Gospel Story Finder

A patriarch received a call one afternoon from a concerned mother of a young daughter who was physically challenged from birth. This dear mother asked if her daughter could possibly receive a patriarchal blessing. The patriarch informed her that if her daughter could obtain a recommend from the bishop, he was sure that the Lord had a blessing for her. A short time later the patriarch was informed that the bishop had given this sweet young girl a recommend to receive a patriarchal blessing.
An appointment was made. The blessing was given and gratefully received. Her lineage was given. She received a blessing suited to her needs and unique situation. Lives, focus, and attitudes were changed. She was told that through her cheerful acceptance of the efforts and sacrifices of those who loved and cared for her, she would be blessing their lives, and to accept their offerings graciously and willingly.

Importantly, forming these critical relationships is often not connected to highly successful activities. When I was 13 or 14, my own Young Men group was bonded together with our leader on a California snow campout. As we slept in the very first snow that most of us had ever touched, it started to rain in the middle of the night, seeping into our tents, saturating our sleeping bags and clothes, leaving us all miserably freezing. Drenched and nearly hypothermic, after building a pathetic fire from wet wood that would not melt a snowflake, we eventually huddled together into a drafty crew-cab pickup truck and barely escaped with our lives as we headed home before the sun had even fully risen.
The activity was a disaster—except that the most important things that could have happened did happen. We came to know we could do hard things and that we could trust each other and our leaders. As time went on, these leaders helped us along the covenant path. When they said, “Missions matter,” missions came to matter more to us, to me.

7. The friendly but inaccessible person. This is the kind of person I was. I remember telling the missionaries: “I’m very impressed with what you’re doing; I think it’s wonderful—but I have no desire to change. I have a good job, a car, a home, a lovely wife, and fine children. I’m perfectly happy.” What they asked me to do was to think about the time of death, when I would lose all of these things. You know, that’s a shocking subject. I hadn’t given it much thought—and most people hadn’t. I had to agree that there were other things.
I still didn’t want to part from my friends and give up what I thought were the good things of life, though. Fortunately, the Lord had blessed me with a companion to help me in the most important ways. She had a testimony from the beginning and would not be baptized without me. It made me really think about what was important to me and what was important to both of us together. Once I thought beyond salary and security, I knew what I wanted.

I think I will mention a personal experience. I’m not sure I have told this publicly except once a few weeks ago in Tonga. While stationed in Tokyo, on one occasion we were assigned to take a B-17 bomber and go down to Saipan Island and then on to Guam, if necessary, to get a beacon light. I was an operations officer and we needed a beacon light at the base. We left Tokyo heading south into the Pacific. Because the war was just over, air flight safety was not put together as it is now. We did not know that there was forming, out in the central Pacific, a typhoon of major proportions.

Now, Pacific islands from airplanes are very difficult to see; clouds look like islands and vice versa. I remember the navigator said, “If we’re on course, we should be over Iwa Jima soon.” He began counting: “Ten, nine, eight,” and so on and when he counted “zero,” we tipped the plane and looked down through broken clouds and directly below us was Iwa Jima. We were right on course. We kidded him about being an expert.

Several hours later he said, “We’re off course. Something’s wrong!” We dropped down through the cloud cover. There were terrible winds. The ocean was white with waves. He said, “I don’t know where we are.” Then, of course, to add melodrama to the drama, the radios went out. There we were!

We began flying a “square search.” Lost pilots don’t just fly around aimlessly. They fly a definite pattern so that they know they’re covering new territory and not just flying in circles. We flew a long course on compass. The other pilot said, “Let’s turn.” For some reason I said, “Hold it just a minute.” We were just a few thousand feet above the water. Suddenly I could see a long line of white waves and we pulled up over some rocks sticking out of the ocean. We knew then that somewhere nearby was an island. We had no idea whether we were over the rocks south of it or north of it. We made a prayerful turn and in about five or ten minutes on our short range radio we could hear voices. Soon we pulled over Tinian Island where there was an airfield. As we landed the B-17 and were taxiing down the runway, one by one the engines went off. We were out of gas.

