Gospel Story Finder

After reading the Book of Mormon, seminary students in Sidney, Montana, went to pizzas. Twenty-one of them.
Brother Charles L. Duncan, seminary teacher, challenged the entire Sidney Branch to read the Book of Mormon before the night of seminary graduation. He promised a pizza party to everyone accepting and accomplishing his challenge.
Of those taking on the challenge, some were really speedy, finishing the book in a matter of weeks. Some procrastinators read the last 100 pages in the final two days. When the deadline passed, over 70 percent of those accepting the challenge had finished and were qualified to attend the pizza party. A total of 16,434 pages were read.
The youngest person to read the Book of Mormon during the challenge was nine-year-old Dean White. He finished it long before most of the older readers. A nonmember, David Pope, finished reading the Book of Mormon and was baptized soon after the pizza party. Brother Duncan’s children, too young to read themselves, had the Book of Mormon read to them during meals.
On the night of the party, the Book of Mormon scholars descended on the Duncan home armed with pepperoni, mozzarella, olives, and mushrooms. Soon 21 pizzas were made and eaten.

Priests Doug Lloyd and Zac White know that school is important. After being on their school’s Academic Decathlon team, it might seem as if that is the only thing that’s important to them—they brought home nine gold medals in their regional competition in varying subjects. All that gold has earned them the nickname “the Golden Boys.”
But these boys from Petaluma, California, both know there are other things that are important, too. Things like keeping the Sabbath day holy. In order to participate, Doug and Zac had to convince the team that not studying on Sunday was a good idea. Because of their persistence, the team agreed to study on a weekday instead.
“Most of the team was actually pretty good about it,” says Zac.
Doug adds, “We actually spent more time studying during the week than we would have on Sunday, so the whole team benefitted.”
Zac and Doug are also successful in sports and Scouts. And they are active in early-morning seminary—further proof that these golden boys know real treasure when they see it.

