Gospel Story Finder

Everyone knows that computers are useful tools. You can play games, send E-mail to friends, even type up term papers for your European history class. But Laurels in the Aliso Creek Ward, Santa Margarita California Stake, know an even better way to use a computer.
“I looked up my parents in the Ancestral File™ [at her local family history center] on the computer and found the names of thousands of my ancestors. It was really neat!” says 18-year-old Rebecca Hope.
Liz Chocco, another Laurel, prepared the names of two deceased family members and was then baptized for them in the San Diego Temple.
“The Spirit was so strong,” says Liz. “I felt that these two relatives were actually there. I felt an eternal bond with them. The phrase ‘families are forever’ became real to me in the temple.”

One case, in particular, touched me. It was about a boy from Mexico who was dying. When my dad went to see the patient, he found the mother by the boy’s bedside, weeping.
“Hola, Señora Garcia,*“ said my father, who had served a Spanish-speaking mission. Startled to hear Spanish, the woman told my dad she had brought her son from Mexico to receive care. They continued to talk, and the woman told my father she was LDS. As the only LDS emergency room doctor at the hospital—and the only one who spoke Spanish—my dad was able to give the boy a blessing of comfort before he died and help the mother with funeral arrangements.

The back windows of our home overlook a small flower garden and the woods which border a small stream. One wall of the house borders on the garden and is thickly covered with English ivy. Most years this ivy has been the nesting place for house finches. The nests in the vines are safe from foxes and raccoons and cats that are about.
One day there was a great commotion in the ivy. Desperate cries of distress came as 8 or 10 finches from the surrounding woods came to join in this cry of alarm. I soon saw the source of the commotion. A snake had slid partway down out of the ivy and hung in front of the window just long enough for me to pull it out. The middle part of the snake’s body had two bulges—clear evidence convicting it of taking two fledglings from the nest. Not in the 50 years we had lived in our home had we seen anything like that. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience—or so we thought.
A few days later there was another commotion, this time in the vines covering our dog run. We heard the same cries of alarm, the gathering of the neighborhood finches. We knew what the predator was. A grandson climbed onto the run and pulled out another snake that was still holding on tightly to the mother bird it had caught in the nest and killed.
I said to myself, “What is going on? Is the Garden of Eden being invaded again?”
There came into my mind the warnings spoken by the prophets. We will not always be safe from the adversary’s influence, even within our own homes. We need to protect our nestlings.

Joseph cherished the faithfulness and constant support of his beloved parents, as seen by his tender pleading with the Lord concerning his father’s failing health in 1835: “I waited on him all this day with my heart raised to God in the name of Jesus Christ, that He would restore him to health, that I might be blessed with his company and advice, esteeming it one of the greatest earthly blessings to be blessed with the society of parents, whose mature years and experience render them capable of administering the most wholesome advice” (History of the Church, 2:289).
Even when Joseph was most busy with his responsibilities as prophet and President of the Church, his concern for his family and parents came to the fore. His diary for 8–11 October 1835—when he had just commenced again to translate the writings of Abraham—records his concern for his father. No other business was more pressing or important.
“Thursday, 8.—At home. I attended on my father with great anxiety.
“Friday, 9.—At home. Waited on my father.
“Saturday, 10.—At home, and visited the house of my father, found him failing very fast.
“Sunday, 11.—Waited on my father again, who was very sick. In secret prayer in the morning, the Lord said, ‘My servant, thy father shall live.’ …
“At evening Brother David Whitmer came in. We called on the Lord in mighty prayer in the name of Jesus Christ, and laid our hands on [my father], and rebuked the disease. And God heard and answered our prayers—to the great joy and satisfaction of our souls” (History of the Church, 2:289).

Frank Fourie, first counselor in the Capetown South Africa Stake presidency, belongs to one of several such families who have been members for more than fifty years. Recalling his late mother Johanna’s conversion, he says: “Mother had several gospel queries which our minister could not explain. She warned him: ‘If I find a church that does have the answers, I will have to join it!’
“In 1934, Latter-day Saint missionaries knocked at our door, were invited in, and answered every question. Mother and we children were baptized in the Old Hall at Mowbray, now demolished. Looking up at a picture of the Salt Lake Temple on the wall, she vowed she would go there one day. It was during the Depression, so her dream seemed unlikely, but it came true in later years.” Johanna served as a Primary president for many years. “I have a copy of Cumorah’s Southern Messenger [a Latter-day Saint publication of an earlier era] describing her eightieth birthday party while still serving in this calling,” President Fourie says.