During the last hour of that flight, when I sat there wondering if we would or if we wouldn’t make it, my patriarchal blessing kept coming to my mind. It said, “You will be warned of danger, and if you heed those warnings you will be privileged to return to your loved ones.” I thought, “Well, I’ve tried.” I sat there thinking, “The gospel’s true and what else matters? That prophetic declaration will see us safely through this, and if it doesn’t, we’re in the hands of the Lord now.”

The File on Cindy
Cindy was a bright, hyperactive girl of fourteen who began, on occasion, to be quite emotional. It became increasingly hard for her to make and keep friends. She had a hard time getting along with others in school. She became unfriendly and hostile toward her parents. She started avoiding people and worried at great length about little day-to-day situations. She said she wanted to get out of the rat race. Her parents were fearful that she was experimenting with drugs.
The cases of Jerry and Cindy are true. They don’t know each other, but they do have something in common: Both of them are young Latter-day Saints who were having troubles. But today they are secure about themselves. Jerry has found new confidence in himself, which makes him feel good about his home life and school activities. He is planning on a mission. Cindy has developed a warm relationship with her family and even enjoys talking to her parents. In fact, she has helped some of her friends with their problems.
There is one other thing that Jerry and Cindy have in common. Both were helped tremendously in overcoming their problems by meeting with their bishops, who in turn through the stake president brought into the setting some professionals from the Church’s Social Services Department.

I learned the “why” of those interviews a long time ago, on a Sunday afternoon. It was the only bishop’s interview I ever had that wasn’t in the bishop’s office, but it’s the one that taught me best what a bishop is trying to do when he interviews an Aaronic Priesthood holder.
In those days, priesthood meeting was in the morning, and sacrament meeting was much later in the day. I was at home, thinking my priests quorum work was done for the day. The phone rang. It was the bishop. He asked if I would go with him, as his companion, to visit a poor widow who needed help. I jumped in the car when he came by, nervous about the unknown, but interested to see how a bishop helped the poor.
I didn’t see any food in the car. And my surprise grew when we drove down a dirt lane, in what I thought was a vacant lot, and pulled up in front of a house with no paint and a broken sofa on the sagging wooden porch. We were invited into the dark living room by a woman in a faded and soiled dress. We sat at a table. The bishop began by asking, “Now, where is that budget form I gave you to fill out last week.” Then, for what seemed an hour, he worked that woman through a budget, a plan to repair her house, and a commitment to change her habits. I never said a word. I realize now that the bishop was watching me out of the corner of his eye the whole time.
We drove off in silence, the puzzled priest and the thoughtful bishop. He pulled into the driveway of my house, and we began to talk quietly. He asked me what I thought of what I’d seen. I told him honestly that I had always thought helping the poor meant giving them something, not asking them to do something. And then he opened his scriptures and a black notebook and taught me something he called, “the welfare principle.” He talked about building self-reliance and told me how to help people develop it.
When I walked into my house that afternoon, I didn’t know that I’d had an interview with my bishop. I wonder now if he somehow knew that I would someday be a bishop. But whether he knew or not, he did something remarkable that your bishop or branch president wants to do for you.
First, he cared about me enough to plan that interview carefully to teach me priesthood service. He didn’t need my help that day. His counselors or a home teacher could have helped him more. The way he casually pulled open his little black notebook and opened it to the pages filled with scriptures and quotations showed that he was anything but casual in preparing to teach me how to give priesthood service.
Second, he turned from teaching to letting me talk about my goals for improving my ability to serve. I realize now that he was urging me to prepare to be his assistant in the quorum, a call that came within months.
Finally, he learned about how well I was living the gospel. His questions that day weren’t as direct as they were in some other interviews. But on that afternoon he asked if I had felt the Holy Ghost during our visit. And I realize now that my positive answer probably told him what he wanted to know about my personal worthiness.
What he wanted, and what your bishop wants, was to give me the best chance he could to honor my priesthood. He knew that took at least three things: some understanding of how to use the priesthood; a personal commitment to use the priesthood; and a life clean enough, both by avoiding sin where I could and repenting where I must, that I could have the companionship of the Holy Ghost. He was wise enough, too, to know that my parents had done much of that. They had taught me, they had helped me set goals, and they had urged me to be worthy.
But as the president of the Aaronic Priesthood and of my quorum, he could give me some things I couldn’t get anywhere else. He was the person through whom God could call me or withhold callings from me. And he had the keys of repentance for the ward, and so for me. I know now how much he didn’t want to fail the Lord on his errand to give me every chance to prepare for the Melchizedek Priesthood, for missionary service, and for temple marriage. And I know now how lucky I was to have such a bishop as Alvin R. Dyer.

