Gospel Story Finder

In the state of Utah it is not unusual to have towns named after people in the Book of Mormon. I heard of a tourist couple who were driving through Utah and commenting on the unusual names of the towns. As they saw Nephi on the map, the wife said, “Do you suppose that is Nep-hi?” Her husband responded, “Perhaps Nephy.” They decided to stop for lunch, and when the waitress brought their check, she asked if she could do anything else to help them. The gentleman said, “Tell us how to pronounce the name of this place.” The waitress responded, “Burger King.”

I first encountered the power of music as a young missionary serving in France. One day my companion, Elder Robertson, said, “Elder Nadauld, do you know how to sing?”
I said, “Maybe a little. Why do you ask?”
He suggested that we should sing a hymn or two at the beginning of teaching appointments. He and I had sung in our respective high school choirs. We weren’t the Osmond brothers, but we could carry a tune.
At our next teaching opportunity, we sang “Come unto Jesus” in French in two-part harmony. We felt an outpouring of the Spirit stronger than either of us had ever experienced before on our missions. Because of that inspiring experience, we continued to sing prior to all of our teaching, with the same powerful result.

Anne and Kara were both new in their ward when Anne was assigned to minister to Kara and her young family. A friendship quickly developed between the two of them. Anne, a newlywed, enjoyed helping Kara with her four young daughters, who ranged in age from newborn to seven years old. One day, Kara’s baby sustained a skull fracture that required surgery.
Anne jumped in and watched the other children until their grandmother could arrive to take care of them. Once their grandmother arrived, Anne checked with her to see what help she might need, then brought dinner to the family that night. She also arranged for neighbors to bring meals for a few days.
The next day when she checked in on Kara’s family, Anne noticed that one of Kara’s daughters was worried about her baby sister, so Anne invited her to come make cookies to give her some personal attention. Anne also texted the ward council to let them know what had happened and told them she would keep them updated about the situation. During the next week, while the baby received treatment, Anne kept the ward council up to date and saw to the family’s needs. Anne’s help allowed Kara time and peace of mind as a parent in a difficult, scary situation.

In March of this year, my wife and I had the privilege of taking some invited guests on a tour of the new Kinshasa Democratic Republic of the Congo Temple during the open house prior to its dedication.
As we stood in the beautiful temple baptistry, one of these guests asked an intriguing question. He said something like this: “In our tribal traditions, our ancestors are so important to us—how is it that you connect your families together through the generations?” It was a beautiful teaching moment as we then shared how in a gift of love and service, many faithful members of the Church perform vital ordinances, such as baptisms, on behalf of loved ones who have died. We then took him to the sealing room where we showed him the altar where families are united for the eternities and had him look into the mirrors which face one another—symbolic of the eternal links made between past and future generations.
This good man had many follow up questions and left the temple deeply affected by what he had seen and felt. He eagerly took a copy of the My Family booklet so he could collect names and stories of his own ancestors. With great sincerity he expressed gratitude for being in the temple and left with a new understanding of God’s plan for eternal families and the importance of sacred temples in that plan.
Another guest was so moved by the feelings of peace he had felt while sitting reverently in the celestial room that he asked: “I am a Catholic, but can I still come back to the temple to pray with your members, because I have felt so good in this special place of worship?” We invited him to bring his family as often as he wanted during the open house but explained that coming to the temple after it had been dedicated would require him to be a faithful member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

No doubt about it, dad had to develop a sense of humor to stay afloat in the large, lively Edwards family. One of 14 children, dad once said the only way he could tell he’d grown up was when he no longer had to sleep between two older brothers in a single bed. His sense of humor also helped him deal with experiences outside the family circle. When dad was a senior at the old Lincoln High School in Orem, Utah, for example, he enrolled in a mixed chorus class. Always a lover of music, he especially looked forward to the choir’s traditional performance of Christmas carols during the holidays. He particularly enjoyed singing the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s Messiah. The only problem was that at one point in the number instead of singing the required four hallelujahs and then pausing, Dad always sang a fifth enthusiastic hallelujah. In desperation, the choir director finally took him aside and said he would earn an “A” if he simply mouthed the words the evening of the performance. Dad is the only person I know who managed to pass a singing class without making a sound.

