Gospel Story Finder

I’ve been a member of the Church since I was born 15 years ago. The thing is, I never really knew if the Church was true or not. Sure I went to church every Sunday, but I still had unanswered questions. I began receiving the New Era when I was 12 but never really read through it. One night as I was wondering about the Church and all my unanswered questions, something told me to gather up all my dusty New Eras and read them. I read many stories and articles that made a lot of sense and seemed to point straight out at me. They were the answers to my questions.
Name WithheldCanada

I was barely 17 when two missionaries knocked on our door; my mother was recently divorced and had five children. At the time I accepted only what could be proved by sight or touch or logic. So when my mother let the elders in, I was angry. I listened to the discussions but kept my distance. All the family members but me agreed to be baptized.
One night the elders came to our home. Elder Álvarez spoke to me in a tone I had never heard before: “We have taught you all you need to know and have invited you to change your life. Now we come in the name of Jesus Christ to ask you to kneel before that God whose existence you deny and ask Him if the things we have told you are true. Do you accept our challenge—or are you afraid?”
Afraid? That word was not in my vocabulary. I could ride a horse and hunt as well as most men. I would have put a rattlesnake around my neck if someone had dared me to.
“I accept,” I said.
It was hard to sleep that night. I kept thinking of the challenge I had accepted: Why had I done it? How could I bow down before an invisible being? The truth was, I was afraid.
The next day I waited until everyone left the house before I went to the top of the building. There, I knelt down and began, “Father in Heaven …” Then I stopped. A strong wind was blowing, and I felt vulnerable. My senses were tuned to every sound, and I didn’t dare open my eyes. I felt utterly alone.
Suddenly I felt protected, and I had the courage to go on. I asked to know if God existed. I asked for understanding. I asked to feel. I asked and asked. And before I knew it, I was crying—asking forgiveness for having doubted. I felt a burning in my heart and knew beyond any doubt that God existed and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was His Church. As I arose, I saw grit embedded in my knees and realized I had been praying for a long time.

In China we have nine-hundred million people. Yesterday about fifty Chinese Saints came in to see me. I took them through the Church offices and told them about our programs, and then I said to them, “We have been talking about China today.” (That was the day of the Regional Representatives meeting.) “We’ve learned of that people’s good qualities and that the Spirit of the Lord seems to be brooding over them, to bring the possibility of the gospel to them.” I asked all of those Chinese people who were here at conference, “Will you guarantee that in all your home evenings and in all your family prayers and in all your public prayers you will mention this to the Lord? Now, I know he can do it without our help; but I think he would want to know that we were interested in it and that we would appreciate it greatly.”

Veronica Cousino, from Chicago Second Ward, is back for her second year at camp. She worked hard last year to pass her certifications. This year she was asked to come to camp as a counselor in one of the Inspirator tents. She loved learning how to cook outdoors. “The hardest part was speaking English all the time. It was a great experience for me. I loved it. That was the reason I wanted to come back this year. And,” Veronica added with surprise, “they wanted me to come as a counselor.”

My wife and I recently went to Singapore with a group of BYU engineering students. What a great experience! While we were there, I had two nice experiences as a result of people sharing their testimonies. One of the highlights of the trip was attending church with the Clementi Ward. The members of the ward were so welcoming to us. What impressed me most was how they focused on sharing their ­testimonies. The youth speakers shared their ­testimonies. The adult speakers shared their testimonies. The bishopric and instructors shared their ­testimonies. It was refreshing to feel such a focus on testimonies. It strengthened my testimony, and I am sure it strengthened theirs as they shared them.

While in Singapore we also learned something interesting about Emily, our oldest daughter: she’s really great at writing letters. Every night we would look forward to reading her lengthy emails, which were informative, detailed, clever, and sometimes silly. She would tell us about what was going on at home and then tell us about each of her classes at school. On a number of occasions she wrote about what she was learning in seminary. She was studying the Martyrdom of the prophet Joseph Smith. In one of her letters Emily shared with us her feelings about the Prophet and about the ultimate price that he and Hyrum paid for the restored gospel. I can’t tell you how good that made me feel. Although she might not have known it, she was sharing her testimony. It strengthened my testimony, and I know it strengthened hers. I need to be more like that. I need to find simple ways to share my testimony of the gospel. Maybe it will benefit ­others, and it will certainly benefit me.

