Gospel Story Finder

Derek Cuthbert was twelve years old when World War II began. He has a vivid recollection of having air raid drills at school and of going down into the air raid shelter. He and his brother helped their father build bunk beds for their underground shelter in the garden. He recalled the long period of rationing in England that lasted for a number of years. Food, clothes, furniture—everything was rationed. He remembers putting all the basic food items for one person for a whole week on a dinner plate—“Fifty-six grams of butter, a little bit of sugar, a slice of meat, and one egg if we were lucky. We had to make ourselves full by eating homegrown vegetables.

“During the war we did a lot of praying when the air raid sirens sounded, and we often went down into our bomb shelter in the garden in the middle of the night.”

My grandfather was a farmer. When I was quite young, I used to go to work with him at planting time. I loved to see him get the animals ready, put on their yokes, and hitch them to the harrow and plow. “Where are we going to plant today?” I would ask. “Down yonder,” he would reply. He knew well where the fruitful ground was.
I loved the moist, rich smell that rose from the ground when the tip of the plow broke the earth. As my grandfather prepared the furrows, I would bury the seed. “This ground is fruitful,” he would say. Later we would go back to the field to see the first green sprouts coming up. Soon the shoots became stalks, and then the grain would appear. The plants continued to grow until they were mature.
At harvesttime, the workers would cut the sheaves and take them to the threshing area, which consisted of poles wired together into a large circle. The sheaves were placed on the ground around the outside of this circle. Then the horses came and ran around the circle, trampling the sheaves, which loosened the grain from the stalks and crushed the kernels. Next, workers came with their tools to fan the chaff, separating it from the grain. After their labor was done, the workers sang and danced and enjoyed a traditional meal of roast lamb. It was a beautiful rustic celebration. The grain was stored in sacks and later processed into a variety of useful products.
And yet, despite all that we did to plant and harvest, the success of the whole process was primarily based upon the richness of the ground, the weather, and other conditions beyond our control. Without these conditions, the seeds would not have germinated, and there would have been no harvest.

One day at the end of November 2000, I went to school and found out that my friend Jonathan B.’s house had burned down during the night. He and his family had gotten out safely, but their house and all the things in it had burned to the ground. I felt very sad for him, and I knew I had to do something to help. I thought about it all that day.
When my mom picked me up from school, I told her what had happened and that I wanted to buy a new backpack and some toys for Jonathan. She said that she would be happy to take me shopping for these things.
When we got home from school, she called my teacher and asked for the phone number and address of Jonathan’s grandma’s house, which is where his family was staying. She then called there and asked if we could come over later and see him. She found some nice clothes that I had outgrown but that were just the right size for him. Then Mom, my sister Michelle, and I went shopping.
I chose a backpack that I knew he would really like. Then I picked out some toys to fill the backpack. I felt really happy when we took everything to Jonathan. He did really like the backpack, and he was happy to have some toys to play with.
His mom hugged me and thanked me for being so kind to him. My mom and dad told me that they were very pleased that I had chosen to do something so nice for somebody else. I knew that the good feelings I had inside were from the Holy Ghost, letting me know that I had done the right thing.

Known for his extensive vocabulary and elegant writing style, Elder Maxwell has always presented a challenge to translators. During one general conference, the translators had categorized each talk in levels of difficulty. All of the talks fit in levels one through four except Elder Maxwell’s. His talk was alone at level five.5

Our 15-year-old grandson, Ben, is a big-time ski enthusiast, having competed in several meets and done very well. Prior to one such competition in Idaho, his parents reminded him that his grades in school would determine whether or not he would be able to compete. A condominium in Sun Valley, Idaho, was reserved, his grandparents were planning to attend, and Ben was feverishly trying to achieve the lofty academic goals both he and his parents expected. However, at the end of the day, he fell just short of his goal. Ben missed the ski meet and lost points toward qualifying for the Junior Olympics, but Ben gained a valuable appreciation for responsibility and accountability. By remaining steadfast, parents so very often suffer and agonize more than the children they endeavor to teach.

