Gospel Story Finder

Jenny came home from school, dropped her backpack off in her room, and slumped down on the couch.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
Jenny sighed. “Today Mrs. Patterson gave each of us three paper flowers. If anyone talks during quiet time, we have to give someone one of our flowers.”
Mom nodded.
“Emily keeps saying I need to give her a flower. But I’m not even talking!”
“Have you talked to your teacher? Maybe she can help,” Mom said. “But sometimes when people act like that, they really just want a friend.”
Jenny scrunched up her forehead. “It seems like a strange way to show you want a friend.”
“I know. But if you pray, Heavenly Father will show you how to be a friend to Emily.”
That night Jenny prayed for help. She asked Heavenly Father to help her know what to say when Emily asked for her flowers.
At school the next day, her teacher announced that she would retire soon. A lump grew in Jenny’s throat. She loved Mrs. Patterson! Jenny wanted to cry as she thought about how empty her school would feel next year. Later she went home and told her mom about Mrs. Patterson leaving.
“I’m sorry,” Mom said. “I bet Mrs. Patterson is sad too.”
Jenny nodded. “Maybe our class could buy her a new wind chime. She loves those.”
“Great idea! Let’s go to the store tomorrow. You could invite some friends to come too,” Mom said.
Jenny smiled. She was excited to give Mrs. Patterson a present.
“Speaking of other kids, did you talk to Emily today?” Mom asked.
Jenny shrugged. “She kept asking for flowers again. I didn’t know what to do, so I just gave them to her. I prayed for help last night, but it’s not getting any better.”
“Don’t give up,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father hears your prayers. Just keep praying, and you’ll know what to do.”
That night Jenny prayed again for help with Emily. When she got to class the next morning, she quietly sat down at her desk next to Emily. Almost immediately Emily told Jenny to give her a paper flower.
Jenny hesitated. Suddenly she knew what to say. “Emily, I have a question for you.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I want to buy Mrs. Patterson a new wind chime, and I need help picking one out. Do you want to come shopping with my mom and me?”
Emily’s face lit up. “Really? I guess I could help you.” She looked down at her hands. Then she reached into her desk. She carefully pulled out several paper flowers and handed them to Jenny.
“I’m sorry I took your flowers.”
Jenny reached for the flowers, and the girls smiled at each other. Mom was right, Jenny thought. Maybe she just wanted a friend!
As Jenny turned to her desk, she felt happy inside. Heavenly Father had heard her prayers! She was sad to lose her favorite teacher, but she was happy to gain a new friend.

In the beginning of our marriage I understood that love was romantic cards and dinner at a nice restaurant. It was my way of saying "I love you" and it worked for awhile. I found that I loved my wife the way I would be loved, not as she would be loved. Years into our marriage raised the persistent issue of dirty bathroom, especially the one the children used. You know how they look: as if an explosion took place behind the doors. Ligia would coax and coerce me but often she wound up doing the work herself. One day before company came to visit she was very serious about cleaning up the bathroom, mentioning that a very clean bathroom was very important to her and that it meant that I cared about her very much. I joked that a clean bathroom couldn't compete with a romantic night out. Then there came this eerie silence, and then she said, "Why not?"

I replied, "You're kidding right?"

"No I am not!"

So now I proclaim my love by cleaning bathrooms. I boast and point out the highlights of the job, (did you notice I got the cobwebs out of the corners, and got all the toothpaste off the mirror) and then bask in the light of her approving love. I have learned new meanings to love and care. The shiny bathtub exclaims, "I love you." The sanitized basin is my banner of devotion. Romance is not dead, just transformed into the smell of cleanser and Windex!

Lucy was happy whenever Daddy was home. But she was sad when he had to go on business trips. When he came home, though, he always had a surprise for Lucy in his suitcase.
Once the surprise was a doll from Mexico with a red ruffled dress and a tiny red rose in its hair.
Once the surprise was a white fan with a pretty design from Japan. It folded and unfolded with a click.
Another time the surprise was a paper lei from Hawaii. Daddy said, “A lei means ‘hello’ and ‘good-bye’ and ‘I love you.’”
On his next trip, Daddy brought Lucy a shell from the ocean. It was chalky white and pink on the outside. The inside flashed bright green and purple when she turned it. “Put it next to your ear,” Daddy said, “and it will sound like the ocean.”
One day Daddy came home from a trip with two surprises. The first one was a tiny blue box to put things in. But the other surprise was even nicer: “I’m not going on any more trips,” Daddy said. “I’ll be here every night from now on.”
Lucy clapped her hands. “Hurray!” she shouted. “That’s the best surprise of all!”