Joseph said that once when he was in his office, he saw two boys fighting in the street. He ran out, “caught one of the boys (who had begun the fight with clubs,) and then the other; and, after giving them proper instruction,” as he termed it, “gave the bystanders a lecture” for egging the boys on instead of stopping the fight, and finally concluded the matter by saying that nobody was allowed to fight in Nauvoo but himself (History of the Church, 5:282–83).

Bright, hot, red-orange flames leap and lash out in the clear dark night. Grandpa drops a big pine log on the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air. It needs to burn just a little longer, and then the coals will be ready to cook on. The season is initiated once again by our Memorial Day bonfire.
Memorial Day is the opening of a new season of ranch life. The excitement throughout the family is intense. Each age group anticipates the season in a different way, and each group has its own tradition for bonfire night.
As grandma scuttles around the kitchen gathering food and utensils on trays for the dinner, she gives out instructions for the rest of us. “Ed, go cut the willows and take some of the kids with you. Boys, go with Tom to gather more wood. Oh, and be careful with that saw. Someone take the little kids away from the kitchen. Find them something to do until dinner. Mitzi, could you please wash off the picnic table? You know how dirty it always is after a winter like this.” And so the day proceeds, each member doing something to get ready for the picnic and evening around the bonfire.
The bonfire pit is right in the center of the yard. It has been there as long as I can remember. I suppose grandpa built it when we first acquired the ranch, since he is generally building something for others to enjoy. It is quite a large pit and has big rocks encircling it. On one side of the pit lies the fish pond with an arched bridge over it. On another side is the house, surrounded by a big lawn and several swing sets. On the other side is the patio, where we eat. Across the pond grandpa and the children attack the willows. Each grandchild gets to hold a willow, bigger than himself, as it is lopped off the bush. The children each proudly carry their sticks across the bridge and to the table, where the fight over who gets to whittle begins.
Soon everyone starts to gather at the patio. As if from nowhere, children appear and grab hot dogs and sticks. Unlike other days, at the picnic you don’t have to eat food you don’t like, and if you want to eat one thing now and another later, it’s okay.
This Memorial Day holiday brings all my mother’s brothers and sisters and their families together. The mothers bustle around batting flies away, pouring mustard and catsup, cutting up hot dogs, serving salad, and warning everyone not to spill the pop. Fathers mention how good it is to have potato salad again, even if it must be eaten with hot dogs.
With dinner over, the family slowly assembles around the fire. Even the children are quiet, as if in awe, as grandpa pokes the fire back to life and throws on another log. This peace and tranquility lasts about ten minutes while everyone reflects on the fun times ahead. Children are thinking of horseback riding and rafting in the pond, playing hide-and-seek and chase games. Parents think of quiet evenings after the children are asleep, walks along the river, and conversations with each other.
One by one the kids become restless and leave the fire to swing, ride the tractor, feed the fish, or just run. Mothers disappear into the house and reappear laden with jackets. The older kids, forced into jackets, slowly disperse to meet later on the big back lawn for a game of “ditch.” This is a game quite similar to hide-and-seek, except that it must be played in the dark and there is no free place to run to. The adults sit around the fire and talk.
As the evening slowly fades away, the attendance around the fire diminishes. Three generations remain at the fire to the end: Grandpa, Uncle Tom, and I. We sit, enjoying one another’s company until our eyes meet; then the three of us race for the hose to put the fire out. Whoever gets to the hose first gets the pleasure of making the first big sizzle and puff of smoke. The other two tote buckets of water from the pond until all that is left of our fire is clouds of smoke.
Putting out the fire signifies the lighting of many more throughout the summer. Each bonfire proceeds in much the same way. Grandma fixes the food and gives instructions, grandpa cuts willows, the children play the same games each time, and the feeling of togetherness is ever present.

