Gospel Story Finder

Becky Latimer, seated in front of a computer, has a glow about her only partially caused by her bright red shirt and the light from the terminal. The other reason for the glow is the triumphant look on her face as she explains, “Yesterday my friend Eryn and I worked on a program for five hours. It was so difficult that we named it Faith. Today we’re on a roll, so we called this program Hope. And we think things will be going well tomorrow. If so, we’ll call our file Charity.”
Becky and Eryn are participants in a two-week intensive program in computer science at Brigham Young University for outstanding high school students. High school students who have completed their junior year come from throughout the United States and abroad to participate. No previous experience with computers is necessary, but students must be nominated to attend by their teachers, school administrators, and PTA presidents, based on their PSAT (college entrance test) scores. Every participant accepted to the program receives a full scholarship.
Becky and Eryn are now good friends. The hard work they’ve done together over a glowing computer terminal has cemented their friendship. And together they have found Faith, Hope, and Charity.

Jeanne serves as a Young Women adviser. Several months ago she learned about an upcoming activity for the youth in the ward: hiking to a place called Malan’s Peak. She was excited because she had recently set a goal to make that climb.

When she arrived at the trailhead, her good friend Ashley approached her. Linking arms with Jeanne, she offered to hike with her, saying, “I’ll go with you.” Ashley, who was 16 years old at the time, had some physical challenges that made it difficult for her to climb very fast. So she and Jeanne walked slowly, noticing Heavenly Father’s creations: the rocks on the mountain peak above them and the flowers all around them. Jeanne later said, “It really didn’t take me long to forget about my goal of hiking to the peak, for it soon became an adventure of another kind—an adventure to point out the beauties along the path, many of which I would have missed had I just hiked to reach the goal of Malan’s Peak.”

As Jeanne and Ashley continued hiking, far behind the rest of the group, they were joined by Emma, another young woman in the ward, who had decided to wait and walk with them. Emma added to their enjoyment. She taught them a song and provided extra support and encouragement. Jeanne recalled: “We sat and rested, we sang, we talked, and we laughed. I was able to get to know Ashley and Emma in a way I wouldn’t have been able to do otherwise. It wasn’t about the mountain that night—it was about much, much more. It was about helping each other along the path, one step at a time.”

As Jeanne, Ashley, and Emma hiked and sang and rested and laughed together, they probably weren’t thinking, “Hey, we are keeping our covenants right now.” But they were keeping their covenants. They were serving each other with love, compassion, and commitment. They were strengthening each other’s faith as they encouraged and ministered to one another.

When I was little, a really big tornado hit a city called Joplin in Missouri, USA. My dad and many others decided to go help the people in Joplin who were hit by the tornado. I wanted to go too, but I was too young.
That night, we read the Book of Mormon, and I did not know what the words meant. But my mom taught me. One of the verses talked about how Alma the Younger and his friends were trying to get people to leave the church. Alma’s father tried talking to him, but Alma did not listen. So his father prayed that Alma and his friends would change their ways.
That gave me the idea of praying that the people in Joplin would be safe, as well as praying for my dad and many others who were trying to help. Every day when I woke up, I said a prayer to help the people in Joplin. When I said a prayer to bless the food before we ate, I also prayed that the people in Joplin would be safe. At family prayer I did the exact same thing. Finally, when I said my personal prayers before I went to bed, I prayed for the same thing one more time.
I continued to do the same thing every day, and finally my dad came home from Joplin. I continued to do the same thing for one more week after that. At the end of the week, I felt extremely happy about the choice I made to pray for the people in Joplin.

My grandfather died just three days before Christmas. That year, my family received a gift that changed our lives forever: Glenna. Glenna is my dad’s sister who was born with disabilities. She came to live with us after my grandpa passed away. Ever since that first Christmas, Glenna’s example has taught me how to be more Christlike.
Glenna was born with many physical challenges, and she’s helped me see that sometimes the most beautiful spirits are housed in different-looking bodies. Because of Glenna, I’m no longer self-conscious about the way I look, and I choose to focus on what’s inside.
Living with Glenna has taught me patience. She has difficulty speaking, she often breaks things, and she struggles to do many tasks on her own, but she’s also willing to learn. There’s no greater reward than working with Glenna until she gets something right.
Glenna has taught me to find joy in the little things. For instance, at Glenna’s birthday parties, it didn’t matter whether she received a one-dollar bill or a one-hundred-dollar bill—she was delighted. And when we drove around each year at Christmastime, Glenna would shout, “Wow!” and clap her hands at each brightly lit home we passed by. She’s taught me to see the extraordinary within the ordinary. She’s taught me to see that there’s something special in everything—and everyone.
As I look back on the past Christmases I spent with Glenna, I can see the impact she’s made on my life. Every year, the one Christmas gift I will never forget—and will be forever grateful for—is Glenna.

I spoke earlier of the Kirtland period of Church history. The years of 1836 and 1837 were as difficult as that young Church had ever faced—financially, politically, and internally. In the midst of that stress, Joseph Smith had the remarkable prophetic prompting to send some of his ablest men (ultimately the entire Quorum of the Twelve Apostles) abroad on missions. It was a bold, inspired move, one that would in the end save the Church from the perils of the day, but in the near term it imposed great burdens on the Saints—painful for those who went away and perhaps even more painful for those who stayed at home.
I quote from Elder Robert B. Thompson:
“The day appointed for the departure of the Elders to England having arrived, I [stopped at] the house of Brother [Heber C.] Kimball to ascertain when he would start [on his journey], as I expected to accompany him two or three hundred miles, intending to spend my labors in Canada that season.
“The door being partly open, I entered and felt struck with the sight which presented itself to my view. I would have retired, thinking that I was intruding, but I felt riveted to the spot. The father was pouring out his soul to … [God, pleading] that He who ‘careth for sparrows, and feedeth the young ravens when they cry’ would supply the wants of his wife and little ones in his absence. He then, like the patriarchs, and by virtue of his office, laid his hands upon their heads individually, leaving a father’s blessing upon them, … commending them to the care and protection of God, while he should be engaged preaching the Gospel in a foreign land. While thus engaged [in giving those blessings] his voice was almost lost in the sobs of those around [him], who [were trying in their youthful way to be strong but having a very hard time doing so.] … He proceeded, but his heart was too much affected to do so regularly. … He was obliged to stop at intervals, while … big tears rolled down his cheeks, an index to the feelings which reigned in his bosom. My heart was not stout enough to refrain,” said Brother Thompson. “In spite of myself I wept, and mingled my tears with theirs. At the same time I felt thankful that I had the privilege of contemplating such a scene.”

