Gospel Story Finder

Before joining the ward team, I didn’t know the other teammates very well, but as we played basketball together they quickly became my friends. In fact, all of Skip’s friends from church became my friends—the boys who played basketball and also the girls who were their age. I didn’t know how to dance, so after Mutual activities several of my new friends and I would go to someone’s basement and play old records while they taught me how to dance. I’m still not a good dancer, but they taught me enough so that I could impress Carolyn Lake, another Latter-day Saint girl. After my mission to the Gulf States, Carolyn agreed to marry me.

Although it was the middle of Guatemala’s rainy season, the sun was out in full force at noon when they arrived in Cahabón, about halfway home.
“We’ll stop for soft drinks here,” President Andersen said as he pulled over next to the town square. “This town is tradition-oriented and wouldn’t let the protestant missionaries construct a chapel. I want you to meet the lady who owns the cafe; she has a special spirit. She will join the Church someday.”
The elders wanted to look around awhile before going into the cafe. The rest went inside and talked with the owner while they enjoyed their soft drinks. Several minutes passed, but the missionaries did not come in. “I wonder where they are,” President Andersen said.
They finished their drinks, paid the owner, and walked outside. There the mystery of the missing missionaries was solved.
Seated on a step, Elder Bringhurst was addressing about 50 Indians in their tongue, telling them about their ancestors. He held a copy of the Book of Mormon as he spoke.
In the following 20 minutes the missionaries explained the origin of the book, and bore their testimonies. The Indians seemed impressed, and several invited the missionaries to return another time to tell them more. Elder Bringhurst assured them that someone would return with the book and tell them many important things about themselves and about God.
Later, as they drove homeward, President Andersen said, “The Indians want to know about the book of their ancestors. We have something no one else can give them, the gospel. We have the religion of their forefathers and we tell them so.”

Illustration by Brad Teare
Lucia wiped away a tear. She didn’t want the other kids to see. She left the school grounds and hurried toward home.
Lucia lived on a small, beautiful island. She was the only member of the Church at school. Everybody else went to the same church. They teased Lucia and wouldn’t play with her because she was different.
That wasn’t the only problem. Sometimes the teachers ignored Lucia when she raised her hand.
But today was the worst! Lucia thought. She kicked a pebble down the road. During class, the teacher read some Bible verses that Lucia didn’t understand. They made it sound like Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost were the same person. Then the teacher said there were some churches that didn’t believe what the Bible taught. She looked straight at Lucia. Everybody in class laughed.
Lucia was confused. Weren’t Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost separate? What was going on?
Suddenly she had a happy thought. She could ask the missionaries! They came to Lucia’s village every day. They’ll know how to help! she thought.
When Lucia got home, she saw Sister Brown and Sister Ruiz. They were helping pump water up to a tank on the roof.
Lucia asked her question right away. “Why does the Bible say Heavenly Father and Jesus are the same person?”
Sister Brown smiled. “That’s a good question. After lunch let’s look for some scriptures to help.”
Lucia hardly tasted any of the yummy ropa vieja stew Mama had made. All she wanted was the answer!
Finally lunch was over. Lucia and the missionaries opened their scriptures. They read about Joseph Smith’s vision. Then they read about Jesus’s baptism. Both scriptures showed that Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost were separate.
“So why do those other scriptures say they’re the same?” asked Lucia.
Sister Brown started turning the pages. “Let’s read in John 17:21–22. That’s where Jesus prays to Heavenly Father about His Apostles.”
They all took turns reading. In the scriptures, Jesus prayed that His Apostles “may be one” like He and Heavenly Father are one. Lucia counted three different times He said it.
“The Apostles couldn’t all become the same person,” Sister Ruiz said. “But they could become one in how they believed and acted. That’s how Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost are one.”
Lucia began to feel warm inside. She knew it was the Holy Ghost. He was telling her that what Sister Ruiz said was true.
Heavenly Father and Jesus weren’t the same person. But They were the same in what They said and did. And Lucia knew that They both loved her.

