Gospel Story Finder

“I wish I could ride my bike, now that you took off the training wheels,” I said as he was putting the vacuum cleaner away.
“Come on, I’ll help you practice.”
First he showed me how to stop and get off. Then he gave me some good starts, and I began to get the hang of it.
A week passed. I practiced every day riding my bicycle in the driveway. I had a skinned elbow, a bruised knee, and a scraped ankle, but I finally mastered the bike.
I was proudly riding it when Janie came by to model her beautiful blue dress for me.
“You look great, Janie,” Jack said as he came down the sidewalk. Then he grinned and waved a geometry test paper with a 94 on it!
How can wishes come true? Figure it out—I did!

A few years ago, as a birthday gift, I went to the FamilySearch® system and retrieved my wife’s entire recorded family pedigree. That was a serious mistake. The computer revealed that my wife is a descendant of European royalty. It has been hard to live with her ever since. Maybe now, through this knowledge of her family history, I am more inclined to treat her as our family queen. But the biggest problem, of course, is that my children share in this royal ancestry, which, sadly, makes me the only “commoner” in my family.

That’s when the young missionaries found me. I have always had a soft spot for those who evangelize, knowing the rejection they often face, so I welcomed them. If they came while I was eating, I put my food aside. If I was napping, I got up. But I was a skeptical audience. When they declared, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only true church on earth,” I almost asked them to leave. How could that be, when I had witnessed God’s work in so many other places?
Their patience was my gateway. They never dismissed my questions. When I challenged them, they often said, “That’s a good question. We need to study and come back with an answer.” Their intellectual honesty was refreshing; they weren’t selling a simple product. They encouraged me to pray about it myself. I took this challenge to the Lord in earnest prayer. “I have served You in another church,” I pleaded. “You have worked with me there. Do You mean to say all those deliverances and miracles were not from You?” The answer I felt was not a denial of my past experiences but an invitation: You’ve been here, and you’ve been there—why not be here too and find out the truth for yourself?
I began reading the Book of Mormon. I compared what I was learning with what I knew. I saw a stark contrast in missionary work. In my former church, “evangelism” often meant convincing members of other congregations to join ours. It was about numbers. But these young men had left their homes and families for two years, dedicating themselves entirely to teaching anyone who would listen. Their commitment was a testament to their belief.
The most profound shift came when I learned about the Restoration of the priesthood authority. In my charismatic background, the laying on of hands was a tense moment; we believed a person’s spiritual character could be transferred, for good or ill. The concept of authority restored by heavenly messengers, not just claimed through personal revelation, resonated with a deep need for order and divine sanction I didn’t know I had. This understanding became the keystone of my budding testimony.
As my baptismal interview approached, I wrestled intensely. The enemy of my soul whispered doubts. What if you are making a mistake? Think of the backlash from your community. The night before the interview, I prayed for a sign, a specific confirmation that I was on the right path. The next evening, while running an errand, my eye was caught by something fluttering in the middle of a busy highway. It was a 100-cedi note. As I waited for traffic to clear, a second note appeared, tumbling to meet the first. In that moment, a thought, clear and penetrating as a voice, entered my mind: Are you not the one who asked for a sign pertaining to your decision? I knew it was the Lord. He had provided both a spiritual answer and, in my time of need, temporal sustenance.
The interview itself was anti-climactic. The young elder began his questions, and I immediately stated, “Yes, of course. I believe this is the only true Church.” It was no longer a statement of theory but of settled fact in my soul.
My baptism day was the most spiritually significant of my life. Dressing in white, I felt like a king. The members of the ward had stayed after their own services to support me, a gesture of love that moved me deeply. As I stepped into the water, the symbolism of burial and resurrection with Christ, which I had taught so many times before, finally felt completely real and personal. It was a covenant, not just a ritual.

This great caring about how we behave toward everyone around us was one of the great lessons President McKay taught. On the trip to Europe to dedicate the temple sites in Switzerland and England, President McKay was surrounded by eager English youth seeking autographs from him. The first in line was a young girl about nine years old. She asked the President’s son, who was accompanying him, “May I have President McKay’s autograph?” The son, who thought his father was too tired, began to dissuade her. But President McKay, overhearing the conversation, turned to her and asked jokingly, “Do you think I can write plainly enough so you can read it?” The girl wasn’t sure whether he was in earnest, and she became flustered. At that moment, an aide interrupted with a pressing question, and several minutes of conversation ensued. When the President turned back to speak again to the girl, she had disappeared.
“I have never seen father more upset,” said his son. “Please find that girl in the blue dress,” President McKay directed. “I’m sure she has the impression that I didn’t want to sign her book. She misinterpreted my remarks. You must find her.” Before long, branch presidents and mission presidents were looking for a little girl in blue. But the search was in vain. Finally, a missionary thought he knew who the girl was. He telephoned the President later that night and then received these instructions: “Tell the girl that I am sorry I missed her, and that I have asked the branch president to send her book to me by mail to Salt Lake City; I will sign my autograph and mail it directly back to her.” And he did!

