Gospel Story Finder

Things were all set for a really fun weekend. My friend Tara and I had set up a girls-ask group date with some young men in our stake, and we were excited. A popular movie had just been released from theaters to DVD, and we were going to watch it all together at a friend’s house.
And then Nathan, my date, called.
“You know, Jennifer,” he said, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should do something else tonight.”
A panicky feeling gripped my chest. Was Nathan backing out of the date?
“Umm, what do you mean?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Well,” he continued, “I think that movie is just going to be watching hours of battles. Could we do something else instead?”
The panicky feeling left as I realized he was right. The movie, even though it was popular and didn’t have a bad rating, did have a lot of violence in it.
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “You got it.”
I called Tara, and we decided to have a board game night instead. It ended up being much more fun and social than staring at the TV for a couple of hours.
I feel so grateful that Nathan was willing to tell me how he really felt about the movie. His high standards were a great example to me and pushed my standards even higher. Since then, I’ve avoided a lot of other movies that, when I stop and think about it, aren’t very uplifting or fun, even if the rating isn’t that bad or if they’re really popular. I also never felt offended that Nathan didn’t like our original activity. That has given me the strength to speak up in situations when my standards are at stake. Nathan didn’t offend anyone by being honest about his feelings, and so I learned that, even if some people do take offense, I shouldn’t worry about standing up for my values either.

As you pray to Heavenly Father in faith, “he will console you in your afflictions, … [and ye may] feast upon his love.” President Henry B. Eyring shared that his father’s prayers during a losing battle with cancer taught him the deeply personal relationship between God and His children:
“When the pain became intense, we found him in the morning on his knees by the bed. He had been too weak to get back into bed. He told us he had been praying to ask his Heavenly Father why he had to suffer so much when he had always tried to be good. He said a kindly answer came: ‘God needs brave sons.’
“And so he soldiered on to the end, trusting that God loved him, listened to him, and would lift him up. He was blessed to have known early and to never forget that a loving God is as close as a prayer.”

There is another little sign in President Kimball’s office. This one reads: “Don’t quit.” We are all going to have hardships and setbacks. But Heavenly Father will not give us a hardship that we cannot overcome. Behind many Olympic champions are stories of incredible hardships that had to be overcome. Just this past summer, many of us had the opportunity to see an American win his country’s first gold medal in Greco-Roman wrestling. We saw this big guy crying tears of joy as he stood on that victory stand. Just two years before, he had undergone a serious operation for a rare form of cancer. He never gave up. Now he is an Olympic champion.

