Gospel Story Finder

Prodi sat up in bed with a jolt. His heart was beating fast.
Rain pattered on the roof as he sat in the darkness. He could hear water dripping from the African fig tree outside his window, and the air felt sticky and warm. Prodi took a deep breath and tried to relax. It was just a dream.
He crawled out of bed and peeked at his parents. Mama and Papa were sleeping peacefully. His little sister, Célia, was curled up in her bed too. Everything was OK. His family was safe.
Prodi climbed back into bed and tried to go back to sleep. He tossed and turned, then tossed and turned some more. He knew his dream wasn’t real, but it had been so scary! Even though he was tired, he was afraid to fall asleep again. What if he had another nightmare?
Prodi lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. He tried to think of happy thoughts. Heavenly Father, are you really there? And do you hear and answer every child’s prayer? A wave of warmth came over Prodi as he thought of the words of his favorite Primary song. Sister Kioska had taught them that Heavenly Father was always watching over them. They could pray to Him anytime, anywhere.
Prodi knew what to do. He got out of bed and knelt down to pray.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “I’m really scared. Please keep my family safe. And please help me to go to sleep and not have any more bad dreams.”
Prodi finished his prayer and climbed back in bed. His body relaxed, and his mind felt peaceful. Soon he was asleep.
When morning came, Prodi woke up to the warm sun shining through the window. He could hear pots clanging in the kitchen. Célia was at the table eating leftover cassava. Mama was warming some up for him to eat too.
“Bonjour,” Mama said. “How did you sleep?”
“I had a really scary nightmare,” Prodi said. “But then I said a prayer. Heavenly Father helped me feel safe.”
“I’m sorry you had a bad dream,” Mama said. She hugged Prodi close and didn’t let go for a long time. “But I’m so glad you said a prayer. It sounds like praying really helped you.”
“It did,” said Prodi. “I was able to fall asleep again, and I didn’t have any more bad dreams.” Prodi hugged Mama tight. He was glad to know that no matter how scared he felt, Heavenly Father was just a prayer away.
Go to page 15 to meet the boy from this story!

However, just because we have a spirit of gratitude, faith in the Savior, and pray sincerely does not mean we will not have trials and hard times. We learn and grow from the experiences we have here in mortality. I grew up with wonderful parents that exemplified the gospel. My mother taught Spanish and my father was a civil engineer. My father was big and strong. When I was young I loved to have him throw me up in the air then catch me laughing. He carried me on his shoulders and showed me the world. Later he carried his grandchildren the same way.
When I was about six I realized that he was one of the kindest people in the world. One day as we stood in line for an ice cream cone he left me with my sister and walked past the angry customers to the front of the line. He quietly told the frustrated clerk that he would pay the difference between the handful of pennies a messy little boy had spread on the counter and the food the boy had ordered. It was a small thing really, maybe a few dollars, but it made a huge impact on me. I first began to understand the love of the Savior because of the love my father showed.
About a month ago my father died. We had 12 hours from the time that the Life Flight helicopter landed at the hospital for my family to gather. Machines surrounded his bed in the critical care unit. They buzzed and cried out while they traced the electronic patterns of his failing body. At the end, I stood at his bedside with my mother and my sisters, my husband and my children, and we wept. At that moment everything else fell away—all concern with pretense, or positions, or possessions did not matter. The only things that remained important were the covenants that held my family together and the Savior's victory over death.
The next Friday, after work, I walked along the snow-packed streets of Rexburg. I would like to thank the many BYU-Idaho students who stopped to offer me a ride. I'm sure I looked cold walking in the snow and slush, but despite the skirt I was wearing I just felt the need to walk and think. No one could see the invisible hurt and sorrow I was carrying. When I looked up through the swirling flakes I could see the temple, creamy white in the snow. But instead of peace, questions machine-gunned into my mind, not because I doubt, but because I hurt. Where was my father? Is the gospel real? Can these covenants really keep us safe? How will I help my mother? Where is hope? Will this winter ever end? By the time I got home I was numb, even more in my heart than in my toes. I talked, walked, made dinner, and slept numb.
In the morning the sun rose. Outside, as I ran past the snowfields, answers came. Past the despair and pain that seemed to hang in the air, I could breathe in the hope given through the Atonement. Through the Savior's sacrifice my heart could beat, my lungs could fill, and blood could circulate without collapsing under the weight of forever losing someone I loved, because of the Atonement; because of the covenants my father and mother made and spent their lives keeping; because of the covenants I have made and am striving to keep, we can be united as a family again. The Savior and Redeemer knows perfectly how to succor us.

About two years ago I read this column in the newspaper:
“Dear Abby:
“I’m sitting here on the plane reading the letter in your column about the son who didn’t want to put his father up temporarily because he felt his father’s visit would be an invasion of his privacy.
“That item caught my eye because I am on my way to visit my son in Omaha for two weeks—at his insistence. I was reluctant to do so initially because I felt I might be interfering with his personal activities.
“I wonder if the son who wrote that letter ever gave a thought to the privacy his father might have forfeited during his son’s time at home?
“There were times during my children’s lives when, given my druthers, I’d have preferred some alternative activity, but now I don’t regret one minute of the time I spent with them. I’m only sorry it couldn’t have been more. Their time at home seems to have been so brief.
“I won’t mail this, of course, since I realize you will receive thousands of more articulate letters on the above. This is just my way of …”
“Dear Abby: My father died suddenly of a heart attack, and this unfinished letter was in his pocket. My wife and I will miss him very much. Sign this—‘A son who really wanted his dad to come.’ William Smzyk, Omaha, Nebr.” (Abigail Van Buren, Deseret News 13 Dec. 1979, p. C7.)