My father was brought into the Church when he was courting my mother. He was ordained an elder and was active for a short period before he fell away from the Church.
He had no formal contact with the Church for about 50 years. He had moved many times. And then, when he was 82, living alone in southern California and failing in health, two men knocked on his door on a Sunday morning. They said, “We’re here to take you to priesthood meeting.”
He was so grateful that somebody would take the effort to befriend him. Those men took my father to church—something his three active sons never could accomplish, except on special occasions. They were good examples of how priesthood quorum members should seek out those in need. My family will be forever grateful to the men of that quorum.Elder Dale E. Miller of the Seventy.

Illustrations by David Malan
Just before the San Salvador El Salvador Temple was dedicated, my family and I decided to serve at the open house and help those who were not members become acquainted with the gospel of Jesus Christ as they visited the temple. I was assigned to be a guide and speak with people about each room in the temple, about the sacred covenants we make there, and how our lives change when we keep those covenants.
My shift came, and I started my tour. I had just barely gone out of the room when someone asked for an additional guide since a large group had just arrived. I was told to go back to the greeting room to have another group assigned to me.
When I reached the room, I was again asked to change my assignment and show the video to people who were just arriving at the temple. I felt sad that I wasn’t able to speak with people and tell them about the temple.
About a half hour later, a group from the United States arrived and didn’t speak any Spanish. Several volunteers were running around looking for someone who spoke English and could guide this group. That’s when I understood that the Lord sends us where He needs us, not necessarily where we want to be. I was the only one who knew how to use the video and give the words of welcome in English. The Americans were glad and when they were leaving, they thanked me for receiving them so warmly.
At the end of the day, I felt thankful to the Lord for showing me that when we do things the way He prompts us, we will feel satisfied with our work.

The shipping industry is a major employer, and it would have employed Richardt Andersen, Copenhagen’s stake president, if his commitment to the Lord had not changed his plans.

“I had served in the Danish Navy and wanted to be trained as a navigator,” President Andersen recalls. But after completing his mission in Denmark in 1970, he married Helmi, and they had the first of their six sons. Instead of Esbjerg and a life on the sea, he was called as bishop of the Copenhagen Second Ward and became a policeman. For the past nine years he has been the stake president.

For the past three years the number of convert baptism in the Copenhagen stake has doubled, growing from twenty-seven in 1988 to one hundred in 1990. “We stand on the shoulders of those who’ve gone before. We’re working to finish the building on the foundation they laid,” he says. His work includes Saturday jobs with his sons, who are earning money for their missions; whatever he earns while working with them goes into the fund.

As a direct consequence of Elder Doug Himstreet’s missionary service, two parents, six children, six sons and daughters-in-law, 23 grandchildren and one great granddaughter have been blessed by having the gospel in their lives. We are still in touch with Elder Doug Himstreet and his wife, Celestia. They attended my eldest son’s wedding and came to the temple with us to see them sealed.

Athena Dayley, a senior at the American High School, is often the translator for the Young Women. She finds it challenging but fun. “It is so neat to be able to talk to someone in another language,” Athena says, “but translating at church is really hard, and I get flustered at times and can’t remember what is being said or comprehend the meaning of what I’m translating. All I’m doing is parroting words.”
But the youth have discovered that sometimes spiritual moments transcend the language barrier.
“I seldom cry at movies,” Athena says, “but at girls’ camp the Spirit was so strong that even if I couldn’t understand the words, I couldn’t help but have tears in my eyes.”

Since we met six months ago, my brothers and sisters, I have traveled to Mexico City, Mexico, with President and Sister Henry B. Eyring, to rededicate the temple there. For many months it had been undergoing extensive renovations.
The evening before the rededication, a magnificent cultural event was held in the Aztec Stadium. Approximately 87,000 spectators squeezed into the open-air stadium, and a cast of more than 8,000 young people participated in the program, which featured an 80-minute display of music, dance, and Mexican history.
President Eyring and I were each presented a serape and a sombrero. Outfitted in this native costume, I couldn’t resist serenading the group with an impromptu version of “El Rancho Grande,” which I had originally learned in my ninth-grade Spanish class. I shall not do that today.
Each of the two dedicatory sessions the following day were filled with the Spirit of the Lord.