One of the greatest blessings of my life was being able to serve a full-time mission. It was a wonderful event for the whole family, since I was the oldest of three brothers. My parents were converts to the Church and had been baptized when I was four years old, thanks to two fine missionaries who knocked on the door of their home in Bernal, a suburb south of Buenos Aires, Argentina. As a result, my parents always hoped their children would likewise help people find the religion that had made them so happy.
Things were going wonderfully as the first year of my mission went by. Then, when I was serving in Córdoba, Argentina, I received some sad news from home: my father was very ill. He had recently undergone surgery, and the doctors had found that his illness was much advanced, in the terminal stage.
The mission president decided that I should go home, visit my father, and return to the mission field the next day. So I went home and found my father on the verge of death, most of the time unconscious and immobile. I spent most of my time at his bedside. Those were hours of sorrow, of peace, and of the abundant companionship of the Spirit. All my thoughts were centered on the Lord and His great plan.
At some point my father regained consciousness. He looked at me but did not recognize me. However, as I began to express how much I loved him and how grateful I was to be his son, he realized he was listening to his eldest child, the missionary. Tears started to roll down his cheeks, and making great effort to communicate, he said, “Your mother is a saintly woman; she is our example.” Then I clearly heard these words from his lips: “Even if you don’t have anything to eat, always pay your tithing.”
He did not say much more. I wrote down his words in my journal, left the house, and returned to the mission field. A few hours later my father passed away.
With the passage of time, as I began my own family and watched my children grow up, this experience with my father came to my mind. As I pondered the significance of life and death, I thought, “What last words of counsel would I leave my children if I knew the time had come to leave this world?” I could not think of anything better than the counsel I had received from my father: “Even if you don’t have anything to eat, always pay your tithing.”
The law of tithing is a great blessing to our family. I have learned that the Lord does not need my tithing; rather, I am the one who needs the blessings that come from obeying this law.
I have also learned that it does not matter if our donation envelope is bulging or if it contains just a few coins. We have met our obligation to the Lord if our tithing is 10 percent of our income. As we pay our tithing we become partners with the Lord. We take a stand in favor of building temples, in which all the ordinances of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ are made available to families. We take a stand in favor of building meetinghouses, where we can attend each Sunday with our families and partake of the sacrament if worthy. We take a stand in favor of helping missionary work reach the ends of the earth. And finally, we take a stand in favor of having the Church “stand independent above all other creatures beneath the celestial world” (D&C 78:14).
I consider the law of tithing a law of protection for my home and the most important principle in the sound financial management of our family’s resources.
Church members who understand the principle of tithing know that it is not primarily about money; it is about faith. Let us have faith in the promises of the Lord, who declared, “Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it” (Malachi 3:10).

Heidi Harris of Salt Lake City wanted to study the Book of Mormon but felt she had time only for schoolwork. Then one night, frustrated by a math problem, she exercised her faith and prayed for help. When she finished, the first thing she saw was the Book of Mormon. “I picked it up,” she says, “and began to read. … I finished a chapter in 1 Nephi, then went back to my treacherous math problem. I found I could solve it.”
After several weeks of reading the Book of Mormon, Heidi found herself achieving more academically. “I still had to do the work, but the reading gave me an extra push. … I was able to understand what I studied, and I had the patience to stick with my work. Not only did my grades improve, but I was easier to get along with and happier than I had ever been” (Liahona, February 1996, 13).

Liam is learning to balance the things he needs and wants to do. He may be busy, but there’s one thing he makes time for every day—the gospel of Jesus Christ.

“I recently decided that I would read at least one chapter of the Book of Mormon—just one chapter—every single day,” Liam says. “It takes me maybe five minutes. But it gives me an extra boost, so I’m willing to take that challenge.”

Reading the scriptures every day has helped Liam more than he thought it would. “Sometimes when I have a bad day, reading something comforting can put me back on top again. But if it’s been a good day, it can also remind me to be grateful that things are going well. I’m glad I’ve been able to stick to my goal.”

Liam is busy with lots of hobbies and responsibilities. But making time every day to read the Book of Mormon has blessed his life.

Later, I attended Duke University in North Carolina, where I participated in a graduate seminar studying a collection of Jewish and Christian writings dating from the time of Jesus, known as the Pseudepigrapha. During the course of the seminar, I had mentioned the Book of Mormon from time to time, but my comments were not taken seriously by others around the table. Toward the end of the semester, the distinguished professor, who has an impressive reputation in his area of research, asked the seminar to tackle one particularly puzzling writing, the little-known “Narrative of Zosimus.” It tells of a righteous family that God had led away from Jerusalem prior to its destruction by the Babylonians around 600 B.C. and how this group escaped to a land of blessedness where they kept records on metal plates soft enough that they could inscribe them with their fingernails. In the story, Zosimus was allowed to visit these people in vision. In order to get to their land, Zosimus had to journey through wildernesses, pass through impenetrable mists of darkness, cross the ocean, and come from a tree that bore pure fruit and gave forth water sweet as honey. (See the same elements in 1 Ne. 8:10–12 and 1 Ne. 11:25.)
After discussing some of the technical aspects of this Near Eastern document, the professor put it to the class, “Well, what do we make of the Narrative of Zosimus? Is it Jewish or Christian?” The seminar had little to say, and the members of the class were about to conclude that the writing could not be classified, since the Narrative was so unlike anything else they had ever seen. By then I could wait no longer. I told the seminar the history of Lehi and his family and more about the Book of Mormon. When I had spoken, the group had even less to say. Then the teacher said, “Class, let me tell you a few more things about this Book of Mormon.” He then described the Book of Mormon’s use of chiasmus, of Melchizedek in Alma 13, and other things that the two of us had discussed privately, and then he asked, “Well, class what do we make of the Book of Mormon?” Although some of the members of the seminar ultimately concluded that the most convenient solution to their problem might be found in identifying Joseph Smith as a reincarnated Jewish scribe, it was significant to me that the student who had been most sarcastic toward the Book of Mormon earlier was now the one who asked if he could learn more.