Some years ago i was serving as a counselor in a stake presidency. as you know, counselors, stake presidency travel around to the different wards during Sunday meetings. this particular Sunday, I had come back to our ward building and everybody was in class. There was no one in the hallways, and I stopped at the water fountain. This water fountain was a two level water fountain. There was the tall one for adults, and the little one for short people, meaning children, and so as I was having a drink of water, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that this little boy appeared from nowhere and he got up on the little stool next to me and he pushed the button down to drink water. Now the water pressure in this water fountain was really very sensitive. And so as I watched him out of the corner of my eye, push his button down, and I watched my water pressure drop in half, I kept my eye closely on him until he was ready to drink. And as he leaned forward to get his drink of water, I let go of my button and I’d have to tell you, it was a great shot. It hit him right in the face and he stood back and let go, wiped his face off, and I didn’t know him, I had no idea who he was, but when he pushed his button down again, this big stream of water came up, and he leaned in for it and I pushed my button down. His water pressure dropped in half, he went down for it, I let go, it was another great shot. At this point, I looked down the hallway both directions, because counselors in stake presidencies aren’t supposed to act this way. But seeing nobody around, we continued our little game. I don’t know how many times I splashed him, but the interesting thing to me was that he never figured out who was causing him his grief. Even though I was right next to him, I could’ve put my hand on his head, he never ever figured out that it was me. And maybe, I don’t know, seven times later, he left for class.

Now you might say, What does that have to do with being at war with Satan? May I suggest to you that in each of our lives, we have buttons that people push to get us to react. Perhaps you’ve had a younger brother or a younger sister, or an older sister, who used to push your buttons, raise your hand if you know what I’m talking about. See, all the button pushers’ hands went up.

The adversary is a button pusher. He and his angels know a great deal about us. They know our strengths and our weaknesses. They know where the chinks are in our armor, and they know how to get us. And so they push buttons, and frequently, we don’t even recognize that our buttons are being pushed, but we react frequently our reaction is not in a very Christlike manner.

This story took place in Jamaica.
Dashanel helped her older brother take the nut bread out of the oven. It smelled so good!
Then she heard a knock at the door. “The missionaries are here!” her sister called.
Dashanel ran to the door. She loved it when the missionaries came. She always had a good feeling when they visited. Sometimes they brought games for her and her siblings to play.
“Tyrell made nut bread again!” Dashanel said. Her brother liked to make food for the missionaries.
“I can’t wait to try some,” Elder Colas said. He and Elder Yusaki came inside and sat down on the floor. Dashanel, her brother and sister, and Mom sat across from them.
“What are we going to do for the lesson today?” Dashanel asked.
Elder Yusaki pulled out a stack of cups. “We’re going to build a faith tower. Each of these cups represents something we can do to build our faith in Jesus Christ.”
Elder Yusaki started to stack the cups into a tower. Dashanel saw that the cups had words like “prayer,” “scripture study,” and “church” written on them.
“These are all things you’ve asked us to do as a family,” she said.
“That’s right,” Elder Colas said. “When you do these things, you are building your faith in Jesus Christ.”
Dashanel and her siblings took turns building their own towers with the cups while they listened to the lesson.
After the missionaries left, Dashanel thought about what they’d taught. She wanted her faith in Christ to be tall and strong, just like the tower she built.
As the months passed, Dashanel learned more and more about the gospel from the missionaries. She started going to church with her family. She pictured her tower of faith growing taller and taller.
One day after the missionaries left, Dashanel talked to Mom. “Can I get baptized?” she asked.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” asked Mom.
“Yes,” Dashanel said. “I want to follow Jesus.”
“OK,” Mom said. “If you want to, you can be baptized.”
Dashanel’s brother and sister chose to be baptized too. Mom said she didn’t feel ready to get baptized yet.
On the day of their baptism, Dashanel and her siblings dressed in white clothes. They each waited patiently to be baptized.
When it was Dashanel’s turn, Elder Yusaki helped her into the water. Then he said the words of the baptism prayer and lowered her under the water. When Dashanel came back up, she couldn’t stop smiling! She felt happy and clean. She never wanted to forget this feeling.
Dashanel kept doing things to build her faith in Jesus Christ. She read the scriptures with her family. She prayed to Heavenly Father. She did kind things for others. And she remembered how she felt when she was baptized. She wanted Mom to have that feeling too.
“Mom, why don’t you get baptized?” Dashanel asked one day.
Mom was quiet for a minute. “You have set a good example for me. Now I need to set an example for you,” she said. “I want to be baptized too.”
On the day of Mom’s baptism, Dashanel was so happy. When Mom came up from the water, everyone was smiling. Now Dashanel’s whole family could build their towers of faith together.
Illustrations by Alyssa Tallent

