Gospel Story Finder

At about 10:30, the peace of the camp was shattered by the sound of shouts and gunshots. A mob of jeering men, some on horseback and some with lighted torches tore through the camp, driving the Saints out into the dark. Although the teens knew that they were not in any real danger, still the feelings of facing what early Saints had to face became vivid for them.
“In a weird way, I loved getting driven out of our camp by a mob,” said Alyssa Bill. “It showed me a small portion of the faith the Saints had to have to go forward with the Church. I’m really grateful that they stayed strong.”
The group gathered again by lamplight and heard their stake president talk about facing up to today’s dangers.

Klarie dribbled hard and fast down the court. This is it, she thought. The tallest, fastest girl on the team had been guarding Klarie the whole game. But now she was guarding someone else. This was Klarie’s chance!
She quickly spun away from another player and set her feet. Then she jumped and took her shot. The ball sailed through the air as Klarie held her breath. Please go in.
The ball swished through the net.
Klarie’s team members gave her high fives. Then Coach Garcia looked down at the timer and blew her whistle. “And that’s the end of practice! Good job, everyone! I’ll see you all tomorrow. Make sure to rest up because we’ll be doing a lot of sprints.”
Klarie groaned and walked over to gather her stuff. Then she saw Coach Garcia waving her over.
“Hey, Klarie,” she said. “Good job today. I know you work really hard in practice, and I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Klarie said with a big smile.
She was still smiling as she walked out to her mom’s car. And as they drove home, she replayed her last shot in her head. Especially the swish of the ball through the net. She hardly even noticed the conference talk Mom was listening to.
But then something caught her attention. The speaker said, “We must take time to actively exercise our faith.”* The words “actively exercise” sounded like something she would hear at basketball practice. How do you exercise faith? she thought. Do you run with faith? Or dribble faith like a ball?
Klarie turned to Mom. “How do you exercise faith?” she asked.
Mom smiled. “How do you get better at basketball?”
“I practice,” Klarie said. “My coach tells me how to get better. And when we do drills, I try really hard to do them right.”
“Is it easy?”
“No!” Klarie said, remembering how tired her legs felt after sprints. “I have to practice a lot.”
Mom nodded. “Heavenly Father wants us to have faith in Him, but we have to work on it. He gave us ways to practice and get better.”
“Like what?”
“He asks us to talk to Him in prayer. He’s kind of like our coach. He gives us scriptures. They’re like His playbook. And He inspires prophets to encourage us to learn as families. Our family is like—”
“Like our team!” Klarie interrupted.
“Exactly! Our family team works and practices together,” Mom said. “So what happens when you go to practice, Klarie?”
“I get better,” she said. She thought of how good it felt to make her final shot after working hard in practice for weeks.
“That’s right. When we practice, we’re exercising our faith. That helps our testimonies get stronger. And it makes us happier.”
Klarie had never thought of faith like that. She had heard faith was like a seed. But she’d never known it could be like playing basketball! She thought about how her coach made practice plans for their team. Maybe I can make a practice plan too, she thought, but for faith! As soon as she got home, she found a big notepad and started writing:
Prayer—morning and night
Scripture study—every day
Church—every Sunday
Maybe exercising faith wasn’t exactly like practicing basketball. But practice was practice. She felt warm and happy inside as she looked at her plan. She trusted Heavenly Father and knew He would help her!

Travel with me to a large government hospital newly built in Tonga and equipped to provide needed services to members and nonmembers alike. But there are insufficient nurses with which to staff the hospital and only limited services can be provided.

A wise first step is to guide each deacon to a spiritual awareness of the sacredness of his ordained calling. In one ward, this lesson was effectively taught pertaining to the collection of fast offerings.

On fast day, the ward members were visited by deacons and teachers so that each family could make a contribution. The deacons were a bit disgruntled, having to arise earlier than usual to fulfill this assignment.

The inspiration came for the bishopric to take a busload of the deacons and teachers to Welfare Square here in Salt Lake City. Here they saw needy children receiving new shoes and other items of clothing. Here they witnessed empty baskets being filled with groceries. There was no money exchanged. One brief comment was made: “Young men, this is what the money you collect on fast day provides—even food, clothing, and shelter.” The Aaronic Priesthood young men smiled more, stepped higher, and served with a willing mind in the filling of their assignments.