Sarah sank back against the dusty seat and peered anxiously out the streaked window ot the bus. She managed a shaky smile at three figures peering up at her. Tears came unbidden, and Sarah drew back quickly, dashing them away. Then the bus began to snort and cough as the motor turned over in protest. Sarah felt her heart jump to her throat as she watched the faces search the windows for a last glimpse of their daughter. She waved frantically as the bus shook itself a final time and lumbered out into the street that ran by the Placertown meetinghouse. The bus, with it’s chattering load, swung laboriously around the corner, and the farewells were over.
Sarah settled back against the seat and fastened her hands around the small suitcase resting on her lap. She smiled down at the brown case that held the “reminders” her foster mother had chosen for this trip home. Each year for seven years Sister Allen had tucked a small package under her daughter’s arm and placed a warm kiss on her cheek as the bus drove up. Every year the long, anxious ride back to the reservation had been made bearable as Sarah examined each article and note enclosed. This trip, however, the case was not opened. Sarah was 17 now and anxious to test her newly discovered maturity. She would wait to open the package after she had returned to her home and blood family. Later, perhaps, in the privacy atop some wind-cooled mesa with only the rustling sagebrush to interrupt her thoughts, Sarah would examine her treasures.
Sarah stirred sleepily in her seat and glanced wearily out the window. With a start she realized that she had been asleep for several hours as the red rock mesas of the Navajo reservation came into sight. Her heart leapt as she saw the old trading post that signaled Keyah Tso and home lay only miles up the long, barren highway. Sarah shook out the folds of her dress and smoothed back the straight black hair that had tumbled into her eyes. She was excited as she thought of the reunion with her family.
Suddenly Sarah realized her lap was empty. The case was gone. Frantically she looked about and discovered it laying in the aisle beside her seat. Snatching it up, she clutched it protectively.
As the bus ground to a stop before the red-roofed building, Sarah caught sight of a small group of velveteen and dungaree-clad Navajos. One anxious figure stood shyly apart from the others. Sarah saw that her mother had donned her favorite red velveteen blouse and green cotton skirt for the occasion. The woman’s wrists and fingers were covered with silver and turquoise, and around her neck hung the beautiful turquoise necklace Sarah’s father had made just before his death. Her long, gray-streaked hair had been tied back in the traditional bitsi yaal knot. Her mother waited patiently as Sarah climbed down from the bus and ran to meet her. The two stood looking at each other for a long, silent moment. The older woman put her shoulder against her daughter’s in a shy gesture of welcome. Sarah placed her hand on the velveteen-covered arm and gently squeezed. A smile, a sigh, and the encounter was over. The girl turned back to the bus, waved a cheery goodbye to her friends, picked up her suitcase, and turned to her mother. Sarah cleared her throat, a little embarrassed, and spoke to her mother. The sharp glottal sounds of Navajo felt strange and unaccustomed on her tongue. Soon she found herself chattering comfortably to the small group of Navajo women and children riding with her in the back of a ’56 pickup. As the clay-smeared vehicle bounced its way down the road to the Yazzie home, Sarah became the center of attention as the women and children listened avidly to the description of her way of life away from the reservation.
Suddenly the air seemed heavy with the odor of sagebrush, and Sarah knew she was home once again. Overhead an eagle winged across the sky before soaring behind the face of a red rock mesa. Then she saw the smoke curling from the mud chimney of the Yazzie hogan. The pickup stopped with a loud screech of brakes; children jumped over the sides. The wooden door of the home flew open, and Sarah saw the excited faces of her two brothers peering out. They showed no embarrassment as they greeted her and drew her impatiently to the sheep corral to meet the shaggy newborn lambs.
It wasn’t until the sun had gone down and the family had gone to bed that Sarah remembered her case. Already the memory of her other world had begun to dim. The familiar odors of the one-room dwelling and the sounds of a desert summer night had replaced the buzz of city life. The mutton stew and fry bread at dinner had seemed more than delicious to Sarah. She would have it again and again, but it would never seem as good as it had this first night home. She turned over on the skeepskin bed, burrowing herself into its warmth, when a gentle tug of memory brought forth the image of the brown case. “Tomorrow,” she thought. “Tomorrow.”
Sarah woke abruptly, gazing into a mischievous face. The face was attached to a small, wiggling body that was firmly planted on her stomach. She guiltily realized that she had slept in. Daylight was already beginning to fill the hogan, and she knew her mother had been up for several hours. Sarah put her squirming brother on the dirt floor of the room and scrambled into her faded jeans and calico shirt. She dashed cold water from a large metal bucket on the heavy wooden table into her face and ran a wire brush through her thick, tousled hair. On the table she found some cold potatoes and fry bread that tasted good with the chilling-cold well water. Outside in the distance Sarah could hear the bleating of the sheep. As she stepped out of the hogan into the bright sun, she saw the kneeling body of her mother. Sarah leaned over her and watched her work-roughened hands push the shuttle back and forth rapidly, marveling again at the beautiful and intricate designs appearing on the loom. Sarah felt proud as she realized that this rug would bring a very good price at the reservation trading post. Almost unnoticeable to the inexperienced observer was the tiny flaw in the colorful design. Sarah’s mother had left one thread unbound so that her soul would not be caught up and forever imprisoned in the rug—an old Navajo custom.
She felt a flash of fear as she realized how different her two worlds were. A hand reached out and tugged her to the loom. Sarah crouched beside her mother and took up the shuttle. Her fingers were clumsy as she worked to place the bright threads in their proper order. Soon she was engrossed in the project and didn’t notice her mother rise slowly to her feet. The old woman shook out the folds of her full yellow skirt and disappeared into the hogan.
An hour had passed before the young girl’s legs began to ache from the unaccustomed position. Her fingertips were sore from the pressure on the strings of the loom. Sarah tossed her hair from her eyes and, groaning a bit, rose to her feet. As she shook her legs, her mother appeared in the doorway. In her hands was a parcel wrapped in cloth, a remnant of an old skirt Sarah had worn years ago.
“Take this to John, my daughter,” the woman said. “He will be hungry.” Sarah took the package, waved to her mother, and started off across the sage-covered ground at a trot. She knew every bush, hole, and rock on this part of the reservation. Her brother would be with the sheep some miles away to the west. The fodder was good there this time of year; it was also their share of the reservation land. Good manners decreed that each family honor his neighbor’s grazing rights.
Sarah could hear the sheep not far ahead. She approached quietly. Her brother was perched on a rock, chewing a weed, his eyes half-closed against the sun. Sarah dropped down beside him.
“Mom sent your lunch,” she said, a bit out of breath from the walk. “Why don’t you let me keep it, and you go on home. I’ll watch the sheep the rest of the day.”
“Sure you remember how?” teased her brother.
“Go on,” grinned Sarah, “get out of here,” and she aimed a playful kick as he jumped out of the way. He set out across the desert at a rabbit’s pace.
Sarah leaned contentedly against the rock and closed her eyes, basking in the warmth. As the complacent animals grazed, Sarah dreamed girlish thoughts. A pesky fly buzzed about her ears and lit on her face. Lazily she batted at it, but it clung persistently to her nose, and she opened her eyes in exasperation. A darkly handsome face grinned familiarly down into her startled eyes. Sarah gasped in fright and jumped to her feet, her heart pounding wildly.
“I’m sorry, Sarah!” The boy choked with laughter. “It was too good a chance to pass up.” He waved a long slender twig in front of her nose. “You looked too peaceful lying there.”
“Oh, Benny!” Sarah’s voice shook. “You scared me to death. Where did you come from? I never even heard you come up.”
“Oh,” he returned flippantly, “you know how Indians can sneak through the grass.” He eyed her for a silent moment, then added, “You’ve grown some.”
“Well, one does that after a year’s time you know. And what,” she demanded, “have you been doing for a year, Benjamin Johnson?”
“Well, now,” he drawled, “I’ve been here and there, doing a bit of rodeoing, a bit of dancing, and so on. And what,” he returned, “have you been doing with yourself this year?”
“Oh,” Sarah faltered in embarrassment, “the same I do every year.”
“Do I detect a white lining inside—sort of like an … apple,” he mocked.
“Honestly, Benny!” she snapped. “You act so, so …” Sarah cast wildly about for the proper word, “Indian!” she finished lamely.
Benny grinned at her confusion. “Truce!” she cried holding up her arms in mock surrender. The uncomfortable moment passed, and soon Sarah found herself up to date on the happenings of her reservation friends. Ben had a quick wit and sense of humor. Several hours passed and shadows began to stretch across the prairie. The air carried a hint of the coolness of the oncoming desert night. Soon they began the walk back to the corral. Ahead of them moved the animals. In the still, nippy air Sarah shivered, and Benny draped his green sweater over her shoulders, laughing as the arms swallowed up her small hands. After several moments of silence, broken only by the calling of lamb to ewe, Benny glanced down at her.
“Sarah,” he began a little shyly. Sarah looked up in surprise at the serious note in his voice. Benny kicked at a clod of red clay with a boot, then, casting a rock high into the air, announced quickly, “My folks are throwing a squaw dance tomorrow night at our place.” He glanced down at the girl and asked, “Will you come?”
Sarah hesitated, caught between ready assent and nagging doubt. Some of Benny’s friends were not her friends. Sarah had watched with regret over the past few years as Benny began to fall in with some rough company. Word had come to her this year at school of some trouble that had concerned Benny and his friends. Word was they had been involved in drugs. Sarah had seen students in the city school with glassy eyes and slack mouths. Indoctrination from both sides of the drug question was intense, and Sarah had felt the pressure at times. Now as she eyed him, Sarah felt a pang of uncertainty. Benny’s friends would be at the dance and her friends were back in the city.
“I’ll try to be there,” Sarah offered in a low voice. The boy released a pent-up breath and kicked a rock in embarrassed delight. The flock bleated in alarm and moved as if to break ranks. Sarah could see the smoke from the Yazzie hogan rising against the darkening sky. She turned to Benny.
“I can take them on in from here,” she said softly. A silent moment, and then he said hurriedly, “I’d come for you tomorrow night, Sarah, but I’ll have to help with things. You will come, won’t you?”
The sheep were moving on toward the corral, and Sarah went after them. She called back over her shoulder, “I’ll try.”
The hogan was warm. On the black, pot-bellied stove a pan of beans bubbled. A kerosene lamp threw shadows on the walls as Sarah sank down on a rickety chair and surveyed her family. Her brothers were engrossed in a game of marbles on the hard-packed dirt floor. Her mother sat vigorously carding the dirt and burrs from a pile of sheep’s wool at her feet. The dislodged dirt fell on the apron of her skirt. After a moment, she arose and began serving the evening meal of fry bread and beans. Sarah spoke softly to her mother as she, too, moved about the room, helping to dish the steaming beans into bowls. She spoke shyly of her visitor at the grazing grounds, and the mother listened with quiet interest. As Sarah talked of the invitation to the dance, a frown of concern crossed the older woman’s face. Sarah changed the subject quickly, wishing that she had not told Benny she would try to be there.
After the dishes were washed and stacked away in the small wooden cupboard, Sarah moved to a corner of the room, Placing the brown case on her lap she drew back the lid. There was a deep crimson scarf. Inside the scarf she found a note scribbled in childish letters. Her eyes watered as she read the short love note from her foster sister. In the bottom of the case lay another card. On the front of the card was the picture of a single white rosebud against a background of royal blue. Sarah turned it over, and written on the back in the neat printing of her foster mother were the words “To Thine Own Self Be True.” That was all; but to Sarah it spoke volumes. She could remember the night she had received this card. How proud she had been of her mother that evening. They had been invited to a mother-daughter dinner, and Sister Allen had been the featured speaker. Her stories of chastity, honesty, and loyalty had touched hearts, and at the end of the program, each girl received a single rosebud and the accompanying card.
Sarah pressed the card to her lips and felt a warmth within her. To Thine Own Self Be True. It had not been an easy doctrine to follow, but she had had friends with the same goals, and they had helped each other. The girl sat lost in her thoughts until the friendly squabbling of her brothers disturbed her.
Too soon the evening of the dance came, and Sarah could not still her doubts. Yet she found herself dressed and standing at the door of the hogan. Already the fires could be seen flickering in the distance, and the rhythmic beat of the drums and the sing-song of the chants floated across the summer air. She clutched her jacket and stepped out into the cool desert evening. She half-turned toward the lantern-lit hogan and, seeing her mother at the loom, forced a cheery wave, hurrying off toward the Johnson camp.
As Sarah neared the huge fire, she paused in sudden shyness. She searched the faces and found many familiar ones. A strong hand came from out of the darkness and grabbed her wrist. She jumped nervously and swung around to find Benny grinning down at her. Her heart beat rapidly, half in alarm and half in wonder at the expression in his eyes. Ben drew her closer to the circle of his friends who greeted her. The dancing started, and Sarah found herself caught up in the beauty of the Navajo chants. Young and old alike joined in the round dances, and the rhythm of shuffling feet began to weave a spell around her.
Sarah and Ben danced silently together for a moment, then Ben said in a serious tone, “You’re the prettiest girl here tonight, Sarah—and the nicest.”
“You’re pretty nice yourself, Ben.” Sarah returned with a smile. “If only … ,” she stopped in confusion. The boy stopped dancing abruptly, causing Sarah to stumble against him.
“If only, what?” he demanded.
Sarah glanced over at the small group of his friends huddled together in the darkness outside the circle of the fire. She was saved from answering the question when one of the boys in the group called to Benny, “Hey, lover boy, come on over and bring your girl.”
Ben hesitated for a moment, then took Sarah by the hand and pulled her over to the group. The circle moved apart, and Ben dropped to the ground, pulling Sarah down with him. She glanced around apprehensively. Several of her old girlfriends were there, and they had always been nice girls from good families. She relaxed a bit and took their teasing in good humor. They began their own chants, and the feeling of companionship grew. But Sarah realized that she had grown out of touch with many of her Indian friends, and she was surprised to see that they were maturing too. The girls were clean and dressed in style; the boys had lost their adolescent shyness. Leaning against Ben and listening to the group, Sarah wondered why she had felt such a reluctance to come. Maybe she had been too quick in labeling Benny’s new friends as roughs. She felt a quick flash of pride that they had accepted her so fast. She knew now that it was important to her that she remain their friend.
“Having a good time?” Benny asked softly, breaking into her thoughts.
“Oh, yes.” Sarah sighed. “It’s been such fun.” She leaned her head shyly on his shoulder and breathed deeply of the freshness of the night air.
Slowly Sarah became aware that Ben was nudging her with an elbow. “Here.” he whispered softly, thrusting a small, long object into her hand. The girl glanced down in surprise and saw that he held a cigarette in his hand. She looked up questioningly at Benny, but his attention was on the others in the group. Sarah became aware that each one in turn was lighting a cigarette, passing the match around until it sputtered out in someone’s fingers. She could smell the smoke from the lit cigarettes, and it carried a peculiarly sweet odor with it. Her new friends smiled encouragingly across the circle. Suddenly she realized that every eye was on her.
The match became a torch, telling her to catch hold of its fire. The odor was stronger now, overwhelming her with its sweetness. She reached for the match, wanting to be a part of this group, wanting desperately not to lose Ben’s friendship. It would be so easy, she reasoned. No one need ever know about this one time.
Sarah became dimly aware that a voice, quietly but clearly, was sounding in her head. The words took focus, and Sarah gasped as the match burnt her fingers. The voice whispered, “To Thine Own Self Be True.” She looked around in confusion and saw that her new friends were all watching her.
“No! I can’t!” she blurted, jumping to her feet. Sarah stood a moment, then turned and left the circle, stumbling in her haste. She realized she had probably forfeited her friendship with them all. She was sick that Benny had been a part of it.
Her hot cheeks began to cool as she said a silent prayer of thanks for her escape. She straightened her shoulders as a sense of returning strength came to her.
“If only Ben had not …” she began to herself but could not finish as she felt a sharp pain in the region of her heart.
“Sarah! Sarah!” The words came sharply over her shoulder, making her jump in alarm. She whirled to stare unbelievingly at Benny who stood grinning at her, panting a little from his run.
“I won’t go back, Ben,” she announced firmly.
“Who wants you to?” Ben returned tartly. “I’m coming with you,” he added in a gentler voice.
“But your friends?”
“You’re my friend, Sarah.” Then he added in a serious voice, “I’d very much like to be your friend, Sarah.” He waited quietly, ready to accept her answer, knowing it might be a refusal.
Sarah’s eyes began to shine, and she gave Ben a playful push. “I’ll be dull company,” she said teasingly.
Ben grinned as he recognized and accepted her answer. He reached over and gave her long hair a gentle tug. “I’ll get used to it.”
“C’mon,” Sarah laughed. “I’ll race you home.”