When Mom read Grandma’s letter, my twin brother, Bryce, and I looked at each other and cringed. “How can Grandma take care of a garden?” I asked, reaching for my milk.
“Grandma has always had a garden, Peg,” Mom answered, smiling and pushing the plate of cookies toward us.
“But before, Grandpa was there to do the hard work,” Bryce pointed out. “Since he died, Grandma’s been alone. She shouldn’t be out working in the garden.”
“But Grandma loves having a garden,” Mom said. “I don’t think anybody could talk her out of it.”
“Then we ought to help her,” I said. “Bryce and I could help. We help Dad in the garden all the time. We could do the hard stuff that Grandma shouldn’t do.”
“She lives a long way from us—almost seven hundred miles. We can’t drive there every time she needs help.”
“So what are we going to do?” Bryce asked. “We can’t just let her do it alone.”
Mom thought for a long time. “You can remember her in your prayers. Maybe Heavenly Father will send someone over to help her when she needs it most. That’s probably all we can do right now. We’ll visit her this summer. You can help then.”
“But that will be after most of the hard work.”
Bryce and I couldn’t stop worrying about Grandma. The summer before, we had spent three weeks with her and Grandpa and had worked with him in the garden. We knew how hard it was to hoe weeds, keep the ditches clean, and water every week. The sun had burned down, making the sweat pour down our faces. We didn’t think it was fair for Grandma to have to do all that hard work herself. When we said our prayers, we always remembered her and her garden, but we still felt there was something else we ought to do. We just weren’t sure what it was.
The next Saturday Mom sent us to the store for some milk. On our way home, we passed Sister Rogers working in her yard. She was on her hands and knees, digging in her flower bed. She greeted us with her usual big smile. “Out running errands?”
We nodded. “Isn’t it too hot for you to be out working, Sister Rogers?” Bryce asked.
“It is warm, but someone has to do the work. Since Brother Rogers had his operation, he hasn’t been able to do much. In a month or so, he should be well enough to help some. But right now there’s work to do, and I’m the only one who can do it.”
Bryce and I started home. “I don’t think she’s the only one who can do that work,” Bryce muttered. “Maybe we should help her out.”
A few minutes later we were back at the Rogers’s place. “We came to help,” I announced. “What can we do?”
Sister Rogers was surprised. “I haven’t ever had young people stop by to help out. What would you like to do?”
“Anything you need. You tell us what to do, and we’ll get it done.”
Usually working in a garden or a yard is hard, boring work, but that Saturday Bryce and I had the best time. The sun was hot, and the sweat ran down our faces and into our eyes, and our backs ached after we’d pulled the weeds from the flower beds. I wore a blister on my hand, and Bryce ended up with two when we hoed the vegetable garden. But there was something fun about working with Sister Rogers.
It was late afternoon when we finally quit. She tried to pay us each five dollars. “No way!” I told her. “We didn’t do this for money. Taking money would ruin everything. We just wanted to help you out.”
Before she let us go, though, she fixed a huge pitcher of ice-cold lemonade and put a pile of soft, chewy brownies on a plate for us. We rested and feasted on the goodies.
“This reminds me of working with our grandma,” I told her. “She always gave us a treat after we worked in her garden.”
Sister Rogers laughed—a happy, fun laugh. “Did your Grandma ever feed you brownies?”
“No, but she makes the best molasses cookies I’ve ever tasted,” Bryce said. “After we worked, she gave us all the molasses cookies we could eat.”
“Well, Bryce, if you and your sister come back another time, I’ll have a plate of molasses cookies. I don’t know if they’ll be as good as your grandma’s, but I have some grandkids who think they’re good enough to put into a person’s mouth.”
For the next three weeks Bryce and I stopped by the Rogers’s place often. Sometimes the only thing Sister Rogers had for us to do was carry the trash out to the curb, but we still checked on her. We kept her flower bed and garden weeded, mowed the lawn, and helped trim the shrubs along the front of the house. And we found out that she made molasses cookies almost as good as Grandma’s.
“I don’t know what we would have done without your help this summer,” Brother Rogers said one afternoon as we were getting ready to leave. He had hobbled out into the front yard and sat in a lawn chair. “After my operation, I told Sister Rogers that we ought to just forget the garden and yard this year.” He shook his head and smiled. “She wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Usually we’re not crazy about working in the yard and stuff,” Bryce admitted, shrugging, “but this reminds us of working for our grandma.”
That evening as we were finishing dinner, Mom announced, “A letter came from Grandma today.”
“What did she say?” I asked, excited.
“How’s her garden?” Bryce wanted to know.
Mom smiled. “I think your prayers have been answered.”
“How?” I questioned.
“An LDS family down the street from her knew that she needed help, so they decided to make that a family project. At least once a week they go there and lend her a hand.”
Bryce looked across the table at me and grinned. “Maybe we prayed that family over to Grandma’s garden.”
“You could be right,” Mom said, nodding. “And I think that maybe someone someplace else has been praying for their Grandpa and Grandma Rogers. They probably prayed the two of you over to the Rogers’s garden—and you didn’t even know it.”
“Is that how Heavenly Father works?” I asked.
Mom smiled. “When he has work to do, he may use people like the two of you to do it. Even though you wanted to go help Grandma, you couldn’t go there, so Heavenly Father sent someone closer by. Maybe the Rogers’s grandkids would have loved to help them but couldn’t, so Heavenly Father sent the two of you. Doesn’t it make you feel good to know that you could be his answer to a prayer?”
Bryce and I thought about that. “Well, Peg,” Bryce said with a grin, “we’d better get to bed early tonight so that maybe we can help someone else tomorrow.”

