Gospel Story Finder

“There’s never anything in this house to eat!” I complained as I surveyed our half-empty refrigerator. in desperation I opened the meat keeper and then pulled out the vegetable drawer. There I saw it. Between the folds of the plastic bags containing the asparagus and the cabbage, someone had attempted to hide a cream-filled, golden yellow sponge cake, a Twinkie.
“It’s my lucky day,” I said for the benefit of that someone—my nine-year-old sister, Valarie. There was little doubt in my mind that she was the one who had hidden the Twinkie because she is the sneakiest member of our family and had been hiding things ever since I started my growth spurt.
Just as I expected, she immediately swooshed over, jumping and screaming, “That’s my Twinkie!”
“Yours?” I said. “Who says?”
“You know you ate yours,” my sister shouted. “Now give me that!”
Technically speaking, of course, she was right. Mom had bought six packages of Twinkies and had given each of us a package. I had done away with my two Twinkies in a matter of seconds. Valarie had apparently eaten one and then saved this other one. Yes, technically, I had eaten my portion. But why should a kid who is barely over four feet tall receive the same food allotment as someone who is destined to play varsity basketball? I needed nourishment. I walked casually, though swiftly, down the stairs and to my room.
I knew what would come next. Within six seconds Valarie was pounding on my locked door. “You’ll be grounded! I’ll tell Mom and Dad! You won’t be able to drive until you’re 18! I’ll take your tapes! I’ll … I’ll tell everybody you like Becky Fitzgerald!”
Now I knew I was pretty safe when it came to the first few threats. I could plead innocence. How was I to know that the Twinkie belonged to Valarie? It was just right there in the vegetable bin. The mention of Becky, however, did bother me slightly. But then I realized that since Becky already knew I liked her, it wouldn’t matter if Valarie blabbed. No, nothing Valarie said or did could affect me. Nothing.
So, as she pounded on the door, I opened the wrapper slightly and squeezed the Twinkie. Sure enough, it was perfect. Along the seam line, I could see the slightest hint of the cream filling.
To me, there is no greater treat than a Twinkie for your everyday, put-it-in-your-mouth variety of junk food. And this particular Twinkie would be especially satisfying because my sister was pounding on my door.
In fact, the sheer delight of the moment made me grin. I knew I was grinning because I could see my reflection in the mirror on the medicine chest in the bathroom adjacent to my room. The reflection of myself with that Twinkie poised near my mouth and ready to go in would normally have been a fine sight if at that moment my eyes hadn’t shifted to the picture in the corner of my mirror. It’s the picture of Christ that Sister Engright gave me. I can’t even remember the exact circumstances, except that there had been an article of faith involved and that CTR song.
Something was causing me to hesitate before stuffing the Twinkie into my mouth. I looked back at myself in the mirror again. It was always startling to see that I didn’t look the way I pictured myself. The rash that had developed when I’d started shaving hadn’t disappeared yet like Dad had said it would after my skin toughened up. Just looking at myself made me want to stuff a hundred Twinkies in my mouth out of sheer discouragement. What a contrast this adolescent face was to the face of the Savior’s in the picture. The Savior had always been my idea of a true hero. Here was someone who hadn’t buckled under when the going got tough. That’s why I’d put his picture on my mirror and not on my wall between the sports and car posters.
My sister was hitting the door so hard now that I was afraid she’d bang a hole through it. Dad had talked about that recently when he and Mom were discussing the possibility of getting some new doors. “Let’s wait until Chuck is out of the terrible teasing stage,” I’d heard him say.
“You mean when he’s 43,” Mom had answered.
“Yes, or on his mission,” Dad had said. “Let’s get new doors when he’s gone and no one feels a need to tear after him and pound on his door.”
I looked at the picture of the Savior again. It wouldn’t be that long before I’d be out there somewhere trying to convert people to the gospel of truth and light and peace.
Peace? What was peace? I didn’t feel peaceful these days with my body changing and all kinds of forces exploding in me, making my insides feel like they were going to pop right out. Take this Twinkie, for instance. I wanted it so badly I could hardly stand it. Sometimes I wanted to eat and eat and eat and never stop. And why shouldn’t I have this Twinkie? It wasn’t as if I was about to take drugs or commit a felony. I wasn’t doing half the stuff I knew some of the kids at my school did. Hey, I’m your basically good guy, and Mom and Dad had every reason to feel fortunate that my only vice was teasing my sister once in a while.
But now looking at the serene and peaceful expression on the face in the picture, I could see a contrast. “Ah, I don’t care,” I thought as I lifted the Twinkie again. “I’ve got to have this. I’m a growing boy.” I could again smell the sponge cake and I was pretty sure I could even smell the cream filling. “I’ll get her another one sometime. I’ll give her the whole package the next time I get to a store.”
But I knew that wouldn’t do it. I knew that the issue came down to right now and this minute. Anybody could repent later, but it takes a big man to make the correct decision at the very moment that temptation is beckoning him.
Good grief, it’s only a Twinkie, I thought. But I also knew that life is a combination of all kinds of small decisions and acts. Yes, it was just a Twinkie, but it wasn’t mine.
I moved the Twinkie a little further away from me where I couldn’t smell it quite so well, and then I found myself pulling the wrapper back around it.
The next part I knew would be the most difficult because it involved the swallowing of pride. Besides, if I opened the door, my sister would rush me. Oh well, it had to be done.
“Here,” I said, opening the door a crack and pushing the wrapped Twinkie through it. The look of astonishment on her face deserved to be put on film. Then her eyes narrowed.
“All right, what did you do to it? What did you put in it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”
My sister examined the Twinkie carefully. “I know you did something to it.”
I was finally able to convince her that the Twinkie hadn’t been tampered with, and she scrambled from the door.
I sat down on my bed and felt the pang of withdrawal. The Twinkie was gone. This particular Twinkie would never be mine. But something funny was happening. As much as I could almost taste that Twinkie, I was glad—glad I hadn’t eaten it. In fact, as I went back to the mirror to check my smile, I was feeling satisfaction of a different, more substantial kind. The truth is, I was feeling pretty good.
I turned on the tap, patted down my hair, checked my teeth one more time, stretched my neck to see if there were any whiskers I’d missed, and glanced again at the picture of the Savior. Then, whistling, I left my room to go out into the world—a better man.