As a youth of 18, I went off almost directly from high school graduation to World War II, carrying with me a carbon copy of my patriarchal blessing, which got very smudged. I read it for consolation and reassurance as a young, frightened infantryman during the fighting on the Pacific Island of Okinawa. Just prior to that, high school, for me, had brought some crises in self-esteem. Raising pigs for a farm club project did not, with some, help my social life; severe acne was no help either; and not being very tall meant, among other things, not making the basketball team. All of these things had combined to produce personal disappointment just prior to my going off to war.

But as I left the home of loving and “goodly parents,” I knew who I was and there were some glimmerings of the future. I knew, too, that the Lord loved me. Otherwise, I was insecure and anxious.

My father was a rancher. The colonies are normally quite dry. At first there weren’t many deep wells, so most of our water came from the river. Rain was very important, and it was scarce. We had a couple of man-made lakes to store the water in when it did rain. We had to rely on the Lord for our blessings, and quite often the ward fasted.
I remember one time when I was about eight years old and we were in a drought situation—it had been a long time since it had rained, and we needed it desperately. Our ward had a special fast, and by the time we left our sacrament meeting, the clouds had gathered and it started to rain. We relied on the Lord because of our need. Sometimes our family fasted for the blessing of rain, and it rained. It was a matter of knowing that if we did our part, the Lord would bless us. That built great faith in me as a young boy.

One of the most cherished and fundamental beliefs of our faith is that, through the sealing ordinance, we can be bound together as families for eternity. As a young student, I eagerly looked forward to being sealed in the temple to a worthy companion and creating an eternal family together.

But I graduated from BYU single. I had not planned on that, and my lack of planning left me feeling adrift.

In the ensuing years I had a lot of questions for Heavenly Father. When I was at my lowest, they sounded like this:

“What am I doing wrong?”
“Why can my friends find companions and I can’t?”
“Why hast Thou forgotten me?”

These questions were born of loneliness, sorrow, and frustration. In those times I would have been well served by Sister Michelle D. Craig’s words:

When hard times come, I try to remember that I chose to follow Christ before I came to earth and that challenges to my faith, my health, and my endurance are all part of the reason I’m here. And I certainly should never think that today’s trial calls into question God’s love for me or let it turn my faith in Him into doubt. Trials do not mean that the plan is failing; they are part of the plan meant to help me seek God. I become more like Him when I endure patiently, and hopefully, like Him, when in agony, I pray more earnestly.

The challenge of waiting for marriage did help me to seek God and to pray more earnestly. My questions for Heavenly Father became more productive and faith-focused:

“What is Thy plan for me at this time, if not marriage and parenthood?”
“How should I be using my talents to build the kingdom?”

As I listened in stillness, God began answering these questions. He prompted me to undertake a series of very intentional actions through which I offered my heart to Christ, who, in turn, bound me to Him.

Personal gospel study and prayer provided me with guidance for my situation. The temple became a beloved refuge. I felt the support of family on the other side of the veil as I engaged in temple and family history work. I wholeheartedly invested in my roles as a daughter, sister, aunt, and friend and in building relationships that I cherish. Serving in the Primary, Sunday School, Young Women, and Relief Society ­organizations gave me additional purpose and community. By consistently engaging in these activities, I experienced Christ’s goodness regularly. Seeing evidence of His mercy and love helped me ­maintain a “brightness of hope” for my future. How grateful I felt to be fettered to the Prince of Peace!

As an exercise, I ask students to keep journals taking note of their spiritual impressions—when and how they occur and how they respond. One student, Moe Graviet, gave me permission to share a portion of her journal. She recorded a set of spiritual impressions she had received shortly before a large assignment was due in another class. She was visiting her family and woke up in the morning eager to get to work but felt distinct spiritual impressions to do things a little differently: to go back to sleep and get a little more rest, to take time to pray and read her scriptures, and to spend time with her family. As the day progressed, she began to worry: If these were spiritual impressions she was receiving, did the Spirit want her to get a bad grade on her big assignment? Was the Lord trying to humble her? I quote here from her account:

I determined whether an impression was coming from the Spirit based on whether it felt peaceful or led in the way of peace. So when my sister wanted to go for a run, I went. When my mom needed help in the basement, I helped—and I wondered how in the world I was going to get my assignment done. But I kept feeling an extraordinary, counterintuitive peace—like the Lord was showing me how I could live life in a state of calm instead of panic. Of course, by the end of the day, the Lord blessed my mind with ideas and energy to get done all I needed to. In reflecting on this experience, I began to wonder if this is what it’s like to actually live under the influence of the Spirit—to live calmly, doing the right things at the right moments, and getting things done with joy and peace instead of stress. And I honestly began to wonder if I had done it all wrong these last four years of college and what things would have been like if I had been intentionally living each day like this. I wondered if I could have saved myself a lot of stress and hopelessness and why I didn’t trust the whole time.