Many years ago, I joined the United States Air Force to serve my country. Soon I found myself at boot camp in Texas, USA. The weeks passed slowly as I endured the many things one typically experiences at boot camp.
One day I attended a large meeting of over 200 airmen, all in training just like me. The meeting began with one of our drill instructors—who regularly shouted loud and vulgar things—yelling out, “Does anyone object to the way I’m running things around here?”
Of course, no one dared answer, but surprisingly, one young man raised his hand.
“Airman, stand up!” the instructor shouted. “What do you object to?”
We all listened intently as the young man loudly declared, “I object to you taking my Savior’s name in vain. It hurts my soul. I would ask that you stop.”
The room fell completely silent. The instructor stared at him and then asked him what religion he belonged to. The brave airman proudly said, “I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints!”
The instructor thanked the airman for his courage to speak out, and the meeting continued. This act had a tremendous effect on me. I often thought that I would like to have the kind of courage that airman had.
I don’t know the brave airman’s name. I never saw him again, but I will be eternally grateful for his courage to stand up for what he believed.

One day my friend was passing out birthday invitations to kids in our class. Instead of giving me one, she said, “I’m not inviting you to my party.” I was very sad. I decided to get her a present anyway. I know I can be like Jesus when I do nice things even if others don’t include me. Sometimes it is hard to do, but I love my friends even when they don’t include me. I know that’s how Jesus wants us to be.
Lily E., age 6, Arizona, USA

Answer:I really lost my temper only once in my life, but the lessons I learned from that experience cured me forever. I was 15 years old. While I was talking to some friends in front of our house, my little brother Nick, mischievously trying to get my attention, hit me with a rock which made a slight cut in my head. When he saw the blood he ran and locked himself in an old 1929 Chevrolet sedan, and proceeded to taunt me through the glass. My mind clouded with anger and with one punch I shattered the glass to get at my little brother. In the process, however, I gashed my forearm severely, the sight of which would cause some people to faint. The inside flesh sort of just boiled out of the deep wound and all the major blood vessels in my arm spurted blood.
I had a good 30 minutes in the car to the hospital, two hours on the operating table, three months of rehabilitation, and a big scar, to think about my behavior. I learned then what I have reaffirmed nearly every week of my life since then, that anger is almost always destructive, even the little bursts of irritation and annoyance that many of us get used to as just part of our daily interaction with people, and especially that anger which has decayed into a smoldering, cankering resentment and dislike. I have heard it said that there is such a thing as righteous anger or righteous indignation. Frankly, I have never seen it. All anger is tainted. Anger and pride are twin brothers. You say and do things in anger that do great damage to your life and the lives of others. A thousand apologies, as important and as wonderful as they might be, can seldom fully bind up a wounded heart which has been abused through anger.