The Christmas I remember best happened when I was 12 years old. It all started one evening about a month before Christmas. The room had fallen totally silent. We all stood staring at Father, our jaws dropped in shock.
Just moments before, my three brothers and I had been wrestling with our two big dogs. My mother had watched, smiling, from the nearby kitchen table. But now, even her hands had gone perfectly still, stopping in midair as she sewed buttons back on a blue Scout uniform.
“What do you mean ‘No presents this year’?” my 16-year-old brother Mick asked slowly.
“Just what I said,” Father answered calmly. He sat down across the table from Mother. “Christmas has become all about ‘things.’ We worry too much about what we’re getting, how many presents are under the tree. Your mother and I have always taught you children the real reason we celebrate Christmas.”
“It’s Jesus’ birthday!” I piped up.
Father nodded. “That’s right, Nellie. But even though we all know the story of baby Jesus and can recite Luke chapter 2 by heart, I just feel that our home doesn’t have the right spirit in it during the holiday season. I think that if we forget about buying presents and really concentrate on the true meaning of Christmas, we’ll be more in tune with Jesus Christ and His gospel.”
“But, Dad,” I said, “we’ve always talked about how giving each other presents at Christmas is symbolic of Heavenly Father giving Jesus Christ to the world. Isn’t that true?”
Father considered this. “You’re right, Nellie. OK, let’s do this. No gift given in this family may be store-bought. Whatever you give each other must come from you,” he put his hand on his chest, “from inside you. You figure it out.” He got up and left the room.
“This is going to be the worst Christmas ever,” I thought.
“Is he serious?” Tyler asked Mother.
“He sure sounded like it.” She had already resumed her uniform mending.
“No presents …” Mick seemed in a daze.
Neil, my eight-year-old brother, looked like he was going to cry.
“So, what are we supposed to give each other?” I asked.
“Well, you all have about a month to ‘figure it out,’ as your father said,” Mother replied. She stood up with the finished shirt and left the room, humming a Christmas song.
Over the next four weeks, our house slowly filled with the Christmas spirit. We were all very secretive about what we were planning for everyone else, and we were excited about what we were giving. I never even thought about what I was getting.
Christmas morning dawned, chilly and white outside. For the first time since they had become teenagers, Mick and Tyler were the first ones up.
“Come on! Come on—get up!” They ran from room to room, waking up the rest of us.
Mother laughed. “I can’t believe you two. This alone has made my Christmas!”
Right after family prayers, the gift-giving started. What a wonderful, spirit-filled morning! We exchanged original poetry and songs. Neil had made “I’ll-do-you-a-favor” coupons for everyone. Mother had made copies of black-and-white photos of both sets of grandparents and framed them by hand for each of us.
All the gifts were truly given with love. But the one I remember the most was the one my father gave to me.
He handed me a plastic bag. Inside, I could see a slightly browned paper folded in thirds. All eyes were on me as I took the paper out and unfolded it. I gasped. It was the letter Father’s mother had written to him when he was 14 years old and she was dying of cancer. Her name was Nell, and I’m named after her. I had heard about this letter but had never seen it. I knew how precious it was to my father. And now he was giving it to me.
I started to read. The faith and spiritual strength of my grandmother radiated from her words. I read the six-page letter over and over again. The love she expressed for my father made me cry. The part that touched me the most was when she talked about leaving her family to join the Church:
I shared the letter with my brothers so that they could know Grandma, too. We’ve all grown up now, served missions, and been married in the temple. Every now and then, I pull out my father’s letter and read it again. Ever since my father gave it to me that Christmas long ago, it has been a source of strength for me. And I know, without a doubt, that my grandmother kept her promise to my father and has always been “right there beside” us.

I emphasize the word shared. My introduction to the board of trustees came as I left the faculty at Stanford to be the president of Ricks College. I attended my first board meeting soon thereafter. My work at Stanford and elsewhere had exposed me to the ways boards of directors and groups of people in business made decisions. But nothing I had seen prepared me for what I saw in that meeting.

President Harold B. Lee, also one of the authors of our foundation documents, was serving as chair. I have now forgotten the issue, but the discussion was lively. I had never seen such frankness without rancor before, but neither had I seen people listen to each other as carefully. In a few minutes, what had seemed to me widely divergent views began to move—I thought so rapidly as to be miraculous—toward a consensus. Just as I began to think I had seen an example of joint revelation beyond what I thought possible among strong leaders, I was surprised by a statement from the chair, President Lee. He said something like this: “I sense that there is someone here still not settled on this matter. I suggest that we hold it for further thought. We can discuss it again in a later meeting.” President Lee had seen or felt, I don’t know which, that there was not yet complete unity. And so an important matter was held off.

That story is not about one day but represents a pattern. Not only does the board of trustees give consistent direction, based on a deep understanding of universities as they have been and of this one as it is, but it gives direction out of unity far beyond a product of counting votes and far above a process of coalition bargaining.

Fast forward . . . I had graduated from BYU-Hawaii and was taking time off from school to earn money to go onto graduate school. I was working three jobs, but arranged to work after my meetings on Sundays. One day my father shared a story of soccer star in Tahiti, Erroll Bennett. “Errol was planning on joining the church, but there was one problem, all the soccer games were on Sundays and he knew by joining the church he would need to keep the Sabbath holy”. (4) He was famous and one of the brilliant soccer player in Tahiti. Although he was passionate about soccer it was more important to him to follow the Savior.

Errol made his decision, not to play on Sunday and to be baptized. To his surprise just a few days later the League made a change in the rules, that his club would not play any Sunday games instead games would be played during the week. (5) I thought, “Wow, that pretty amazing, but I’m no one important, if I told my boss that I could not work on Sunday, he would probably tell me to go find another job.” A few months went by, but that story stayed with me. I finally realized that it was not enough to only make my Sunday meetings, it was about embracing the Sabbath fully and keeping the commandments.