“Elisabeth!” Mom called from her room. “Someone rang the doorbell a little while ago. Can you see if there’s anything on the porch?”
A few moments later Elisabeth carried a plate of cookies into Mom’s room, where she was in bed with a lingering illness.
“Someone brought us cookies!” Elisabeth said.
“Who are they from?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know, but here’s a note.”
Mom took the note. “ ‘Hope you’re having a great day,’ ” she read. “ ‘From someone who cares.’ ” She smiled at Elisabeth. “It’s really nice of someone to surprise us with cookies.”
“Can I have one?” Elisabeth asked.
“Yes, you can. And will you please put the note in my love drawer?”
Elisabeth took the note. “What’s your love drawer?” she asked.
“It’s the little drawer in that table by my bed. Open it and I’ll show you.”
Elisabeth opened the drawer and found a pile of letters, notes, and cards.
“I’ve been saving all the good wishes people have given me since I’ve been sick,” Mom explained, pulling a few papers from the drawer. “Grandma sent this letter. And this is the card the Garcias gave me when they brought us dinner. Here is the note I discovered in the kitchen when I came home from the doctor and found the whole house cleaned. And the Primary children made this card for me.”
Mom handed the cards, notes, and letters back to Elisabeth. “All these remind me how nice people have been to us. Each one is from someone who is trying to be like Jesus. When I feel sad I can look at them and remember that lots of people care about me. And that helps me remember that Heavenly Father and Jesus care about me too.”
Elisabeth put everything back in the drawer and closed it carefully.
“Now will you take these cookies into the kitchen?” Mom said. “The other kids will want to have one when they get home from school.”
Elisabeth carried the plate of cookies into the kitchen, and then sat down at the table with her crayons. After a while she went back into Mom’s room. “Mom, I brought you something.” She held out the picture she had made.
“Elisabeth, this is beautiful! I love the rainbow and the smiling people. You worked very hard on this.”
“You can put it in the love drawer,” Elisabeth said. “It will help you remember that I love you and that I want to be like Jesus.”
Mom smiled and hugged Elisabeth. “You make me very happy,” she said. “I will put this in the love drawer—later. Right now I want to keep it out where I can see it!”

Some time ago a father of six children who had the sole responsibility for raising the family, beginning when the youngest was in diapers, told of the struggles of doing so alone. One night he came home from work faced with the problems of being both father and mother and felt unusually burdened with his responsibilities. One of his appreciative daughters, age 12, approached him eagerly after having laid on his dresser a rock that she had painted at school. On the flat portion of the rock, she had written, “Happiness is having a dad who cares.” This painted rock and its sublime message instantly and permanently lightened the burden of this father.

The Prophet Joseph Smith was our neighbor. We lived next to him on the corner of Main and Parley streets. He came to our house quite often for short visits.

One day my older brother, Wallace, and I were on our way to school. It had been raining the previous day and the ground was very muddy, especially along the street on which the building known as Joseph’s brick store was. Wallace and I both got stuck fast in the mud and could not get out. And, childlike, we began to cry. Looking up, I beheld the loving friend of children, the Prophet Joseph, coming toward us. He soon had us on higher and drier ground. Then he stooped down and cleaned the mud from our little heavy-laden shoes, took his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped our tearstained faces. He spoke kind and cheering words to us and sent us on our way to school rejoicing. You can see why Wallace and I loved him.

