!” I complained. “You know I’ve planned this for two months, and it’s just for our family. All the parts are taken.
“Besides,” I went on, getting louder and louder, “they have a lot of little children who would probably mess up the whole house.” Then I started to cry.
Mother wrapped the baby in a towel and turned to face me. “Amy, I had no idea that it meant this much to you. Please don’t be so upset. I’ll just tell Dad when we get to church, and he can tell the Hansens that it won’t work out.”
All during sacrament meeting I watched the three Hansen children—two-, three-, and four-year-old boys—climbing all over the benches and squirming across their parents’ laps. Brother and Sister Hansen looked pretty tired by the time they’d taken each boy out about five times. It’s just as well, I thought to myself. I can’t even imagine what four little boys would do to my bedroom!
I felt relieved all the way to Primary. On the way down the hall, I noticed that it had started snowing outside. It was going to be a perfect family night.
When I got to class, Sister Martin, my Merrie Miss teacher, wanted to know what we thought it might have been like to be strangers in a strange town, like Mary and Joseph were when they went to Bethlehem. All of us had an answer to that question. Even Mandi Perkins, who hardly ever says anything, said, “I bet they felt lonely.”
Then Sister Martin asked us why we thought the innkeeper hadn’t let this poor, lonely couple stay at his house. We really had to think about that for a while. The innkeeper had always been one of the unimportant characters in the Christmas story. I’d never thought about him having feelings.
“Well,” I suggested, “he probably felt busy with all his other company.”
Jenny Peterson thought the innkeeper might have been thinking that this couple, who were soon going to have a baby, would be too much trouble. That’s when I started to feel a little uncomfortable.
“He probably had things planned the way he wanted them, and here came some people to mess up his plans,” my best friend, Rachel, added. Suddenly this wasn’t a Christmas story that happened two thousand years ago. This was something that was happening today.
Mandi Perkins added the final blow—“The innkeeper missed the whole idea, didn’t he? The two most important guests in the world came to his place, and he wouldn’t let them in.”
“Do you suppose, girls,” said Sister Martin, “That we ever act like the innkeeper? That maybe we become a little selfish and miss helping someone? Open your Bibles and let’s read Matthew 25:40 [Matt. 25:40]. ‘And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”
By that time my eyes were so filled with tears that the words seemed to be swimming across the page. Here were the Hansens without a place to live, and I was acting like the innkeeper, not wanting them to bother me. I knew how I would act if the Hansens were Mary and Joseph and the Baby Jesus, and I knew that Heavenly Father would want me to treat them the same way.
Luckily Sister Martin didn’t ask me to give the prayer, because I was having a hard time swallowing. Afterward I hurried out of the room as quickly as I could and headed down the hall to where I saw my parents. I heard my dad saying to the Hansens, “We’re awfully sorry, but our daughter—”
I didn’t even think. I rushed up and blurted out, “There’s room in the inn!” and then I blushed deep red.
Dad saw my red eyes and must have guessed what had happened because he just continued: “As I was saying,”—he put his arm around me—“our daughter has planned a very special Christmas program for tonight, and I think she wants to warn you that you’ll be having a part in it!”

Soon after being elected to Congress in the year 2000, it was brought home to me the importance of “being an example of the believers.” I was debating an amendment I brought to the House floor that would have lifted our then 40-year-old ban on travel to Cuba. I’ll speak a bit more on this topic later, but during this debate, one of my Republican colleagues who disagreed with my position stood and said “The gentleman from Arizona just wants to lift the travel ban so he can drink mojitos on the beach in Cuba.” Now, I didn’t learn this in Snowflake, but I now know that a mojito was a rum-based drink.

Immediately, one of my Democratic colleagues, David Obey of Wisconsin, stood and demanded that the Republican’s words be “taken down” or removed from the record. In the House of Representatives, you are not allowed to say something that impugns the motives or reputation of another. What was unusual here was that a Democrat chose to stand and defend me, a Republican. In this partisan environment, that just doesn’t happen.

After the words were removed and the congressional record was corrected, I went over and asked Congressman Obey why he had defended me. “Ah, Flake,” he said, “I know you’re Mormon. I know you don’t drink. I was just defending your honor.”

We may not always realize it. Sometimes, we may wish it weren’t so, but we need to be aware that in all times and in all places, we are being looked to as an example of the believers.

I knew that studying the Book of Mormon during my final year of seminary would also fortify my testimony. As I truly studied, I felt Heavenly Father’s love for me. The stories inspired me to the point that all I wanted to do was read the Book of Mormon. I began to take the Book of Mormon to school and would read it during my free time. I also began to discuss what I was reading with my father.
One day after a long conversation with my father about the gospel, I challenged him to read all of the Book of Mormon. I testified that, like me, he could receive a testimony.
I am happy to say that my father read the Book of Mormon. When he did, he knew the Church is true and was eventually baptized! My family is now preparing to be sealed in the temple. I know that attending seminary and reading the scriptures helped me develop my own testimony, and I know that they bless families.

John was not active in the Church when his bishop visited and told him that the Lord had a work for him to do. He invited John to quit smoking. Although John had tried many times to stop, this time he felt an unseen power helping him.
Just three weeks later, the stake president visited John. He called him to serve in the bishopric. John was shocked. He told the stake president he had just quit smoking. If this meant he would have to abandon his tradition of attending professional football games on Sunday, well, that was just too much to ask. The stake president’s inspired response was simple: “John, I am not asking you; the Lord is.”
To which John replied, “Well, if that is the case, I will serve.”
John told me that these sacrifices to serve were the spiritual turning points for him and for his family.

I guess I’ve really changed a lot, for the better, I hope. I got into a big argument with Jared today, though. I know I should show more love toward him, but it’s hard when he acts as aggravating as he did today. He came storming into the house, shouting, “I hate girls!”
“Why?” I asked.
“They’re stuck up, that’s why! The Church leaders are always telling us fellows that we should get married, but how can we when all the girls think they’re too good for us?”
I felt like hitting him. “I like that! I spent all last year losing weight and trying to make myself attractive like President Kimball tells us to, but do you think guys are swooning at my feet? No! The trouble with you and all your snobby friends is that you only want to take the glamorous girls out. They already have plenty of dates. You never pay any attention to the girls who have to try hard to be pretty!”
He considered that. “Don’t all girls try hard to be pretty?”
I thought for a moment. “I guess we all just try to be our best.”
And, as far as I know, that’s the truth.