As a young man I was given a very strong written admonition to prove myself a faithful and obedient son so that as I grew older and whenever I needed counsel and advice, I should go to my parents, though they be “bowed in years,” to receive from them wisdom, comfort, and guidance. My father passed away over 20 years ago, having been a great and exemplary source of wisdom for me all the days of my life, and we just laid my 101-year-old mother to rest beside her eternal companion last Monday. In her 100th year, she affirmed her lifelong testimony in these words: “The gospel is a way of life; it is part of the plan to help us avoid bitterness. More than ever, I believe that this life is good but that the next life is better” (in “Growing Old Graciously: Lessons from a Centenarian,” Religious Educator 5, no. 1 [2004], 11).
My mother often told me that she prayed for me and for our family every day. As she came closer and closer to the veil, her prayers were especially fervent and meaningful to me. Both of my parents, as well as my dear parents-in-law, endured or are enduring to the end in righteous paths, leaving a legacy of faithful dedication for all their posterity to follow.

Allow me to share one personal example of when I experienced just such an occasion. I was in my second year at the University and approaching my 20th birthday. Because I had been the youngest in my class throughout high school, all of my friends who were going on missions had already left by the start of my sophomore year in college. But I was still 18, so I had continued on in school. I was also on the university swim team, doing well in school, and dating a wonderful young lady. In short, I was having a lot of fun. In fact, I was enjoying life so much that I was selfishly becoming increasingly reluctant to leave for my mission. I remember even thinking that maybe I should wait until after I graduated to go on a mission.

Then one Sunday, my bishop asked me when I was going on a mission, and I gave an indirect response about wanting to finish that year of school. Later that afternoon at the dinner table, my dad happened to ask me when I was going. Through a couple of key questions, he challenged me to find out what the Lord wanted me to do. His questions haunted me for several days because I knew the recipe for success regarding the blessings of serving a full-time mission.

I finally went to see the bishop to make firm plans to leave on my mission that summer. I am so grateful that the Lord provided the circumstances and subtle hints that led me to make a choice that clearly corrected my error and redirected a slight deviation in my course. Following that particular recipe made a huge difference in the rest of my life.

The Utah Bonneville Stake’s pioneer experience wasn’t just a trek through some of the same territory pioneers settled in after they arrived in Utah; it was also a trek through time. Many of the youth read their pioneer ancestors’ journals before going on the trek, to give them a very personal idea of what the exodus west meant to the pioneers.

“One of my ancestors came from Nauvoo to Utah,” says Candice McConkie, 17. “She had to travel alone because her husband had died. I really admire her courage and sacrifice. And because of her, I felt I could face any of the hard experiences of our trek and even some of the real hardships I might have to face later in my life.”

The stake’s Youth Pioneer Trek Council wanted their trek to be unforgettable for everyone, even those without pioneer ancestors, so they made a few rules about modern conveniences being left behind. Who would have thought that bar soap would fall into that category?

“After a while, it didn’t seem to matter if you were dirty or clean, because everyone else was the same way. You began to notice people for what they were inside instead of outside,” says Patrick Moench, 17.

And the food wasn’t much like what the youth were used to either. But that didn’t seem to matter much to anyone, especially 17-year-old Ryan Parker.

“I don’t care how the food tastes ,” he says. “I just hope there’s lots of it.”

Several years ago our son Spencer was interviewing with prospective employers as he prepared to graduate from BYU with a degree in finance.

One large company invited him to Chicago for additional “in-house” interviews, meetings, and social gatherings. Spencer was joined by a cohort of qualified candidates from other fine academic institutions from across the country. It soon became clear, however, that from this process only a few positions would be offered.

Several other recruits whose flights had arrived at the same time, one of whom was Hispanic, joined Spencer on the ride from the airport to corporate headquarters. Because he had served a mission to Venezuela, Spencer engaged this new friend in conversation in her native Spanish, much to the surprise of the other passengers. As days passed, the group learned that the guy from BYU refused alcohol at dinner, was married, had been a missionary, and preferred to retire comparatively early. Although he was friendly and amusing, compared to the cohorts, he was definitely different.

On the last day of the visit, the group was given a hypothetical situation that required each person to prepare a presentation arguing for a specific corporate program. Spencer was assigned to argue that the corporation should donate funds to a local low-income, home-building project. Although little time was given to prepare, Spencer’s presentation began: “A wise man once said that no other success can compensate for failure in the home.” The company representatives were intrigued. They leaned closer and became attentive; they had never heard such profound counsel before. Spencer continued to expound gospel-centered principles about the importance of the home to society as he argued for the contribution. Ultimately Spencer got the job offer. Why? Because he was different—in a good way.