I had just passed my 12th birthday and had my interview with my bishop for ordination as a deacon. My father, who had served as a bishop a few years previously, ordained me. During his prayer he blessed me that I might appreciate those who had made it possible for me to enjoy the blessing of the Church and especially the priesthood.
Being only 12 years old I didn’t quite understand what he meant. The next Sunday I assisted in passing the sacrament. Mother had fussed over me to see that I was properly dressed for this occasion, while Dad just looked on and smiled.
I must confess it was an interesting and exciting event. Being a deacon meant I was growing up, and this was a comforting thought.
After lunch that day my father came toward me with a family book in his hand. He explained it was the journal, or the life story, of my grandfather who lived in Wales.
“I want you to read this,” he said, “especially these last pages.” With that he placed it on the table in front of me and left to join mother in the living room.
Now why should a 12-year-old boy want to read ancient stuff like that when there was a football game on T.V.? There was only one good reason, and that was my father wanted me to read it. He had put a marker in the page where he wanted me to start.
This is what I read:
It is November and cold outside. I can hear the wind whistling through the beech trees down in the woods. I am sitting in front of my fireplace in my old leather-back chair with Mom’s old knitted shawl over my lap. There is a little table by my side, and I am writing on a lined tablet. The lines are wide because my eyesight is not as good as it once was. The dancing flames from the fire seem to stimulate my thoughts, and I relive the years when my beloved wife and I first joined the Church. The wind was blowing off the ocean when we waded into the water off the coast of Wales. Bess’s health was poor, she being with child, andshe was concerned about the effects of the cold water on her and the unborn baby. The presiding elder blessed her that all would be well, that there would be no bad effects from the cold water. It turned out that way. There are other places in my history where I have told of the persecutions we endured, but now I must tell you about my three sons.
William was the firstborn, and from the beginning there was a strong bond of love between him and his mother. Then when he was a young man she died suddenly and he was brokenhearted. No longer was he the carefree young man we knew but became quiet and withdrawn. Then one day he came to me and said, “Father, I have decided to leave home and go to America. I want to go to Zion where the Saints are. I have applied for a visa, and when it comes I shall be leaving.” About a year later the visa was granted, and William made preparations to leave.
Then came the day of his leaving. How can I describe that day? I stood on the doorstep of my cottage on the hillside and watched him go down the hill with his trunk slung over his shoulder. I knew I would never see him again, and part of me went with him. Would I miss him? Would I miss the sun if it failed to rise over Rhysog Mountain? He was my firstborn son, whose life was a lesson in faith and humility. He was the peacemaker in the family. The days passed, and the ache in my heart was eased. His letters came with regularity, and they told of his joy of being with the Saints.
One day a year or so later my second son, John, spoke to me at supper, “Father, I have decided to join my brother in America. I have applied for a visa.”
I looked at this boy, hardly into manhood. How different he was from his brother. Handsome he was with dark hair with a bit of wave in it. He had a smile that was captivating, and he was very popular with the girls. Somehow he reminded me of when I was a young man. I too had dark hair with a bit of wave in it, and I was popular with the girls. But Bess came along and stole my heart.
I went to the railroad station and wished him good-bye. My tears fell on his shoulder as the train pulled into the station. As it left I felt as if part of my life went on that train.
The walk back home was the loneliest walk of my life. I had to try hard to keep bitterness out of my heart. That which I loved the most, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, had taken away two of my sons.
Ivor, my third son, was still living in the village. He was destined not to be with me long. He had been born two months early and was so tiny that his mother carried him on a pillow. He grew to manhood but suffered from a heart disease. He was the poet in the family, and even though his health was poor he was always happy. I can hear him yet as he sang to the trees in the woods that bordered our home. I remember that day only a few days before his heart failed him that we walked together up into the meadow and we looked across the valley. He took my hand in his and spoke softly. “Listen Tad” (that’s Welsh for Father), and across the valley came the plaintive call of the cuckoo. “Isn’t it lovely? The cuckoo tells of the coming spring, and soon the meadow will be white with daisies, and the thrush will sing a joyful tune. Aye, my Tad, it’s a grand world that God has given us.”
He died in his sleep and was buried beside his mother in the little cemetery on the hill.
The funeral was quite an event in our village. It was the first LDS funeral ever conducted there. Many people came out of curiosity, but most came because Ivor was loved and respected. Jones, the undertaker, in his black suit and top hat drove the hearse with a pair of black horses.
It was less than a mile to the cemetery, and the mourners walked behind the hearse. Soon the villagers started to sing. At first their voices were quiet like the summer breeze on Rhysog Mountain. Then as the words came, “Feed me till I want no more,” their voices raised in a great crescendo like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Oh, my people from whom I came, your songs of mourning are still in my heart, and I know that my son and my Bess heard.
When I returned home after the funeral, I took my sons’ letters out of a drawer and read them again. My oldest son wrote, “I am now the high priest group leader, and also a supervisor at the temple. I am so grateful that you taught me the gospel.”
The letter from son number two read, “I am excited today, for I have been ordained the bishop of my ward. How can I thank you enough for teaching me the gospel?”
The fire is burning low, and my hand is so tired I can’t write more at this time.
The next words were in my father’s handwriting:
Your grandfather passed away a few days later, and he was buried beside his wife and third son.
As I finished reading I looked up to see my dad standing there. His eyes were moist and so were mine, but a 12-year-old cannot stay sad very long. “Dad,” I asked, “were you the second son?”
“Yes, my boy, I was the second son.”
“Your hair is not dark anymore, but there is still a bit of wave.”

Arietana’s home is near the equator, so the weather is hot every day of the year and the ocean is very warm. The children spend much of their time swimming, fishing, or just playing in the water. Arietana likes fishing and digging in the sand for clams. “One day I caught enough fish for my family’s dinner,” he said. “My father was very surprised that I caught so many. When I want to go fishing, I find a small hermit crab for bait; then I drop my line from the bridge and wait for the fish to bite.”

As he was growing up, Douglas L. Callister often accompanied his father and grandfather as they fulfilled Church assignments such as visiting members, presiding at meetings, or speaking at firesides. “They wanted their posterity to see them in the context of honoring the priesthood,” says Elder Callister, “and as we drove to and from their assignments, they would always share their experience and testimony with me.”
That caring tutelage has played an important role in preparing Elder Callister to serve in the Second Quorum of the Seventy. “A life-altering experience for me,” says Elder Callister, “was that training that came from those generations of family members who were willing to teach me.” Elder Callister continues to teach his own posterity just as his own father and grandfather taught him.

