Gospel Story Finder

My mother died in March, not from the arthritis that she had fought for several years but from pneumonia. I didn’t even know someone could get pneumonia that way. I mean she hardly ever left our home.
They say the hardest time to get through is the first Christmas after something like that happens. I guess that’s true. It’s like a complicated puzzle somebody gives you that you never wanted. You work on it hour after hour but never solve it. My thoughts keep going back to last Christmas—sorting through each detail, measuring each gesture, weighing every word. Lately I’ve been trying to remember what I gave her for Christmas, but I can’t. But I do remember what she gave me.
Arthritis is a slow disease. From day to day there doesn’t seem to be any change. I don’t even know exactly when it began, maybe four or five years ago. During that time it took my mother’s hands and deformed the joints, and bent her neck so she couldn’t hold her head erect, and weakened her knees so she couldn’t walk.
At first Dad and I had hope about getting her well. They’re doing lots of research, we thought, and any time they might find a cure. Besides, there were always people talking about a relative who ate sunflower seeds or drank goat’s milk and was cured.
“I wouldn’t mind being sick,” my mother would say, “if I could look pretty at the same time.” She was pretty once. Sometimes I look at my parents’ picture taken outside the Salt Lake Temple when they were married. My mother looks so young in the picture. My dad has dark hair and is still lean. Of course, now he’s lost most of his hair and put on a little weight around the belt.
There’s something strange about that picture. All over the temple grounds, except on the sidewalk where it’s been shoveled, there is newly fallen snow. But my mother in her white wedding gown is holding a large bunch of lilac blossoms in her arms. It must have been a late spring snowstorm that came after the lilacs had bloomed. I wish I had asked her about the lilacs.
After the disease started to win, my mother had Dad take down the mirror in the hall so she wouldn’t see herself when we wheeled her from the bedroom into the living room. She weighed less than 90 pounds.
My mother was a good musician. She was in charge of the ward choir as far back as I can remember. She also played piano in Primary. When anyone wanted a special number in sacrament meeting, they would call her up and she’d arrange it. Every Christmas she would get music together for a special presentation in church. But a year before she died, she had to ask to be released because of the arthritis.
Last year at this time I was a senior in high school. Kara Erickson and I went together to most of the ward activities. We weren’t really going steady, but in our ward there weren’t many others our age, and besides we liked each other.
One Wednesday near Christmas at Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women activity night, they turned the time over to Sister Robbins. She and her husband had just moved from Utah, where they had both been going to school.
“The bishop has asked me to be in charge of a special youth vocal number for the program before Christmas. What do you want to sing?”
There were a few groans from the Scouts.
“‘Silent Night,’” one of the Beehive girls said.
“That’s too slow,” someone else complained.
“Yea, something that doesn’t drag.”
“Christmas is such a happy time. Let’s do something with some life to it, like ‘Deck the Halls.’”
I got up and walked out into the hall and waited for them to finish singing so I could go to class. Somehow I felt depressed that they would have Christmas music without my mother there to help.
Later I drove Kara home.
There’s something you should know about Kara. She’s really beautiful and smart and everything, but in high school she didn’t get asked out as much as you’d expect. One day in early morning seminary when we were 16, we were talking about dating. She told the class that she had decided she wasn’t going to date nonmembers and she wasn’t going to kiss any guy until she was sure she loved him enough to marry him. Some of the kids in the class thought that was dumb about not kissing. But she wouldn’t change her mind.
There aren’t that many LDS guys in our small Montana town. By the time we were both seniors, I was the only one dating her, although we never decided to go steady.
After we had been dating for a long time, guys at school would come up to me and ask, “You mean you’ve never even kissed her once?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe it. That’s not normal.”
Of course, I would have liked to kiss her. But sometimes I wonder if we weren’t closer that way. I mean we talked a lot. And I began to see how lucky the guy would be who did marry her.
But that night I wasn’t very good company. We pulled up in front of her house and stopped.
“Steve, Sister Robbins was asking about you. Why didn’t you stay for the practice?”
“I didn’t feel like singing.”
“She really needs you; she only has two others singing bass.”
“I won’t sing.”
“She’s got some arrangements of things they did at BYU. She says it’s going to be the best ever.”
“It was the best when my mother led the singing.”
Another thing about Kara and me—we ended our dates with prayer. We didn’t tell anybody about that; they would have really laughed about that.
We got two weeks vacation from school for Christmas. At the same time the lady who stayed with my mother during the day asked for time off to visit her sister in Kansas. My dad asked me if I would stay home during the days of my vacation to help out my mother.
Each day of the vacation seemed much like the one before. When she woke up I would lift her out of bed into the wheelchair. I helped her wash up, getting the washcloth wet with warm water, putting soap on it, and handing it to her. When she was finished, I would rinse it out, let her get the soap off, and hand her a towel.
Eventually we got to the kitchen, and I fixed her something to eat. After breakfast I’d get her some aspirin and a Darvon. Then I wheeled her into the living room and turned on the TV. It didn’t really matter what was on. Just anything to take her mind off the pain. About 11:00 the mail came. At noon I fixed her lunch. In the afternoon she tried to walk. I’d stand beside her and hold onto her, and she’d put one foot a couple of inches in front of the other and slowly move forward. After going a couple of feet she’d be exhausted, and I would put her on the couch so she could rest.
Thursday before Christmas she had an appointment with the doctor. My dad came home from work early. He moved the car into the driveway, opening the right front door. Then he came inside and picked her up in his arms and carried her to the car.
As he began to slide her into the front seat, he stumbled a little. Her legs hit the door post.
“You clumsy!” she screamed at him. “Can’t you see you’re hurting me?”
On the way to the doctor my mother cried, first from the pain, and then because she’d said that to my dad. But he understood how it was for her.
When we got home after the appointment, Dad carried my mother into the bedroom and let her rest. Then he had to go back to work.
I turned on the TV. There was something secure about sitting there. It was as if I could plug my mind into it and let it guide me so I’d never have to remember my mother screaming with pain.
Later I went to our bookshelf and looked a long time at my parents’ wedding picture. I wondered what my dad would have done if somehow before the wedding he had been told that 20 years later that young girl beside him would turn brittle. And I wondered what disease might lay locked up inside Kara—or myself.
That night I had to get away, so I took Kara to the movies. The movie was as depressing as the day had been. After the movie I took her right home. As soon as the car stopped I opened the door and went around to the other side to let her out.
“Aren’t we going to pray together tonight?”
“Don’t ask that tonight. Just go inside.”
“Steve, please.”
“Okay,” I said harshly. “Will you offer it?”
She knew I felt rotten, and she was trying to help. “Could we kneel? We could go in the backyard by the trees.”
“Whatever you say,” I said angrily. We walked out into her backyard.
When we got to the place, isolated by some trees, she knelt down. I stood there looking at her, unable to make myself kneel down.
“I can’t, Kara. You go ahead.”
“Why can’t you pray?”
“God doesn’t listen to me anymore,” I said with bitterness.
“He loves you, Steve.”
“No, not me. The only thing I’ve ever asked him recently is that my mother would get better. Kara, she’s getting worse. But you go ahead. Don’t let me stop you. Pray for good health for your family. God listens to you.”
“Don’t say those things,” she said, hurt and disappointed.
“Well go ahead and pray if you want to pray!” I yelled at her.
She began to cry. After a few minutes that seemed a hundred years in which I couldn’t seem to force myself to move or help her, I finally broke loose and helped her to her feet. I took a tissue and wiped away the tears that I had caused.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you,” I said.
“I know. It’s not easy for you at home.”
We walked into the front yard. The Christmas tree lights glowed delicately from the living room window. I could see Kara’s mother busy sewing a dress.
“Merry Christmas,” I said grimly. “Are there really people on the earth who have a merry Christmas? I’m so afraid of Christmas this year. I wish I could take a pill and go to sleep and not wake up until January.”