My favorite play activity with the little girls was “daddy be a bear.” When I came home from my studies for a few minutes at lunch and dinnertime, I would set my books on the table and drop down on all fours on the linoleum. Then, making the most terrible growls, I would crawl around the floor after the children, who fled with screams, but always begged for more. “Daddy be a bear” was our favorite game. While I was in my third year of law school a prominent Milwaukee law firm invited June and me to come up at their expense to interview me for a job. As part of the process they had me interviewed by a psychologist, an unusual practice with law firms but standard with that one. As part of his examination this professional asked me to tell him what I saw in some weird ink-blots I had never seen before but which I now know to be a Rorschach test. In the first set of blots I saw nothing but two bears on their hind legs fighting. I couldn’t see anything in the second one. The third was clearly a mother bear in the woods followed by a cub, and I so advised the interviewer. After two more blots that meant nothing to me I saw another familiar subject, a bear peering around a large bush. When I described that to the psychologist, he looked at me intently, put down his pencil, and said, “Now, Mr. Oaks, suppose you tell me about your thing about bears.” So I told him about “daddy be a bear.” He just shook his head, made some notations on a paper, and sent me back to the law firm. I must have passed the test because the firm raised the proposed starting salary by a thousand dollars per year when they received his report. Remember that if you have to take a Rorschach test in Milwaukee. I never did know what that fellow was driving at until I talked to another law student who took the same test. When he told me what he saw in those ink-blots I was shocked. Even if I’d seen that stuff I surely wouldn’t have admitted it to a gentleman.

My Grandma Annabelle came to live with us for 19 months until her death. She could no longer live on her own or take care of herself. My grandma was not a member of our church. She didn’t belong to any church. My mother and I decided to read stories to my grandma from the Friend magazine. Grandma would listen, and I would ask her what she learned. Then she would give me a few short responses. My grandma loved it when I read stories to her. She always wanted me to read more.
Since my grandma liked the stories so much, we thought she would like doing the hidden pictures too. We worked with her and helped her find the objects. This helped her mind stay strong. The Friend magazine is great for everyone, young and old!
Sharing the stories was also a good missionary opportunity for us. Sometimes Grandma would listen to scriptures with our family. During those 19 months, she offered to say two prayers, and they were beautiful. We all felt the Spirit.
Even though my grandma didn’t remember who we were most of the time, she loved it when I read stories to her. I think it made her feel good inside. Since I am 12 years old now and it has been a year since my grandma died, I am looking forward to being baptized for her in the temple.