The work of angels is often quiet or in secret. It is rarely of the magnitude heralded by the world. Sometimes we are those angels for others. Joseph learned that lesson in Harmony, Pennsylvania, when he was translating the gold plates. I have a favorite account from that period that speaks to my heart. It’s about Joseph Knight, Sr., who gained a witness of the young Prophet in the earliest days of Joseph’s ministry. He was the age of Joseph’s father—an unlikely confidant or companion to the young Joseph.

One day Joseph Knight felt impressed to take some supplies to the Smiths down in Harmony, a quiet little community on the banks of the Susquehanna River. There in those waters just down the hill from their home, Joseph baptized Oliver and then Oliver baptized Joseph—the two having received the holy priesthood from John the Baptist. This is such a sacred place. There is still a spirit in the air—and a few less pebbles on the bottom of the river, because I waded in to bring some home.

Busy translating the gold plates in the spring of 1829, Joseph had little time to farm or make a living. Knight, who lived across the border in New York, wrote in his journal:
I bought a barrel of mackerel and some lined paper for writing . . . nine or ten bushels of grain and five or six bushels [of] taters and a pound of tea, and I went down to see him and they were in want. [Joseph Knight, Sr., Reminiscences (n.d.), LDS Church Archives, 6]

Imagine Knight standing in the country store rattling off what he needed and then pausing: “And give me some of that lined paper for writing. That will do it.” Sandwiched between the mackerel and bushels of grain was “some lined paper for writing.” Perhaps it is the writer in me that loves the image so much, but I don’t think so. I think it’s the lesson learned from an older man, the age of Joseph’s father, hearing the prompting to take what was needed to a young—and even then controversial—Joseph Smith.

Picture Joseph Knight loading up his wagon with supplies. Joseph hadn’t sent a fax or called on his cell phone. The Spirit had prompted Knight to do the work of angels.

When I was a sixth grader at Garland Elementary School in northern Utah, I received word that a newspaper was sponsoring a pentathlon for grade school boys. I was almost 12, it was spring, and I was anxious to join all the other boys who had signed up to compete.
As you may know, penta comes from the Greek word meaning five. Thus, the pentathlon consisted of five track-and-field events that all of the boys in the state could compete in. The pentathlon was conducted throughout the grade schools across the state. The scores that each competitor attained in the various events were computed by applying a factor for age, height, and weight. They were then added together, and winners in various categories were selected. Winners received recognition and, among other things, an expense-paid trip to Salt Lake City, where they would spend a day as special guests of the newspaper.
The five events consisted of the high jump, broad jump, shot put, basketball free throw, and the 50-yard dash.
The pentathlon was the talk of my school. Most of the boys old enough were suited up for the event. At age 11, I was a 98-pound weakling with marginal coordination. But how I wanted to do well in that athletic contest. I suppose in that respect I was not much different than anyone else as I imagined the thrill that would accompany one to the winner’s circle. I knew I wasn’t what you would call a coach’s dream. But I had studied the rules carefully, and was hopeful the factors for height, weight, and age might give me a chance.
Well, I really got into it. I found a round rock that weighed within an ounce or two of the regulation five-pound shot. I spent considerable time in the evenings when the chores were done putting the shot around the backyard.
I also dug a pit that I used to practice my broad and high jumps. I nailed some old flooring boards together for a backboard, installed a hoop, and secured it to the end of the barn. While it was not fancy it provided the facility to practice my foul shots.
I felt I was ready when the big day finally came. We began with the shot put, and I did exceptionally well for my size. My practice shooting foul shots paid off, and I scored well in that event. The high jump didn’t go quite as well. My lack of coordination worked against me.
Then it was time for the 50-yard dash. We lined up by the starter and were off. It almost instantly became obvious that I would view the race from the rear of the pack. But how I tried. I gave it all the effort I had. As I passed where the coach was standing, I noticed him turn and say something, and then there was a burst of laughter from those who stood around him.
As we crossed the finish line, I was the fifth of five runners. I resigned myself to the fact there would be no trip to Salt Lake for me that year. But the worst was yet to come. As I approached the place where the coach had been standing, one of the more arrogant boys couldn’t wait to call out, “Hey, Hansen, the coach says you run like a duck.” And there was more laughter.
Well, of course, I laughed too. But many thoughts went through my mind. I was angry, hurt, and embarrassed. When I went to bed that night, it was still on my mind. When I awakened the next morning, those pointed words came back, “Hey, Hansen, the coach says you run like a duck.”
I struggled with that situation for quite some time. I admit I had thoughts of never getting on the athletic field again. But then I resolved that I would learn to run. And I was going to show the coach and my friends—but I suppose most of all myself—that I could do it.
From that moment forward, every time I had some distance to go, I ran. When coming from the fields at noon, I ran. When the grain bin on the harvester was full and I had to get the truck to empty it, I ran. When I went to the pasture to get the horses, I ran. As I had spare time while on army duty in Korea, I practiced my running. And after returning home, I kept it up.
Though I realized I had made some substantial progress, it was not until a particular stake fathers and sons outing that I had a chance to evaluate those 20-plus years of determination. We were at a campground in the Uinta Mountains in Utah for the Saturday morning games. All of the youth had run their races when the call came for “everyone over 21.” As I lined up with the dads and others, I noticed a young man in the group who had made a name for himself in high school in the 440-yard run. I knew he would be the challenge.
Again the starting gun sounded, but this time, instead of bringing up the rear, I was in front, where I remained as we crossed the finish line. Of course, the coach wasn’t there to see it. And neither were my grade school friends—particularly the arrogant little guy with the loud voice. But this I know: winning the pentathlon could not have resulted in the self-satisfaction I felt as I shared the first prize—a giant candy bar—with my two little sons that day.
What a lesson in life I gained from that experience. I learned humility, as I was humbled. I learned tolerance, as I successfully fought back the urge to slug the boy who made fun of the way I ran. I learned patience, as I found that some things take several years of determination to accomplish. And I experienced the sweet feeling that comes from successfully accomplishing a goal.

