Gospel Story Finder

It was late August. There were no clouds, only a white-hot sun in a colorless sky. Elder Rowan and his companion walked out of the sun into the shade of a maple tree. The leaves on the tree were curled in from the heat and wilted. It was hot in the shade. He ran his hand along his moist neck. They were close to the coast, and the air was humid. The heat seemed to press down on him. He opened a black folder and read:
247 Lincoln St.
Mrs. Demart
placed one Book of Mormon
Aug. 23rd.
He looked at the numbers on the house, 247 Lincoln Street.
“This is it.”
Elder Anderson nodded. “It’s your door.”
He rang the bell and waited. Elder Anderson straightened his tie. A tall, dark haired woman answered and Elder Rowan smiled.
“Good afternoon.”
The woman smiled politely. “Yes?”
“I’m Elder Rowan and this is Elder Anderson,” he said. “We talked to you about a week ago.”
“Oh yes. I remember. You loaned me a book.”
She turned and disappeared into the room and returned carrying a Book of Mormon.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to read in it.”
She handed the book to Elder Rowan.
Elder Rowan felt his throat tighten and cleared it. He ran his thumb along the edge of the book. How many times had this happened in the last six months? How can I get her, get any of the people in this town, to understand? he thought.
“This book tells of a visit the Savior made to the people of ancient America,” he said.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t read it. I’m just not interested. I have my own religion.” She smiled and closed the door.
At least she’s honest about it, he thought. Many people take the book without ever intending to read it and either throw it away or leave it untouched in some bookcase.
“Well, that’s the last referral.” He looked at Elder Anderson and then at his watch. “Let’s go back to the apartment.”
Elder Anderson looked down at his watch. “We can still get in an hour of door contacting.”
“It’s too hot now,” Elder Rowan answered. “Maybe when it cools off.”
Elder Anderson was silent for a long moment. “Okay,” he said.
The apartment was hot, cooler than being outside but still hot. Elder Rowan sank back into a chair. Elder Anderson took a pitcher of cold water from the refrigerator and stirred in some frozen lemonade. He poured the lemonade into two glasses and handed Elder Rowan one.
“We’ve got to keep trying,” he said.
Elder Rowan nodded. “Maybe, when it gets cooler.”
It seemed hopeless. For the last six months they had knocked on nearly every door in the town with no success, nothing, not even a good discussion. Elder Rowan loosened his tie. He felt empty. He had always dreamed of going on a mission, and now he was on it and nothing was happening.
Elder Anderson set his glass down. “I’ll go check the mail,” he said.
He disappeared into the hall and returned holding a white envelope. “It’s for you.”
Elder Rowan looked at it. It had the mission home letterhead stamped on it. He opened it. It was a transfer notice effective the next day.
“It’s a transfer notice,” he said and smiled.
“Where to?” Elder Anderson asked.
“North Lubeck.”
“That’s a good area. They do a lot of baptizing down there.”
Elder Rowan smiled again. “Yeah, I know.”
“You’ll want to say some good-byes tonight, I guess?”
Elder Rowan nodded.
“I’ll fix some sandwiches, and we can get started.”
Elder Anderson cracked eggs into a frying pan and spread mayonnaise on slices of bread. Elder Rowan sank back in the chair, putting his feet up, watching. The transfer was what he had wanted, but he still felt empty. The past six months, half a year of his life and one quarter of his mission, seemed to have been wasted. It wasn’t that he hadn’t worked hard, because he had. It was just that they had had no success.
“It’s ready,” Elder Anderson said, dropping a pickle on a plate with an egg sandwich.
The combination of the scrambled egg sandwich and sweet pickle and sour lemonade tasted good. Elder Rowan hadn’t realized how hungry he had been. He was eating the second half of his sandwich when someone knocked on the door. Elder Anderson opened it. A short, sun-browned man stood in the doorway holding a hat in both hands. His hands were large and bent and cracked with deep black lines. They were strong hands. The man smiled broadly, revealing an uneven row of teeth. His eyes sparkled.
“Do Elder Thompson and Elder Rowan live here?” he asked.
Elder Rowan stood.
“I’m Elder Rowan, and this is Elder Anderson,” he said. “Elder Thompson left several months ago. What can we do for you?”
The man smiled. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn book and held it up.
“I’m in charge of the city dump,” he said. “I found this here book on the edge of one of the piles. I don’t know why, but I started reading it.” The man hesitated and rubbed his mouth with his hand. “There’s something about it I can’t explain. I just got to find out more about it and about this Joseph Smith. I was wondering if maybe you could come and tell me and my family about it sometime or if maybe we could come down to your church or something?”
“When would you like us to come?” Elder Anderson asked.
“How about tomorrow night?”
Elder Anderson smiled. “That would be great.”
The man reached out and shook both of their hands.
“I’ve got to get home now,” he said. “I live at 290 Washington Street. What time will you come?”
“Is eight o’clock okay?”
“Yeah. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Elder Rowan and Elder Anderson stood staring at the door.
“Can you believe that?” Elder Anderson turned and looked at Elder Rowan.
“I kind of hate to leave,” Elder Rowan said. “But I think I understand now. When the pioneers crossed the plains they planted wheat along the trail that would be harvested the following year by other pioneers. Some of what we’ve planted here won’t be harvested for months or even years. I guess the important thing is just to do the work.”
He reached down and picked up a Book of Mormon.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I think we have time to knock on a few doors before it gets dark.”