“Now then, girls, as we visit the Art Institute, always carry your folding stool over your left arm, walk in pairs, and absolutely no gum chewing!” There were guilty looks as the gum quickly disappeared, and the Chicago Heights Illinois Stake Mia Maids grinned as they reminded each other that the stools were to be carried over left arms, not right. (Carrying them on the left arm avoids bumping valuable paintings as tour groups move down the right-hand side of narrow halls.)
Then the entire group hurried to keep up with the 81-year-old, but incredibly energetic, tour guide, Miss Marianne English. It was quickly becoming evident that this morning’s cultural activity at the Art Institute of Chicago was going to be as entertaining as it would be enlightening.
First stop: a valuable glazed pottery horse, a statue from the T’ang Dynasty, which ruled China in the seventh through ninth centuries. Eyebrows raised with new interest as the girls learned of the ancient Chinese custom that insisted a man be buried with not just his live horse, but with his wife as well! Then Miss English whisked the group on down the marble hallways lined with Roman vases and Greek statues. They paused at an Italian sculpture of Heracles wrestling Anteus.
“Does anyone remember the story of this myth?” the guide asked. One girl surprised even herself as she related most of the details. Anteus, a giant who received his strength by always touching the earth, was finally bested by Heracles in a battle of wits and strength.
The group moved on toward a collection of Buddha statues, but the guide slowed her pace to a stroll and chatted with a couple of the girls, who were on the tour as part of the first-ever Mia Maid conference in the stake.
“They tell me you girls are a religious group on some kind of a retreat. You’re the ones who don’t believe in Christ, right?” A girl with long, blond hair smiled as she reassured the guide that Latter-day Saints most assuredly do believe in Christ. She, like most of the other girls, seemed accustomed to such questions. After all, Chicago and its suburbs include 7 million people plus, and the missionaries haven’t reached all of them yet.
Other girls thought back to their morning’s activity. The first stop had been a 50-foot, metal Picasso sculpture that dominates the Civic Center Plaza in the heart of downtown Chicago. Elevators tunnel to the top of towering buildings around the courtyard, and of course, each girl clambered aboard one to rush with it up story after story for the reward of a look down. The Saturday-morning city was just beginning to allow slices of sunshine to sift through the skyscrapers.
The skyline was familiar to only a few of the Mia Maids, though some of them do occasionally shop downtown in enormous department stores with famous names like Marshall Fields, riding efficient commuter trains from their suburban homes many miles away. Members of the Chicago Heights Illinois Stake live anywhere from 50 blocks to 75 miles from the city’s “Loop,” the center downtown area encircled by elevated railways. In the cool early morning air on top of the building, Arlene and Carla had reminded each other about pigeons they had seen on Michigan Avenue and anticipated returning after the tour (when it would be warmer) to chase them. Then they had jumped back on the elevator, dropped back to the plaza, and gathered with the rest of the group.
“Put your stools down here, and we’ll look at Rembrandt’s painting Young Girl at the Open Half-door,” Miss English interrupted the young ladies’ reverie. “This painting is actually a design of circles. Look closely and you might see more than 20 circles.” Suddenly, for Pam and Brenda the painting became more than just a scene with a nice-looking girl. It became an intriguing puzzle.
Others were fascinated by the large brush strokes of El Greco or the loving smiles on portraits by Correggio, who reportedly learned his technique by studying the Mona Lisa.
The Art Institute’s collection is arranged chronologically, so a walk through the corridors is a walk through the centuries. The oldest painting dates about 1270 A.D., and the statues and other relics date centuries earlier still.
One of the highlights of the medieval collection was a series of paintings entitled The Ayala Altarpiece. The works were commissioned by a family of nobles in 14th-century Spain for the family tomb. Heavy with gold, the altarpiece depicts various scenes from the life of Christ, typical of the period when the major function of art was religious instruction (necessitated by the fact that only the priests could read).
“Medieval painters hadn’t yet learned to show distance,” Miss English explained. “The pictures look flat, with no sense of perspective, and the people have rigid, awkward bodies. Notice that it is essentially the position of the stiff hands that expresses the character’s surprise or sadness.”
Not far away, another Mia Maid was startled to meet the likeness of a young woman, cut in stone, atop a chiseled sarcophagus. “Actually,” Miss English confided, “the woman buried in this coffin was probably much older and not so beautiful as the lady you see lying here. It’s likely she had her likeness carved the way she wanted to be remembered.”