The last time I came to the BYU-Idaho campus on a priesthood assignment was clear back in the 20th century, nearly pioneer times. I was almost 19 years old when a letter was dropped in our family mailbox up on the highway where the dirt road we lived on intersected with the world. It was a paper letter, now almost as much of another era as when Brother Brigham used to extend mission calls from the tabernacle pulpit or send letters with a Box “B” return address. Getting an actual letter in one’s mailbox is rare today, but for an obscure priest living on a dirt road outside of town in the Santa Rosa, California, Third Ward, it was rare even then.

My letter was from Harold B. Lee, the President of the Church, calling me to the greatest adventure I could have imagined: as a missionary in the Netherlands Amsterdam Mission. I’m a little ashamed that 18-year-old me had to find a map to find the Netherlands. As I read more of the letter, it got better as I learned that I would be stopping off in Rexburg, Idaho, to study Dutch at the Language Training Mission.

My start date was January 6, which was pretty much the dead of the vaunted Idaho winter, with its astonishingly beautiful sun rises, experienced each morning anew as our little band of brothers walked to campus through the blowing, frozen, snow-drifting, feet-numbing cold of Idaho. While we were there, the college held an ice sculpture contest, and students built a massive, true-to-scale viking ship in the courtyard behind the Manwaring Center out of home-grown snow. For the months that we were there, the ship remained, and I think not a single snowflake melted from its frozen mast.

Over the eight weeks, our cohort of missionaries was on campus living up on the hill and hunkered down in small classrooms. We learned a lot more than Dutch. As happens when one commits to Heavenly Father’s service, we felt His Spirit often. Our morning devotionals, sometimes featuring President Eyring’s father who was then the college president, were powerful as we spoke of the gospel with an urgency we had not known in our earlier lives. Learning Dutch was pretty humbling. Most of us were constantly aware of our mortal limitations as we struggled to absorb the impossible multisyllabic Dutch sounds that had descended unvarnished from the Tower of Babel where they had been particularly designed to confound the nations as well as future missionaries. We became increasingly fervent in our desire that when we arrived in our mission field, even we, the weakest and simplest of things, would be worthy and prepared to extend the powers of Heaven into that distant land—or at least not embarrass ourselves or the Church. But truth of the gospel did distil upon our souls—including mine—as we did our best to focus our hearts, might, minds, and strength on serving God with an immediacy of purpose. There was an airplane waiting. The truth of the gospel became increasingly tangible. Your frozen campus became to me holy ground as the miracles of the gospel became indelibly etched into my soul. I am confident that this place can become that for you as well.

And finally, as a youth, my father counseled me to not have a serious girlfriend in high school. He counseled me to go on dates with different girls. At the time, I thought that that would make me a “player” or I saw it as a negative thing to date around. Now that I’m older and thanks to “For the Strength of Youth” pamphlet, I realize that there was wisdom in his counsel. However, I did my best to obey.
After high school and while dancing at the Polynesian Cultural Center, I fell in “like” with a girl. At Christmas, I bought and gave this girl a half-heart pendant with me keeping the other half. Unfortunately, like the song “Last Christmas”, I gave her my heart and the very next day, she gave it away.
My heart was broken...like the pendant….it was a dark day. I thought that being obedient to my dad was supposed to bring me blessings...not heartache. Gratefully, my now sister-in-love, Sina, shared my heartache with her younger sister and she replied to Sina, “tell him if it makes him feel better, I’ll go out with him”.
The next day, Sina introduced us and on March 26, 1989 we sealed our friendship with a kiss on the temple steps exactly 3 years later to the date, we sealed our love for ETERNITY...and as they say, the rest is history!