The first day of my senior year, I felt lucky to discover that Alyce Pringle was in two of my classes. I say lucky because a class with Alyce meant a class with pizzazz. No one ever knew what to expect from her. Alyce was Hollenda High’s school clown, a true comedienne who, with the raise of an eyebrow, could create hysteria. The teachers, therefore, weren’t particularly wild about her, but we, her classmates, loved her.
It was Alyce who was chosen to play the part of the domineering mother in our school play Goodbye Birdie and who brought down the house just by walking out on the stage wearing a gray wig and big sloppy shoes. It was Alyce who ran for cheerleader in her dad’s old army uniform. It was Alyce who outwitted all the candidates for secretary of the school by using portions of all their speeches for her speech. “Did you hear what Alyce did (or said) today?” people would ask each other in the halls. No one asked which Alyce. Everyone knew it was the Alyce.
Why Alyce began picking on me, I’m not sure. Perhaps it was because I was shy and blushed easily. She always mentioned my blushing, which made me blush more. Maybe it was because I was too stoic and serious for my own good. “Here’s Bill,” she’d say, mimicking the way I pushed my glasses back, my nose in a book. Maybe it was because she had found out that I am a Mormon.
One day when Mr. Jackson asked me to work out a problem on the blackboard, I unthinkingly put the chalk in my mouth for a moment. Alyce noticed it right away. “Bill!” she said loudly. “What will people think!” I took the chalk out quickly and blushed as 25 students giggled. When I got back to my seat, I surprised Alyce by joking back. I faked a cough. Alyce liked that.
I didn’t really mind Alyce’s teasing. I’d never been in the limelight before, and it was fun and exciting. If Alyce had been malicious in her teasing, it might have been a different story, but she was never cruel. She never teased behind anyone’s back. Being teased by Alyce, I felt, was a compliment. Because we sat next to each other in one of our classes—algebra—we began talking once in a while before class. At first Alyce only joked, no matter what I said. But then in time she let her mask slip once in a while, and I saw that Alyce wasn’t all clown. I doubted that many people knew that. It was just when I thought Alyce and I might become fairly good friends, however, that I did something that almost ruined our friendship.
Mr. Thorndike had thrown a surprise Spanish vocabulary test at us. It had surprised even me. Usually I was one step ahead of Thorndike and anticipated his tests, but this time he had fooled me. I had only read over the words once and had worked on my physics project the night before instead.
After the test was over, I knew I’d flunked it royally. I’d missed at least 14 of the words. Then, to my humiliation, Mr. Thorndike had us correct the tests in class. He gathered them up and then passed them around haphazardly. I wondered self-consciously who would get mine and think I was a real dunce.
The next day after he had recorded the grades, Mr. Thorndike passed the tests back to us. “Congratulations, Bill. You got the only 100,” he said, as he handed my test back.
“I couldn’t have.”
“Well, you did.”
“No, I …” I looked at the test. It definitely had my name on it, and it also had a big underlined 100 percent in the corner. I controlled a gasp. All the spaces I had left blank had been carefully filled in. Someone had cheated for me. But why? I looked around the room and saw that the students sitting around Alyce were looking at me and giggling. Alyce had her head down but was grinning widely. I realized what I should have known. Somehow Alyce had managed to get my test paper and had corrected it. As a prank she had filled in the right answers. Now what do I do, I wondered. Alyce, why did you have to do that? I thought unhappily. I looked back down at the test. I couldn’t accept an A, and the grades were already recorded in Mr. Thorndike’s roll book. Yet, I couldn’t tell on Alyce either.
“Thought you said you flunked it.” Ralph, my buddy, walked out of class with me. I still had the test paper in my hand, my fingers covering the 100 percent.
“Alyce has really done it,” I said.
“Oh, no.” Ralph began to laugh.
“What can I do? What would you do?”
“I don’t know. Just forget it, I guess.”
“Ralph, I can’t accept an A. I told you, I flunked it.”
“Sneak up and change the grade when Thorndike isn’t looking?”
“Sure.”
“Then just forget about it. You get Alyce in trouble and the whole school will be down on you.”
“But most people know what you and I stand for. They know who all the Latter-day Saints are. Even if I didn’t mind being dishonest personally, and I do, I still can’t cheat because it would put the Church in a bad light.”
“Having everyone in the school hate you wouldn’t help the Church much either, would it?”
“No.”
“Just forget it.”
“You’re probably right.” Sure, I thought, Ralph is right. I won’t make waves. I’ll just forget it. But by the end of the day, by algebra, I still hadn’t been able to forget it. I knew I’d have to talk to Alyce about it.
“Got a 100 on the Spanish test, huh?” Alyce said grinning. Her dark eyes crinkled mischievously. When she wasn’t pulling faces, Alyce was a pretty girl.
“Yes,” I said. “Amazing isn’t it, since I didn’t study?” She could sense my misery.
“You don’t sound very happy for someone who just got an A on a test he didn’t even study for.”
“I’m not,” I said. “Alyce, you’ve put me in a spot. I’ve thought about it, and I can’t accept that A. Now what do I do?”
“Oh, brother! I should have known better. You’re such a bore, Bill, so predictable.” She tried to laugh it off. “Well, go ahead and tell. I don’t care.”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“I said I don’t care. Do what you feel you have to do.” I could tell she did care. Talking to her hadn’t made the situation any easier. Then, in the middle of one of the algebra problems, I thought of something. Mr. Thorndike would have no way of knowing that Alyce had corrected my test unless I told him. I could simply tell him that someone had changed my answers and that I deserved an F, not an A. He wouldn’t ask me if I knew who had corrected the test because he wouldn’t think I knew. How would I know? Even if he suspected Alyce, he had no proof. And, if he asked me if I knew who had done it, I’d just tell him outright that I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. After algebra, I smiled at Alyce and touched her arm.
“Don’t worry,” I said.
After school I went right into Spanish and told Mr. Thorndike what had happened. He seemed angry, but he didn’t ask me if I knew who had done it. I stood and watched as he crossed out the A and put an F in its place.
“Next time maybe I’d better be prepared,” I said sheepishly.
“Yes,” he said.
I thought that was the end of it, but it wasn’t. The next day I could tell by the way Thorndike stood up that he was wearing war paint. I held my breath.
“Day before yesterday someone corrected Bill McKinley’s vocabulary test,” Mr. Thorndike said slowly. “That person filled in some right answers and gave Bill a grade he didn’t deserve. Now I want to know who that person is.” The color must have drained from my face. I didn’t dare look to see what Alyce was doing for fear I’d give her away. “Let me continue,” Mr. Thorndike said. “If that person does not identify himself, this whole class will be punished. I don’t know how right now, but I’m sure I’ll think of something. Now who did it?”
I put my head in my hands and began moaning inwardly. Why did this have to be happening. Tension increased in the room as no one spoke. My chest felt thick inside. Then I surprised myself. “Look,” I spoke out. “I didn’t want anyone to get in trouble.”
“Quiet, Bill,” Mr. Thorndike said sternly. “Once again, I ask, who did it?” he said dramatically.
“I said I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble,” I repeated, once again surprising myself and Mr. Thorndike who still had his mouth open and was staring at me.
Before he had a chance to rebuke me, a clear voice said, “I corrected it.”
“Who said that?” Mr. Thorndike looked around the room.
“Me. I did it,” Alyce said bravely. “It was just a joke.”
Mr. Thorndike, who had never liked Alyce much, nodded. Anger flared in his eyes. “I should have known. Yes, I should have known. Well, I’m tired of this kind of thing, young lady, and we’ll have no more of it.” He was speaking loudly. “You’re seniors now, and I’m tired of this kind of business. It’s thoroughly immature. Next year you’ll be going out into the world, and you are still acting like children. Alyce, you’ll see me after class. I’ll have to take measures. I’m sick of it, and I’ll have no more of it. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The rest of the day I was miserable. I should have listened to Ralph, I thought. It was such a small thing, one lousy test. Such a stupid thing to make such a big deal about, to have been such a stickler over. Why hadn’t I just kept my mouth shut?
I didn’t know what to say to Alyce later when I sat next to her in algebra, and she wouldn’t look at me. She had her head down, and her hair had draped down in front of her face. “Alyce,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he’d do that. It makes me sick. What did he say after class?”
“Oh, he said it would affect my citizenship for the semester. He was mad.”
“You know I didn’t want anything like that to happen.”
“I know,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it.” But it did matter, for my relationship with Alyce changed. Although she still joked with others, she quit teasing me, and though we still spoke, she seemed aloof. At the time I thought it was because Alyce was angry, but now I realize she was probably just embarrassed. It saddened me to have a barrier between us, but I figured that in time, maybe before the end of the school year, our friendship would be back to normal.