“Steve, if you would sing with us Sunday, it would be good for you.”
“No, the words would choke me. My mother used to do so much in music that it’d haunt me. You go ahead. I’m sure it will be fine. Just don’t ask me to sing.”
Friday morning was the same as Thursday morning. The TV was showing a lot of movies about Christmas. I saw White Christmas with Bing Crosby three times that week.
In the afternoon my mother slept for about an hour. When she woke up, I got her a glass of milk with brewer’s yeast in it.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Three o’clock.”
“Can you change it to channel four?”
I got up and changed the channel. There was a documentary on fish farms in the South.
“Are you sure you’re on channel four? It’s supposed to be Search for Tomorrow.”
“It’s the right channel. Do you want me to leave it there?”
“If they say they’re going to show something at a certain time, why don’t they show it?”
“I don’t know. What do you want me to do?”
“Change over to channel seven,” she said.
“Do you want that?” I asked, looking at a program on French cooking.
“I don’t know what I want,” she said numbly. “Turn back to channel four, but turn the volume down so we’ll know if Search for Tomorrow comes on. Do you think I should take some aspirin? What time is it?”
“A little after three.”
“I guess I’ll wait so they’ll be still working when your dad comes home. Can you put me on the wheelchair and roll me out by the window?”
I pushed her next to our picture window. “Still no snow,” she said, looking out at the grays and browns. “It doesn’t seem much like Christmas, does it?”
“No.”
“A few years ago I’d be busy now getting ready for the musical program on Sunday. Do you remember when we sang parts from the Messiah? We invited the whole town. One year we had the Primary children sing the whole program. Once we even had a string quartet. I wonder if anyone in the ward remembers that.”
I said that they did, although people move in and out in our ward so fast that I doubted if very many people were still here that were here then.
“I’ve been away for so long. I don’t even know the people in the choir now. Have you met Sister Robbins? Kara’s mother told me she’s the choir leader now. I bet they’ll be singing this Sunday. Will you tell me how it goes?”
“I’m not going.”
“Steve, you’ve never missed before.”
“I’ll go to Livingston for church, but I’m not going to our ward. Don’t ask me to do it. I wish it were over.”
“What’s wrong?”
“When they sing, I’ll be sad that you’re not up there singing. In the talks someone will get up and say what great blessings he’s received. Well, we live the gospel, and you’re sick. Where are our blessings?”
“Steve, I’ve never heard you talk like that.”
“It’s just Christmas. I’ll be okay after it’s over.”
I know that really bothered her. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it. I guess if I had known she was going to die in a few months, I would have held my tongue. But I didn’t know that.
I sat down, turned up the TV, and tried to plug my mind into its security.
After a few minutes, during a commercial, I got up and rolled her back to her chair. I got her an aspirin, a Darvon pill, and a glass of water and then sat down and watched Lucy.
After Lucy there was the Brady Bunch.
“Steve, turn the TV off.”
I turned it off.
“Do you remember when we used to make special cookies for Christmas? Why don’t you and I make some now? We’ll surprise your dad when he comes home. It’ll be just like it used to be.”
I rolled her into the kitchen. She seemed excited about making the cookies. She told me what to do, helping me find the recipe, telling me where the cookie cutters were so we could make Christmas trees, Santa. Clauses, and stars. She said she’d cut out the shapes after we’d finished with the dough.
I started on the recipe, adding each ingredient as it was listed.
“A cup of sugar,” I read, going to the cupboard.
“That’s not enough.”
“It says one cup.”
“I changed the recipe. I put in more sugar.”
“How much more?”
“I can’t remember.”
“How about if I put in a cup and follow the recipe?”
“It won’t taste the same as it did on other Christmases.”
Nothing about this Christmas is going to be the same, I thought to myself.
After I finished mixing the cookie dough, I put down some waxed paper on the table and rolled the dough out.
My mother wanted to help with the cookies to please Dad. She picked up one of the cookie cutters and placed it on the dough and pressed. Although she made an indentation in the dough, she couldn’t seem to push hard enough to actually cut out the shape. She tried it again. I wanted to help her, but she wanted to do it herself so Dad would be proud.
Suddenly she just quit. “I can’t do it. I can’t do anything. There’s nothing I can do. I’m no good to anyone.”
I picked up the dough, ran with it to the disposal, and got rid of it.
I pushed her back to the living room. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t use her hands very well to stop them, and so they streamed down and fell from her face.
We turned on the TV and sat there silently watching a documentary on raising African violets. After that we watched Password.
“Steve, I don’t want to watch any more TV.” I turned it off.
“What is this disease doing to us?” she asked. “You asked where our blessings were. Don’t you know?”
“I want you to be well. That’s all I want. Why can’t God hear me?”
“I used to wonder that too. He hears us. But if he rewarded everyone who loved him with good health and everyone who disobeyed him with sickness, who wouldn’t follow him? But then there would be no free agency. The glory of the gospel is that even in pain we can maintain our faith. This is not going to defeat me. I’m going to fight it all the way. And someday I’ll walk.”
I looked at her weak legs, feeling she’d never walk, and said weakly, “Sure you will.”
“I will. If not here in this life then in the next. I’ve memorized a scripture. ‘For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.’
“I’ll see him. I’ll stand. I’ll walk again. Because of the Savior I’ll stand.”
She’d never talked to me like that before.
“Steve, when I dream in the night, I dream I’m walking. I’ll walk again. Your dad and I have been through the temple; we’ve tried to do the best we could. I want so much to stand someday beside your father and be with him in the celestial kingdom, not with this deformed body, but with a body that can stand tall and walk. That hope is one of my greatest blessings. Don’t you understand?”
I nodded my head.
“Can we have a prayer before your dad comes home so he won’t have to bear any more burden than he has already?”
“I can’t pray, Mom. I don’t even know what to ask for anymore.”
“Please, son, honor your priesthood.”
“Father in heaven, please help us get through Christmas with some happiness. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
My dad came home about 5:00. I helped him cook supper. After that we took out our plastic tree, assembled it, and put a few ornaments on it. We put our presents under the tree. Then we sat down and watched TV.
About 8:00 we heard some car doors slam, and in a minute our doorbell rang. My dad opened the door.
It was Sister Robbins, Kara, and a bunch of kids from church.
“Could I talk to your wife?” Sister Robbins asked.
“I’m sorry to bother you like this, but we need your help. We’re supposed to put on a part for the Christmas program Sunday, and I’m afraid I’ve gotten in over my head. The kids told me you used to do this all the time. I was wondering if you’d mind listening to us and giving your suggestions.”
They got around the piano and began to sing. When they finished, my mother gave some ideas to help it. We sang another song. You should have seen my mother. The body was deformed, the old pale robe hiding weak and spindly arms and legs. But her eyes came alive. She listened and helped with such enthusiasm. Before long she had us singing parts.
I’ve found out since then that Sister Robbins is really a good musician. I’m not sure she needed as much help as she said she did. That night she asked my mother about every little thing. My mother lit up. The more she helped, the more spirit came into her face.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Sister Robbins said at one point.
“Well, remember, I’ve had 20 years working on choirs.”
While they talked I went into the kitchen. Kara was talking to my dad while they both set out plates and glasses.
“Your dad says you’re becoming quite a help in the kitchen.”
“He’ll make somebody a fine husband,” my dad said with a grin. “After his mission, that is,” he added.
Kara set out a fresh batch of Christmas cookies she had made that afternoon. She had planned the whole thing with Sister Robbins. She was the way in which Heavenly Father answered my prayer.
We had cookies and milk. After that we sang more Christmas songs. My mother led us with nods of her head.
Of course, I sang with the choir that Sunday. My dad brought my mother to Church long enough to partake of the sacrament and listen to the musical numbers, and then the pain got too bad for her, and he had to take her home.
When I remember my mother, I can’t altogether forget the pain she had nor forget the savage way arthritis dealt with her. That’s a part of my life.
My thoughts often go back to the picture of her as a young bride holding those lilacs in the midst of all that snow. At the same time I remember her saying, “I’ll stand. I’ll walk again. Because of the Savior I’ll stand!”
That’s what she gave me for our last Christmas. Somehow I think that is what she would want me to remember.