On a rare break from working on our family farm in southern Idaho, my brother, several of his friends, and I went to a motorcycle park outside of Boise, Idaho. We rode up and down the backcountry on our motorcycle for hours, having a lot of fun. It was a wonderful break from the rigors of our busy summer.
One of my brother’s friends had a four-wheeler. At the time, four-wheelers were very expensive, so there were very few of them on the trails. Knowing this was a rare opportunity to ride one, I asked the owner if I could take it for a short ride. He kindly said, “You bet!”
Because we had been taking a short break to eat and have a drink of water, I did not have my helmet on when I asked him if I could ride the four-wheeler, so when he said yes, I excitedly climbed onto it without much thought for safety. I pulled the rip-cord ignition and felt the engine come alive beneath me. I was so excited; this was my first ride on a four-wheeler!
It soon turned into a first for me in learning a lesson I had not anticipated that day. I put the four-wheeler into gear, and it lurched forward as if it were just as excited to have me ride it as I was to be on it. Just as it went forward I heard a voice say to me very clearly, “Put your helmet on.” I thought the voice was my brother or maybe one of his friends. I turned and looked at them, but they were all facing away, sitting on the tailgate of our pickup, talking and laughing, paying no attention to me.
I stopped the four-wheeler, got off, and put on my helmet. I thought very little of the voice and its directions until a short time later. Once I was back on the four-wheeler, with my helmet on, I rode up a ravine to access the trails. I had a blast! It was so much fun. After about 10 minutes I began the descent back down the ravine to my brother and his friends.
On my way down I neglected to pay attention to the ruts carved into the trail from motorcycles that had ridden on it after a rainstorm. Unfortunately, the four-wheeler’s right front tire settled into a rut, which made a 45-degree turn to the left of the trail in front of me. Before I could apply the brakes, the four-wheeler pulled hard to the left, but I did not. I flew over the handlebars and landed several feet down the trail. I landed directly on top of my head.
Fortunately, I had not been moving at a very high speed, so the impact was not very painful, nor did I hurt myself in any way. As the four-wheeler sat just off the trail, idling quietly, I pulled my helmet off to inspect the damage. I noticed the top of the helmet was scratched and damaged severely from the impact on the hard trail. In an instant I remembered the voice that had said, “Put your helmet on,” and I uttered a quiet prayer of gratitude to my Heavenly Father.
It has been very rare for me to actually hear a voice prompt me, but on that day a voice protected and preserved me. I know it was the Holy Ghost. I do not know why I was preserved from the harm and pain I might have experienced, but one thing I do know: our Heavenly Father lives and is mindful of all of His children. I know God loves us. I know He loves me. I am deeply grateful for the gift of the Holy Ghost and its protective promptings.

When you watch Brock and Brittney jitterbugging across a gym-sized dance floor, their agility is impressive. Their moves are challenging. And their jumps and lifts are simply amazing. But they didn’t learn how to dance overnight. Years of hard work, separately, and now as partners for the last four years, have prepared them for their many competitions—and to teach others the joy of dancing. They love teaching youth how to dance. That’s why they volunteer to teach dance lessons at Mutual nights near their homes in Utah.
The youth of the Crescent Second Ward, Sandy Utah Crescent Ridge Stake, were thrilled to have Brock and Brittney perform for them and then teach them some simple footwork they could do on their own, like the cha-cha, the swing, and the waltz.
Jessica Wright, 17, enjoyed their instruction and plans on putting it to good use. “Now I can go to dances and do things instead of just standing around.” But, she says, even if you only have the desire to dance, “you can just have fun even if you don’t know how to dance.”
Jason Ockey, 14, already liked to dance, but he learned some new moves from Brock and Brittney. His advice to those who are shy is the same as Jessica’s: “Just have fun.”
The Crescent Second Ward youth really enjoyed learning from Brock and Brittney, even if they didn’t catch on to all the steps. You can learn a few steps too. But you don’t have to be a national dance champion to enjoy dancing. The next time you’re at a dance, gather up some courage, tear yourself away from the safety wall, and just have a good time being with friends.

