Gospel Story Finder

May I share with you the account of how our Heavenly Father answered the prayers and pleadings of one woman and provided her the peace and assurance she so desperately sought?
Tiffany’s difficulties began last year when she had guests at her home for Thanksgiving and then again for Christmas. Her husband had been in medical school and was now in the second year of his medical residency. Because of the long work hours required of him, he was not able to help her as much as they both would have liked, and so most of that which needed to be accomplished during this holiday season, in addition to the care of their four young children, fell to Tiffany. She was becoming overwhelmed, and then she learned that one who was dear to her had been diagnosed with cancer. The stress and worry began to take a heavy toll on her, and she slipped into a period of discouragement and depression. She sought medical help, and yet nothing changed. Her appetite disappeared, and she began to lose weight, which her tiny frame could ill afford. She sought peace through the scriptures and prayed for deliverance from the gloom which was overtaking her. When neither peace nor help seemed to come, she began to feel abandoned by God. Her family and friends prayed for her and tried desperately to help. They delivered her favorite foods in an attempt to keep her physically healthy, but she could take only a few bites and then would be unable to finish.
On one particularly trying day, a friend attempted in vain to entice her with foods she had always loved. When nothing worked, the friend said, “There must be something that sounds good to you.”
Tiffany thought for a moment and said, “The only thing I can think of that sounds good is homemade bread.”
But there was none on hand.
The following afternoon Tiffany’s doorbell rang. Her husband happened to be home and answered it. When he returned, he was carrying a loaf of homemade bread. Tiffany was astonished when he told her it had come from a woman named Sherrie, whom they barely knew. She was a friend of Tiffany’s sister Nicole, who lived in Denver, Colorado. Sherrie had been introduced to Tiffany and her husband briefly several months earlier when Nicole and her family were staying with Tiffany for Thanksgiving. Sherrie, who lived in Omaha, had come to Tiffany’s home to visit with Nicole.
Now, months later, with the delicious bread in hand, Tiffany called her sister Nicole to thank her for sending Sherrie on an errand of mercy. Instead, she learned Nicole had not instigated the visit and had no knowledge of it.
The rest of the story unfolded as Nicole checked with her friend Sherrie to find out what had prompted her to deliver that loaf of bread. What she learned was an inspiration to her, to Tiffany, to Sherrie—and it is an inspiration to me.
On that particular morning of the bread delivery, Sherrie had been prompted to make two loaves of bread instead of the one she had planned to make. She said she felt impressed to take the second loaf with her in her car that day, although she didn’t know why. After lunch at a friend’s home, her one-year-old daughter began to cry and needed to be taken home for a nap. Sherrie hesitated when the unmistakable feeling came to her that she needed to deliver that extra loaf of bread to Nicole’s sister Tiffany, who lived 30 minutes away on the other side of town and whom she barely knew. She tried to rationalize away the thought, wanting to get her very tired daughter home and feeling sheepish about delivering a loaf of bread to people who were almost strangers. However, the impression to go to Tiffany’s home was strong, so she heeded the prompting.
When she arrived, Tiffany’s husband answered the door. Sherrie reminded him that she was Nicole’s friend whom he’d met briefly at Thanksgiving, handed him the loaf of bread, and left.
And so it happened that the Lord sent a virtual stranger across town to deliver not just the desired homemade bread but also a clear message of love to Tiffany. What happened to her cannot be explained in any other way. She had an urgent need to feel that she wasn’t alone—that God was aware of her and had not abandoned her. That bread—the very thing she wanted—was delivered to her by someone she barely knew, someone who had no knowledge of her need but who listened to the prompting of the Spirit and followed that prompting. It became an obvious sign to Tiffany that her Heavenly Father was aware of her needs and loved her enough to send help. He had responded to her cries for relief.

“My Mother opened a little country store to help keep our family out of debt. I worked with her in the store quite a bit. She taught me about respecting and serving people. Once, when I was fourteen, my mom and dad went to Salt Lake City for a conference and left me to take care of the store. The Hutterites in our area wouldn’t go to the bank to cash their huge grain checks, so Mom was an insured cashier, and we would sometimes have thousands of dollars in the store safe. I knew the combination to the safe, and I knew that my parents trusted me, so I opened and closed the store on time and took care of the customers.”

Sister Kapp believes that “the way to be happy and feel good about yourself and to please Heavenly Father is to learn to be obedient. Even if we don’t understand why we should or should not do certain things, if we will just trust in our parents and in the wisdom of our Father in Heaven, one day we will understand. My hope is that every child will develop the self-discipline to do what he knows is right. When we’re obedient, we’re happy; when we’re disobedient, we’re not happy. It’s just that simple. Let us, then, choose to be happy.”

During a summer visit to my boyhood home in southern Alberta, one of the old-timers who was teaching a Sunday School class related an incident that occurred in nearby Waterton National Park in 1922. It was a happening with which most of us were familiar.
A young man who held the office of teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood was employed during the summer by the park administration. One August morning he was given the responsibility of packing fingerling trout to the Belly River Lakes for the purpose of stocking those waters with fish. It would require a day-long hike along a poorly defined mountain trail. His pack consisted of several gallons of water, into which hundreds of fingerlings were placed.
It was a beautiful day for a hike, and the young man was excited to begin the journey. He followed the course of the river, and as he rounded one bend and approached a wild berry patch he found a large grizzly feasting upon the ripe berries. The bear stretched on its hind legs to its full eight feet and roared disapproval at the sudden intrusion.
The young man was unarmed. The terrain and heavy growth of the mountainside was such that he could not make his way around the grizzly. He knew that it would be foolish to challenge the bear directly. At this point the young teacher could have cast the fingerlings into the bushes and beat a fast retreat to camp, and he probably would not have been criticized for his conduct. But this thought did not seriously enter his mind.
Almost without thinking he dropped to his knees on the mountain trail, in full view of this giant bear, and offered a simple prayer to his Heavenly Father. He explained in simple, but urgent, words that he had been given an assignment to deliver fingerlings to the lakes. There was no other possible trail for him, and in order to continue his mission, it was necessary that the Lord intervene to remove the bear.
When he finished the prayer he rose slowly and looked squarely into the eyes of this huge creature. The grizzly swung his head from side to side a time or two, then dropped to all fours and lumbered off through the berry patch, leaving the trail free for the young teacher.
This young man undoubtedly felt fear, but displayed rare courage. He had lived his life in such a way that at the very moment he needed help, he knew that he could be in immediate touch with Heavenly Father. His safety did not depend upon a high powered rifle, but on unwavering faith that he could count on the Lord for protection.

The second incident comes from a story told by Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve.

[A] beautiful young mother named Svetlana [living in Leningrad, Russia] had importuned the Lord in prayer to make it possible for her to obtain a Bible written in the Russian language. Such a Bible [was] rare, precious, and very expensive. In the fall of 1989, she and her [family] went to Helsinki in quest [of] a Bible. While walking through a park in Helsinki, she stepped upon an object hidden beneath the ground cover of autumn leaves. She picked it up and found it to be the answer to her prayers. It was a Bible written in the Russian language. So excited was she that she joyfully recounted the story of this great discovery to another mother who was also in the park with her youngster. The second mother then [asked] Svetlana, “Would you like to have another book about Jesus Christ, also written in the Russian language?” Svetlana . . . answered in the affirmative. [Russell M. Nelson, “Drama on the European Stage,” Ensign,December 1991, p. 15; emphasis in original]

The Finnish woman, wife of a district president, gave Svetlana a copy of the Book of Mormon and invited her to church. Svetlana took the missionary lessons, joined the Church, and returned to Leningrad with her family. She then invited friends into her home, and many of them responded to the message of the missionaries and were baptized. Svetlana, her friends, and others like them are the pioneer foundation upon which the Church has been built in that part of the world.