Peter Lehmann remembers being made fun of in citizenship classes in school. Everyone knew he was a Mormon. “In fact,” he says, “they probably knew more about my life than I did. We were watched. I think my family had a red dot on any record we had in any government office. We belonged to the Mormon church. We had seven sons. We were a different family.”
Michael Lehmann recalls: “My parents tried to raise me in a way that I wouldn’t talk about certain topics in public. They taught me to be careful in case I was near somebody who might have installed microphones or something like that. You never knew who to trust.”
In those conditions, people either dropped away from the Church completely, or they clung to it—and each other. It was a place where faith grew despite the surroundings. And, as President Spencer W. Kimball said, faith precedes miracles.
Most of the miracles were quiet ones: healings and the blessings that come from paying tithing and living the Word of Wisdom. And there was the miracle of developing and keeping a testimony in such a place.
Michael: “When I started going to school, I had a hard time with it because my parents told me about God, but everybody around me—students and teachers—tried to tell me there was no God at all.”
Peter: “In citizenship classes in school we were taught atheism as official policy. They made fun of religion in class and said if you belonged to a religious organization, you were working against the government. The government was more or less worshiped.”
Parents taught one thing; society often taught the opposite. Like LDS teens everywhere, the Lehmann brothers had to find out for themselves. “We had a really good home,” Peter recalls. “I kind of recognized the importance of doing what my parents wanted me to do. Still, with all of the experiences I had in school—people and teachers gave us a hard time and wanted me to get up and deny God—I said to myself, ‘We’re doing all this stuff. Why? There’s got to be something.’ I got on my knees and said, ‘I want to know for myself. I want to have the feeling in my heart.’
“I prayed and studied the Book of Mormon, and I got a testimony at that time, a little testimony that grew.”

I approached Luan, and we became fast friends. After his surgery, I visited him in his home, along with his bishop, Ozani Farias, and his stake president, Mozart B. Soares. These good leaders were a blessing in Luan’s life. They were always there to comfort, support, and help him.
I felt the Spirit very strongly in Luan’s home. Luan, along with his mother and sisters, had joined the Church eight months earlier. There was no father in the home, and Luan’s mother worked hard to provide for the family. Their small house was tidy and clean, and I knew that simple home sheltered a very special family.
During our visit, we noticed the family lacked many basic things. Luan had to sleep on an uncomfortable couch because he had no bed. But when we asked what the family needed, they replied, “We have the gospel, our friends at church, and a happy family. Thank you, but we need nothing else.”
A short time after our visit, Luan’s condition worsened, and his doctors found a large tumor at the base of his spinal cord. It could not be removed surgically, so Luan went to the hospital for another round of chemotherapy.
One night when President Soares and I visited Luan in the hospital, we found him in a lot of pain. He asked us several questions, including, “What is death?” and “What is dying like?”
I explained that dying is part of eternity and that death is not a closing door but a door that opens for us as we go back to the presence of God. Luan understood and smiled. He said he was prepared. Then he asked us to give him a priesthood blessing, and we did so.
In the bed next to Luan was a 14-year-old boy named Pedro. Pedro asked us to bless him too. I asked if he had faith in Jesus Christ, and he said he did. We explained what the priesthood is and that we would be blessing him in the name of Jesus Christ. He closed his eyes and smiled as we blessed him. Next an 18-year-old young woman asked us to give her a blessing too.
I found out Luan and his mother had comforted Pedro and many of the other young cancer patients and their parents. As I left the hospital that night, I was edified to see that Luan and his mother, though suffering themselves, found the strength to visit others and minister to their needs.
When President Soares asked Luan what he would like to do when he left the hospital, Luan said he would like to perform vicarious baptisms in the Recife Brazil Temple. After Luan left the hospital, President Soares and Bishop Farias helped him fulfill this desire. Luan performed as many baptisms as his strength would allow. At the end of his day at the temple, even though he was in great pain, he was happy he could do something for others.
Luan Felix da Silva died on August 20, 2001. Whenever I think of my friend and fellow servant, I am reminded of the Savior’s words:
“Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you …
“For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
“Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: …
“And the King shall … say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matt. 25:34–36, 40).