Not long after that, things began to go terribly wrong. One night I was awakened by noises coming from another room. I got up to check and found Mum pacing the living room floor, her face a mask of pain. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and her hands were clenched so tightly at her sides that the nails bit into her flesh. When she found that she had been discovered, she sat down and buried her face in her hands, sobbing like an abandoned child.
I ran to her side, and held her to me. “Mum, what’s wrong?” I asked anxiously. I hated to see her like this. It seemed as though her sobs came from the deepest parts of her soul.
“Please, Brad, don’t tell your father you saw me like this,” she pleaded through her tears.
“What’s wrong?” I persisted.
Mum shook her head. “I wish I knew,” she said. “I’m aching all over. I can hardly stand it, Brad.”
I groped vainly for something comforting to say. Instead, I said, “How long has this been going on?”
“Three or four days,” she answered, sinking back into the couch. “The pain starts in my head and works its way down into my arms. It feels like it’s inside the bone.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, and Mum began to relax a bit. The agony was beginning to ease.
After that, I would lie awake at night, straining my ears for sounds of movement in the darkness. Sometimes I would hear the door creak as my mother crept outside to suffer in the privacy of the backyard. She had insisted that I say nothing to my father, so I let it bottle up inside me until it almost drove me crazy.
But it wasn’t long before Dad found out the truth for himself. Mum would become exhausted for no reason, and she would fly off the handle at any little thing. Explosive anger was foreign to Mum’s personality. Dad worried about this strange behaviour, but when he questioned it, Mum shrugged it off. Finally, when she quit eating and started losing weight, Dad practically had to drag her to the doctor.
That first visit to the hospital became a prison sentence for my mother. Nurses took a series of blood tests, which finally led to several minutes of sheer torture—a bone marrow biopsy. Soon a diagnosis was reached.
Dad sat with Mum, whispering words of encouragement as she lay hurt and weak on the sterile white of the hospital bed. A doctor entered the room. One look at his face told my parents that the news wasn’t good.
“We have the results of the tests,” he began. Dad couldn’t stop the question from coming out. “Is she going to be all right, doctor?” he asked.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Mr. Davis, your wife is suffering from acute myelocytic leukemia.”
Mum caught her breath. “What exactly is that?” she interrupted.
The doctor explained as best he could, using a lot of big words that we didn’t understand. But one thing was very clear—Mum’s condition was serious.
After that things really changed in the Davis household. Mum couldn’t do much in the way of housework, so we all had to pitch in and do our bit. Jason and I weren’t very skilled at washing and ironing, but worse than that was the constant worry and anxiety that we felt for our mother. She really suffered—more than anyone I had ever known. A series of drugs were prescribed for her to take at home, and every week she faced a trip to the haematology clinic for more tests and injections. The results were brutal, but she bore these things well.
The doctors really did do their best. But their best wasn’t good enough. They just couldn’t get the cancer to go into remission. Finally, a lung infection put Mum into the hospital for round-the-clock medical attention. Dad, who couldn’t bear to see her suffer alone, had a bunk set up so that he could be constantly by her side.
Now, we all sat in a little waiting room on a scorching November afternoon, waiting for the doctor’s verdict. When would the surgery end? Would our mother be all right? I guess we must have sat there for an hour or so before the surgeon finally made an appearance. He was a small man with a balding head and a grey moustache. Entering the room, he paused, studying the floor. My father stood up. “Doctor Wilson?” he said tensely. For a while, nobody made a sound. Then doctor Wilson spoke.
“We tried,” he began. I could see that this was a hard speech for him to make. “We couldn’t save her.”
There was stunned silence for a moment. Then Bronwyn burst into a flood of grief. My whole world had just fallen apart. I felt a bitter anger welling up from the deepest recesses of my soul. I had prayed desperately that my mother would be cured, but God had done nothing. Why? A gentle breeze danced in through the open window, played briefly in the corners of the room, then left the way it had come, carrying with it my faith in God.
The funeral was held on Tuesday morning. I didn’t go. I couldn’t stand to see them put her into the cold earth. Besides, I had been to LDS funerals before. Always they were so cheerful and positive, telling us to have faith in God and that things would be fine with the departed loved one. I wasn’t sure I even believed in God anymore. I went fishing in an effort to forget the pain I was feeling.
I arrived home as the sun was sinking in the evening sky. My fishing expedition had been a failure, and I badly wanted to speak to my father. Jason and Bronwyn were solemnly seated in the living room, but Dad was nowhere to be found. I went to look for him in the yard.
When I was a little boy, I had a pet dog called Bunyip. He was my best friend. We were inseparable. But one day Bunyip was bitten by a snake and died. I was shattered, and there was nothing my parents could do to console me. So my father went into one of the fields and painted a huge smiling face on a large granite boulder. He called it the Happy Rock. After that, whenever I felt sad, I would go to the Happy Rock, and my sorrows seemed to magically vanish.
It was here that I found my father, perched atop the boulder, its great, smiling face showing the strains of time. He looked pathetically vulnerable as he sat, gazing sadly at the retreating sunset. I quietly announced my presence. For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then a wistful smile briefly crossed his sun-browned face.
“I guess the old rock has lost its magic,” he said. Then, for the first time in my life, I saw my father cry. Again I felt bitterness within. How could the Lord give us a Christmas gift like this?
Weeks passed and I quit going to church. There was nothing there for me. A few people visited, encouraging me to go back, but I wouldn’t listen. How could I ever feel comfortable in church again?
One day I got a call from Sister Robinson, the Relief Society president. “Oh Brad, I’m so glad you’re home,” she said. I immediately felt my defences go up. If this was something to do with church, she could forget it.
“Yes, Sister Robinson, what can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s like this,” she began. “I’m supposed to be at the hospital tomorrow to read to some of the children, but I won’t be able to make it. I was wondering if maybe you could go in my place.”
“Gee, I don’t know,” I started to object.
Sister Robinson cut in: “Brad, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I don’t know who else to ask.”
I finally agreed to go because I didn’t know how to refuse her. Putting down the phone, I wandered into the living room. With four days left before Christmas, it looked as if the Christmas spirit had passed right over our place. There were no decorations, no trees, no Christmas cards. Instead we had sympathy cards lined up along the mantelpiece. If my Christmas was to be miserable, at least I could try to take some of the Yuletide cheer to some little kids in hospital.
At the hospital the next day, I was assigned to a frail little girl named Marcie. They told me she was nine years old. She looked about four. She was hooked up to some kind of machine which kept her alive, yet she smiled as if she hadn’t a care in the world. I felt awkward, dressed in my robes of self-pity, while she lay upon her deathbed as cheerful as spring sunshine. We visited for a while. As we talked, I marvelled at her wisdom and perspective. I didn’t know what was wrong with her—I didn’t have the heart to ask. She knew that she probably wouldn’t see her tenth birthday, yet she wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t bitter.
I surveyed the pile of books at her bedside. There were many to choose from. “What would you like me to read to you?” I asked.
She pointed to a worn copy of the Easter story. “That one,” she said.
I picked it up. “Honey, you don’t want to hear this. It’s Christmas,” I told her.
“No,” she repeated, “I want to hear that one. It’s my favorite.”
So, during the hot Christmas season, I read of the sufferings of Christ to a little girl who loved God. When I finished, she was staring into my eyes with a look that pierced my soul. Placing her tiny hand into mine, she said, “I have lots of pain, but never as much as Jesus had. When I’m really hurting and I’m all alone, I speak to the Lord because he knows how I feel. He loves me.”
I hurried home that afternoon because there was someone I wanted to speak to. When I got back to the farm, the first place I headed for was the Happy Rock. It was out of sight of the house and was an ideal spot for what I was about to do. Dropping to my knees, I opened my mouth to pray, but nothing came out. My heart was thumping. Finally, in desperation, I cried out, “Oh God, where are you?”
From a million miles away, deep within my own mind, I heard the glorious tones of an orchestra. The music grew louder, until it crashed over my being like a wave from the ocean. Then, as clearly as any spoken voice, I heard the words of a favorite carol: “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: ‘God is not dead, nor doth he sleep . …’”