In the middle of her tenth summer, Cassie decided to have a Great Adventure.
“A Great Adventure? What’s that?” Morgan, her best friend, asked.
“It’s like when my big brother does things with the Boy Scouts,” Cassie said. “They work and save money and then do really fun things, like boating or camping or horseback riding.”
“Wow!” Morgan exclaimed. “What will you do?”
Cassie thought for a moment. “I think I’ll spend a whole day at the amusement park, ride on every ride, and have all the cotton candy I want.”
“Sounds great—can I come, too?”
“Sure. We can have a Great Adventure together. But you’ll have to help earn the money for it.”
“OK. What can we do to earn money?”
“Lots of things. Let’s make a list.” Cassie took out a piece of paper and a pencil. “Let’s see—we can mow lawns, baby-sit, and collect aluminum cans.”
“Walk dogs, sell lemonade, and weed gardens,” Morgan added.
“That’s probably enough ideas to get started,” Cassie said. “Let’s meet at my house every Saturday and see how much money we earned during the week.”
“Great!” Morgan’s eyes gleamed. “I can almost taste the cotton candy already.”
On Saturday Cassie brought out a big glass jar and set it on the kitchen table. “OK, Morgan, let’s see what you have.”
Morgan reached into her backpack and brought out a bag of homemade cookies.
Cassie looked puzzled. “What are those for?”
“That’s what I made this week,” Morgan said quietly.
“What?”
“Mrs. Burke gave them to me for mowing her lawn. I couldn’t ask her for money. She can’t even afford to fix her old lawnmower.”
“All right,” Cassie said. “I understand. Here’s my haul.” She dropped a handful of coins into the jar. “I made it recycling pop cans. I did have fifty cents more, but the lady at the recycling center looked so hot that I bought her a cold drink.”
Morgan sighed. “That’s OK.”
Cassie smiled. “We’ll do better next week. You’ll see.”
The next week Morgan dropped a few dollars into the jar. “I opened my lemonade stand,” she said.
Cassie laid down some wilted flowers. “They weren’t wilted when Mr. Jeffries gave them to me,” she explained. “I got them for weeding his flower patch.”
“That’s nice,” Morgan said without enthusiasm.
The next week Morgan plopped a big zucchini onto the kitchen table. “Don’t tell me,” Cassie said. “You weeded someone’s garden.”
“Uh-huh. Mom’s going to make zucchini bread to sell at my lemonade stand. I’ll make tons of money. What do you have?”
Cassie slowly pulled from her pocket a ten-dollar bill.
Morgan’s eyes lit up. “That’s terrific! Where did it come from?”
Cassie frowned. “I walked Mrs. Peterson’s dog every day this week. But I hated to take her money. Her dog is sick, and she can’t even afford to buy its medicine.”
“Maybe it’ll get better with all the exercise you gave it,” Morgan suggested hopefully.
Cassie shrugged. “Maybe.”
The next week Morgan brought thirteen dollars from her lemonade stand, and Cassie made fifteen dollars baby-sitting.
Morgan grinned. “Now the money’s really rolling in!”
“But not fast enough,” Cassie pointed out. “It’s almost the last week of summer vacation, and we don’t have nearly enough money for our Great Adventure.”
“We could still buy all the cotton candy we could eat,” Morgan said.
“Or we could avoid a stomachache and do something better with our money.”
“Like what?”
“Like pay for a sick dog’s medicine.”
“Do we have enough?” Morgan’s eyes got big.
“I think so. Let’s count it up.”
They were still several dollars short.
“We have to earn more,” Cassie said. “My brother is going to Scout camp this week and said he’d pay me to do his paper route.”
“I’ll ask my dad if I can wash the car and clean out the garage,” Morgan said.
“Great! See you next week.”
The next Saturday, when Cassie and Morgan counted up their money, they were excited to find out that they had more than enough for the medicine. They hurried right over to Mrs. Peterson’s house and gave her the money. Mrs. Peterson got tears in her eyes and hugged them again and again. Then she gave them some homemade cookies.
As they walked down the street, Cassie said, “Isn’t this where it all began?”
“Whu whub beguab?” Morgan asked, her mouth full of cookie.
“Our Great Adventure. It really started when someone gave us cookies instead of money.”
“Oh, yeah.” Morgan thought for a minute. “What should we do with the extra money? Still want to get cotton candy?”
“No.” Cassie bit into a cookie. “These are much better than cotton candy. I was thinking we should save our money.”
“For what?”
“For next summer’s Great Adventure.”
“Next summer?”
“Yeah. I thought maybe we could cross the ocean on a cruise ship.”
“Or maybe get Mrs. Burke’s lawnmower fixed?”
“That would also be a Great Adventure.” Cassie grinned. “Don’t you think so?”
Morgan nodded. “I can hardly wait.”

Fifteen years ago I, like Alma and the sons of Mosiah, experienced “a joyful meeting” (Alma 27:16). I had traveled from my home in Argentina to Salt Lake City to attend general conference and to perform temple ordinances there for my deceased relatives. To my surprise, in the corridors of the Salt Lake Temple, I ran into Brother Evans Jones, the missionary who baptized me 40 years before. Despite the passage of time, we joyfully recognized each other.
We had met previously in 1942, when I was 12 years old and living in Córdoba, Argentina. On 5 February of that year, a small group of us gathered at an irrigation canal for my baptismal service. I still remember the feeling I had when I stepped into the water and felt the muddy bottom under my naked feet. I walked carefully, knowing I was doing something very important. My heart beat loudly in my chest as I made sacred promises to the Lord.
Since then, I have been privileged to see the work of the Lord grow in Argentina as thousands have entered the waters of baptism. In those early days, we considered 10 people at church meetings good attendance. Today Argentina is home to 10 missions and 46 stakes, and we are blessed to have a temple in Buenos Aires.
Fifty-two years after my baptism, my assignment as a counselor in the Argentina Córdoba Mission presidency took me back by that canal. I was able to observe that the waters of the old canal are still running, still giving life to the plants growing there—just as my baptism in that water gave a new life to me, my family, and my posterity. Thank you, Elder Jones, and thank you to everyone who shares the precious treasure of the restored gospel.