Last year I was on a really great Little League baseball team. We all got along really well and were supportive of each other. We had a great coach, and even the parents were all positive. I was the only member of the Church on the team, but everyone used only good language and was kind to everyone else, even when someone made a mistake.
One day the coach arranged for a professional pitching coach to come and practice with us, but it was on a Sunday. When I told my coach I wouldn’t be there, he said, “Taylor, I’m glad you have your priorities straight.” He was pleased with me for doing what I knew was right.

As a teen I studied in a technical school for young men. It was hard to be a member of the Church in an atmosphere where there were other beliefs or no beliefs at all. Being the only member in school was difficult because I felt alone; I felt different. My classmates were relatively good, but many didn’t share my principles.
I remember well one time when they wanted to get me to smoke. They didn’t say it directly. Instead, one of them lit a cigarette while we were in our classroom waiting for the professor. We weren’t supposed to smoke inside the school.
I was sitting in the back. The guys at the front of the room lit the cigarette, and they each took a puff and passed it on. Everyone was watching to see it get to me. Finally the guy in front of me took a puff and turned around.
I didn’t take the cigarette.
He said, “Come on. Go ahead.”
“No, I’m not going to smoke.”
He took the cigarette and put it to my mouth. So I hit him. He hit me back. Then almost everyone in the room started to fight, though we quickly calmed down before the professor got there.
Now I’m not saying that was the right way to respond, but I was only 13. I didn’t know how to respond. I just knew no one was going to make me smoke.
After class I found the boy I had hit and asked his forgiveness. With some emotion, he told me, “No, I’m the one who needs to ask your forgiveness.”

In September 2020, with the declining health of our parents and the instability of the COVID-19 pandemic, we relocated my sweet 83-year-old parents from their home of 45 years in Las Vegas, Nevada, to Cedar Hills, Utah, to be closer to family, making it easier for us to help care for them.
As you can imagine, this move was difficult for them on many levels. Residing in Las Vegas for most of their married years, they enjoyed their independence and the relationships they built there. They owned a lovely home and prided themselves on having an open door when family passed through. Giving up home ownership after 66 years and downsizing into a small rental home in a new state was challenging. Now they had to say goodbye to everything familiar to them, including friends they’d shared years of memories and experiences with and people they’d grown close to while serving in various callings.
At the time of the move, Church meetings were held remotely. Our parents worried how they would be able to get to know the people of their new ward when there was no opportunity to go to church and build new friendships. How could they possibly feel at home in these circumstances?
We found them a small rental home in a neighborhood in the Cedar Hills Sixth Ward, unaware of what a special place it would turn out to be.
Because we had simplified their belongings for the move and didn’t need assistance with moving bulky items, we hadn’t contacted the ward leadership to announce their arrival. That didn’t matter. Within five minutes of our pulling in with the moving van, neighbors arrived at the door, gloves on, asking how they could help. Homemade muffins were delivered and cold drinks offered to our family members helping with the move.
On Thursday of that week, members of the Relief Society presidency visited to introduce themselves and welcome our parents to the ward. On Sunday the bishop came to meet them and inquire whether they needed anything. He spent almost an hour with them, genuinely getting to know them and asking if they’d be willing to take ministering assignments.
Within two weeks of their arrival, they had ministering brothers and sisters assigned to them and were contacted by both. They also received ministering assignments and were introduced to their assigned families. Even with Mom’s late-stage dementia, her ministering companion made the effort to invite her and bring her along as they visited the sisters they were assigned to. The ministering brothers were consistent, loving, and genuine. They immediately found a commonality with roots from Wyoming, and my parents felt loved from the first visit.
Later that month the youth of the ward secretly covered their front door with notes of welcome and love. The first week of November, some deacons asked if they could come by and meet Mom and Dad. About seven young men and their leaders spent time with them, introducing themselves through get-to-know-you topics such as favorite foods, where they went to school, and what they did for after-school activities. The deacons followed up by asking our parents questions about how things were when they grew up and how they met.
These youth continued to come by at least monthly, sometimes just to drop off a treat or to check in. They caroled at Christmastime and brought a lovely holiday basket of food and treats. Because of these simple kindnesses, Dad could call the boys by name when he saw them and had a sense of familiarity with the ward, even though they weren’t able to meet in person for Sunday meetings.
A girl in the ward was invited in her home evening to say hello to someone new, and she chose Mom and Dad. She proceeded to build a relationship with them, coming over almost every day with a treat or to drop off a flower she had picked from her yard.
Our parents were asked to create a short video introducing themselves that was shown at the ward Christmas party. Every time there was a ward activity or gathering, our parents were reminded and offered a ride by someone. Special treats and hand-colored cards were delivered on their birthdays and holidays, and kind neighbors shoveled their driveway, sprayed the lawn for dandelions, and pulled their trash cans in every week. The ward members made a special effort to call them by name, recognized them at the grocery store, and helped them feel like they belonged.
Just four months after moving into this new ward, Dad fell and broke his hip while visiting a family member in St. George in southern Utah. This accident required surgery and an extended stay in a care facility 250 miles (400 km) from his new home. When we told his ministering brother about the incident, he immediately contacted the Primary president, who started a letter-writing and picture-coloring campaign with the Primary children and other ward members. They sent him mail and coloring pages almost every day. The abundance of attention led the workers at the St. George nursing home to ask if he was some sort of celebrity, as they had never had a patient receive so much mail. Since this was during the height of COVID, he couldn’t have visitors, so this daily written interaction was a gift of service beyond description.
With Mom’s dementia, one activity she was drawn to was sweeping. A kind neighbor recognized this and allowed her to come and sweep around them as they pulled bushes from their front yard, all the while making Mom feel like she was the one providing the service.
Dad was invited to participate in the ward choir and made to feel he was a valued addition. At age 84, he was called to work in the Young Men organization as a specialist with the deacons, gaining a feeling of relevance and contribution.
After only a year, they felt at home, that they mattered, that they could still make a difference. They were never made to feel like they were a burden or just “another renter” in the neighborhood. My heart is full as I contemplate the Lord’s words in Matthew 25:40: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Well done, Cedar Hills Sixth Ward!