Let me share an experience that happened about ten years ago.

My wife, Janet, and I were living in Pennsylvania. Things were going pretty well. I had been promoted, and it was a good year for us as a family. But it was a trying year for Janet personally. That year she had our fourth child, graduated from college, passed the exam to become a certified public accountant, and was called to be the ward Relief Society president. We had temple recommends, and we held family home evening. I was serving in the bishopric.

Then one night, something happened to my wife that I can describe only as “dying spiritually.” She wouldn’t talk about it or tell me what was wrong. For me, that was the worst part. For a couple of weeks she did not wish to participate in spiritual things, and she asked to be released from her callings.

Finally, after about two weeks, it came out. She said, “All right. You want to know what’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t get up at 5:30 in the morning and bake bread and sew clothes and help my kids with their homework and do my own homework and do my Relief Society work and get my genealogy done and go to the parent-teacher meetings at school and write to the missionaries.” And she named off one burden after another that had been laid on her.

Then she listed her flaws and imperfections. She said, “I don’t have the talent that Sister Morrell has. I can’t do what Sister Childs does. I try not to yell at the kids, but I lose control and yell at them anyway. I’ve just finally admitted that I’m not perfect and that I’m not ever going to be perfect. I’m not going to make it to the celestial kingdom, and I can’t pretend that I am. So I’ve given up. Why break my back trying to do what I can’t?”

Well, we started to talk, and it was a long night. I asked her, “Janet, do you have a testimony?”

She said, “Of course I do! That’s what’s so terrible. I know it’s true. I just can’t do it.”

“Have you kept the covenants you made when you were baptized?”

She said, “I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I cannot keep all the commandments all the time.”

Then I rejoiced because I knew that her problem wasn’t any of those horrible things I had thought it might be. It is possible to be an active member of the Church, to have a testimony of its truthfulness, to hold leadership positions—and still to lose track of the “good news” at the gospel’s core. This is what had happened to Janet. She was trying to save herself. She knew why Jesus is an adviser and a teacher. She knew why he is an example, the head of the Church, our Elder Brother, and even God. She knew all of that, but she did not understand why he is called the Savior.

As my wife and I talked about her feeling of inadequacy and her feeling that she couldn’t make it, I recalled something that had happened in our family just a couple of months earlier. We call it the parable of the bicycle.