Clara McMaster was the eleventh child in her family, and she learned to love music at an early age. She sang and accompanied others on the piano as she grew up in Brigham City, Utah. For twenty-two years she was a member of the Tabernacle Choir. Today she and her husband sing together for numerous church occasions. “Music is a rich gift of God, and it is in the world to make the lives of His children happier and better,” Sister McMaster says.
While serving on the Primary General Board, Sister McMaster was asked to write a song for the first reverence program. She worked hard and prayed that she would be prompted to write what would be best for the children. One day as she was looking out the window and pondering her assignment, an idea came to her. She went to the piano and quickly wrote it down. The new song was “Reverently, Quietly.” “I felt very humble, she said. “If you prepare and do all that you can do, then Heavenly Father will help you.”
Sister McMaster has written other Primary favorites such as “My Heavenly Father Loves Me” and “Teach Me to Walk in the Light of His Love.”

In the latter part of the 1990s the prompting to study Russian arose yet again. This time I hired a tutor to speak with me once a week over several months. Then, on Sunday, March 19, 2000, while reading a front-page feature article in the Deseret News entitled “The Orphans of Vladivostok,” I was overcome by the desire to adopt a Russian orphan. I shared my thoughts with my husband, positive he would say, “We’re too old.” We were almost empty nesters. To my surprise he replied, “Why not?” As we discussed it further, we decided that it would be best for us to adopt two children rather than one and that we would like them to be sisters between the ages of six and 10.

We had never before talked about adoption of any kind; we did not even know where to begin. We decided to start by contacting our adult children to seek their approval. That obtained, we were led, through a series of timely events, to an agency specializing in Russian adoptions. Interestingly, one of the directors of the agency told us that on the very weekend that I was reading the article in the Deseret News, they had e-mailed their contact in Russia to ask if they could get two or three more children, whom they felt certain they could place. They were told that two sisters, ages seven and eight, had just been approved for adoption.

We were able to afford this adoption because of an inheritance left to us following my father’s passing. The first piece of physical documentation we received concerning the children was a photograph. One of the little girls bore a striking resemblance to my mother’s youngest sister. The photograph was followed by written information about the girls. In it we discovered that the one who looked so much like my mother’s sister also had the same birthday as my father. When we discovered the girls’ surname, it turned out that it was the very name that my parents had planned to give my sister had she been a boy. These, and other similar “coincidences”—some too personal to share—made it clear to my husband and me beyond a shadow of a doubt that these two beautiful children were meant to be part of our family.

Although the process was anything but smooth, miracles continued to happen, and in late October 2000 the judge in Russia pounded her gavel and those two little Russian sisters became legally ours. It was wonderful to have basic Russian language skills to be able to help ease the girls into their new environment. As they have become fluent in English, my promptings to learn Russian have stilled, and I am at peace in knowing what the ultimate purpose was for which I needed to know the language.

And years later when I was back in Argentina, I was dating Joaquin, and he was not a member of the Church, I had long talks and support from my bishop that gave me the strength to always put the gospel first and stick to my eternal goals. He was always there to listen and help me figure things out, or to give me a blessing and the encouragement I needed. Thanks to all that, I had the strength to say no when Joaquin proposed, because I had made the decision to marry in the temple.

The first temple in Argentina was dedicated when I was 21. And even then, it was pretty far from my house. But I did think of the temple, and I learned about the temple. I saw families selling their homes to be sealed in the closest temple, which was in Mesa, Arizona. The value of temples was of great impact, because we didn’t have a temple. We longed for one. I had wonderful bishops and leaders that helped me set goals, that taught me the importance of temple covenants, and the temple was my highest and first priority.