While preaching at a public meeting in Philadelphia, Orson mentioned that he was going on a mission to Jerusalem to dedicate the Holy Land for the return of the Jews. He also mentioned that Mormon missionaries travel without purse or scrip, and that he was looking for financial assistance for his mission. At the end of his sermon, a stranger gave him a purse of gold and asked but one favor in return—that when Orson delivered his dedicatory prayer in the Holy Land, he would mention the anonymous donor in that prayer. Over a year later, as Orson knelt on Jerusalem’s Mount of Olives, he prayed:
“Do Thou also look with favor upon all those through whose liberality I have been enabled to come to this land. Particularly do Thou bless the stranger in Philadelphia, whom I never saw, but who sent me gold, with a request that I should pray for him in Jerusalem. Now, O Lord, let blessings come upon him from an unexpected quarter, and let his basket be filled, and his storehouse abound with plenty.”7
Later John F. Beck, the son of the anonymous donor, revealed that his late father had been the generous stranger, and that the whole Beck family had indeed been blessed. He said:
“We settled in Spanish Fork [Utah] where we continued to live until father died at the age of ninety-three, having enjoyed good health until within three days of his death. I do not know of an apostate among any of father’s posterity. He always had plenty for his family and loaned breadstuffs to scores who were in want. He did not become rich, but always had money laid aside for a time of need.”8

When our daughter Adrian was four years old, we were working in the backyard. I had asked her to do something three or four times without result. I lost my patience, raised my voice, and sternly repeated my instructions to her. With her head down, she sadly started in the direction of the house. Suddenly, she stopped, ran back, hugged my leg tightly, and said, “Even though you are being mean to me, I still love you.”
I suddenly understood with great clarity what the Savior meant when he said,
“Verily I say unto you, except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”1