As Janet and I discussed how it worked, she finally understood. I remember her saying through her tears, “I’ve always believed he is the Son of God. I have always believed that he suffered and died for me. But now I realize that he can save me from myself, from my sins, from my weakness, inadequacy, and lack of talent.”

A week or two later we met a man while street contacting who agreed to an appointment. We set a time, and he gave us his address in Bückeburg, a picturesque little town several miles from our assigned city of Minden but still in our area.
It was winter, and on the Sunday morning of our appointment, we mounted our bicycles and pedaled the entire distance, bucking a strong, cold headwind. Cold and panting, we pressed the doorbell on the man’s apartment building, and he buzzed the door open. We climbed the stairs to his apartment, and he let us in. Immediately we recognized a contentious spirit in the room—the same spirit we had felt a few weeks earlier in the home of the minister.
Our host did not invite us to sit down. Instead, he left the room for a moment. He returned carrying several editions of the Bible, dropped them on the table, and said in a very loud and defiant voice, “So you want to talk [religion], do you?” Then, pointing to the window, he bellowed, “Good, but first throw your Book of Mormon in the Weser [River]!”
A couple of weeks had passed since our experience with the minister, and I was now able to say a sentence or two in German. I attempted to do so. Once again, my senior companion simply bore a strong, quiet testimony of the Book of Mormon and politely thanked the man for his time. Then we excused ourselves and rode back to Minden, this time with the wind at our backs.

Eliza felt like she had butterflies in her stomach as she stood outside the school gym. She had spent the last month getting ready to try out for the school volleyball team. And today was finally the tryout!
She took a deep breath as she pushed open the gym door. Don’t be nervous, she told herself. Don’t be nervous!
Eliza might not be the best player, but she’d been practicing every day with her sister. She’d improved a lot!
“Eliza!” her friend Jada called from the other side of the gym. “Want to practice with me?”
They found a volleyball and passed it back and forth to each other. It helped Eliza feel a bit better. I can do this! she thought.
When the coach finally arrived, Eliza and Jada joined the other girls in the center of the gym. The coach welcomed them, and then tryouts began!
First they did some warm-ups. Then they split into teams and practiced hitting the ball to each other. They ended with a game of volleyball. Eliza felt good when she earned her team a point.
Two hours later, Eliza was back home and exhausted. She fell on the couch, ready to rest.
“How did it go?” Mom asked.
“I think it went OK,” Eliza said. She still felt a little nervous. “There was one girl who was really good. She’ll be on the team for sure!”
“When do you find out if you made it?” Mom asked.
“Tomorrow after school. They’ll have a list in the gym.”
Eliza could hardly wait for tomorrow! After dinner, she went straight to bed. In 19 hours I’ll know if I made the team! She knew it was going to be a long night.
As soon as school was over the next day, Eliza hurried to the gym. There it was! The list of girls who made the team was hanging on the wall. Lots of girls were crowded around it.
Eliza rushed over to the list and read it quickly. Then she read it again and felt her stomach drop. Her name wasn’t there! The girl who was really good made the team. Jada also made the team. A lot of her other friends made it too.
But I wasn’t good enough, she thought.
After going home and telling Mom her news, Eliza hid in her bedroom for the rest of the day. She didn’t want to see anyone.
She had just decided to stay in her room forever when she smelled something. It smelled so good! Eliza tried to focus on the book she was reading, but it was too hard. What was that smell? It was something familiar …
Eliza couldn’t ignore it any longer. She sneaked into the kitchen to investigate.
Key lime pie! That was her favorite dessert!
“Why are we having pie?” Eliza asked her dad.
“It’s not just a pie,” Dad said. “It’s a try pie.”
“What?”
“It’s for you. We’re going to celebrate your tryout.”
Eliza’s stomach dropped. “Didn’t Mom tell you? I didn’t make the team. I failed.”
“Part of learning new things means not always succeeding. That can be scary. But the important thing is you still tried. We think that’s worth celebrating!”
“Really?” Eliza asked.
“Really!” Dad said.
That night, Eliza and her family ate the pie. Eliza piled lots of whipped cream on her slice. It was delicious!
“Thanks for the pie,” Eliza said, with her mouth full.
“You’re welcome,” Mom said. “We’re proud of you for trying something hard!”

Except for a few cries from toddlers, everything was quiet. I stared forward and waited for the sacrament tray to make it to the end of the row so that I could pass it to the next row. I wondered how long it would take before it would reach me and I could continue on with my duty.
As I waited, a thought my priesthood leader had shared came to my mind: “During the sacrament you should be thinking about the Savior,” he had said.
I tried to follow his advice, but my thoughts soon switched to something that had recently happened to me. Giving up, I passed the tray to the next row and began waiting and wondering again.
Then I heard a soft voice behind me. I listened and realized that it was a girl speaking to her little brother. The girl said, “Do you know what the bread and the water mean?” The brother answered, “No.” They were silent for a moment. Then I heard, “They represent the body and blood of Christ.”
Immediately after she said that, my heart filled with the Spirit, and my thoughts didn’t drift anymore from the meaning of the sacrament. I will never forget that small reminder from a young girl and her brother.