I am not sure I understood this at the time, but just like in Bible times when people attended a temple, they brought a sacrifice to the Lord; I, too, was going to have to bring a huge sacrifice to the Lord.

Buenos Aires in the ‘80s was not like Rexburg today; the list of eligible bachelors was pretty short! Imagine then how hard it was when this amazing young man that melted my heart asked me to marry him and I had to say no. It was painful and heartbreaking. It was a sacrifice, an act of faith. When he spoke of marriage, I told him about my goals, about how important temple marriage was for me. I knew he probably thought I was crazy; and, there was a pretty good chance I would never see him again!

We all have to make sacrifices to bring to the Lord to the temple. What are you going to sacrifice? Say no to something you really like and go to the temple. Leave your Netflix show for another day and go to the temple! Say no to video games for one day and go to the temple! Wish you had a date and you don’t? Go to the temple! Temple covenants are part of the plan of salvation; and, temple worship is part of our earthly education. Bring to the temple your greatest joys, your biggest sorrows, and your deepest questions. I had to make a sacrifice and say no to a wonderful boy, no matter how handsome, kind, or how good of a catch he was!

I am grateful for bishops that taught me the importance of temples, for goals that raised my vision, for the faith to say no to someone I really loved, and, above all, I am grateful that he stuck around to find out for himself and did marry me in the temple!

Skull Valley, Utah—that was where I spent two summers as a youth. I lived on Long Island, New York, but my father, who had grown up on a farm in Idaho, told me, “You’re never going to learn how to work until you work on a ranch.” My uncle had a ranch in Skull Valley, and so I, a city boy, was sent to live and work there.
The first few days I spent on the ranch left me exhausted. My entire body ached, and I wondered how I could get through each day. I was discouraged and wanted to go home, but I didn’t tell this to my relatives.
One day I was moving bales of hay with my cousin, and I was having a hard time because I was so tired. My cousin gave me a little push and said, “You aren’t lazy—you just don’t know how to work.” I decided then that I’d learn how to work—and I did. And as I worked on the ranch that summer, I came to enjoy it and my body thrived on it.
I had many aunts and uncles who lived in the Utah area, and I stayed in their various homes throughout the summer months. I helped round up wild horses, bale hay, care for the animals, and do other tasks. We worked from before sunrise until sundown, and as time wore on, I became very close to my cousins. I loved the joy of just sitting and talking with them in the evenings when our chores were through.
During those two summers, I came to appreciate all the work it takes to plant and irrigate, and then, after all of that is done, how hard it is to harvest. The first summer I spent at the ranch was during a very dry year, and the fields were swarming with crickets. The farmers didn’t give up, however, and they didn’t blame God that things were not going well. They just prepared to plant the next year.
Even if conditions are perfect for farmers, there still is an incredible amount of work to do. They know that you don’t get something for nothing. My experience in Skull Valley helped me understand the law of the harvest, as described in Galatians 6:7 [Gal. 6:7]: “For whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” We reach most of our important goals only after a great deal of effort and hard work.