Since our last conference we have had a delightful message from Christopher S. Bond, Governor of the state of Missouri, who advised us that he has rescinded the 138-year-old Executive Order of Governor Lilburn W. Boggs calling for the extermination or expulsion of the Mormons from the state of Missouri. Governor Bond, present Missouri governor, writes:
“Expressing on behalf of all Missourians our deep regret for the injustice and undue suffering which was caused by this 1838 order, I hereby rescind Executive Order No. 44 dated October 27, 1838, issued by Governor Lilburn W. Boggs.”
To Governor Bond and the people of Missouri, we extend our deep appreciation for this reversal and for the present friendly associations between the membership of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and the people of Missouri as it is now in effect.
In Missouri now we have five stakes in fifty-one communities, with approximately 15,000 members of the Church, who, we are confident, are law-abiding citizens of that state of Missouri. Thank you, Governor Bond.

Like many college freshmen away from home for the first time, I gained 20 pounds my first year at Dixie College in St. George, Utah. While my gym teachers affectionately called it the “Freshman 20,” my brothers and I just called it fat.
As spring approached I became determined that I would somehow make time to include daily exercise. I really love to run, and I decided this would be the way for me to get back down to my normal weight. I plotted my running course very carefully. It was a beautiful one-mile route which included the block around the St. George Temple.
My only obstacle was getting out of bed. Morning after morning I would just turn off the alarm, roll over, and go back to sleep. One morning, however, I felt unusually alert and awake as I turned off the alarm. I decided this would be the day I would begin my running program. I quickly dressed, stretched, and walked outside, only to find that a light fog had settled in the valley. It was still fairly dark, and I began to feel discouraged.
As I ran I could sometimes hear other joggers’ footsteps coming from the other direction, but I could not see them until they were right in front of me.
I expected to see the temple soon with its beautiful whiteness illuminated by lights, but block after block I couldn’t see the temple. I found myself wondering why I couldn’t see the temple and many questions entered my mind. “Am I on the right route?”
Finally, though, I could see a faint glow as soft as candlelight in the distance. I came upon the west side of the temple. I can’t express the excitement I felt in my heart as I circled the temple, rejoicing in its beauty, marveling that I had not been able to see it just seconds before.
After my experience that foggy morning, I knew without a doubt that just as the temple was still there, though I couldn’t see it, so is eternal life and exaltation. Though some of our long-range goals are not tangible, they can be reached if we will just keep going in the right direction, despite the clouds of doubt.

In junior high, I didn’t think life was fair. I was short—not just a little below average, but officially vertically challenged. One day my entire grade lined up by height for a picture. I was at the end of the line—the short end.
Despite my height, I loved basketball and was determined to make the team. As a gym full of boys began running drills to win their places on the squad, I hoped my many hours of practice would pay off. The coaches stood in the middle of the gym, observing us and taking notes on their clipboards. At my size, I just prayed they would notice me.
After warm-ups, the head coach blew his whistle and explained our first shooting drill. He handed me a ball. I was one of the first to dribble from half court and pull up inside the three-point line for a jump shot. I knew everyone was watching; my shaking hands reminded me with every dribble. I stopped at the top of the key, jumped, and let go of the ball. I hoped that it would at least hit the rim. The ball rolled around the iron and dropped through the net.
Sooner than I wanted, it was my turn again. Again my shot found its way through the hoop. Through the next rotation, my luck continued. The returning center of the team noticed me and decided to help out an underdog. He began calling attention to me right before each of my next shots. Thankfully, I kept making my shots.
At the end of the day, when the list of those who made first cuts was posted, my name was there. I had just climbed the first leg of my Mount Everest.
After a few more days of tense nerves and early-morning drills, another cut was posted. I made it past my second hurdle. With only one or two cuts left, my chances were getting better, but my competition was stiffer.
At the end of the week, tryouts were over. I tried to remain calm as I walked to the coaches’ office to see if I made the team. My name was missing from the list.
The assistant coach, who was also my science teacher, pulled me aside. “You’re a good little ball player. You’ve got a lot of potential.” His compliments didn’t help my disappointment. “It’s hard to cut people. It’s just that right now you don’t have the size to play for the team. Maybe next year.”
Why me? One of my dreams crashed, and it wasn’t because I didn’t try or practice. It was because of something out of my control. Life just didn’t seem fair.