A teenage girl sitting under the chairs. The rest of the story: When I was a teenager, one of the girls my age always sat under her chair in class. This young sister had grown up in many foster-care homes and only felt safe in an enclosed area. Since then, I have recognized that we cannot expect students to learn when they are in ?ght, ?ight, or freeze mode. Students must feel safe if they are to learn and, most importantly, feel the love of the Savior.

It must be difficult living in a place where one of life’s greatest temptations is going to the beach on Sunday. “Sunday always has the perfect beach weather,” says Tami Ting Mei Lim of Honolulu, Hawaii, “but I want to be in church.”
Tami loves her home state and takes advantage of every opportunity to spread the gospel across it. She once spent two hours driving through the busy streets of Honolulu telling her captive driving instructor about the gospel. “I was surprised about the interest he took in hearing about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon,” she said.
Tami also takes advantage of opportunities to keep her state beautiful. She’s constantly involved in community cleanup projects. Her experience in church and school leadership positions helps her with this. All this, and an avid interest in violin and piano music? No wonder it’s tempting to think of relaxing at the beach.

When our son was four years old, he would frequently ask me to sing “Master, the Tempest Is Raging” (Hymns, no. 105). His little eyes would shine during the chorus when the Lord commands the winds and the waves to be still. He would ask me about Jesus’s power. I would answer that Jesus can do anything in righteousness because He has all power. The Savior was our son’s hero.
But when our son was 13 years old, he went into a deep depression. He no longer had any desire to speak or even to eat. He lost interest in his former activities, and he especially did not want to participate in family prayers or family home evenings. He seemed to no longer have an interest in church or the gospel.
The rest of our family prayed and fasted often for him, as did many brothers and sisters from our ward and stake and many of our friends and relatives. Our efforts felt like Alma the Elder’s experience of praying for his son (see Mosiah 27:14, 22–23).
When our son was 13 years old, he went into a deep depression and no longer wanted to participate in family prayer or family home evening.
We did not want to force the gospel on our son, so we told him that he did not have to participate in our family prayers or family home evenings but that we would like him to be there with us. As we followed the Savior’s words to “pray in your families unto the Father … that your … children may be blessed” (3 Nephi 18:21), both our family prayers and our family home evenings became more powerful. We felt the Spirit in our home. And though our son was silent, he was there.
Little by little over the next two years, we saw that our prayers and family home evenings were having an influence on our son. During one family home evening, he bore testimony of the Savior and then asked if he could prepare a family home evening. He began to participate in family prayers and to attend church happily. He experienced a mighty change of heart that came as he felt the redeeming love of the Savior (see Alma 5:26). The Lord, with His healing power, had truly saved our son.
He began to be happy and full of life once again, willing to help others and to show love. He told me he knew the Savior had healed him. Our son’s trials helped him forge a powerful testimony and an increase in love for and trust in the Savior. He served the Lord as a missionary in the Argentina Buenos Aires South Mission. After his return he married in the temple, and he and his wife have a wonderful daughter.

Illustrations by Alessia Girasole
“It’s scripture time!” Lila said.
Lila loved reading to her little sister, Ánika, and her baby brother, Svetan. Soon Lila would be getting baptized! To be ready, she wanted to read the scriptures every day.
Lila opened the scripture storybook to the first page. Ánika and Svetan snuggled close so they could see the pictures.
“Listen carefully because I’m going to ask you questions after,” Lila said. Then she started reading the first chapter.
“Before we were born, we lived in heaven,” Lila read. “We didn’t have bodies yet. We were spirits.”
Lila, Ánika, and Svetan looked at the pictures of people dressed in white.
“Ready for your first question?” Lila turned to Ánika. “Where did you come from before you were born?”
Ánika clapped her hands. “Heaven!”
“That’s right,” said Lila. “And where did Svetan come from?”
“He came from heaven too,” Ánika said. Svetan giggled and put his fist in his mouth. Lila and Ánika laughed. Svetan was the cutest one-year-old in Argentina!
“Our whole family came from heaven,” Lila said. “Jesus did too. He came to help us so we can live with Heavenly Father again.” Lila pointed to the picture of Jesus on the page.
After she finished reading, Lila kept thinking about what it must have been like to live with Jesus in heaven. She wanted to be like Him. She wanted to always choose the right!
The next day at school, Lila’s tummy rumbled as she waited in line for breakfast. She could almost taste the empanadas as Señora Ruiz slid them onto her plate. They smelled so good!
Then Señora Ruiz poured Lila a cup of milk. Uh oh, Lila thought. The milk looked darker than usual. Sometimes her school added coffee or tea to the drinks.
“Is there any coffee or tea in the milk today?” Lila asked.
Señora Ruiz waved her hand. “A little coffee,” she said. “You won’t even taste it.”
Lila thought for a moment. She remembered how she wanted to be like Jesus and choose the right. She knew drinking coffee was something the prophets said not to do.
“No, thanks. I won’t have milk today,” Lila said. She gave Señora Ruiz a smile. Then she sat down to eat.
That night, Lila helped Papi wash dishes in the kitchen. She was still thinking about the scripture story. She was thinking about the milk too.
“Papi?”
“Yes?” Papi said.
“Why did Heavenly Father want us to have bodies?”
Papi thought while he rinsed another plate. “Well, He gave us bodies so we could become like Him,” he said. “Your body is a home for your spirit. That’s what we mean when we say our bodies are temples.”
Lila nodded. She sang a song about that in Primary sometimes! “So that’s why Heavenly Father wants us to take care of our bodies?”
“Exactly,” Papi said.
“Today at school, they put some coffee in the milk,” Lila said. “I didn’t drink it, though. I’m trying to take care of my temple.”
“I’m proud of you,” Papi said. He dried his hands on a towel and gave Lila a hug.
Lila hugged Papi tight. She was happy to take care of the body Heavenly Father had given her.
The family in this story lives in Argentina. Turn to page 10 to learn more about their country.