August 10
Dear Sarah,
Nothing has been worse so far than picking beans. Mr. Trujillo can’t bend over now, so I picked all the beans, my rows and his. Your back aches, and the leaves make your skin itch, and the sun is beating down on you. Mrs. Trujillo gave me an old straw hat to wear. We got three bushels! Mr. Trujillo smiled and said, “There’ll be this many again in about ten days.” I could have cried. But by then it was cooler, and Mrs. Trujillo brought out ice cream with fresh peaches sliced on it. Then you’ll never guess what happened—Mr, and Mrs. Trujillo took me into their garage and gave me one of their kids’ old bicycles. It was all clean and shiny, with new paint and new tires and the chain all oiled. I gave them both a hug.
I took a big, juicy peach home to Lindsay, and she ate it all!
Have you found any new people to teach?
Love,Angela the Cyclist

Roger threw his jacket onto the back of the couch, slumped into the wing chair in the living room, and let his books slide to the floor.
“How was school?” Mother asked from the doorway.
“Not very good.”
“I thought something must be wrong when the smell of chocolate chip cookies didn’t lure you into the kitchen. Do you want to talk about it while I finish baking the last batch?”
Roger followed her into the kitchen in silence. He pulled a stool up to the counter and watched as she scooped out spoonfuls of cookie dough, rolled them into balls, and placed them on the cookie sheets in neat rows. The timer buzzed, and she exchanged the sheet of raw dough with the sheet of freshly baked cookies in the oven. Roger didn’t even reach for one of the warm cookies.
“Is it a school problem?” Mother asked, looking at him with loving concern. “Or is it a friend problem?”
When Roger didn’t answer, Mother tried again. “I haven’t seen Lance around lately. Has he been sick?”
“He hasn’t been around because I don’t want him around.”
Mother slipped the cookies one by one from the sheet onto the cooling rack. “I see. Any reason in particular?”
“He’s a thief,” Roger announced. “I don’t need a thief for a best friend. Especially when he steals from me.”
“It sounds like Lance has done something that really hurt you.”
“He stole the twenty dollar bill that Grandma Smith gave me for my birthday.”
“When did this happen?” Mother asked.
“Last Saturday. I had it on the shelf above my dresser. Lance kept taking it, saying he needed it more than I did.”
“He was just teasing, wasn’t he?”
“I thought he was. But Sunday morning when I went to get it so Dad could change it and I could pay my tithing, it was gone.” He picked up a cookie from the rack and took a bite.
“You didn’t actually see Lance take it and not put it back, did you?”
“No. But no one else was in my room. And it was there Saturday and gone Sunday.”
“Have you asked Lance about it?”
Roger scowled. “I don’t even talk to that thief anymore.”
“Losing that money is really upsetting, isn’t it?”
“With that money, I finally had enough to buy the new eighteen-speed bike I’ve been saving for. Now I don’t know how long it will take me to get the bike.”
“That’s really frustrating. I know you’ve saved a long time for that bike. But maybe we need to look at it from Lance’s point of view. Suddenly his best friend doesn’t speak to him, and maybe he doesn’t even know why. Wouldn’t it hurt you if Lance suddenly stopped talking to you without giving you any reason?”
“He knows he stole my money. He can figure it out.”
“You think he stole your money, and it sounds like you have a very good reason to suspect him. But you haven’t asked him if he took it. Did anyone else in the family see him take it and tell you about it?”
Roger shook his head. “I’ve been praying that I could forgive him, Mom. Honest, I have. And when I get done praying, I feel calm inside, like I can still be Lance’s friend. But then when I see him at school, I just get mad again.”
The buzzing of the oven timer announced that the cookies were finished. Mother removed the cookie sheet and placed it on the top of the stove to cool. “Let’s go into the living room and sit for a while,” she said. “I have a story to tell you.”
They sat on the couch under the picture window. Roger could hear his brothers and sisters and the neighbor children playing a game of hide-and-seek outside.
“Years ago,” Mother began, “I had a neighbor who felt I had done something very wrong. It hurt me deeply. I couldn’t even see her in church without hurting so much that I wanted to go home where I wouldn’t have to look at her. I talked to your dad about it, but it didn’t help. I even talked to the bishop. But still the hurt went on and on. In time, I think she realized that she was wrong, but she never apologized to me.”
Mother reached for the large family Book of Mormon on the end table next to the couch and flipped through the pages. “I used to pray so hard that I could forgive her so that we could go on being friends like before. But it didn’t seem to help. I didn’t even want to have a Church calling anymore if it meant working with her or teaching her children. It was like a poison, and I knew it. But I just didn’t know how to overcome it.
“I was reading in the Book of Mormon one afternoon, and I came across these verses.” She pointed to Moroni 7:47–48 [Moro. 7:47–48]. “Will you read them for me, Roger?”
“‘But charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever; and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him.
“‘Wherefore, my beloved brethren, pray unto the Father with all the energy of heart, that ye may be filled with this love, which he hath bestowed upon all who are true followers of his Son, Jesus Christ.’”
“Well, at first I thought, That’s just what I’m doing. I pray every morning and every night that I can forgive, but it just isn’t helping. And then another thought came to my mind as clearly as if someone had spoken it: It doesn’t say to pray to forgive, it says to pray for the pure love of Christ. The thought was startling to me, and I realized that by asking Heavenly Father to help me forgive her, I was really asking Him to side with me. After all, if I had to forgive her, then she was wrong and I was right. But if I just wanted to love her the way Jesus Christ loves her, it didn’t matter who was wrong and who was right. Then I was leaving the judgment in the Savior’s hands, where it belonged.”
“Are you still friends?” Roger asked.
Mother nodded. “That neighbor was Kathy.”
Roger sat up and looked at his mother in surprise. Kathy and Mom were always doing things together. Mother had often told him that she was a “spirit sister.” Now he understood why.
He leaned his head against Mother’s shoulder. “It feels terrible to be angry with Lance. It was a lot better when we were friends. Will you pray with me that we can be friends again like you and Kathy?”
Mother nodded. Together they knelt at the couch. Roger prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, Thou knowest what angry thoughts I’ve had about Lance because I think he stole my money. I’ve been praying to forgive him. But now I just want to love him and not ever wonder again if he stole my twenty dollars. Help me have the courage to tell him I’m sorry for the way I’ve been treating him. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Roger felt a deep love pour over him as Mother slipped an arm around his shoulders. “Will it last?” he whispered.
“For me it would last awhile, and then I’d have to pray again. Remember, Moroni said ‘with all the energy of heart.’ It takes a lot of praying, but you’re on the right track.”
“Is it all right if I go over to Lance’s?”
Mother smiled. “Why don’t you take a plate of warm cookies with you?”
As Roger ran to the kitchen, Mother picked up his jacket and books and took them to his room. When she came into the kitchen, Roger was sitting silently on the stool, a plate of cookies sitting on the sideboard in front of him. “Mom?” he said as she started to take the last batch of cookies off the cookie sheet. “I think the Holy Ghost just spoke to me.”
Mother put down the spatula and looked earnestly at Roger. “What happened?”
“I was thinking about Jesus while I put the cookies on the plate. I started thinking about him hanging on the cross and saying, ‘Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.’* And then the thought came to me, Father, forgive me, for I know not what Lance did. I think I need to ask Heavenly Father to forgive me for being angry with Lance.”
Tears glistened in the corner of Mother’s eyes. “I think you’re right, Roger. It was a very special message from the Holy Ghost to you.”
“Isn’t it great, Mom?”
“Isn’t what great?”
“That we have the Book of Mormon and the Holy Ghost.”
“Yes, Roger,” Mother agreed. “And best of all, we have the Savior’s Atonement.”
A few minutes later, as Roger headed for Lance’s home with the plate of cookies, he felt happier than he had for a long time.

I asked, "Alex, do you have any idea how much impact you and your book have had on the people of the world?"

He answered, "I think so."

I said, "I haven't been involved in Family History Administration too many years, but it seems to me there is an invisible hand guiding this work, bringing people like you and scientific developments and special events together toward a pre-determined course."

He slammed his fist on his knee and said, "That's right! I felt the guiding hand of the Lord."

How appropriate that one year after the broadcast of Roots, in June 1978, the historic revelation was announced that all the children of God could enjoy the full blessings of the Priesthood.