During the Gulf War, I led a team of soldiers into Kuwait. Once the defenses were breached, we searched the enemy’s fighting positions to make sure we would be safe and looked for anything of intelligence value.
I had just entered a captured command post when I heard a British sergeant shout frantically, “Stop! Don’t take another step!” Sticking my head out of the bunker, I saw one of my soldiers in immediate peril. She had walked into an open area to pick up a document and was now standing in the middle of a large minefield. When she heard the sergeant’s shout, she stopped and realized her danger.
Gathering on the edge of the minefield, our team could see that the young soldier was so panicked that she was physically shaking. We needed to act quickly but couldn’t send soldiers to get her without risking their lives as well as hers. Without discussion or hesitation we began talking to the soldier, calling out words of comfort, encouragement, and instruction. We could see tears streaming down her face and hear fear in her responses, but she began to calm slightly at our reassurance.
After a moment she had enough courage to look back the way she had come, and she told us she could see her own footsteps faintly in the sand. With our encouragement, she hesitantly began retracing her path. By placing her feet gently on each of her previous footprints, she walked out of that minefield, flying into our waiting arms as she took the final step. The considerable crowd of soldiers on the sideline shouted with joy as we welcomed her back. Tears of fear were replaced with smiles and hugs.
Few of us have stood on the edge of an actual minefield. But many of us know those who have left spiritually safe ground to be trapped in the minefields of life. Like that young soldier, they too may feel alone, scared, and unsure. But that soldier was never alone. She had a team on the sidelines cheering her on, friends who needed her back and didn’t give up. She had leaders offering guidance and encouragement. She was the one who had to walk out of the minefield, but we collectively helped her find the strength to do so. In the end we celebrated her rescue with genuine love and joy.