by Reneé Heyland
One of the altars in the sealing rooms of the Sao Paulo Temple in Brazil is very special to some former Mia Maids from the Lethbridge Alberta Stake. During the course of a year, girls from the nine different classes in the stake raised $1,425—approximately $225 more than the cost of the altar they hoped to contribute to the new temple.
Cheryl Crane from the Second Ward expressed the following thoughts about her experience: “At first I wasn’t too happy to give up my free time to earn the temple money, but then I read about the sacrifices the members in Brazil are making.
“Hundreds of thousands of dollars had to be raised, and such amounts of money are not easy to come by. One young couple saved $2,000 to come to Salt Lake City to go through the temple, a dream they had shared for many years. But when they were asked to contribute to the temple fund, they gave up that dream for the sake of another—the dream that every Brazilian Saint could go through the temple, instead of just a few.
“When I read about these and other sacrifices that Saints in Brazil had made, I realized my sacrifices hardly classify as sacrifices at all.”
Throughout the year the girls participated in a variety of money-raising projects. To the usual baked-food sales one of the groups added caramel popcorn, another sponsored a spaghetti dinner, and several of the classes sold concessions at stake sports events. The girls had car washes, pop bottle drives, and Christmas tree sales. One ward sponsored a carnival (complete with balloon-shaving and doughnut-eating contests); another cut out, made, and sold doll clothes; and a third took orders for and assembled silk flower corsages for Mother’s Day gifts. Several nonmembers became as enthusiastically involved as their Mia Maid friends.
Along with the money-raising events came “spirit-raising” events. Lessons were devoted to learning about the Saints in Brazil, temple marriage, and the significance, structure, and purpose of our modern-day temples. In addition, some of the girls were able to visit the Alberta Temple and do baptisms for the dead. But the highlight of the year was the special stake meeting held for all the Mia Maids, their parents, and leaders at the completion of the project. A Mia Maid from each ward explained how her class had raised the money and then gave her testimony of this special project. Next was the presentation of a story “The Dark Blue Suit” (see the July 1978 New Era), which gave a little insight into the faith and attitudes of some of the Saints in Brazil.
The conclusion of the evening was a talk by stake president Lamont Matkin concerning what the temple in Cardston should mean to the Mia Maids in the Lethbridge Stake.
Adviser Lesley Heath of the First Ward summed up her feelings about the year by saying, “It was a time of learning—about the Brazilian people, about the value of temples, and about the special beauty of each individual Mia Maid in my class. Only I, as their adviser, will ever know the real sacrifice of the two girls in our class who went the extra mile and donated twice as much of their babysitting money as they had promised. Only I will ever know of another girl who took the time away from a special event with her friends to work all day at the basketball concession stand. I’m grateful for this experience, and for the vision it gave us of what we can do.”

Michelle discovered that she was of infinite worth to another person. As a popular high-school student, she received a letter from a former neighbor, a girl she termed “unfortunate.” The girl asked for some tips on how to make boys like her. Part of Michelle’s reply was, “Just be yourself, and people—not just boys—will like you for what you are.” Later Michelle received a letter from “her new friend.” (Isn’t that interesting? When she helped this girl, Michelle found a new friend—not an unfortunate neighbor.)

Michelle said: “In her writing and words I could feel the excitement. From a few kind words, I seemed to change another person’s life. I guess I know I can do anything I put my mind to.”

I wonder what you would do, as students, if you had all the time you wanted—if you had all the time and the means just to study. I quote from Dr. Edwin A. Lee, former dean of the School of Education at UCLA, speaking at the inauguration of Howard S. McDonald as president of Brigham Young University:

While I was an undergraduate at Columbia University, there was a man in attendance already known as the perennial student. He had been left a modest but adequate bequest with a stipulation that it should continue as long as he was engaged in collegiate study: thereafter, the income was to be given to charity.

When I returned for graduate work twelve years later, he was still there, and he remained a student until he died just a few years ago. It was said that he had been granted every degree offered by Columbia and had taken practically every course. He was a man who was the epitome of erudition. No field of knowledge was foreign to him. He was probably more widely read than the best of his professors. He was a cultured gentleman. But, he was not a truly intelligent man. Certainly such intelligence as he possessed was not that which is the glory of God. Inherently he was selfish. He never married. He was without ambition or influence. He was a joke to the students and a freak to the faculty. He knew a prodigious lot, but his real index of intelligence was low, no matter what his I.Q.

There’s a story told in Argentina that goes something like this: A pack of dogs is standing on a street corner, telling each other the woes and troubles they suffer in their lives as dogs. There is a large number of them, and the conversation is very loud. Suddenly the most observant one lets out a cry: “It’s the dog catcher!” Immediately animals scatter in every direction, as fast as they can go. About two blocks away, one of them stops and says, “Why am I running? I’m a cat!”

Sometimes while they gardened, Mom told Vanessa stories about what it was like to grow up on a farm. One day she said, “My mother used to tell me: ‘You reap what you sow. If you plant cucumber seeds, you get cucumber vines and cucumber blossoms, and, eventually, cucumbers. You’ll never get cauliflower from cucumber seeds. If we sow acts of kindness, we reap friendship and happiness.’”
“But if we sow evil and unkindness, then we reap the consequences—unhappiness and sadness,” Vanessa added. They were silent for a few minutes before Vanessa asked, “It can take a long time to see the results of what you’ve sown, can’t it, Mom?” She was thinking of a girl who had started at their school before Christmas and was extremely shy. Vanessa had been nice to her, but it had taken until February to get the girl to respond. But Vanessa’s persistence paid off; the girls were now good friends.