The day of the yearly dogsled race had arrived! Jody was up early and put on her warmest clothes. She smelled hot cereal as she walked into the kitchen. “Oatmeal again?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“You’ll need it on this cold day,” said her mother.
Jody filled a blue ceramic bowl with the hot oatmeal, put milk and brown sugar on it, and began to gulp it down.
“You don’t have to eat so fast,” Mom said. “The race isn’t for an hour yet.”
Jody tried to calm down, but her stomach wouldn’t stop fluttering. “I sure want to win those ice skates,” she said. She pictured herself gliding over the ice, then twirling into a spin like the professionals. But first she needed some skates.
After breakfast Jody put on another sweater, a hat, scarf, gloves, and her green parka. She tied a cotton bandanna loosely around her neck. If a cold wind blew off the lake, she could pull it up over her nose and mouth for warmth.
“Bye, Mom,” Jody said, kissing her mother.
Mom hugged Jody and wished her good luck. Jody bounded out the door and into the garage, where she pulled her small sled from a corner. The sled was old and scarred, but it would serve. Besides, it was the dog that counted, and Jody had managed to get the best. Ellie Manning had said that she could use her beautiful collie, Tasha. The dog had pulled lots of sleds, and Ellie would be there to encourage Tasha from the sidelines.
When Jody knocked on the Manning door, Ellie’s mother answered. “Hello, Jody,” she said quietly.
“Is Ellie ready?”
Mrs. Manning shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jody. Ellie has a sore throat and can’t go out in this cold.”
Jody’s smile faded, and she struggled not to cry. Then Ellie came into the foyer. “I’m sorry, Jody,” she said. “Mom doesn’t want me to get really sick like I did last winter.”
“That’s OK,” Jody said. Her stomach had a hollow ache in it.
“You can still use Tasha, if you like,” Ellie offered.
Jody’s heart leaped to her throat. “I can? Oh, thank you, Ellie! I promise I’ll take good care of her.”
Ellie whistled, and the collie ran to her. Jody laughed when Tasha crouched excitedly like a puppy, her back end sticking up.
“Good luck,” Ellie called as Jody and Tasha went out the door, where Jody fastened the sled harness onto Tasha.
When Jody arrived at the racecourse that circled the lake, only ten other contestants were there. The bitter cold and biting wind had probably kept others from competing.
Jody pulled her bandanna up over her mouth and nose. Carefully she lined Tasha up with the other dogs, then gave the collie a biscuit and waited for the race to begin.
The whistle blew, and they were off. Tasha ran bravely and boldly. “Good girl,” Jody called, coaxing the dog to go faster.
Jody looked back to see how the other racers were doing. A few dogs, shivering in the cold, hadn’t budged. One large black dog was going in the opposite direction! Only three were making any progress at all.
They passed the quarter- and half-mile marks, where small groups of hardy rooters cheered them on. At the three-quarter-mile mark, Jody felt Tasha slow down. She glanced at the snow and saw traces of blood. “Oh, Tasha! What’s wrong, girl?” She stopped the sled and knelt to look at the collie’s paws. One was bleeding quite a bit. She must have stepped on a sharp piece of ice or something! Jody thought. Looking back, she saw that none of the other sleds were even close to her! She could easily win the race since there was only a quarter mile to go! Then she looked again at the injured paw. Remembering her promise to Ellie, Jodi prayed, “Heavenly Father, please help me make the right choice. I want to help Tasha, but I’m so close to winning the skates …”
When Jody stood, she knew what she had to do. She took off her bandanna and tied it around Tasha’s paw. Then she put the collie onto the sled and pulled her to the Mannings’ house.
“Thank you for bringing her home,” said Mrs. Manning after Jody explained what had happened. “If you hadn’t stopped, Tasha might have been permanently injured. We’ll call the veterinarian right away.”
Jody’s tears wet her face on the way home. She knew that she had made the right choice, but it still hurt to have come that close to winning the race and then have to drop out. When she got home, she changed out of her damp, cold clothing.
Later, while she was making some hot chocolate, her mother came into the kitchen with a big box in her hands. “This is for you,” she said.
Jody’s heart leaped when she opened the box and saw a pair of ice skates with sparkling blades. “Did you buy them, Mom?”
Her mother shook her head. “Mrs. Manning called the judges and told them what happened. Then they called me. They decided to award you the skates because none of the other contestants got as far as you and Tasha did.”