Tyler loved tomatoes. He loved their bright red color and smooth skin. He loved the way their seeds spurted out when he bit into them. He loved to dip tiny tomatoes into salt, and he loved the big ones sliced thin in sandwiches.
“Let’s grow some tomatoes in our yard,” Tyler’s dad suggested one day.
“Could we?” Tyler was surprised. He’d never thought of growing tomatoes at home. He thought it would be wonderful to have his very own supply of tasty tomatoes ready to pick whenever he felt like it.
Tyler and his dad chose a sunny spot to plant the tomatoes. Then they dug and prepared the soil until it was loose and fine. While they were working, Mr. Bradley leaned over the back fence. “Going to have some pretty flowers?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Bradley. This is for my tomatoes,” Tyler told him.
“Humph!” Mr. Bradley growled, frowning. “I’ve never had any luck growing tomatoes here.”
“Dad says we can,” Tyler answered, and he kept raking the ground to make it smooth.
The next morning Tyler and his dad planted six tiny green tomato plants. Tyler watered them carefully. In just a few days they looked bigger. “See, Mr. Bradley,” Tyler said, pointing proudly to his plants, “they’re growing.”
“Just wait, Tyler, just wait,” Mr. Bradley replied smugly.
In several weeks Tyler’s tomato plants blossomed with dozens of star-shaped yellow flowers. “I’m going to have hundreds of tomatoes,” he predicted.
“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Mr. Bradley told him.
Soon tiny, hard green tomatoes replaced the yellow blossoms. Tyler’s mouth watered as he watched them grow into large tomatoes. Morning and night he checked the plants, hoping to find a ripe tomato. One morning he thought one of the plants seemed smaller. The next day he was sure it had lost some leaves. And the following day it looked scraggly and thin. Tyler noticed some small black droppings under the plant too.
He knelt on the ground and examined all of his plants, leaf by leaf. He studied the shriveled one very carefully. Suddenly he jumped up and hollered, “Wow! Dad, Dad, come quick! There’s a dragon out here.”
A large green worm the size of a thick, round pea pod was greedily munching the leaves of Tyler’s wilted tomato plant. It really did look like a miniature dragon as it inched its fat, segmented body along the stem of the plant, waving the little “horns” on the top of its head from side to side as it moved. It seemed to eat as much as a dragon, too, devouring every leaf in its path.
“How did you ever find it, Tyler?” Dad asked. “That worm is so well camouflaged that it looks just like part of the stem. Only really sharp eyes could have seen it.”
Mr. Bradley leaned over the fence to see what all the excitement was about. “Better spray,” he advised. “The pests get all the prizes, I always say. Give ’em a shot of bug spray—that’s what they deserve.”
“I think we’ll try the old-fashioned method first,” Dad said. He carefully picked the worm off the tomato plant. “Now, Tyler, you check the plants every day, and if you notice any other worms, take them off and kill them. They should be easier to spot now that you know what to look for. Be careful, though—their bite might not be dangerous, but it could sure hurt.”
“Found any more dragons?” Mr. Bradley asked the next time Tyler was out watering.
“Nope,” Tyler answered, “but the tomatoes are finally turning red. Look!” The plants sagged under the weight of the plump tomatoes—some still green, some pale yellow, and some a promising orange.
Finally the day came. “This one is ready, isn’t it, Dad?” Tyler asked as they inspected a big red tomato.
“You bet, and it’s all yours. You grew it, and you get to eat it.”
Tyler gently twisted the tomato from its stem and washed it carefully with water from the hose. Then he sat down on the lawn and took a big bite. Still warm from the sun, the tomato burst in his mouth, spurting juice and seeds down his chin and onto his jeans. Tyler grinned with pleasure.
“Ummm! It’s so good!” he exclaimed, wiping his chin between bites. “Next week, after I eat a few more myself, I’ll pick some for Mr. Bradley. Maybe next year he’ll want to grow tomatoes too.”