He was only 10 years old at the time, but Elder Moisés Villanueva has never forgotten how he felt as the missionaries taught him and his family the gospel in Oaxaca, Mexico.
“I remember the Spirit that they left, the peace that I felt in my heart,” he said.
When Moisés was baptized with four of his siblings, his mother—a single parent raising Moisés and his seven siblings in difficult circumstances—returned to Church activity.
Later, as 18-year-old Moisés prepared for his mission, his family continued to face temporal challenges. He doubted his decision to leave and told his mother he wanted to stay home to help her.
“If you really want to help me,” she told him, “go and serve the Lord.”
Kneeling by his cot at the close of his first day in the Mexico Hermosillo Mission, Moisés felt that the Lord was pleased with his decision. He credits his mission for the growth of his testimony of the restored gospel.
“This Church is led by our Savior Jesus Christ,” Elder Villanueva said. “He knows each one of us by name. He knows our needs, our challenges, and our concerns. He also knows our strengths and even the desires of our hearts.”

President McKay’s bearing, nobility, and dignity and his love of the Savior he served were evidenced in every word he spoke and in every thing he did. But what he had become through his commitment to the gospel was evident even when he sat peacefully and said nothing. The following incident is told by a man who met President McKay on his return from one of his visits to Europe:
“I remember being in New York when President McKay returned from Europe. Arrangements had been made for pictures to be taken, but the regular photographer was unable to go, so in desperation the United Press picked their crime photographer—a man accustomed to the toughest type of work in New York. He went to the airport, stayed there two hours, and returned later from the dark room with a tremendous sheaf of pictures. He was supposed to take only two. His boss immediately chided him: ‘What in the world are you wasting your time and all those photographic supplies for?’
“The photographer replied very curtly, saying he would gladly pay for the extra materials, and they could even dock him for the extra time he took. It was obvious that he was very touchy about it. Several hours later the vice-president called him to his office, wanting to learn what happened. The crime photographer said, ‘When I was a little boy, my mother used to read to me out of the Old Testament, and all my life I have wondered what a prophet of God must really look like. Well, today I found one.’”

Many of our relatives and friends loved my mother and wouldn’t accept anyone else. They kept telling my father that he was wrong and was making a big mistake. But he wouldn’t listen, and neither would I. All I knew was that I had to trust my father. When I saw my two youngest sisters cuddled up to this woman while she sang them little songs she made up, I knew it was right. She was to be our new mother, and we all needed her, especially those two. As we grew to know her, we all eventually grew to love her.