Splash!
I dived through the water and swam around behind the boat, trying to catch the breath the cold water pushed out of my lungs. Actually, it felt good. The air above the river was hot and heavy, and I needed that sudden jolt to wake me up and prepare me for my first ski run of the day.
My first ski run, and possibly my last. Not only of the day, but of the year—two years, in fact. I would be leaving for my mission in about two weeks, and I had been spending the entire summer cramming in a lot of activities that would be prohibited once I entered the mission field.
I figured that if I spent enough time skiing, swimming, dating, dancing, and doing a thousand other things I wouldn’t be able to do as a missionary, I’d get it all out of my system and be ready to settle down once I reached the MTC. I hardly even looked at the scriptures. They weren’t going to change any in the month before I left, and I would have plenty of time to study them over the next two years. I would soon be devoting 24 hours a day to the service of others, so I had decided to devote the preceding month to the service of me.
I signaled to Kent, who was driving the boat, that my ski was adjusted and ready. He smiled, nodded, and began to accelerate. Getting up on the river, where the current was particularly strong, was not easy, but I managed, and I was soon gliding across the water’s surface. The wind pressed on my face. I closed my eyes and smiled up toward the sun. What a wonderful feeling.
But suddenly my ski struck something hard, and I crashed face down in the water. For some reason, I was being dragged rapidly toward shore. It took me a second to realize that I’d run into a jumble of logs and branches that were floating downstream, and my ski was hopelessly entangled. The current was pulling me toward the shore at the bend in the river, where a mass of sharp rocks and branches had piled up. “If the current drags me into that mess, I’m through,” I thought as I frantically tried to free myself from the entangled ski.
My cousins in the boat quickly realized the danger I was in, and circled back around to try to fish me out. Unfortunately though, the boat got caught in the current too, and I found myself sandwiched between the boat and the rapidly approaching pile of debris. Sharp branches and jagged rocks were only a few feet, a few inches, from my eyes, my throat, my chest. If only I could dive under the boat and put it between me and the ragged shore. I tried, but the buoyancy of my ski vest made that impossible.
I began praying desperately. It was the only alternative left. Immediately some force, like a huge hand, thrust me down into the water and under the boat. I was glad the boat had a jet engine, so I didn’t need to deal with a propeller. My ski had finally been wrenched from my foot, and with the new mobility that gave me, I was able to push out from under the boat and emerge on the other side, just in time to see it crash into the debris.
I could hear my cousins shouting and crying, sure that I had been skewered by a branch and was caught under the water. I shakily called out to them, and with great relief, they pulled me back into the boat.
I huddled in my towel and mulled over what had just happened as we headed back to the sandy beach where we had started. My mission had almost been finished before it began. How important the work must be! I felt the Lord had truly sent angels to be round about me, to bear me up, as it says in Doctrine and Covenants 84:88. I was grateful to have been spared to do his work.
It was then that I understood that my preparation tactics had been all wrong. If the work was that important, I shouldn’t be out grabbing at all the excitement I could before I left. I should be trying to embrace all the scripture study, all the prayer, all the service I could. Of course it wouldn’t hurt to get a little fun in, but I should have begun long ago to practice what I was going to preach.
I would definitely have to change my schedule for the next two weeks, and I’d have to work harder in a different way, than I’d ever dreamed. That realization was a cold, hard one, but actually, it felt good. I needed the sudden jolt to prepare me for the next two years of my life.

Chanta and Sounthara Luangrath sat in their home in California, USA, wondering what they should do. They had prepared their four children to serve missions, and now they knew it was their turn. The decision was bigger than they’d expected: they would miss their grandchildren so much! They were also concerned about a few health issues. And what would they do with their home and belongings while they were gone?
The Luangraths’ concerns about serving a mission are not unique to them. In fact, Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles identified four categories of obstacles to senior missionary work: fear, family concerns, finding the right mission opportunity, and finances.1
Overcoming these obstacles requires great faith, a trait the Luangraths demonstrated when they heard President Thomas S. Monson’s call for more missionaries in the October 2010 general conference. “We felt the Spirit so strong,” they reflect. “We wanted to follow the prophet, so we turned in our mission application.”
The Luangraths were called to serve as humanitarian missionaries in Laos, the land where they were born, raised, and married. Their worries faded as they prepared to serve: their family supported them, they resolved their health issues, and they made their home available for lease. They felt confident as they did what the Savior commanded: “Go thy way, … take up the cross, and follow me” (Mark 10:21).

Experience 1: While attending BYU-Idaho shortly after my mission, one of my friends from high school was killed in an airplane crash. As I walked through the Manwaring Center shortly after learning of the accident, I happened to see another friend, the younger brother of the one who had died. As I approached him to express my sympathy and condolences, I struggled to control my emotions. Seeing this, my friend simply smiled and said, “It’s okay,” and wrapped me in a bear hug. In an effort to express compassion, I was in turn touched by the heroic compassion of my friend who saw beyond his own greater pain and comforted me in mine. He didn’t have to, but he did anyway, and it made a difference.