Four years ago, my institute teacher, Brother Suresh Natrajan, asked the class, “How many of you have gone to the temple?” Because my wife, Anantha, and I had made the 10-hour trip to the Hong Kong China Temple for the first time the year before, I raised my hand proudly. Then he asked another question: “Do you remember what covenants you made in the temple?”
His question was thoughtful. There was so much to take in during my first time in the temple. While I had tried to be attentive, after all that time, I realized I had forgotten the covenants that I made in the temple. At that very moment, I made the decision to go back to temple for the second time and this time to pay attention to and remember the covenants I made and other things that are essential for my salvation.
Time passed. I was facing terrible trials in my life. But I was enrolled in an institute class, and one day we had a lesson on the prophet Jonah. Jonah didn’t do what the Lord commanded him to do. One of the verses that caught my attention was Jonah 2:4: “Then I said, I am cast out of thy sight; yet I will look again toward thy holy temple.”
This scripture touched my heart, and I prayed to Heavenly Father to give me and my wife another chance to visit the temple.
After four years, Heavenly Father blessed us to again enter His house, this time in the Taipei Taiwan Temple.
Mahesh and Anantha Vedurupaka in front of the Taipei Taiwan Temple.
While there, I had the opportunity to perform ordinances on behalf of my uncle who had died of cancer. When I was being baptized for him, I thought about the blessings he would receive through this temple ordinance. I was so happy, and I recognized what the temple president told me when I had come to the temple for the first time and had been a little bit confused. He told me, “Brother, you may not understand all of what you are doing right now, but a day will come when you will feel you have done great things here.”
I got my answer. It has taken me four years to understand by visiting the temple for the second time.
Now while partaking of the sacrament each and every week, I remember how powerful the Atonement of Jesus Christ is and how sacred the covenants I have made in the temple are.
This year is mine and my wife’s 10th wedding anniversary. I want to celebrate it in the temple and perform sealing ordinances for my ancestors. To do this, I have been working a second job apart from my regular job, one that doesn’t affect my time with my family.
I know and I feel that temple work is real. Nothing can replace it, and it’s worth any sacrifice to attend the temple and do Heavenly Father’s work for ourselves and for souls who are on the other side of the veil.

Mike’s interest in amateur radio (the term ham is a nickname for the same thing) began while he was young. “We set up an electric train in the basement when I was about five, and I started figuring out how it ran. I’ve been working with wires ever since.”
“My uncle gave me a home-built transmitter, which I used along with a receiver I built from a kit. You can get a novice (beginner’s) license from the Federal Communications Commission (FCC), and with less than $100 worth of equipment, be operating a Morse code station.”
Mike got his novice license in August 1975, received his general license eight months later, his advanced license “a couple of months after that,” and now holds the highest license, the extra class license. There is one other license, the technician license, but it is used mostly for business communication, and higher licenses have the same privileges, so Mike bypassed it.
A novice licensee is allowed to broadcast only in Morse code. If he attains a higher license, however, he is allowed to broadcast his voice. “I started out memorizing Morse code,” Mike says. “Then I had a record with a very slow code speed, and I practiced off the air. Once I got on the air, I didn’t have any interest in receiving from a record. The main thing that pushed me to learn code was foreign stations sending it faster than I could receive, so I kept on pushing.”

Mandy: Dad, if somebody called somebody else a really mean name and then the second somebody punched the first somebody, who would need to repent?
Dad: Well, the first somebody would need to repent of the mean name, and the second somebody would need to repent of the punching.
Mandy: But wouldn’t the first somebody be worse because she started it?
Dad: Does it matter who’s worse? Both have done wrong, and both need to apologize and repent.
The next day—Mandy: Linda, I’m really sorry I punched you. How can I make it up to you?
Linda: You can get out of my sight, you toad!
Mandy: Thanks, Linda. I will.
That night—Dad: Somebody seems a lot happier.
Mandy: Somebody is.