A short detour and the group jumped ahead to the 19th century, plopping down their stools in front of an impressionistic work by Claude Monet, The Beach at Sainte Adresse, one of his early paintings.
“Do you see here the careful shadings and detail we saw in Rembrandt?” the guide inquired. “Have the brush strokes melted into one realistic scene like the landscape of Venice we passed?”
A timid hand rose. “No. You see dabs of green and white in the ocean that aren’t blended in at all.”
“Right! The theory in impressionism is that the colors will mix in the mind. French artists like Monet, Renoir, and Degas broke the established rules and used less careful detail but lots of light, atmosphere, feeling, and color.” She described how the impressionists were at first rejected, but persisted in their scenes of rainbow colors without smooth shading. Details were lost, flowers became simply dots of paint, and reflections in water were favorite settings. American artist Mary Cassatt convinced many wealthy Americans to buy French paintings and bring them to the U.S. “I’m sure France wishes it had some of them back!” the guide said. “The people wouldn’t call them messy now, which is how they described them then.”
The girls didn’t realize how fast time was passing. They were amazed that art history could be so much fun. And the guide made it even more personal by pointing out things they could observe any time they went looking at art: “Learn to look for the color, shape, line, form, texture, and movement that always comprise a painting.”
—Colors may be bold, such as those in Delacroix’s The Lion Hunt, which underscore the deep emotions of the scene. Reds are fierce, dark clouds threatening. Or colors may be delicately shaded, as in the porcelainlike faces of Renoir’s women. Or they may be just flecks and spots, as in the “pointillism” of Seurat, who used tiny brush strokes of different colors to fill an entire picture. (For example, separate dots of blue and orange can be distinguished in the grass in Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, although when one takes a step back, the color appears as dark green.)
—Look for geometric shapes in the overall design. Are lines and forms sweeping or restful? The circles in Young Girl at the Open Half-door have already been described. In The Lion Hunt the oval arrangement of the characters ties together the animals and the hunters, intensifying the drama. In the Seurat painting just mentioned, the triangle shape of the island draws the audience back into the picture.
—The texture of the paint can be so smooth it is almost an unobservable part of the work or so heavy that it can’t be ignored. For example, in Picasso’s Place du Havre, Paris, there is such a heavy impasto (paint laid thickly on the canvas) that it’s almost like painting with candy. Especially in modern art, texture may be anything from smooth like a window pane to woolly like a sweater. The paint may not even cover all of the canvas.
—Some artists successfully create a sensation of movement. How? In On the Stage by Degas, skirts swirl, hair flies, and details in the foreground are blurred to give the illusion of captured motion.
“See what the artist is trying to tell you,” Miss English summarized. “Are the people realistic or only caricatures? Is he showing their character or only their costume? For example, look at the pitchfork-holding farmer and his wife portrayed in Grant Wood’s famous American Gothic, painted in 1930. What message about those two people do you find?
“Finally, if modern art baffles you, remember it encompasses all the elements of traditional art, except that the subject has been removed. Nature or the realistic scene serves merely as a jumping-off point. Some modern art, such as Picasso’s, is inspired by the medieval period. He has gone full circle back to the flat perspective.” Teenage heads nodded with new understanding, remembering the huge Picasso sculpture they had seen first thing that morning.
The tour was over. Later that night, traditional youth conference activities continued. There were workshops on dance, beauty, and grooming, and a spiritual discussion about testimonies, taught by Sister Jan Ryan, who joined the Church just 18 months ago. A court reporter, she compared witnessing the truth before a judge to testifying of the truth before one’s fellowman. There was also a testimony meeting.
The young ladies still recall the Friday evening group prayer, the games, the apple juice and doughnut refreshments, and the chatter before snoozing in sleeping bags. And, of course, the spiritual memories still linger, because they helped the girls see life through new eyes. In a different way, so did the art tour. By studying great artworks, the Mia Maids had, perhaps, gained some appreciation for the talent and love the Master Artist exhibited in creating the world, and they had learned to search for beauty where they hadn’t expected to find it before. That type of awareness may just be the true purpose of art.