I stood at the top of the hill and waited eagerly for the service to begin. It seemed my entire hometown was here, gathered on a few acres of land that would soon be home to a temple of the Lord.
After a few men spoke to the crowd, I watched them and others near the front use shovels to turn over some dirt. It seemed like such a simple thing. But as I watched the groundbreaking for the Rexburg Idaho Temple, I realized they were doing more than moving dirt around. The hardened ground needed to be softened before there could be room for the temple, and I knew I could learn from that.
I was a good kid, but I realized that if there had been a temple on that spot at that moment, I wouldn’t be ready to go inside. I evaluated my life, relationships, and habits and found myself lacking. As members of the community continued to turn over dirt, I resolved to break new ground in my life. I was 17, just a few classes away from high school graduation and the technical “adulthood” that came with it. A small swelling of urgency started in my stomach and spread.
In the weeks following the groundbreaking, I made some changes. I had friends who didn’t help me to be my best, so I decided to stop spending time with them. I didn’t like breaking those ties, but I knew it was necessary. That same week, the temple’s solid foundation appeared on the recently broken ground.
Over time, I made new friends. I kept busy with school activities. I read my scriptures more. I was making progress. And the temple construction was progressing, too. As I drove past the temple before going to a basketball game with my new friends, I noticed part of its framework had appeared.
But making changes wasn’t always easy. Some days I didn’t want to read my scriptures. But when I got discouraged, I looked at the temple going up piece by piece. Every day it got a little closer to perfection. And with hard work, so did I.
Months went by, and I started college at BYU–Idaho. I felt more grown-up, more prepared to go to the temple, which was progressing in its construction. During my first week of class, the figure of the angel Moroni was placed atop its spire. With that piece in place, it was impossible to tell from the outside whether the interior of the temple was prepared for the ordinances that would be performed there.
That, too, reminded me of myself. I was 18. I was happy and pursuing my college education. But even though I was worthy of a temple recommend, I knew there were more preparations to make before I was ready to receive all the blessings of the temple.
I no longer had friends I needed to stop spending time with. I didn’t need to break any particularly bad habits. But I did need to learn more about my Savior, and while the interior of the temple was being completed, I was also changing inside. I took religion classes and served in my Church callings. I reached out to others. And through the experiences of young adulthood, I became more committed to the gospel of Jesus Christ.
On February 10, 2008, I returned as a college sophomore to the same hill I had visited as a high school senior. Many of the same people were there, but I didn’t feel like the same person. As I sat beside my parents in the newly completed Rexburg Idaho Temple, I reflected on how far I’d come in the years since the groundbreaking. I sang the hymn “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, no. 2), and I knew that unimaginable blessings still awaited me in that holy house.
The temple was ready and dedicated to the Lord. And so was I.

Gene has learned a lot about aiming high by following the example of his mother.
“When she was 16 she contracted polio. Doctors said she’d never walk again, or that if she did walk, she’d never have children. But she worked her way from braces to crutches to a cane. And she went ahead and had four sons. I’m the youngest.”
Even though his mom is currently confined to a wheelchair, the doctors are now saying she should be able to walk again.

Every year, each member of my family picks another family member’s name out of a hat and secretly gets a gift for that person. We first got the idea from the movie Christmas for a Dollar. We tried it, and now it’s been a tradition for the past couple years.
This past year, I picked my brother’s name. At first, I thought, “Oh, great,” because we had been butting heads. But looking for a gift he would like really humbled me. After Christmas, we were best friends again.
I like our tradition because it changed my perspective on Christmas. I used to always focus on what gifts I’d get and what I wanted, but after we started this tradition, it made me focus more on thinking about my family members and the looks on their faces as they opened their gifts. I put more time and thought into giving gifts. Even before Christmastime, I try to look for things my family members will like and what I could get them.
Makenna B., 16, Oklahoma, USA