A small note on the keyboard read, “This computer is reserved for Samuel at 5:00 a.m.” In response to his stake president’s challenge for the stake to index one million names, 14-year-old Samuel B. of Utah started getting up at 5:00 a.m. so that he could index before school. With one computer in the home and seven siblings with homework to do, Samuel had to sacrifice some sleep in order to get time on the computer.
But Samuel’s enthusiasm spread to the rest of his family. Soon his brother Nathan sacrificed basketball time and his sister Ivyllyn sacrificed reading time in order to index. “I’ve never been challenged as much by my children,” Samuel’s father says. “Until they got involved, I thought indexing was hard. They taught me that it could be easy and fun.” The following New Year’s Eve, the children were rushing to finish their yearly indexing goals before midnight.
Thousands of miles away, the Lanuza family in Guatemala caught the same enthusiasm. This family of nine—five children, Mom, Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa—share one computer. With the children using the computer for homework, Mom finishing her studies at the university, and Dad working, the computer is always in high demand, and each family member takes turns indexing. Together, the family indexed more than 37,000 records in 2011.

South Africa, London, Reno, Argentina, Maine …
The names of countries, capitals, cities, and states swirled through Julie’s mind as she watched her geography teacher, Ms. Simmons, pass out tests at the front of the room.
Julie tapped her feet on the floor. It wasn’t that she didn’t like geography—she loved it! But she was nervous about labeling the map. What if she mixed up Spain and France again?
Tate turned around in his chair and handed back a stack of tests. Julie took one and handed the rest to her friend Allie behind her. She drummed her pencil against her lower lip and stared at the paper. It had a big map of the world on it with lots of lines for her to fill in. Where should she even start?
She glanced up. That’s when she noticed that something strange was going on.
One of the boys was hiding a smile and pointing toward the front of the room. Other kids were noticing and starting to whisper.
Julie looked where the boy was pointing. Her heart started to pound.
A map of the world was still taped on the board! Ms. Simmons had forgotten to take it down, and all the answers were right there for everyone to see!
Quickly Julie ducked her head. She didn’t want to look at the map. That would be cheating. But it was suddenly very hard to keep her eyes on her test.
Maybe I can do my best without looking, she thought. And then I’ll just double-check my answers at the end. But no, that would be cheating too.
The longer she sat there, the worse Julie felt. Even if she didn’t look at the map, she wouldn’t feel completely honest if she didn’t tell Ms. Simmons about it.
Holding her breath, Julie slowly raised her hand.
Ms. Simmons walked down the aisle to her desk.
Julie felt like the whole class was glaring at her. Her face turned bright red with embarrassment.
“Yes, Julie?” Ms. Simmons asked. “Do you need something?”
“Ms. Simmons, I think you accidentally left the map on the board,” Julie whispered.
“Oh, dear. Thank you for pointing that out, Julie.” She walked over and took it down.
Julie heard some grumbling around her, but she kept her head down and focused on her test. The tension in the room seemed to melt away. I probably wasn’t the only one who wanted to say something, she thought. It was a lot easier to finish the test without feeling tempted to look at the board.
Julie was glad that she had kept her teacher’s trust. Most important, she knew that Heavenly Father would be happy with her choice to be completely honest. Heavenly Father, she prayed silently, thank Thee for giving me the courage to speak up.

I remember several years back my wife and I were at the White Cliffs of Dover in England. At that time we could drive close to the cliff's edge. We got out of the car and admired the beauty. I wanted to get closer to the edge and watch the sea birds that would catch the updrafts near the sea cliffs and glide out over the water in search of food. My wife would not go too close. But I was so intrigued that I wanted to stand on the very edge to watch. An interesting thing happened to me. Whether it was the wind or the height or something else I felt unsteady as if I was going to fall off the cliff. I quickly retreated a few steps to a place of safety.

When we are on the edge of keeping the commandments, mistakes can be made easily and they can be spiritually fatal. It is much safer to have distance between us and the edge. We should set our limits some distance away from the edge. There may be times when a girlfriend or boyfriend may encourage us closer to that edge than we feel comfortable. Those are times when we should quickly move further away from the edge and perhaps away from those people. Nothing is worth our eternal life, no friend, no popularity and no earthly wealth.