In November 1997 I was called to serve in the Chile Concepción Mission and would soon be able to realize my desire to attend the temple and receive more light and knowledge. But then doubts began to trouble me. As weak and imperfect as I was, was I really worthy to enter? Would the Lord really welcome me with open arms after all the times I had offended Him?
I shared my doubts with my stake president, and he helped me understand that if my life was in order and I was really trying to do all the things I had been taught, I was worthy to enter the house of the Lord. Feeling better, I left for the missionary training center in Santiago, Chile. A few hours before it was time to go to the temple, however, my doubts returned.
The beauty and peace inside the temple were so great that the longer I was there, the more I wondered if I deserved to be there. Afterward in the celestial room, everyone but me seemed happy and radiant. As I touched the door handle to leave, however, a strange sensation came over me, and I felt that I should stay. I also felt as if someone were behind me, putting a hand on my left shoulder to turn me around. Slowly I turned.
On the wall I saw a large painting of Jesus Christ at His Second Coming with His arms opened wide. I could not move. Then I clearly heard the following words inside my mind: “You are welcome in my house.”
A warm feeling coursed through my whole body, and tears began to spill from my eyes. The only thing I could think of was “Thank You.”
For some minutes I cried without stopping. My heart was overflowing with gratitude to my Savior. I still felt weak and imperfect, but I knew that He loved me and would strengthen me.
Many years have passed since that experience, but every time I go to the temple, the joy of that day returns, as do these comforting words: “You are welcome in my house.”

Clint was speechless.
So was everyone else in the congregation for that matter. The warm, tender, emotion-filled quietness was so thick we could practically touch it. It wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, no one wanted to disturb it. So we sat in silence at Clint’s missionary farewell, while he tried desperately to blink back his tears.
Some people might have been surprised to see Clint, the student-body officer, the lead singer in the band, the enthusiastic basketball player, unable to speak, but it didn’t surprise me at all. I’d seen him at a loss for words more than once.
In fact, he was like that when I first met him. I was about 11 years old, and that summer I’d become a close friend of his sister Lisa. My first contact with Clint came when I called their house to ask Lisa if she wanted to go on a bike ride, and Clint wasn’t exactly verbose then.
“Hi there,” I said. “Is Lisa home?”
“Umph,” a voice said.
“May I speak with her?” I asked, wondering if her dog Clancy had accidentally knocked the phone off the hook and was growling at it.
“Umph,” said the voice, and the grunt was followed by a crash that sounded like the phone had been dropped. Soon Lisa picked up the receiver and greeted me.
“Have you got a Neanderthal butler or what?” I asked.
“Nah—that’s just my brother,” she told me. “He isn’t very articulate today, or any other day really. You know how big brothers are.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. But I really didn’t. All I had was a big sister, and she certainly didn’t have any problems talking on the phone.
When the summer was over, Lisa and I returned to our cross-town schools. We kept in touch, but as far as I knew, her big brother had slipped into oblivion.
He suddenly emerged from it one day several years later when my older sister Karen brought him home—her latest crush. Surprise! Over the last several years, he’d grown tall and thin, and had dark blond hair that just sort of drooped over his head. I’d never noticed his deep, dark brown eyes before. And his vocabulary had improved too. “Lisa and I are old friends,” he said with a smile as Karen began to reintroduce us.
I heard his voice around the house a lot after that, and I was glad. Of all the people my sister dated, he was definitely my favorite. He took the time to drive my friends and me to the beach, he’d visit me at the ice cream parlor where I worked, and he was there to softly console me when I didn’t make the freshman cheerleading squad. And he didn’t just do it to make points with Karen either. He genuinely liked the mischievous adolescent that I was, and he wasn’t embarrassed to show it around his high school friends.
He started coming to our church for the right reasons too. A number of the boys in town would attend just because they were smitten by the local LDS girls. But not Clint. Sure, sometimes he would come to our meetings with Karen, but he began coming with his other LDS friends too. Sometimes he’d even come on his own. “I like the feeling I get there,” he said to me one day. “I know there’s something to this.”
I knew there was something to it too, and I prayed, really prayed, that he would discover what it was.
Clint learned a lot about the gospel. He admired the people in the Church. He read the Book of Mormon, felt of its spirit, and he knew it was true. He had one problem though. Although he could easily talk to everyone around him, when it came to conversing with the Lord, he was speechless. Actually talking to someone he couldn’t see, and having that being respond directly was a foreign concept to him. He didn’t believe God would really pay personal attention to him.
It took a major upheaval in his high school world to help him understand just how important that heavenly communication is. Some of the players on his basketball team were suspended for using drugs, and most of the team, along with most of the school, were convinced that Clint had turned them in. His popularity at school took a nosedive, and he realized just how fickle a crowd can be. He needed to embrace something more solid—something more enduring. He couldn’t base his life on ever-changing popular opinion.
What could he base his life on? Clint decided that the Lord was the only one who could tell him. He drove his battered car up a canyon not far from his house, and, like the account he’d read of Joseph Smith, he dropped to his knees and began, for the first time in his life, to really, sincerely, inquire of the Lord.
After a while, Clint knew. He knew The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the true church of Christ on this earth and that he should be baptized. But that knowledge wasn’t given to him by a thunderous voice or by an angelic chorus. It came to him wordlessly, on a soft breeze that seemed to envelop him with warmth.
He was almost speechless when he called to tell me of his decision to be baptized. About a year later, he was speechless when he rose to thank the patriarch for giving him a wonderful patriarchal blessing. And now, here he was, speechless again as he stood at the pulpit of a chapel that was packed to the rafters with people wishing him well on his mission.
But the silence was a comfortable one. It wrapped us in the same feeling Clint had felt when he went out to pray about the truthfulness of the Church. The Spirit was touching us all.
Through his speechlessness, Clint taught me that some of the most beautiful emotions in this life aren’t communicated by words from mouth to ear, but are communicated by the Spirit from heart to heart.