I came to the conclusion that I needed to trust the Lord and stop my Sunday job. The day came and I went into tell my boss that I was giving my two week resignation notice. He asked me why. I told him that I was grateful that they had arranged my work schedule around my church meetings, but it was important that I not work on Sundays. Then he asked me, “Could you work another day during the week if you have Sunday off?” A bit surprised by his question, I said, “Sure!” Then he asked, “Is that all?” I replied, “Yes.” He then said, “Okay, you have Sundays off. Your schedule will be adjusted.” I left the office stunned, but elated. I could not believe the outcome. I trusted in the Lord and “Wow!” It really was not that hard.

While teaching at BYU in 1978, Brother Dennis Rasmussen applied and was selected to study at the Jewish Theological Seminary of America. In the opening session, as he gave his name and university, Rabbi Muffs boomed, “You’re the Mormon! … Do you pay your tithing?” “Yes,” he answered. “Do you pay it with a joyful heart?” “I believe,” the rabbi said, “that joy is the essence of religion. There is nothing more fundamental to religious living than joy. … I am working on a book about joy.” Brother Rasmussen responded, “There’s a passage in the Book of Mormon that you might like. It says, ‘Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy.’” Rabbi Muffs was profoundly touched and exclaimed, “I’ve found the text I’ve searched for all my life … in the Book of Mormon.” Turning to Brother Rasmussen he said, “Say it again, but not so fast.” As he repeated the familiar words, the rabbi’s eyes glowed in appreciation of this great truth he understood but had not heard so succinctly expressed.