When I was just two years old, my older brother and I were walking near a large irrigation ditch on our farm. My father was keeping an eye on us as he fed the cattle. The next thing he knew, my brother was running up to him, crying out, “Rolfe’s in!”
Dad raced to the irrigation ditch. From my footprints, he could see that I had gone as close to the edge as I possibly could, and then my feet had slipped and I had fallen in. He ran along the ditch until he glimpsed my red sweater in the water. He was able to pull me out, apply first aid, and save my life. I had gotten as close to danger as I possibly could, and the results were almost tragic.

A 14-year-old sister was all dressed up to go to a Young Women activity at a time in her life when she felt very unsure about herself. She was quietly and self-consciously inching her way toward the front door, hoping not to be noticed by all the young men in the living room who were visiting with her older brother Russell. She was given a life-changing boost when her older brother interrupted his conversation and said to her in front of all his friends, “My, Emily, you look pretty tonight!”
A small thing? No. There are young women who claim that they would not have made it through those growing-up years without the encouragement and support of their older brothers.

Young women in the Port Harcourt (Nigeria) Ward Two held their first Young Women in Excellence program last December. Agnes Teigbanyo, a Laurel in Port Harcourt, received the first Young Womanhood medallion ever given in Nigeria.
Agnes says that earning her award has helped her improve herself in many ways.
“For my Laurel project, I wanted to teach gospel principles to children. I wanted them to know more about the gospel and to help them establish love and charity in their homes. I learned that dealing with children is not easy,” says Agnes.
The rest of the girls in the ward also say that participating in Young Women has helped them to improve themselves in all areas of their lives.
“The Young Women program has helped me experience more fully the Savior’s love through our service project of going to the Motherless Baby Home to help. It made me appreciate others,” says another young woman, Grace Sunday.

Since starting on those paths, we have come to learn how truly merciful God is, how deeply He loves us, and how perfectly compelling His love is for us. When I was 16 years old and not smart enough to know very much at all, the Spirit touched my heart and I realized the significance of the woman that you marry. Starting at that time I began to pray that the Lord would find for me the woman who would be my eternal companion. Those prayers were answered, and all that we now enjoy in our family with children and grandchildren is largely responsible to her.

One experience I had with the Duty to God book was when I was working on the section titled “Doctrinal Topics.” During that time I was called as deacons quorum president. I didn’t know what to expect, and I didn’t know if I was qualified to hold the sacred keys of the Aaronic Priesthood. Through “Doctrinal Topics” I studied “Priesthood and Priesthood Keys.” It taught me how these keys came to the earth and how I should use them to receive revelation from Heavenly Father.
I was stunned by how much knowledge was at my fingertips. I searched many books about this topic and received many useful things from them. I eventually prayed to know if I was worthy to hold these sacred keys.
Instantly the Spirit fell upon me gently but with a strong witness that Heavenly Father loved me and that He had a work for me to do in this quorum at this time. I felt I was ready and worthy to hold the sacred keys of the priesthood. Duty to God is not just a book. It is a blessing. And I want to share this blessing with my quorum members.

The second week, when the cast arrives, the work crew divides into two groups: the stage crew or the lighting crew. It’s their choice. “The responsibilities of each group will be explained, and the boys will learn to govern themselves,” says Sister Ganoe. “The influence of the Spirit plays a big part in that.”

Members of the stage crew do the special effects on or under the stage. They set off live fireballs and operate a 24-foot waterfall and water curtains. They also provide the flames when Abinadi is martyred and create the “destruction” scene with water cannons and smoke before the Savior visits the Americas.

Members of the light crew climb the ten 39- to 50-foot light towers to shine the spotlight on the actors as they move around the stage after dark.

Brother Ganoe invites the 26 crew members to make this decision a matter of prayer. They reflect on this decision while they are busy working.

At the end of two days, they decide where they want to serve. As they raise their hands to indicate their choice, they discover that they have chosen the exact number needed for each group: 12 will be on lights and 14 on the stage crew. They are now ready, spiritually and physically, to rehearse with the cast.