A poignant experience with a former patient shows how gratitude for generosity and compassion can transform us. In 1987, I became acquainted with Thomas Nielson, a remarkable man who needed a heart transplant. He was 63 years old and lived in Logan, Utah, in the United States. Following military service during World War II, he married Donna Wilkes in the Logan Utah Temple. He became an energetic and successful brick mason. In later years he especially enjoyed working with his oldest grandchild, Jonathan, during school vacations. The two developed a special bond, in part because Tom saw much of himself in Jonathan.
Tom found waiting for a donor heart frustrating. He was not a particularly patient man. He had always been able to set and achieve goals through hard work and sheer determination. Struggling with heart failure, with his life on hold, Tom sometimes asked me what I was doing to speed up the process. Jokingly, he suggested avenues I could pursue that would make a donor heart available to him sooner.
One joyous yet dreadful day, an ideal donor heart became available for Tom. The size and blood type were a match, and the donor was young, just 16 years old. The donor heart belonged to Jonathan, Tom’s beloved grandson. Earlier that day, Jonathan had been fatally injured when the car in which he was riding was struck by a passing train.
When I visited Tom and Donna in the hospital, they were distraught. It is hard to imagine what they were going through, knowing that Tom’s life could be extended by using their grandson’s heart. At first, they refused to consider the proffered heart from Jonathan’s grieving parents, their daughter and son-in-law. Tom and Donna knew, though, that Jonathan was brain dead, and came to understand that their prayers for a donor heart for Tom had not caused Jonathan’s accident. No, Jonathan’s heart was a gift that could bless Tom in his time of need. They recognized that something good might come out of this tragedy and decided to proceed.
The transplant procedures went well. Afterward, Tom was a different man. The change went beyond improved health or even gratitude. He told me that he reflected every morning on Jonathan, on his daughter and son-in-law, on the gift he had received, and on what that gift had entailed. Even though his innate good humor and grit were still readily apparent, I observed that Tom was more solemn, thoughtful, and kindhearted.
Tom lived an additional 13 years after the transplant, years he otherwise would not have had. His obituary stated that these years allowed him to touch the lives of his family and others with generosity and love. He was a private benefactor and an example of optimism and determination.
When we remember the greatness of our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and what They have done for us, we will not take Them for granted, just as Tom did not take Jonathan’s heart for granted. In a joyful and reverent way, Tom remembered each day the tragedy that brought him extended life. In the exuberance of knowing that we can be saved and exalted, we need to remember that salvation and exaltation came at a great cost. We can be reverently joyful as we realize that without Jesus Christ, we are doomed, but with Him, we can receive the greatest gift Heavenly Father can give. Indeed, this reverence allows us to enjoy the promise “of eternal life in this world” and eventually receive “eternal life … even immortal glory” in the world to come.

Youth are not the only ones who slip into crevasses.
A stake president recently told me that a respected member who had held Church leadership positions was enticed by some business friends to try the cocaine drug “crack.” The men were depressed. Their company was failing, and they succumbed to the evil enticement of illegal drugs.
He wasted $18,000 buying “crack,” lost his job, underwent a personality change, and finally was hospitalized. Through it all, his wife stayed by him. She found a job, and they began the struggle of putting his life back together. His Church friends helped him get another job.
His mind is seriously affected. He is still somewhat dependent on some drugs. The hope and prayer of his family is that he will be able to hold on to the lifeline.

I hurriedly stuffed my “stripes” and whistle into my tote bag, dreading the long winter drive home. As the dressing room door swung closed behind me, I hefted the bag onto my shoulder and strolled out onto the darkened gymnasium floor. I glanced up once more at the still-lit scoreboard that read: Home 37, Visitors 41.
Only moments earlier five young men had been playing their hearts out, struggling to win their first and only victory at the end of a long, frustrating season. The crowd had filled every available seat and standing space in the small rural gym. They had yelled their throats hoarse, urging their sons and friends to perform at some superhuman level so that the memory of the season might not linger so disappointingly in their minds.
The burden of performance rested most heavily on a tall, square-shouldered farm boy. Even though he was notably the most talented of the small hometown squad, his and his teammates’ best efforts were not enough to achieve the victory that their hearts desired.
As I approached the exit on the far side of the gym, this same tall farm boy stepped from the crowd of somber teammates and school chums. I was somewhat apprehensive as he timed his stride to meet me at the door. Much too often in my 18 years of officiating high school basketball and football I had been approached by a disappointed fan or player wishing to release his frustration by verbally insulting my ability as an official or even my nonpartisan posture during the course of the game.
The young man had a hard, firm expression on his face as he blocked my exit. Suddenly he extended his hand and with a humble awkwardness blurted, “I would like to thank you, sir, for calling a good game. You know how much we wanted to win this one. We tried hard, but … anyway I know you tried to call just as good a game as we tried to play. Besides, it’s only a game.” He turned and melted back into the crowd of his friends. A warm feeling came over me as I stepped out into the harsh winter wind. This young man had achieved the greatest victory that could be won on the floor that evening. He had been a sportsman.
I’m not sure what ever happened to that young farm boy. I do know that he never reached any great level of athletic achievement. He doesn’t have any memories of state championships or come-from-behind victories. He was just a hardplaying young man who gave his best when he walked onto the court and understood that regardless of the outcome, “It was only a game.”