Elder James E. Talmage, a man who is remembered for his doctrinal teachings, showed great kindness to a neighbor family in distress. They were complete strangers to him. Before he was an Apostle, as a young father he became aware of great suffering at a neighbor’s home whose large family was stricken with the dreaded diphtheria. He did not care that they were not members of the Church; his kindness and charity moved him to act. The Relief Society was desperately trying to find people to help, but no one would because of the contagious nature of the disease.
When he arrived, James found one toddler already dead and two others who were in agony from the disease. He immediately went to work, cleaning the untidy house, preparing the young body for burial, cleaning and providing for the other sick children—spending the entire day doing so. He came back the next morning to find that one more of the children had died during the night. A third child was still suffering terribly. He wrote in his journal: “She clung to my neck, … ofttimes coughing [germs] on my face and clothing, … yet I could not put her from me. During the half hour immediately preceding her death, I walked the floor with the little creature in my arms. She died in agony at 10 a.m.” The three children had all departed within the space of 24 hours. He then assisted the family with the burial arrangements and spoke at the graveside services. This he did all for a family of strangers. What a great example of Christlike kindness!

At one time, Ben, Jr., and Brad, my two oldest boys, belonged to a Japanese Scout troop because our ward didn’t have a Scout troop. One day the Scoutmaster took the boys on a hike in the Zion Narrows in southern Utah. Their progress was slower than anticipated. Concerned that the park officials whom they had checked in with would be worried about them, the Scoutmaster asked my sons and a couple of other boys to hike ahead by themselves and let the park officials know that everyone was OK. The boys took a wrong turn into a dead-end canyon and didn’t know what to do. The other boys were not Latter-day Saints, but they turned to Ben and said, “Maybe you’re the one who ought to pray for us to help us get out of here.” After he offered a prayer, Ben said, “Let’s go,” and they turned and walked out without any problem. How grateful I was that my children had learned to pray, that they had faith in that prayer, and that our Father in Heaven would help them find their way safely out of the canyon.

William and Joissine Williamson took a Mr. Busley into their home as a boarder. While living with them he talked a lot about his past and meeting the Mormons. He said Brigham Young was a good and wise leader. Mr. Williamson listened and did some thinking and finally way off in Texas in the early 1900s, he decided that if he ever got the chance he would join that church.

At noontime on January 9, 1900, two Mormon missionaries wearily made their way up the long lane that led to the Williamsons’ front door. William, looking out the window, exclaimed, “Them’s my men!”

When William and Joissine were baptized, their posterity, all nine children, were heirs to their conversion. They formed a small but united group amid great prejudice.

Their descendants make up the majority of the LDS students at Vidor High School.

Some years ago Frank Crane1 wrote some lines on this tender searching subject, from which we select some sentences:
Dear Dad—
I am writing this to you though you have been dead thirty years. I feel I must say some things to you … things I didn’t know when I was a boy in your house. It’s only now, after passing through the long hard school years, only now, when my own hair is gray, that I understand how you felt.
I must have been a trial to you. I believed my own petty wisdom. Most of all I want to confess my worst sin against you. It was the feeling I had that you did not understand. When I look back over it now, I know that you did understand. You understood me better than I understood myself. And how patient you were! How pathetic, it now comes to me, were your efforts to get close to me. What was it held me aloof? I don’t know. But it is tragic that a wall rises between a boy and his father.
I wish that you were here now, across the table from me, just for an hour, so I could tell you how there’s no wall any more. I understand you now, Dad, and how I love you and wish I could go back and be your boy again.
Well, it won’t be long, Dad, till I am over there, and I believe you’ll be the first one to take me by the hand and help me. I know that among the richest, most priceless things on earth, and the thing least understood, is that mighty love and tenderness and craving to help which a father feels toward his boy. For I have a boy of my own. Up there somewhere in the Silence, hear me, Dad, and believe me.