For Tanner, Easter would not be the same this year. His grandpa had died, and Tanner was sad he would never share this special time with him again.
But during Primary, Tanner was reminded that the reason we celebrate Easter is because Jesus lives! When He was resurrected, His spirit was forever reunited with His body, never to experience death again. Tanner learned that because Jesus was resurrected, everyone would be resurrected someday, including his grandpa!
An Easter song filled Tanner with happiness as he sang: “Jesus has risen, Jesus, our friend. Joy fills our hearts; He lives again.”* Tanner wanted to share this good news with everyone. He decided that before Easter, he would place on his neighbors’ doorsteps small bundles of spring flowers with scriptures about Jesus’s Resurrection. He imagined the smiles on their faces when they found his gift on Easter morning.

Christmas was coming, and Elizabeth could hardly wait. Her excitement wasn’t for the gifts that Father Christmas would bring, nor for her eighth birthday on the day after Christmas. She was excited because on the day after her birthday she would be baptized into God’s true Church.
Grandmother Beardall smiled as the family sat down to dinner. “Look at Elizabeth,” she said. “She’s glowing like a crystal! Is it Christmas or birthday wishes that dance in your head, my dear?”
“Neither,” Elizabeth answered without thinking. She remembered too late that Grandmother wasn’t supposed to know about the baptism.
“Neither?” Grandmother sounded puzzled. “How can it be neither? Tell us, child. What excites you so?”
Elizabeth studied the pattern on her china plate and didn’t answer.
Grandmother frowned and turned to look at Father. “Someone told me they saw you associating with those wicked Mormons, Francis. I assured them it was not true. Can you give me the same assurance?”
Elizabeth thought of Elder Chase and Elder Canon and all the other good people in the Church. “They are not wicked, Grandmother!” she blurted out.
Grandmother turned pale. “So it is true,” she said softly.
“Mother, we have found God’s true Church,” Elizabeth’s father said gently. “We are being baptized at the end of the month.”
Grandmother sat stiff and straight. “The children too?”
“Ellen and Frank are too young,” Mother replied. “But Elizabeth is old enough to decide for herself, and as you have seen, she can hardly wait.”
Grandmother took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “You have broken my heart, Francis, and brought disgrace on your family. I would rather have followed you to your grave than see you join that despised church. If you join with those people, you are no longer my son, but I would not lose my beloved granddaughter.” She turned to Elizabeth. “If you really have a choice in this matter, I beg you not to be baptized but come and live with me. I promise that you will never want for anything as long as you live.”
Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. She loved her grandmother very much, but she also wanted to be baptized. Later, as Mother tucked her into bed, Elizabeth asked, “Why doesn’t Grandmother want us to join God’s true Church?”
“She doesn’t believe that it is the true church,” Mother said, “and she has the right to choose.”
“But what should I do? If I do what Grandma wants will Heavenly Father understand? Will He know that I still believe the Church is true?”
“He knows your heart, Elizabeth, but sometimes faith is more than just believing. It is trusting God and doing the right thing even when it’s hard. But you also have the right to choose. It’s your decision if or when you are baptized.”
In the busy days that followed, Elizabeth put aside the decision as she worked on Christmas presents for her family. But as she pushed cloves into a pomander ball for Grandmother, Elizabeth knew she could give a gift that would make Grandmother much happier. She could agree to live with her.
On Christmas Eve Elizabeth’s family was enjoying their plum pudding when the doctor came to call. “I have just come from tending Mrs. Beardall,” he told Father. “She is not serious, but asks that you come see her.”
Father reached for his coat. “I’ll take Elizabeth,” he said. “That will cheer her.”
Grandmother was in bed propped on her pillows. “How are you?” Father asked, taking her hand.
“My old body is wearing out,” Grandmother said. “I am in great need of a strong youth to assist me.” She looked at Elizabeth. “Well, dear? What is your decision? Will you come help me in my time of need?”
Elizabeth hesitated. Seeing her grandmother in bed reminded her of the night three years earlier when she herself lay dying.
“I love you, Grandmother,” Elizabeth said, “and I will do what I can to help you. But God has given me special promises and one of them was that I would join the true Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He cannot keep His promises unless I do my part. So I have decided to be baptized with my parents.”
As soon as Elizabeth spoke these words, joy filled her heart. She knew she had made the right decision.