“I beat you,” Ed said triumphantly as he pulled the last head of broomcorn on his row with a quick snap of his wrist. Then he set it upright on the ground, leaning it against the stalk.
“Just barely,” I replied. “I only have three more to do.”
“I can see Frank and Georgie coming too. We’re getting pretty fast. That’s eight rows apiece this morning. Jake’s the fastest boy I know, and he can only do nine.”
“He hires out, too, doesn’t he?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“Why don’t we? We do good work and could use some money.”
“You’re right about that, but who’d hire us?”
“Lots of people.”
“I’m not so sure. We don’t stack the same as everyone else, so some people might not hire us.”
“Our way is best, though. Papa says if the brooms are piled standing up like we do it, any rain will run off without hurting them. But if they’re lying flat on the ground, the moisture doesn’t dry between them and they get moldy and rot.”
“Papa is right about lots of things that other folks don’t like to believe. They’ve been stacking corn the wrong way for a hundred years and wouldn’t change for anything.”
“Do you remember the time we had the late frost and Papa knew it was coming, so he didn’t plant early like everyone else did?” I asked.
“Yeah, I remember. Their crops froze and ours didn’t.”
“He tried to warn them, but they wouldn’t listen.”
“How does he know when it’s going to freeze?”
“I wish I knew. Maybe Heavenly Father tells him,” I suggested.
“Maybe so,” Ed agreed thoughtfully. “I can’t figure it out any other way.”
Frank and Georgie finished their rows, and we all started back to the house for lunch.
“How’d you guys like to earn some money?” Ed asked the boys.
“How?” Frank wanted to know.
“Pulling corn. We’re all getting pretty fast now.”
“I would,” Georgie said. “Then we could go to the circus.”
The circus! I hadn’t thought about that. I couldn’t believe it might be possible to go to the circus. My heart began pounding.
“Who could we work for?” Frank asked.
“How about Mr. Clarke?” Georgie suggested. “He’s always been real nice to us.”
“You’re right!” Ed exclaimed. “He’s just the one.”
“Let’s ask Papa when we get home,” I suggested.
“No, let’s see if we can get the job first and surprise him. Tomorrow, while Papa’s in town getting his wagon fixed, we can go over and see Mr. Clarke.”
“I want to see the lion tamer most,” Frank said.
“Not me,” Georgie countered. “I’m going to watch the clowns.”
I wanted to see the beautiful lady in the fancy dress, standing pointy-toed on the back of a running horse with her long hair flying behind her. I’d seen a circus poster at the Piggly Wiggly Market.
“C’mon, let’s hurry,” Ed said, and we ran the last few steps to the house.
The next day after Papa had left for town, five of us started out in the direction of our field. Helen had coaxed to come along too.
“Break her in easy,” Mama said. “When she gets tired send her home.”
At the end of the lane we turned off toward Clarke’s and arrived just as he was coming out from breakfast. When he saw us he said, “Well, now, what can I do for you folks?”
“We wondered if you needed someone to pull your corn,” Ed said.
“Think you could do it? None of you is very big.”
“But we can work hard,” Frank insisted.
“And fast,” Georgie added.
“And we pile it the good way,” I said.
“How’s that?” Mr. Clarke wanted to know.
“Standing up,” Ed said and explained why that was best.
Mr. Clarke nodded. “Makes sense, all right.”
“Try us out,” Ed bargained. “We’ll work till noon, and if you’re not satisfied, you don’t have to pay us. We don’t charge for Helen. She’s just learning.”
“Fair enough,” Mr. Clarke said and led us to the field he wanted us to start on.
When Papa came home that night, Ed pulled our wages from his pocket and put them on the table.
“Where’d you get that money?” Papa asked.
“Working for Mr. Clarke,” Ed replied.
“Pulling corn?” asked Papa.
“Yep. He wants us back tomorrow. He’s paying us twenty cents a row.”
“How many of you went?” Papa wanted to know.
“Me, Dora, Georgie, Frank, and Helen,” Ed replied.
“Helen, too?”
“She helped some.”
“But my arms got tired and Ed let me come home,” Helen explained.
Papa reached down to give her a hug. “Good girl,” he said. “I’m proud of all of you. Go ahead and help Mr. Clarke. I can finish our crop. We’ll all have to work fast to get done before the storm gets here.”
“What storm?” Ed asked.
“The one that’s coming before too long.”
“How can you tell?” I wanted to know.
“I can just feel it,” Papa answered.
The golden harvest weather held all week, and we worked from dawn until dark every day. By Friday night the flat corn heads were all pulled and stacked in the fields. Mama had been cooking all day for a picnic, and we could hardly wait for morning to come.
Before daylight, Papa climbed the ladder to our barn loft. “You’d all better get up,” he said. “I need lots of help today.”
“But you promised we could have a picnic, Papa.”
“Can’t help it,” Papa said. “We’ve got to get the corn in. A humdinger of a storm is on the way. Dora, I want you to come with me to warn the neighbors. Ed, you go hitch up the wagon and take Frank and George over to Clarke’s. Use his wagon, too, and after his crop is in come back and start on ours.”
There was a tone in Papa’s voice I’d never heard before. It sent shivers down my back. I dressed as fast as I could and hurried the boys along. We gulped down the breakfast Mama had waiting and flew out the door just as the sun peeked over the sand hills.
“There’re no clouds, Papa,” Ed said.
“They’re coming,” Papa declared. “Now get going!”
The boys ran toward the barn. I jumped on the horse that was waiting for me, and Papa and I rode off to warn the neighbors that a big storm was on the way.
“You’re crazy,” Mr. Cooper told Papa. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“Not yet,” Papa said, “but there will be.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Mr. Cooper said and closed the door. We jumped on our horses and rode to Mr. Younger’s store. He could help us spread the word.
“Doesn’t look to me like any storm is coming,” he drawled as he gazed up at the cloudless sky.
“You’re right,” Papa agreed. “But mark my word, it’ll be here before nightfall, and it’s a big one.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
And this was the answer everywhere we went. Papa finally decided that it wasn’t any use to warn the people, so we went on home to help the boys. “The price of corn will be sky-high this year,” he said, “and we can’t afford to leave it in the field.”
We worked like demons and were piling on the last wagonload when the wind came up and nearly tipped it over.
“Head for home!” Papa shouted.
We all jumped on the wagon and by the time we pulled into the barn, hail was peppering the ground and beating everything flat. It was the worst storm I can remember. Some of the hailstones were the size of eggs. What the hail didn’t flatten the wind did. The broomcorn crop was a total loss that year except for the few fields that were brought in as a result of our warning.
Papa was right about the price. We made a big profit that year, and the other farmers were sorry they hadn’t listened to him.