The Hunk. That’s what his friends called him. His muscles rippled beneath his shirt; his blonde, naturally wavy hair curled back from his tanned, intelligent forehead; and his teeth dazzled when he turned to smile. When he walked by, girls oohed and whispered in admiration and the guys backed up in awe.
Today would be the Hunk’s day of glory. Single-handedly he would sweep the state track tournament, bringing in dozens of trophies for Riverview High, along with numerous offers of scholarships to prestigious colleges for him. Then, on to the Olympics where he’d have gold medals draped over his muscular chest and crowds cheering and calling his name.
“Dexter! Dexter!” called his mother. “Pay attention or you’ll be late for seminary. Julie is out honking for you, and I need you to bring in some more sugar from the storeroom before you go.”
Dexter looked up at his mother, who was canning pears, and pushed a straight, dark lock of hair away from his glasses. He grabbed a sack of sugar, but it was too heavy to carry, so he set it on the floor, then scooted it across to where his mother stood by the stove. He grabbed his books, then ran out to where Julie, a classmate and neighbor, was waiting in her family’s beat-up station wagon.
Elder Hunk was the talk of the mission. Never had a missionary swept an area as he had. There had been talk of closing that area, but single-handedly Elder Hunk had swelled convert baptisms until conservative estimates ran in the thousands. His picture was on the cover of the Church News under the caption “Wonder Missionary,” and he was being compared to missionaries in the early days of the Church.
“How do you do it?” asked his mission president.
“Dexter. Dexter. How do you do it?” questioned his seminary teacher, Brother Larsen.
A classmate poked Dexter in his ribs, “Hey, wake up.” Brother Larsen patiently repeated his question. “How can we be member missionaries?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he said.
The youth genealogy class had started. Sister Barton had handed out pedigree charts. The Hunk walked in, arms loaded with notebooks and files.He dropped them before her and stated, “This is my genealogy research. I have recently added 15,000 names after having mastered 12 foreign languages. Notice the coat of arms and the royal lines that run throughout. And I have revolutionized data gathering using my new program. This computer disk now contains four million new names I’ve researched.”
As he drew the disk from his briefcase and casually dropped it before the instructor, the class gasped in amazement, and Sister Barton, hands to her face, stared in awe and reverence.
“Dexter, Dexter,” Sister Barton’s voice pierced his mind. “Here’s your family group sheet. Now put down what you can.”
Dexter replied, “I don’t even know where my grandfather was born,” as he pushed the sheet away.
“Scouter Hunk,” said the country’s president, “I want to pin this medal on you in appreciation for your courage and leadership skills. Bravely you rescued 400 tourists when their boat swamped. Your Eagle Scout project has revitalized your town, along with the entire country. And single-handedly you reformed 200 delinquent children by getting them involved in Scouting.
“Dexter,” called out Scoutmaster Simmons at the Scout meeting. “When can you help us collect food for the homeless?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he replied.
“Brother Hunk,” the stake leader said, “the youth conference you planned and supervised was the most impressive activity I’ve seen. As the youth representative you single-handedly organized and carried off a wholesome activity that will be recorded in this stake’s history. Every house has been painted, disaster plans and emergency supplies are present in every household, wickedness is banished, corruption and litter are gone. And the youth say they’ve never had so much fun. You are magnificent!”
The youth surrounding the stake leader cheered the Hunk.
“Dexter! Dexter!”
The voice of his priesthood adviser, brother Magnuson, broke through.
“Dexter, will you help set up tables for the youth conference next month?” asked brother Magnuson.
Dexter looked up, realized he was at a ward youth meeting, and replied, “I dunno.”
There’s no glory in that, thought Dexter. I want to be chairman or nothing. Fat chance of being chairman so I’ll be nothing. He sat silent for the rest of the meeting.
Afterwards Julie hurried to catch him as he started to climb into the family car.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You’ve been so distracted and distant lately, like you’re in a different world. You always used to help out with youth conferences. What’s bothering you?”
“It’s nothing,” said Dexter. “It’s just that I’m tired of being ordinary—just average, with no honor or recognition. Look at us Julie. We’re the average kids. No one notices us. We are never head of anything, never applauded, just the average ones who are always there. If the school paper did an article about us do you know what it would say?”
Dexter picked up a school book, cleared his throat, and in a deep voice intoned, “Dexter and Julie are two average students at Riverview High. They have never been president of any organization. They did not win a scholarship. They haven’t won a race or a trophy. They have not won honors for any talent. They are average.”
“Now,” said Dexter, putting down the book. “Do you see what I mean?”
“But we try.”
“Name one thing you do really well Julie.”
“I like to paint.”
“Have you won any awards?”
“Well, no.”
“Don’t you see what I mean. You’re an average painter. So why paint?”
“Maybe I’m not a Michelangelo or even a Grandma Moses. But painting makes me so aware of the world. How many colors do you see in that tree?”
“One—it’s green. Trees are all the same. All green.”
“But I see maybe ten shades and colors—some darker with touches of brown, other parts lighter with splashes of yellow.”
“They’re still trees in an average painting. For me it’s going to be the top or nothing. I want to be a winner. I want recognition!”
His voice had gotten louder and classmates turned to stare.
“You’re getting recognition,” giggled Julie.
He lowered his voice. “I want to be the best, the greatest.”
“Well,” replied Julie, “it wasn’t some famous person that touched our family when we were investigating the Church. It was my three-year-old niece singing ‘I Am a Child of God.’ Sometimes the common can achieve the uncommon.”
“Not for me. I want to be the greatest. I want recognition. I want honors.”
Dexter climbed into the car and drove off.
Member Missionary Hunk was assigned to coordinate the open house for the public at the newly completed temple. He planned on being stationed in the celestial room, where he would quietly nod acknowledgments to community dignitaries. Afterwards there would be cookies and punch with guest speakers at the stake center to honor him. Honors to the Hunk.
“Dexter, you’ll be serving here. You’ll help put booties on the shoes of the visitors before they enter the temple for the tour,” the tour leader said.
Filled with disappointment, Dexter sat on the ground and assisted visitors with shoe coverings. No honor in this he thought. In fact it was uncomfortable and embarrassing. But there was something familiar about it. What was it?
He looked up at the temple spires and remembered the words carved on the side: “Holiness to the Lord.”
Holiness to the Lord. Again there was that nagging feeling of familiarity.
Suddenly, a scene came to his mind of a painting that hung at home. He who was greatest was washing the feet of the disciples.
Across the walkway of the temple two visitors were conversing.
“Say, who’s that kid with the glasses, the one who is putting on foot coverings. Is he someone special?”
“No, that’s just Dexter. He’s a nice, average kid.”
“But look at the way he’s treating visitors. It’s as though each person he helps is the most important person he’ll meet.”
On Saturday Dexter wrote a letter to his great-aunt requesting information on his grandfather’s birthplace. He gathered food, took it by an immigrant family’s home, and told them he’d be back the next day with two young men and a special book written in their own language. Later he wrapped up a clean Scout shirt and Scout handbook and quietly laid it on the doorstep of a widow’s home whose son hadn’t much money. He knocked and ran. The widow and son found the bag along with a note: From your friend.
Brother Magnuson was surprised that Saturday to get a call from Dexter. He volunteered to set up tables for the youth conference and offered to help with cleanup also.
Then Dexter called Julie and invited her to walk down to the park with him. She’d paint trees while he took photographs of the ducks.

