Gospel Story Finder

Amherst Ward, Springfield Massachusetts Stake
My name is Nichole Jewkes, and I am eleven years old. I live in Belchertown, Massachusetts. I am one of only three Latter-day Saints in my middle school. This has been a big change for me because I just recently moved here from Utah. Since not many people in my school know about the Church, I have a great opportunity to do missionary work.
I wear my CTR ring to school every day. People look at my ring and ask what CTR stands for. I always reply, “Choose the right.” And they say, “Cool!” and move on.
One day, my friend Christine noticed my CTR ring and asked what it stands for. I answered, “Choose the right.” Christine said, “Wow! This is so cool!” Then she asked me where I had gotten it. I said that I got it from my church. She asked me how much one costs and if she could buy one. I said that I’d get one for her for free. She acted surprised and said, “Thank you so much.”
I got a CTR ring from my Primary president on Sunday and took it to school on Monday. Christine was very excited and said thank you so many times! She continued to wear it every day and was always telling me how neat it was and how much she loved it.
A few days later, another friend named Julie also noticed my CTR ring. She noticed that Christine had one, too. Julie thought they were neat and asked where we had gotten them. I asked her if she would like one, and she said, “Oh yes, please!”
Now when Julie sometimes says the Lord’s name in vain, she’ll remember and say, “Sorry.” And when older kids swear around me, she’ll say, “Don’t swear around Nichole; she doesn’t like it.” It is nice to know that even though my friends do not belong to our church, they are still trying to choose the right and stand up for me.
I have learned from living here and having many friends who are not LDS that most people are still really good people, trying to do good things with their lives. I hope the CTR rings continue to strengthen Julie and Christine and that I can continue to invite them to church and Church activities. I hope we can all continue to be good missionaries, no matter how old we are.

Today is Eli’s birthday. He is four years old.
In four more years, you will be baptized.
And four years after that, you will be a deacon and you will be able to pass the sacrament.
Later, Mom helped Eli change from his pajamas into his church clothes.
Do deacons wear superhero pants to church?
No. Deacons wear nice pants.
Do deacons wear superhero shirts to church?
No. Deacons wear white shirts and ties.
I want to wear a white shirt and nice pants. I want to dress like a deacon.
Mom helped Eli put on his nice pants, a white shirt, and a tie.
At church, Eli folded his arms as he watched the deacons pass the sacrament.
When a deacon brought Eli the sacrament, Eli took a piece of bread and then handed the tray to Mom.
Mom smiled at Eli. He was happy to help. He felt just like a deacon.

On Friday, 19 August 1988, I was at my job as a police officer in the Río Ceballos district office, near Córdoba, Argentina. At about 9:30 that morning, I received a telephone call from the nurse at the community health center, asking for assistance. We often got such calls, since we operated one of the few ambulances in the area.
The nurse told me that in the health center there was a five-month-old baby with a case of extreme dehydration. She required an urgent transfer to the children’s hospital in Córdoba, where the equipment necessary to treat her would be available. The ambulance driver and I were quickly on our way, and we soon had the baby and her mother in the ambulance. The baby was scared and crying; she had a fever and was hyperventilating. Her eyes were wide open, and her little face showed that she was in great pain.
From Río Ceballos to the hospital in Córdoba is a distance of forty kilometers. We had gone about fifteen when steam and boiling water began to shoot out from under the hood. A red light came on inside the cab, and the temperature gauge showed overheating. This couldn’t be happening! We had just had the ambulance checked over. But we had no choice other than to stop at the side of the road and carefully open the hood.
The hose that connected the radiator to the motor was leaking in several places and was about to burst. “We can’t go any farther,” said Oscar, my companion. “If we had gone just a few more meters, the ambulance would have broken down completely.” Feeling helpless, he hit the roof of the ambulance.
My mind raced as I tried to think of a solution. We didn’t have a radio, and there were no other cars on the road that we could signal for help. All around us, there were only abandoned fields. Meanwhile, the baby was getting worse.
Finally, I told Oscar that we had to continue as far as we could and see if we could get to a place where we could get help. “We should trust in God and have faith that we will arrive,” I said.
Oscar hesitated. If we went any farther, the hose might explode, and we would never get there. If we waited a little longer, the engine might have time to cool down. But the baby was getting steadily worse. Again, I told him, “Oscar, we should trust in God. He will help us get to the hospital.”
I also encouraged the mother and her baby. As I spoke, I felt someone telling me that if we didn’t lose hope, we would arrive in time to save the baby. With determination and confidence, I said, “We will make it.”
We started the motor and moved on. The gauge didn’t show such a high temperature now, and we continued our journey. Steam was no longer coming out from under the hood. Cautiously we drove on. After what seemed like an eternity, we made it to the hospital.
The doctor who attended the baby told us, “If you had taken any longer, she may not have arrived here alive. She was in worse shape than we thought.”
How grateful I was that our Father in Heaven had helped us arrive in time! I knew that He had been with us the whole way there.
As we returned to Río Ceballos, we discussed what had happened. Oscar said, “That was incredible. I didn’t think we would make it.”
I told him we had witnessed a miracle. He looked me in the eyes, smiled, and nodded his head in agreement. “I was praying the whole way there that God would help us,” I told him.
“So was I,” he confessed. “It was the first time I had ever prayed so much. God helped us to arrive. Only He could have done it.”
Later, as I was meditating about what had happened and reading the scriptures, I found this passage in the Bible:
“The apostles said unto the Lord, Increase our faith.
“And the Lord said, If ye had faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye might say unto this sycamine tree, Be thou plucked up by the root, and be thou planted in the sea; and it should obey you” (Luke 17:5–6).