“Hi, Mom,” Tanner called as he took off his shoes and hung up his backpack.
“Hi, Tanner,” Mom said as she looked up from washing the dishes. “How was school?”
Tanner liked school, so when Mom asked him that question, his answer was usually the same.
“Good. How was your day?”
“It was fine,” Mom said softly.
Tanner wasn’t so sure. Mom didn’t sound very happy. And she wasn’t smiling like she usually did when he came home from school.
“Is something wrong?” Tanner asked.
“No, nothing’s really wrong,” Mom said. “I’ve just had a bad day.”
“I’m sorry,” Tanner said. He gave Mom a big hug, hoping it would help.
Tanner walked to the pantry and began to look for a snack. While he looked, he thought about some bad days he had had—like the time someone stole his scooter, or when he crashed his bike and skinned his knee. “I guess moms can have bad days too,” Tanner thought.
Tanner wondered what he could do to help Mom feel better. He thought of a few things that made him smile—frogs, video games, and spaghetti—but he was pretty sure Mom didn’t care very much about any of those things.
After grabbing a handful of crackers, Tanner had an idea. He walked across the kitchen and stood next to Mom. “Mom,” he said, “what was the best part of your day?”
Mom stopped washing the dishes. Tanner could tell she was thinking hard about his question. A big smile spread across her face. “You are,” she said. “You are the best part of my day.”
Tanner smiled too. Mom seemed happier. He was glad he could help make her bad day better.