I recall my first acquaintance with Elder Spencer W. Kimball many years ago when he served as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve and I served as a young bishop in Salt Lake City. One morning, when I answered my telephone, a voice said, “This is Elder Spencer W. Kimball. I have a favor to ask of you. In your ward, hidden away behind a large building on Fifth South Street, is a tiny trailer home. Living there is Margaret Bird, a Navajo widow. She feels unwanted, unneeded, and lost. Could you and the Relief Society presidency seek her out, extend to her the hand of fellowship, and provide her a special welcome?” This we did.
A miracle resulted. Margaret Bird blossomed in her newfound environment. Despair disappeared. The widow in her affliction had been visited. The lost sheep had been found. Each one who participated in the simple human drama emerged a better person.
In reality, the true shepherd was the concerned Apostle who, leaving the ninety and nine of his ministry, went in search of the precious soul who was lost. Spencer W. Kimball had walked the pathway Jesus walked.

Second, your mission president is the Lord’s representative. Do not criticize or demean him, privately or publicly. If you will respect his authority, be obedient, humble, teachable, and follow the mission rules, you will be a successful missionary. For instance, one of the hardest rules to follow is to get up in the morning when your mission president directs. Many young men think the best time to sleep is in the morning. I’m grateful to my obedient senior companion, Elder William Grant Bangerter, who would set the alarm clock to get up early. When the alarm went off, it would jangle my nerves. In the winter it was dark, damp, and cold, and we never had any hot water for bathing or showering. He would cheerfully shower in that cold water; I would start to shiver as soon as he got out of the shower. I could not do anything but follow his example, but I have to confess that I was not quite as cheerful because my teeth were chattering.

Competing in fiddling competitions has been good for the girls. (Jesse is only four and does not yet compete.) They have made some good friends at the competitions. When Vanessa and Joanna competed in the same age group, occasionally Joanna would beat out her sister. Linda comments about Vanessa’s reaction, “I think Vanessa would rather that Joanna didn’t beat her, but when it happens she’s good about it. She says, ‘I’d rather have my sister win than someone else.’ “

Often their best friend beats them both. They honestly say, “Who could you want to win it more than your best friend?”

The competition, instead of creating a “killer” instinct in the girls, has taught them to value a person for what he is, not for how he does in a contest. They have learned to take the ups and downs of competing in stride. They know that when they come off the stage, all their friends will be talking and having fun no matter how they did in the competition. They get to know and like people as individuals, not whether they come in first or last.

Time moved forward, and I remained on the island of Viti Levu, the main island of Fiji. I went to stay with my older sister, who had moved away from home years before. In the chaos of the tragedy, President Davis lost track of me, and I lost track of the Church. Learning that I had survived, however, he instructed the missionaries to search for me. They looked for months but to no avail. President Davis’s time as mission president came to a close, and he passed the search on to his successor.
The years passed, but because of poor communication systems, I could not be found. The family I was staying with was not interested in the gospel, so I had little hope of finding the Church during my teenage years. I struggled with the loss of my family and wondered why I had been left alone. But I carried in my heart the truths my parents had taught me. Although at times I gave in to weakness and temptation, I always remembered my father’s testimony concerning Jesus Christ and His true Church. Eventually I got married and settled on Vanua Levu, the northern island of Fiji.
In March 1985 I was at work cutting coconut copra not far from the main road when an elderly couple in a small car stopped and called out to me. They asked me if I knew a man named Joeli Kalougata. But before I told them they had indeed found him, I asked what they wanted. They introduced themselves as Elder and Sister Kimber and explained that they were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Finally they had found me! It was a glorious moment. Following six missionary discussions in two days, I was baptized on 18 March 1985, along with my wife, Elenoa. Our lives have never been the same since.

It was 5:30 a.m. on a day in December 2004 when Bronco Mendenhall, then the second-youngest Division I head football coach in America, stepped into his office on the still-dark second floor of the Student Athlete Building for his first full day on the job. There was nothing on his desk or shelves. “It was a surreal experience. I was wondering, ‘What have I done?’ and, ‘What do I do now?’” he recalls. “I found myself on my knees within minutes.”

Sometime around 8 a.m. a knock interrupted his prayer. At his door stood the patriarch of BYU football, LaVell Edwards (EdD ’78). Edwards set a chair directly in front of Mendenhall’s chair, and the two sat down, knee to knee.

“[LaVell Edward’s] first words were ‘You have a tough job.’ Then there was a pause and silence,” says Mendenhall. “It wasn’t very comforting to hear that. But then [LaVell] just said, ‘But it’s a great job.’ I didn’t know what he meant by either at the time.”

Mendenhall has come to consider [Coach] Edwards a mentor and an advocate. “It’s nice to have someone who has done the job better than anyone, who clearly understands what it’s like to be a head coach here.” The relationship has helped Mendenhall frame what a BYU football team ought to be. [Peter B. Gardner, “The Bronco Way,” BYU Magazine, winter 2007, 22–23]

Walking into my Young Women class, I felt all alone. My family and I had just moved from New Jersey to a small town in Idaho. My family knew no one in Idaho, and all of our relatives lived back east.
Looking for a place to sit down, I saw a chair on the second row by the wall. As I sat down, I noticed everyone had someone to sit by except me. I kept telling myself things would change after I had some time to make friends, but no matter how many times I told myself that, I still felt very alone.
Halfway through the lesson, I noticed a picture of Jesus Christ hanging on the wall next to me. When I saw the picture, I realized I wasn’t alone. It was as if the Savior had been sitting next to me the whole time.
It took some time getting used to living in my new home and finding new friends. At times I did feel alone, but I always remembered that Sunday when I noticed the picture of the Savior and realized I was never alone. Jesus Christ will always be our friend.