“What’s the matter?” Phebe asked.
“Just thinking,” Sadie answered.
“About Christmas?”
“Yes,” Sadie sighed. “This morning I was all excited about the day but now it doesn’t seem like Christmas with Papa plowing, Mama milking, and us working in here just like any other day. Shouldn’t we do a little more than what Mama has planned to celebrate this Christmas?”
“Well, you know what Mama said.”
“I know. There’s too much work, not enough extra anything, so no gifts, and we’ll have a small Christmas dinner. Just an ordinary day,” Sadie repeated mechanically. “But this is our very first Christmas in the Salt Lake Valley—maybe the very first time anyone has celebrated Christmas here! It seems as though it should be special.”
Phebe lifted the black cooking kettle out of the big pot. “Then let’s make it special!”
“Sure, but how?” Sadie asked sadly.
Before Phebe could answer someone walked past the cabin whistling, “Come, Come Ye Saints.” Suddenly Sadie’s face beamed. “I have an idea,” she said and jumped up and ran to the window. “Where’s Abigail?”
“Out getting wood, why?” Phebe asked.
“To make sure this Christmas will be special!”
Phebe laughed. “And how are you going to make it special?”
“Not me, we! Let’s get Abigail!”
“But Mama said to start the bread before she got back from milking.”
“I’ll get it started while you help Abigail. Now hurry!” Sadie grabbed the kettle as Phebe shrugged her shoulders and threw on her shawl.
“This better be good,” Phebe said as she disappeared through the door.
Soon she was back carrying an armload of wood, with Abigail tagging along behind. They dumped the wood by the fireplace and turned to Sadie.
“Now what?” Phebe asked.
“Sit down and I’ll tell you. Do you remember what made the trip across the plains easier?” she asked.
“The oxen,” Phebe laughed.
“Now, be serious,” Sadie said. Then she continued, “Remember those terrible dust storms, and the times when we stumbled through buffalo tracks with the sun burning down on us? Remember how we’d all want to just give up, and then what would always pull us through?”
“Someone would start singing Brother Clayton’s hymn,” answered Abigail, whose puzzled face showed she didn’t understand what these questions had to do with Christmas.
“Right!” said Sadie excitedly. “Through the whole chain of wagons you could hear ‘Come, Come Ye Saints’ ringing out over the empty prairie.”
“What does that have to do with Christmas?” asked Phebe, just as puzzled as her little sister.
“Well if ‘Come, Come Ye Saints’ could make those hard times seem almost good, a song could surely make this Christmas special,” Sadie replied.
“What song?” her sisters asked together.
“Our song!” Sadie could hardly contain her excitement. “We’ll compose our own Christmas song and sing it for Mama and Papa after dinner tonight.” Sadie held her breath as she waited for their response.
Abigail and Phebe looked at each other, then back to their sister, their eyes brightening. “So far this has been just another Saturday, not like other Christmases,” Phebe said. “Let’s try it!”
“All right,” Abigail agreed.
Just then the door opened and Mama lugged the heavy milkpail into the cabin. “Girls, your father wants you to unhitch the oxen for him. He had to go help the Carters.”
“Right now?” Abigail asked.
“Come on,” Sadie whispered. “We can compose out there.”
Hurriedly the three girls put on their shawls and left.
“What should our song be about?” Abigail asked when they were outside.
Sadie’s eyes were far away in thought. “It has to be a song about Christmas and love.”
“Well, like Mama says, all we have this Christmas is love.”
“Then we’ll call it ‘Christmas Love.’”
“I have an idea too,” Abigail almost shouted. “We could sing our song and then tell the story of Jesus.”
Phebe’s eyes sparkled as she said, “I never thought I’d be excited about a song for the first Christmas in our new home, but I am!”
“Come on,” Sadie called as she started running. “Let’s get the oxen unhitched and put in the barn.”
After the oxen were bedded down and fed, the girls worked on their song in the barn. They worked quickly so Mama wouldn’t miss them and Papa wouldn’t find them still there.
That night when the family gathered around the table, the girls were hardly able to sit still as they ate their dinner.
“I told you this wild turkey I shot would make it Christmas,” Papa said with a smile.
“Turkey isn’t all there is to Christmas,” Abigail said laughingly.
“Then what’s causing all the excitement?”
“It’s Christmas!” they all shouted at once.
“You didn’t seem to think it was so exciting when we all had to work today,” Mama said, her eyes twinkling.
“I guess we finally caught the spirit of Christmas,” Sadie answered.
Mama wrinkled her forehead, but she didn’t ask any questions. “Let’s get these dishes —” she began, but before she could finish, Abigail, Phebe, and Sadie were busy clearing off the table.
“What about pudding?” Papa protested.
“Let’s have it later,” Sadie suggested.
“What’s going on?” Mama asked. “All through dinner you girls have been acting like bottled thunder.”
“I think it’s about to be uncorked,” their father answered with a wry smile on his face.
“We have a surprise!” Abigail could no longer keep the secret. “A Christmas surprise just for you!”
A smile replaced the tired lines in their mother’s face. “Well, what is it?” she asked.
“Something to make Christmas special. Please sit down,” Sadie instructed. “We started out with just a song, but now we have a whole program.”
Slowly the three girls began to sing their song, “Christmas Love.” When they finished singing, Abigail and Phebe went on humming while Sadie told the Christmas story.
“Once an angel visited a woman named Mary and told her that she would be the mother of Jesus. The angel also visited Joseph who was to be her husband and told him the wonderful news.
“They had to go to Bethlehem to pay taxes and while they were there the baby was born in a manger. It was such a beautiful and important event that even the angels seemed to sing.
“There were some shepherds who heard the angels and they were so excited they traveled through the night to see the little Christ Child.
“Later a star guided some wise men who went to visit Jesus. All of this was a part of the very first Christmas, a Christmas of love.”
When Sadie finished the story, the girls began to softly sing the song again.
“Christ was born in a lowly stable
But a stable filled with love. …”
Then Phebe said, “And this is a Christmas of love. We have a new, safe home and we have the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
“And a Christmas song from our very own daughters,” Papa said, as he dished up the pudding.
“This is the best Christmas I can remember,” Mama said, her eyes misty.
Mama is pleased, Sadie thought, and a warm, tingly feeling tickled her spine.

After that, the missionaries came to our home and gave us the first discussion. Then came the invitation: “Will you pray to Heavenly Father to know if the Book of Mormon is true?” We both agreed to do it.
On the first night I prayed before sleeping, but I was so tired that I fell asleep without waiting for a response. On the second night I prayed again, but I didn’t receive an answer. The next night I prayed once again. I wanted to feel what the missionaries had taught me: “Your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right” (D&C 9:8). I prayed and waited, but I didn’t receive a response. Still, I went to bed certain that one day I would receive it.
The next day was the first Sunday of the month, and we went to church. It was then that it happened. During class I began to feel something I had never felt before—something that made me feel so happy. When sacrament meeting began I had a desire to bear my testimony, but I didn’t have the courage. However, I was certain that the Book of Mormon was true.
My brother and I accepted the gospel without reluctance. We had testimonies of the Book of Mormon, and we knew that everything else the missionaries taught us would be true too.