A true story from New Zealand.
On the day before Easter, Freddy woke up early. He looked beside his pillow, excited. He always got a marshmallow egg for Easter. But his smile drooped into a frown. There was no egg for him!
Freddy looked over the side of the bunk bed. “Matilda!” he yelled at his sister. “Did you steal my Easter egg?”
“No,” she said. “My egg isn’t here either!” Matilda pointed to her pillow.
The noise woke up Freddy’s other siblings. All seven of their Easter eggs were missing!
“What’s all this shouting?” Mum asked.
“Someone stole our eggs!” Freddy said.
“No one stole them,” Mum said. “We didn’t buy any this year.”
“No Easter eggs?” Freddy cried. “But we always get one!”
“Easter is about more than just eating treats,” Mum said. “It’s a special time to think about Jesus Christ.”
Freddy frowned. Ever since Dad changed jobs, Mum and Dad said no a lot more. No daytrips. No takeaway food. And now even Easter was ruined!
“I know you’re upset,” Mum said. “But we can still enjoy special Easter eggs today. Come on!”
In the kitchen, Dad had a basket of eggs. Freddy groaned. “Those are just the chickens’ eggs.”
“Are we going to dye them?” asked his older sister Celeste.
Mum nodded. “But first we have to boil them.”
Freddy didn’t like waiting. He was glad when Mum said the eggs had boiled enough. “Finally!” he said.
“Hang on,” Mum said. “They still need to cool.”
Freddy groaned louder. Not more waiting!
Next, Mum helped them make the dye. They mixed vinegar with hot water and put in drops of food coloring. Freddy liked watching the drops swirl through the water.
“What color will you choose?” Celeste asked.
“Blue!” Freddy said.
The eggs soaked in the dye for a long time. But Freddy didn’t mind waiting. Not this time. It was fun being with his family. He thought about what Mum said—how Easter was about more than eating treats.
“Mum,” Freddy said, “I think I get how Easter eggs help us remember Jesus Christ’s Resurrection.”
She smiled. “And how is that?”
“I really like my dyed egg,” he said. “But it took lots of time. All that waiting was hard. Then I thought of how the disciples had to wait even longer for Jesus Christ’s Resurrection after He died on the cross.”
“You’re right,” Mum said. “It wasn’t easy for them to wait either. But the Savior did rise again. And now your ordinary chicken eggs are beautiful dyed ones.”
Freddy smiled at the brightly colored eggs. They weren’t yummy like marshmallow ones, but they were special. Freddy hoped they would get to dye eggs again next year.

While serving as a mission president I would often have a new missionary approach me and ask the question, “How do I regain the spiritual intensity I enjoyed at the MTC?” Further discussion would reveal he was having a hard time adjusting to the rigors of the work and the daily adversity and rejection he faced. To help him through this period of his mission I came up with an analogy.
Every spring at our home in Bountiful, Utah, we plant flowers. We go down to our local garden center and painstakingly pick out the cartons containing the healthiest flowers we can find including many already blooming. We come home and carefully plant them in the soil, fertilize them, water them, and sit back to watch them grow. Much to our dismay, after a few days they start to wilt.
Why does this happen? These plants had lived their whole life in a greenhouse where conditions were ideal, and suddenly they faced the real-world shock of our flower garden. We may get a late snowstorm or a heavy rain; dogs run through the flower beds; grandchildren kick their soccer ball into them or pull the whole flower up and proudly present it as a gift to my wife; deer come often to dine on the tender shoots and nip off the buds or pull the whole flower up and spit out the roots. Last year I trapped and transplanted nine squirrels that delighted in feasting on every new blossom our petunias produced. Our plants had left the greenhouse where all of the elements were ideal and entered the real world.
However, the miraculous thing is that after a few weeks the plants sank their roots deeper and you would see new and stronger growth emanating from within the plant that could withstand the storms of the real world.
The MTC is a wonderful greenhouse, but the time comes when missionaries must leave and be subjected to the adversities as well as the joys of the real mission field. It is a delight to watch them grow.