Ryan liked to sprinkle his garden and watch the water spray from the hose onto the thirsty plants below. He enjoyed seeing the big squash leaves covered with the tiny droplets and the feathery carrot leaves bend under the gentle spray of water. He especially liked the pleasant yet pungent smell of wet tomato plants and damp earth.
Ryan was proud of his garden. He had done all the work himself. He had put the seeds in the warm earth, watered and thinned the plants, and pulled every tiny weed that poked its head up through the ground. Feeling that the garden was his very own was one of the best things that had ever happened to Ryan. He could hardly wait to share his carrots, tomatoes, and squash with the family.
One afternoon as he was watering, Ryan noticed his younger sister, Kris, watching him from the sidewalk. She looked rather wistful and lonesome, and Ryan felt a little sorry for her. Breaking an arm is no fun, he thought, especially in the middle of the summer, when all her friends are taking swimming lessons and having lots of fun.
“Hi, Kris,” he called.
“Hi. Is it okay if I watch?”
Ryan knew what the next question would be. He had heard it at least a hundred times already this summer.
“Do you need any help?” she asked hopefully.
“No, not right n—” Ryan stopped himself in the middle of his usual answer. Something in the way she was standing, her eyes wide and hopeful, her arm so uncomfortable looking, made him think again. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to let her hold the hose a minute, he decided.
“Do you think you could hold the hose with one hand?” he asked.
“Sure I can!” she declared.
Ryan handed her the hose and showed her how to hold it so the water would spray just above the plants instead of directly on them. Kris carefully watered the tomato plants while Ryan pulled some weeds that had sprung up among the carrots.
“I’m done!” Kris announced proudly in a few minutes. Then without thinking she stepped between two tomato plants and landed right on the carrot row, completely flattening one feathery plant with her foot.
Oh no! Ryan thought disgustedly. But he said, “I guess the rows are pretty close together. It’s hard to find a safe place to stand, isn’t it?”
Kris nodded solemnly and added, “I’m sorry, Ryan. I’ll try to be more careful.”
She looked so sad that Ryan found himself saying, “Don’t worry about it, Kris, you’ll do better next time!”
Instantly her face lighted up. “Will you let me help you again?” she asked eagerly.
Ryan was silent for a moment. Until today, this garden has been mine, he thought, even all the hard work. It had given him a good feeling to know that he had done everything by himself. He wasn’t sure he wanted to have a partner now.
“We’ll see,” he said finally. “I’m not sure there’s enough work to keep us both busy.”
The next day after breakfast, Ryan announced, “Today is weeding day, Mom. I hope you fix lots of lunch!”
Weeding the garden was a big job. Ryan wanted to start early while the soil was still damp from yesterday’s watering. He was in the garage looking for a small hand spade when he looked up and saw Kris. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to—her questioning eyes spoke for her. Ryan fumbled around looking for the spade. As he picked up the small tool, he thought, It’s my garden and it’s not my fault she broke her arm and can’t play with her friends.
Then he turned to face her.
“Hi,” Kris said, looking excited and hopeful.
Ryan couldn’t resist that look. “Come on, partner,” he said. “Let’s weed the garden.”
When they reached the garden, Ryan dropped to his knees beside the tomato plants. Kris stood a moment, then knelt beside him and timidly asked, “Which ones are the weeds?”
I thought everyone could tell a tomato plant from a weed, Ryan thought. He had to smile, though, when he saw how eager Kris was to learn. Patiently he explained which ones were the weeds and told her to be careful to pull them up by the roots so they wouldn’t come up again. Then he showed her how to use the hand spade to dig out the tougher roots. The two worked silently side by side and Ryan was surprised to see how fast the work went. Within an hour they had finished weeding the whole garden.
“After a while I didn’t even have to ask you which ones were the weeds!” Kris said excitedly when they were through. She looked tired and her forehead was smudged with dirt, but she was smiling and seemed happier than she had been since she broke her arm.
The next morning Ryan checked the soil in his garden. As he had expected, the hot sun had baked it dry again.
“Want to help water our garden?” he asked Kris. As usual, she was eager. As they set the hose and sprinkler in between the tomato row and the squash row, Ryan thought to himself, Sharing my garden with Kris isn’t so bad after all.
“When will the tomatoes be red?” Kris asked. “Will they always be that small?”
“No,” he explained. “They will get much bigger and turn red next month, I hope.”
“When will the carrots start to grow and get ripe?” Kris asked. “I can’t even see them.”
“The packet said the carrots would ripen by mid-July and that’s about right now,” Ryan answered. “Maybe some of them are already ripe. They grow underground so we’ll have to pull one up to see.”
Ryan knelt and gently pulled the leaves of one of the carrot plants. They both watched as a carrot slowly emerged from under the ground.
“Oh, boy!” Kris exclaimed. “A real carrot! May I show Mom?”
Ryan had wanted to take the first carrot to show Mother, but Kris was already halfway to the house. She was so excited that Ryan didn’t have the heart to stop her.
Kris didn’t come out to the garden again so Ryan finished the watering by himself.
“It’s lunchtime,” Mother called from the back porch a few minutes later.
“Hurry up, Ryan,” Kris urged, smiling mysteriously when he went into the kitchen. “Wash your hands and then come and eat lunch.”
He sat down at his usual place. It looked like an ordinary lunch to him—tuna sandwiches, potato chips, milk, a plate with four carrot sticks. …
“Carrot sticks!” Ryan cried. “Is that our carrot, Kris?”
Kris laughed and nodded. She looked down shyly and added, “Look under your plate, Ryan. I made a surprise for you.”
Ryan lifted the plate and saw a card with a large orange-colored carrot on it. Inside the card Kris had printed, “Thank you for sharing your garden with me.”
Ryan looked up at his sister and smiled. Then after taking a bite of a carrot stick, he said with a grin, “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted such a delicious carrot. But then I had a pretty good partner to help me take care of it!”