1827
After Joseph had prepared for four years, the Lord trusted him to take the plates home.

The warm August sun gave Margaret a feeling of peace and happiness as she gingerly set one foot exactly in front of the other and balanced herself with outstretched arms. The abandoned, rusty train track glowed like a long brown ribbon as it ran off into the distance. Jeff, her brother, was right behind her.
“C’mon, slowpoke,” he chided her as he accidentally stepped on the back of her shoe.
“Oh, Jeff, look what you’ve done! This is the first time I’ve stepped off the track since we began. You go ahead of me if you’re in such a great hurry.”
She glanced across at her best friend on the other rail and grinned. Allison was having a harder time staying on, and she reminded Margaret of a circus tight-rope walker. Cory, Allison’s brother, was quite far ahead of them. He’d had more practice at rail walking, but it seemed to Margaret that he skipped off often, even though he moved faster.
Looking down the track, Margaret had warm memories of past days when her father came home from the mine with coal dust on his face, hands, and clothes, set the wooden kitchen chair in the middle of newspapers spread out on the floor, and carefully removed his boots. Even more carefully he shook out his tucked-in pant legs. Margaret liked the sound of the coal particles falling onto the paper, and she mentally compared each little pile with the previous night’s. She missed those days. Diesel engines and other inventions had almost eliminated the need for coal, and many of her father’s friends and coworkers had had to move. It will be all right as long as Allison and Cory Anderson stay here, she thought now.
Cory was now out of sight around the bend and headed toward the forest. It was full of wonderful paths created by the miners when they’d walked between the town and the mine. The children spent hours galloping through the trees on pretend horses or playing king and queen on the large boulders in the woods. “Pretend” was always their favorite game, and Cory had a new variation in mind as he waited for them.
“Let’s pretend we’re miners,” he suggested, “and that we’re searching for gold. We must find it by dark so that we can take it to the wicked king and free the good prince before the rats go into his dungeon. Rats always come out at night, you know, and the prince hates them—they scare him almost to death!”
The four friends galloped through the forest toward the old tipple. Margaret was surprised at how quickly the three-story gray building where the coal had been washed and sorted had deteriorated. A few of the windows were broken, and the whole building seemed to be sagging as they stared at it in the shadows of the late afternoon.
To their dismay, they saw that fencing had been put up and that no-trespassing signs had been posted.
“Well,” sighed Jeff, “so much for finding gold.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Cory argued. “We aren’t going to let a little fence stop us. We can find a place to climb through.”
They found a sagging wire, and each crawled through as they held the other wires apart.
Just then something very strange happened to Margaret. She thought she heard a very quiet whisper: “Don’t go in there!” She wasn’t sure where the sound came from, but it seemed to come from deep inside her. Or did it? Maybe she had just imagined it. But as they climbed the hill to the back of the tipple, her spine seemed to tingle.
The four friends peered into the opening where the coal cars had once rolled on tracks into the building and were filled. It was dark and foreboding, and, of course, the boys had to hoot like owls and make ghostly sounds as they entered.
“Jeff,” Margaret pleaded, “it’s time for us to go home. Please, Jeff, don’t go any farther in there! Allison, Cory! Let’s go home now. Please!”
“Ha! Look at Margaret. She’s afraid.”
“No, I’m not. I just don’t want to go in there, that’s all.”
“C’mon, Margaret,” pleaded Allison. “It sounds like such a fun game, and I don’t want those two boys teasing me about being a scaredy cat. We’ll only be in there for a few minutes.”
“C’mon, Margaret,” begged Jeff. “This is the most fun we’ve had in a long time. All we have to do is cross the boardwalk and dig up the gold on the other side. It will only take a minute, and then you can run right back out.”
Margaret could see the board walkway just inside the big entryway. It seemed like only yesterday when she had stood with her father, watching the coal pickers standing on the boards next to the conveyor belt. It was their job to sort the “bony” coal, which was full of rocks, from the good ore by throwing the bony lumps over their shoulders into a huge bin behind them. The good coal continued on to a waiting coal car, which hauled it away to be processed. Even with her father there beside her, Margaret hated the steep drop behind the boardwalk. Now, standing just inside the old, dilapidated tipple, she felt much more uneasy. “I know what I’ll do!” she said. “I’ll stay here on guard while you three get the gold. If the wicked king’s men appear in the forest, I’ll hoot like an owl three times.”
“Good idea!” Cory seemed relieved that Margaret’s fears hadn’t discouraged the others. “You wait here, but hide inside the door. Spies might be crawling all over the forest, and you wouldn’t want to be captured and thrown in with the rats too!”
Margaret watched them scamper across the boards and into the dark shadows. She sighed as she glanced outside. Early evening was usually her favorite time of day because it was so peaceful. However, she wasn’t feeling very peaceful just then.
Her thoughts were shattered by a loud crash and the sound of splitting wood. She heard a scream and more splitting wood, then silence. She froze for an instant with the deepest fear she had ever known. Filled with panic, she ran to the edge of the boardwalk. She could see nothing, and she could hear only her own heavy breathing.
“Jeff! Allison! Cory! Somebody answer me. Jeff, please—answer me!” She tried hard not to breathe as she listened for a sound. None came.
She sobbed, then fell to her knees. “Please, Heavenly Father, help us. Help them not to be hurt!” Scrambling up, she ran out of the tipple, down the hillside, back through the fence, and through the forest. She slipped and fell, rolled and tripped for what seemed miles to her home.
When she gasped out what had happened, her father’s face went white. As he grabbed his miner’s hat and other equipment he thought he might need, he said, “I’ll stop by the Andersons’ on my way. I may need all the help I can get.”
“We’re going too!” Margaret’s mother was emphatic. “I’ll get some blankets and coats.”
Five very grim faces retraced the path to the tipple. Five very serious pleas were silently sent heavenward.
When they reached the entrance of the dark, rickety building, the two mothers and Margaret waited while the men lit the lights on their hard hats, gathered the ropes, and cautiously advanced to the edge of the bony bin.
“Jeff! Cory! Allison! Are you all right?”
Jeff answered. “Yes, Dad. I think I’ve broken my arm, but otherwise we’re fine.”
The two women and one very relieved Margaret gave thanks as they hugged each other with joy.
The house seemed extra cozy to Margaret when her parents tucked her into bed later that night. Cory and Allison were bruised, badly shaken, and very dirty. And Jeff had broken his arm. How grateful they all were that the bony bin had been half full instead of empty and that only the wind knocked out of them had prevented them from answering or even functioning for a few minutes. It had taken a while for them to crawl through the dark bin to find each other, but they were glad to be together until help came.
“Margaret,” her mother asked when she bent to kiss her good night, “why didn’t you go farther into the tipple with the other three?”
“My Primary teacher taught us the same thing you and Dad did about the still, small voice and how it speaks to us when we need comfort or are in danger. She said that it sometimes is so quiet that you can hardly hear it and that at other times it is clear and loud. Well, I heard it this afternoon when we were on our way to the tipple. I should have told the others about it, but I wasn’t sure until the boardwalk caved in. All I know is that it caused me to be afraid, even though I didn’t feel that way at first.”
Her father gently hugged her. “I’m grateful for your teacher—and for a daughter who paid attention in class. It might have taken days for us to find you. However, there was one thing you didn’t pay attention to when you played around the tipple. Do you remember what that was?”
Margaret thought very hard, then said, “Yes, Dad. We should never have crossed the fence that had those no-trespassing signs. That was very wrong. You taught us to regard warning signs and to not trespass on other people’s property. We were so excited about our new game that we just ignored those rules. None of this would have happened if we’d listened to our consciences right at the beginning.”
“That’s right, honey. We all learn through our experiences, and Jeff has learned the same lessons you have. I’m sure that Cory and Allison have learned them too. One of the greatest tools we can use in helping us through this life is to become a listener. We’re grateful that you did listen the second time.”
Eight hearts gave thanks that night to Heavenly Father, who also had listened that day, just as He always listens.