One important rule my family had as I was growing up on a homestead in Clinton, Utah, was that you had to get your work done before you could play. As a young boy, I delighted in going to the Saturday matinees to see the cowboy movies. But Saturday was also the day we did the major cleaning of the barn, the corrals, the chicken coop, and the other animal stalls. I soon learned that if I didn’t do my share of the work, I wouldn’t be allowed to go to the movies. There are always consequences for doing or not doing what we should.

“The first book I ever owned came to me on the heels of tragedy” he recalled. “It was at a community Christmas party that came to a sudden and abrupt end when the candles on the Christmas tree set fire to Santa Claus’ coat and he ran from the room.
“I returned home … disconsolate and dejected because there was no gift for me. But the next day from out of the ruins of the fire a book, half-burned, was found with my name on it.”
It was a book that told the story of a young boy who, through hard work and honesty, went on to be a success in life.

This kind of ministering strengthened one sister who moved far away from home when her husband started graduate school. With no working phone and a small baby to care for, she felt disoriented in the new location, totally lost and alone. Without advance notice, a Relief Society sister came to the door bringing a little pair of shoes for the baby, put the two of them into her car, and took them to find the grocery store. The grateful sister reported, “She was my lifeline!”

Once upon a time there was a little Slobovian boy named Gorb who lived in a little boardinghouse with 10,000 Slobovians. Every morning all 10,001 of them were served the most nutritious breakfast cereal available anywhere—Captain Steadfast’s Forthright Whole Wheat Crunchies. Now federal agencies and senate hearings had proven not only that Captain Steadfast’s was the best breakfast food known to man but also that it was, spoonful for spoonful, the most economical cereal on the market. And it tasted great.
One morning just at breakfast time a stranger walked into the boardinghouse and casually tossed a new cereal onto the table that, he said, was groovy, outasight, and everyone was eating. It was called Gurgle, Twaddle, and Sop. Some of the guys said they had heard it was pretty bad, but 10,000 hands nevertheless reached for the box and heaped their bowls high because, after all, it obviously was the thing to do. However, when the box came to Gorb he kindly said, “No, thank you,” and he poured himself a bowl of Forthright Whole Wheat Crunchies.
“Comment!”* roared a chorus of 10,000 Slobovian voices.
“Well, it isn’t any great mystery,” replied Gorb. “I just read on the box here that Gurgle, Twaddle, and Sop has no vitamins, no proteins, none of the good stuff Captain Steadfast’s has, and it even admits to having some real junk in it. The price looks pretty expensive, and I’ve heard it can really taste gross. Besides—I like these Crunchies.”
At that point 10,000 fists hit Gorb on the jaw. “What gall,” mused Gorb as he shrugged his shoulders and went on eating his Captain Steadfast’s.
But even as Gorb was taking his lonely stand, some strange things began to happen around the table. Many of the 10,000 said they were sick; some said they were seeing strange things; a few said they couldn’t see anything at all. Several fell face first into their Gurgle, Twaddle, and Sop, and at least one just cried and cried. But those who were still able kept forcing down the G, T, & S because, after all, somebody had said it was groovy and outasight and everybody was eating it.
It wasn’t long before just one person remained sitting at the table; 10,000 others were screaming around the room or sobbing at their benches or just retching on the floor. The place was a bad scene that didn’t look either groovy or outasight, but at least everybody was doing it—except Gorb. He just quietly finished his Whole Wheat Crunchies and wondered why new always meant better to so many people.
Moral: 10,000 Slobovians can be wrong.