It was preparation day on my mission in Yamoussoukro, Cote d’Ivoire, a small country in West Africa.
At about 11 o’clock in the morning, I had the feeling that my companion and I should go out, without really knowing in advance where we would go. I suggested that we go, and he agreed without hesitation. A few minutes later, we were out in the street. We walked as if we were being guided by someone and went straight to a particular residence. I rang the doorbell and a young girl answered the door. I said to her, “Tell your mother the missionaries are here.”
The mother came out to greet us. She was in tears and said, “Three days ago, I prayed and asked God to send me missionaries, and now here you are.”
This mother was able to find peace in her life through hearing the message of the restored gospel. That day, I received the confirmation that God guides His servants.

“There are many that will rejoice and think Mormonism is down now,” wrote Sally C. Randall in a spirited letter to family and friends only days after the martyrdom of Joseph and Hyrum Smith. “But they will be mistaken, for the Lord has begun His work and He will carry it on in spite of all mobs and devils.”

In the same letter, Sally wrote: “Never has there been such a horrible crime committed since the day Christ was crucified. It seems that all nature mourns. The earth is deprived of the two best men there was on it.”

“Sally’s letter is remarkable for several reasons,” explained Latter-day Saint historians Jordan Watkins and Steven C. Harper. Though Church history is rich with other accounts from the time of the martyrdom, “in [this letter] we hear a believing woman’s voice, and in it we have captured a very early response to the tragedy, a raw and revealing reaction.”

Written on July 1, 1844—when hostility raged against the Saints by mobs that besieged them on every side—this letter reveals a Nauvoo that was filled with faith. The letter reveals Sally’s rock-solid confidence in God and her ironclad determination to defend her faith, even though the Saints were outnumbered by persecutors and she was aware that further sacrifices could be required.

Sally was a relatively new member at the time of the martyrdom. She and her husband and their two sons had joined the Church near Buffalo, New York, and migrated to Nauvoo in 1843. Here they found many Saints sick with fevers, malaria, and measles. Writing to her family in the eastern United States, she said, “It is very sickly here at present … , and a great many children die” from the diseases.

Sally’s oldest son, 14-year-old George, soon got sick and died about three weeks later. With “a heart full of grief and sorrow” from her son’s death, she received word eight months later of the Prophet’s martyrdom. In this state of grief, she wrote her family to detail the events, share her emotions, and give perspective to events of the time.

While in the county jail in Carthage, Illinois, Joseph and Hyrum Smith were shot by a mob on June 27, 1844. A few days after, Sally Randall wrote: “About 6 in the afternoon … about one hundred and fifty of the mob made an attack upon the courthouse and the guard[. They] went into the jail, and the first one they shot was Hyrum. He was killed dead on the spot. Elder Taylor was badly wounded. Joseph then jumped out of the window. They shot him I know not how many times. The mob then fled as quick as possible.”

Martyrdom, by Gary E. Smith, may not be copied
In the letter she notes that some men were spotted the next day crossing the river still wearing paint on their faces and that on the day of the martyrdom, only eight men had been left to guard the courthouse and jail.

She describes how, about four miles (6 km) outside Nauvoo, troops intercepted a man who was heading to Nauvoo to deliver “the sad news.” The troops would not let him proceed and detained him, delaying the Saints from receiving news of the martyrdom until the next morning.

“If you can imagine … how the Apostles and Saints felt when the Savior was crucified,” Sally continued, “you can [get] something of a guess of how the Saints felt here when they heard that their prophet and patriarch were both dead and murdered, too, by a lawless mob. … They have sealed their testimony with their blood.”

Sally expressed the sentiment of the time that Governor Thomas Ford of Illinois was at fault for failing to protect Joseph. She declares the belief of her neighbors and fellow Saints that Joseph and Hyrum voluntarily suffered martyrdom to seal their testimonies with their blood.

Yet this letter appears to have never found its destination to family and friends, leaving historians to speculate what happened. Did the local militiamen prevent postal service due to hostile sentiment? Perhaps letters from Nauvoo during this turbulent time went only as far as a local town in Illinois or maybe Chicago and were never forwarded? Maybe Sally never mailed the letter and left it behind when she migrated west.

For more than 100 years this letter lay yellowing and obscure to the world until an unusual set of circumstances suddenly aligned to bring it to light. A doctor in the Chicago area with an interest in antique items bought an old trunk in an estate sale. Rummaging through its contents, he discovered the letter.

The doctor recognized its importance and took care of the letter until one day in 1963 when two missionaries knocked on his door. They had come to deliver a Church magazine with his name on the label that had been inadvertently delivered to a member of the Church several blocks away. The doctor, who had spent time in Utah years earlier, had developed an interest in the Church and had subscribed to the magazine to stay informed.

On this day the missionaries were tracting in this neighborhood west of Chicago when they unknowingly knocked on the door of a member of the Church who had received the magazine in error only a few minutes earlier.

The missionaries took the magazine to the proper home, where they met the adult son of the doctor. During the conversation, the son showed the letter to the missionaries and allowed them to make a photocopy.