The day the missionaries knocked on my door will always stand out as one of the pivotal moments of my life. It wasn’t that I was searching for meaning—I had been deeply religious since childhood. I had spent seven years in a convent, and although I had left that lifestyle because it wasn’t bringing me closer to God, I was involved in my church congregation working with the choir and teaching religion.
In fact, I had made a firm resolution not to discuss religion with any door-to-door missionaries because the spirit of contention frequently arose when conflicting interpretations of scripture were discussed. But the Lord, in His goodness, had prepared me for this visit. A few months earlier I had heard someone make a remark about a “Mormon book” connected to the mythology of South America. This prompted me to want to investigate any light such a book might shed on some themes I had already studied. I had filed this away for future reference, knowing that sooner or later I would read the Mormon book and investigate its mythological validity.
Answering the door that day, I was not thinking about books or mythological themes. I was a busy young mother spending most of my energy tending a small baby and chasing a very active three-year-old. But as I approached the door, my mind was overcome with a kind of vision, a mental picture of Abraham going to the door of his tent on the day he received an important message. I was impressed with the premonition that opening that door would bring a message of some importance.
Nevertheless, I was confused when all that stood there were these two young men labeled as Latter-day Saint missionaries. If it hadn’t been for the “vision,” I would have politely said good-bye and shut the door. I decided, instead, that I needed to find out what sort of message they had for me.
It started out all wrong. One of them asked me if I believed in prophets. Of course I did. But when these young men enthusiastically presented me a photo of 15 men in modern business suits and proclaimed that prophets and apostles were currently on the earth, credibility was stretched to the limit. I had been brought up in a religion whose clergy dressed the part, and business suits were not what they wore! So I decided, generously, to ignore the remark. And I searched mentally for some rational foundation for the “vision” still fresh in my mind.
I do not remember how I made the connection that “Latter-day Saint” missionaries might know something about a “Mormon” book. But once that thought crossed my mind, I was quick to pursue the topic.
“Don’t you have some kind of book?” I asked. They did. I told them I had not found it in the library and did not know where to get it. Maybe they could help me. They could. They volunteered to come back with a copy the following week. And I made a mental note to be unavailable for religious “discussion” so they could simply drop off the book and leave.
When I finally did receive my copy of the book, I thanked the young men and agreed, again without any sense of commitment, that they could come back to answer any questions I had. Later that evening with my husband home from work and the children somewhat settled down, I picked up the book and began to read.
Nothing had prepared me for what I found in its pages. And it was with awe, shock, delight, and some confusion that I shortly announced to my husband my most amazing discovery: “This is a book of scripture!”
There was no doubt at all. I had done enough serious scripture study and had read enough of the world’s sacred literature to become immediately aware that this book was not a record of myth or an ancient history text or anything other than the true word of God. It spoke to me with that spiritual voice, and as I began following footnotes and looking up topics that interested me, it gave me answers to many of the theological questions I had puzzled over for years. It was, without doubt, the most exciting book I had ever picked up, and it continued to amaze and edify me whichever page I opened it to.
When the young missionaries returned as they had promised, I was home. And I had a message of great importance for them. I told them something I felt they needed to know: “Your book is a true book!” And I demanded to know why it was the property of their church, feeling that it was entirely in the wrong hands!
At that point, I was ready to listen to what they had to say. After many months of investigation, I came to know that this wonderful book had not only brought me light and knowledge beyond my highest expectations, but it had also led me to the fulness of the gospel, the power of the priesthood, and the knowledge that those 15 men in business suits were evidence of the true Church of Jesus Christ, present again upon the earth.