May I share with you tonight, brethren, a letter which I received some time ago, written by a husband who strayed far from the priesthood path of service and duty. It typifies the plea of too many of our brethren. He wrote:
“Dear President Monson:
“I had so much and now have so little. I am unhappy and feel as though I am failing in everything. The gospel has never left my heart, even though it has left my life. I ask for your prayers.
“Please don’t forget those of us who are out here—the lost Latter-day Saints. I know where the Church is, but sometimes I think I need someone else to show me the way, encourage me, take away my fear, and bear testimony to me.”
While reading this letter, I returned in my thoughts to a visit to one of the great art galleries of the world—even the famed Victoria and Albert Museum in London, England. There, exquisitely framed, was a masterpiece painted in 1831 by Joseph Mallord William Turner. The painting features heavy-laden black clouds and the fury of a turbulent sea portending danger and death. A light from a stranded vessel gleams far off. In the foreground, tossed high by incoming waves of foaming water, is a large lifeboat. The men pull mightily on the oars as the lifeboat plunges into the tempest. On the shore there stand a wife and two children, wet with rain and whipped by wind. They gaze anxiously seaward. In my mind I abbreviated the name of the painting. To me, it became To the Rescue.
Amidst the storms of life, danger lurks; and men, like boats, find themselves stranded and facing destruction. Who will man the lifeboats, leaving behind the comforts of home and family, and go to the rescue?
President John Taylor cautioned us, “If you do not magnify your callings, God will hold you responsible for those whom you might have saved had you done your duty.”
Brethren, our task is not insurmountable. We are on the Lord’s errand, and therefore we are entitled to the Lord’s help. But we must try. From the stage play Shenandoah comes the spoken line which inspires: “If we don’t try, then we don’t do; and if we don’t do, then why are we here?”
When the Master ministered among men, He called fishermen at Galilee to leave their nets and follow Him, declaring, “I will make you fishers of men.” And so He did. Tonight He issues a call to each of us to “come join the ranks.” He provides our battle plan with His admonition, “Wherefore, now let every man learn his duty, and to act in the office in which he is appointed, in all diligence.”
I love and cherish the noble word duty. Let us hearken to the stirring reminder found in the epistle of James: “Be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving your own selves.”
There is an old song of my vintage. It’s entitled “Wishing Will Make It So.” It’s not true. Wishing will not make it so. The Lord expects our thinking. He expects our action. He expects our labors. He expects our testimonies. He expects our devotion. Unfortunately, there are those who have departed from the track of priesthood activity. Let us help them back to that path that leads to life eternal. Let us build that strong Melchizedek Priesthood base which will be the foundation of Church activity and growth. It will be the underpinning to strengthen every family, every home, every quorum in every land.
Brethren, we can reach out to those for whom we are responsible and bring them to the table of the Lord, there to feast on His word and to enjoy the companionship of His Spirit and be “no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God.”
The passage of time has not altered the capacity of the Redeemer to change men’s lives—our lives and the lives of those with whom we labor. As He said to the dead Lazarus, so He says today: “Come forth.” Come forth from the despair of doubt. Come forth from the sorrow of sin. Come forth from the death of disbelief. Come forth to a newness of life. Come forth.
We will discover that those whom we serve, who have felt through our labors the touch of the Master’s hand, somehow cannot explain the change which comes into their lives. There is a desire to serve faithfully, to walk humbly, and to live more like the Savior. Having received their spiritual eyesight and glimpsed the promises of eternity, they echo the words of the blind man to whom Jesus restored sight, who said, “One thing I know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see.”
How can we account for these miracles? Why the upsurge of activity in men long dormant? The poet, speaking of death, wrote, “God … touched him, and he slept.” I say, speaking of this new birth, “God touched them, and they awakened.”
Two fundamental reasons largely account for these changes of attitudes, of habits, of actions. First, men have been shown their eternal possibilities and have made the decision to achieve them. Men cannot really long rest content with mediocrity once they see excellence is within their reach.
Second, other men have followed the admonition of the Savior and have loved their neighbors as themselves and helped to bring their neighbors’ dreams to fulfillment and their ambitions to realization.
The catalyst in this process has been—and will continue to be—the principle of love.
Another principle of truth which will guide us in our determination is that boys and men can change. I’m reminded of the words of a prison warden who taught this fact. A critic who knew of Warden Duffy’s efforts to rehabilitate men said, “Don’t you know that leopards can’t change their spots?”
Warden Duffy responded, “You should know I don’t work with leopards. I work with men, and men change every day.”
Many years ago, before leaving to become president of the Canadian Mission, headquartered in Toronto, Ontario, I had developed a friendship with a man by the name of Shelley, who lived in my ward but did not embrace the gospel, irrespective of the fact that his wife and children had done so. Shelley had been known as the toughest man in town when he was young. He was quite a pugilist. His fights were rarely in the ring but rather elsewhere. Try as I might, I could not bring about a change in Shelley’s attitude. The task appeared hopeless. In time, Shelley and his family moved from our ward.
After I had returned from Canada and was called to the Twelve, I received a telephone call from Shelley. He said, “Will you seal my wife and me and our family in the Salt Lake Temple?”
I answered hesitatingly, “Shelley, you first must be a baptized member of the Church.”
He laughed and responded, “Oh, I took care of that while you were in Canada. My home teacher was a school crossing guard, and every weekday as he and I would visit at the crossing, we would discuss the gospel.”
The sealings were performed; a family was united; joy followed.
Abraham Lincoln offered this wise counsel, which surely applies to home teachers: “If you would win a man to your cause, first convince him that you are his sincere friend.”
A friend makes more than a dutiful visit each month. A friend is more concerned about helping people than getting credit. A friend cares. A friend loves. A friend listens. And a friend reaches out.
There are brethren in every ward who seem to have a special skill and aptitude to penetrate the outer shell and reach the heart. Such was Raymond L. Egan, who served as my counselor in the bishopric. He loved to befriend and activate in the Church the father of a family and thereby bring into the fold a dear wife and precious children as well. This wonderful phenomenon occurred many times right up until Brother Egan departed mortality.
There are other ways as well by which one might lift and serve. On one occasion, I was speaking with a retired executive I had known for a long time. I asked him, “Ed, what are you doing in the Church?” He replied, “I have the best assignment in the ward. My responsibility is to help men who are unemployed find permanent employment. This year I have helped 12 of my brethren who were out of work to obtain good jobs. I have never been happier in my entire life.” Short in stature, “Little Ed,” as we affectionately called him, stood tall that evening as his eyes glistened and his voice quavered. He showed his love by helping those in need. He restored human dignity. He opened doors for those who knew not how to do so themselves.