As young missionaries in the missionary training center in Brazil, we had a day assigned to go, as companionships, into the streets of São Paulo to invite people to hear the missionary lessons. After a few hours we came back to the MTC and held a testimony meeting.
Many spoke of promptings they received to go to a specific street or approach a certain person. These experiences sounded marvelous to me. However, because I had no similar experience, I felt that perhaps I was not good enough, or prepared enough, to be a missionary.
Feeling discouraged, I sought help from MTC leadership. They helped me understand that God is willing to give us instructions through the Holy Ghost, and while my experience may not be the same as those of others, I still needed to qualify for the Spirit’s direction. Just like a radio that needs to be tuned to a specific station, or a smartphone that needs to be connected to the internet, we must be both in tune and connected in order to receive what the Holy Ghost communicates to us.
At the MTC, I learned that I needed to be ready to receive whatever the Lord wanted to send me, in His time and His way. I learned that interference can cause us to be so distracted that we will not be able to identify when the Lord is talking to us or to listen carefully to the message He would have us hear.

When I was a young seminary teacher, one of my students approached me about her assignment to prepare a devotional for the class. She said she wanted to bring her married sister to class with a newborn daughter and have her sing a song about the child. I agreed.
On the day of the devotional, her sister announced the number, and my student accompanied her on the piano. Standing in front of the class, the young mother held her daughter in her arms and, looking at her, began to sing of her love for her daughter and her desire for her child to realize her potential as a child of God.
All the students were touched by what they saw and heard. It was a heavenly scene. I cannot talk about it today without having tender feelings surface.

1. Cory and his family entering the meetinghouse where Cory will be confirmed a member of the Church.
2. Inside, Cory sits with his family and friends.
3. After the babies are blessed the confirmations will take place.
4. When Cory’s name is called he and his father go to the front of the congregation where Cory sits down in a chair. Cory’s father and friends stand in a circle around him.
5. They place their hands upon Cory’s head while his father, who holds the Melchizedek Priesthood, calls Cory by name, confirms him a member of the Church, gives him the gift of the Holy Ghost, and a blessing.
6. After the prayer has been given, the men in the circle shake Cory’s hand and congratulate him.

One morning several years ago I was driving with my family to Disney World in Florida. Our four young daughters were excited as we approached the turnoff to that famous park. The laughter and happy chatter stopped suddenly, however, as our rented station wagon sputtered and chugged to an unexpected stop on the exit ramp. Many cars sped by us in the rush-hour traffic as I tried to get the car running again. Finally, realizing there was nothing more we could do, we got out of the stalled car and huddled together off the road for a word of prayer.
As we looked up from our prayer, we saw a smiling, handsome man and his son maneuver their bright red sports car through the lanes of traffic and pull off the road beside us. For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon these men cared for our needs in many kind and helpful ways. They took us to the park. They helped me locate a tow truck; they drove me to the rental agency to get a replacement vehicle. They bought refreshments for my family and waited with them until I returned several hours later.
We felt that these men were truly an answer to our prayer, and we told them so as we thanked them. The father responded, “Every morning I tell the good Lord that if there is anyone in need of help today, please guide me to them.”

Since becoming a young bishop in Fukuoka, Japan, many years ago, Elder Kazuhiko Yamashita has learned from the good examples and attitudes of his senior leaders.
Soon after Elder Yamashita married his wife, Tazuko Tashiro, they moved from Tokyo to Fukuoka, where Elder Yamashita was called as a bishop when he was in his late 20s.
“That was hard for me and my family,” Elder Yamashita says. “We had three young children at the time and were new to the area—but it was also a very good teaching and learning experience for me, and my testimony and faith got stronger.
“Of course I had hard times, because my family was young and I didn’t have much experience as a Church leader beforehand,” Elder Yamashita says. “My senior leaders were good examples and taught me many lessons through their attitude and behavior.”