Where am I? Ashley Brown wondered, rubbing her eyes and looking around the room. She was lying in her own bed, that was certain. The toys on the shelf beside the cupboard were hers, but the window was too high, and the door was green.
Then Ashley remembered. She gave a sad sigh and turned on her side. She and Mum and Dad had moved to a new house, and she had left all her friends behind in Clayton.
Slowly Ashley got out of bed and walked to the window. Tall trees shaded the house. The street was empty—except for a girl walking up the sidewalk to Ashley’s house! Ashley pressed her face against the window. The girl had blond hair and was dressed in jeans and a red shirt. She looked up, grinned, and propped up a paper on a porch chair. Then she ran into the park at the corner of the street.
“I wonder what that girl is up to,” Ashley murmured.
After dressing quickly, she hurried downstairs, opened the front door, and grabbed the piece of paper. She read:
“Take twenty-four steps beside the road—You’ll come to a stone that looks like a toad.”
“Mum! Mum!” Ashley called, running into the kitchen. “Look what I found on our front porch.”
Mum was making toast and putting out her special strawberry jam. She read the note while Ashley ate.
“I saw a girl put it there,” Ashley said between gulps of milk. “She was wearing a red shirt, and she had blond hair.”
“How about if I sit on the porch and watch while you find the toad stone?” Mum suggested. She smiled and gave Ashley a big hug as they went out.
Very carefully, Ashley counted twenty-four long steps. And there, right in front of her, was a strange stone. It was high and round. A smaller stone had been placed in front of it, like a head. Ashley smiled. It did look like a toad!
Under the smaller stone was another piece of paper. Ashley read:
“Across the street
Is a short spruce tree.
Look near the trunk
For a clue to me!”
She waved to Mum and held up the new message. Then she crossed the street to the tree. It was dark in the shadow of the green branches. Where’s the next verse? she wondered. On a low branch, Ashley found it. She read:
“Under the bench
At the nearest bus sign,
You’ll see a clue
And know that it’s mine.”
“Why, the bus stop is right across the street from our house!” Ashley laughed as she realized that she’d been walking in a big square. She ran to the bench and looked under it. Sure enough, there was a folded note taped to the bench. She sat on the bench and read:
“Walk down this lane;
Look at the sky.
In the maple tree,
I’m way up high.”
Walking down the lane that led to the bus stop, Ashley looked up at the sky. Soon she saw the maple tree.
All at once she felt shy. What if the girl in the red shirt doesn’t like me? Ashley stood up tall and straightened her shoulders. I wanted a friend, so I’ll have to act friendly, she decided as she hurried over to the tree.
Suddenly she heard a swooshing sound. The end of a rope ladder dropped from the leaves and hung against the bark of the tree trunk.
This was exciting! Ashley put her foot on the bottom loop. It sagged under her weight and swayed back and forth. She grasped both sides of the ladder and started up, her heart beating quickly. When the ladder ended, she squinted and looked around, trying to see where she was. Just above her was a wooden platform. And looking down at her, smiling, was the girl in the red shirt.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Erica Greer. I watched the movers carrying in your furniture. I was sure glad to see you.”
“Hi. I’m Ashley Brown.” As she climbed onto the platform, she saw that it was the floor of a terrific tree house. The roof and sides were made of plastic, and the whole thing was secured to branches of the tree. In one corner was a wooden box with a lid. Erica opened it and took out a tin of cookies, two paper cups, and a bottle of fruit juice.
“I told my mum about the clues and everything,” Erica said, pouring Ashley a cup of juice. “She made us this picnic before going across the street to visit with your mother.”
Ashley munched on a cookie. “I just thought of something,” she said.
“What?” Erica asked.
“No matter where you go, you can make friends—especially if you have friendly clues to follow.”

I guess I knew it would happen sooner or later. You know, have one of those experiences you only hear about in Sunday School or seminary lessons—the “what would you do if …” kind. It happened to me during the summer following my high school graduation.
One evening, two friends and I went to see a movie. It was almost midnight when the movie let out. On the way to the parking lot, one of my friends suggested we head to another theater to watch an X-rated movie scheduled to begin about 30 minutes later. My other friend quickly agreed.
I wasn’t tempted to go; I knew I would not go. But I was not sure how I would get out of going. One excuse after another flashed through my mind. None of them sounded convincing to me, and I was sure they would not convince my friends. I thought about saying I wasn’t feeling well—and at that point, I wasn’t! In the end, I simply said I did not want to go.
My friends tried their best to persuade me. Among other things, they said if they took me all the way home, they would be late to the other movie. Thinking fast, I told them I had a friend who lived just around the corner. I said they could take me there.
“What friend?” they asked.
“Just a guy I know,” I answered.
“Who is he, and what’s his name?”
“His name is Bill.” I was sure my friends were not buying this. I cleared my throat and swallowed hard.
They persisted. “Ah, he won’t be up this late. Just come with us,” they said.
“He’ll be up,” I said, hoping I was right.
My friends finally agreed to drive by Bill’s home, and if the lights were on they would stop and let me out. Otherwise, they were taking me with them.
A few minutes later, we arrived at Bill’s house. What a relief! The lights were on. I got out of the car and went to the door. My friends waited to see if someone would answer. I knocked, and after what seemed like an eternity, Bill opened the door. I quickly explained what was happening and asked if I could call my dad and wait inside for him to pick me up. Bill agreed and practically pulled me into the house as I waved my friends on their way.
While we waited for my dad, Bill told me he had decided to watch television for a few minutes before going to bed. “Otherwise,” he said, “I would have been in bed a long time ago.”
It wasn’t long before my dad came to take me home. As we drove, my dad said if I were ever in trouble like that again, he would drive across the state in the middle of the night to get me out of the situation.
That’s probably a pretty good place to end one of these Sunday School stories. But here’s just one more thing. You see, before that night I had never referred to my friend Bill Cantrell by his first name. I had always called him Bishop Cantrell.