I truly believe that those who have the ability to reach out and to lift up have found the formula descriptive of Brother Walter Stover—a man who spent his entire life in service to others. At Brother Stover’s funeral, his son-in-law paid tribute to him in these words: “Walter Stover had the ability to see Christ in every face he encountered, and he treated each person accordingly.” Legendary are his acts of compassionate help and his talent to lift heavenward every person whom he met. His guiding light was the Master’s voice speaking, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … , ye have done it unto me.”
Brethren, acquire the language of the Spirit. It is not learned from textbooks written by men of letters, nor is it acquired through reading and memorization. The language of the Spirit comes to him who seeks with all his heart to know God and keep His divine commandments. Proficiency in this “language” permits one to breach barriers, overcome obstacles, and touch the human heart.
In a day of danger or a time of trial, such knowledge, such hope, such understanding bring comfort to a troubled soul and a grieving heart. Shadows of despair are dispelled by rays of hope; sorrow yields to joy; and the feeling of being lost in the crowd of life vanishes with the certain knowledge that our Heavenly Father is mindful of each of us.
In closing, I return to the painting by Turner. In a very real sense, those persons stranded on the vessel which had run aground in the storm-tossed sea are like many young men—and older men as well—who await rescue by those of us who have the priesthood responsibility to man the lifeboats. Their hearts yearn for help. Mothers and fathers pray for their sons. Wives and children plead to heaven that Daddy and others may be reached.
Tonight I pray that all of us who hold the priesthood may sense our responsibilities and, as one, follow our Leader—even the Lord Jesus Christ, and His prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley—to the rescue.
In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“You look so ridiculous, Ed. I’m totally serious,” the lovely and talented Maggie, my 10-year-old sister, told me as I was leaving to go to work at Reel Life Video store. I caught a glimpse of myself in the entryway mirror. Unfortunately, she was right.
And you would look ridiculous, too, if you were required by your employer to wear shiny shoes with pointed toes, black tuxedo pants, a red cummerbund, a ruffled shirt, and a snappy red bow tie. It doesn’t help, either, that I have to wear a former employee’s name tag because my manager hasn’t had a new one made up for me yet. So that is why I, Ed McIff, an ordinary, boring teenager with an ordinary, boring life, wear a name tag that says “Sergio” instead of my name.
“See you later, Sergio!” my mom trilled from the kitchen. And then she burst into gales of laughter.
Doesn’t it say somewhere that mothers aren’t supposed to laugh at their children who are required to wear stupid clothes to work? I opened our ordinary, boring front door and let myself out into a boring evening in ordinary, boring Salt Lake City, Utah.
Actually, work was okay. We were pretty busy, which helps the time go by faster. I was surprised when Marv the Manager told me and Wendy, another proud Reel Life Video employee like myself, to go on break.
“Want to get some ice cream next door?” Wendy asked as we walked out the door together.
I gave her a sideways smile. “A triple scoop of burnt almond fudge, chocolate, and vanilla …”
“… in a sugar cone,” she finished my sentence for me and grinned.
“My treat,” I said.
“You always treat, Ed,” she said, giving my arm a friendly slug.
“You’re right, I do.”
Wendy Duncan is possibly the only human being I know who likes ice cream more than I do, which is one of the things that makes it so fun to buy it for her. In fact, we like a lot of the same things—baseball, science fiction novels, old movies, breakfast at George’s Cafe. You get the idea.
After getting our cones, we sat down on the strip of grass in front of Reel Life Video and looked at the evening sky while licking ice cream. The moon was high and bright.
“Sometimes when I really miss my brother,” Wendy said, “I step out onto our front porch and wonder if he’s looking at the moon, too. Thinking about him doing the exact same thing I’m doing makes it feel like he’s not so far away after all.”
Wendy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Alo, irmão Ben,” she called to the moon. “That means, ‘Hello, Brother Ben,’ in case you’re interested.” Wendy’s brother, Ben, is on a mission in Brazil.
“When I was a little boy my mother told me I could make wishes on a star,” I told her. “But I liked the moon better because it was way bigger, so I always made my wishes on the moon.”
“Moonlight, moon bright, the first moon I see tonight,” Wendy laughed. “So what do you wish for on the moon tonight, Ed?”
“Nothing,” I told her. “I happen to know from personal experience that wishing on the moon doesn’t work.”
Actually, this is only partially true. Wishing doesn’t work, it’s true, but I do it anyway. And what I wished for that night as I sat in front of Reel Life Video eating ice cream with Wendy was that my life wouldn’t be so ordinary and boring.
What I wished for was excitement.
Wendy and I were busy shelving videos when someone tapped me lightly on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Do you work here?”
“Yes, I work here,” I answered politely as I tucked Ivanhoe back on the shelf. Then I turned to discover, standing there, the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my life.
Okay. Here are some adjectives to help you get the picture. Tall. Brown hair. Tan. Blue-eyed. Smooth-skinned. Gorgeous. You look at her and think she’s so much higher up on the food chain than you are that the two of you don’t even belong to the same species.
For the record, this is the kind of girl who is never interested in guys wearing red cummerbunds.
She flashed me a dazzling smile (her teeth, in case you’re interested, were white and even, not unlike pearls). Then, looking at my name tag, she said, “You’re Sergio. What a cool name!”
My heart began to pound beneath my frilly shirt. Here it was. My big chance to stop being ordinary, to stop being boring.
“Yes, indeed,” I said, barely believing what was coming out of my mouth. “My name is Sergio. Sergio Mendez.”
Wendy looked at me in pure disbelief, then crossed her eyes.
Sergio Mendez? Now where had that come from? Somehow it was a name with a vaguely familiar ring.
“Wow!” the amazingly beautiful girl said, and I could tell she was interested, really interested. In me! “Sergio Mendez. Are you from somewhere else? I mean besides Salt Lake City?”
Wendy was watching me now with a great deal of interest.
“Yes,” I blurted out. This is not technically the truth since I was born in Salt Lake City and have lived in Salt Lake my whole life. It’s just that I would have been from someplace else if I’d had the chance. “I’m from Brazil originally.” I even faked a little bit of an accent when I said this.
Wendy began to choke, and the beautiful girl shot her a look of real concern. “Are you okay?”
Wendy nodded, causing the beautiful girl to smile kindly at her as she spoke. “Isn’t that cool he’s from Brazil, but he speaks English like a native.”
“Like a native,” Wendy agreed. “He probably speaks Brazilian like a native, too.”
Brazilian?
Wendy’s little joke did not register with the beautiful girl who forged ahead. “I’d love to go to Brazil. Wouldn’t you?” she asked Wendy, who nodded truthfully.
The beautiful girl wrapped her beautiful arms around herself and sighed dreamily. “I’ve never been anywhere, really. Just being here in Salt Lake City this summer is such a huge deal for me. And I love it here. Honest! I love the way you can walk outside at night and see lights everywhere. It feels like there are a whole bunch of people all around you doing really interesting things.”
“Where are you from?”
The girl gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Well, I’m for sure not from Brazil. I come from Fountain Green. You’ve probably never even heard of it. It’s a little town way down in Sanpete County. I’m staying here for the summer with my Aunt Mary, who’s a student at the University of Utah. She got me a job waitressing at the same place she works. By the way, my name’s Liesel.”