My falling away from the Church was gradual. It began in the fifth grade, when I met some new friends. We used bad language and got into all the wrong things. Once junior high came around, we entered into all the wrong groups, and by high school, things started to get really bad.
I became really depressed. I was wearing more and more black and kept insisting on thickly layering dark eye makeup. To me, life became something just to get through and not to enjoy. My thoughts were often suicidal, and I had no confidence. I almost completely shelled up. I never really talked to anyone, never told people what was going on. I knew I was loved, but I just didn’t care.
I almost completely fell away from the Church. I say almost because I was never allowed to skip church, and my parents always expected me to take seminary during high school. But I wanted nothing more to do with the gospel or the LDS Church.
My family and loved ones saw this downward spiral, and they tried to help. I often spent time on Sundays in the bishop’s office, and just as many days trying to avoid the bishop. He showed a lot of support and interest in me, looking into the things I believed in so that he could better understand me. My parents kept trying to help, but they didn’t know what to do. There were times when my dad and I were near tears trying to talk about our differences.
During my sophomore year, I hit a turning point when a foreign exchange student from Japan came to live with us. She was a softball player, and she convinced me to play that year. That experience alone did a great deal of good for me. The coach helped me raise my self-esteem, and the experience of belonging to and working on a team gave me the blessed feeling of belonging somewhere.
That summer I went to Japan to stay with the family of our foreign exchange student for five weeks. During my stay, I went four weeks without going to church. Finally, in the very last week, we stopped by the Tokyo Japan Temple to take pictures. In a strange country where the language and customs were so foreign to me, it was the most comforting feeling to finally be in a familiar place. The Spirit there was so strong.
That Sunday we found a ward building, and I attended church. It was amazing to experience sacrament meeting and Sunday School in Japanese, but what hit me most was when I went to Young Women. Seeing those few Japanese girls rise and say the theme, I realized that the gospel was just as strong halfway across the world as it was at home. I knew that many of these members didn’t have the support from friends and family that I did, but they still believed. Again, I felt at home.
Shortly after I returned to Utah, my brother Richard came home from his mission. Rich noticed my struggles and made it apparent that we would be having a lot of talks. He got me to pray with him.
But what really hit home was seminary. My dad found out I wasn’t enrolled for my junior year and was surprised. It wasn’t long before I was called to meet with the seminary principal. It was very nonconfrontational; he just talked to me, conveyed friendship, and expressed concern that I wasn’t enrolled. Finally I agreed to take seminary. I met my teacher, went to class, and that was it. I never skipped and rarely begrudged going.
I’m not sure when the transition took place, but I started to feel comfort. I began to pray regularly again. It was really hard at first, but I stuck with it. I read my scriptures and knew that they spoke truth. Life began to look up. I had more energy, confidence, and ambition. I felt better about the new friends I began associating with. I tried out for plays, immersed myself in my artwork, and started singing again. I tried out for my school’s select choir group and made it. I was no longer the shy, introverted girl I had been for so long.
I was also called to serve on the seminary council, and that was when I knew that I would be okay. If someone had told me a year ago that I would be where I am now, I never would have believed it could happen. I’m a completely different person. And I’m grateful to my friends, family, and teachers, who gave me their love and patience. Their faith in me was the constant in my life that I could always fall back on in my darkest hours. And now I’m so grateful for the gospel. I feel it really has saved my life. If I hadn’t made the turnaround when I did, who knows how far off the path I would have gone. I’m grateful I’ve never had to find out.
The Church is true; I know that with all of my heart and mind. Heavenly Father loves His children, and Jesus Christ is our Savior. Having the restored gospel on earth is one of our greatest blessings, and I pray that someday all of God’s children will come to know the truth and feel the same gratitude and love for Him that I have in my heart.

The girls decided to use this experience as a Personal Progress project. Each girl sewed her own bonnet as part of the authentic pioneer costume for the festival. They practiced for hours to memorize the story they had chosen—the story of Fanny Fry, who traveled with the George Rowley handcart company in 1859.
Fanny was separated from her family and endured hardships while crossing the plains. One day she fainted and was run over by her handcart. Thinking she was dead, the sisters began preparing her for burial. The Iowa Beehives love to tell how surprised those good sisters were when Fanny opened her eyes. Despite her injuries, Fanny pressed on and was later reunited with her sister.

Youth from the Castro Valley Second Ward, San Leandro California Stake, were so inspired by the New Era article “Yagottawanna” (Feb. ‘92), that they decided to build a youth conference around it. It was a day-long affair, with speakers in members’ houses talking about each of the three topics: following through, choices, and avoiding pitfalls. The youth walked from house to house where the presentations were given.

At the end there was a barbecue and volleyball game, and each person received a T-shirt with the theme printed on it. They say they love wearing them, and the chance to explain to curious onlookers what “Yagottawanna” means.