Jim Nowa, one of the missionaries, says, “I believe it was providential that the mailman delivered the magazine to the wrong address, even though the correct address was clearly labeled. It was fortuitous that the member was home and we were tracting that area, or we may have never met the son of the doctor with the letter.”

The missionaries delivered copies of the letter to the Church History Department after their missions.

Brother Nowa believes that Sally’s testimony and account of the horrific events the Saints faced at the time of the martyrdom serve as a message to strengthen us in our day.

From his study of her letter, Brother Nowa concludes that Sally had confidence in her own spiritual sensitivity and capacity to act on promptings. Despite mobs who threatened her community, opposition from family and friends who fought her conversion, and the premature death of her son, she was faithful in her conviction of the truth.

“Sally’s clear and faith-filled voice allows us to draw on the bravery, courage, and determination of the Nauvoo Saints to battle the tides of opposition of our own day,” he adds.

Shortly before leaving Nauvoo, Sally wrote her family: “The mob are threatening continually to come upon us. We heard they were coming today but I have not seen anything in the least, for I believe there is faith enough in the city to keep them back until the Saints all get away.”

She described how they planned to travel “with a yoke of oxen and a mule,” while driving their cows. “I don’t know when I shall have another opportunity to write, but as soon as I have I will improve it, and I must close for the present so goodbye to all, earthly friends.”

Sally and her husband, James, with their surviving son, settled in Nephi, Utah, where she resided until her death in 1874.

“Hey, Maxine, how about a game?” Henry was calling to her from the rumpus room downstairs. They’d played a game of table tennis almost every night since the new table had been put up. This time she didn’t feel much like playing.
“No, thanks,” she shouted back. “I’ve given up sports.” Soon she saw the top of her brother’s head as he climbed the stairs two at a time.
“Come on. Afraid I’ll beat?”
“Uh huh,” she mumbled. “I wish,” she thought. Henry was good at table tennis. There was no doubt about that, but he wasn’t quite as good as she was. Why did she have to be so good at sports? Her baby brother was almost a foot taller, yet she could beat him at bowling and tennis, and of course, table tennis.
“I’ve given up table tennis,” Maxine said as she shifted her weight in the vinyl easy chair.
“Aw, sure,” Henry said. “And Hank Aaron’s giving up baseball. Don’t give me that.”
“Okay, I won’t, but I am.”
Henry looked at her out of the corner of his eye while he pretended to shoot a basket.
“Why would you give up table tennis?”
“It isn’t feminine. Guys don’t like girls who are good at sports.”
“Oh, that’s what I thought. A guy, huh. Brother, women are sure funny.” Henry had just started calling girls “women,” and it annoyed Maxine.
“Girls,” she said.
“Okay, girls.” Henry did a mock jump shot. “Bill Jensen?” he asked.
“How did you know? How do you know everything?” She looked back down at her book, and her dark hair fell into her eyes. She’d grown it longer to look more feminine, but it always seemed to be getting in the way.
“You were with him last night, weren’t you? So, it was elementary, my dear Watson.”
“Yes, I was with him last night,” Maxine moaned. “And he’s not exactly a table tennis champ. As a matter of fact, he’s terrible. He’ll never call again. I beat him pretty badly. I didn’t want to play in the first place, but Louise and Cal told him we have a new table, and he really wanted to try it out.”
“The plot thickens.” Henry said.
“Now tell me the truth, Henry. Should I have let him beat me?”
Henry chuckled. “Nah, of course not.”
“Why are you laughing?”
“It’s just good to know I’m not the only one you can beat.”
“But really, don’t you think I should have let him win?”
“No, he would have caught on. You’re not a very good actress.”
“But do you think he’ll call again?”
“Probably not. But then again, he might. But then again …” Henry was making this an opportunity to tease her.
“You’re being no help at all. Let me put it this way,” Maxine said. “If you dated a girl who beat you one night at some sport, would you still be interested in her? Now be serious.”
“I don’t date yet,” Henry said. “And I don’t want to think about it.”
“Okay,” Maxine said. “Go away. Just go away. I have to study.”