Some months ago I was given the assignment to interview a young man, 21 years old, to determine if his repentance was sufficient for him to serve a mission. My heart ached as I read of the serious problems and transgressions in his past. I wondered if it would be possible that one with such a background could ever prepare himself to worthily serve a mission. At the appointed time for my interview, I saw a handsome young man approaching me. He was immaculately groomed and had a wonderful countenance about him. He looked like a returned missionary, and I wondered who he was. As he approached, he extended his hand and, to my surprise, introduced himself as the young man I was to interview.

During the interview I simply asked, “Why am I visiting with you tonight?” Then he laid out the sordid details of his past. After reviewing and confessing again his transgression, he began talking to me about the Atonement and the years of painful repentance that brought him to this very interview. He expressed his love for the Savior and then explained that Christ’s Atonement was sufficient to rescue even a boy like him. At the conclusion of the interview, I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “When I get back to Church headquarters, my recommendation will be that you be permitted to serve a mission.” And then I said, “I ask only one thing of you—just one. If you are privileged to serve, I want you to be the best missionary in the entire Church. That is all.”

About four months later I was speaking at a missionary devotional at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah. After the devotional I was standing in front of the podium greeting missionaries when I noticed a familiar face approaching me. My first thought was that I was about to be embarrassed because I was supposed to know this young man. I could not remember where I had met him, and I knew the first question that he was going to ask me. Sure enough, he extended his hand and asked, “Do you remember me?” Apologetic and somewhat embarrassed, I answered: “I am sorry. I know I should know you, but I just do not remember.” He then said: “Well, let me tell you who I am. I am the best missionary in the MTC.” I could not withhold the tear that slowly trickled down my cheek as I thought, Here is a man. He met his test. He paid the painful price of repentance. He has humbled himself and submitted himself to the redemptive power of the Savior. He has met the challenges. He has measured up to true manhood. And I say, “Behold a man,” a man humble enough to submit himself to the redemptive powers of the Savior.

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.

Yves first became aware of the Church when his mother joined. He was seven years old at the time and was baptized and confirmed a year later. He has remained active, even through tough times like his parents’ divorce and seeing his family’s home sold to pay debts. He has endured being taunted by people as he walked to church on Sundays wearing a suit and tie. “I know why I dress that way to go to church, so it doesn’t really bother me,” he says. He has turned away when others tried to get him to smoke or drink. “I’ve never had trouble saying no. Obeying the Word of Wisdom brings me physical health and spiritual strength. Can they offer me something better than that?”