“And I’m Wendy.”
Liesel grabbed Wendy’s hand and shook it. I could tell that Wendy was surprised. I mean who shakes hands when they’re 16? Surprised or not, however, Wendy was softening.
“Wendy and Sergio,” Liesel gave a happy little laugh. “You’re my new friends in Salt Lake City.”
Marv the Manager, who absolutely cannot stand it when his employees look like they’re having fun, joined us. “Are these two helping you find everything you need?” he asked Liesel.
Liesel linked her arms through mine and Wendy’s. “They were just going to show me where I can find The Sound of Music. My mom named me after one of the characters, you know.” She winked at Marv. He did a little backwards stagger as though he’d just been kissed. It was easy to see that Marv was totally smitten. Just like the rest of us.
There was a little surprise waiting for me in the parking lot when I got off work. Liesel and another girl, who was a few years older, were sitting in a truck. Liesel waved and smiled when she saw me, then elbowed the girl next to her. I walked over to say hello. Or make that “alo.”
“This is the boy I was telling you about, Mary,” she said. “Sergio Mendez. Sergio, this is my Aunt Mary, the one I’m living with this summer.”
“Sergio Mendez?” the aunt repeated, looking me up and down. I started to feel nervous. What if she thought I was—you know—a phony?
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I said in my best Eagle Scout voice.
“Pleased to meet you, too, Sergio,” Liesel’s aunt said through the pickup window. She had a little smile on her face. I wasn’t sure it was a friendly smile, to tell you the truth, but then again it was hard to tell in the dark.
“Can you teach me some words, Sergio?” Liesel said. Then she lowered her beautiful voice to a whisper. “By the way, I know you speak Portuguese. Not Brazilian. I went along with Wendy when she said that because I didn’t want her to feel stupid. She’s really sweet, Sergio.”
“Right,” I said. A strange, uncomfortable feeling shot through me. Whatever the feeling was, it didn’t stop me from calling Sweet Wendy the next day. “You have to help me learn some Portuguese quick.”
“You’re crazy, Ed. Oh, excuse me. Senhor Sergio Mendez.” Wendy did a very obnoxious accent. “Talk about lame. My father still has his old Sergio Mendez and Brazil 66 albums from when he was in high school.”
No wonder my new name had sounded familiar to me. I used to be a rock star back in the late ’60s. I prayed that neither Liesel nor her Aunt Mary had recognized the name.
“Didn’t Ben teach you any words besides ‘Alo’?” I pressed on, ignoring Wendy’s wisecracks.
“Well,” Wendy sounded reluctant, “I can say the days of the week.”
“The days of the week are good. I can just stand there and say Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday over and over again in Portuguese, and Liesel won’t know the difference.”
“Ed …” Wendy paused.
“Well?”
“Ed, my first impulse is to hate girls that look like Liesel because—well, because I don’t look like them. But Liesel seems really nice. And innocent. And maybe even a little lonely.” Wendy stopped.
“So what’s your point?” I said, playing really stupid. The feeling from last night returned, although this time I came closer to recognizing it for what it was.
“My point, Ed,” Wendy pressed on, “is that you’re tricking her. She’s going to feel bad if she finds out.”
“Who says she’s going to find out?”
Wendy snorted.
“Please, Wendy,” I pleaded. “This is my chance to—to be somebody different. Somebody who is not ordinary, boring Ed McIff.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized how totally pathetic they were. And also how true.
“Okay, fine,” she snapped. “Sunday is domingo. Monday is segunda-feira. Tuesday is terca-feira …”
You know that feeling I had while talking to Liesel and Mary? Well, I’m pretty sure it was guilt.
Liesel returned the next day, looking as fresh as flowers in the morning. Her Aunt Mary was with her, and so was another guy who looked like he spent his lunch hours in the gym every day.
“Hi, Sergio,” Liesel said with a sunny grin. “I brought you a surprise today. Mary’s friend, Rick!”
Just what I always wanted for a surprise. A guy with big muscles.
“Rick went on his mission to Brazil, and Mary thought it might make you happy to have somebody to talk to in your own language again,” Liesel said, her face alive with kindness and concern.
“Como vai?” Rick smiled and crushed my hand, although in fairness I think he only meant to shake it.
My stomach dropped like a loose elevator. I opened my mouth to answer him. “Domingo, segunda-feira, terca-feira.”
Rick looked at me closely. “Que?”
I repeated myself, “Domingo, segunda-feira.”
Rick didn’t say anything, but I could see from his expression that he realized what was going on. Just my luck.
Liesel giggled, “Hey, what are you guys saying to each other?”
“Not much,” I said truthfully.
“Mary, show Liesel that movie we were looking at the other night and ask her if she wants to check it out,” Rick said. Liesel gave me a smile then hurried down the aisle after her aunt.
“Okay,” Elder Rick whispered to me, his face close to mine. “I’m giving you a choice: either you come clean with her, or I’ll do it for you. Okay, Sergio?”
I swallowed and nodded, fear and shame coursing through my veins like salmon swimming upstream. I looked over at Wendy. Her face was unintelligible.
Mary, Liesel, and Rick returned with an armful of videos which I checked out for them. Liesel was chattering away happily, but I only heard part of what she said because I was so distracted.
“Ah, Liesel,” I said, as they turned to go. “Could I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”
Rick looked over Mary and Liesel’s heads and gave me a little smile that was actually friendly. “We’ll wait for you in the truck, Liesel,” he said, then left with Mary.
Liesel gave me a sidelong glance while smiling and shuffling her feet a little bit. She was acting like a girl who knows you’re going to ask her to dance.
I cleared my throat. “I owe you an apology. I … I lied to you. My name isn’t Sergio. It’s Ed McIff. I’ve never been to Brazil.”
The smile faded slowly from Liesel’s lips as my words sank in.
“The only reason I wear this name tag is because my manager hasn’t made me a new one yet,” I went on.
Liesel looked straight at me for a long time, then said, “You must think I’m pretty stupid, huh?”
“No!” I said. “I don’t think you’re stupid at all!”
“Then why did you lie to me?”
I hadn’t let myself think about how Liesel would feel if she found out I was lying. But now I could see that she was hurt, maybe even a little humiliated, which made me feel like the complete jerk I’d been. “I don’t think you’re stupid at all. I was just trying to impress you. I was trying to be somebody I’m not to get your attention.”
“But how do you know I wouldn’t have liked Ed McIff?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You misjudged me, Ed,” Liesel said softly. “It’s too bad, too. We could have been friends this summer.”
She gave me one last look out of those huge blue eyes, picked up her videos, and walked out of the door. And out of my life.
Wendy let out a low whistle. “Wow.”
Just then, Marv the Manager came scuttling up the aisle like a crab toward me. “I got something for you here.” He dropped a plastic name tag in front of me.
I removed my old name tag and put on the new one.
Wendy looked at it and smiled. “Welcome back, Ed. Somebody from Brazil named Sergio has been inhabiting your body. It’s been kind of spooky.”
In spite of the fact I was feeling like dirt, I had to smile.
“He was pretty cute,” Wendy went on, “but he was such a liar. I like you a lot better.”
“Really?” I said, “Why?”
“Because you buy me ice cream and because you make me laugh,” said Wendy. “Be yourself from now on, Ed. Okay? It’s less confusing that way.” She chucked a video at me. “Now go shelve this.”
I snagged it on the fly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Wendy smiled, and it occurred to me what great eyes she has. I gave the video a little flip, then caught it again.
So that’s it. My story about last summer when I learned to be true by suffering the consequences of playing false. The summer I was Sergio.