I guess I was about seven when Mom told me that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. Maybe she had told me earlier, but I don’t remember that. (I was very young when I was born.)
“So, if I really want something, and if I’m a really good boy, and I ask for it—Heavenly Father will give it to me?”
“That’s right, son. If your faith is very strong, and if it’s for your own good, he’ll give it to you.”
That hot summer night in 1944 I lay in bed thinking about what I wanted most from Heavenly Father. Another brother? Maybe. A new baseball? I’d probably get one for my birthday anyway. How about an end to the war and my dad coming home? Yes. But Mom was working hard on that one with her prayers.
And then it came to me—the one single, most critical, most desirable, most longed for, most important thing in all the world to my seven-year-old heart: I wanted to fly … like a bird.
And why not? Birds flew. Bats flew. P-51s flew. Kites and paper airplanes and bugs and butterflies flew. Why not me?
How the other kids would envy me! How Miss Gamble would gasp with astonishment and admiration! And wouldn’t Joey Hirschberger next door just turn bright green with envy?
Taking care not to wake my little brother, Lynn, I slid out of bed and dropped to my knees. I folded my arms (like Mom), and squeezed my eyes shut (unlike Lynn). Then I clenched my teeth (a sure sign of great faith) and scrunched up my face (for intensity), and uttered my first all-alone-by-myself, out-loud prayer:
“Heavenly Father, I want to fly. I really, really, really want to fly. Won’t you please bless me so that I can fly? I’ll be a really good boy if you’ll help me to fly. Honest. Amen.”
Then I got off my knees, pulled my chair to the center of the darkened room, and climbed up on the chair. Extending my arms out wide, I whispered it again: “Please, Heavenly Father, help me to fly. Mom said you could do it. I know you can do it.”
With this, I began to flap my arms furiously. Up and down, up and down, faster, faster.
You can probably guess what happened: My arms got tired.
I sat down and thought about it. Maybe I was missing something important. Maybe what I needed was to jump off the chair while I flapped my arms.
I climbed back up on the chair. This time I flapped my arms really hard and then jumped off the chair, upward, outward.
And downward. Thump! Soon Mother appeared at the door, wondering what had caused all the noise.
The next day I pondered the problem until I thought I had it figured out: Heavenly Father must be testing my faith. Maybe the secret was to pray for several nights in a row and to grit my teeth harder and to scrunch up my face tighter while I prayed.
I tried it. Each night for a week I prayed and prayed, my faith and fervor growing. By Sunday night I was sure that I was ready.
Back up on the chair, arms extended, I once more whispered my plea to the Lord, absolutely sure that he would hear and answer my prayer and grant me flight.
My arms began to flap up and down, faster, faster. I jumped upward and outward.
And downward. Thump! Again I was questioned about the loud thump from the upstairs bedroom.
What was missing? I had gritted my teeth and scrunched my face. Why hadn’t it worked? Why hadn’t I soared from the chair and flapped around the room? I lay in bed for a long time thinking, wondering.
The next day I was down in the foxhole-fort-dugout-clubhouse on the shady side of the garage when I heard Mom calling me.
Blackberries. I had promised to pick the berries from the huge wild blackberry bush behind the garage. But it was hot, and I didn’t feel like fighting the vicious brambles and thorns of August to ensure jam next January.
Just for a moment, I pretended I hadn’t heard her. That’s when the inspiration came: How could I expect the Lord to give me flight if I couldn’t give Mom a few minutes for an errand?
From that moment, I became an errand boy possessed. I not only picked blackberries, I chopped kindling wood. I filled the wood box. I swept the porch. I set the table and went to the store. And then I picked more blackberries until my arms and hands were scratched and bleeding from the thorns.
I wore Mom out with demands for more and more errands. How could the Lord deny me now? I had prayed with all my might for two weeks, had exercised enormous faith, had filled my days with good works and gallon buckets of blackberries. Surely, my first flight was now at hand!
That night I mentioned all of this to the Lord in my prayer, then climbed back onto the chair in my darkened bedroom. This time … This time … This time it will work!
It didn’t work. The upward, outward curve again continued into the downward curve, ending in the by now familiar thump. Sure enough, Mother soon appeared at the door, warning me not to awaken Lynn.
I was stumped. For all my prayers and all my faith and all my good works, I remained as earthbound as Joey Hirschberger or Jimmy Johnson. What could be missing?
Without ever mentioning my desire to fly, I put the problem of unanswered prayers to my Sunday School teacher. What followed was a lesson on how to pray and how Heavenly Father answers prayers. And there was the answer. I marveled that I had missed it: I had failed to trust utterly and completely in the Lord.
Up until now, I had jumped off a low chair—a chair low enough that if the flapping didn’t work, I at least wouldn’t break my neck. The Lord must be waiting for me to show real faith by jumping off of something high enough that failure would hurt. That would prove my faith!
And beyond that, I had always made my attempts in the privacy of a darkened bedroom. Next time I would prove real faith by jumping off of something really high—and with an audience and in broad daylight.
All the next week I prepared. The faith, the prayers, the endless helpfulness to Mom continued. By Saturday afternoon I was ready.
Down in the fort I explained my project to Lynn and Joey Hirschberger and Jimmy Johnson. I explained about faith and good works. I explained about the kind of prayers where you grit your teeth and scrunch up your face. I explained about having to risk yourself to show that you trust the Lord absolutely.
And then I started up the ladder to the roof of the garage. Lynn and Jimmy and Joey remained in the fort watching and wondering.
Joey said he thought I was crazy. But what did Joey know about faith and works and prayers?
And now I was on the roof of the garage, looking down. It seemed farther from the roof to the ground than it had appeared the other way around.
Directly below me was the terrible blackberry bush. It looked higher and wider than it ever had from the ground. Great long guard brambles covered with vicious thorns reached up almost to where I stood.
I fought down the doubting thought: “What if it doesn’t work? What if I don’t fly? What if I land in the blackberry bush?” But one mustn’t doubt! The entire effort might fail if one doubted!
For doubt is the opposite of faith. Simple logic dictated that if one removed his protection from the awful blackberry thorns that would prove absolute, unshakable faith.
Off came the shirt. Joey said he thought that was the dumbest thing he’d ever seen, and he was going to tell my mom.
I told Joey to sit down and be quiet, but he left to tell Mom anyway. Now I had to hurry!
I closed my eyes and reminded the Lord about how he answers prayers of faith and how if someone wants something badly enough and is a good boy and helps his mom and goes to Sunday School, his prayers will be answered.
That done, I began to flap my arms, faster and faster. Then, eyes still closed tight, I jumped upward and outward from the roof of the garage—upward and outward over a huge wild blackberry bush—with no shirt on.
Before I opened my eyes, I knew I was lying on my back on the kitchen table. Doc Nichols was just leaving, saying something about how you couldn’t possibly break a bone jumping into an overgrown “pillow”—even if it was covered with stickers. I could feel the cool washcloth as Mother continued washing the blood from my dozens of scratches and cuts.
After Doc Nichols left, Mom chased out all the small, wide-eyed spectators, and I opened my eyes. I saw that my mother’s arms and hands and face were covered with dozens of scratches—and realized the price she had paid to rescue me.
She smiled her special tender smile and held me close in her arms. “For injuries sustained in battle, I award you the purple heart,” she said quietly, “and maybe a bronze star for bravery.”
“Do you have a medal for dumbness?” I asked. “I feel so stupid!”
“I suppose we all feel that way sometimes,” Mother replied. “We make mistakes, we learn from them, and then we go on.”
There was a long pause before I asked the question: “You said Heavenly Father answers prayers …”
Mom finished the sentence: “And now you’re not really sure if he does answer prayers.” Somehow Mom always knew what I was thinking.
“Of course he hears and answers prayers,” she said—and I could tell she really meant it. “Only sometimes we pray for things that aren’t good for us. Sometimes we forget to say, ‘Thy will be done.’ And sometimes his answer is a quiet, firm no. But no is an answer, too, isn’t it, son? He can’t always say yes, can he? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I guess so. But, Mom, I wanted so much to fly! And I tried so hard!”
“Someday, son, when your dad comes home from the Navy, you’ll have the answer to your prayers. You and Dad can go to the airport and pay for a half-hour flight. There are many ways Heavenly Father could give you a yes answer to your prayers for flight. But it won’t come through flapping your arms and jumping off garages into blackberry bushes.”
By now all the bleeding had stopped, a small bandage over each cut and scratch. As she turned to tending her own wounds, Mother smiled at me and pretended to be stern, “And speaking of jumping off of garages into blackberry bushes: Young man, if you ever do that again, I’ll take away your purple heart and give you a dishonorable discharge!”
A voice interrupted my daydreaming. “We are on our final approach to Hamburg International. Please fasten your seat belts.”
Funny about that childish prayer for flight all those years ago. For a while it had seemed that Heavenly Father didn’t really answer prayers. My answer hadn’t come just then when I had wanted it so badly. It had come later—flying over Portland in a biplane with Dad. And with the other Scouts in pursuit of a merit badge. And then aboard a huge jet en route to the Germany Hamburg Mission. Funny how the answers always seem to come—though not always at the time or in the way we expect.
I fastened my seat belt and let a little prayer run through my mind: “I thank thee, Father, for hearing and answering the prayer of a seven-year-old boy. I thank thee for giving me flight.”