Let me tell you of a letter which we received some years ago. A man wrote, saying, “I am in a federal prison. I recently came across a copy of the Book of Mormon in the prison library. I have read it, and when I read Mormon’s lamentation over his fallen people—‘O ye fair ones, how could ye have departed from the ways of the Lord! O ye fair ones, how could ye have rejected that Jesus, who stood with open arms to receive you! Behold, if ye had not done this, ye would not have fallen.’ (Morm. 6:17–18.) When I read this I felt that Mormon was talking to me. Can I get a copy of that book?”
We sent him a copy. Some time later, he walked into my office a changed man. He was touched by the spirit of the Book of Mormon and today is a successful man, rehabilitated, earning a living honestly for himself and his family.

One time in gym class we were about to start the social dance unit. Someone asked the teacher whether or not we needed to bring gym clothes for this unit. She answered, “No, you don’t. But don’t wear shoulderless shirts to gym. I realize that they’re currently in style, but it’ll make the boys feel uncomfortable because it doesn’t cover very much. The more the shirts cover, the more comfortable the boys will be.”
At this, little conversations broke out among the class members: “If that’s the case, then I’ll wear a long-sleeved shirt” and “I won’t wear one of those for sure.” Being a member of the Church, I knew that shoulderless shirts weren’t modest. I’d never worn one, so it wasn’t asking a lot of me, but it’d be harder for others. Yet at the next gym class, not a single girl wore that style of shirt. A week later I still didn’t see anyone from that class wearing a shoulderless shirt to school, even on the days we didn’t have gym.
It seems that they all got an important message about modesty that day. It was neat to hear the importance of modesty discussed in a positive way in a non-Church setting, which strengthened my testimony of what I’d already been taught and accepted. The answer my teacher gave, though simply stated, changed the way a lot of the class dresses and thinks now: if it’s too immodest for social dance, then it is and will always be immodest for anything else. So why wear it?