Cambodia has gone through many tragic civil wars. I was born right after the conflicts ended. Life was difficult and food was scarce as my parents struggled to raise eight children. At times, I wondered what my future could possibly hold under such conditions.
In1998, my life changed when I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was baptized one year before finishing high school. Lacking the financial means to attend college, I chose to serve a full-time mission. While serving, my spiritual eyes were opened. I came to understand God’s eternal plan for His children and how I could prepare to establish an eternal family of my own.
The spiritual truths of the restored gospel allowed me to know that one day I would marry in the temple and be sealed to my wife and children forever. I pictured us going to church together, singing hymns together, studying the gospel together, and one day sending my children on missions and then seeing them start their own families sealed in holy temples. What a beautiful vision I had for our family. I hope everyone has this kind of vision.
My dream began to be fulfilled in 2005, when I was sealed to a lovely woman in the Hong Kong China Temple. Since then, the eternal path has become clearer. The Lord has blessed us with five energetic sons.

Kinsey watched through the car window as soggy brown hills zoomed past. Patches of snow clung to the ground. Tiny green leaves dotted the barren trees, not quite ready for spring.
“Why does the drive to Grandma’s house take so long?” Kinsey complained.
“Just a few more minutes,” Dad said.
“Why don’t you play a game?” Mom suggested.
“I already played the alphabet game and the license-plate game,” Kinsey said. “I colored pictures in my notebook and made paper animals. I’m bored!”
Kinsey pressed her nose against the car window. She glanced at her little brother, Taylor, asleep in his car seat. Even though she was bored, Kinsey was too excited to sleep. She hadn’t seen Grandma in so long. Grandma would have new books for her to read. They would gather at Aunt Michelle’s house for a family dinner with all the cousins. Most of all, Kinsey looked forward to a whole weekend of spending time with Grandma.
“Oh! It’s already started,” Mom said as she turned on the radio.
A clear, calm voice came from the speakers. Kinsey sat a little taller. She closed her eyes and tried to think. Where had she heard that voice before? Suddenly, she remembered.
“I know that voice!” she said with a smile. “It’s the prophet!”
Kinsey loved the prophet’s voice. It was strong and peaceful and kind. When the prophet spoke, it felt as if he were talking right to her. She listened closely to his words.
The prophet announced new temples being built in faraway parts of the world. Kinsey thought about all the people who would now be closer to a beautiful temple.
The prophet talked about missionaries. Kinsey remembered the letters they wrote in Primary for an older couple from their ward serving a mission in Slovenia.
The prophet talked about being kind to others. Kinsey thought about how she had been trying hard to be kind to her brother, even when he grabbed her toys or scribbled with her markers.
Finally, the prophet talked about families. Kinsey thought about how much she loved visiting her family at general conference time.
“We’re here!” Dad announced.
Kinsey looked out the window. How did they get to Grandma’s so fast?
“Let’s hurry inside so we don’t miss any more of conference,” Mom said.
Kinsey ran up the steps and rang the doorbell to Grandma’s house. The drive hadn’t been boring after all!