September Roses, by Jeanette Winter. Based on a true story, this book tells about two sisters stranded in New York in the aftermath of September 11. The women, who are flying with thousands of roses for a flower show, land right after the Twin Towers are hit. A stranger offers them a place to stay. Wanting to repay this kindness, they take their flowers to Union Square and arrange them in the shape of the fallen towers.

There are a few hurdles along the way in seminary study—scripture tests for one. Even good students shy away from the dreaded “test.” An amusing incident occurred when the teacher had to leave a telephone message with her 11-year-old son, Jeffrey, for the seminary supervisor. Wanting to make sure the request for 21 copies of the scripture sheet for pretesting students would be given correctly, she asked Jeffrey to repeat back the message. He read, “Please send 21 copies of the scripture sheet for protesting students!” Despite the occasional need for tests, most lessons are aimed at stretching and unfolding the students’ knowledge. Many teaching moments have happened at the very instant they were needed most. Like the week two young ladies became angry with each other on the way to seminary. They sat down and the meeting began. Their faces were preoccupied and gloomy. The scripture discussed in Scripture Mastery seemed to apply to them. In Doctrine and Covenants 64:9–11 they learned about how to truly forgive. [D&C 64:9–11] By the end of the meeting both girls were back to normal.

When my Young Women adviser suggested I do a Laurel value project about my family, I immediately knew we needed a family reunion.
I soon found out that planning a reunion takes time, persistence, and some hard work. It doesn’t hurt to have help from family members either. Here are some ideas that worked for me:
* Select a date. Choose a date well in advance for better attendance.
* Choose a meeting place. Use parks, pavilions, gymnasiums, or even backyards.
* Decide on a menu. Make food assignments or go potluck.
* Send out invitations. Make a list of all the relatives. Leave no one out.
* Plan activities that everyone will enjoy. Plan for swimming, board games, and art projects, just to name a few.
* Include a memento or souvenir of the reunion for each participant. Some families have screen-printed T-shirts. Others offer door prizes. The prizes can be as simple or ambitious as photos, scrapbooks, or recipe books.
* Don’t forget to send thank-you notes. Be sure to thank everyone who helped you with the planning and preparation or who donated their time or talents.
My reunion was hard work but so satisfying. I realize now what family reunions are all about.

I wish you to know how much I’m thankful for this New Era magazine in watering the seed of the gospel to grow and be rooted in my heart.
I remember in the year 1978 being ten years old when two missionaries, laboring in love and understanding, patiently planted the seed of the gospel in our poor home. I was present at every discussion. I just sat observing them, because at that age I couldn’t fully comprehend their words. I hoped that through their actions I could better understand them.
I was baptized together with my family. True, I didn’t really understand why we were joining the Church, but as I went to church with my family I came to understand more and more.
The seed has grown, and yet at every turn there were temptations challenging me. I wondered whether I could truly follow all the commandments. Then one of the missionaries who taught us subscribed to the Church magazines for us. I then found the New Era which supplies my needs and helps me to stay close to the Church. It also gives me encouragement in such bitter trials, knowing that other members in other nations have overcome them. It strengthens my testimony.
So, Elder Hunter, wherever you are now, I would like to thank you for the New Era. Through this magazine you’ve truly helped to convert me. The Church is really true, and I am now preparing to serve a mission like my three brothers and sister.
Amor Q. YacapinCagayan de Oro City Philippines