It was morning, muggy and buggy. I sat in the mulberry tree, thinking about the July carnival two weeks away. Daddy had promised us if we did our chores daily, no nagging, we’d each get $2.00 to spend. Otherwise, we’d have to pay our own way. I was 12 years old, and since my access to money was limited in those days, I’d taken his warning to heart and done all my work early. Now I had nothing to do, except sit in the mulberry tree, think about the “Fourth,” and eat mealy mulberries.
“Hello there, Birdie.” Grandpa walked over under the tree and chuckled. I’m named Roberta after my Uncle Robert, but everyone calls me Birdie. Grandpa was laughing because Birdie was in the tree. He and I had many jokes together, most so familiar we didn’t have to say them aloud.
“Hello there, yourself. Back from your walk already?” I jumped down and rubbed my hands on my pants, trying to remove the purple stain.
“Yup. I guess I’m still alive.” We laughed again. Every morning except Sunday, Grandpa went for a walk. “A man who stays in the house may as well trade his bed for a coffin,” he’d say.
He was really my great-grandfather, but we called him Grandpa because that’s what my mother called him. He lived with Mom’s family when she was a girl. Now he lived with us. His wife, Marie, died in 1932. He never remarried.
I was the youngest and only daughter, so my family had a tendency to treat me like I was still in Sunbeams. But Grandpa was my best friend. He didn’t treat me like a little kid. And I didn’t treat him like an old man.
“Are you ready for the fair?” I asked, squinting in the sunlight. “Great gray grizzlies couldn’t keep me away,” Grandpa replied. But on carnival morning Grandpa felt sick and couldn’t go with me. Dad gave each of us our $2.00. Don, Ricky, and I left early so we wouldn’t miss anything. Ted, however, was 23, home from his mission, and too old to go to the fair in the daytime. He and his fiancée, Katie, would go that evening. Nights at the carnival were romantic. Even I knew that.
I liked Katie. She always smiled and said, “Hi Birdie,” just like I was her best friend. Once she tried to fix my hair like hers, after I told her how much I admired her hair style. Since her hair was long and blonde and mine was red, short, and mop-curly, the results were disastrous. But we giggled the whole time. None of Ted’s previous girl friends ever acknowledged my existence, so I was glad he was marrying Katie—except they were moving to Utah to finish school. So I had to think of something extra perfect for a wedding present. And I had to get it before August.
The carnival was in the town park. There were twister rides, bumper cars, a double-decker Ferris wheel, and more. Rows of game booths stood around the rides. And the food booths smelled so good I got hungry just smelling them, even though I’d eaten breakfast less than half an hour before. Since Grandpa hadn’t been able to come I tried to print the entire scene in my memory. I walked slowly and separated sights, smells, and sounds. I wanted to tell it to Grandpa so lifelike that he’d close his eyes and the kitchen (where I’d be telling it over buttermilk and fruit) would magically change into a fairground with sawdust on the ground and birds flying to your feet, pecking up popcorn and hot dog bun crumbs.
I was just about to have one of my dollars changed for some ride tickets when I saw it.
Usually I don’t waste my time on game booths, since Grandpa says they’re all rigged against you. Sometimes I stand back to watch people try their luck, but not for long. So many people walk up with hope in their faces and walk away grumbling how they were gypped. The old men running the booths never seem to care. But the operator at this booth wasn’t an old man “carnie.” He was young with bright red hair and a faceful of freckles, and he wore a fluorescent yellow shirt that read, “James.” And his booth didn’t have big faded stuffed animals hanging from it, like they’d been waiting for years. This booth had all sorts of glassware stacked up in the middle—and you threw dimes. Whatever your dime landed in, you took home.
Normally, a bunch of glasses, even pretty ones like these, wouldn’t interest me. But near the middle was a tall, dark, red-rose vase. Flowery and frilly, with the sun glowing through.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” The red-haired “James” said. I jumped. I was used to people ignoring a 12-year-old.
“It sure is. It would be the perfect present for Ted and Katie.”
“Just one dime, and it’s yours. I’ll even put it in a box with tissue paper. You can take it home,” James said.
“I, I don’t think I could,” I stammered.
“It’s easy.” He picked up one of the many dimes on the floor and flipped it casually between his thumb and middle finger. It made a clear “ping” as it dropped into the vase. At the same time a boy on the other side threw a dime into a red and blue Spiderman bowl.
“I won! I won!” He screamed.
“Everyone’s a winner here.” James handed him the bowl. When he turned back to me I held out one of my dollars.
“I’d like change, please.”
He put the dollar in his pocket and picked ten dimes up off the floor. “Just remember, it’s all in the wrists.”
I looked at the dimes in my hand. One of them was going to land in the red vase. Maybe it would even be my first try. I wiped my sweaty left hand on my shirt and pitched a dime at the vase. It missed by a foot.
“Oh, a south paw,” James said. I nodded. “We always give lefties two first tries.” He picked up a dime and pressed it into my hand.
Embarrassed by so much attention, I hurriedly threw the dime and missed again. Only I missed much closer. Again and again I threw my dimes until I only had one left. Disillusioned, I started to leave. Then I thought. “What if this is the dime that will go in?” That thought got stronger and stronger. I still had one dollar left. So what was one dime? My heart thumped. I tossed it. It slid around the frilly edge, off the side, and landed in a jelly glass.
“A winner!” James cried out. He handed me the stupid jelly jar I didn’t want or need. Now I only had one dollar left. The whole day and fair were before me. I walked over to a food booth.
“How much for a hot dog?” I asked.
“Twenty cents. Mustard or plain?” The woman looked at me and waited. I wanted a hot dog, but I couldn’t spend any money. If I spent two dimes for a hot dog, I might spend the dime that would win my vase.
“Will you take this for a hot dog?” I asked, holding up my jelly jar. She glared at me. I walked back to James and the vase.
“Ten more dimes, please,” I said, shivering. Here it was, a hot Nebraska summer day, and I was shaking like it was zero degrees.
One by one I tossed all my dimes. One by one, they all missed. I kicked at the dirt and turned to go.
“Hey, Red!” It was James. “Come on back!”
“I don’t have any more money.” I jammed one hand in my pocket and gripped the jelly jar with my other.
“Us redheads got to stick together,” he grinned. “If you go get more money, I’ll help you get the vase, okay?”
“Okay!” I shouted, then frowned. Where was I going to get any more money?
I searched frantically until I found Ricky and Donald. “You spent the whole two bucks already?” Ricky gasped. “Isn’t that just like a girl.” Donald shook his head in disbelief. “Can I borrow a dime?” I begged. But they laughed and ran off. “I’ll sell you this jar for a dime!” I followed them but soon gave up. I shoved the jar on top of an overful trash can. I kept my eyes on the ground, looking for pennies, because I didn’t have any more money at home.
“Yes, you do.” I thought. “In the vitamin jar on your dresser is 37 cents.”
“But that’s tithing money!” I couldn’t believe I’d thought such a thought.
“You can pay it back,” I told myself. “And James promised to help. You’re sure to win the vase for Ted and Katie this time.”
“But it’s not my money. Anything in the vitamin jar is already tithing.” I argued with myself as I walked. When I looked up I was home. I felt like a thief as I walked into my room.
“What’s the matter, Leftie?” James asked when I returned. “I only have 37 cents and I have to win the vase this time.” He gave me four dimes and winked. I threw the first three. They all missed.
“I can’t do it,” I whined. “I try and I try, but they all either bounce off the rim or miss completely!”
“Give me your last dime.” He pointed to his palm. I handed it to him. “I’ll throw your last dime for you.” A flip of his hand and the dime went into the vase.
“You’re a winner!” He picked up the vase, put it in a box, and handed it to me. I smiled at the people clapping for me, but I didn’t feel like a winner. I felt like a real loser.
I ran straight home to my room, put the box up in my closet behind some dirty clothes, and lay down on my bed.
Grandpa knocked at the door. “Home already, Birdie? It’s only 2:00.”
“I don’t feel well,” I answered.
“Would you like some buttermilk?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I just want to be alone.” He left, and I lay there, more alone than I’d ever felt before, thinking all sorts of terrifying thoughts. I’d stolen from the Lord. What if I died before I could pay back that tithing?
August came, sunny and hot in the daytime, dark and hot at night—and sticky. The sweat stuck in the creases of your arms and knees. Katie was the only one who didn’t seem to mind the weather. She was over all the time, talking and laughing with Mom about the reception and married life.
I was feeling good again, too. I hadn’t died. I’d earned enough money and repaid the Lord. And I had the best present for Ted and Katie. To ease any remorse, I’d convinced myself that maybe the fact that I’d spent tithing money to win the vase made it more special. Guilty people can be real stupid.
Two days before the reception Grandpa and I were sitting in my bedroom drinking apple juice and club soda. Grandpa told me again about the day he married Great-grandma Marie, the civil ceremony in Fremont, and then, the train ride to Salt Lake City.
“Ted and Katie can fly to Salt Lake and get married tomorrow. But it took us three days by train,” Grandpa explained. “So we were married before, to make the trip respectable. It was an expensive marriage for me, but it was worth it.” He smiled at me. “The right things are difficult sometimes, but they’re always worth it.”
“Do you want to see what I got them?” I bounced up off the bed. “I haven’t shown it to anybody. I haven’t even looked at it since I got it. But if you want, I’ll show it to you.” I was already to the closet.
“What did you decide on, Birdie?” he asked.
“Wait until you see it. It’s the most beautiful present in the whole world.” I uncovered the box. He held it while I removed the lid and folded back the tissue paper. Somehow it looked different.
“Very nice,” he said.
“No, it’s not.” I turned away and looked out my window. “It looks like junk.” The vase, which had been the most exquisite object I’d ever seen at the carnival was now, in the afternoon light of my bedroom, all flawed. One side was much thicker than the other. Air bubbles marred the entire surface. “I don’t understand. It was so pretty at the carnival.”
“Is that where you bought it, the carnival?” Grandpa put his arm around me.
“I’m so ashamed,” I sobbed, and hugged him.
“You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,” he comforted.
That made me feel worse. “Oh yes I have.” And between crying and blowing my nose I told him the whole regrettable story. “I’m so sorry.” I sniffed.
“I know,” he sighed. “I’m sure the Lord knows it, too. I wish I could have gone with you and spared you all this. But it seems to me, Roberta, you’ve learned a hard lesson.” He patted my back.
“When do I get to start learning easy ones, Grandpa?” I asked. Then, without waiting for him to reply, I stuffed the vase back in its box and gave it to him. “Please, do me a favor and take this to the trash. I never want to see this ugly vase again.”
When Ted, Katie, and the parents left for Utah, Grandpa stayed home with me and my brothers. We got the happy couple a gift certificate. Grandpa paid for it; I made the card. That was eight years ago. I’d almost forgotten about it.
Grandpa’s funeral was during finals week. When I came home from school there was a box on my dresser wrapped in plain brown paper. I carried it out to the living room. Mom was doing some mending.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“I found it in Grandpa’s bedroom when I was cleaning up,” she said. “It had your name on it.”
“Did he leave any others, for the boys or you?” I asked.
“No. That was the only one,” she answered. I felt kind of important as I opened the package. But the feeling didn’t last long. When I took off the lid I felt the same nausea and embarrassment I’d felt at age 12. Grandpa had left me that ugly red vase.
“It’s even worse than I remembered.” I felt like crying.
“What made him give you that?” Dad asked.
“There’s a note, Roberta.” Mom picked it up and looked at me. I was straining not to cry. “Would you like me to read it?”
I nodded.
She read:
“Dearest Little Birdie,
“I want to give this to you. It is the most important thing I can leave you. Do you remember how bad you felt the day you first showed me this vase when you told me the story behind it? I want you always to remember how bad you felt, because someday it may help you from feeling much worse.
“In life there are a lot of red vases: power, fame, beauty, money. And here on earth these things look so good to some people that they do anything to obtain them. They do far worse things than spending tithing money. When these people die, they will see with new eyes the goals they worked so hard to attain during their mortal existence. Those will seem as cheap and worthless as this vase seems to you. Only they will have spent a whole life on their red vases, while you, if you learn, will have only spent one hard lesson on yours.
“If you read the scriptures and heed the words of the prophets, ancient and latter-day, you won’t need to worry about whether the things you strive for in this life will be worthwhile in the next. You’ll know.
“So throw this ugly vase in the trash, if you must. But I would hope instead, you’ll keep it nearby at all times. So any time you’re tempted to lower your standards for money, worldly praise, or a man who is not worthy of you, anything you will have to compromise yourself for, you can take out this old vase, look at it, and remember how you felt that hot summer day. Then, ask yourself if it’s worth it.
“All my love, Grandpa.”
After crying for a while and explaining the vase story to my mother and father, I picked up the gift from my wise grandpa, carried it into my bedroom, and placed it on my dresser. And I’m going to take it back to school with me, too. I don’t know if my roommate’s going to think much of my taste, but I’m going to display it proudly in a prominent place in our apartment.
That red vase was a more expensive present than I ever dreamed on that carnival day. I will never let anything cost me that much again.