Jenny buried her face in her hands. All she wanted was to go home, but Amy and Mandy were so interested in the movie that Jenny didn’t know what to say. This was the worst night she could remember.
Jenny had been looking forward to a fun evening when she arrived at Amy’s birthday party. When she walked in, she found Amy and Mandy looking at a magazine.
“Hi, Jenny!” Amy said. “Come read with us!”
Jenny sat down and looked over Mandy’s shoulder. Immediately she saw a picture she knew she shouldn’t look at. Amy and Mandy giggled. Jenny stared at the floor. She didn’t know what to say. Amy and Mandy were two of the most popular girls in school, and Jenny wanted them to like her.
Finally Amy put down the magazine. “Let’s play a game!” she said.
Jenny was relieved. Now she could have some fun.
Amy pulled out a word game. Jenny was excited. “I play this game with my family all the time,” she said. “It’s one of my favorites.”
Jenny put together her word: “listen.” She smiled at her friends. “Look! It has six letters! I’ve never been able to make such a long word in this game before!”
Then Mandy put down her word. It was a naughty word Jenny’s family didn’t use. Mandy and Amy giggled. Jenny couldn’t decide if she should ask them to stop. She kept making regular words, but Mandy and Amy kept making bad words. The more they giggled, the worse Jenny felt.
Jenny was relieved when Amy’s parents came in to check on them. With grown-ups around, Jenny was sure no one would say bad words or look at bad pictures.
“Are you ready for the movie?” Amy’s parents asked.
Jenny sat on the couch with Amy and Mandy to watch the movie, but this wasn’t like movies Jenny watched at home. The movie bothered her. Should she say something? Should she leave? Jenny didn’t know what to say. So she just sat there feeling worse and worse.
When Jenny’s mom came to pick her up, Jenny almost ran to the car.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked as Jenny buckled her seatbelt and started crying.
“I feel so yucky!” Jenny said. She told Mom all about the party.
Mom’s face was serious. “Jenny, I’m so sorry that happened. If you are ever in a bad situation, remember that you can always call Dad or me to come get you.”
Jenny nodded. “I know,” she said. “I should have called.”
When they got home, Jenny went to her room and tried to act like everything was fine, but all she could think about was the bad things she’d seen. How could she forget them?
A while later she heard a knock on her door. It was Mom and Dad.
“I hear you had a bad night,” Dad said.
“I feel so yucky inside,” Jenny said.
“How do you think you can feel clean again?” Dad asked.
Jenny thought about it. “Will you pray with me?” she asked.
“Of course,” Dad said.
Mom and Dad knelt by Jenny. Jenny prayed that she wouldn’t feel yucky anymore and asked to be forgiven for staying around things she knew she shouldn’t.
Jenny finished her prayer. She felt better. The yucky feeling was gone. She felt different from how she had been feeling all night. The Holy Ghost was helping her feel happy again. Jenny decided this was the way she wanted to feel all the time—no matter what.