“Once when I was three years old, I was playing with a group of youngsters and we found a box of matches. We decided to light them just for fun. As we were striking them, one fell on me and set my clothes afire. I still have scars on my leg and abdomen as a result of our misbehavior. In those days, doctors didn’t know as much about caring for burns as they do now. As my leg began to heal, the burned tissue and muscle drew up, and my knee wouldn’t straighten out. Every day my parents and the doctor would lean on my knee and try to straighten it a little bit. Then I wore a splint for many months, and finally my leg straightened out. I won a lot of footraces afterward, but it was foolish for us to have played with those matches in the first place.”

He walked into a little classroom in the Philippines to be interviewed in preparation for receiving the Melchizedek Priesthood. I didn’t know how old he was, but even the older members of the branch called him Tatay (father).
When I asked whether he would be able to understand my English, he smiled warmly and replied with careful diction, “Yes, I will.”
After our interview I asked him if there was any reason he should not be ordained to the priesthood. After a moment he said, “Perhaps I should not receive the priesthood.”
Puzzled, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“I have only one tooth,” he replied. “I know I don’t look very good to receive the priesthood. It is all right if you tell me I cannot have the priesthood.”
We sat for a moment while I pondered his comment, tears welling up in my eyes. Then I put my hand on his hand and told him that I had seen many wonderful priesthood holders who had lost their hair, but he had beautiful, thick black hair. I also told him of priesthood holders who had only one ear or one eye, but he had both of his eyes and ears.
I then told him of a friend of mine who had lost his arm to cancer. When that brother had prayed in our home and had asked Heavenly Father to bless my wife and children, I knew he was a great servant of the Lord. I told Tatay how this friend had placed his only hand on the head of a little girl to bless her because she was dying and that I had felt the power of the priesthood that day.
This elderly Filipino smiled and said, “I hope my service to God will also be acceptable.”

Upon arriving in the Eastern Canadian Mission, I was assigned to labor in Ottawa with Elder Gary Heiner. Elder Heiner wasted no time involving me in the work. On the evening of my first day there we visited a Mrs. Groves. The experience that evening is so vivid that I remember it like it was yesterday. We entered her home, Elder Heiner gave the first discussion, and then he bore his testimony. He then turned to me and said, “Elder Randall, will you please bear your testimony?” Oh, how I wanted to bear my testimony by playing the piano. I would have found that so much easier. I had had much more experience performing in front of people than in bearing my testimony—especially to a stranger. Well, there was no piano available that night, and I found it necessary to verbally share with Mrs. Groves my testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the Restoration.

Three months passed. I was concentrating learning the Korean language and hadn’t done anything with genealogy. One day I asked my Korean missionary companion and another Korean missionary to help me with my search. They agreed, so on a preparation day we went to find the agency that had handled my adoption. When the officials there learned that my search was for genealogical purposes, they looked through their records until they found mine.
Next to my records were the records of another little girl whose picture looked very much like one of my baby pictures. I thought perhaps that the records had been mixed up, but the officials explained that the words hyungje im written beside our names meant brothers or sisters. I had a sister!
The adoption records listed our American names and addresses, so I wrote to my new-found sister in Oklahoma, explaining why I was in Korea and why I was searching for our records. Because my address had since changed, I expected that hers might be different, too. And since she had a new life and family, I was also prepared to learn that she might not be interested in me or my search.
A month and a half passed with no answer. Though I knew I might never hear from her, I never lost hope. My American family was also eager to hear about her. My father was even ready to look for her if my letter failed to get a response. Then, on February 14, I received a letter from Lila Lew Miller—my sister. Her parents still lived at the address in Oklahoma. She had included in the letter a picture of herself with her husband and her baby boy, and she wrote that she was eager to meet me.