One other incredible example of the "invisible hand" operating upon the hearts and minds of people: We cultivated relationships with the USSR for about 30 years in an effort to microfilm vital records. In 1989 one of the employees of the Family History Department, Kahlile Mehr, was in conversation with Dr. Patricia Grimsted of Harvard University, recognized as the top scholar on Russian Archival records. Brother Mehr expressed strong interest in the church being able to microfilm public and church records in the Soviet Union. She told Kahlile that in her opinion this church would never have access to Russian archival records. The Lord thought differently.

As President of the Genealogical Society of Utah, accompanied by Sister Clarke and our European acquisition Manager, Lynn Carson, we traveled to Moscow, Russia in April 1992. Sitting around a table in the offices of the former Central Committee of the Communist Party located at the Kremlin, I signed a contract with Dr. Rudolph Pikhoia, Chairman of the Committee of Archival Affairs for the Republic of Russia. This contract authorized the Genealogical Society of Utah to microfilm vital records in 200 regional archives throughout Russia. What in 1989 was said to be impossible was now reality. "Is anything too hard for the Lord?"

A little more than a year ago a former graduate student, Shane Long, returned to campus to recruit geoscientists for his company. In a presentation that I had requested he give to our students, he shared an experience that had changed him. This story also had a profound impact on me.

Shane was on assignment for his company in Lagos, Nigeria, the eighth-most-populous country in the world and one in which there is much poverty. As he was driven in a bulletproof vehicle from the airport to the meeting facility, people and children were abundant in the streets. Shane spent three and a half hours in that vehicle, as progress was slow. During those hours he had time to observe and ponder what was around him just outside of the vehicle. At one point he observed two little girls in the dusty street. They were playing hand games. Shane’s attention to them intensified because he recalled a similar experience he had had just a couple of weeks earlier. It was his own daughter who, while waiting to be picked up from her swimming lessons, was playing similar hand games with a friend. The circumstances of these two experiences, however, were vastly different, and, in Shane’s words, “the contrast could not have been more striking.” In those precious, quiet moments, clarity came to him. He received a vision, or personal revelation, that told him directly that, from that moment on, he was to be a steward over his salary. He fully internalized how he was a product of hard work, good people, and the blessings of circumstance. He was to be wiser and more caring with the gifts that were given him. In that poignant moment he resolved to change.

I had an experience that relates to this idea. During the summer after my first year of law school, President Tanner and I obtained jobs as groundskeepers, or gardeners, at the Oakland California Temple.

The Oakland Temple sits on a hill overlooking the San Francisco Bay. The grounds are beautiful. They include palm trees, bushes, grass, and colorful flowers. On the roof there are additional gardens, and one can climb the stairs and enjoy them. From the roof there is a spectacular view of the San Francisco Bay.

Gardening was hard work. We planted flowers and pulled weeds. We watered plants and swept sidewalks. We dug holes in the ground. I remember President Tanner standing in a hole in the ground and quoting lines from Shakespeare. We wore hats to protect ourselves from the sun.

The job involved hard work, and it was tiring. But it had a larger purpose. The temple grounds are the grounds of the House of the Lord. We helped the temple grounds to be beautiful. Temple workers, patrons, and other visitors enjoyed the peace and beauty of the temple grounds. This was a blessing to them. We tended the Lord’s garden. It was a privilege.