The COVID-19 pandemic has been one of the many trials and challenges that God’s children have confronted throughout the history of the world. At the beginning of this year, my beloved family and I lived through some dark days. The pandemic and other causes brought death and pain to our family through the passing of some dear loved ones. Despite medical attention, fasting, and prayer, during the course of five weeks my brother Charly, my sister Susy, and my brother-in-law Jimmy crossed to the other side of the veil.
At times I have wondered why the Savior cried when He saw Mary anguished by the death of her brother, Lazarus, even though He knew that He had the power to raise Lazarus and that very soon He would use this power to rescue His friend from death. I am amazed by the Savior’s compassion and empathy for Mary; He understood the indescribable pain that Mary felt at the death of her brother, Lazarus.
We feel that same intense pain when we experience the temporary separation from our loved ones. The Savior has perfect compassion for us. He doesn’t fault us for our shortsightedness nor for being limited in visualizing our eternal journey. Rather, He has compassion for our sadness and suffering.
Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, want us to have joy. President Russell M. Nelson has taught: “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives. When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation, … we can feel joy regardless of what is happening?—or not happening?—in our lives.”
When I was a young missionary, I remember when a marvelous missionary that I had come to admire received some devastating news. His mother and his younger brother had passed away in a tragic accident. The mission president offered this elder the option to return home for the funeral. However, after speaking with his father on the phone, this missionary decided to stay and finish his mission.
A short time later, when we were serving in the same zone, my companion and I received an emergency call; some thieves had stolen the bicycle belonging to this same missionary and had injured him with a knife. He and his companion had to walk to the nearest hospital, where my companion and I met up with them. On the way to the hospital, I was grieving for this missionary. I imagined that his spirits would be low and that surely, after this traumatic experience, he would now want to return home.
However, when we arrived at the hospital, I saw this missionary lying in his bed, waiting to be taken into surgery—and he was smiling. I thought, “How could he be smiling at a time like this?” While he was recuperating in the hospital, he enthusiastically handed out pamphlets and copies of the Book of Mormon to the doctors, nurses, and other patients. Even with these trials, he did not want to go home. Rather, he served until the last day of his mission with faith, energy, strength, and enthusiasm.
At the beginning of the Book of Mormon, Nephi states, “Having seen many afflictions in the course of my days, nevertheless, having been highly favored of the Lord in all my days.”
I think of the many trials that Nephi experienced, many of which are included in his writing. His trials help us understand that we all have our dark days. One of these trials occurred when Nephi was commanded to return to Jerusalem to obtain the brass plates that Laban had in his possession. Some of Nephi’s brothers were men of little faith, and they even beat Nephi with a stick. Nephi experienced another trial when he broke his bow and could not obtain food for his family. Later, when Nephi was commanded to build a ship, his brothers mocked him and refused to help him. Despite these and many other trials during the course of his life, Nephi always recognized the goodness of God.
As his family was crossing the ocean on the way to the promised land, some of Nephi’s family “began to make themselves merry,” speak harshly, and forget that it was the Lord’s power that had preserved them. When Nephi chastised them, they became offended and bound him with cords so that he was unable to move. The Book of Mormon states that his brethren “did treat [him] with much harshness”; his wrists and ankles “were much swollen, and great was the soreness.” Nephi was grieved with the hardness of his brothers’ hearts and at times felt overcome with sorrow. “Nevertheless,” he declared, “I did look unto my God, and I did praise him all the day long; and I did not murmur against the Lord because of mine afflictions.”
My dear brothers and sisters, how do we react to our afflictions? Do we murmur before the Lord because of them? Or, like Nephi and my former missionary friend, do we feel thankful in word, thought, and deed because we are more focused on our blessings than on our problems?
Our Savior, Jesus Christ, gave us the example during His earthly ministry. In moments of difficulty and trial, there are few things that bring us greater peace and satisfaction than serving our fellow man. The book of Matthew recounts what happened when the Savior learned that His cousin John the Baptist had been beheaded by King Herod to please the daughter of Herodias:
“And his disciples came, and took up the body, and buried it, and went and told Jesus.
“When Jesus heard of it, he departed thence by ship into a desert place apart: and when the people had heard thereof, they followed him on foot out of the cities.
“And Jesus went forth, and saw a great multitude, and was moved with compassion toward them, and he healed their sick.
“And when it was evening, his disciples came to him, saying, This is a desert place, and the time is now past; send the multitude away, that they may go into the villages, and buy themselves victuals.
“But Jesus said unto them, They need not depart; give ye them to eat.”
Jesus Christ showed us that during times of trial and adversity, we can recognize the difficulties of others. Moved with compassion, we can reach out and lift them. And as we do so, we are also lifted by our Christlike service. President Gordon B. Hinckley stated: “The best antidote I know for worry is work. The best medicine for despair is service. The best cure for weariness is the challenge of helping someone who is even more tired.”
In this, the Church of Jesus Christ, I have had many opportunities to minister and serve my fellow man. It is at those times when I feel that Heavenly Father lightens my burdens. President Russell M. Nelson is the prophet of God on the earth; he is a great example of how we should minister to others during difficult trials. I unite my testimony with those of many other Saints that God is our loving Heavenly Father. I have felt His infinite love during my dark days. Our Savior, Jesus Christ, understands our pains and our afflictions. He wants to ease our burdens and comfort us. We must follow His example by serving and ministering to those with even greater burdens than our own. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The power of the priesthood and the importance of its restoration and blessings came to have special meaning in my life when I was fifteen years old. I had developed a serious ear infection, and I was rushed to the hospital. The infection required major surgery. Following the operation, I overheard one of the doctors say that the damage to my ear had been so severe that I would permanently lose my hearing and my sense of balance.

My father and another Melchizedek Priesthood holder, having the power and authority to act in the name of God, administered to me, using the oil that had been consecrated by the priesthood for anointing the sick.

My mother was influenced by the Holy Ghost to place my name on the prayer roll of the temple where those in attendance would join their faith in prayer for me. It was the first time I knew that people could have their name placed on the prayer roll in the temple. In time, through faith and the power of the priesthood, my healing was complete.

A young bishop of my acquaintance can testify to the impact of unkempt appearance on those around us and its relationship to the drug culture. One evening last June, Bishop E. Wayne Nelson of the South Shore Ward in Griffith, Indiana, received a telephone call from a jailer in an Indiana city, fifty miles from his home. The jailer was holding two Mormon boys who were charged with possession of narcotics. Bishop Nelson made several visits as these young men waited in jail for their cases to be heard. He learned that both were from Utah, the sons of active Latter-day Saint parents. Both had tampered with drugs in this state. Both had adopted an unkempt appearance, including shoulder-length hair. Soon after they arrived in Gary, Indiana, to look for work, and while they were walking down a street, a peddler of narcotics approached them and invited them to make a purchase. Faced with that temptation at that time in that place, the boys chose not to resist. Soon after this transaction they were arrested and charged with possession of the drugs they had purchased. After the bishop heard their story in jail, he asked them, “Why do you think the peddler approached you?” One boy responded, “I guess it was our appearance; we just looked like users.” These young men had taken upon themselves the badges of the drug culture, and they were easily identified and approached by those who sought to profit from their weakness.