Laura sat down next to him. “I have an idea—have you ever been in the country, like to a lake in the summer?”
Thomas felt about for a tissue, then blew his nose. “I don’t … know what the country’s like here. I’ve seen little ponds in the parks, though. Why?”
“Well, do you think you’d like to go for a pretend walk with me. I know a super little path at the lake we go to in the summer, and since your eyes are already closed, it might be pretty easy for you to see in your mind the things I’ll describe. What do you say?”
Thomas sniffed again and leaned back. “I guess I could give it a go. Do you really want to bother?”
“Sure. I’ll close my eyes too. I’d love to take a summer walk myself right about now.” She leaned back against the sofa and tightly shut her eyes. “Ready?”
“Go for it!”
“This part may be a bit hard, but I think we’ll just make you the main character, even though I was the real one,” Laura began. “It’s real early. You’re on a small cot inside a one-room log cabin. You open your eyes and see your mom pushing sticks of wood into the stove top, then plunking the heavy metal cover over the hole. ‘Breakfast in ten minutes,’ she says. You jump out of bed onto the wooden floor, splash a bit of cold water on your face, and jump into shorts and a T-shirt.
“After a quick breakfast of cereal and cold juice, you run out onto the front porch and look down to the lake. It’s a wonderful, sunny, clear morning. The air is humming with insects, and the blue water has just a slight ripple from the breeze. The grass feels pleasantly damp under your feet as you run down to the lake and dip your fingers into the water. A very small frog jumps away and hides in the reeds growing close to the shore.
“A young boy in blue swim trunks runs up to you. He’s crying. You ask him what the matter is, and he says he’s been playing with a cat all week. It’s come around every day and spent all day with him, but it hasn’t come for two days now, and he’s afraid something has happened to it.”
“I do say I’ll help, don’t I?” Thomas broke in.
Laura smiled to herself. “Of course you do. You put your arm around his shoulders and ask where the cat usually can be found. He tells you that it likes to wander in the woods and around the boathouse. You take his hand and start down the trail along the water’s edge toward the creaky old dock, where the rowboats are tied. The sun is very hot now, and you grab a long tassel of grass, slip it from its stalk, and put it between your teeth.
“The boy takes you to the boathouse entrance, and you both go in. It’s dark and cool. Old boats with their white paint peeling are leaning against the walls. You notice a small stain on the floor in the corner. The boy sees it too. ‘It’s blood, isn’t it?’ he says. You say it might be—it’s the right color and is fairly fresh.”
“I bet the poor chappy is even more worried now,” said Thomas. “Actually I guess I am, too, aren’t I?”
“Yes. Before you’d thought there wasn’t really a problem, but now you’re not so sure. You take his hand again and start down the path into the woods. The path gets narrow, and the ferns brush against your legs. In some places you have to push the brambles away, and one snags your arm, leaving a nasty scratch.”
“But I don’t let it bother me, do I, Laura?”
“Of course not; you’re much too concerned with the boy and the lost cat. When you see an old building off the trail and up on a hill, you push through the underbrush to get to it. It looks like it had been some kind of storage place. There’s no door on the rusted hinges, so you can see inside.
“Because of the woods, it’s really dark inside. The boy calls out, ‘Here Muffin,’ and a low mew is heard from a corner. He rushes over. ‘Look,’ he cries, ‘she’s not hurt at all!’ And sure enough, there lies a cat with four tiny kittens snuggled against her. Off to the side you see a dead mouse she must have caught at the boathouse and brought here to eat before the births. ‘That mouse explains the stain,’ you say.”
“I’ll be bound the lad is really happy,” Thomas prodded.
Laura opened her eyes and saw him leaning back on the pillows, a smile on his face. “You bet,” she said, “for it turns out that the guy who runs the boathouse owns the cat. He promises the boy one of the kittens when it’s big enough, and asks you if you want one.”
“What do I say?” Thomas asked, turning eagerly toward Laura.
“Actually,” Laura answered with a little laugh, “you, or rather I, said, ‘sure,’ and Mom said it was OK, so now I have a super little gray kitten named Smoky. I could bring him over if you’d like me to.”

Eleven-year-old Pedro sat quietly on the front steps of his apartment building. It was a warm summer day in Santiago. His father, a city bus driver, had left hours ago for work and would soon be home for lunch. Pedro’s mother was busily preparing arroz con pollo (chicken with rice) in the kitchen. Its aroma floating from the open window made him hungry.
He felt the warm breeze on his cheeks and watched it dance across the long grass that separated his home from the post office. Then he saw them, the two young women with white blouses and dark skirts who came this way every Monday. One resembled him with wiry dark hair and soft brown eyes. The other, blond and freckled, was obviously a North American. Mormons, he thought.
He remembered visiting his cousin Carlos on the coast a few summers ago. When the Mormons had come, his aunt invited them in to give their message.
Pedro had felt his heart burn as the young men told the story of Joseph Smith. They opened a blue book. They said that the book was called the Book of Mormon and that it told of Jesus’ coming to America. Then one of them read a promise from the book: God would tell them it was true, if they would just read it and ask Him about it.
Pedro and Carlos exchanged excited glances. Jesus had come to America! Pedro was eager to read this book. Would the missionaries offer them a Book of Mormon? They did!
“No, thank you.”
Pedro stared in disbelief at his uncle, whose words nearly choked the warmth in his heart. Carlos hung his head.
The missionaries smiled politely and, thanking them, rose from their chairs.
Pedro felt tears coming as he watched the missionaries walk away. He couldn’t let them go—he wanted so much to read the book! Feeling as though he would burst, he jumped up and ran outside. “Wait!” He caught up with the missionaries at the gate. “Please don’t leave!”
Both of them smiled, but Pedro could tell that they were sad. The tall one stooped down and spoke softly. “What is your name?”
“Pedro.”
“Well, Pedro, remember what we taught you. Pray to Father in Heaven, and be a good son. Your time will come.”
Pedro watched sorrowfully as they walked away.
Now, remembering, his eyes began to sting again. He did what the missionaries had told him. He prayed every day to Heavenly Father. And he obeyed his parents. When would his time come?
A shadow fell across the grass in front of him. Surprised, he looked up at the two young women with friendly eyes. He noticed the tags on their blouses—Hermana (Sister) Sanchez and Hermana Cartwright—and, in a canvas bag Hermana Sanchez carried, he saw the blue book.
“Buenos días (good morning),” Hermana Cartwright said, smiling. “We noticed you on our way to the post office, and we felt that we should talk to you.”
“Are your parents home?” asked Hermana Sanchez.
“Sí! (yes)” Pedro cried. He quickly opened the door and called to his mother. The missionaries were right. His prayers were answered. His time had come at last. He turned back to the sisters and smiled. “You don’t know how long I have waited!”