As soon as the snow started to fall that day in January, I began listening for Jeremy. He was due back around 3:00 P.M., and I knew there wasn’t much chance of his plane being early. But every time I heard footsteps in the hall, I found myself watching for his head to poke through the door of our dorm room.
It wasn’t a question of missing him, although I guess I did. I can easily survive ten days without that skinny intellectual. The problem was, I was curious. Had his father shot him or not?
Jeremy was my roommate. The first day I walked into the dark cell that passes for our dorm room, Jeremy was sitting at his desk listening to classical music and reading a chemistry text as if it were a light novel. I hate classical music.
I walked in and set my luggage down on one of the two beds—the one that didn’t have crackers spilled on it. “Hi,” I said, holding out my hand across the narrow room. “I’m Paul Jones. I guess we’re roommates.”
“Jeremy Kahn,” he said, taking my hand and crushing it in fragile-looking fingers that felt like steel cables. I have milked cows all my life. Consequently, I have strong hands. I squeezed back hard to teach him a lesson—and made no impression whatsoever. I retrieved my mangled hand, and he smiled.
“I guess you’ve heard about my abnormality,” he said.
I checked him out for signs of leprosy, but he seemed pretty much intact.
“I’m Jewish,” he said.
“Oh, I should have known,” I said. “You look Jewish. But believe me, we Mormons have the greatest respect for the Jewish people. In fact—”
“What do you mean I look Jewish. He was frowning now.
“Oh, well, you know, Curly hair, dark eyes …”
“Go ahead, why not say it—‘big nose!’”
“Well, you do have a big nose.”
“So, do all Christians have small noses? Yours is no beauty.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry if I offended you. There’s nothing wrong with looking Jewish.”
“There’s no such thing as looking Jewish,” he said. “I have Jewish friends with straight blond hair and blue eyes and pug noses.”
“So you look more Jewish than they do. You should be proud of it.”
He slammed down his chemistry book on the desk. “Stereotypes! You’re full of stereotypes. All you Mormons are!”
“Hey, watch it; that’s a stereotype!”
He looked at me for a moment as if deciding whether he should laugh or throw his book at me. Then he laughed. “I should warn you,” he said. “I’m going to be a problem.”
“Why are you going to be a problem?” I said. “Are you a genius or something? Do you practice black magic? You don’t look like much of a problem to me.”
“Actually I’m only a near-genius,” he said, “but I’m going to be a problem because you’re going to try to convert me to Mormonism, and I’m not going to convert.”
I held up my hands as if in shock and looked as innocent as I could. “Me try to convert you? Whatever gave you such a wild idea?”
“Because I’ve already had one guy in here mumbling something about the stick of Judah and the stick of Joseph. The dorm mother had to tell me that she was of the tribe of Ephraim before she would give me my sheets. And then a guy with a Bible surgically attached to his right hand came in and informed me that I would never be happy until I accepted Christ as my Savior. And I’ve only been here a half hour!”
“The gospel is very precious to us Mormons,” I said. “We feel that we should share it with others.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “And a Jew would make a really fine trophy, wouldn’t he? You could have my head mounted and hung over your desk. And another endangered species bites the dust.”
“You’re being a little oversensitive, aren’t you?” I said, beginning to unpack.
“Yeah? Well, I guess you don’t know much about Jews, do you? Or about being a minority.”
“Look, buddy,” I said, “I’ll admit I’ve never known much about Jews. Or Buddhists. Or nuclear technology. But that doesn’t mean any of them is bad. And while we’re on the subject, I might add that every human being is a minority of one. Nobody else knows your heart, your mind, your fears, or your hopes because they’re yours alone. So let’s not be Jew and Mormon this year. Let’s be me and you. We’ll never really know what it would be like to be each other, but we can compare.”
When I finished he began to applaud. “Bravo!” he said, with his already-familiar sarcastic smile. “Where do I send my 25 cents for additional copies?”
I was just about to get mad then, but he held up a skinny hand, and his face broke into a real smile. “Shalom, Paul,” he said. “The fact is, I liked your speech, and I accept the Jones doctrine of co-existence. I think we can be friends.”
Just then I noticed an old tennis shoe on my side of the room, “What’s that?” I said.
Jeremy observed it carefully. “It appears to be my tennis shoe,”
“Well what’s it doing on my side of the room?”
He sighed and picked it up. “Just my luck,” he said. “Ten thousand roommates to choose from, and I get Felix Unger.”
When I came back from the bathroom a few minutes later, he had made my bed. I thanked him, never suspecting that he had short-sheeted it.
That night as I sat on my innocent-looking bed, I pondered my fate. Jeremy had not really been as different as I had expected. I hadn’t seen him wear a skull cap, and there was no menorah in sight. He’d eaten everything on his plate at dinner and had spoken English all day. I knew there were different kinds of Judaism as there are different kinds of Christianity, and I assumed that whatever kind he was, he knew what he was doing. We didn’t talk about religion at all that day, though we were together a lot, buying books and eating in the cafeteria and reading countless bulletin boards. But as I sat on my bed exhausted just before midnight, I realized we’d reached a moment of truth. How do you pray under scrutiny?
I decided I’d better get used to it and slid off the bed to my knees. My head sagged to the mattress in its usual way as I took my usual deep breath and started my nightly mumble in the mind. But I felt eyes burning holes in my back. I wondered why Jeremy’s eyes could chastise me so painfully while knowing for all my 18 years that “angels above us are silent notes taking” had never made me bat an eye. I straightened up and began again.
It was a longer than usual prayer because there was a lot more to discuss here than there’d ever been back home. Then I got up with aching knees and sat on the bed to wind my alarm clock. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed as heavy feet tore past our door. There were voices coming from every direction. I guess it’s true that dorms just get going at midnight.
“That was a long prayer,” Jeremy said. “Did you really memorize all that?”
“We don’t memorize our prayers,” I said. “We just pray from the heart.”
“Makes sense,” he admitted. “That way you know you’re on the right page.”
With that mountain crossed, I threw back my covers and thrust my feet as far as they’d go into the bed—which was all of about 30 inches.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jeremy said. “I thought Mormons slept kneeling.”
Much later I was scoring a lay-up for the Boston Celtics in overtime when something woke me up. I forced my eyes open wide enough to see Jeremy sitting on his bed in a warm-up suit, tying up his jogging shoes.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m putting on my prayer suit, can’t you see?”
“You’re what?”
“Look, Jones, you commune with the infinite by praying. I do it by jogging.”
I squinted at the clock. “It’s 5:45 A.M.,” I said.
“I know,” he said, going to the door. “I overslept.”
As the weeks went by, Jeremy and I discovered that we got along pretty well. For my part, once I got used to his dirty socks and used Bic pens being scattered on my side of the room, his 5:30 jogging schedule, and his devotion to classical music, I kind of liked the guy. Occasionally I had to challenge him to a game of one-on-one basketball to put him in his place, and it didn’t hurt my opinion of him that he could dribble behind his back and had a sweet jump shot from the top of the key. (Of course, he couldn’t afford to miss because I could outrebound him ten to one.) We talked (and argued) about a lot of things together, but the one thing we never talked about was his family. That surprised me because I had always heard that Jewish families were very close. I also made it a point not to preach religion to him, not yet anyway, knowing how he felt.
It was during general conference in October that things changed. During the Sunday morning session, which I was listening to on the radio in our room, he looked at me and asked, “Who are those guys you’re listening to?”
I explained General Authorities in about two sentences. He nodded and said, “That one talking now sounds just like my dad. If he were a General Authority, all he’d talk about is how Judaism’s dying out because of the rebellious young generation.”
“Does he really think it is?”
“He knows it is. In fact, it took me months to get him to say I could come to school here. He went crazy when we first talked about it. Said I’d turned my back on my heritage.”
That gave me a chance to bring up something I’d always wondered about. “Why did you come to school here?”
He laughed. “Because it was as far away from my father as I could get. I love him, but I needed to get away from him before he swallowed me up.”
Then I cleared my throat and really walked out on thin ice. “Jeremy, what do you think about your religion?”
He sat down and thought for a moment.
“I am a Jew,” he said. “Millions of people have suffered and died so that I could say that, and I’m not going to forget. I will always be a Jew. I’m more proud than I can say of being Jewish. But I’m talking about culture and tradition and heritage. When it comes to religion, well, I think it’s a good religion, like all the others. But bits and pieces of other religions I’ve run into make a lot of sense too. It seems to me that if dad would dare let me study religions and make my own decision, if Judaism is the only truth, I’d find out and be a better Jew. And if not … well, I don’t know, I’ve never considered that possibility. And then there’s Christ. It’s strange, but I find myself wishing it were true about him. It must be very comforting to believe in someone who loves you that much, even …” He was quiet for a moment. “And then there on the radio, all those men are saying stuff about faith and charity and morality, and it’s good stuff. Can’t some of it be right too? Of course, you think it is, and millions of others too, but my dad wouldn’t even listen. He’d condemn it in a minute. He misses a lot that way, I think.”
“Well, he’s not alone in that.”
“But if he’s wrong? What then? And if he’s right, what will become of all your little old men on the radio?”
I didn’t think I could say anything as effective as keeping my mouth shut, so I just sat back and let him think. In a minute he continued.
“It’s been bothering me for a while. I love my dad, and I love my heritage. For centuries my people have looked for a Messiah, and you Christians say he’s come. It would be so nice to surrender and stop looking. You Mormons paint such an attractive picture—eternal life after death with those we love, eternal progress. It would be nice to believe, easy almost. But we Jews have never taken the easy way. I’d rather stay out in the cold than come into a warmth that is only wishful thinking. My heart is divided in two. How am I supposed to put it back together?” He shifted his position at the desk. “Can you turn the radio up a bit? I guess I need to listen.”
Jeremy seemed to go into hiding during the next three days. He’d slip into our room late at night, sleep till around 6:00, and be gone again. I never saw him in his jogging outfit anymore, and he quit playing practical jokes. That worried me the most. If he wasn’t putting honey on the toilet seat or smearing shaving cream on the phone, he just wasn’t happy. Life had really gotten dull without all that. I assumed he was studying for midterms. He was premed, and his organic chemistry book alone weighed more than my mom’s Volkswagen. I thought I glimpsed him a couple of times going into the library, and once I was sure I saw him at the fourth floor reference desk, but by the time I got close, he had disappeared into a corner somewhere. I didn’t talk to him for almost a week until one day I came home from a ward football game to find him sitting on his bed reading a worn-looking paperback copy of the Book of Mormon. He jumped up, grabbed his sweater off the floor, and turned to leave.
“Hey, don’t leave,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all week. Is something wrong?”
He turned slowly from the half-opened door. “Yes,” he said bitterly. “Something is wrong. Everything is wrong! You and your Nephi and your little old men have ruined my life! I had a good life. I had a close family, a promising career, and not a complication in sight. And then you and your crummy Church came along and destroyed it all. Your stupid Book of Mormon is true and you know it! And you know what that all means, don’t you? Your whole crummy Church is true! Now I’ll have to get baptized and start being a Mormon. Don’t smile, Jones; it’s not funny. My dad’s going to kill me and then disown me. I’ll have no family or future or anything else. Sure, your family is forever. Now mine won’t even be for this life. It’s all your fault! What am I going to do?” He stared for almost a full minute at my speechless bewilderment. Then he flung the door open the rest of the way and was gone, the Book of Mormon clutched tightly like a life preserver in a drowning man’s hand.
A few weeks later I watched the water in the font close briefly over Jeremy’s head and open up again as he emerged grinning in his wet, white clothes. A few days after that I listened as he bore his first testimony from the stand.
Jeremy went home at Christmas to break the news to his family. He hadn’t known how to put it in a letter, and he couldn’t say it over the phone. So it was going to happen face to face, like David faced Goliath.
“But not till I’ve slept in my own bed once, and seen my nephews and my little sister, and had a chance to gather my valuables,” he said. “Because the minute it’s out, my dad is going to throw me out of the house.”
“Have a little faith, Jeremy. Think of the pioneers and all they went through.”
“I’m not going to have to think about it. I’m going to know how they felt because when my dad’s through with me, I’ll have to cross the plains on foot myself, if I can cross them at all. Do you know what disown means? Do you realize this will be the last time I’ll ever see my mother?”
I laughed. “Don’t overdramatize. You know it’s not true. Your dad might be a bit shocked, but he’ll get over it.”
“You don’t know my dad at all. He’s going to kill me. He keeps loaded guns in the house for just that purpose.”
“Would you shut up and get on the plane.”
“Take a good look at me. You’ll never see me alive again.”
And so I waited anxiously as 3:00 approached on the day of his return. I was excited to hear his story and anxious to find out how he stood with the father he both loved and feared. I wore a trail in the carpet as I paced and finally went out to shoot some baskets to pass the time. I returned at about 4:00, hoping he would be there.
He was. I grabbed him from behind as he bent over a drawer stuffing socks in a corner. He whirled in surprise and threw one arm around my neck in a wrestling hold. We went down and struggled on the floor until I knew I was beat.
“Uncle!” I choked, just before he pinned me.
Then he talked about skiing in New England and his friend Bernie at MIT and his nephew’s latest invention. I only heard half because I was listening beyond it all for something more. Finally I interrupted.
“And your dad, how was he?” Jeremy didn’t bat an eye. “Fine, he didn’t feel real good, because he always gets a cold about this time of year, but he was better toward the end and even went skating with us at Central Park. Did I tell you I saw my old girl friend? She’s married to a guy she …” He slowed down under my steady gaze and finally stopped.
“I didn’t tell them.”
The clock ticked. A girl laughed in the lounge far down the hall and around the corner. Jeremy’s eyes were trained on his shoes.
“Well, it’s your decision. But …”
“At least I’m still part of my family.”
“Are you really? You’re really part of a lie. They think you’re something you’re not.”
“If it makes them happy, why worry about it? Let them go on.”
“Go on living a religion you know isn’t the whole truth? Go on living without the blessings you could show them how to receive?”
He sighed. “I couldn’t. My mom would love me anyway because she’s my mom. And my sister and brothers would at least try to understand. But my father … you don’t know how he gets. He used to beat me. He used to have this belt. I love him, but he’s got this awful temper, and in his eyes, I’ve done worse than murder. I’ve betrayed him and my family and their God.”
My silence was deafening. He looked steadily at me. “I wanted to tell him,” he said. “But … you don’t know my father.”
I returned his steady gaze. “No, Jeremy, you don’t know my Father.”
“Your father?”
“My Heavenly Father.”
The snow piled against the window silently while we sat facing each other. I finally stood and left the room. I tried to watch the TV in the lounge for a while, but the silence of the still mostly empty halls bothered me. I wandered outside without my coat to the snack bar and idly ate a hamburger. I wandered up on campus until I realized how cold I was and how wet the snow had become. I tramped back to the dorm in the darkness, half expecting Jeremy to be gone. The light was off in our room, but I paused outside the door, thinking I heard a voice. I tried to discern who was speaking. The voice was too low to really hear, so I finally turned the knob and slid into the room. As my eyes adjusted to the dusk inside, I saw him just replacing the telephone in its cradle.
I couldn’t believe it. He was crying! He turned quickly away to hide his tears and then walked to the window.
“That was dad.”
There was a long pause, then, “I told him.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked his back.
He thrust his hands into his pockets. “He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he said he didn’t know who I was and hung up. All I heard was the dial tone.”
The snow still fell as he stared at it.
“I listened to that dial tone for a long time. Finally a recording came on and said, ‘Please hang up.’ I couldn’t believe it.”
Suddenly he whirled and pounded his desk top so hard it rattled. “Why did I ever think I could make him understand? I’ve always been afraid of him. Now I’m not afraid; it just hurts. I didn’t know anything could hurt like this.”
School started again, and Jeremy got a job shoveling snow and doing winter maintenance on the lawn sprinklers. His parents never called anymore, and even though his mother still wrote sometimes, there was no word from his dad. Jeremy buried himself in his calculus and chemistry and, in general, wasn’t much fun anymore. They came around with a sign-up sheet for basketball intramurals, and we couldn’t get Jeremy to sign.
So I played alone.
It got suddenly warm in February for about a week. Jeremy was out maintaining sprinklers while I sat on the window ledge one day, hoping I wouldn’t be noticed as I drank in the warming air, pretending to read a history book. The mailman went past. I dragged myself inside again with a sigh and got ready for my only afternoon class. On the way out, I halfheartedly checked the mail.
The letter was unmistakably from Jeremy’s dad. The first. I laid it conspicuously on his pillow and hurried out.
When I ran into Jeremy in the cafeteria several hours later, I managed a casual “How’s your dad?”
“Okay.” He stirred his mashed potatoes.
“I saw he sent you a letter.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, is he still mad? What did he say?”
“Just asked how school was, said if I didn’t make it to med school he’d kill me, and said everybody’s fine at home. Just like nothing happened.”
“That’s all?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Basically.”
“Did he say anything about the Church?”
He shook his head.
“Well, at least he wrote.”
“Yes, he will always love me because I’m his son, not because he thinks I deserve to be loved.” He buttered a roll and went on, talking around a mouthful of peas. “It’s not enough that he has cooled down to the point where he’ll write to me again. I want more than that. I want to be able to talk to him again, to teach him the gospel.”
“Who says you can’t?”
“What I like about you, Jones, is how you avoid the facts.”
“You obviously don’t know him as well as you think. You never expected a letter, did you?”
“I sent him a Book of Mormon. He didn’t even mention it.”
“And he won’t. Until he believes it.”
“He’d have to read it first.”
“Maybe he is.”
“Ha!”
Three weeks followed with three letters. The night of the fourth letter, Jeremy showed up to play basketball with the ward team, and he was grinning. As we sat on the bench waiting to play, we finally got to talk.
“Did you see I got another letter? It was pretty much the normal I-am-fine, how-are-you stuff for the most part, but at the end he got down to business. He told me he has thought a lot about my ‘betrayal’ and thinks he understands.
“He says that the whole thing turns on the Messiah. As far as he’s concerned when the true Messiah comes, he can make whatever changes he wants, because his changes won’t reject Judaism but perfect it. The trick is to tell the true Messiah from the false ones.”
“That’s very profound,” I said. “Of course it is. It’s the same thing I told him in my last letter. Anyway, he says that although I’ve made a fool of myself, it took courage for me to become a Mormon knowing how he felt about it. In fact he compared it to Moses leaving Pharaoh’s court and David facing Goliath. I humbly agree with him.”
“Before you start writing a second book of Psalms,” I said, “ask yourself if David left his dirty socks on the floor.”
He ignored me and went on. “He says that when I get home this spring we’ll examine the evidence and argue it out man to man. Right now he’s reading the Book of Mormon so he can really tear it to shreds. Good luck, dad. Oh, and there was a P.S. too. He says that if I’m going to be a Mormon, I’d better be the best Mormon there is because I’m Solomon Kahn’s son and his honor is at stake.” He laughed. “I have a feeling that by the time I become a priest my first assignment may be to baptize my own dad. And then who knows? How do you think I’d look in a dark suit?”
I stifled a nasty remark about his looks in anything.
He bounced a basketball on the floor for a few moments and then looked at me. “You were right, Jones. I didn’t know either of my fathers very well. I thought it was all up to me.”
The whistle blew, and we ran onto the floor before I had time to answer.