Jeanne serves as a Young Women adviser. Several months ago she learned about an upcoming activity for the youth in the ward: hiking to a place called Malan’s Peak. She was excited because she had recently set a goal to make that climb.

When she arrived at the trailhead, her good friend Ashley approached her. Linking arms with Jeanne, she offered to hike with her, saying, “I’ll go with you.” Ashley, who was 16 years old at the time, had some physical challenges that made it difficult for her to climb very fast. So she and Jeanne walked slowly, noticing Heavenly Father’s creations: the rocks on the mountain peak above them and the flowers all around them. Jeanne later said, “It really didn’t take me long to forget about my goal of hiking to the peak, for it soon became an adventure of another kind—an adventure to point out the beauties along the path, many of which I would have missed had I just hiked to reach the goal of Malan’s Peak.”

As Jeanne and Ashley continued hiking, far behind the rest of the group, they were joined by Emma, another young woman in the ward, who had decided to wait and walk with them. Emma added to their enjoyment. She taught them a song and provided extra support and encouragement. Jeanne recalled: “We sat and rested, we sang, we talked, and we laughed. I was able to get to know Ashley and Emma in a way I wouldn’t have been able to do otherwise. It wasn’t about the mountain that night—it was about much, much more. It was about helping each other along the path, one step at a time.”

As Jeanne, Ashley, and Emma hiked and sang and rested and laughed together, they probably weren’t thinking, “Hey, we are keeping our covenants right now.” But they were keeping their covenants. They were serving each other with love, compassion, and commitment. They were strengthening each other’s faith as they encouraged and ministered to one another.

When we observe the covenants we make at the altar of sacrifice, we discover hidden reservoirs of strength. I once said in exasperation to my wife, Marie, “The Lord placed Adam and Eve on the earth as full-grown people. Why couldn’t he have done that with this boy of ours, the one with the freckles and the unruly hair?” She replied, “The Lord gave us that child to make Christians out of us.”
One night Marie exhausted herself for hours encouraging that child to finish a school assignment to build his own diorama of a Native American village on a cookie sheet. It was a test no hireling would have endured. At first he fought her efforts, but by bedtime, I saw him lay “his” diorama proudly on a counter. He started for his bed, then turned around, raced back across the room, and hugged his mother, grinning with his fourth-grade teeth. Later I asked Marie in complete awe, “How did you do it?” She said, “I just made up my mind that I couldn’t leave him, no matter what.” Then she added, “I didn’t know I had it in me.” She discovered deep, internal wellsprings of compassion because the bonds of her covenants gave her strength to lay down her life for her sheep, even an hour at a time.