Linda and Robbie came poking down the stairway of the old farmhouse where Grandma and Grandpa lived. They always dawdled when it was time to go home.
“Hurry up!” Mom called out. And Dad’s voice came from outside, urging them to get a move on.
The children hurried a little faster, but not much. They hugged Grandma and Grandpa good-bye and then got into the back of the car. When Dad turned the ignition key, there was a strange whirring noise. When he tried to start the car again—nothing.
“Oh, no!” he cried.
Grandpa walked over to the car. “What is it, Ben?”
Dad shook his head. “The starting motor’s on the hummer.”
“Won’t the car go?” Robbie asked.
“No, it won’t,” Dad replied.
“Then I guess we’ll just have to stay here for Thanksgiving,” Linda said, a note of hope in her voice.
“I have to get home for that business meeting tomorrow,” Dad agonized. “But how can I?”
“Well,” Grandpa suggested, “you could take my car.”
Dad looked surprised. “You mean Lisbeth? That old Model T?”
“Only car I have,” Grandpa replied.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Dad said. “I’ve never driven a Model T. Besides, it—it might break down!”
“It’s easy to drive,” Grandpa persuaded, “and it’s been running for over fifty years. Don’t think it’ll break down now.”
“Oh, let’s!” Linda said. “I love Lisbeth.”
Grandpa and Dad went out to the barn, and Linda and Robbie trailed along behind. Grandpa opened the barn door, and there waited Lisbeth—shiny and black. Her top was folded down for nice weather, and there were side curtains to snap in place when the top was up during bad weather.
There were two little levers on the steering wheel, and Grandpa adjusted them just so, then he went around in front of Lisbeth and took hold of the crank. He turned it a couple of times and Lisbeth started. The children climbed in back, with Grandpa and Dad in front. Grandpa told Dad what to do. Dad drove Lisbeth around the barnyard and between the chicken coops a couple of times to get the feel of it. When he felt confident that he could drive it, he parked the Model T beside his own car. After they had loaded everything and everyone into Lisbeth, Dad released the hand brake, then pushed one of the foot pedals, adjusted the throttle lever, and they were on their way down the lane.
Lisbeth’s engine was noisy. Her body rattled, and the ride was not very smooth. Dad frowned. But Mom hid a grin, while Linda and Robbie squealed and bounced up and down on the back seat. At the end of the lane they pulled up onto a blacktop road. Lisbeth ran more smoothly and rattled less, but she was slow. “It’ll take a week to get home at this rate,” Dad muttered.
“Pull her ears down,” Robbie said, pointing to the little levers on the steering column. “That’s what Grandpa does.”
Dad pulled the little levers all the way down and Lisbeth ran faster, but not much.
Dad pulled into the first service station they came to. The station man looked at the old car and frowned. “That’s Mr. Jackson’s car,” he said. “What are you doing with it?”
“He’s my grandpa,” Linda piped up. “We had to borrow it.”
“I’d like the tank filled,” said Dad, getting out of the car and removing the front seat cushion that covered the gas tank. “And please check the oil and tires too.”
Soon they were on their way again, rolling along a superhighway.
The newer cars whooshed past. Horns honked, and people laughed and waved. Linda and Robbie waved back, and Dad hunched down lower in the seat.
Then Robbie said, “Uh, oh. There’s a police car right behind us with its red light flashing.”
Dad pulled onto the shoulder of the road and stopped. The policeman parked behind their car and came up to them.
“What’s wrong, officer?” Dad inquired.
“See that sign just ahead?” the officer asked, pointing. “It says you have to drive at least forty-five miles an hour on this freeway.”
Dad nodded. “I’d be glad to, officer, but Lisbeth—this car—just can’t quite go forty-five miles an hour.”
“Then you’ll have to leave the freeway at the next off ramp,” the officer said. “Sorry.”
Dad drove down the off ramp to an older, rougher road. “I don’t think we’ll make it home today,” Dad said. “I’m sure Lisbeth doesn’t have very powerful lights. If dark catches us, we’ll have to stop at a motel.”
“Like a vacation!” Linda shouted. “That’ll be fun, huh, Robbie?”
Lisbeth bounced and clattered along, and the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky. Dad turned the lights on, but they weren’t very bright. A little later Dad pulled into a motel, and they rented a big room for the night. The family played games, watched TV, and then went to bed.
Early the next morning Dad got everyone up. Linda and Robbie grumbled, but Dad paid no attention. “I have to get to my business meeting before noon,” he said, “and Mother needs to do some shopping for Thanksgiving tomorrow.”
Lisbeth didn’t much want to start, and Dad had to crank and crank, but finally the old engine came to life and the family was on its way. They watched the sun come up, then they saw their town just ahead.
Linda sighed. “We’re almost home. I wish we were just starting. Lisbeth is lots more fun than our car.”
Dad grunted. They started down Main Street but soon came to an intersection where a policeman came toward them, waving his arms.
He gave them a big smile and motioned for them to go right on down Main Street, although he was directing other cars onto a side street. Dad drove on, then had to slow down to keep from running over a clown riding a motorcycle. Another clown rode up behind them, then both clowns began riding their motorcycles round and round Lisbeth.
Linda looked on down the street where there was a band, horses, more clowns, and big floating balloons. She looked back and saw more of the same.
“Whoopie!” Robbie called out suddenly. “We’re in a parade!”
And they were—in a big Thanksgiving parade. At first Dad frowned, then he looked at Linda and Robbie and laughed. “Guess I’ll just have to be a little later for that meeting than I thought,” he said. “But I’ll be thankful if I get to it at all.”
Mom gave him a hug. “I’m glad that you can see how much fun the kids are having.”
Linda took a deep breath and looked back and forth as they drove slowly down the street between the crowds of people.
“I’m thankful for Grandma, Grandpa, and Lisbeth,” she said. “This is the most fun ever.”
Lisbeth chugged along to the end of the parade, then on home. Dad turned off the engine. “Whooee!” he sighed. “We’re all glad that’s over, aren’t we?” he asked with a sly grin.
“Oh, Dad, that was fun,” Linda said. “It isn’t every day we get to ride in a parade!”