Anita Harlow, a 16-year-old in Redcliffe, Queensland, Australia, is a year-11 student at a private college (equivalent to American high school), and one of only six LDS students. Every year, students take a class titled “Christian Knowledge” in which they study basic Christian theology as well as other religions.
The Christian Knowledge coordinator at the school, Ian Hauser, asked Anita and her parents to review the material the school had on the LDS church. To the Harlows’ dismay, much of the material was anti-Mormon and contained a great deal of misinformation. Because Mr. Hauser respected Anita and her beliefs, he asked Anita and her parents to advise him about the best way to be fair in representing the facts.
“We proposed the idea that we would get people from the Church to come in and talk about us, instead of using the books they had. Mr. Hauser was absolutely wonderful. He and school officials agreed to our proposal,” says Anita.
Anita credits much of her success in the subject of Christian Knowledge to the material she learns in seminary. Anita is on the school Spiritual Development Committee, which plans school devotional activities, and has been instrumental in teaching her fellow students about the restored gospel.

Five years ago, my husband and I decided to start a YouTube channel, where we began to genuinely share the way we live as members of the Church of Jesus Christ. Our idea was to talk about our beliefs through our lifestyle.
We have had the great blessing of receiving inspiring messages from several of our followers telling us about going to church for the first time or even getting baptized! These messages have filled us with so much joy.
We are very grateful for the enriching experiences that social networks have offered us in spreading the message of the restored gospel just by sharing our lives. But while social media can generate incredible experiences, help us develop meaningful relationships, and allow us to share our testimony of the gospel, it can also give us experiences that weaken us spiritually, lead us to judge others in unrighteous ways, and lose sight of who we truly are.