My mum’s relationship with me skyrocketed when I said, “I want to spend more time with you, but I don’t know what to do or when to do it.” Playing board games happens to be our favorite pastime. So we set aside a time together to play, laugh, and make memories. When you are open with your parents, eventually they become your best companions. You will be able to talk to them about anything, and you will be sure of an honest answer. That is the sign of a mature relationship.
Ephraim S., 15, New South Wales, Australia

A boy I knew had been sent, at great sacrifice by his parents, to a university to acquire an education. He went with little aspiration or desire to succeed, seeking instead to have a “good time.” Shortly after he arrived, he became involved in a case of petty theft, “just for the excitement,” he said later. He was caught and put on probation. But when his search for good times exhausted the limited resources provided by his parents, in desperation he tried to steal a large sum of money—and was caught again. This time he went to the state prison.
His bishop, knowing that I would be traveling in the vicinity of the prison, asked if I would visit the young man. I was a stake president at the time, so I took a member of the stake high council with me. The large gate swung shut behind us, a guard searched us carefully, and then we were ushered into a small concrete building where those from the outside were allowed to spend time visiting with inmates.
I had in my mind a picture of a hardened criminal—mean, surly, dangerous, someone to be feared. Then the door opened, and one of the most handsome young men I had ever seen stepped into the room—neat, clean-shaven, hair nicely combed. He smiled at me in recognition and offered his hand in greeting. “President, what are you doing here? You have probably never seen me, but I heard you speak once at a stake conference,” he explained, then asked earnestly, “How is my family?”
After I reassured him about his parents, we talked about him: how soon he would be released and how he was being treated. He seemed in good spirits and cheerful despite the bleak surroundings. As we visited, I asked him if he had really done all the things he was accused of. His reply was prompt and direct: “Yes, and more. I deserve all of this.” The motion of his hand took in the confining room and its surroundings. “I have lost nearly everything—my self-respect, my friends, the confidence of my family—almost everything.” His chin quivered and his face became anguished. He broke down crying. Sobs shook his body, and I tried to comfort him.
When he regained his composure, we continued our visit. It proved to be a marvelous moment to teach him; he was humble and eager to learn. We talked about faith, repentance, and the divine mission of our Savior, Jesus Christ. I reminded the young man that Christ gave His own sweet life in holy sacrifice as payment for the sins of those who repent and obey. The Spirit touched each of us during those moments together. My young friend was contrite, filled with hope and a greater understanding of God’s love.
On the morning of his release from prison, a loving father and mother embraced their son and welcomed him to a new life. They visited at our home. The son was repentant and eager to start anew. He expressed his great love for the Savior and his gratitude for the opportunity to progress through blessings offered in the Church. I assured him of my respect, my confidence, and my love for him.
Over a period of several years, I received occasional telephone calls from him advising me of his progress. He was doing well. He had worked through the repentance process with his bishop and the Lord. There were still difficulties and obstacles to overcome, but his progress was steady. The call that touched me most was the one in which he told me that he would be taking a young woman to the house of the Lord to be married. He had come full circle, from wickedness and despair to righteousness and joy. The Spirit of the Lord had led him to the Living Waters, and he had drunk deeply.

May I use two examples to illustrate the ways in which students can contribute to this objective. The first comes in the form of a letter written to Janet Scharman, dean of Student Life. The letter describes the service rendered by a BYU student to a stranger and the feelings engendered in the recipient:

A few months ago, I was driving home from Salt Lake, and my car broke down on the very dark and snowy main road of Tooele. The snow was coming down hard and . . . the road was very dark. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to call my wife . . . and subject her and our six-year-old son to the extreme and dangerous weather conditions. I was thinking about walking the two to three miles home when a car pulled up behind me on the side of the road. I walked back to the car, and the driver asked me if I needed any help. I told him that my car lost power, and I didn’t know what could have happened. He said that he’d be more than happy to give me a lift home. . . . I asked where he lived in Tooele. . . . He said he didn’t live in Tooele. He was on his way back to BYU, saw that I was broken down, and turned around to help! I couldn’t believe it! He had all that driving to do on a dark snowy night, and he took his valuable driving time (and personal safety) to help a total stranger! . . . I explained to him that I was from the California Bay Area, and this type of thing is just unheard of! . . . I was so happy and ecstatic with him that I asked for his name and who to write to at BYU. Needless to say, [the young man] was very humble and said, “Oh, don’t worry about it, they don’t even know who I am. You don’t need to do that.” I told him that I did need to. . . . Janet, please find [this young man]. Let him know that “they” do know who he is and that BYU should be proud to have someone like him representing their school.13

The story illustrates the power of serving others. When one forgets oneself and reaches out to help a person in need, a friendship begins. It is my understanding that the letter has been made known to our student, and he is to be commended for representing himself and the school so well.