Carlos was just about your size when his parents sent him to Mexico to stay with his grandmother. Carlos’s family was moving to a different part of Colorado, and Carlos’s father told him that as soon as they had found a new house and moved into it, they would send for him.
Carlos’s Uncle Pablo drove him to Mexico. They traveled over hot, dusty roads and through deserts and mountains. Finally, in one little village next to the mountains, his uncle smiled at Carlos and said, “We’re here.”
As they drove up in front of a tiny white adobe house, chickens scattered in every direction, flapping their wings and squawking at the car and its passengers.
An old lady came out of the house. She had dark brown skin and white hair. Carlos’s uncle threw his arms around her and kissed her cheek.
“Carlos,” his uncle said, “do you remember your grandmother?”
“Bienvenido (welcome), Carlos.” The woman smiled at him.
Carlos just stood there. He hadn’t been with his grandmother since he was a baby, and he didn’t remember her at all. Finally he looked up at his uncle. “Uncle Pablo, I don’t want to be here!” Carlos whispered, even though he knew his grandmother couldn’t understand English.
“Now, Carlos, remember that you agreed to give it a try here. It’s just for a little while,” Uncle Pablo said, “Here, see if you’re strong enough to carry this into the house,” Pablo took the old, battered suitcase out of the car and handed it to Carlos.
Carlos dropped the suitcase just inside the door. He walked through both rooms of the house. The wooden furniture looked strange to him, as did the pictures with beads hanging from them on the walls. In the middle of the larger room stood a tall, wooden machine with rows of string going up and down; on the floor around it lay several balls of colorful yarn.
Carlos walked out the back door and into the cooking shed, where black pots and pans hung on the wall and firewood was piled in the corner. He saw that his uncle and grandmother were still talking, and he decided that somehow he’d think of a way to get his uncle to take him back to Colorado.
Carlos went through the backyard to the other side of the house. He saw some boys playing in the street and walked closer to watch them. Suddenly a dog ran up and started barking at him. The boys stopped playing, and one of them called the dog. They all yelled a greeting to Carlos, but he couldn’t understand them. They called again, and when he still didn’t respond, they started to laugh.
Carlos turned and ran away from them. I can’t help it if I don’t understand Spanish! he thought.
Carlos ran through the village and didn’t stop until he’d climbed a small hill. From the top of the hill he could see his grandmother’s house. “Oh, no!” he agonized. “Uncle Pablo’s car is gone!”
The sinking sun had turned the faraway clouds into a red, orange, and pink sunset before Carlos returned to his grandmother’s house. She was busy making dinner in the cooking shed. When she looked up and saw Carlos, she put down the bowl she was holding and grasped his shoulders. “Carlos!” she cried, then went on excitedly in Spanish.
Carlos didn’t understand her words, but he understood that she had been worried about him and that he wasn’t to wander off again without telling her. Grown-ups are all alike in every language, Carlos decided.
During dinner Grandma tried teaching him the Spanish names of the things that she pointed to: mesa (table), plato (plate), tenedor (fork), pan (bread), frijoles (beans), arroz (rice), limonada (lemonade). Carlos ate only a little of his food. When his mother made Mexican food, it was always a treat, but now all he wanted was a hamburger with catsup and mustard and pickles.
After dinner Grandma worked at her loom by the dim light of a kerosene lamp, weaving fabric from the colorful yarns. As she worked, she sang softly and looked up every few minutes to smile at Carlos. Carlos sat on the floor watching his grandmother, wishing that she had a television set.
Grandma let Carlos sleep in the only bed in the house. She covered him with a sheet, let down the mosquito netting, then tucked its edges under the mattress. “Buenas noches (good night), Carlos.” She went into the other room and put out the lamp.
Darkness closed in on Carlos. Crickets chirped nearby. He turned over and looked out the window at a bright star and wondered if that same star was shining down on his parents. All day he had fought tears, but he couldn’t stop them anymore. Soon he was sobbing out of control.
Grandma lighted the kerosene lamp again and came into the room. Lifting the mosquito netting and sitting on the bed next to Carlos, she pulled him up into her arms. “Carlos, Carlos.” She put her soft cheek against his forehead and gently rocked back and forth, humming softly.
“I want my dad … and my mom,” Carlos sobbed.
Grandma got up, took his hand, and led him to a wooden chest in the other room. From the chest she took brightly colored fabric and soft-colored dresses and placed them aside. Then she took out what looked like a small, woven blanket with broad stripes of green, red, white, and orange. One of the corners was slightly burned. She held it out for Carlos to take. “Sarape,” she said.
Then the old woman brought out something wrapped in white lace. She took off the lace, revealing a book. Smiling at Carlos, she opened the book so that he could see it. Black and white photographs filled each page. She turned the pages slowly, smiling at pictures of a bride and a groom and babies. Pointing to a picture of a young boy, she said, “Tu papi (your daddy).”
Carlos looked closely at the picture. It was like looking at himself. It was his father, standing with the same sarape over his shoulder. Also in the picture was a beautiful young woman with her arm around him.
Carlos ran his fingers over the coarse fabric of the sarape. His father’s fingers had probably felt this fabric the same way when they were the same size as Carlos’s were now.
He looked up from the picture at his grandmother. She wore her white hair combed straight back—the same way it was in the picture—only then her hair had been black. She’s still pretty, Carlos decided.
As he looked at his grandmother, she smiled, but a tear ran down her cheek too. Suddenly Carlos understood that she loved his father as much as he did and that she was as lonely for him as he was. “Grandma,” Carlos said simply, putting his arms around her.
Tears came to both their eyes, but this time they were tears of joy.
When Grandma had tucked Carlos back into bed, she placed the sarape on the end of the bed.
“Thank you, Grandma,” Carlos said, smiling up at her. “Everything is going to be good, I can tell.”
Grandma smiled at Carlos, then bent down and gently kissed him good night, “Te quiero mucho (I love you a lot), Carlos.”