At a stake conference before Caleb’s passing, I spoke with a General Authority about our experience with Caleb. After he acknowledged the exhausting effort needed to care for Caleb, I thought he would encourage me to faithfully persevere in the service and sacrifice I was providing. Instead, his next four words transformed my relationship with Caleb forever.
He simply said, “You are being exalted.”
The Lord taught a similar principle when Joseph Smith, while incarcerated in Liberty Jail, prayed for relief from the great suffering he and the Saints were experiencing. The Lord responded with a comforting promise:
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment;
“And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high” (Doctrine and Covenants 121:7–8).
Similarly, Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles testified: “Adversity is not evidence of the Lord’s disfavor, nor a withdrawal of His blessings. Opposition is part of God’s plan to refine us and prepare us for an eternal, celestial destiny (see 2 Nephi 2:11).”
All this time I thought we were taking care of Caleb. In reality, God, through Caleb, had been taking care of us. The Lord was performing a miracle on me, on my wife and children, and on all those who met Caleb.
Caleb could have quickly returned to heaven, but instead he brought heaven to us for seven remarkable years. In our toughest times, God never abandoned us. With faith, courage, and hope, we learned that His blessings often shine brightest during our trials. Caleb’s constant wink was a tender reminder of God’s profound love for us all.
The author lives in Utah.
Like the Moody family, how can you “purposely choose hope and trust in the Lord” in your own trials?