When Dianne Cooper heard about the Church’s emotional resilience course, she decided it was something she “might want to look into in the future.” Little did she know how important the course would soon become to her.
“In April 2020 my eternal companion passed away very suddenly,” says Dianne, a member of the Discovery Park Ward in Las Vegas, Nevada. “I am a firm believer in the gospel and eternal families. Even with that knowledge, I was grieving profoundly. My husband’s death was the hardest thing I had ever encountered. Grief is one of the prices we pay for deep love.”
Dianne felt that the emotional resilience course would bless her, and she encouraged other members of her ward to attend with her.
“Our class was a combination of single sisters, widows, a couple married for many years, and younger sisters married with small children,” she says. “Our class developed a special bond. We all felt safe to share our feelings, and there was no judgment regarding our circumstances or comments. I really looked forward to attending class each week.”
As Dianne attended the 10-week course, she gained spiritual and practical skills that helped her work through her grief. She found support and developed strength and patience. And she was reminded that Heavenly Father and the Savior know her needs and that, in time, she could be healed.1
“It is all right to ask for help,” she says. “Sometimes that help consists of stepping out of our comfort zone and taking action. It can also include people listening, being empathetic, loving, and praying for one another.”
The emotional resilience course is not meant as “group therapy or professional treatment for mental health issues.”2 But anyone, regardless of circumstances, can benefit from learning how to become more emotionally resilient, says Dianne.
The workbook helped Dianne set and reach goals. In the process, she says, “I drew closer to my Savior, and that increased my faith. My prayers became more fervent. I tried to be an example for others going through difficult challenges in their lives. Weekly, I shared key learnings from the course with family and friends near and far. This often evolved into deep gospel discussions.”
Dianne recommends the emotional resilience course for anyone who wants to learn positive thinking patterns and develop and maintain healthy relationships.
“As I studied, pondered, and prayed during the course, I felt the Holy Spirit more than at any other time in my life,” she says. “Each day I strive to have joy and live in a constant state of gratitude. What a blessing to have had this opportunity for growth.”

One Saturday morning I received a phone call from a friend, another young single adult in our ward in Wiltshire, England. Her stepmother, who lived in the same village as I, was ill at home in bed. She could hardly move and, though not a member of the Church, had asked if I could give her a blessing.
I had been a member of the Church for just a few months, but because of training in priesthood meeting, I felt reasonably prepared to give a blessing, though a little apprehensive. I said I would find a companion and come as soon as possible.
I immediately thought of the nearest elder in the ward and drove to his abode. His wife answered and reminded me that the endowed brethren in the Swindon Ward had gone to the temple that day. As I drove away, somewhat despondently, I stopped the car and asked Heavenly Father for direction.
As I prayed, I asked if there was a Melchizedek Priesthood holder available to go with me. The name of Stuart Ramsey immediately came to my mind. I didn’t have his phone number, but he and his wife, Gill, lived on an air force base about six miles away.
Arriving at their home, I knocked on the door with full confidence that Stuart would be able to accompany me. “He’s not here,” Gill said to my surprise. “He had to go to the base.”
Undeterred, I asked if I could contact him. She explained that Stuart, a mechanic, was helping a friend with his car in a secured area of the base. He couldn’t be contacted by phone, and I wouldn’t be allowed past the security gates.
Why would I feel such a strong impression to seek Stuart’s help, only to find out he was unavailable? Had I misunderstood the answer to my prayer? “No,” I thought to myself, “he must be here.”
At that very moment I heard a cheery voice call out from behind me. “Paul, what are you doing here?” It was Stuart! He had been struggling to repair his friend’s car and had felt impressed that he should return home. I explained my predicament, and he readily agreed to assist me in administering a blessing.
I was grateful to have Stuart’s experience. He anointed, and as I sealed the anointing, I felt prompted to pronounce a blessing of healing. As I drove Stuart home, he rejoiced in being led by the Spirit to leave his work in time to meet me at his house.
I was overjoyed the next morning to learn that my friend’s stepmother was feeling much better. I have administered blessings on many occasions since, but I am grateful that I learned early on that no matter how inexperienced we are in our priesthood duties, when we rely on the Lord, keep His commandments, and do our best to magnify our callings, He will guide us in the path we should take.

Sister Madsen: First, Catherine Smith Salisbury, the Prophet's sister.
She told her granddaughter that she was present at home when her brother, Joseph Smith, came in nearly exhausted carrying the package of gold plates from which the Book of Mormon was translated. He was carrying the package clasped to his side with his left hand and arm, and his right hand was badly bruised from knocking down at least three men who had leaped at him from behind bushes or fences as he ran until out of breath. She said he entered the house panting from his extraordinary exertion. "She told me Joseph allowed her to heft the package but not to see the gold, as the angel had forbidden to show them at that period. She said they were very heavy.
She told me her brother Joseph was six feet tall, athletic and fair and loved to wrestle. She said that he was not in the least snobbish but treated all he met with kindness, consideration, and respect; she said that on her rare visits to Nauvoo, the Prophet treated her and her family with great generosity and sent her home laden with food, money, and clothing.