In front of this vast worldwide audience and with some reservation, I make a personal confession. I do this as an introduction to a subject that has weighed heavily on my mind for some time. In 1955, after my freshman year of college, I spent the summer working at the newly opened Jackson Lake Lodge, located in Moran, Wyoming. My mode of transportation was a 14-year-old 1941 Hudson automobile that should have received its burial 10 years earlier. Among the car’s other identifying traits, the floorboards had rusted so badly that, if not for a piece of plywood, I could have literally dragged my feet on the highway. The positive is that unlike most 14-year-old cars in this time period, it used no oil—lots of water in the radiator, but no oil. I could never figure out where the water went and why the oil continually got thinner and thinner and clearer and clearer.
In preparation for the 185-mile (298-km) drive home at the end of the summer, I took the car to the only mechanic in Moran. After a quick analysis, the mechanic explained that the engine block was cracked and was leaking water into the oil. That explained the water and oil mystery. I wondered if I could get the water to leak into the gas tank; I would get better gasoline mileage.
Now the confession: after the miracle of arriving home, my father came out and happily greeted me. After a hug and a few pleasantries, he looked into the backseat of the car and saw three Jackson Lake Lodge towels—the kind you cannot buy. With a disappointed look he merely said, “I expected more of you.” I hadn’t thought that what I had done was all that wrong. To me these towels were but a symbol of a full summer’s work at a luxury hotel, a rite of passage. Nevertheless, by taking them I felt I had lost the trust and confidence of my father, and I was devastated.
The following weekend I adjusted the plywood floorboard in my car, filled the radiator with water, and began the 370-mile (595-km) round trip back to Jackson Lake Lodge to return three towels. My father never asked why I was returning to the lodge, and I never explained. It just didn’t need to be said. This was an expensive and painful lesson on honesty that has stayed with me throughout my life.

Some years ago during a beautiful early fall evening, a young woman sat on a stone bench down by the Spori Building. At that time it was the original Spori Building. And as this young woman and a friend sat there talking and enjoying one another’s company (they had been dating for some time), the young man brought himself to the point of saying to this young women, “I have kept myself worthy my whole life so that I could ask a girl like you to be my wife.” He reached into his pocket and took out a ring, attempting to place it on her finger. At that moment, she became distraught. She jumped up, placing the ring that he had tried to put on her finger on the bench, and left him there. She anguished about that for days and finally did what we would understand to be the proper thing to do. She went to her bishop and began the repentance process. It is what she said to her bishop that I think is compelling: “What I could not bear to tell him is that I was not the girl he thought I was. But I wish to be.” A moment intended to be one of rejoicing had been robbed of its joy. She had wished at that point, more than anything else, to let the ring be placed on her finger. To her credit she had too much integrity to do that. It certainly was a moment where she desired to rejoice, but her heart groaned because of her past choices and decisions.

“I had a friend who began to encourage me to disregard my standards, and for a while I listened. I finally decided that enough was enough and I wasn’t going to let her influence me anymore. I prayed for strength and guidance, and because I was again living the way I know I should, I received the guidance I asked for. I eventually stopped hanging out with her, and in the months that have passed, my testimony has grown so much. Who you are friends with definitely makes a difference in your ability to live the way the gospel teaches.”
Margaret Denise K., 17, Utah, USA

Chris had a hard time with his diabetes when he was a teenager. Living the lifestyle of a teenager—eating out at 2:00 a.m., having a crazy sleep schedule—was hard on his body. For most of his teenage years, he tried to deny that he even had a disease.
At college, a good friend helped Chris make some big changes in his physical and spiritual health. “Up to that point,” Chris says, “I had never really taken the gospel or my life seriously. As I started to read the Book of Mormon for the first time, I felt my whole life changing. Not only did I feel the enlightening effects come into my life that one feels when reading the Book of Mormon, but I also started to feel more concern for my body and my life.”
Chris says his decision to read the Book of Mormon led to other decisions that helped him become healthier. For the first time in his life, he started testing his blood-sugar level not just several times a week like he used to, but several times a day. He says, “I began to feel so much better as I started to take care of myself.”
After Chris finished reading the Book of Mormon and received an answer that it is true, he decided to serve a mission. “Serving a mission can be tough,” Chris says. “Every day brought something new for me and my diabetes to try and conquer.” But he believes the Lord blessed him to maintain control. “Constant fluctuations in schedules, modes of transportation, and eating would lead most diabetics to out-of-control blood sugars, but the Lord was watching over me as I served my mission.” Since Chris started taking better care of himself, his health has been almost perfect.
Chris is grateful that he was not only able to serve a mission but that he was able to serve with all of his strength. “The work never suffered as a result of my having diabetes. I saw God’s hand in my missionary work every day, and I still see it now.”