Elder Goaslind enjoyed all sports but became most proficient in snow skiing. “I started skiing at the age of five and recall going up the mountain by holding on to a rope tow. The friends I skied with were neighbors, and I was glad for their patience with me as I learned. I loved the sport, and as a young man,” he related, “I was a possible candidate for the 1948 United States Olympic ski team. In those days, if you were chosen for that team, you made a four-year commitment with them. However, I would become of age to go on a mission in 1949, so it was a very hard decision for me. I remember my father encouraging me to fast and pray about it. After praying, I decided to go on a mission rather than to compete for a place on the ski team. I believe that if there is any decision that I have made with wisdom in my life, it was that one.
“Several years ago I went up to Canada, where I had served my mission, and saw my mission president for the first time in thirty years. We greeted each other with a warm embrace. And after visiting with him, I thought of how much I owed him. The influence of a mission and a good mission president is invaluable.”

Trials of faith began for Samuel Hoglund of Sweden when family members raised questions. He went through a phase of “getting one question answered only to come across yet another one,” he explains. “My faith vacillated from one half hour to the next, until I realized this process and my need for certainty were unsustainable.” Instead of trying to resolve every relatively minor question, Samuel decided to study important questions—those critical to a solid foundation in Jesus Christ. Accompanied by prayer and scripture study, Samuel’s search, like Alba’s, taught him how much he still had to learn and brought him to more mature beliefs. “The experience strengthened my faith immensely,” he says, “and also taught me that what you truly seek you will find.”

Mary Hobson, the eighth of nine children born in Farmington, Utah, in 1853, kept house for her older brother Alma. He had a store in Richmond, Utah, and was the first telegraph operator there. He taught Mary, age 15, telegraphy and sent her to a special school for this in Logan. She helped him and was the first woman telegrapher in Richmond. Then Alma moved to Franklin, the oldest town in Idaho, and kept a store, post office, and telegraph office there. Mary helped him and thus became the first woman telegrapher in Idaho. When Alma moved back to Richmond, Mary stayed in Franklin and managed the store, post office, and telegraph office for several years.