My three children and I were on our way home after shopping when we passed the man with the newspapers for the first time. I let Emmily, 2, hand him some money to buy a paper. Lisa, 6, asked, “What is that man doing? Why is he selling newspapers on the street instead of in the store?”
I explained that he was selling a special newspaper and that the people who sell the special newspaper don’t have much money. They often don’t have a home or a family to help them. But they can earn a little money by selling newspapers, and we can help them by buying one.
Many weeks later—on a rainy day—we were on our way to the children’s gymnastics lesson. Because we had to stop at the store, we didn’t take the direct route. After we had made our purchases, I wondered out loud which route we should take to the lesson. We could take a shorter route through a side street or a longer one taking us past the corner with the street vendor. I looked at Lisa and waited for her to choose.
“Let’s take the long way, Mom, and buy a newspaper,” she said. “Jesus would have done that.” We went the second mile that rainy day and bought one of many more newspapers.

Latter-day Saints are weird.
I mean that in a nice way. After all, my best friend and next-door neighbor, Ben Blanchard, is a Latter-day Saint, and he’s great. Ben has a wild sense of humor, is good at sports, and likes to build model cars and planes, just like me. The rest of his family’s pretty neat too. Mr. Blanchard is a whiz at repairing bikes and go-carts and other mechanical things. Mrs. Blanchard makes scrumptious pies and cakes. Becky’s OK, Joel’s not bad for a baby, and Tom, who’s just younger than Ben, is all right too.
So, they’re a nice family, just a little weird. Like on Mondays. Not long after we moved into the neighborhood, I went over to play at the Blanchard’s one Monday night after dinner.
“I can’t,” Ben said when he came to the door.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m doing stuff with my family,” he said.
“Like what?” I asked.
Ben shuffled a little and looked flustered. “Well, on Mondays we have family night. We sing, have a lesson, play games, and have a treat. It’s churchy.”
“Oh,” I said. “Every Monday?”
“Every Monday.”
I wouldn’t mind the games and treats, but I don’t sing, and a lesson sounds boring. Sometimes Ben tells me about the lessons. Once he went through the whole day at school being real polite and not cracking his usual jokes about the teachers.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as we got on the bus. “Are you sick?”
Ben looked put out. “We had a lesson last night about being kind and thoughtful and had to set goals for the week. I’m trying to be more considerate of my teachers.”
“Oh” was all I could say.
Soon I could tell when Ben had a family-night goal to be considerate, or to say thank you all the time, or to pick up litter, or to get to bed early, or to watch out for his younger brothers. He would act really strange for a week or two, then gradually slip back toward his old ways.
Sometimes the Blanchards went places on Monday nights. The next day I’d ask Ben where his family had gone, and he’d say to visit his aunt or to pick apples for Church welfare or to a widow’s house to weed her garden.
One Monday in November I was helping my dad change the oil in the car when the Blanchards drove off, then came back so quickly that I couldn’t figure out where they could have gone.
“Where’d you go last night?” I asked Ben the next morning.
He got a funny look on his face. “Oh, somewhere,” he answered.
I couldn’t believe it. Ben always told me where they went! “What is this, some kind of secret mission?”
Ben half-laughed, half-choked, “Sort of.” He looked behind him and then leaned toward me and whispered, “Becky made me promise not to tell anyone.”
I spent the next week trying to puzzle out what the Blanchards could have done that Becky wouldn’t want anyone to know about. Had they discovered gold or silver? Were they rehearsing a circus act? Or maybe they were plotting to take over the world!
The next Monday the Blanchards stayed home. I was outside with Dad again, helping him replace the porch light. We were nearly done when a car came up the street. I was instantly alert because we live on a dead-end street, and we hardly ever get strange cars on it. Even more mysterious, this car was creeping along at a snail’s pace. As soon as the car passed our driveway, its headlights blinked off. But the car kept on going and stopped just beyond the Blanchard’s house.
I nudged Dad. “Something fishy’s going on here,” I whispered.
We tiptoed to the hedge that divides our property from the Blanchards’ and watched. A figure got out of the car and crept up the driveway to the Blanchard’s porch. He—or she or it—placed something by their door, pressed the doorbell, and scooted down the driveway.
Dad squeezed through the hedge and grabbed the skulker’s jacket. “What are you doing?” he asked.
I squeezed through the hedge, too, and ran up to the door while Dad marched the boy—we could tell that much now—up the driveway behind me.
By the time Dad got to the door, Ben and the rest of his family were crowding around the door, wide-eyed.
“Do you know this boy?” Dad asked.
“It’s Frank Adams,” Mr. Blanchard told us.
Frank was absolutely crimson. He bent down and picked up a plate of cookies. On top of the cookies was a ghost shape cut out of paper. “I just left these,” he explained weakly.
The Blanchards all whooped with laughter. “He was phantoming us!”
“Huh?” Dad and I stared at each other.
“Can I go?” Frank looked desperately at Dad. “Mom’s in the car and probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped.”
Dad let go of Frank’s jacket. “Sorry. I was just trying to watch out for my neighbors,” he said, shaking his head as Frank rushed down the driveway.
I was dying of curiosity. “What was he doing?”
Becky sighed. “Different families in our ward—our church congregation—have been going around on Mondays and secretly leaving treats on other people’s door-steps. We say that the Family Night Phantom left them.”
Dad and I stared at each other again and raised our eyebrows.
“Better cookies than vandalism,” Dad finally said with a shrug.
“I bet that’s what you were doing last week. Right?” I asked Ben.
He nodded, embarrassed.
As Dad and I walked home, I thought again how weird Latter-day Saints were. Who else would leave cookies and stuff at people’s houses without being seen? Crazy!
The next Monday night our doorbell rang. Mom, Dad, and Tina were all watching TV, so I went to see who was there.
Nobody was there! At first I thought it was somebody’s idea of a dumb joke. Then I looked down. The Blanchards had phantomed us! They’d left a plate of brownies and a silly drawing of a ghost.
Nutty, right? Absolutely nutty. But I must say, the brownies were delicious. Maybe family night phantoms aren’t so weird after all.