Service requires unselfishness, sharing, and giving. My wife and I learned a valuable lesson during our time of service in Africa. We were assigned to a district conference in Jinja, Uganda. Early Saturday morning before our meetings began, we took the opportunity to tour a new chapel in the area. As we arrived at the building, we were greeted by a young boy of three to four years of age. He had come to the Church grounds to see what was going on. Struck by his broad smile, Sister Snow reached in her purse and handed him a wrapped piece of hard butterscotch candy. He was delighted.
We spent a few minutes touring the chapel before returning outside. We were met by more than a dozen smiling children who each wanted to meet the new neighborhood candy lady.
Phyllis was heartbroken, as she had given the boy her last piece of candy. She disappointedly gestured to the children there was no more. The small boy who initially greeted us then handed the candy back to Sister Snow, gesturing for her to unwrap it. With a heavy heart, Phyllis did so, fully expecting the boy to pop the butterscotch candy into his mouth in full view of his envious friends.
Instead, to our great surprise, he went to each of his friends, who stuck out their tongues and received one delicious lick of the butterscotch candy. The young boy continued around the circle, occasionally taking his own lick, until the candy was gone.
Now, one can argue the lack of sanitation with this gesture of sharing, but no one can dispute the example set by this young boy. Unselfishness, sharing, and giving are essential to service. This child learned that lesson well.

When I studied in France, it would have been easy for me to distance myself from the Church. My family was in Tahiti and wouldn’t know what I was doing. But I had a testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and I wanted to feel his presence. So I decided to live in harmony with the teachings of my Heavenly Father. One day when I was fasting because of an exam I had to take at school, I felt the Lord’s presence strongly and knew that his love was with me. I will never forget that moment.
Jerry Brothers, 22Papeete, Tahiti

Just eight weeks ago I was holding a mission district conference on the island of Chiloe, an interior location in the south of Chile that gets few visitors. Imagine the responsibility I felt in addressing these beautiful people when it was pointed out to me that a very elderly man seated near the front of the chapel had set out on foot at five o’clock that morning, walking for four hours to be in his seat by nine o’clock, for a meeting that was not scheduled to begin until eleven o’clock. He said he wanted to get a good seat. I looked into his eyes, thought of times in my life when I had been either too casual or too late, and thought of Jesus’ phrase, “I have not found so great faith, no, not in Israel.”

My children’s births were not easy. My son arrived a month early and had to be untangled from the umbilical cord. I was seven months along with my baby girl when our doctor said we needed to find a place with an intensive care unit for newborns and adults to immediately intervene for both of us. So, there was no time to feel not ready or busy, it was a matter of survival and bringing life into this world.

We all encounter our own struggles. I can’t imagine the fear and uncertainty that must have been felt by Mary when carrying the divine Christ child or by Eve in choosing to have progeny over remaining in the Garden of Eden.

But the choices we make define us.
The choices we make mold our character and shape our earthly experience and our spiritual growth.

Let the Savior’s birth and what His parents went through allow you to fight your fights knowing that Christ has your back.

I remember meeting a man down in Alabama years ago. I went down to put him in charge of the welfare work in that part of the world. I said, “Stan, how did you get into the Church?” He told me he was a convert. He said, “Well, when I was a young boy I worked for the city, and I worked out at the city dumps.” He said, “I was out one day, and they had just dumped a lot of garbage, and my job was to spread it out.” And he said, “Right on the top of a big pile laid a book. It had a picture on it.” And he said, “It looked brand new. I picked that book up, and it was brand new.” He said, “It looked to me like no one had ever opened it, and it said on the cover Book of Mormon. He said, “I thought, this is too good to throw away, so I put it in my back pocket and took it home. I put it on the dresser in my bedroom, and I went to school the next day and forgot about it. When I came home, my mother was all upset.” She said, “Stan where did you get the horrible book that is full of lies and terrible stories and awful things. You go get it right now and throw it in the garbage.” Stan said, “That’s where I got it!” She said, “Whatever you do, promise me you won’t ever open it, or read it, or have anything to do with it.”

He said, “You know she made such a fuss. She kept after me and made such a terrible fuss, that I decided I better read it. So, I read it.” And he said, “After I read it, I got a hold of the Elders and I had them baptize me into the Church.” At the time he told me this he was on the High Council.