“Okay, Sis. See you.” He grabbed his basketball out of the flower box and began dribbling it down the hall.
“If Mother saw you do that …” Maxine changed her mind. It wouldn’t help anyway.
“I know. I know,” Henry called back. “Tell her I’ve gone to shoot a few baskets. I’ll be back around 4:00.”
“Okay,” Maxine said. Then she looked back at the same page in her book. “Brothers,” she mumbled. “Who needs them?” She closed her book. “I’ll finish reading this when I’m less miserable.”
When the phone rang, she couldn’t help hoping it was Bill. It was a silly thing to hope anyway, she decided. If he planned to call again, and most certainly he didn’t, why would he call again so soon? It was Sister Price.
“No, Mom won’t be home for about an hour. She had a few errands to run.” She hung up the phone after she had said goodbye and taken a message. “Hope is a thing with feathers,” she said, quoting Emily Dickinson. “A silly useless thing,” she added. The phone rang again and she answered it on the first ring.
“Hi, Max!” It was Linda.
“Please don’t call me Max,” Maxine said.
“Oh, I forgot, you’re trying to be more feminine this year. How was your date last night? You doubled, didn’t you?”
“Yes, with Louise and Cal. We went bowling, and I beat everyone. Then we came to my house and played table tennis, and I beat everyone. He’ll never ask me out again.”
“Maxine, you’re dumb, really dumb. Boys want to be masculine and strong, the leaders.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t be phony, I guess.”
“Well, you should have tried. It would have been worth it.”
“I guess so.”
“Nobody likes to be beaten, especially not a boy.”
“Maybe I should have broken my right arm before the date.”
“It might have improved your chances for another date with him.”
“You’re probably right, but you’re not making me feel much better.” After she had hung up, she looked into her aquarium to see how her favorite fish was doing. “Dare to be yourself,” she had always been taught. That was easy to say. Bill was the only guy she’d met for quite awhile whom she really wanted a second date with. There was just something interesting about him. The others didn’t matter. Joe Miller hadn’t asked her out again after that one tennis match last summer. Frank Simpson hadn’t asked her out again after she’d beaten him at bowling. But, she really hadn’t minded. Now she did mind.
“Well, it’s silly to sit and mope. I’d better do something physical. Maybe I could clean out the kitchen before Mom gets home. It’ll make both of us feel better.” She was just putting away the mop when her brother and her mother came in the door together.
“Stop dribbling in the hall,” Mother said.
“Okay, Mom,” she heard her brother say. Then Henry appeared in the kitchen door, his basketball tucked under his arm. He had a sly look on his face.
“Guess who I saw at the school?”
“Who?”
“Bill Jensen,” she thought. She could tell by the way Henry had said it. But Henry, tease as usual, just started walking to his room.
“Henry!” she called. “Come back here and tell me.” She followed him down the hall.
“What will you give me? Your new album?”
“No, but I’ll let you beat me at table tennis once,” Maxine said.
“No thanks. I have an ego, you know. Okay, I’ll tell you. It was the one and only Bill Jensen. He was practicing a little shooting with some guys. I joined them. He’s one good shot, you know it? One good shot. Oh, and he said to say hi.”
“Is that all he said?”
“No. Do you want an exact quote of what else he said? It’s good.”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay, I tried to memorize it. I knew you’d want a quote. He said ‘That sister of yours is some sportswoman.’”
“That’s good?”
“That isn’t all.”
“Go on.”
“Then I said, ‘She makes a pretty good omelet too.’”
“Henry, I love you,” Maxine said. “I love you!”
“Who can help it,” Henry said, trying not to smile.
“Do you think he’ll ask me out again?”
“How should I know? I can’t read the guy’s mind. Oh, but he did say one more thing. He said maybe he could come over for lessons some time.”
“Table tennis or omelet-making?” Maxine asked.
“I asked him that. He said, ‘Maybe both,’ and I told him he was welcome anytime.”
Maxine pushed her hair out of her eyes and smiled broadly at her brother.
“You have pretty good eyes when you can see them,” Henry said. “I liked the way you used to wear your hair better.”
“You mean really short?”
“Yah, short and sort of wooly. It looked better on you. More feminine or something.”
“You think so? Thanks for the suggestion. I was thinking of having it cut again.”
“Anytime,” Henry said grinning. “What’s a brother for?”

