Gospel Story Finder

I remember as a child wanting a certain kind of bicycle. My parents were willing to give me a new bicycle for Christmas. My father took me to the store to look at bicycles. I saw the one I wanted, a silver Stingray. It was the fad at that time. My father asked me to also look at the more traditional models; he thought those might fulfill more needs. They were nice, but… they were not the Stingray. I told my dad I wanted the Stingray. Come Christmas morning, I saw the stingray near the Christmas tree. In less than one year, as the fad changed; I remember wishing I had made another choice. It was clear to me I would have benefited more from following the counsel my father had given me.

A powerful experience in my own life involved an impressive Maori lady in New Zealand when I served a mission there. Seriously ill, she was taken to the hospital to have an operation. It was doubtful that she would survive, because of her heavy weight and her advanced age.

She requested that I bless her, saying: “I know I’ll be all right if you’ll give me a blessing, Elder!” I sensed deeply the responsibility, and prayed at her bedside before assuming it. Then a blessing came to her through me that surprised both my companion and me by its positive nature—and I worried, fearing that I had been carried away by my own desire for her recovery. She held my hand and said, “Thank you. I’ll see you at church next Sunday.”

I did not believe her. Yet the operation was successful and her recovery complete—and she did attend testimony meeting the following Sunday. Though physically weak, she stood to eloquently thank the Lord for helping her at a critical hour. In this instance, her faith was a central factor in the blessing.

Two months ago, a person who is not a member of our church, Michael Harris, an expert skier, was buried alive in an avalanche at a place called Stevens Pass, Washington. Unfortunately, that day, he was skiing alone and did not have a beacon signaling device on him. Alone and entombed, he did the only thing he could think of that might help him. He prayed, saying: “Heavenly Father, I am in a bad way. I need help, and I think you’re the only one that can give it to me. I don’t know how you could do this, but I need you to tell someone where I am and how to get to me.”

That “someone” was his wife, Penny. She had been tracking her husband on and off that morning on her iPhone. When she noticed that the tracking dot was no longer moving, and that he had stopped answering her texts, she sensed something was wrong. She immediately drove one hour up to the pinned location, and with the help of the ski patrol, located exactly where her husband was. They dug him out, and saved his life. He had been buried for four hours. While he had a broken leg and suffered some lung damage, he suffered no frostbite and had a clear air passage and required no CPR.

The witness of the truth of the Book of Mormon which came to me as a young man was that kind of experience. It was during World War II. I was a young sailor assigned to the Anacostia Naval Air Station in Washington, D.C. I was just a small insignificant cog in a vast system of cogs and wheels that turned for much larger purposes. One of my jobs was to help make training films, identifying shapes and outlines of enemy ships and airplanes. These films were made in a large, barnlike structure containing a big flat stage approximating the horizon or the sea or whatever was demanded. The building itself was filled with models and outlines and forms and staging devices to make possible the fulfillment of our assignment. Most of the time we were very busy, but there came a time toward the end of the war when we went for weeks without assignment. Eventually, all the other personnel on this job were assigned to other duties, but for some reason I was left alone in the building, I guess to guard the equipment. At first I enjoyed my freedom. It was great to have nothing to do. All the electricity in the building was turned off with the exception of one outlet, into which was plugged a small crook-necked lamp which sat on the corner of a flat drafting table. There was a hard wooden chair where I could sit if I cared to. All the rest of the great building was in darkness. So for a few days I opened the door to the outside light and sat in the doorway on the old chair and thoroughly enjoyed myself, but before long I became immensely bored.

I had been raised in the Church by careful parents who had taught me the gospel, but I had never read the Book of Mormon completely through for myself. One day, as I sat idle, I decided this was an opportune time for me to do this. And so, that afternoon, I brought my small serviceman’s Book of Mormon from my quarters and, desiring privacy, went inside the building and turned on the little light by the table and began to read, hunched over there in that great dark building. I remember how I was struck by those first words, “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents. . . .” And as the days went by I read every word, and my soul, programmed as it was to goodness and truth, began to respond to the testimonies of the prophets. I had never had such an experience! I read slowly, prayerfully, savoring every word, looking forward to what was to come, even wishing that it would never end. I had feelings in my heart that I had never been conscious of before. And when at last I read the admonition of Moroni at the end of the book, I felt a great desire in my heart to try his words, to ask for spiritual verification even greater than what I was then feeling. I remember shutting the doors of that vast building and locking myself in, then kneeling in the darkness on the cold cement floor, my forehead resting against the hard wooden seat of the old chair, and telling the Lord that I believed the words of Moroni, and asking him to strengthen my belief into knowledge.