The first cornerstone of my testimony was laid a long time ago. One of my early recollections was having a frightening nightmare as a small child. I still remember it vividly. I must have screamed in fright during the night. My grandmother woke me up. I was crying, and she took me in her arms, hugged me, and comforted me. She got a bowl of some of my favorite rice pudding that was left over from dinner, and I sat on her lap as she spoon-fed me. She told me that we were safe in our house because Jesus was watching over us. I felt it was true then, and I still believe it now. I was comforted in both body and soul and went peacefully back to bed, assured of the divine reality that Jesus does watch over us (Ensign, Nov. 2000, 53).

With some difficulty, my husband and I, carrying our two young children, found an empty table in the college’s large dining room. Pulling out the sandwiches we had made at home, we discussed our bleak financial situation.
We had no money and a week to go until our next paycheck. Neither of us wanted to ask our parents for help. We had credit cards, but if we started using them, how would we stop? We had been paying our tithing faithfully, and we hoped Heavenly Father would bless us.
As we considered our options, I noticed a man smiling at us from several tables away. With our noisy, active children, I was used to people staring at us. I gave his notice no thought until he walked toward us. Placing a folded piece of paper on the table, he patted my husband on the back and said with a smile, “It looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
Then he walked away and quickly disappeared into the crowd. Unfolding the paper, we read, “Good luck! It looks like you’re doing a good job so far.” Tucked into the fold was enough money to get us through the next week and then some.
With tears in my eyes, I felt the Spirit’s peaceful assurance that this was an answer to our prayers and a blessing from paying our tithing. I knew at that moment that Heavenly Father was intimately aware of our little family and that He would not forsake us.
I kept the note and have read it many times over the past few years. I am sure that the generous stranger did not fully comprehend the impact his action would have. But for our family, this experience was a turning point—a turning toward greater obedience, faith, and gratitude.
A spiritual prompting, a generous stranger willing to act, and a helpful note have blessed my family eternally.