Cinzia came home from Relief Society tearful and distraught. She had prepared diligently for her lesson and thought the class went well. Afterward, she overheard two women in the hall criticize her. That hurt.
She explained to her husband, Massimo, what had happened. If that was how the sisters felt, she told him, then it was time to ask the bishop for a release. Massimo suggested that she not be hasty. “Why not wait to see what the Spirit directs?” he asked.
Cinzia felt frustrated. “You’re just like the others,” she cried. “You can’t even understand what I’ve been through, but you tell me what to do!”
Massimo could have quarreled with her, but he didn’t. He did not even point out to Cinzia that she was treating him in the same way that she claimed the sisters had treated her. Instead, he simply said, “I do not wish to be your enemy.”
Cinzia hesitated. She wasn’t sure if he was being genuine or acting morally superior. Massimo continued, “I want to think,” and left the room.
He felt sorry both for the way his wife had been treated and for her current suffering. Her accusations hurt, but he put them aside. Massimo sensed how wrong it would be to do what she was doing—giving it back. He thought about the problem, then prayed. He realized he could not force Cinzia to soften her heart. Only the Spirit could effectively prompt her to change.
What Massimo did is only one example of what a person who is guided by the Spirit may do. The Lord gives specific, individual responses for each situation. “I think you’re afraid,” Massimo finally said to Cinzia. His heart was full of love and concern for her. “I don’t know what you’re afraid of, but I believe that perfect love casts out fear. Perhaps the solution to your hurt is to love the sisters who criticized you.”
The words “fear” and “love” began to repeat themselves in Cinzia’s mind. Her heart began to soften and she began to repent of her harsh words, recognizing her husband’s love for her. The next day, she told him, “I’m sorry for what I said to you. And I’m sorry I reacted as I did to what those sisters said. When I was set apart as a Relief Society teacher, the Lord promised me that I could ease the burdens of others. Because of my pride, I became a burden instead.” With that insight, borne to her heart by the Spirit, Cinzia began to regain her self-confidence and to exercise a more Christ-like love for the sisters she taught.

I was about three or four months into my own mission, thrusting in my sickle with energy and diligence, when all at once—and I mean it was all at once—I thought, “Why am I doing this?”
“For God, of course,” I knew the answers. God had called me, God needed me, and there I was.
Then, as suddenly as before, I wondered, “Where is God?”
“Wait!” I felt guilty at the thought. “I’m an elder; I’m on a mission. I’m a witness. I have faith. I know … I’m supposed to know …”
Since childhood I had heard the phrase “without a shadow of a doubt.” Now, not only did I have a shadow of a doubt, I had a whole eclipse. I groped through the rest of the morning.
By lunch my companion had noticed my depression. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Well,” I spoke solemnly, “I think I lost my testimony today.”
He laughed, “Elder, you’re the best, always joking around. Go wash up so we can eat.” I smiled accommodatingly. I exited calmly. I entered the bathroom tranquilly. Then I panicked completely!
“Now what?” I turned on the faucet and splashed my face with cold water. “Moroni’s promise!” I buried my face in the towel. “Read, meditate, pray.” But I had already done that and apparently it wasn’t enough. “This doubt is definitely a job for an angel,” I decided. “I’ll just have to have a visitation.” It was settled. I tossed the towel in the washbowl and went to eat lunch.
That night after we arrived home, I prepared for bed quickly. We had companionship prayer as always. Then I climbed up to my top bunk and began my personal petition.
“Please,” I prayed. “I have to know. Are you real? Are you there?”
Suddenly my room was filled with light. I opened my believing eyes, and then the car passed. I was alone again in the dark.
That very afternoon we had told our investigators in a discussion that to know the truth they needed to read, meditate, and pray. I had read the promise to them myself. But had I done what I was asking them to do? I thought so, but maybe I hadn’t done enough. Sure, I had skimmed through the scriptures to get through seminary. And I hadn’t even skipped the Isaiah passages in 2 Nephi when I plowed through the Book of Mormon just before my mission. But still, had I done enough? Meditate? The most pondering I had done was on whatever good TV show I might miss while I studied. Suddenly very aware that I had not fully completed what was required of me, I could hardly wait until morning and a chance to begin.
At 6:00 A.M. my companion rolled out of bed for morning prayer. Nearly before his amen, I was showered, shaved, and seated at our desk. Until that day, my biggest challenge in the mission had been trying to stay awake during study time. From then on, the challenge became trying to find more personal study time.
Weeks passed and still, behind the missionary routine, the uneasiness lingered. Once again I felt an urgency to go before Heavenly Father and demand my testimony. “Now you have to tell me,” I prayed, over and over. It felt as though I were hollering down the hose of a vacuum cleaner. I wanted an answer to my prayer, but the only thing I heard was the echo of my own demanding voice.
“You can no more force the Spirit to respond,” states Elder Boyd K. Packer, “than you can force a bean to sprout, or an egg to hatch before its time. You can create a climate to foster growth, nourish, and protect; but you cannot force or compel: you must await the growth” (“The Candle of the Lord,” Ensign, Jan. 1983, p. 53).
Exhausted from the attempt, I crawled under my sheet. “If God is there,” I thought, clasping my hands behind my head, “he’s probably so busy with all the millions of people on all his numberless worlds that he just doesn’t have time for me.” I turned on my side. I felt smaller and smaller. My questions were many; my doubts were real and frightening. I missed home. I needed someone to care about me. “Heavenly Father, are you there?” I tried again. I had long since cancelled the angel order. A simple answer would do.
I waited for the burning in my bosom. Nothing happened.
The next day I began all over again. Like a gold miner I did not know where the reward might come or how much the reward might be. But the fact that it might come was enough motivation to keep me digging.
“How are you, Elder?” President Day asked. It was zone conference and time for my personal interview.
“Fine, President.”
“How’s your companion?”
“Fine, President.”
Seven questions, and seven “Fine, Presidents” later, we were finished. I stood to leave.
“Now, Elder,” President Day called me back. “Are you sure you don’t have any questions?” His eyes searched mine. I bit the inside of my cheek.
I had graduated from seminary, I had attended church every Sunday and earned my Eagle Scout Award. I had never even touched a cigarette or had a beer. I shouldn’t have questions. “No, President,” I shrugged. “No questions.”
Soon after that I was transferred. I packed my clothes in one suitcase and my books in another. There was hardly room for doubts, but deep inside I packed them, also.
In my new area I worked overtime; double time and triple time. I finished the Book of Mormon, Jesus the Christ, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder. This gold miner still couldn’t see the end of the tunnel but somehow always had enough light where he stood to keep digging.
Finally, another zone conference. Another interview.
“How are you, Elder?”
“Fine, President.”
“How’s your companion?”
“Fine, President.”
“Any questions?”
I couldn’t bring myself to expose my weakness. “Any questions?” President Day repeated. For a moment the small office seemed as large and frightening as a European cathedral. I wanted to tell him of my discouragement and doubt, but what would he think of me?
“Elder,” President Day broke our silence, “if you ever do have any questions I’m here.” In my mind the room shrank back to normal. Formalities disappeared. He was my friend, and I could trust him.
“Is there a God?” I implored.
“Yes,” he answered.
That’s all he said. No judgmental look, no scriptural references—just “yes.”
I ventured again, “Does he know me?”
President Day leaned forward. His eyes sought mine. He spoke intensely, “He knows your first name.”
“President,” I had one question left. “Does he love me?”
I listened. When he said yes, the Spirit washed over me, dissolving my anxiety in a flood of certainty. My mission president’s words had been confirmed. I felt it.
That night as I prayed again, my supplication soared. I spoke directly to a Heavenly Father I was beginning to love, through a Mediator I was at least beginning to comprehend. There were no doubts that night. There was only a peace which surpassed all understanding. God was there. He had been close to me all along, so why hadn’t he answered me months before?
Perhaps there were certain things I had to learn for myself. If he had answered the moment I called, would I have studied as hard as I did? Would I have pondered or prayed with such desire? Would I have strived to live as worthily or dedicated my time and talents in service as diligently? Would I have learned to swim if God were still holding my head above water? God’s delays are not always denials.
It was late. My companion was asleep. I stepped to the window of our room. Outside the South American night was warm. The earth seemed fresh and beautiful. The moon shone bright and full from a heaven that didn’t seem so far away anymore.
“I know that he loveth his children,” said Nephi; “nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things” (1 Ne. 11:17). My testimony had come slowly and would still have to grow. I did not know the answers to every question, but I, like Nephi, knew God loved me.