Illustration by Bradley H. Clark
As my mission’s zone conference was coming to a close, I stood outside wondering, “What am I doing in this foreign country? How am I going to do all that is expected of me?”
I had been in Sicily, Italy, for little over a week, but already I felt discouraged. My time in the missionary training center had seemed like a wonderful dream, but because of my inadequacies, I now felt as though I were in a nightmare.
“Dearest Father,” I prayed, “I wanted to be a great missionary. Now that I am here, I realize I don’t have the talents, skills, or intelligence to accomplish what I have been sent to do. I thought I knew this language, but everyone speaks so quickly, and any words I try to utter just get tangled up in my tongue. I don’t think my companion likes me. My mission president can barely speak English. I don’t have anyone to talk to. Please help me.”
I knew I had to go back inside, but I lingered on the street just a few minutes longer. Suddenly I felt three tugs on the back of my overcoat. I turned around to find a beautiful little girl and slowly knelt down next to her on the cobblestone street. She wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered in my ear, “Ti voglio bene.”
“What did you say?” I replied in English, knowing perfectly well she didn’t understand me.
She stared at my name tag. “Sorella Domenici,” she read, “ti voglio bene.”
I knew the meaning of the phrase. It was one of the first phrases we had learned as missionaries. It was a phrase that could speak directly to the soul. It means, “I love you.”
Those words were just what I needed to hear at that moment. The Savior had sent a special messenger to deliver them to me. I led the little girl into the building.
“She must be the child of one of the members,” I thought. I wove my way through groups of missionaries, hoping her mother would spot her.
When I found my companion, I asked, “Have you seen this little girl before?”
“What little girl?” she replied, looking confused.
I looked down at my side. The little girl was gone.
I stood in the open doorway of the building and glanced up and down the deserted street. As I pondered, a whisper I not only heard but also felt echoed through my soul: “Sorella Domenici, ti voglio bene.”
I didn’t know who the little girl was, but I knew that the Savior loved me.
I turned around to find a beautiful little girl and slowly knelt down next to her on the cobblestone street.