The TET offensive was at its height in Vietnam when I received orders to report to Korea. I was to become Chief of Professional Services for the Surgeon of the U.S. Army and for the United Nations Forces. I had been at my new assignment only a month when a male nurse, no older than many of the other young soldiers I dealt with daily, arrived at the same command.
My surprise came when he asked to see me alone one day and said, “Colonel, as near as I can see, there are only six ‘straight arrows’ in this entire command (‘straight arrow’ was a term the soldiers used to mean a man who maintained his chastity while in the service). You are the one I admire most. I desire very much to go back home to my wife and family pure, but I’m afraid I don’t have the courage and stamina to do it. Are you going to remain a straight arrow? How are you going to do it?”
I was a bit taken back by the abruptness of his inquiry, but I knew the answer. I had faced the same decision and found my own answer long before I had arrived in the Far East. I told him I would remain a straight arrow throughout my tour in Korea and forever. I said I didn’t know how strong I was because I didn’t allow myself in a position where I could be tempted. I also told him I didn’t anesthetize my conscience by drinking.
Then I bore my testimony about Church-related activities during my off-duty hours, noting that they provided a wholesome means for keeping me occupied.
As our conversation progressed, I realized that this young man deeply loved his wife. I told him that if he lost his virtue, it would somehow be conveyed in the next letter he wrote to her and that a great wall would begin to rise between them. He acknowledged that he knew this to be true, and we both realized that we had seen it occur in the lives of our unchaste friends. We then made a contract. He promised to maintain his chastity as long as I maintained mine. We attempted to involve others in a similar agreement, but no one wanted to join us.
About two months later, my friend returned to my office. “Well, Colonel,” he said, “there are now only four straight arrows left in this outfit.” Shortly after that he dropped by again to tell me that the number was down to three. When I had just four months remaining to finish my tour of duty in Korea, he stopped in one day and said, “It’s down to you and me.” I asked him if he was going to make it. His reply? “Absolutely.”
When the time came for me to return to the States, my friend faced one more month before he could rejoin his wife. We had often discussed the gospel and our friendship was a sturdy bond. We both wept as I bid him farewell. He assured me that he would do nothing during his last month that would jeopardize in any way the happiness he had worked for until now, not when he was so close to realizing his goal.
Even though that young man was not a member of the Church, he understood some vital lessons of life. He knew that it is necessary to set a goal in order to obtain it. Returning home clean and pure would require struggle, and he was willing to put forth the necessary effort. He also was humble enough to let someone else know about his objective so that he would have a person to turn to who could strengthen him during a moment of weakness.
The Savior would like to have a similar relationship with those he loves. He wants us to set our goals high, founded on his commandments. We can work with him by planning in advance what we hope to achieve and reviewing our goals with him regularly in prayer. Many of the other soldiers in our outfit thought about remaining straight arrows. However, this young fellow and I were the only two who succeeded, and there was a reason why. The others succumbed in a moment of weakness. We accomplished our goal by charting our course of action in advance.
To make the decision at the time of temptation is too late. We must decide ahead of time that we will not compromise our ideals. Then when we’re tempted, we only need to ask ourselves, “Is this a compromise?” If it is, the proper decision has already been made.

The first reason he listed was: Karen.
Karen was a girl in his ward. They had dated for the last few months.
“Do you know when I like you most?” she had asked a few weeks ago.
“When I wear my aftershave and my sweater and get to use my dad’s car,” he answered.
“No, not then,” she smiled. “It’s in sacrament meeting when I watch you break the bread and bless the sacrament. You look so, well, clean.”
He grinned at her. “After all the money I’ve sunk for aftershave, you tell me that.”
“It must be neat to hold the priesthood, to realize that the Savior was the first one to give that prayer and that in a way you’re standing in for him.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that before,” he said quietly.
Another time he had driven her home from church. They sat in the car while she told him about her lesson that day. The bishop’s wife had come to talk to the Laurels.
“She said one thing that really impressed me,” Karen said. “‘You never know but that the guy you’re dating may some day turn out to be your bishop. It happened to me, didn’t it? You treat him like a future bishop.’ So that’s what I’m going to do, Troy.”
He wasn’t sure if he really wanted that or not, but it turned out okay. She still let him kiss her, but now only on the steps to her house, not in a parked car.

I’d like to tell you of an experience of a faithful Latter-day Saint who is a good friend of mine. I’ll refer to him only as “my friend” for reasons you will understand.
Working as a special agent for the FBI, my friend investigated organized crime groups transporting illegal drugs into the United States.
On one occasion, he and another agent approached an apartment where they believed a known drug dealer was distributing cocaine. My friend describes what happened:
“We knocked on the door of the drug dealer. The suspect opened the door, and upon seeing us, tried to block our view. But it was too late; we could see the cocaine on his table.
“A man and a woman who were at the table immediately began removing the cocaine. We had to prevent them from destroying the evidence, so I quickly pushed the drug suspect who was blocking the door to the side. As I pushed him, my eyes met his. Strangely, he did not appear angry or afraid. He was smiling at me.
“His eyes and disarming smile gave me the impression that he was harmless, so I quickly left him and started to move toward the table. The suspect was now behind me. At that instant, I had the distinct, powerful impression come into my mind: ‘Beware of the evil behind the smiling eyes.’
“I immediately turned back toward the suspect. His hand was in his large front pocket. Instinctively I grabbed his hand and pulled it from his pocket. Only then did I see, clutched in his hand, the semiautomatic pistol ready to fire. A flurry of activity followed, and I disarmed the man.”
Later, in another case, the drug dealer was convicted of murder and boasted that he would have also killed my friend had he not turned around at that very moment.