At Chetham’s, surrounded by people whose values and standards differ from her own, Fleur is determined to keep her Young Women values. Although students aren’t allowed to smoke or drink at school, some of them do so when they go out to Manchester, a nearby city.

Fleur explains: “When they say, ‘Come to the pub with us,’ I just say, ‘No, thanks. I don’t drink.’” Now that Fleur’s fellow students know her standards, they respect her for not drinking or smoking.

When she goes out, Fleur spends time with friends who don’t drink, or she goes shopping or to the cinema. “I make my own sort of fun,” she says.

I still remember my anticipation. The night was warm. An uneven breeze puffed through open window screens but did little to cool the air or my excitement. My own room! My own room! The thought pulsed like a syncopated heartbeat.
Wayne, my oldest brother, was going on a mission, and I was inheriting his downstairs room. If someone had been offering me a gold mine, I could not have felt so rich.
I kicked my single sheet to the bed bottom and flip-flopped with pleasure. Just think, Wayne’s old room! I had always lived with my little brother, Chris. Even after moving to the new house, our room was upstairs, while Rog and Wayne each had their own separate rooms downstairs. Roger alone, Wayne alone, but Brad and Chris always lumped together like a compound word without so much as a hyphen.
It’s not that Chris wasn’t an A-number-one pal. He was always good at bed-to-bed spider jumps or deciphering the secret codes I thumped out on his headboard. It’s just that I was in seventh grade now. A man should have his own room.
“Hey, Brad,” Chris whispered. I hadn’t realized he was even awake. “I’m sure going to miss Wayne. Do you think he’s doing the right thing by leaving?” The wispy breeze stirred the patterned curtains I wouldn’t have to look at for two whole years. I took a final glance around. This upstairs room I would not miss. “Don’t worry, Chris,” I comforted. “Wayne is doing the right thing by leaving, all right.”
In the weeks that followed, my life began to change noticeably. I guess it had something to do with entering junior high school and starting to grow up. All I know is that those funny little marks on my face didn’t wash off, my moods cracked as often as my voice, and what self-image I managed to salvage was as shaky as a skinny kid on the high dive. And I became rebellious.
“Gross—I don’t want to take piano lessons any more!”
“But you’ve always liked piano. Just think how much piano may help you contribute on your mission.”
Everyone I met had the same advice.
“So what? I don’t care about grades.”
“You’ve always had good study habits. You need good grades for the future.”
Even then I knew they were right. These were sensitive years when I most needed the advice and instruction, but outwardly I rejected them.
“Cut your hair,” “Read the scriptures,” and on and on. “Be trustworthy,” “Be loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous …” “Why doesn’t everyone stop hassling me?” I’d complain.
“Go on a mission!” In family home evenings, quorum meetings, and bishop interviews, the message was the same: “Prepare while you’re young.”
Night after night I slumped slowly downstairs feeling pressured and picked on. “No one understands,” I’d moan to the blue plaster walls in Wayne’s old room, a room I was enjoying because my brother was out there “doing the right thing” on his mission. I needed that perspective—weekly letters, pictures, cassettes telling what he and his companions were busy doing , not loud lectures but quiet guides that shaped and influenced me.
Every transfer Wayne had found me in front of the big mission map Mom hung in the stairwell, trying to pinpoint where my big brother was now. You see, I was beginning to enjoy following Wayne.
I remembered Wayne playing the piano for family night, working in the garden, running, studying, and reading. I remembered his straight-A report card Dad would post on the refrigerator. I wondered if anyone had ever called him names or made fun of him. I wondered but finally realized that whether they did or didn’t, it had not changed Wayne’s actions. He chose what was right. He did what was best, regardless of what his friends in junior high might have thought or said.
Wayne never told me not to smoke, but I knew he hadn’t. He never wrote to say, “Don’t skip class, read dirty books, or yell at Mom and Dad,” but I knew he hadn’t. There were no flashy sermons or overbearing orations. Wayne was simply a quiet, constant example.
Exhortations are valuable. My parents’ direction is, and always has been, important. Respected Church leaders, teachers, and friends are heard. Their interest in my life is appreciated. Yet perhaps the one who reached me the most did it quietly, from half a world away while I lived in his old room.
Now, freshly back from my own mission, I am checking right back into Wayne’s old room. My upstairs room is now serving as half den and half toy box for visiting grandchildren. But I like it down here. The walls are the same blue. The wooden shelves and desk are the same ones that held my junior high books. Nothing has really changed except me. How can I ever repay Wayne for the subtle, positive influence he has had on me? How can I show my appreciation for so many who have guided me through their quiet examples? How can I thank Christ who gave the perfect example? What can I do?
“Oh, Brad,” my sister-in-law Moana calls. “Have you seen Janelle?” Mom had been tending my niece all morning.
From upstairs came Mom’s voice in answer, “Don’t worry, Moana, she’s here. Right here in Brad’s old room.”