As Melissa turned her attention back to the ward council meeting, she thought, “If only everyone could be surrounded by such loving friends and leaders as they progress toward the temple.”
Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard the Relief Society president comment on a sister in need: “She wasn’t at church last Sunday. I’ll make sure her visiting teachers let her know about the upcoming temple trip.”
“They’ve got some hard things going on right now,” added the elders quorum president. “I’ll follow up with their home teachers and see if there’s anything we can do.”
“The young women could help with babysitting,” said the Young Women president.
As Melissa looked at the faces of the members of the ward council, she saw genuine affection and concern. A smile spread across her face. “The Lord has prepared ways for His children to be protected and loved,” she thought. “The ward council!”

George didn’t know what to do. But he did know who to ask for help. His Heavenly Father! When George was a young man, he didn’t really believe in God. He lied and stole money from his friends and family and only read the scriptures because he had to for school. Then one day George met some people who loved God and tried to follow Him. George began to pray every day. He learned that God was real and would answer the prayers of His children.
When George Müller opened his first orphanage in 1836, he wanted to provide a home for children who didn’t have parents. He also wanted to share his testimony of God’s love. So George decided to trust that God would help him. When George needed money or food or even jobs for the orphans who had grown up and were ready to leave, he would get on his knees and pray. George had faith that if he prayed to know God’s will and then asked for help, God would help him. And God did! Donations and help always came just in time. The children in the orphanages had what they needed, and George helped them see that God loved them.
As George looked at the broken heater, he knew this time would be no different. George had faith that God would help. He called workmen to come and fix the heater, but before they could come, a freezing north wind began to blow. George was worried. How would the children stay warm until the heater was fixed?
Then George remembered a story from the Bible where the walls of Jerusalem were built quickly because the builders had a “mind to work” (Nehemiah 4:6). George got on his knees and began to pray. “Lord,” said George, “would you be pleased to change the north wind to a south wind? And would you give the workmen a mind to work?”
When George woke on the morning of the repairs, the weather had changed! Even though it was December, a warm south wind was blowing. The children would be warm and wouldn’t need a fire while the heater was being fixed. The repairs could begin!
The workmen spent all day trying to fix the heater. But there was too much work to finish in one day. At the end of the day, George went down to the cellar of the orphanage. The man in charge of the workers told George, “The men will work late this evening and come very early again tomorrow.”
George nodded. He hoped the weather would stay good until then.
Then one of the workers spoke up. “We would rather, sir, work all night,” he said.
George smiled. He remembered how he had prayed that the men would have a mind to work hard and finish the repairs as quickly as possible. By morning, the heater was fixed and the orphanage was warm and snug before the winter winds returned. George knew that God had answered his prayer.

Finally graduation came. Then another important decision had to be made. And now the question was, should we return home or stay in America? Interestingly enough, now I wanted to stay in America and my wife wanted to return home.

She kept reminding me these words: our purpose in coming to BYU is to follow the counsel of the prophets:
Get an education
Return home
Make a mark
Serve the kingdom
Again her spiritual maturity, understanding and commitment to follow the leaders of the Church helped me make the right choice.

We returned home with the faith that the Lord would provide for our well-being and take care of us in our own country.

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I learned through experience that at moments of decisions, many times we find ourselves like Nephi when he was asked to return home to obtain the plates, he didn't know in advance what was going to happen. But he had trust and faith in the Lord. He knew that through his obedience the Lord would be by his side. When my wife and I returned to Brazil we knew we were doing the right thing but we had no idea what great things the Lord had in store for us.

...

Sometimes I stop and think, what would have happened if we had remained in America? What would have happened if we had never returned home? What would have happened if we had trusted only in ourselves and not in the counsel of our Church leaders? We don't have an answer to these questions. We only know one thing for sure: The Lord does keep his promise to bless all his children according to their faith and obedience.

Three decades ago, my husband and I made the mad dash to the hospital in the middle of the night. I was in early labor with twins. They were due April 10th but this was February 10th – cold and blustery. Like most expectant mothers, I worried that my child, in this case children, would be born with all their fingers and toes. Would they look like their Dad or me? Would they have hair or be bald? (I was bald until I was three.) I never worried that my child might die.
Immediately following the emergency delivery, doctors stabilized the boys and then whisked them away to a specialty unit in another hospital. They couldn’t breathe and as further diagnosis progressed, there were many more problems. They were identical; each weighed only three pounds and was about the size of my hand. Christian was born first; Cameron seven minutes later.
My husband had been alone through the night with the boys at the hospital across town. He and a physician had administered to them and by the power of the priesthood had called upon the heavens that they might live. They made it through the night. But as the morning progressed, reports of their critical condition stacked up and seemed overwhelming. Our first-born child, Christian, faced odds seemingly insurmountable. My husband asked if there was someplace he could go to be alone. Ushered into the doctor’s office in the Intensive Care unit, he knelt down to talk to our Father in Heaven. He told him how badly we wanted those little sons. How long we had waited for them. How he appreciated the Lord honoring the blessing given that enabled both to live. But then, with all the strength he could muster, he put them in the Lord’s hands: “Not my will but thine be done.”
He walked from the room to the isolette just as the monitor on Christian’s heart flattened out. He died that fast. I had never held him while he was alive. Come, the Lord beckoned. Come home.
I remember those days as if they were just last week. I remember the lights in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit and the sound of the machines sustaining life, buzzing intermittently with alarms. I remember the looks on the faces of other worried young fathers and mothers and the notes they wrote on their cribs, the pictures of family they tacked on the clear walls of the little isolettes. We covenanted then that if the Lord would save Cameron we would serve with devotion, we would hearken to every call. In the months that followed, Cameron fought valiantly for his life astounding the doctors with the grit he could muster from his frail little frame. Today Cameron is 30 and in a medical residency in Kansas City training to save premature babies.