During the tears and other hubbub of leaving the airport, I paid little attention to all the words of advice and caution everyone was giving me. All I could see was the jet pulling up to the gate and visions of converting the entire countries of Guatemala and El Salvador. Finally, we were told to board, There was a rush of last minute hugs, kisses (from my parents and sisters), and, of course, that special handshake from a smiling, beautiful girl who was close to crying.
When I reached the door leading to the boarding area, my father said, “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” I nodded a hurried “Sure, Dad” and left. As I walked to the plane, I laughed to myself. “Dad, you got your words mixed again. You meant to say, ‘Obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy on your mission.’” With that, I tossed his advice into my memory, filed under “Parental Counsel.”
Seven months later, my father was dead.
In those first wavering hours after my mission president told me of the tragic plane accident, I found myself much like the cartoon character who has a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The devil said: “What are you doing here? All that talk about life after death is not true. You go on a mission and what happens. You break your foot; go to the hospital; come to a strange land, with strange people and strange customs; and your father gets killed. Sure it’s the happiest two years of your life. 3,200 kilometers away from home, and you’re all alone.”
Such thoughts were foreign to me. I had been a faithful member of the Church all my life; yet, the thoughts were there.
The angel on my other shoulder said: “Be strong, Elder. You had a great father you can be proud of, a mighty patriarch who taught you the gospel in all things. You know eternal life is a true principle of the gospel, and you know your father will be waiting for you. You ve had a testimony of the gospel since you were old enough to cry. This is no time to start doubting.”
In the midst of this struggle between doubt and reality, my father’s last words at the airport came echoing into my mind: “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” Dad hadn’t confused his words at all. Those final words to me were inspired counsel that would guide me for the rest of my life. My father lived as he taught, and a few weeks following his death, the full testimony of his life was made manifest to me.
Finances became a major concern. I had enough money in the bank to cover 11 of the remaining 15 months of my mission and hoped Mom could get enough together for the remaining four. My plans for college now became hopes and dreams. However, the Lord takes care of his missionaries.
I received a letter from my mother telling me that I needn’t worry about finances anymore. A man had contacted my bishop and asked if he could support me for the rest of my mission. This is not too unusual, since there are many good-hearted men in the Church, but the difference in this instance was in what the man told my bishop: “l’m not a member of your church, but out of the love and respect I have for Horace Rappleye, I’d like to support his son for the rest of his mission.” And he did. For 15 months the money was placed regularly in my bank account by the anonymous benefactor.
He remains anonymous to this day.
My father’s life of obedience brought blessings to him even after he died. His death became the highlight of my mission. That may be a strange thing to say, and I wish my father were still alive, but my mission thereafter became a living testimony to my father’s life. I soon found how precious it is to live “all the rules.” No matter how small or insignificant the rule seemed, if I obeyed, I was happy.
We are told by the Lord, “There is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—
“And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.” (D&C 130:20–21.)
This scripture is true. Whenever I find that I become depressed or unhappy. I usually find it is because I am not being obedient in all things as I should. At these times a comforting echo reverberates in my head. “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.”

I have a dear friend who served as a stake president. The patriarch in the stake over which he presided had experienced some health challenges and was unable to perform in his calling. The ailing patriarch had difficulty moving about and dressing and caring for himself, and his strength was limited. One Sabbath afternoon this good stake president visited the home of the patriarch to encourage him and check on his well-being. As the stake president entered the home, he found the patriarch dressed in his suit and white shirt and tie, sitting in a recliner in the front room. The stake president greeted the dear patriarch and, knowing how hard it must have been to dress himself, graciously suggested to the patriarch that it was not necessary for him to get dressed up on the Sabbath or to meet visitors. In a kind but firm voice, the patriarch reproved the stake president and said, “Don’t you know that this is the only way I have left to show the Lord how much I love Him?”

The stake president was quick to observe. He both heard and felt the lesson, and he applied it. Reverence for the Sabbath day and the importance of respect and appropriate demeanor and dress took on added importance in the ministry of the stake president. The spiritual ability to see, hear, remember, and act upon that lesson was a great blessing in his life—and in the lives of many others.

After I went home, I didn’t want to lose the connection to the Spirit that I had felt during the conference, so I made a goal to do what was necessary to keep my newfound foundation in the gospel firm and keep the Spirit with me.
Making changes was a little hard at first. I had to stop spending time with certain friends because they were not a good influence on me. I worked to give up some bad habits. I started taking church seriously. Making these decisions helped me fill my life with goodness. What has helped me stay consistently connected to the Spirit is setting aside time each day to study the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon.
The teachings in the scriptures remind me what is really important in my life. When I feel lonely in my faith, especially with so few members here in Bulgaria, I allow the truths of ancient prophets to deepen my faith in Jesus Christ.
One of my favorite verses is Moroni 10:32: “Come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness; and if ye shall deny yourselves of all ungodliness, and love God with all your might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for you, that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ.”
It’s scriptures like this one that remind me of the light the gospel offers and keep me strong when I’m having a hard time. The scriptures always strengthen my foundation of faith.

When members of the Loganholme Ward of the Beenleigh Stake were looking for a new way to love, share and invite, they took on a tech savvy project to help family history enthusiasts all over the world.
Latter-day Saints believe in the eternal nature of families and have a strong focus on researching their family trees.
For family history enthusiasts all over the world, the process of searching for names has significantly changed over the last two decades. One of these major changes is the introduction of indexing, an online system where volunteers view a digital image of a record, then type in the names, dates and places listed on that record. This digital data is used to create a searchable index that makes it possible for people to find records about their ancestors.
To get the ward members excited about the project, the Loganholme Ward leaders set a goal, to index 10,000 names from April to December 2022. Excitement spread like wildfire and by mid-August, the goal was reached and extended to 20,000.
This particular service project was chosen for a number of reasons, but mainly because it is accessible for a range of ages and skill levels. Early in in the challenge, the ward gathered and learned together how to access records and correctly assess and record the information. Due to the accessibility of this project and the training that was available, many individuals of all ages have joined the cause.
According to one participant, “To see the range of ages come together in a common goal is an incredibly unifying experience.”
But why indexing? In an article released by the Church aimed at the youth in 2014, it states, “Every name you index has the potential to help others find their ancestors and help those ancestors receive the necessary ordinances in the temple. Because of your efforts in indexing, historic records can be made searchable online so that lives can be blessed on both sides of the veil.”1
Through indexing, not only have people been able to link the generations of their family together, but they have also created a greater bond with their living family.
Every Thursday evening, ward members can gather at the chapel and work together, sharing knowledge and stories. Each participant can share their knowledge and wisdom with each other. Young children have been spotted helping older participants with technology as older participants share stories of days gone by and how the world has changed. Everyone can share their knowledge and ask questions if they need assistance, and the group celebrates individual successes together.
“Everyone involved has had such an amazing experience working on these records,” one observer said.
“Many are now finding the search for their ancestors addictive, spending their Sabbath researching for new clues and preparing family names for the temple.”
One of the local Church leaders commented, “What’s great about indexing is that anyone and everyone can participate regardless of your age or experience. Testimonies were strengthened, and an increased interest in temple and family history work was established.”