My name is Allison S., and I live in Nashville, Tennessee. I am eight years old, and I was just baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Some of my family members came to my baptism. My little sister, Abigail, and my brother, Daniel, were there. My grandparents came all the way from Utah. My mom helped me get dressed, and my dad baptized me. I was baptized in the same dress that my mom wore when she got baptized when she was a little girl.
I invited some of my friends to come to my baptism too. Some of them were from school and some were from Girl Scouts. None of them are members of the Church, but I knew they would want to be there on my special day.
All of my friends believe in the Bible, so we have that in common. I asked my friends to write down their favorite Bible verses and bring them to my baptism. After my baptism, I underlined the verses is my own Bible and wrote my friends’ names in the margins. My friend Katie gave me Proverbs 17:17, which says, “A friend loveth at all times.” Another friend, Molly, brought Romans 8:28. It says, “all things work together for good to them that love God.”

One Saturday my wife and I realized that we did not have enough money to take public transportation to church the next day, and there was no way to make a cash withdrawal. Our tithing was in a donation envelope ready to be given to the bishop. We began to talk about how we would travel to church. If we used the tithing money to pay for transportation, we felt that the Lord would understand; however, we decided that it was not right.
The other possibility was to not go to church, and again we thought that the Lord would understand since we had never missed before. However, if that happened, we would not be able to take our tithing to the bishop, so that possibility was also ruled out.
Trying to be faithful, we decided to leave earlier than usual and walk to church. We left on that beautiful Sabbath day for the chapel, which was about three miles (4.8 km) from our home. For our four children (the oldest was six), it was like a party, and they enjoyed running and playing along the way.
When we reached a certain point on a wide and dangerous street, I heard the Spirit tell me, “You should cross now.” I told my wife, and she responded that it was dangerous because that part of the street began to curve, blocking our view of oncoming cars. I responded that I felt we should cross there, so we quickly crossed, my wife and I each taking two children. Just as we stepped onto the sidewalk, a car stopped on that side, and the driver asked, “Are you going to church?”
The driver was a brother who did not belong to our ward, but I had met him before because I had visited his ward. We responded affirmatively, and he offered to drive us there. As we got in the car, the brother explained that he never took this route and he was only passing that way because his business partner had lost the keys to the office and he was taking his keys to his partner.
I thought to myself that this hadn’t happened by chance. The Lord knew we needed transportation to go to church. Our tithing was in my pocket, and it provided us the opportunity to teach our children about the blessings that come from paying tithing. We arrived at the chapel earlier than ever but happy and grateful. We participated in all the meetings and did not tell anybody about what had happened.
Summers in São Paulo are very hot, especially at midday, when our Church meetings ended. We were preparing to return when someone came up and asked us, “Do you have someone to take you back?” We responded that we didn’t, and he said to us, “Do you want me to take you?” We accepted his offer, and my wife and I looked at each other with emotional smiles.
More than once the Lord had given us a great blessing for our obedience.

Photograph courtesy of the author
Screams echoed through the trees as people ran to avoid lava and falling rocks. I stood backstage listening to the soundtrack booming through speakers across the hill.
That summer, I participated in the Hill Cumorah Pageant, which portrayed several events from the Book of Mormon. I had been cast as a harvest dancer (see 1 Nephi 18:23–24) and an unbeliever (see 3 Nephi 1:4–21), but everyone, including the staff, was a part of the upcoming scene.
A spotlight shone on a figure dressed in white, seemingly floating above the highest tier of the stage. He wasn’t really the Savior, of course—just a volunteering college student like me. But in that moment onstage, I imagined the real Savior standing there instead.
I pictured Him walking up to me, and I imagined looking into His eyes. Feelings from the Spirit washed over me. In that moment, I had a taste of what it must be like to see my true Savior. I treasured this unique spiritual experience.
Six months later, a statement from Bishop W. Christopher Waddell, then Second Counselor in the Presiding Bishopric, changed my perspective: “Each Sunday we are able to have an experience similar to one shared by the survivors of the serious destruction that occurred at the time of the Savior’s crucifixion, as described in the Book of Mormon.”1
I was stunned. Was it possible for me to feel, every week, the same way I had felt onstage that night? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that partaking of the sacrament is a personal experience with the Savior much like kneeling in front of Him and feeling the prints of the nails in His hands and feet.
We don’t need to be in a pageant to experience the Savior’s love and understanding or to visualize a personal moment with Him. We have opportunities every week. Each Sunday, He is waiting to show us His love and understanding. We just need to come unto Him.

I needed an answer. And not just any answer—I needed to know whether my boyfriend was the man I should marry.
To be clear, I wasn’t looking for a soulmate, or that one perfect person who was destined to be with me. As my boyfriend and I dated, we had become good partners through love, patience, forgiveness, and sacrifice. So, I believed that we could create a happy and successful marriage together. But at 33 years old, I was afraid of making such a significant change—I had worked hard to build a life that I loved, and I wanted to be sure that I was making the right choice.
As we continued to date and started talking seriously about marriage, I had received positive impressions about moving forward with my boyfriend. I tried to trust in those feelings since “all things which are good cometh of God” (Moroni 7:12). However, the biggest feeling I had was that God was letting me make this decision on my own and that He’d support me either way.
This wasn’t exactly surprising—when I have big choices to make, I think God is sometimes intentionally quiet. I consider this to be His way of saying that He trusts me to use my agency. But this was marriage; this could impact me and my boyfriend not only now but into eternity. And so I wondered why I hadn’t received a more obvious confirmation from Him—and if I should be concerned that I hadn’t.
As time progressed, I felt more and more positive about getting married, although the steps I was taking in that direction were still relatively small.
And then one day, I came across a quote that had profound impact on me. It was from a September 2001 devotional by Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He said: “Many of us typically assume we will receive an answer or a prompting to our earnest prayers and pleadings. And we also frequently expect that such an answer or a prompting will come immediately and all at once. Thus, we tend to believe the Lord will give us a big answer quickly and all at one time. However, the pattern repeatedly described in the scriptures suggests we receive ‘line upon line, precept upon precept’ [2 Nephi 28:30], or in other words, many small answers over a period of time.”
I had heard the phrase “line upon line, precept upon precept” many times. But in the past, I had interpreted it to mean that God gives us part of an answer here or there until we finally obtain the answer we need. The idea of Him giving me many small answers was different because to me it meant that when I had a positive feeling or impression, I wasn’t just getting a piece of knowledge—each answer was complete in and of itself. They were just small, subtle answers rather than one large, obvious one.
Those small answers came in a number of ways: a feeling of peace after a special fast, a moment of contentment with my boyfriend in the temple, or some needed advice from a friend or family member at just the right time. In isolation, these experiences might not look like much. But together, they became proof of revelation—a big answer that had formed over a period of time.
Even though my many small answers amounted to one big answer, my fear of change remained. This was confusing. I had thought that revelation would erase my fears. So why were they still there?
This story reminds me of my own experience in seeking revelation about marriage. It wasn’t quick or easy. My fears and trials didn’t just disappear because I had an answer. But revelation gave me the strength and courage to move forward in spite of my worries because I knew that the Lord would light our way. And with His help and continued guidance, I could trust that He would lead us safely to shore.
If there were one thing I could tell my past self, it would be not to stress so much about the process of revelation. Yes, marriage is a big decision, and it’s important to seek God’s guidance when choosing whom to marry. But it doesn’t have to be overly complicated.
Elder Bednar taught: “If you are honoring your covenants, repenting, and pressing forward with faith in the Savior, then you are living in revelation. It does not just come once in a while. You continually are being influenced by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
So I would tell my past self to keep looking for that influence. Because gradually, as you press forward with faith, it will become clear how the Lord is guiding you—one small answer at a time.
Editors’ note: As of summer 2025, the author and her boyfriend were working toward marriage.