Petey didn’t want to be a Sunbeam. I knew because I sat on the row behind the little chairs. At first they were empty. Then, one by one, the new Sunbeam class walked in.
I nudged my friend Ryan. “Hey, there’s your little sister Maggie!”
He shrugged, but I could tell by his smile that he was proud to be a big brother in Primary now.
I knew some other Sunbeams, too. There was Ralph’s little brother Jakey and Caitlyn’s little sister Ashley. The only one I didn’t know very well was the boy with the wild brown hair—Petey. His hair stuck out all over the place like a bird’s nest.
The bishop had introduced Petey’s family to the ward during sacrament meeting just last week. I’d turned around to see if they had a boy I could play with, but the only names he announced were the parents’ names and “Peter Alexander.” Petey didn’t have any brothers or sisters. Maybe if he’d had a brother or sister, he wouldn’t have been so scared.
As soon as the Sunbeams walked to their chairs in front of the whole Primary, Petey started to cry—loud. Sister Evans tried to make him feel better by holding him on her lap and showing him her happy/sad-face puppets, but it didn’t do any good. He sucked in big gulps of air and cried even louder. Finally, Sister Evans carried him out.
Some of the children giggled when they could still hear him bawling in the hallway, but I felt sorry for him. I remembered going to a friend’s birthday party once. There must have been 20 children there who I’d never seen before. It was scary being around a bunch of people I didn’t know, but at least I knew my friend and his parents.
Petey probably didn’t know anybody at Primary. That’s when I got an idea—what if I wrote him a letter? I could draw him some pictures and tell him that I’d be his Primary buddy if he wanted. I was so happy with my idea that I didn’t even mind when Janice kept kicking the back of my chair or when my brother took my favorite spot on the bench during sacrament meeting.
With Mom’s help, I wrote my letter that night. It was fun! I told Petey he’d learn a bunch of neat songs in Primary. And I told him about the Primary talent show that was coming up. Maybe he’d get to hear me sing with my brothers and sisters. Then I drew a picture of Nephi shooting an arrow and my remote-control monster car racing another car. I figured if I liked those things, then maybe he did, too. I signed my name and asked Mom to help me find his address. Then, at the last minute, I cut out one of my school pictures and dropped it in the envelope so he’d recognize me at church. Mom mailed it for me the next day.
I got so busy at school that week I forgot I’d even sent the letter—until Sunday! After we arrived at church, I hurried to the Primary room and waited for him to come in. That’s when my stomach started doing flip-flops. The longer I waited, the more I wondered. Had he gotten my letter? What if sending it had been a really bad idea? What if he didn’t like it? What if he didn’t want a Primary buddy? What if he didn’t want to come back to Primary at all?
Then I saw him! He trudged in behind Sister Evans and slid onto the little chair right in front of me.
“Hi, Petey!” I said, but he must not have heard me because he didn’t turn around or say “hi.”
I could tell he still didn’t want to be a Sunbeam because he sat really close to his teacher and stared down at his lap. “At least he’s not crying,” I thought hopefully.
Then disaster struck!
“Peter, would you please come up front so we can sing you a welcome song?” Sister Peterson asked. She hadn’t been at church last week, so she didn’t know that Petey was shy.
I held my breath.
“Come on up, Peter,” she said with a smile. “Don’t you want to hear our welcome song?”
Petey shook his head, clutching his teacher’s arm even tighter.
All the other children were waiting for Petey to burst out crying. And maybe he would have. His chin was already trembling, and his eyes were wide like a frightened rabbit’s.
That’s when I surprised myself. “I’ll go up with you, Petey,” I heard myself say.
Petey switched from looking at all the children to looking at just me. Did he recognize me from my picture? I guess he did, because a tiny smile crept across his face.
“OK,” he said quietly.
He held my hand really tight as we stood in front of the whole Primary. They sang the welcome song nice and loud like they did every time they welcomed someone new.
“Way to go!” I whispered when I took him back to his seat.
He grinned and waved at me.
And that’s when I knew—Petey was going to like being a Sunbeam after all.