As the organist played prelude music, Keeley looked around the chapel. She smiled when she saw some of her friends she had left behind when her family moved to a small town in eastern Colorado.
Her family had returned to Loveland, Colorado, for the blessing of her aunt and uncle’s baby girl. All of her dad’s family had come for the special event.
She liked her family’s new home, but she was happy to be back in Loveland, where she had lived most of her life and had so many relatives and friends.
After the opening song and prayer and announcements, the bishop announced that there would be a blessing of a baby.
Keeley watched as her dad, uncle, grandpa, and other family members gathered to bless baby Kaitlyn.
Uncle Mark gave his daughter a name and a blessing. She knew that the men who stood in the circle held the priesthood. Keeley’s dad had explained how important the priesthood was when he had baptized her and confirmed her a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints a year ago. In another year, her oldest brother, Samuel, would receive the Aaronic Priesthood and be ordained a deacon.
Keeley felt tears sting her eyes as she heard Uncle Mark’s voice quiver during the middle of the blessing. She reached up to brush them away.
When the blessing was over, Uncle Mark held up Kaitlyn so that the congregation could see her.
After sacrament meeting, Keeley and her brothers went to Primary. The chorister invited them to choose their favorite songs for the children to sing.
Keeley chose “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.”* The Primary children had sung it for the Primary sacrament meeting program a year ago, and it had remained one of her favorite songs.
Following opening exercises and sharing time, she went to class. When class let out, Keeley said good-bye to her friends. Once again, tears gathered in her eyes.
Everyone in the family went to Uncle Mark and Aunt Celeste’s home after church. Keeley took a turn holding the new baby. All too soon, it was time to leave.
“It was like going home,” Keeley said during the drive. “All of our family and friends were there and were glad to see us.”
“That’s how it is in heaven,” Dad said. “Family members and friends who are already there are happy to see those they left behind on earth.”
“Like when Grandpa Munson died?” Keeley asked. Her mother’s dad had died before Keeley was born. She had heard Mom talk about Grandpa and what a great man he was.
“Exactly like that,” Mom said. “We were sad that Grandpa had to leave us, but we knew there were lots of people in heaven waiting for him.” She took Keeley’s hand and squeezed it. “I know you were glad to see your old friends, and they were glad to see you. We’ll see them again. In the meantime, you have friends at our new home who will be happy that you’re back.”
“Just like in heaven,” Keeley said. She liked the comparison.
“Just like in heaven,” Mom agreed.
After family prayer that night, Keeley kissed her parents good night. She thought of her friends back in Loveland and her friends here at home, then she imagined how many more friends and family members must be waiting to see her again in heaven. A sweet warmth settled over her like a comfortable blanket as she got ready for bed.

Juanita and Miguelito live with their parents in a small house in Guatemala. They love each other very much. Each Sunday Juanita and Miguelito go to Primary and learn about the Savior and His teachings.
The Veliz family just moved into a big house close to Juanita and Miguelito’s house. Juanita and Miguelito like to play with the Veliz children. The Veliz children have toys that are bigger and more expensive. Their toys seem to be more fun, too.
One day Juanita and Miguelito were alone in the Veliz’s playroom. Miguelito put a toy racing car he liked to play with in his pocket. “Don’t say anything,” he told Juanita. “They have so many toys. They will never know if I take just one.”
“Miguelito, one of the commandments is ‘Thou shalt not steal’ (Ex. 20:15). Don’t you remember what Sister Campiz said in Primary?” Juanita asked.
“Sister Campiz said when we keep the commandments, we show Heavenly Father that we love Him and are willing to obey Him,” Juanita continued.
Miguelito kept playing. He pretended he didn’t hear his sister. “You choose!” Juanita told him.
After a few minutes, Miguelito took the car out of his pocket and put it with the other toys. He smiled at Juanita.
Before they went to bed that night, Juanita heard Miguelito praying. “Heavenly Father,” he said, “I am thankful to have the commandments to help me choose between right and wrong.”

I was born into a home where my father was not a member of the church, and my mother was what today some would categorize as inactive. During my early childhood, I did not in any way understand the significance of the fact that there was no priesthood-bearing patriarch or consistent teaching of pure gospel principles in our home. Yet no son could have loved more or been more proud of my father than was I then and am now. He taught his five boys by noble example the importance of industry, integrity, education, manual skills, trust, and obedience. We gained self-confidence through the practice of these worthy traits. Because he traveled frequently and left our precious mother alone for significant periods of time to raise five active, exuberant boys, we discovered in her an amazingly marvelous combination of love, patience, firmness, and diligence. She was and continues to be more a friend and companion than anything else. (I should add the Lord has since greatly blessed our family. Dad is currently a sealer in the Washington Temple, and mother serves with him as a temple worker. Both provide powerful examples of righteous obedience for each of us.)

During my youth, through kind, understanding bishops and patient home teachers and other interested members, the five boys were encouraged to attend Church and to participate in its activities. We did so, although at times reluctantly. I remember with sadness the times when at separation for Sunday School classes, I would slip out the back door to walk in the park. There were, however, times when I listened to the teachings in class. I’m sure that, if anyone would have questioned my testimony and understanding of the gospel, I would have fiercely defended it as being strong and vigorous. Only from the perspective of time and the marvelous experiences of later, more active participation in the Church, do I now realize that I knew very, very little of the true meaning of the gospel plan. I participated in Church activities but somehow felt I was always at the periphery. I would approach Mutual activities daydreaming of a glorious evening dancing with the most popular girls in the ward. The reality of each evening was quite different. As I sat on the sidelines and watched others enjoying themselves, I felt somehow left out, not part of the central group. The same thing occurred in school. Though I felt comfortable in the academic activities, the social and sport activities left me feeling alone and unwanted. It was not until a lot later in life that I realized it was largely my fault.