“Easter is a good time to think about Jesus and to remember His Resurrection,” Sister Rojas said. She held up a picture of Jesus. “Because of Him, people who have died will live again.”
Alonso looked up at his Primary teacher. Does that mean I can see my parents again? he wondered.
Mamá had died years ago when Alonso was very young. Alonso didn’t remember her very well, but he liked looking at pictures of her. Then Papá died too.
Now Alonso lived with Abuela, his grandmother. She had been teaching him about her church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He was going to be baptized and confirmed next year, when he was old enough.
Sister Rojas held up a picture of a white building. “Another amazing gift from Jesus is temples. This is one of the temples here in Chile.”
Alonso looked at the gold statue on top of the building. It was beautiful! He wondered what happened inside.
“Temples are where families are sealed together forever,” Sister Rojas said. “This temple in Santiago is where I was sealed to my parents after we joined the Church. Because we were sealed, I can be with them even after this life.”
Alonso felt excited when he heard that. “Could I be sealed to my parents?” he asked. “Even though they already died?”
Sister Rojas nodded. “Yes! That’s one of the reasons temples are so important. They bless all of our family members, including those who have died.”
For the rest of the day, Alonso kept thinking about temples. He asked Abuela to teach him more. She talked about the white clothes people wear inside and the beautiful artwork on the walls.
“Best of all, it’s where you can be sealed to your parents,” Abuela said. “We’ll ask two people from the ward to stand in for them during the sealing.”
“Can we go tomorrow?” Alonso asked. “I want to be with Mamá and Papá forever!”
Abuela smiled. “I’m glad you want to go,” she said. “But the nearest temple is in Concepción. We don’t have enough money for bus tickets.”
“I’ll help save for the trip!” Alonso said.
From then on, whenever Alonso found a coin on the street or had a chance to earn some money, he paid tithing and then added the rest to their temple fund.
After months of saving, Alonso and Abuela finally had enough money to travel to the temple. They asked Brother and Sister Silva to come with them. On the day of the trip, they took a long bus ride to the city of Concepción. It was almost sunset when Alonso spotted something gold in the distance.
“I can see the angel Moroni!” Alonso said, pointing to the statue on top of the temple’s blue dome roof.
They spent the night at an apartment next to the temple. In the morning, Alonso went inside the temple for the first time. He saw a big picture of Jesus. He and Abuela got dressed in white. He felt happy and peaceful.
When it was time for the sealing, Alonso walked into a beautiful room with mirrors on the walls. A temple worker showed Alonso, Abuela, and the Silvas how to kneel around a special table called an altar. It was covered in soft fabric.
Brother and Sister Silva were there for Alonso’s mom and dad. Abuela was there for his sister who died before Alonso was born.
Closing his eyes, Alonso imagined his family all together.
I can’t wait to see them again, Alonso thought. I’m so grateful families can be together forever!
See Come, Follow Me for Easter.

“I had just moved to Atlanta, my first time away from home,” says Tara Towsley of the North Point Ward, Roswell Georgia Stake. “Needless to say, I was a bit intimidated. I remember sitting in sacrament meeting thinking about going home, when the most wonderful lady came up and introduced herself. She told me her name, said she was the Relief Society president, and told me where Relief Society was held. She said she was excited that I was there. I felt better immediately.”
“I’m so grateful for the Relief Society organization. I feel it has better prepared me for the next stage of my life,” says Tara Towsley. “It has given me the opportunity to befriend women older and wiser and has helped my testimony mature in so many ways. It took time for me to find my place, but with time Relief Society began to feel like home.”

One of our daughters graduated from this school. She received a minor in childhood education, and afterwards she, with the wife of one of the students down at Stanford, in order to help their husbands, obtained a license to conduct a small nursery. They were getting along very well, until both of them began to prepare for new motherhood. So the public nursery had to give way to their own private nurseries.