I will never forget the summer and fall of 2009. On June 9 my father died after suffering from dementia for over 10 years. On June 25 our 22-year-old son died unexpectedly, and less than a month later, so did my cousin. On August 13 my 82-year-old mother had open-heart surgery and began a lengthy recovery. On October 18 my 41-year-old brother died. On October 31 my husband had a massive heart attack and flat lined for eight minutes. The firefighters, paramedics, and a priesthood blessing brought him back to us.
People often asked me how we handled all of these events. My consistent answer was that we would turn to the Savior, and He cared for us. He did not leave us alone in our trials. I felt ministered to and carried by the heavens. Truly, He “has borne [my] griefs” (Mosiah 14:4).

I had a friend who was active for a long time in the Church. He always came alone because his family had decided they no longer wanted to come. I was impressed by his strength and courage. But then one day I heard that he no longer came to church. I felt strongly prompted by the Spirit that I should talk with him. I told him how impressed I had been that he had come alone to church, and I told him not to give up. That next Sunday he came to sacrament meeting and since then has continued to come to church. By being faithful and living the gospel, we can be examples to our friends and give them the love and support they need.Marina V., 18, Småland, Sweden

Allow me to share with you a sweet story from the writings of Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone, one of my brethren in the Quorum of Seventy and a man who has been my counselor in the Young Men presidency and a friend for many years. He wrote:

I made a decision not to tell anyone of my mother’s death as my feelings were especially tender, humble, and close to the surface. I met all day Saturday with the stake leaders and members. After the last meeting, which ended at 9:00 at night, the mission president came to me and asked me to interview a missionary. We met with the missionary, who had been involved inappropriately with a nonmember woman. He had not committed a major transgression but had crossed over the line of propriety. Her husband was offended, and the woman was upset. They no longer had any interest in the Church. The president had counseled the young elder at length. He told me that the elder would not admit he was wrong and would not even say he was sorry. The General Authorities in Salt Lake City had been involved, and I was to make a determination while I was in Florida as to whether or not he could stay in the mission field. I was tender anyway, and I thought that if he would just say he was sorry, I would let him stay. I used every skill I had learned and all the inspiration I could draw upon trying to get him to say he was sorry. He would not. Finally, he promised he would not do it again, but he would not say he was sorry, even though he wanted to stay on his mission.

I said, “Let me ask you two more questions before I make a decision.” I had about decided he would have to go home, and the questions were simply a last-minute stall before I announced my feelings. I said, “What does your father do in the Church?” He responded that his father was inactive, that he fished, hunted, or sat in front of the television all day long on Sundays. His father did not want him to be on a mission; he wanted him to come home and would have been glad if he did. His father smoked and drank, and, as the elder described him, I realized there was no support from the father. I said, “Tell me about your mother; what does she do in the Church?” His face softened, his eyes moistened, and he responded, “She is the stake young women’s president.” Then he talked about her for a few minutes. When he finished, I said, “I am going to let you stay, but you don’t deserve to. However, your mother doesn’t deserve to have you come home dishonored. You are probably about the only joy she has in this life. I imagine every letter you write to her she reads over and over again. I imagine that she takes your letters as she goes around the stake and reads them to the Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels. Her whole pride and joy must be centered around you. She doesn’t have much at home, and I couldn’t bear the thought of having this woman have to go to the airport and pick up her son who had been dishonorably released from his mission.” Then the emotion came, and with tears I reaffirmed, “I simply could not do that to your mother. You do not deserve to stay, but she does not deserve one more trial.” He thanked me for letting him stay but still would not say he was sorry.

The next day at the close of the final session of the conference, I said, “I apologize if I have been a little tender and emotional. My mother died Thursday night, and the funeral is tomorrow.” Then I shared for the next fifteen or twenty minutes what she had meant in our lives. I said, “I will miss the viewing tonight, but I will arrive back in Salt Lake by 1:00 a.m. or so and will be able to attend the funeral.” It was an emotional time for me as I shared my innermost feelings.

At the close of the conference, this young elder whom I had interviewed came running up to the stand. With great tears on his cheeks, he threw his arms around me and shuddered with emotion. Then he said, “Now I know why you are letting me stay; it is not only because of my mother but also because of yours.” I said, “You’re right, I suppose it’s because of my mother also.” He said, “I humbly apologize for what I have done. I truly am sorry, and I promise I will be the best missionary in this mission.” Later his mission president told me he was true to his word. [Vaughn J. Featherstone, More Purity Give Me (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1991), pp. 96–99]