I have since learned that one cannot demand love and respect or require that the bonds of friendship and appreciation be extended as an unearned right. These blessings must be earned. They come from personal merit. Sincere concern for others, selfless service and worthy example qualify one for such respect. All my rationalization that others had formed select groups and knowingly ruled out my participation was largely a figment of my imagination. Had I practiced correct principles, I need not have felt alone.

Sometimes Eugene’s world got awful noisy. There was the rattle of Clancey Sawyer’s milk wagon and Hector Moore’s ice truck over the rutty dirt road in front of his house. The clatter of Mr. Gunnerson’s old Model T. His Aunt Althea’s loud laughter and nonstop talking whenever she came to visit. (Eugene loved Aunt Althea, but she could outtalk any salesperson he’d ever heard!) And all the other noises the world had to offer in 1932.
His four brothers and two sisters could cause a lot of racket, too, especially when they all wanted to listen to different radio shows at the same time. Or when their friends came over to play and they fought over the stereoscope. If that wasn’t enough, sometimes Widow Willowby’s hound dog howled and barked all night. All that noise was enough to drive any kid up a tree.
And that’s just where Eugene’s favorite quiet place was—in a tree. Not just any tree, but the big old fig tree in the field, a little way behind Eugene’s house. His father and older brother, Vern, had built him a tree house in its strong, leafy branches. And just last week, his father slept with him in the tree house.
They played the imagination game before sleep overtook them, his father telling him that the fireflies that danced in the night reminded him of children’s prayers on their way to heaven. Eugene said that the moon and stars were holes in a big black curtain in God’s window. On the other side, God was staying up late with a big lamp on, sitting in a rocking chair and making a list of all his children who had problems. And that the creaking they heard was not the fig tree limbs in the stiff night breeze but the creaking of His rocker.
Just as Nephi and other prophets of old at times had gone high into the mountains to be alone in order to pray, Eugene liked to climb up into his quiet place in the big fig tree. Sometimes it was to think out his thoughts, sometimes to read his scriptures, sometimes to just relax, and sometimes to pray about things. …
Like the time Grandpa got real sick and had to go to the hospital. Everyone fasted and prayed for him, including Eugene. He climbed up into his quiet place and prayed for a whole hour.
Two weeks later, Eugene’s father lay in the tree house and cried. Eugene heard him because he was there, too. Everyone was happy because although the doctor had said that Grandpa was going to die, he got better. Eugene climbed up into the tree and lay close to his father. Neither of them spoke. At least not out loud. They were busy thanking Heavenly Father in their hearts, warm tears trickling down their faces.
After a while, Eugene asked his father why he had come to the tree instead of staying at the house with everyone else. “Everyone needs a quiet place where they can go to be alone sometimes. Even grown-ups. I don’t have one,” he said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I came up here for a few minutes.”
Eugene was happy that his father thought having a quiet place was important.
“Besides,” his father added with a wink, “with Aunt Althea at the house to greet your grandpa coming home from the hospital, it’s a bit noisy there. I needed a moment alone to thank the Lord for your granddad’s recovery.”
A few moments later, Eugene walked back to the house with his father. The back screen door whined as they joined the others. Eugene paused to look back over his shoulder at the old tree. It was like an old friend—warm, inviting, peaceful. And always there when he needed it. He smiled, went inside, gave Aunt Althea a big hug, then hurried over to Grandpa’s bed.
“Now, some things are best prayed about in private. … Praying alone … helps us open our hearts and be totally honest and honorable in expressing all of our hopes and attitudes. …
“The Savior at times found it necessary to slip away into the mountains or desert to pray. …
“We, too, ought to find, where possible, a room, a corner, a closet … where we can [pray] in secret. …”President Spencer W. Kimball(Ensign, October 1981, pages 3–6.)