As soon as the snow started to fall that day in January, I began listening for Jeremy. He was due back around 3:00 P.M., and I knew there wasn’t much chance of his plane being early. But every time I heard footsteps in the hall, I found myself watching for his head to poke through the door of our dorm room.
It wasn’t a question of missing him, although I guess I did. I can easily survive ten days without that skinny intellectual. The problem was, I was curious. Had his father shot him or not?
Jeremy was my roommate. The first day I walked into the dark cell that passes for our dorm room, Jeremy was sitting at his desk listening to classical music and reading a chemistry text as if it were a light novel. I hate classical music.
I walked in and set my luggage down on one of the two beds—the one that didn’t have crackers spilled on it. “Hi,” I said, holding out my hand across the narrow room. “I’m Paul Jones. I guess we’re roommates.”
“Jeremy Kahn,” he said, taking my hand and crushing it in fragile-looking fingers that felt like steel cables. I have milked cows all my life. Consequently, I have strong hands. I squeezed back hard to teach him a lesson—and made no impression whatsoever. I retrieved my mangled hand, and he smiled.
“I guess you’ve heard about my abnormality,” he said.
I checked him out for signs of leprosy, but he seemed pretty much intact.
“I’m Jewish,” he said.
“Oh, I should have known,” I said. “You look Jewish. But believe me, we Mormons have the greatest respect for the Jewish people. In fact—”
“What do you mean I look Jewish. He was frowning now.
“Oh, well, you know, Curly hair, dark eyes …”
“Go ahead, why not say it—‘big nose!’”
“Well, you do have a big nose.”
“So, do all Christians have small noses? Yours is no beauty.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry if I offended you. There’s nothing wrong with looking Jewish.”
“There’s no such thing as looking Jewish,” he said. “I have Jewish friends with straight blond hair and blue eyes and pug noses.”
“So you look more Jewish than they do. You should be proud of it.”
He slammed down his chemistry book on the desk. “Stereotypes! You’re full of stereotypes. All you Mormons are!”
“Hey, watch it; that’s a stereotype!”
He looked at me for a moment as if deciding whether he should laugh or throw his book at me. Then he laughed. “I should warn you,” he said. “I’m going to be a problem.”
“Why are you going to be a problem?” I said. “Are you a genius or something? Do you practice black magic? You don’t look like much of a problem to me.”
“Actually I’m only a near-genius,” he said, “but I’m going to be a problem because you’re going to try to convert me to Mormonism, and I’m not going to convert.”
I held up my hands as if in shock and looked as innocent as I could. “Me try to convert you? Whatever gave you such a wild idea?”
“Because I’ve already had one guy in here mumbling something about the stick of Judah and the stick of Joseph. The dorm mother had to tell me that she was of the tribe of Ephraim before she would give me my sheets. And then a guy with a Bible surgically attached to his right hand came in and informed me that I would never be happy until I accepted Christ as my Savior. And I’ve only been here a half hour!”
“The gospel is very precious to us Mormons,” I said. “We feel that we should share it with others.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “And a Jew would make a really fine trophy, wouldn’t he? You could have my head mounted and hung over your desk. And another endangered species bites the dust.”
“You’re being a little oversensitive, aren’t you?” I said, beginning to unpack.
“Yeah? Well, I guess you don’t know much about Jews, do you? Or about being a minority.”
“Look, buddy,” I said, “I’ll admit I’ve never known much about Jews. Or Buddhists. Or nuclear technology. But that doesn’t mean any of them is bad. And while we’re on the subject, I might add that every human being is a minority of one. Nobody else knows your heart, your mind, your fears, or your hopes because they’re yours alone. So let’s not be Jew and Mormon this year. Let’s be me and you. We’ll never really know what it would be like to be each other, but we can compare.”
When I finished he began to applaud. “Bravo!” he said, with his already-familiar sarcastic smile. “Where do I send my 25 cents for additional copies?”
I was just about to get mad then, but he held up a skinny hand, and his face broke into a real smile. “Shalom, Paul,” he said. “The fact is, I liked your speech, and I accept the Jones doctrine of co-existence. I think we can be friends.”
Just then I noticed an old tennis shoe on my side of the room, “What’s that?” I said.
Jeremy observed it carefully. “It appears to be my tennis shoe,”
“Well what’s it doing on my side of the room?”
He sighed and picked it up. “Just my luck,” he said. “Ten thousand roommates to choose from, and I get Felix Unger.”
When I came back from the bathroom a few minutes later, he had made my bed. I thanked him, never suspecting that he had short-sheeted it.
That night as I sat on my innocent-looking bed, I pondered my fate. Jeremy had not really been as different as I had expected. I hadn’t seen him wear a skull cap, and there was no menorah in sight. He’d eaten everything on his plate at dinner and had spoken English all day. I knew there were different kinds of Judaism as there are different kinds of Christianity, and I assumed that whatever kind he was, he knew what he was doing. We didn’t talk about religion at all that day, though we were together a lot, buying books and eating in the cafeteria and reading countless bulletin boards. But as I sat on my bed exhausted just before midnight, I realized we’d reached a moment of truth. How do you pray under scrutiny?
I decided I’d better get used to it and slid off the bed to my knees. My head sagged to the mattress in its usual way as I took my usual deep breath and started my nightly mumble in the mind. But I felt eyes burning holes in my back. I wondered why Jeremy’s eyes could chastise me so painfully while knowing for all my 18 years that “angels above us are silent notes taking” had never made me bat an eye. I straightened up and began again.
It was a longer than usual prayer because there was a lot more to discuss here than there’d ever been back home. Then I got up with aching knees and sat on the bed to wind my alarm clock. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed as heavy feet tore past our door. There were voices coming from every direction. I guess it’s true that dorms just get going at midnight.
“That was a long prayer,” Jeremy said. “Did you really memorize all that?”
“We don’t memorize our prayers,” I said. “We just pray from the heart.”
“Makes sense,” he admitted. “That way you know you’re on the right page.”
With that mountain crossed, I threw back my covers and thrust my feet as far as they’d go into the bed—which was all of about 30 inches.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jeremy said. “I thought Mormons slept kneeling.”
Much later I was scoring a lay-up for the Boston Celtics in overtime when something woke me up. I forced my eyes open wide enough to see Jeremy sitting on his bed in a warm-up suit, tying up his jogging shoes.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m putting on my prayer suit, can’t you see?”
“You’re what?”
“Look, Jones, you commune with the infinite by praying. I do it by jogging.”
I squinted at the clock. “It’s 5:45 A.M.,” I said.
“I know,” he said, going to the door. “I overslept.”