As I stepped over the concrete and rebar jutting out of the ground, I thought this had to be the strangest family home evening ever. Mom and Dad had loaded all five of us kids into the van and driven us to where our future home was being built. We were excited about our new house and often visited the site to see the progress.
At this stage, however, the progress wasn’t very exciting—just long rows of poured cement that looked more like buried walls with iron rebar running through them.
“Sit down,” Dad said, and we all looked around to find a comfortable spot to sit. “This is the foundation of our house,” he explained. “Our home will be supported by all of this concrete and metal. This foundation will keep our house safe during storms. It will even keep our house standing strong during an earthquake.”
This got my attention. Living in California, we were all used to earthquakes, both big and small. We’d seen what earthquakes could do to homes.
“Normally, builders don’t make foundations go this deep into the ground for a house this size,” my dad gestured into the trench holding the underground concrete. “And once the house is built, we won’t even see it. Some people told me I was wasting money to build a deep foundation for our home, but I wanted to make sure our home was as safe as I could make it.”
The building of our home was a big part of our lives, but my dad had taken to talking about it at every opportunity. Now he was giving us a family home evening lesson on overbuilt slabs of concrete and iron that no one would ever see after a few more weeks.
Of course, Dad wasn’t done with his lesson.
“There is another kind of foundation we need to build as well.” We all looked at him expectantly. “Each of us needs as his or her own foundation a testimony of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Just like our home’s foundation will keep us physically safe during storms and earthquakes, a testimony will keep us spiritually safe when we face trials and challenges.”
Dad continued, “I challenge each of you to build strong foundations by learning about our Savior and praying for help and ways to know Him better. Follow His example and keep His commandments, and you will be blessed with a strong testimony of Him.”
Since that family home evening lesson, set amid the crucial beginnings of our new home, I have learned just how important it is to have a strong, deep testimony of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ as my own personal foundation. When adversity comes, I can always rely on what I know to be true. My testimony keeps me strong and makes it possible for me to weather the many storms of life.

Last fall I found myself with a wonderful but challenging opportunity to develop and teach Primary training through a video made entirely in Spanish. At one time in my life I was a Spanish speaker, but recently I had been speaking Portuguese and knew what it would take to relearn Spanish. I did all the things each of you do to complete a task that feels extremely difficult. I found help from capable and dedicated Hispanic sisters. Together we studied, prayed, fasted, and worked long hours. The day arrived to go and do the thing the Lord had asked, and we not only were fearful but felt our work was inadequate. We had worked up to the moment of delivery, and nothing more could be done. I wanted to start over.
Each of our husbands gave us priesthood blessings, and peace and calm started to come. Like angels, help came in the form of a sweet husband who set the alarm on his watch so he could pray for me every half hour during the recording, a cameraman whose eyes radiated “Good job,” and Primary leaders who had confidence in the workings of the Spirit and were able to communicate that with power. We ended up with a finished film that was helpful for our Spanish-speaking leaders. All who participated in it were partly surprised and entirely grateful for its success. We walked as far as we could go, and when we thought we might abandon our carts and drop by the wayside, angels somehow pushed from behind.

“I always like to help the missionaries. Others need to know the gospel. They need to be happy,” says Irene Marques. She is a diminutive, dynamic Gypsy woman who sells clothing in the marketplace. Among the silver rings on her fingers is a child’s CTR ring, a gift from one of the missionaries she aided. Unable to join the Church for several years because of opposition from her family, she nevertheless introduced many other people to the missionaries and the gospel. She has retained that same missionary zeal since her baptism three years ago by an old friend, Joaquim Jose da Silva Aires, president of the Coimbra District.

The alarm jangled while I groped through the darkness to shut it off. Even at that early hour, I jumped out of bed with anticipation. I was eager to join my friends on a hike up Timpanogos, a large, snowcapped mountain which overlooks Provo in Utah Valley.
The hike followed steep switchback trails, then a climb up a sloped snowfield near a sheer drop-off and a slide down a glacier. The reward was a well-earned picnic by the crystal waters of the tiny lake fed by the glacier’s runoff.
My mother got up early with me and graciously fixed breakfast, packed my lunch, and fussed around making sure I was properly prepared.
Eager to be off, I was a little impatient when she asked me to come back to the bedroom with her. I think I even rolled my eyes a little when she knelt by the bed and invited me to join her. At 14, that sort of thing can seem sort of sappy. But I truly did love my mother with that prickly heart of mine and was secretly pleased by her concern.
She gave a simple but beautiful prayer asking the Lord for my safety and protection that day. It touched that sometimes rebellious heart of mine. Embarrassed to show my feelings, I ducked my head and wiped at my eyes.
I hiked that day with a glow in my soul. I had been reminded what a special mother I had.
On our way back down the mountain, someone in our group decided it would be much faster to take shortcuts between the switchbacks, even though we had been warned not to do so at the beginning of the day. We all followed like sheep.
Midway between the trails, someone above me started a small rock slide. Pebbles and stones and a few larger rocks showered down around us. Then, as if in slow motion, I saw one fist-sized rock knock sharply against the shoulder of the boy just above me. The rock bounced around me, then catapulted to strike the girl in front of me right in the back of her head. A gash was opened and began bleeding profusely as head wounds do.
Slipping and sliding down to the next trail, my friend was helped by a fellow hiker who donated his handkerchief and first-aid skills. Careful now to abide by the hiking rules, we eventually made it down the mountain and home.
I’ve never forgotten that day my mother knelt with me, and I believe I was spared injury because of her prayer. Deep down I knew she loved me, but since becoming a teenager, I’d lost communication with her. I’d become independent, “prickly sensitive,” and sometimes difficult to get along with. I was finding it harder to feel my mother’s love. But on that clear morning a strong bond was forged between us by prayer. It made all the difference then and later to know my mother was praying for me.