I shall never forget what happened; I have felt it many times since. I became aware that I was surrounded by a power beyond myself, which came over me and through me. It was all around me, calm, clear, indescribably powerful. It seemed white and delicious to me, like the fruit of the tree of life which Nephi told of. It filled me completely to the brim and over the brim, and did not leave me for days afterward. It was not shocking or disturbing in any way, as is the power of evil, but was sweet and assuring to my soul. I knew that the book was true.

And, finally, be a good influence on others. When I was a sophomore in high school, some of my friends started drinking and smoking. They knew I didn’t drink or smoke, but they began to pressure me to join their parties anyway. The more they pressured me, the more uncomfortable I felt, until finally I stopped hanging around them. I figured that if they were really my friends, they wouldn’t push me to do things I didn’t want to do. Real friends would never ask you to do something you shouldn’t.

Another present-day member of a stake presidency said to me, “My wife had much to do with this call which has now come to us. When we were dating, I was inactive in the Church. I gained the courage one night to ask her if she would marry me. To this proposal she didn’t say yes and she didn’t say no. She said, ‘Where?’ I spent the next number of months squaring myself around so I could take her to the temple. She had made her plans, and I loved her enough to rechart my course to coincide with hers. I knew what I had to do and where I had to go if I wanted to travel at her side.”

In the same year that Dr. Hansen made his medical discovery, two ecclesiastical leaders from different faiths first made their appearance on the Kalaupapa peninsula. One was a Latter-day Saint named Jonathan Hawaii Napela; the other was a Belgian priest, Father Damien J. de Veuster, who will be canonized by the Roman Catholic Church in the coming year.6 Napela was born on the island of Maui in 1813, became a district judge in 1848, and converted to Mormonism in 1852. He was a tremendous aid to early LDS missionary work on the Hawaiian Islands as he fed and housed the elders, helped them learn Hawaiian, and aided George Q. Cannon with the translation of the Book of Mormon into Hawaiian. Though Cannon taught Napela the restored gospel, Napela on several occasions taught Cannon and the Utah elders a greater dimension of faith.

Perhaps his greatest contribution to humankind is his example as a loving husband. When his wife, Kitty, contracted leprosy, or Hansen’s disease, Jonathan chose to remain with her in the settlement and act as her kokua, a Hawaiian word meaning “helper.” Consequently, Jonathan wrote a letter in Hawaiian to the Board of Health, pleading that he might be allowed to stay with his wife:

On August 3, 1843, I took my wife as my legally married wife and on that same day I vowed before God to care for my wife in health and sickness, and until death do us part. . . .
I am 60 years old and do not have much longer to live. During the brief time remaining, I want to be with my wife. My wife has also lived a long life, but with this disease, it will quickly shorten her life. Such is the reason for this petition.

Luckily, Jonathan’s request was granted, and he spent the remaining years of his life at Kalaupapa with Kitty. While here, Napela encountered yet another way to serve those around him. Not long after his arrival, he was called to act as the leader of the LDS Church on the Kalaupapa peninsula, a calling he held from 1873 until his death in 1879 from the effects of Hansen’s disease.

Despite the work, Rebecca continued faithful and served willingly. The Prophet Joseph Smith and his family lodged in the Williamses’ home for a time when the Smiths first moved to Kirtland. Rebecca proved loyal to the Prophet and his family as she cared for them through trying times. Once a mob came and surrounded the home looking for Joseph. Rebecca disguised Joseph in her bonnet and cloak. Joseph was able to leave the house and pass through the crowd to safety.