BARBARA: I have a friend I am really close to at school. We were both trying out for something. We worked together, and helped each other, and we even prayed for each other. Then talking with her the other day, I found out she isn’t a member of our church. She is a Buddhist! I was so surprised! The whole time I had been treating her like a Mormon. We had become really close; she came up to me one day, started crying, and told me how much she appreciated me. And I thought, if we could only treat everyone as if he were a member, then we’d have no problems.

Can I just say something quickly about dress and appearance, particularly to you returned missionaries? I remember an experience I had after I’d been home about three weeks. I was going to priesthood meeting, and my sister, who is here today, had bought me a brand-new sport shirt, and I really liked it, and a pair of slacks. I was just going out the door to priesthood meeting when my father was coming from one of his stake meetings and he asked me, “Son, where are you going?” And I said “Dad, you know where I’m going; I am going to priesthood meeting.” And he said, “Like that?” And I thought, I’ve got a new pair of slacks and a new sports shirt. He sat me down in the living room, put his arm around me and taught me a great lesson. He said, “The Lord expects more out of returned missionaries.” And you know, young people, that was 1956. When I’ve been tempted on a hot summer night to go to a sacrament meeting in a white shirt and just a tie; I remember that moment.

No matter how old we are, if we do not understand and feel what it means to be a child of God, we will not have the courage to endure life's trials. I had such an experience relatively recently. When faced with uncertainty related to a particular situation, and not knowing how to resolve it, I decided to kneel and pray. I simply asked, "Father, Am I your son? and Father, do you love me?" The answer came with such power that I knew that He was listening, and sending the comfort I desperately needed. I did not receive the knowledge as to how to fix the problem at that moment, but I had the courage not to give up, and to keep moving forward.