As the weeks went by, Jeremy and I discovered that we got along pretty well. For my part, once I got used to his dirty socks and used Bic pens being scattered on my side of the room, his 5:30 jogging schedule, and his devotion to classical music, I kind of liked the guy. Occasionally I had to challenge him to a game of one-on-one basketball to put him in his place, and it didn’t hurt my opinion of him that he could dribble behind his back and had a sweet jump shot from the top of the key. (Of course, he couldn’t afford to miss because I could outrebound him ten to one.) We talked (and argued) about a lot of things together, but the one thing we never talked about was his family. That surprised me because I had always heard that Jewish families were very close. I also made it a point not to preach religion to him, not yet anyway, knowing how he felt.
It was during general conference in October that things changed. During the Sunday morning session, which I was listening to on the radio in our room, he looked at me and asked, “Who are those guys you’re listening to?”
I explained General Authorities in about two sentences. He nodded and said, “That one talking now sounds just like my dad. If he were a General Authority, all he’d talk about is how Judaism’s dying out because of the rebellious young generation.”
“Does he really think it is?”
“He knows it is. In fact, it took me months to get him to say I could come to school here. He went crazy when we first talked about it. Said I’d turned my back on my heritage.”
That gave me a chance to bring up something I’d always wondered about. “Why did you come to school here?”
He laughed. “Because it was as far away from my father as I could get. I love him, but I needed to get away from him before he swallowed me up.”
Then I cleared my throat and really walked out on thin ice. “Jeremy, what do you think about your religion?”
He sat down and thought for a moment.
“I am a Jew,” he said. “Millions of people have suffered and died so that I could say that, and I’m not going to forget. I will always be a Jew. I’m more proud than I can say of being Jewish. But I’m talking about culture and tradition and heritage. When it comes to religion, well, I think it’s a good religion, like all the others. But bits and pieces of other religions I’ve run into make a lot of sense too. It seems to me that if dad would dare let me study religions and make my own decision, if Judaism is the only truth, I’d find out and be a better Jew. And if not … well, I don’t know, I’ve never considered that possibility. And then there’s Christ. It’s strange, but I find myself wishing it were true about him. It must be very comforting to believe in someone who loves you that much, even …” He was quiet for a moment. “And then there on the radio, all those men are saying stuff about faith and charity and morality, and it’s good stuff. Can’t some of it be right too? Of course, you think it is, and millions of others too, but my dad wouldn’t even listen. He’d condemn it in a minute. He misses a lot that way, I think.”
“Well, he’s not alone in that.”
“But if he’s wrong? What then? And if he’s right, what will become of all your little old men on the radio?”
I didn’t think I could say anything as effective as keeping my mouth shut, so I just sat back and let him think. In a minute he continued.
“It’s been bothering me for a while. I love my dad, and I love my heritage. For centuries my people have looked for a Messiah, and you Christians say he’s come. It would be so nice to surrender and stop looking. You Mormons paint such an attractive picture—eternal life after death with those we love, eternal progress. It would be nice to believe, easy almost. But we Jews have never taken the easy way. I’d rather stay out in the cold than come into a warmth that is only wishful thinking. My heart is divided in two. How am I supposed to put it back together?” He shifted his position at the desk. “Can you turn the radio up a bit? I guess I need to listen.”
Jeremy seemed to go into hiding during the next three days. He’d slip into our room late at night, sleep till around 6:00, and be gone again. I never saw him in his jogging outfit anymore, and he quit playing practical jokes. That worried me the most. If he wasn’t putting honey on the toilet seat or smearing shaving cream on the phone, he just wasn’t happy. Life had really gotten dull without all that. I assumed he was studying for midterms. He was premed, and his organic chemistry book alone weighed more than my mom’s Volkswagen. I thought I glimpsed him a couple of times going into the library, and once I was sure I saw him at the fourth floor reference desk, but by the time I got close, he had disappeared into a corner somewhere. I didn’t talk to him for almost a week until one day I came home from a ward football game to find him sitting on his bed reading a worn-looking paperback copy of the Book of Mormon. He jumped up, grabbed his sweater off the floor, and turned to leave.
“Hey, don’t leave,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all week. Is something wrong?”
He turned slowly from the half-opened door. “Yes,” he said bitterly. “Something is wrong. Everything is wrong! You and your Nephi and your little old men have ruined my life! I had a good life. I had a close family, a promising career, and not a complication in sight. And then you and your crummy Church came along and destroyed it all. Your stupid Book of Mormon is true and you know it! And you know what that all means, don’t you? Your whole crummy Church is true! Now I’ll have to get baptized and start being a Mormon. Don’t smile, Jones; it’s not funny. My dad’s going to kill me and then disown me. I’ll have no family or future or anything else. Sure, your family is forever. Now mine won’t even be for this life. It’s all your fault! What am I going to do?” He stared for almost a full minute at my speechless bewilderment. Then he flung the door open the rest of the way and was gone, the Book of Mormon clutched tightly like a life preserver in a drowning man’s hand.
A few weeks later I watched the water in the font close briefly over Jeremy’s head and open up again as he emerged grinning in his wet, white clothes. A few days after that I listened as he bore his first testimony from the stand.
Jeremy went home at Christmas to break the news to his family. He hadn’t known how to put it in a letter, and he couldn’t say it over the phone. So it was going to happen face to face, like David faced Goliath.
“But not till I’ve slept in my own bed once, and seen my nephews and my little sister, and had a chance to gather my valuables,” he said. “Because the minute it’s out, my dad is going to throw me out of the house.”
“Have a little faith, Jeremy. Think of the pioneers and all they went through.”
“I’m not going to have to think about it. I’m going to know how they felt because when my dad’s through with me, I’ll have to cross the plains on foot myself, if I can cross them at all. Do you know what disown means? Do you realize this will be the last time I’ll ever see my mother?”
I laughed. “Don’t overdramatize. You know it’s not true. Your dad might be a bit shocked, but he’ll get over it.”
“You don’t know my dad at all. He’s going to kill me. He keeps loaded guns in the house for just that purpose.”
“Would you shut up and get on the plane.”
“Take a good look at me. You’ll never see me alive again.”
And so I waited anxiously as 3:00 approached on the day of his return. I was excited to hear his story and anxious to find out how he stood with the father he both loved and feared. I wore a trail in the carpet as I paced and finally went out to shoot some baskets to pass the time. I returned at about 4:00, hoping he would be there.