It was a bright, sunny Monday morning, with a breeze a little stronger than usual for August. The weather forecast for the Florida Keys was just right for sailing—moderate winds from the northeast, clear skies to scattered cloudiness, with widely scattered rain squalls. Along the Miami River a few elegant sailboats were already getting underway.
At the Out Island pier, 17 Explorers and leaders from Post 9796 were busy stowing supplies and personal gear below deck on two sleek, 41-foot sailboats the Maupiti and the Shepahoy. This was the beginning of an activity they had been preparing for ten months, the culmination of extensive planning.
At post meetings they had learned about sails and nautical charts, dead reckoning, safety, and the “rules of the road.” Now they were finally dockside, actually loading their snorkels and scuba tanks on board. The food they would eat all week was going into the galleys. Everything was nearly ready.
Excerpts from the logs kept on both vessels succinctly record the excitement of the group’s adventure at sea:
Monday, 10:55 A.M.—Shepahoy cast off. Motored down the Miami River to Biscayne Bay. Will pick up fishing gear and rendezvous with Maupiti at MacArthur Causeway.
Noon—Delayed by final engine repairs. Underway with Brother Bowman as first helmsman. Eight drawbridges had to raise for us as we went downriver. Three blasts with the horn is the signal to raise a bridge.
12:50 A.M.—Shepahoy and Maupiti left Miami River under sail in a brisk wind, making six to eight knots. Note: A rope is not called a rope. It is a line except when it’s a sheet, a lanyard, or a halyard. But it’s never called a rope.
2:30 P.M.—Finally learning how to walk on sloping, pitching decks. Slippery decks can be bad for your health! Note: If you are told to “fall off,” it means to steer further away from the wind, not to jump overboard.
3:15 P.M.—While underway, Richard Holt caught a barracuda. Now everyone wants to fish.
4:10 P.M.—Broke the topping lift. Repaired it. Glad the skipper was giving orders when it broke instead of one of us landlubbers!
6:55 P.M.—Anchored off Elliott Key. Rafted vessels together. Everyone went swimming, then ate dinner.
8:10 P.M.—Boats separated and anchored apart for the night. Mosquitoes pretty bad until wind came up. Must anchor further off shore in the future.
Tuesday the group headed for Angelfish Creek, the passage through the Keys into the Atlantic.
9:15 A.M.—David Spellman sighted the first shark. The water is amazingly clear. It looks like you are about to go aground even when the Fathometer reads 11 to 13 feet.
1:30 P.M.—Dropped anchor just off Carysfort Reef lighthouse in 25 feet of water. The four qualified scuba divers made their first dive, while the others went snorkeling. The reef is amazing, visibility magnificent. Color and variety of fish are fantastic. We sighted barracuda, huge angelfish, groupers, grunts, and lobster, as well as brain coral, antler coral, and fan coral. Derek Doty saw a shark. Too bad no one has an underwater camera!
The boats anchored off Grecian Rocks for the night, where high waves on a rough sea made them pitch heavily. Showers hit just after 2:00 A.M., sending those sleeping on deck scurrying below. By daylight the sea was even rougher. Several of those assigned galley duty couldn’t fulfill the assignment—on the Shepahoy Brett Summers was the only Explorer who could do the cooking, but there wasn’t much demand for food. On the Maupiti Don Wise and his father looked strangely healthy while the others were turning a little green. Only a few hearty souls didn’t show specific signs of “epigastric awareness,” and there was a feeling that those who didn’t join the general misery weren’t expressing proper brotherhood. One fellow felt so ill he asked for a priesthood blessing, and he seemed relieved after receiving it.
Nevertheless, by 9:00 A.M. both vessels were moving out. Maupiti headed for Rodriguez Key and more snorkeling, while Shepahoy’s crew decided to stop at the underwater statue of the Savior. The figure and base stand about 30 feet tall in a grotto of coral heads, the highest point about ten feet under water. An enormous barracuda seemed to be guarding the site and kept anyone from getting too near to the impressive memorial.
The two vessels rendezvoused again and headed together to Key Largo to fill the ships’ tanks with water and the scuba divers’ tanks with air. Solid ground felt good after the rough seas. Key Largo’s supply of seasickness pills and snack food was perceptibly reduced during the Explorers’ visit.
Back at sea, on the way to Mosquitoe Bank, Miguel, the young professional Scouter who had accompanied the LDS group as an adviser, caught ten lobsters. Lee Burdge, with great delight, caught one of his own, and we had the makings of a feast.
Capturing a lobster by hand requires considerable talent, because they have quick reactions. The lobster hides in crevices at the bottom of reefs, and the hunter, without being seen, has to tickle its tail with a long wire. This causes the lobster to dart from its hole, and the hunter then tries to catch it in his gloved hand, avoiding the sharp and pinching claws.
Wednesday evening rain fell again, postponing the scheduled talent night. Thursday morning the divers found no lobsters, but did spot a large moray eel in the reef and stayed clear of it. Shawn Pergande shot two fish with an air gun, and a six-foot barracuda followed Ray Holt, Wayne Bucklew, and Shawn for about 30 minutes. At 10:45 anchors came up and the two boats headed for Rodriguez Key, in the first of two races held during the trip.
The Maupiti started off slightly behind. Both vessels were beating hard against the wind. The entire crew of the Shepahoy hiked, trying to get the mast straighter and higher. The race had no formal finish because the Shepahoy ripped her genoa and dropped out for repairs. But let it be officially noted that the Maupiti was at least three lengths ahead when the sail tore.
The Maupiti was at anchor when the Shepahoy arrived. As they came alongside, cannoneers suddenly burst from the cabin with buckets and tubs of water balloons. The Maupiti was hit with a full salvo, but its crew had heard rumors of a possible sneak attack and returned the fire. One of the great naval battles of all time ensued—not one that would topple empires, but certainly no more colorful or spirited engagement ever took place. Brother Holt, awakened by the sound of combat, sleepily poked his head out of the cabin and immediately received three direct hits. As ammunition ran low, Doug Lind and Lee Burdge dove into the water to retrieve unburst balloons and came under heavy fire. Boarders from the Shepahoy were repulsed after almost scaling the Maupiti’s anchor chain. The battle lasted 30 minutes, and final victory was inconclusive and much debated for the rest of the trip.
That night, following a delicious feast earned by great heroics, the postponed talent night was finally held. Richard Holt and his father started with a skit, the bishop recited a poem, Donald Harper-Smith and his dad presented another skit, and eventually everyone shared some form of talent before another rain squall, just after the closing prayer, called a halt to the evening.
Friday, 6:10 A.M.—Awoke. Breakfast. Set sail for the statue. Anchored. Divers in the water. Discovered we are at the wrong reef, Cannon Reef. Recovered divers and set sail. Arrived at the statue. Waves too rough for diving. Difficult to handle tanks and flippers on pitching deck. Skipper canceled dive for safety reasons. Set sail for Angelfish Creek and Miami.
10:20 A.M.—We entered the Gulf Stream. The water is deep blue. We expected a lot of fish here. Didn’t find many. Ray caught a barracuda and Richard caught an amberjack. Wayne snagged a lobster trap!
As the two vessels cleared the Angelfish Creek channel, a second race began. Across Biscayne Bay the two beautiful boats darted, beating to windward. The breeze was brisk, the weather exhilarating. Rounds of shouting added to the excitement. The boats were well matched, the crews intensely competitive. Fairness requires, though, that the Shepahoy should be credited with a clear-cut victory.
Anchorage that night was across the bay from Miami. The skyline reflected beautifully in the water. Lobsters tasted better for having been caught by hand. With boats moored together, the combined crews held a testimony meeting, expressing their brotherly love and gratitude. The setting was spectacular and the spirit impressive. Almost everyone had expressed himself when Miguel, who had been quietly listening, asked if he could participate.
“Of course,” he was assured. He said that he felt a wonderful spirit, that he hadn’t felt anything like it since he had been active in his own Catholic Scout troop. He said he had been on cruises with many Explorer posts, but he wanted us to know he felt something special about our group. Everyone was deeply moved.
That night, as the boats rocked gently, everyone slept soundly. In the morning, we would sail up-river to the docks, and our days at sea, for the time being at least, would be over. But we knew it wouldn’t take much prodding to get us to come back again.

By December 1827 there had been several attempts to steal the plates, so Joseph decided to move with Emma to the home of her parents in Harmony Township, Pennsylvania.
Emma Smith
When Joseph and Emma arrived, Joseph allowed Isaac Hale, Emma’s father, to heft the plates in a box. Isaac later stated, “I was allowed to feel the weight of the box, and they gave me to understand, that the book of plates was then in the box.” Yet he was unconvinced and dissatisfied with the situation. He told Joseph to either show him the plates or remove them from his house. Joseph hid the plates in the nearby woods until he and Emma moved into their own home on the Hale property.10
An adjacent farm was owned by Joseph and Sarah McKune. Their granddaughter later reported that Joseph McKune had been allowed “to take in his hands a pillow-case in which the supposed saintly treasure was wrapped, and to feel through the cloth that it had leaves.”11
In Harmony, Joseph Smith began his translation of the Book of Mormon by the gift and power of God. His initial scribes were his wife, Emma, and his friend Martin Harris.12 Like members of the Harris and Smith families, Emma hefted the plates, as she “would lift and move them” while cleaning.13 She also felt the individual leaves and heard the sound they made when moved, describing them in this way: “I once felt of the plates, as they thus lay on the table, tracing their outline and shape. They seemed to be pliable like thick paper, and would rustle with a metallic sound when the edges were moved by the thumb, as one does sometimes thumb the edges of a book.”14

Finally, and perhaps most meaningfully, the Book of Mormon has guided my personal life. I remember turning to the scriptures when I was about to end a dating relationship. I felt a great deal of anguish. But a verse I read, 2 Nephi 10:20, spoke directly to my heart and gave me a calm feeling: “Now, my beloved brethren, seeing that our merciful God has given us so great knowledge concerning these things, let us remember him, and lay aside our sins, and not hang down our heads, for we are not cast off; nevertheless, we have been driven out of the land of our inheritance; but we have been led to a better land, for the Lord has made the sea our path, and we are upon an isle of the sea.”
Remembering the Lord, as that verse suggests, gave me courage and hope. I could rely on the “great knowledge” of the gospel that God had given me, and I could be assured that I was not “cast off.” There were good things ahead.