Soweto seminary students know the Lord helps them through the scriptures. Lucky Ndhiela knows his faith spared him a severe beating.
“One day our school teacher was very angry with our class,” says Lucky. “He said he had explained a science principle to us, and the other students said he had not. A still, small voice whispered in my ear, ‘You know it, Lucky—the teacher did teach us that.’
“So I raised my hand and said in front of the whole class, ‘You did teach us that.’ I felt so happy to say it.
“But the whole class shouted, ‘He did NOT!’ The teacher became very angry and started hitting them all, one by one. I sat near the back of the class, and while he was busy punishing the students in front, I bowed my head and began to pray.
“I remembered my scripture mastery, Proverbs 3:5–6 [Prov. 3:5–6], and said to myself, ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
“When the teacher came to my desk, his voice changed. His face changed. He said, ‘Lucky is praying to his God. I forgive him.’ He did not punish me, nor any others that day. That is how I know it is important to apply the scriptures in my life. My prayer was answered!”

Temple work featured in the “perfect day” for Ben and Carol. When Ben retired a couple of years ago, he and Carol accepted callings as temple workers. “The bishop’s assigned ‘perfect day’ happened to be one of the two days in the week that we serve in the temple.
“I serve as a supervisor at the temple, and I was really touched when, in a prayer meeting, the brother offering the prayer asked that the Lord watch over me, as supervisor, and bless me with a special day. He didn’t know about our ‘perfect day’ assignment, but his prayer was very meaningful to me.
“What a special place to be for a ‘perfect day.’ We were there in the Lord’s house, doing the Lord’s work, side by side with wonderful brothers and sisters, helping others on the road to the celestial kingdom.”

“Look, the baby is blind. It doesn’t have any eyes!” Incredulously the nurses crowded around to see the newborn infant just beginning to become pink after his journey into this world. Yes, it was true. The baby was blind. There were no eyes where eyes belonged. The mother, a beautiful nurse, and the father, a medical student, would have to be told. How would they react?
No, our Father doesn’t promise us immunity from trouble, and so it was with the mother and the blind baby. That child was accepted with love, cared for with kindness. The parents are more empathetic, more concerned, more Christlike because of their response to a heartrending problem.

As youth around the world make the effort to attend seminary, they’re receiving strength in much more than scripture study. Cameron Lisney of England found that he was blessed in all areas of his life. “Not only does seminary help with the spiritual side of things, but it also helps with school and education,” says Cameron.

He says that “an early start to the day gets your brain into gear. Some of my friends said they were too busy to attend—well, it’s not like you’re going to be reviewing math at 6:00 a.m., are you?” As you study, “the Lord will help you in your exams, and if you go to seminary, He will help you even more,” says Cameron.

Of course, seminary helped Cameron strengthen his testimony as well. He says, “The beginning of my testimony came from the seminary program. At the youthful age of 14, I was really struggling in the gospel. I did not enjoy church, and I got up to things that I shouldn’t have. It was only a matter of months before I would have given up entirely.” But when a friend invited Cameron to attend seminary, he decided to go with her. Then the blessings really began to come.

“I began to feel the Spirit again,” says Cameron. “I started paying more attention in church and attended my Sunday School and priesthood lessons. It became easier, and I started to feel happier. I finally gained a testimony of the gospel for myself.” After two months of seminary, Cameron met with his bishop and was ordained a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood.

Cameron knows that seminary helps him stand strong against the temptations of the world. “As seminary continued,” he says, “I found it easier to deal with the challenges that the world presents. It’s pretty tough being a youth in the world we live in—sin is surrounding us from all sides. I testify to you that if you attend seminary, you will find the strength to defend yourself against it. Seminary creates a spiritual shield to protect you. Many different trials and temptations have been thrown my way, and seminary has been such a huge help in keeping me on the strait and narrow.”

Friends. Why can’t we all be friends? Today I was walking about Winter Quarters with Mariah Jewett and Leticia Harwood. Oh, how I have wanted to be Mariah’s friend! She is pretty and clever, and she plans dances for which her father plays the fiddle. I love to dance. She promised to invite me to the next one.
While walking, we saw a family arrive in an overflowing open wagon. I love to see more Saints joining us. Tucked in among the household goods was a girl who looked to be about our age. “How exciting! Let’s go welcome her,” I said.
“Wait,” Mariah said. “Don’t go near her. She’s probably got vermin. Look at her dress. Did you ever see anything so ugly?”
I was anxious about the vermin, so I stared impolitely. Her dress wasn’t ugly, only very plain. Just then the girl saw us watching, and she smiled shyly. Was she feeling as I had felt when we finally joined the other Saints? Was she heartsick at losing friends, and hoping to find new ones?
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let’s go be friendly.”
“Hazel!” Mariah’s voice stopped me. “If you mingle with that riffraff, I shall be forced to exclude you from my list of associates.”
I am ashamed that I hesitated, thinking of having fun with Mariah at the dance. Then I remembered the great and spacious building in the Book of Mormon, and I knew where I wanted to be.
“So be it, Mariah,” I said, and I left her. Even in the midst of the Saints, life has trials.