“Christian Villadsen! Are you one of us or one of them?” demanded Hans. His clenched fists hit against his pockets, bulging with stones. The other boys crouched beside Hans, glaring at Christian.
A cold shiver ran up Christian’s back. What’s happening? he wondered. What has become of our peaceful and friendly village? Now there seems to be only hatred and fear!
He hadn’t listened like Grandmother, but that didn’t make it right to hide like this, waiting to throw stones at two men whose only crime was preaching a new religion.
“Well?” His friends waited for an answer.
They were his only friends since Peter Sorensen had joined the Mormon church. Now, no one dared to be Peter’s friend.
Hans shoved a stone into Christian’s hand. “Stay and help drive away the devils or crawl home. But decide now.”
Christian dropped the stone as if it were fresh from the hearth fire. “I have chores to do,” he said, pushing through the bushes they were hiding behind.
“Beware, Christian, or you may suffer Peter Sorensen’s fate,” Hans called after him.
Christian hurried down the road so fast that he didn’t even stop to warn the two men he passed about the danger ahead. But he couldn’t hurry fast enough to shut out the sound of thudding stones or pained cries. And he couldn’t outrun his feelings of fear and shame.
As he passed the Sorensen farm, Christian turned his head so he couldn’t see the house’s broken windows, the burned barn, or the blackened fields that had been nearly ready for harvest. If the villagers discovered that Grandmother was listening to the Mormon preachers, this could happen to them also.
“Christian!” Peter Sorensen called.
Christian’s stomach churned with fear. What if someone sees me talking to Peter? he worried.
Peter’s face was swollen and dark with bruises, a warning from the villagers to anyone else who thought of listening to the Mormon preachers.
“I wanted you to know that we leave for America tomorrow,” Peter said, and his smile was warm and friendly as ever.
Christian was embarrassed. He couldn’t think of anything to say to Peter, who had always been his best friend.
“May you also find the happiness we have found, Christian.”
“Happiness?” Christian gasped in surprise. “Is it happiness to have your farm destroyed, to be mobbed by your neighbors, and to be driven from your homeland?”
Peter smiled. “It’s happiness to have found the true church of God. That’s worth giving up everything for.”
Christian shook his head. “Nothing is worth that,” he disagreed.
“You say that only because the truth hasn’t touched your heart yet. When it does, you’ll know what to do and you won’t be afraid. May the Lord bless you, Christian. I’ll always be your friend. Perhaps we’ll meet again soon.” Then Peter turned and limped slowly into the house.
If Grandmother doesn’t stop going to those Mormon meetings, the villagers will drive us away, too, thought Christian. Fear twisted his stomach again. “Certainly nothing is worth that!” he declared. And what if the missionaries are speaking lies, like hr. Dam, the priest, keeps saying? Christian wondered. And how can he be so sure?
As Christian approached his house, he was nearly knocked to the ground by hr. Dam, who came charging through the door like an angry bull. “Take care, fru Villadsen! Such talk is dangerous,” he shouted over his shoulder.
When he saw Christian, hr. Dam wagged a finger in his face. “If your grandmother doesn’t stop listening to those devil preachers, you, too, may awake to find your farm burning.”
“If you’ll tell me what lies these missionaries speak, perhaps I can convince Grandmother. Lies aren’t worth being persecuted for.”
“Smart boy,” said hr. Dam, nodding. “But do you really think I’d listen to their lies myself?”
“You’ve never heard them speak?”
“Of course not!”
“Then how do you know,” pursued Christian, “whether they speak lies or the truth?”
Hr. Dam’s face turned red with anger. “What a fool you are!” he shouted at Christian.
“Hr. Dam will tell the mob, and we’ll lose everything,” Christian told his grandmother later. “Certainly nothing is worth that.”
Grandmother smiled. “Finding the true church is worth that and much more. Tonight, at the fjord, I am going to be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” she said.
“No! If the mob finds you …”
“We will pray,” Grandmother said calmly, “that they don’t.”
She wouldn’t listen to Christian’s pleadings to stay away from the Mormon meeting. In the end, he went with her, to help her escape if necessary. In the meantime, he decided, it won’t hurt me to listen to the missionaries, just enough to see if the words they speak are worth all the persecutions.
The night was clear, and a crisp breeze rippled the waters of the fjord as Christian and his grandmother crept quietly through the darkness to the meeting place. There, everyone lovingly greeted each other. Christian listened carefully to the missionaries, trying to find the lies that caused such hatred in the village. He could find none. When the baptisms began, Christian pushed forward for a better view.
Grandmother stepped into the waters to be baptized, and Christian felt a hand on his arm. Peter Sorensen was standing at his side. “I hoped we would meet again soon,” he said simply.
Then Grandmother was standing with others, while the fjord waters dripped from their clothing to form puddles on the ground. Her face was radiant with joy. “It is worth everything,” she said. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Christian felt so choked with emotion that he almost didn’t hear the angry voices and tramping feet moving up the road toward them. The beautiful, joyous feeling in his heart was shattered suddenly by fear. “Hurry, into the fields!” came the warning.
The group on the bank disappeared as quickly as it had gathered. Christian and Peter grabbed Grandmother and plunged into the fields, crouching to stay out of sight. Behind them, the enraged mob began its search. Closer and closer they came to where Christian, Grandmother, and Peter hid.
The mob was now so close that Christian could see their angry faces. The friends and neighbors they had known all their lives were now trying to destroy them. “Burn the fields,” cried hr. Dam, his face twisted with hatred. “That will drive them out.”
“We should have brought the dogs to hunt them down.” That was Hans speaking—their friend Hans—and his face was distorted with rage.
Christian looked at his grandmother and Peter beside him. They were afraid. He knew that. But their faces were beautifully peaceful and calm. There was no twisting, darkening hatred here, even though there was reason enough. Instead, the words of the missionaries had given them something that left no room for such feelings, something that even fear could not drive out.
And in his heart, though Christian was not quite ready to fully accept all that the missionaries said, he knew that he, too, had found something priceless. The truth is worth persecution, he decided.