In World War II, I was in a military hospital in Africa for a few days with a respiratory infection. The hospital was staffed with native orderlies who were to keep the hospital clean, change the beds, and generally be of help to the patients. Because of the prevalence of malaria and its carrier, the mosquito, we slept under large mosquito nets which hung from the ceiling and covered the whole bed. One night as I went to bed I slipped my wallet under my pillow and drifted off to sleep.
Some time later in the night I was awakened and startled to feel some hands slipping under my bedclothes. I suspected that a thief was after my wallet. I instinctively grabbed one of the hands and switched on the light. My wallet slipped out from under the pillow. To my surprise, I held the arm of the native boy who was the orderly assigned to clean my room. All he said in defense of his action was, “Don’t worry. I am a disciple.” He could tell from the look on my face that I did not understand. In further explanation, he said simply, “I am a disciple. I am a Christian. I do not want your purse. I was only tucking the mosquito netting around your bed to protect you from the mosquitoes while you slept.” I came to know that this young man was not only a Christian, he was a disciple.

To those who faithfully and honestly live the law of tithing, the Lord promises an abundance of blessings. Some of these blessings are temporal, just as tithes are temporal. But like the outward physical ordinances of baptism and the sacrament, the commandment to pay tithing requires temporal sacrifice, which ultimately yields great spiritual blessings.
I know of a couple who lived thousands of miles from the nearest temple. Although they earned little, they faithfully paid their tithing and saved all that they could to journey to the house of the Lord. After a year, the husband’s brother—not a member of the Church—unexpectedly came forward and offered them two airplane tickets. This temporal blessing made possible the spiritual blessings of their temple endowments and sealing. An additional spiritual blessing came later as the brother, touched by the couple’s humble faithfulness, joined the Church.

The day progressed better than I thought it would. Snow fell throughout the morning, giving way to an afternoon of windy sunshine. I heaved a relieved sigh when my geometry test was postponed a day. I hurried home after school to tell Topie good-bye.
Mom met me at the door. She held a dish towel in her hands. Her cheeks were wet. Why had she been crying?
“Honey,” she said, “I tried to get them to wait until you came home from school, but they left with Topie an hour ago. I know how much you wanted to say good-bye. I’m sorry, Honey. I’m so sorry.”
I felt numb and strange and sort of broken. “I’ll be okay,” I said. “I’m going to go up to my room for a while.”
I sat on my bed for a long time. I stared out the window at the ring I used to ride in and the homemade jumps Dad built for me. I stared at distant hoof prints in the mud and the bit of snow that hadn’t quite melted. There wouldn’t be any snow in California. I stared at the green and yellow wallpaper Mom had found on sale and we had hung together. I stared at everything that I would be leaving behind.
Suddenly the door cracked open and, before I could say anything, Rob was next to me on the bed.
“Why aren’t you at baseball practice?” I asked.
“I thought you might want to do something,” he said. His little boy eyes looked soft.
That’s when it hit. I didn’t just cry. I sobbed. Tears for my beautiful horse, my ugly hair, and all of the changes that jerked me so fast and hard. Rob’s hand on my shoulder moved up and down with my gulps. When I quieted, Rob turned to me.
“I’m thinking of someone,” he said.
He was playing the guessing game, a silly game we played on long car trips. By asking yes and no questions a player had to guess who the other player was thinking about. The person in mind could be rich and famous, alive or dead, or the kid next door. The only rule was that all of the players had to have heard of that person. You got a point for each question you asked and the lowest score won.
We played for a long time, our voices trailing the air. In the back of my mind I realized that my little ten-year-old brother was missing his Little League practice in order to be with me, in order to keep my mind moving and to give my soul something to grip other than loneliness. Rob beat me by one point.
“Hey, this isn’t fair,” I forced a smile. “When you were a little kid I used to let you win whenever we raced. You could at least let me win one today.”
“That’s too much to ask!” Rob laughed. “But I will let you have the mashed potatoes first tonight!” I managed a real smile. We raced down to dinner and tied.