Cousins McKenna H., Samantha Jo G., and Aubrey H., all 8, Utah, were all baptized during the same summer by their fathers.

I recently stood in a house of the Lord with a worthy couple there to receive blessings by covenant. I invited them to make their first honeymoon last 50 years, then after 50 years to begin their second honeymoon.
I found myself looking with this beautiful couple into the temple mirrors—one mirror on this side, one mirror on that side. Together the temple mirrors reflect back and forth images that stretch seemingly into eternity.
Temple mirrors of eternity remind us that each human being has “divine nature and destiny”; that “sacred ordinances and covenants available in holy temples make it possible for individuals to return to the presence of God and for families to be united eternally”;4 and that, growing together in love and faithfulness, we can give children roots and wings.
In temple mirrors of eternity, I reflected on First Dragon Gong, born A.D. 837 (late Tang dynasty) in southern China and the succeeding Gong family generations to my father, our family’s 32nd recorded generation. My brother, sister, and I are in our family’s 33rd generation; my sons and their cousins, the 34th generation; our grandson, the 35th recorded Gong family generation. In temple mirrors of eternity, I could not see a beginning or end of generations.
I then imagined not only a succession of generations but also a succession of family relationships. In one direction I saw myself as son, grandson, great-grandson, back to First Dragon Gong. In the mirrors in the other direction, I saw myself as father, grandfather, great-grandfather. I could see my wife, Susan, as daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter and, in the other direction, as mother, grandmother, great-grandmother.
In temple mirrors of eternity, I began to understand my wife and myself as children of our parents and parents to our children, as grandchildren of our grandparents and grandparents to our grandchildren. Mortality’s great lessons distill upon our souls as we learn and teach in eternal roles, including child and parent, parent and child.

Four years after Grandfather joined the Church, my father, then a young lad eight years old, accompanied his family and the members of two other families to a baptismal service. Grandfather was to baptize his young daughter and the daughters of a neighboring family on that cold December 3, 1899. As they traveled toward the stream at Reynold’s Mill, they were approached by three men on horseback. When the men asked where they were going, Grandfather explained their intentions. The leader threatened to bring a mob upon them if they carried out the baptismal service. Grandfather informed him that he and the 20 people with him would complete their errand regardless of what the man and his associates did. Grandfather and his party continued their journey to Reynold’s Mill.
Arriving at the mill they located a secluded spot for the baptism. The hill above the river was covered with trees, scrub oak, and ivy. My father, young John, was perched on a fallen tree that stretched out across a sandbar into the slow-moving stream. Here he could observe every detail of this sacred ordinance. Grandfather waded out into the stream to find the right depth and then returned to the riverbank for prayer. In the quiet of the prayer John heard the sound of a cracking limb. Opening his eyes and glancing quickly up the hill through the trees he saw the men who had stopped them earlier. They had arrived with a mob to carry out their threat. One of them was by a pile of rocks and was ready to pelt the baptismal participants. Suddenly all eyes were opened as a big redbone hound owned by the leader of the mob bounded down to within a few feet of my father. Young John looked fearfully at the hound as it growled menacingly. These men and their associates were determined to stop the baptisms from being performed. My Grandfather Pinegar courageously proceeded with the services.
Convinced now that these Mormon families were unafraid of his threat, the mob leader commanded his dog to attack Grandfather Pinegar. At this moment an amazing thing happened. The dog let out a low growl and his hair bristled like that on an angry hog’s back. Suddenly it bared its teeth and turned on its master, leaping at his throat and knocking him to the ground. The rest of the mob fled in fear when they saw the dog turn on its owner. As soon as the astonished leader could free himself from his dog, he left in hurried pursuit of his associates, with the dog yelping close at his heels.
A miracle had occurred! The Pinegar family and their neighbors thanked the Lord for their deliverance, and the baptismal service continued without further interruption.
That evening the families returned to Grandfather’s home. After darkness had fallen upon the mountain cabin, the troublemakers returned and again threatened to mob my grandfather and his Mormon friends. As they taunted him from the gate, Grandfather commanded them in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ to leave. The mob departed and did not return.