School was even more wonderful than I had imagined. I got to see Lucy every day, and we could share secrets at recess or trade sandwiches and cookies during the lunch hour. The rest of the time there were plenty of girls for a game of hopscotch, jacks, or jump rope.
The school was only one room that could be divided into two when a big partition was let down from the ceiling. The first four grades met in one half of the room with the new teacher Miss Foster, and the older classes met in the other half with the principal Mr. Stern. Stern was a good name for him too. I seldom saw him smile, and he was very strict and sometimes cruel in his punishment. Although I was two grades behind Ed, I was in the same section of the room with him, and since we were seated alphabetically, I sat next to him.
I learned to read rather easily after my games with the ABC’s and that opened new doors of adventure. I found that if I studied and knew the answers, there were no cracked knuckles or no standing in the corner. Once I learned something, it stayed in my memory for a long time and that was very handy for examinations.
My favorite subject was grammar, and I especially liked to diagram sentences. It was fun to draw lines like shelves in the air for the words to be put away in just the right place, some sitting on top, others hanging down below, and some sliding down a slanty line to another word on a line below that. Sometimes the diagrams covered half a page and looked like a neat design, with the words all filed away where they belonged—subjects and predicates and modifiers of simple, complex, or compound sentences.
The boys thought it was fun to pull pranks on the teacher, so Miss Foster was in the habit of shaking out her handkerchief with a loud snap when she took it from the top drawer of her desk to make sure there were no stinkbugs or caterpillars hidden in it. One day when she opened the drawer, a kangaroo rat leaped out in front of her face. She was so startled she screamed and jumped back, upsetting her chair and knocking her off her feet. She fell over backward and sprawled on the floor.
Mr. Stern came in fuming from around the other side of the partition, demanding to know what on earth was going on. He tried his best to find out who was guilty of putting the rat in the drawer, but no one would tell, so he made the whole class practice penmanship during recess as a punishment. We wrote: “I will not play pranks on the teacher” over and over in our best handwriting.
One Saturday, soon after school started, Sister Williamsen left Lucy at our place to play while she and Mama went to the store. We were practicing for the circus we had been planning, and Lucy was learning how to ride standing on Bessie’s back so we could be twin riders. Ed was trying to do flips in the haystack, and Georgie was clowning around with Spot. Frank came out of the barn carrying his whip and a cat in each arm.
“Why don’t you do what I tell you?” he scolded. “I’m only going to give you one more chance!”
He put each kitten on one of the steps in his lion taming cage. “Now stay there!” he shouted and cracked his whip. Both cats streaked off through the fence and right in front of Bessie’s nose. The horse reared, and Lucy flew off and hit a fence pole.
“Now look what you’ve done,” I shouted at Frank and ran over to help Lucy get up.
She was lying there still and white, with a red stream of blood trickling down her face. Ed and Frank came running over to see. I was scared, but just then she opened her eyes. “You hit your head,” I told her. “But it’s going to be all right. Let me look at it.”
I found a deep cut on her scalp and tried to stop the bleeding by pushing it together. “It has to be sewed up,” I said. “Go get Papa, Ed. He’s down in the field somewhere. And hurry, she’s bleeding badly.”
Ed jumped on Bessie and galloped off to find Papa.
“Frank,” I said urgently, “go into the house and get the needle and thread and scissors, and a match.”
“You aren’t going to stitch it are you?” he asked fearfully.
“Of course not, but we need to have it all ready for Papa when he gets here.”
He came back with a darning needle and cotton thread.
“Not that kind, dummy! The curved needle and the black silk thread Papa uses on the animals.”
While he was gone I clipped the hair away from the cut. The blood was still oozing out though not as fast as at first. Lucy was pale and silent.
I pinched the wound together, and when Frank came back I instructed him how to sterilize the needle with the match and put the thread through it.
In a little while Ed galloped up. “I can’t find Papa anyplace,” he reported. “He’s not in the corn patch or the garden. Where else shall I look?”
“Maybe he’s fixing the fence. Keep looking, and hurry.”
He was gone a long time and my fingers were cramping from holding the cut together. But every time I released the pressure, it bled some more. Finally I decided I would have to sew it up myself.
“Will it hurt?” Lucy wanted to know.
“Don’t know,” I told her. “Haven’t ever been sewed up. Probably will sting a little.”
I was finishing the last stitch when Papa and Ed rode up. Papa jumped quickly from his horse. “What’s the trouble here?” he asked and took a look at Lucy’s head. “Why it’s stitched up already,” he marveled, examining my work.
“Couldn’t have done a better job myself. You’ll be as good as new,” he told Lucy. “Now why don’t you girls go over by the house and play something quiet until your mamas get home?”
We were sitting on the back steps, cutting out dancing paper dolls holding hands when Mama and Sister Williamsen drove up.
“Get your hat and come along, Lucy,” her mama called from the wagon. “We need to hurry home and get some supper for your daddy.”
“OK,” Lucy said, folding her dolls back together and standing up.
“What’s that white spot on your head?” Sister Williamsen asked.
“Oh, that’s just where I cut off some hair before I sewed her up,” I explained.
“See,” Lucy said and showed her mother the spot.
All the pink had gone out of Sister Williamsen’s face, and I could hear a little gasp and see her lean against Mama.
“Papa says she’ll be as good as new,” I assured her. “It won’t leave hardly any scar at all.”
“Run get Sister Williamsen a drink of water, please, Dora,” Mama directed. “She’s had a shock.” Then she helped her out of the wagon and into a chair on the porch. In a little while she quit shaking and took another look at Lucy’s head. “She could have bled to death if you hadn’t known what to do.”
“Papa would’ve done it, but we couldn’t find him,” I replied.
“You did just fine,” Sister Williamsen said. “And I’m mighty grateful.”
Lucy wore a wide ribbon around her head until her hair grew out. She always had one to match her dress, and I almost wished I had had my head stitched up so I could have pretty hair ribbons like that.
A few weeks later I thought I was going to have a chance to wear ribbons, but it didn’t work out that way after all.
One day I was having a quarrel with Caroline, and she screamed her usual taunt, “You make me sick! You think you’re so smart with that curly hair. I’ll fix you once and for all!” And she grabbed the scissors and cut off one of my long ringlets.
Mama was horrified, and she punished Caroline severely. I didn’t really care too much. Now, I thought, I’ll get to wear a ribbon like Lucy does. The only trouble was, the bare spot was right on the crown of my head. And there’s no way a ribbon will stay tied around there unless it goes under your chin, and that looks pretty silly. In the end, Mama had to cut all my hair short to match.
I was glad to have my hair cut, except when I thought about being a great circus lady riding my horse standing up. Then I was sorry I didn’t have long hair to fly out behind me.
(To be continued.)