Scott Balloch of Bristol, England, was 18 years old when his parents ended their marriage. As a result, he feared the possibility of a divorce of his own someday—but he also learned important lessons from his parents’ experience.
“I was much less blasé about dating because of my parents’ divorce,” Brother Balloch says. “I took the commitment of marriage very seriously.”
Before he and his wife married, they talked about his concerns and they consistently prayed and read the scriptures.
“That had a massive impact,” Brother Balloch says. “It lessened contention, and a lot of our fears were taken away.
“Nephi taught us a good principle: ‘I will go and do’” (1 Ne. 3:7), he continues. “When we’re fearful, it can make us more reliant on Heavenly Father. He’s provided a way.” The Ballochs explain that they have been blessed for seeking to follow Heavenly Father’s commandments in their marriage.

President Thomas S. Monson explained the gift of the Atonement by telling the story of a young boy who wanted to buy a bicycle.
Every year, the police department of a big city held an auction to sell all the lost or stolen bikes that had been found during the year. One year, almost 100 bikes were being sold. As the auctioneer started the auction, he noticed an 11-year-old boy sitting near the front of the room.
“One dollar!” the boy called out as the first bike went up for bid. But the bidding went much higher, and the bike was sold to someone else. “One dollar,” the boy repeated hopefully each time a bike came up. But each bike was sold for much more money than the boy had. The auctioneer watched as the boy tried over and over to buy a bike.
Finally, just one bike was left. The bidding went to eight dollars. Suddenly the auctioneer spoke up. “Sold to that boy over there for nine dollars!” he said. He took eight dollars from his own pocket and asked the boy for his one dollar.
The boy gave the auctioneer his dollar’s worth of pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. He took his new bike and started to leave. Then he parked his bike, gratefully threw his arms around the auctioneer’s neck, and cried.

As a child, I loved to hear stories about Noah, David, and Daniel. Later, I read a children’s collection of Bible stories. Then, when I was ten, I decided to read the Bible itself from cover to cover.
I made that attempt more than once, always with the same results. Each time I read past Genesis, I became overwhelmed by the complexity of the Old Testament and quickly lost interest.
Then, when I was nineteen years old, I was converted to the restored gospel—and rediscovered the scriptures. Now that I had the added insight of the Restoration, the scriptures became a source of rich and unending delight.

Matt is busy making posters for Mandy’s student council campaign when …
Hey, Matt, we just got an email for you from your cousin Max in Australia.
Oh, lemme see!
“… and I like soccer, but cricket is my favorite.”
Matt pictures the insect and is puzzled.
It’s a little like baseball, but also very different.
“… and I love meat pies.”
Not the kind of pie with ice cream on top, like you’re thinking.
And he loves something called “Lamingtons.”
It’s like we both speak English, but it’s not quite the same language.
Hey! Max and Mindy got baptized last month. And —cool!—his family’s going to be sealed in the temple next week!
That’s great!
We might have some different sports and foods and words, but we share the really important stuff.

Not only will elders quorum and Relief Society presidencies take the primary role in moving forward the work of salvation, but they will also be much more involved in ministering to, counselling with and helping men and women with their personal problems and challenges. For too long, members have gone to the bishop with every problem they have, but those best equipped to help them are the elders quorum and Relief Society presidencies. Let me give you an example of an elders quorum president who understood his responsibility to minister, to teach and to help each member.
On February 11, 2017, I attended a priesthood meeting in New Delhi, India. As the quorum meeting started, the quorum president stood before his quorum and wrote on the white board: “Shepherd’s List,” and then listed the names of four quorum members having employment challenges. He explained the difficulties that were faced by these families and asked whether anyone knew of employment opportunities for these four brethren. Immediately, hands went up, and different brothers said things like, “My company is hiring. I know that he has the skills needed. I can introduce him to the right people for an interview.” This went on for each brother facing difficulty, and employment opportunities were identified for each one.
Truly, this quorum president ministered to these brethren and their families. When his quorum members had a problem, he took it to the quorum to find help. He took the initiative and, in a kind and loving way, engaged the quorum to help each one who was in need. The power of working through the quorum to solve individual needs was evident, and there was a true spirit of love for each other. This quorum ministered to the needs of its members, and lives were blessed.

One Sunday morning a recently baptized member was introduced to the ward. Her name was Lydia. She won our hearts at once.
Lydia was older and blind from years of battling diabetes. She quickly came to know ward members by their voices and footsteps. She would say our names and shake our hands, and we never alluded to the fact that she was blind.
After the required year’s wait, Lydia met with the bishop and the stake president to receive her temple recommend. In Relief Society one Sunday, she pulled me down beside her and exclaimed, “The stake president told me I must go to the temple as soon as possible. Will you take me?”
It was the first week of December—busy times were upon all of us. I tried to make the usual excuses and said, “Couldn’t we wait until January?”
“No, we must go now!”
A group of women from the ward went to the temple every month, so I approached them about making the trip with Lydia. They were also very busy. But Lydia, with tears in her eyes, again told us the stake president had told her to go as soon as possible.
At that we all agreed to make the 150-mile (241 km) trip the following week. On the way, we filled the van with the chatter and friendship of eight women. Lydia was overjoyed by her temple experience and the blessing of receiving her endowment.
The first week of January, Lydia’s condition worsened and she entered the hospital for emergency care. A week later she was gone. But Lydia went with the eternal blessings she had received in the temple just a few weeks earlier.
Later I related to the stake president the story of our trip and told him how impressed I was that he had felt prompted to tell Lydia she must go to the temple immediately.
“I really didn’t mean she must go now,” he responded. “I always tell new recommend holders to go to the temple soon. The Spirit spoke to Lydia, not me!”
Lydia taught us all to listen to the Spirit and to act upon it immediately. I am thankful for her reminder to listen to the still, small voice.