The young adult center in Oslo, Norway, is just one of many centers where young adults are learning how to build the kingdom. Take Mathilde Guillaumet, from France. Missionaries began teaching her at a center in Paris in 2009 after Sister Guillaumet’s friend invited her to learn more about the gospel.
Sister Guillaumet was baptized in 2010 and then moved to Norway for a year, where the local center for young adults continued to play a role in her growing testimony.
“The center really was a home away from home. It was definitely more welcoming than my dorm room,” said Sister Guillaumet. “The center’s missionary couple became like parents—wonderful people to come to for comfort and advice. Both in Paris and in Oslo, I have been able to go to the missionary couple to talk about the gospel, which I couldn’t do at home, considering I am the only member in my family.”

In 1967, Robert Lewis, a member of the Church, came to my office. He wanted a Church pamphlet, The Testimony of Joseph Smith, translated into Vietnamese, so I took it to a translator. When he finished, I gave the translation to Brother Lewis. He took it to church for the Vietnamese members to read. But they did not like it; it did not mean anything to them. Brother Lewis brought it back to me, and when the translator said he couldn’t do any better, I decided to try myself. I was not very good at speaking English and worried about how to translate it. I took the pamphlet home and stayed up all night reading it. As I read, something strange happened to me. It was as if someone unseen was helping me understand. The first translator translated word for word; but as I finally understood part of the testimony, I put it aside and wrote the translation in my own words. I translated according to the thoughts and feelings that were impressed upon me. I did not know it at the time, but I was translating by the Spirit.
I gave the translation to Brother Lewis and said that I would refund his money if he didn’t like it. But the members read it and said they understood what it meant. They said, “It communicates feelings—it affects us.”
Brother Lewis told me he would bring some more material to translate. So then I translated four or five pamphlets. They were all accepted.
As I worked on those pamphlets, I began to love the Church and the doctrines and teachings of the gospel. I asked Brother Lewis to send some missionaries to me. He sent two American servicemen. They taught me for three months, and I was baptized. My oldest son, Le Phuc-Hung, was also baptized a few months later.

Some of Karen Sharp’s friends claim she has rocks in her head. After all, a look into her room reveals rocks everywhere. Boxes filled with sorted stones are neatly laid across the floor. More rocks are sitting on a paint-splattered table. Some of these are glued together, and close observation reveals distinct shapes beginning to form. Some resemble bears, lions, and hippopotamuses. Others take a shape almost human in nature—bishops, missionaries, skiers, doctors, golfers.
A 19-year-old member of the Bountiful [Utah] 21st Ward, Karen first began painting rocks a little over three years ago. She experimented gluing together different shapes and sizes of rocks and came up with some unique ducks and fish, which won her a Best of Show award in Bountiful’s Handcart Days craft contest. People came next, so for Christmas Karen put together a “portrait in stone” of her family, including the dog. A pebble zoo and a small village full of shops followed next. Karen’s stony craft is now selling in stores and shops throughout her home region and as far away as North Dakota and Seattle.
She has also taught art to children in her home. Taking over a bedroom as a studio and classroom, Karen organized her course into eight lessons on different artistic skills. Her miniature artists liked the lesson on rocks best of all. Rock art has proven so popular, in fact, that Karen is writing a book she hopes will be published.
To make her rock figures, Karen selects stones of just the right sizes and shapes. These are sorted into “heads,” “trunks,” “shoes,” whatever she happens to need. From there she glues them together and adds ski poles, golf clubs, or whatever, with a fast-drying epoxy. When the glue is dry, she paints the solid colors, then adds eyes, mouth, and perhaps a tuft of hair out of colored yarn.
Rock art is fun, imaginative, and not too complicated for you to try. With if you can capture your dad’s big feet, brother’s big grin, and sister’s freckles—and they’ll love it too.

In Auckland is the Panmure stake. And in that stake’s boundaries is Bucklands Beach, where Bella Aniterea and Nicolas Purcell live. This morning Bella, a Mia Maid, is giving a talk on prayer in sacrament meeting. There’s a good reason her dad, a member of the Howick Ward bishopric, asked her to give that talk. She says she has a testimony of prayer because she prays.
In preparing for her talk, Bella reread the story of Enos in the Book of Mormon. “He prayed for one whole day, and he prayed for his enemies,” Bella recounts. Although she had read the story before, she had never noticed that Enos prayed for his enemies. “I haven’t done that yet,” Bella says, “but I think I’m going to start today.”
And, if you look to the left of the pulpit where Bella bore her testimony of prayer, you’ll see Nicolas, a teacher, putting away the sacrament trays after the meeting.
It might sound strange, but Nicolas’s testimony of the priesthood began with a head injury. “I was Rollerblading down a hill with a mate, and I hit something and cracked the back of my head open.” At 10 inches, the “crack” was more like a canyon, and the doctors said Nicolas would not pull through or he would have severe brain damage. A priesthood blessing from his dad and others in the ward proved the doctors wrong. “That experience gave me quite a shining testimony of the priesthood,” Nicolas says. The Lord preserved his life through the power of the priesthood, and Nicolas plans to honor his priesthood by serving a mission.