Later as a missionary in Argentina, I observed a married couple in one of my areas who were filled with the love of Christ. Every time I saw the two of them together, they radiated goodness. I could sense how much they cared not only for each other but also for seemingly everyone they met. I felt their sincerity toward me each time we talked. I wanted to spend more time in their presence because of the love of Christ that exuded from them.

Examples like these two couples have blessed my life. They have helped me see how I can strengthen my own future marriage and family.

I grew up in a dry country. It seemed to me that hardly ever was there enough rain to last through the crop-growing period to carry us through the season—not enough water to distribute between the many hungry canals and the tens of thousands of thirsty hectares, not enough to irrigate all the crops.

We learned to pray for rain—we always prayed for rain.

When I was still very small, I knew that plants could not survive in dry country more than about two or three weeks without water. I knew how to harness up the old mare to a lizard (a forked log on which a barrel was placed) and I drove the animal to the Union Canal, which was a block below our home. With a bucket I scooped up water from the small stream or the puddles and filled the barrel, and the horse dragged it back so I could pour bucketsful of precious liquid on the roses, the violets, and other flowers, and the small shrubs and hedges and new trees. Water was like liquid gold, so reservoirs became an important part of my life.

I grew up on a farm in Washington State, where my parents raised kids and cattle. I was the youngest in our large family, and at 14 I was busy trying to balance chores at home with my budding social schedule.
Each day after school it was my responsibility to feed and count all 60 head of cattle to make sure that each was safe. To a 14-year-old girl, this was a tedious chore, so I avoided counting them. In the winter it wasn’t as dangerous because none of the cattle were calving, but when the spring hit, it was critical that the pregnant heifers that had never given birth were each watched carefully. But I was too busy worrying about my hair and braces to be bothered about a few cows.
I clearly remember the day I was pulled out of school and rushed home to help. One of our young heifers, my very own actually, had been in labor for three days, hidden in the woods, suffering with no food, no water, and no help. The unborn calf had perished days before, and the cow had been unable to birth it. So, with the help of a vet, my father and I had to remove it from her.
When I pulled up in the truck and saw my father standing there, I was sure he would be angry with me. He had told me thousands of times to count the cattle, always asking if they were all there and all safe. But I was too busy to listen. I was too busy with things I thought were more important, like basketball practice. Or I would wait too long and feed them in the dark, making it impossible to count the herd. At the time, my own things really did seem more important. I didn’t understand; I didn’t have the big picture yet.
When I looked at that poor animal suffering from starvation, crippled and ruined, never again to bear a calf, I knew my father had been right. I had chosen not to listen to his simple instructions, and the consequences affected far more than my own life. I spent the next two months nursing the animal back to health, working her through the paralysis, and doing my best to repair the damage I had caused.
My father? He loved me. He put his arms around me and knew that I would never do it again. He knew that I had learned the lesson the hard way, but it was learned. If only I had listened. It was my own laziness, my own selfish insistence on my personal comfort that had kept me from following my dad’s simple instructions that would have saved a life.