In a message of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s Music and the Spoken Word, a story was told about an elderly man and woman who had been married for many decades. Because the wife was slowly losing her sight, she could no longer take care of herself the way she had done for so many years. Without being asked, the husband began to paint her fingernails for her.
Photo illustration by Jupiterimages/liquidlibrary/Thinkstock
“He knew that she could see her fingernails when she held them close to her eyes, at just the right angle, and they made her smile. He liked to see her happy, so he kept painting her nails for more than five years before she passed away.”3

I recently started receiving the New Era when I turned 12. Whenever I feel sad or angry I turn to this magazine. One particular article caught my eye. The article was “Evaluate Your Style” (Jan. 2002). These young women set an example in never giving up the dreams they wanted. They came up with designs for modest dresses, a logo, and went through with a presentation to a clothing store. I respect and admire that. I learned a lesson from this article. I hope to follow their examples and take action in the things I want to happen.Meg DeYoungOgden, Utah

For years clockmakers in England went to the Greenwich observatory to check the exact time on its chronometer so they could set their timepieces accurately. Later the adopted son of the Astronomer Royal, John Pond, was given the job of regularly taking the correct time to the clockmakers all over London. When he died his wife “delivered” the time and later her daughter wore the large chronometer on a chain fastened with a safety pin. She came to be known as the “Greenwich Time Lady.”

My younger sister and I received our endowment together, just a few days before she left on her mission. I was excited to attend the temple with her, and I was ready to take the next step on the covenant path.
But that day, my emotions were everywhere. It was the end of summer. A daunting school semester loomed before me. In anticipation of moving back to college, leaving my family, and saying goodbye to my sister, I felt suddenly inconsolable.
And although the endowment ceremony was beautiful, it was a lot to take in. I understood very little and was ready to leave the moment the session ended.
My sister had a different experience. In the celestial room, she calmly and curiously asked my parents questions about the endowment and seemed to have grasped much more than I had. Meanwhile, I sat in a stupor of silence. I remember holding back tears of frustration and embarrassment that my experience was playing out so differently from hers.
I was momentarily tempted to feel bitter that I hadn’t had the experience I’d hoped for. But then I remembered two specific things that my temple preparation teachers had told me:
I would likely not understand everything that happened during my first endowment session. They told me that instead of trying to make sense of it all in the moment, I should try to focus on the peaceful feeling inside the temple.
I might leave the temple feeling spiritually tired and overwhelmed. And that was OK.
Their wise words slowed my spiraling thoughts and have stuck with me over the years. I believe the same counsel can help us as we reckon with expectations we have about other spiritual experiences, both inside and outside the temple.
I’m happy to say that I enjoy attending the temple now, and my understanding of the endowment has grown over the past few years.
Comparing my temple experience to my sister’s was discouraging for me. Because I didn’t want that first experience to get in the way of my enjoying the blessings of temple worship, I had to consciously decide to move past the differences in what my sister and I felt and understood that day.

I felt very proud as I read “Into the Wild Blue Yonder” in the June 1982 issue of the New Era. I believe I know what those cadets are going through. I’ve been in the air force for over 18 months. I also have a desire to fulfill a mission after my enlistment is over. Thank you for helping me to find and realize my own goals and desires in life.
Kent T. EgelundCheyenne, Wyoming