About 11 o’clock we drove up to the home of Mons Andersen, and out came Sister Christine Andersen to bid us welcome and put her arms around us one by one and kiss the rest of them. When my turn came, that was something I was not used to, so I didn’t know what to do. For some reason I didn’t run away. A host of neighbor children and aged folks came around us and shook hands with us. I guess they bid us welcome, for I could not understand a word of English. The children were at Sunday School but soon arrived home. They also kissed us welcome, and by that time I was kind of getting used to it. But they surely made us feel at home.
There was another striking thing that helped me on my way toward investigation. It was just when lots of fruit was ripe, such as strawberries, gooseberries, and early apples. Those who have met Sister Andersen know what a loving disposition she had. She said, “Go out and help yourselves.” If it had not been for her loving way, I could barely have thought she meant it. But she surely did. It was something different to what it was in Norway. I was getting closer to joining the church.
Now I hadn’t had time to think of what to do to earn a living in a strange land with a strange language. On Friday morning, July 26, 1872, there came a man to the house of Mons Andersen who wanted a boy to help him in the field. His name was Peter Petersen. My wages were $8.00 a month. I worked with him 20 months. I must now tell a little that happened in that time. It was customary at that time that newcomers should be rebaptized. So Peter Petersen’s wife, Karen Larsen Petersen, told me, “There will be baptisms today. So you must hitch up the horses and take these people down to the mill pond to be baptized. And you must be baptized too.” I told her I would be glad to take them down, but I was not ready for baptism yet.
That coming winter I started to go to school so I could learn a little English. I had also gone with Mons Andersen’s boys to Sunday School. Eischa Pack was the teacher at that time. They were reading in turns out of the Bible; but when it came my turn to read, Brother Pack would read my verse, and there was not even a moment wasted. I was glad although I could not understand what they said. Yet I got to enjoying Sunday School. Sister Karen Larsen Petersen became sick and died on February 7, 1873, and that ended my schooling at that time. But I learned enough so I got into the Third Reader.
Now I had been studying the gospel and praying about it. I knew Jesus’s answer to Nicodemus as we find recorded in the third chapter of John: “Except a man is born of water and of the Spirit he cannot enter into the kingdom of Heaven.” [John 3:5] So on August 30, 1873, I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by Mons Andersen and confirmed by Abraham Lossee in Lehi.

Some years ago, as president of the New England Mission, I left Fredericton, New Brunswick. It was 40 degrees below zero. As the plane taxied away from that small terminal, I saw two young elders standing outside, waving good-bye. I thought, “Foolish boys. Why do they not go inside where it’s warm?”
Suddenly there came over me a powerful prompting, a revelation: There in these two ordinary young missionaries stands the priesthood of Almighty God. I leaned back, content to leave the missionary work for that entire province of Canada in their hands. It was a lesson I have never forgotten.

Nearly every week I attend a stake conference somewhere in the world, so I am not able to attend the Gospel Doctrine class in my ward where the Book of Mormon is being taught this year. It really pained me to miss this privilege of catching the spirit of this very sacred other testament that Jesus is the Christ. So my wife and I set a goal to study the Book of Mormon at home. We determined to finish the 1984 course of study for the Gospel Doctrine class before this April general conference. We began in January; and on Monday, March 12, we finished the last of the forty-six lessons of the Book of Mormon course. It really felt good to accomplish this goal.

Although I acted as if I didn’t care, I really did want to win. After all, the opportunity to be the high school Homecoming queen only comes around once in a lifetime. And, it seemed to me, this was my one and only chance to be considered royalty.
When my name was announced as one of the three nominees, I was surprised. I wasn’t a cheerleader, and I wasn’t dating the quarterback. I’d created my own niche in school—doing activities that weren’t necessarily in the spotlight.
This would be a crowning accomplishment to have in my high school years, I thought. Royalty, huh? I could get used to that title.
The winner would be announced at halftime of the Saturday afternoon football game. The day before the game, I was sitting in my seminary class. People around me were predicting who would be crowned queen. Still wearing my facade of apathy, I took a deep breath, reminding myself that I’d survive even if I didn’t win. And remember, I told myself, it doesn’t matter if I’m royalty or not.
My heart pulsing heavily, I looked up at the teacher, hoping to divert my attention from the Homecoming chatter. Behind him on the bulletin board hung the same Mormonad poster that had been on my bedroom wall for years.
“It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.”
My heart soared as I read again, but understood for the first time, how to look at life. Homecoming queen or not, I could concentrate on a more important thing—to be nice. If I did that, I would always be royalty in a more important, eternal sense.
Saturday came quickly, but halftime did not. The sun shone brightly on the brown October day, my 17th birthday. When the time approached, my dad escorted me to the field as the spectators watched us girls teeter out in our high heels. The announcer began, “We’d like to announce our Homecoming queen, …”
My mind wandered as I reminded myself of Friday’s realization. No matter how important or unimportant I might be, I could be royally nice to those with whom I came in contact. When I came back to reality, they were crowning the girl next to me as queen.
As I walked off the field, I smiled inside and out.
Although I’d missed my chance to be a high school queen, I hadn’t missed my opportunity to recognize my royal beginnings. We have a noble birthright, and that can’t be changed. I also realized that I should care whether I was royalty or not in a spiritual sense. Apathy has no place in our royal relationships with our Heavenly Father.
Unlike the Homecoming queen contest, it’s entirely up to us to accept the royal gifts and blessings our Father in Heaven offers to us. The Lord has crowned us all with eternal importance, and one way we can honor this noble birth is by treating others with the respect and consideration they deserve and letting that be more important to us than worldly honors.