Although Elder Wilcox’s father had to work seven days a week, he still found time to do things with his family. “I remember well his taking us kids swimming. On the way back we’d always stop at a certain shop to get ice cream. He also took us fishing. Every summer he would drive us up to Cache Valley, where all four of our grandparents lived. We would stay for three or four weeks. My grandparents were very loving, and, as a result, we loved them very much.
“Before the big dam was built near Hyrum, there was an open place called ‘the holler.’ That’s where my Grandfather Wilson had his pastures. One of the grandchildren’s duties was to take the cows down to pasture every morning. Nearby was a stream where we fished and swam. The ‘holler’ was located between Hyrum and the town of Paradise. The holler was truly a paradise for us kids. We’d get together there with our cousins and swim, fish, hunt, and play all day long. Toward evening we would get the cows and lead them back home to be milked.”
A large irrigation canal flowed near Elder Wilcox’s home, and the children were forbidden to go near it. One day, disobeying this rule, Elder Wilcox was playing near the canal and fell in. Although he immediately grabbed some low-hanging branches, he still couldn’t get out because the banks of the canal were too steep. He was too far away for anyone to hear him yell, but his mother came to his rescue because she had heard a “voice,” the prompting of the Holy Ghost, telling her that her son Keith was in trouble and where he was.
“The thing I remember most about my mother when I was a youngster was that she was the Primary president.” Elder Wilcox also recalls that a favorite Primary teacher, Sister Jones, was a Ute Indian whose father was a tribal chief. “Every year my mother and her counselors planned a huge Primary production for the ward. As part of it one year the Trekker class did an Indian show, wearing authentic Indian clothing and feather headdresses. We had real tomahawks, and Sister Jones taught us how to do an Indian dance. I can still remember the Indian war song we sang as we danced.”
Elder Wilcox’s interest in art led him into the field of architecture. “Art must have been born in me,” he said. “My mother told me that even before I could walk or talk, I drew a picture of a house on her wallpaper. She was so proud of it that she didn’t wash it off.
“My parents provided great role models for us. They were kind and firm, and we knew what the rules were. Our parents were very understanding; they disciplined us with love.
“My message to young people is to never let a day go by without telling your father and mother that you love them. Sometimes it’s hard for children to go up to a brother or sister and say ‘I love you,’ but that’s important too.
“Also, be obedient. Accept direction from your parents. And remember to do only those things that will bring honor to your father and mother, just as we are commanded by the Lord. Remember that no one loves you more than your parents.”

One evening in the summer of 1837, Joseph and I drove a carriage into the little town of Painesville, Ohio, and stopped at the house of a friend for supper. We had scarcely finished our meal when a disturbance arose outside. A mob had gathered; there were angry yells and threats of murder. They demanded that our host bring Joseph and me out to them. Instead, he led us out through a back door and helped us to get away in the darkness.
Pretty soon the mob discovered we had escaped, so they dispatched riders to hurry along the road they thought we would take. Bonfires were lighted, sentinels were placed, they hunted the countryside.
Joseph and I did not take the main road, however, but walked through the woods and swamps away from the road. We were helped by the bonfires. Pretty soon I began to falter in our flight. Sickness and fright had robbed me of strength.
Joseph had to decide whether to leave me to be captured by the mob or to endanger himself by rendering aid. Choosing the latter course, he lifted me upon his own broad shoulders and bore me with occasional rests through the swamp and darkness. Several hours later we emerged upon the lonely road and soon reached safety. Joseph’s herculean strength permitted him to accomplish this task and saved my life.

He saw and handled the plates of gold from which the Book of Mormon was translated and testified throughout his life to the truthfulness of that sacred book. His name remains firmly affixed, with those of the other witnesses to the Book of Mormon, in the front pages of that second witness of Jesus Christ. On one occasion he was imprisoned and told he would be released if he would deny the Book of Mormon. Not only did he not deny it, but he converted two persons during his thirty-day confinement.