“Great song!” Zach exclaimed, tossing his book-filled backpack onto his friend Adam’s bedroom floor. A radio blared away in the corner.
“I’m glad you like it,” Adam said. “I just bought the whole CD with my birthday money.”
Zach grinned. “Cool! Let’s see it.”
Adam tossed the unopened CD to Zach, whose grin disappeared when he saw the cover. “How did you even buy this? It’s got one of those warning labels on it for bad language and other stuff.”
Adam shrugged. “I guess I was lucky. The guy at the store must not have noticed.”
“Well, you noticed. You should take it back.” A still, small voice deep inside Zach was warning him of danger.
“But I like this group,” Adam protested. “The label’s probably about just a few words in one song. And besides, if anything is really awful, we can skip over it.”
Putting aside his uneasiness, Zach thought it over. “I guess we could,” he admitted at last. “I don’t remember any bad language in the song we just heard on the radio.”
“Neither do I,” Adam said, unwrapping the CD and opening the case. Inside was another warning label.
This time the warning voice was too loud for Zach to ignore. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said.
“Lighten up!” Adam snapped. “A few swear words won’t kill you. Just tune them out and listen to the music.”
Zach had a strong feeling that he should leave, but he didn’t want to hurt his friend’s feelings. He sat on the floor as Adam put the CD in the player. “The first song is one we haven’t heard,” Adam announced over the pounding beat.
Zach cringed, afraid that he was going to hear something awful. He remembered his dad’s warning: “If you hear bad words all the time, you’ll get used to them. Then it’s easy for them to slip into your own conversation.”
The first song ended without any bad words, though. Maybe Adam was right. “Here’s the one you like from the radio,” Adam said.
Zach gasped as a stream of dark, dirty words came pouring from the CD player. The tune was the one he had heard on the radio, but the lyrics were much worse. He tried to focus on the music and not listen to the words, but he couldn’t.
“Turn it off,” he said.
Adam kept listening.
“Turn it off!” Zach insisted. “Please!”
“Cover your ears,” Adam replied, turning up the volume.
Zach couldn’t stand it. He scooped up his backpack and rushed out of the room. Hurrying down the hall, he heard Adam singing along to the music.
Zach ran home, his heavy backpack banging his shoulders all the way. By the time he arrived, he felt weak and sick. Dropping his backpack, he went straight to his room, closed the door, and knelt by his bed. “Heavenly Father?” he began quietly. “I need Thy help. I feel awful. I listened to music that was full of words I can’t get out of my head—bad words. Adam said we could pretend they weren’t there, but it didn’t work. I knew better. My parents warned me, and so did the Holy Ghost. I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m sorry. Please help me, Heavenly Father. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Zach waited, straining to hear an answer. Nothing came right away, but he didn’t give up. He could feel the sunlight streaming through the window, warming his skin as he kept listening. When he finally got up, he felt he had an answer.
The next day at school he walked up to Adam. “I can’t listen to CDs with you anymore if you’re going to play that kind of music,” he said.
Adam looked sheepish. “Don’t worry. My brother heard that song and told my parents. They took the CD away.”
“Are you mad at your brother?”
Adam shook his head slowly. “I shouldn’t have bought it in the first place. It’s really not even music with all that bad language. It’s just junk. I’m glad it’s gone.”
Zach nodded. “I couldn’t get the words out of my mind.”
“I’m sorry,” Adam said. “Neither could I. I have some good CDs, though, without bad words. We could listen to those in about a week.”
“Sounds great,” Zach said. “But why a week?”
“Because by then I won’t be grounded anymore.”
Zach smiled. “Good music is worth waiting for.”