My husband and I had just moved to a new town and were excited to attend our new ward. It turned out that the ward boundaries were being changed, and the ward was divided.
After church our second Sunday, the ward clerk set an appointment for us to meet with the new bishop on Tuesday evening. After a short visit, the bishop asked my husband’s permission to call me as the Primary president of the new ward. Then he issued the call to me. I was shocked, but I had been taught never to turn down a calling, so I agreed to do my best.
The bishop gave me a list of names and asked me to meet with him in two days with names picked out for counselors and a secretary. I felt overwhelmed. When we arrived home, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. Then I poured out my heart to Heavenly Father, expressing my concerns over my new calling. I didn’t know anyone in the new ward, and I needed His help. When I finished praying, peace filled my heart.
The next morning I prayed and then dove into my usual housework. The list of names the bishop had given me sat on the kitchen table, and I briefly glanced at it each time I passed. After I had looked at the list several times, two names seemed to stand out to me. I picked up the list and read the names. As I pronounced the names, a warm feeling engulfed me. I had never felt the Holy Ghost so strongly.
I immediately approached Heavenly Father in prayer, tears streaming down my cheeks as I said the names again. I didn’t know anything about either of these women, but I knew in my heart they were to be my counselors.
Later that evening I went over the list of names in my head. One name came into my mind every time I pictured the list. She became my secretary.
I met with the bishop the next day and gave him the names for my counselors and secretary. To my surprise they were the same women the bishop thought would work well in the Primary. When I got to church on Sunday, the first counselor in the bishopric stood outside the chapel with me, pointing out my counselors and secretary as they arrived. As I watched these sisters, I felt that I already knew them. The Spirit again confirmed to me that these women were called of God.
I knew we could work harmoniously together serving the Lord—and we did. Although these sisters were strangers to me, they were perfect for their callings. The Lord knew whom He wanted to call. What a growing experience it was to me to learn firsthand what it means to be called of God by prophecy.

It was a dark and stormy night.
Well, okay, maybe it was a sunny afternoon.
Whenever it was, somebody sneaked up outside the window of James B. Young’s dormitory room on the Ricks College campus. They pulled out a roll of masking tape. Then cautiously, they formed letters—backwards—on the window, so that when Jamie opened the curtains in the morning, he would read the words the right way. This was their message:
“We Love U.”
All of which brings us back to the masked message taped on Jamie’s window one dark and stormy night.
“We Love U,” it said.
If James Brigham Young has anything to say about it, that may well become the official nickname for Ricks College.

I am reminded of one of my favorite movies. The movie is a story of a man that not only understood his place but understood the ability and potential of others. The movie is titled "Stand and Deliver." This movie is the story of Jaime Escalante who quit his job as a computer programmer to teach math at an inner city high school in Los Angeles. All of the people around the students in his class, teachers, parents, other students, even the students themselves, had already concluded that Mr. Escalante's students were going nowhere and did not have a chance in life--much less in school. Mr. Escalante did not buy into this belief and worked with all his strength to teach the students math up to and including Calculus. He helped them, worked with them during the summer, came in early, stayed late, and in the end prepared them for the advance placement test. Just before they were to take the test, one of the students asked him if he was worried that they would mess up on the test. Mr. Escalante, having a greater understanding of what his students could become, told the student that he was not worried about the test tomorrow. He was worried about their whole lives. Mr. Escalante understood the potential of those students even when they did not. He gave everything he had to work with them and help them achieve that potential.

One of four regional winners in last year’s national “Sew-Biz” sewing contest was a Laurel from the Orem 55th Ward, Orem Utah South Stake. Jo-Anne Erickson was chosen as Orem High School’s winner and as one of 60 district winners before being named a top participant oh the national level. Jo-Anne made a three-piece skirt-blouse-vest ensemble to fulfill the requirements of constructing an outfit from a “Quick Butterick” pattern in fabric containing at least 50 percent Kodel. The contest was sponsored by Butterick Patterns, Eastman Chemical Products, and Seventeen magazine.
As a national winner, Jo-Anne received a Kodak camera, a silver bowl, and a four-day, all-expense paid trip to New York City for herself and her home economics teacher. The other regional national winners were from Arkansas, Michigan, and Pennsylvania. While in New York the winners visited the World Trade Center, the Rockefeller Center, and Fifth Avenue; toured Eastman Fibers, Seventeen magazine, and Butterick Patterns; went on a boat tour around Manhattan Bay; and attended a Broadway show. Jo-Anne is currently attending Ricks College where her major is interior design.