He was. I grabbed him from behind as he bent over a drawer stuffing socks in a corner. He whirled in surprise and threw one arm around my neck in a wrestling hold. We went down and struggled on the floor until I knew I was beat.
“Uncle!” I choked, just before he pinned me.
Then he talked about skiing in New England and his friend Bernie at MIT and his nephew’s latest invention. I only heard half because I was listening beyond it all for something more. Finally I interrupted.
“And your dad, how was he?” Jeremy didn’t bat an eye. “Fine, he didn’t feel real good, because he always gets a cold about this time of year, but he was better toward the end and even went skating with us at Central Park. Did I tell you I saw my old girl friend? She’s married to a guy she …” He slowed down under my steady gaze and finally stopped.
“I didn’t tell them.”
The clock ticked. A girl laughed in the lounge far down the hall and around the corner. Jeremy’s eyes were trained on his shoes.
“Well, it’s your decision. But …”
“At least I’m still part of my family.”
“Are you really? You’re really part of a lie. They think you’re something you’re not.”
“If it makes them happy, why worry about it? Let them go on.”
“Go on living a religion you know isn’t the whole truth? Go on living without the blessings you could show them how to receive?”
He sighed. “I couldn’t. My mom would love me anyway because she’s my mom. And my sister and brothers would at least try to understand. But my father … you don’t know how he gets. He used to beat me. He used to have this belt. I love him, but he’s got this awful temper, and in his eyes, I’ve done worse than murder. I’ve betrayed him and my family and their God.”
My silence was deafening. He looked steadily at me. “I wanted to tell him,” he said. “But … you don’t know my father.”
I returned his steady gaze. “No, Jeremy, you don’t know my Father.”
“Your father?”
“My Heavenly Father.”
The snow piled against the window silently while we sat facing each other. I finally stood and left the room. I tried to watch the TV in the lounge for a while, but the silence of the still mostly empty halls bothered me. I wandered outside without my coat to the snack bar and idly ate a hamburger. I wandered up on campus until I realized how cold I was and how wet the snow had become. I tramped back to the dorm in the darkness, half expecting Jeremy to be gone. The light was off in our room, but I paused outside the door, thinking I heard a voice. I tried to discern who was speaking. The voice was too low to really hear, so I finally turned the knob and slid into the room. As my eyes adjusted to the dusk inside, I saw him just replacing the telephone in its cradle.
I couldn’t believe it. He was crying! He turned quickly away to hide his tears and then walked to the window.
“That was dad.”
There was a long pause, then, “I told him.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked his back.
He thrust his hands into his pockets. “He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he said he didn’t know who I was and hung up. All I heard was the dial tone.”
The snow still fell as he stared at it.
“I listened to that dial tone for a long time. Finally a recording came on and said, ‘Please hang up.’ I couldn’t believe it.”
Suddenly he whirled and pounded his desk top so hard it rattled. “Why did I ever think I could make him understand? I’ve always been afraid of him. Now I’m not afraid; it just hurts. I didn’t know anything could hurt like this.”
School started again, and Jeremy got a job shoveling snow and doing winter maintenance on the lawn sprinklers. His parents never called anymore, and even though his mother still wrote sometimes, there was no word from his dad. Jeremy buried himself in his calculus and chemistry and, in general, wasn’t much fun anymore. They came around with a sign-up sheet for basketball intramurals, and we couldn’t get Jeremy to sign.
So I played alone.
It got suddenly warm in February for about a week. Jeremy was out maintaining sprinklers while I sat on the window ledge one day, hoping I wouldn’t be noticed as I drank in the warming air, pretending to read a history book. The mailman went past. I dragged myself inside again with a sigh and got ready for my only afternoon class. On the way out, I halfheartedly checked the mail.
The letter was unmistakably from Jeremy’s dad. The first. I laid it conspicuously on his pillow and hurried out.
When I ran into Jeremy in the cafeteria several hours later, I managed a casual “How’s your dad?”
“Okay.” He stirred his mashed potatoes.
“I saw he sent you a letter.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, is he still mad? What did he say?”
“Just asked how school was, said if I didn’t make it to med school he’d kill me, and said everybody’s fine at home. Just like nothing happened.”
“That’s all?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Basically.”
“Did he say anything about the Church?”
He shook his head.
“Well, at least he wrote.”
“Yes, he will always love me because I’m his son, not because he thinks I deserve to be loved.” He buttered a roll and went on, talking around a mouthful of peas. “It’s not enough that he has cooled down to the point where he’ll write to me again. I want more than that. I want to be able to talk to him again, to teach him the gospel.”
“Who says you can’t?”
“What I like about you, Jones, is how you avoid the facts.”
“You obviously don’t know him as well as you think. You never expected a letter, did you?”
“I sent him a Book of Mormon. He didn’t even mention it.”
“And he won’t. Until he believes it.”
“He’d have to read it first.”
“Maybe he is.”
“Ha!”
Three weeks followed with three letters. The night of the fourth letter, Jeremy showed up to play basketball with the ward team, and he was grinning. As we sat on the bench waiting to play, we finally got to talk.
“Did you see I got another letter? It was pretty much the normal I-am-fine, how-are-you stuff for the most part, but at the end he got down to business. He told me he has thought a lot about my ‘betrayal’ and thinks he understands.
“He says that the whole thing turns on the Messiah. As far as he’s concerned when the true Messiah comes, he can make whatever changes he wants, because his changes won’t reject Judaism but perfect it. The trick is to tell the true Messiah from the false ones.”
“That’s very profound,” I said. “Of course it is. It’s the same thing I told him in my last letter. Anyway, he says that although I’ve made a fool of myself, it took courage for me to become a Mormon knowing how he felt about it. In fact he compared it to Moses leaving Pharaoh’s court and David facing Goliath. I humbly agree with him.”
“Before you start writing a second book of Psalms,” I said, “ask yourself if David left his dirty socks on the floor.”
He ignored me and went on. “He says that when I get home this spring we’ll examine the evidence and argue it out man to man. Right now he’s reading the Book of Mormon so he can really tear it to shreds. Good luck, dad. Oh, and there was a P.S. too. He says that if I’m going to be a Mormon, I’d better be the best Mormon there is because I’m Solomon Kahn’s son and his honor is at stake.” He laughed. “I have a feeling that by the time I become a priest my first assignment may be to baptize my own dad. And then who knows? How do you think I’d look in a dark suit?”
I stifled a nasty remark about his looks in anything.
He bounced a basketball on the floor for a few moments and then looked at me. “You were right, Jones. I didn’t know either of my fathers very well. I thought it was all up to me.”
The whistle blew, and we ran onto the floor before I had time to answer.