A friend of mine once told me about his experience in coming to know and understand the gift of the Holy Ghost. He had prayed often and longed to know the truth of the gospel.

Although he felt at peace with his beliefs, he had never received the certain knowledge for which he hungered. He had reconciled himself to the fact that he might be one of those who would have to walk through this life relying upon the faith of others.

One morning, while pondering the scriptures, he felt something surge through his body from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. “I was immersed in a feeling of such intense love and pure joy,” he explained. “I cannot describe the measure of what I felt at that time other than to say I was enveloped in joy so profound there was no room in me for any other sensation.”

Even as he felt this outpouring of the Holy Ghost, he wondered if possibly he was just imagining what was happening. “The more I wondered,” he said, “the more intense the feelings became until it was all I could do to tearfully say, ‘It is enough.’”

I share with you an account described in a mother’s letter to me relating to prayer. She wrote:
“Sometimes I wonder if I make a difference in my children’s lives. Especially as a single mother working two jobs to make ends meet, I sometimes come home to confusion, but I never give up hope.
“My children and I were watching a television broadcast of general conference, and you were speaking about prayer. My son made the statement, ‘Mother, you’ve already taught us that.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ And he replied, ‘Well, you’ve taught us to pray and showed us how, but the other night I came to your room to ask something and found you on your knees praying to Heavenly Father. If He’s important to you, He’ll be important to me.’ ”
The letter concluded, “I guess you never know what kind of influence you’ll be until a child observes you doing yourself what you have tried to teach him to do.”

The letters, diaries, and autobiographies of past Church leaders contain many descriptions of this baptism of the Spirit. One of these was written by Lorenzo Snow, later an apostle, and still later a president of the Church. Elder Snow wrote that immediately following his immersion in the waters of baptism at the age of twenty-two, he expected to receive the Holy Ghost, and to have the promise fulfilled that he would “know of the doctrine, whether it be of God.” (John 7:17.) But Elder Snow did not receive this assurance immediately. He began to worry whether he had done wrong—whether God was displeased with him. Several weeks later, while studying the scriptures, he felt depressed and disconsolate. He left the house and walked outside, tormented by uncertainty and enveloped by “an indescribable cloud of darkness.” He had been in the habit of going to a small grove every evening to have secret prayer. On this particular day he was so dejected that he “felt no inclination” to pray. “The heavens seemed like brass over my head,” he wrote. Nevertheless, he forced himself to pray, and soon he heard a sound “like the restling of silken robes” above his head:

“… immediately the Spirit of God descended upon me, completely enveloping my whole person, filling me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, and O the joy and happiness I felt! No language can describe the instantaneous transition from a dense cloud of mental and spiritual darkness into a refulgence of light and knowledge … I then received a perfect knowledge that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and of the restoration of the Holy Priesthood, and of the fulness of the gospel. It was a complete baptism—a tangible immersion in the heavenly principle or element, the Holy Ghost; and even more real and physical in its effects upon every part of my system than the immersion of water.”

God had conferred upon him, he concluded, “that which is of greater value than all the wealth and honors worlds can bestow.”1

I’ve been a member of the Church now for 17 months, and it’s really changed my life. Years ago, not long after the Church video “Families Are Forever” was brought out, two men came to our home and showed it to us on the back of our kitchen door. I was about eight years old and lived at Ingleton. My parents told these men not to come back. Nine years later I joined the Church, a month later my sister Dawn joined, and in August 1988 my father and step-mum joined. It wasn’t until I was working with the missionaries that I realized those two men were Latter-day Saint missionaries.
I just want to say to the missionaries, baptizing isn’t always the important thing, but planting that very first seed is. Who knows, the ones that reject today may accept tomorrow.
Jill ChappellLancaster, Preston, England

Ramón jingled the coins in his pocket as he finished selling his chickens’ eggs at the village market. He thought about the jar at home that held his tithing coins. On Sunday he was going to give the coins to the bishop. Ramón had a warm feeling inside. He was glad to pay tithing.
The market stalls were full of things for sale. Ramón saw a colorful shirt with the logo of his favorite soccer team. He pictured himself wearing the shirt, running down the field, and scoring the winning goal. Ramón looked at the price tag. He could buy the shirt if he spent all his egg money plus his tithing coins.
Ramón noticed the warm feeling was gone. He really wanted the shirt, but he knew Heavenly Father wouldn’t want him to spend his tithing coins. Ramón started walking home. He decided to pay his tithing first. Then he could earn more money selling eggs until he could buy the shirt and pay his tithing like the Lord wanted him to.

Through missionary service, new converts receive great blessings, but the missionary also has his life changed.
I met one of our Scottish missionaries a few weeks ago at a stake conference in the East. He told me of his marriage and Church activity since returning home. He said: “Do you remember what you told me when I was released from my mission?”
I recalled that this elder was from a rural, cowboy town in Idaho, and I had asked him what he was going to do when he returned home. He said, “Just go back home. I can’t afford to go to college.” Then he told me he had some fear that the old gang would be waiting for him, and he might drift back into some old habits.
He had become one of our leaders, the kind of missionary you could trust with any assignment. I advised him to go back home and to invite his old friends to attend sacrament meeting, where he was to make his report, to hear of the change that had come into his life. I then counseled: “Spend some time with your parents, and then take the first bus out of town. A way will be opened up for you to get into college and develop the newly found talents you discovered in the mission field.”
And as I stood and looked upon this young man at the stake conference, I saw the rough stone was now polished and would continue to change lives for good.