In March of 1832, Rebecca again provided invaluable aid to the Prophet when a mob burst into the John Johnson farm in Hiram, Ohio, and brutally assaulted Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon. After beating Sidney senseless and attempting to pour poison down Joseph’s throat, the mob tarred and feathered the Prophet. When Emma Smith saw her husband, she thought the tar was blood and fainted.5 Rebecca and Frederick spent that night peeling tar from Joseph’s bleeding and torn body and caring for the Smith children. Their succor was helpful, as Joseph found the strength to preach the next morning.

My first few months of being a new member of the Church were rough ones—especially for my friends. On one hand, I was excited about what I had found, the feelings of inner peace and the joy I felt in my close relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
On the other hand, in my excitement to share my new understanding of the restored gospel and its teachings, I started to regularly tell my non-LDS friends when they did something I thought was wrong.
Of course, I was about as subtle as a bull elephant on a charge.
One evening in the early summer, I finally realized how judgmental and self-righteous I had become. About five months after my baptism, I went to an outdoor concert with a good friend. As we walked around the grounds trying to find a spot to eat our picnic before the concert began, I noticed many of the people around us had brought wine to share with their dinner. Not one to pass up an opportunity to show how much wisdom I had acquired by being a member of the Church, I hissed to my friend, “Look at all those people drinking wine—that’s disgusting!”
My kind and patient friend turned to me and said, “I’m sure that when Jewish people go into a restaurant, they don’t walk around and criticize everyone with ham on their plates.”
I finally had the good sense to be silent for a little while and ponder what he said. I realized that in all the lessons I had been taught, there had been no mention of members going forth and judging their neighbors. As a matter of fact, the terms “silent example” and “loving nature” had been used a lot.
Embarrassed, I thanked my friend for his wisdom and apologized for my lack of consideration.
I am happy to report that his message came through loud and clear. I stopped demanding changes from my friends and started demanding change from myself. I still stand strong for the things I believe in, but in a polite way—a way that, happily, has made my friends comfortable in talking to me about the Church.

A few years ago, my friend Jack swore a lot. I knew that Jesus and God didn’t want that. I asked him if he could stop swearing around me, and he had enough respect to stop. We’re best friends now.
Now whenever he hears someone swearing around me, he’ll apologize to me and ask them to stop. I think that’s really cool. He’s come to church a few times and even said a prayer. I asked the missionaries for a Book of Mormon and gave it to him.

Twenty years ago in general conference, I related a story first told by Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone of the Seventy that I believe bears repeating here.
In 1918 Brother George Goates was a farmer who raised sugar beets in Lehi, Utah. Winter came early that year and froze much of his beet crop in the ground. For George and his young son Francis, the harvest was slow and difficult. Meanwhile, an influenza epidemic was raging. The dreaded disease claimed the lives of George’s son Charles and three of Charles’s small children—two little girls and a boy. In the course of only six days, a grieving George Goates made three separate trips to Ogden, Utah, to bring the bodies home for burial. At the end of this terrible interlude, George and Francis hitched up their wagon and headed back to the beet field.
“[On the way] they passed wagon after wagon-load of beets being hauled to the factory and driven by neighborhood farmers. As they passed by, each driver would wave a greeting: ‘Hi ya, Uncle George,’ ‘Sure sorry, George,’ ‘Tough break, George,’ ‘You’ve got a lot of friends, George.’
“On the last wagon was … freckled-faced Jasper Rolfe. He waved a cheery greeting and called out: ‘That’s all of ’em, Uncle George.’
“[Brother Goates] turned to Francis and said: ‘I wish it was all of ours.’
“When they arrived at the farm gate, Francis jumped down off the big red beet wagon and opened the gate as [his father] drove onto the field. [George] pulled up, stopped the team, … and scanned the field. … There wasn’t a sugar beet on the whole field. Then it dawned upon him what Jasper Rolfe meant when he called out: ‘That’s all of ’em, Uncle George!’
“[George] got down off the wagon, picked up a handful of the rich, brown soil he loved so much, and then … a beet top, and he looked for a moment at these symbols of his labor, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Then [he] sat down on a pile of beet tops—this man who brought four of his loved ones home for burial in the course of only six days; made caskets, dug graves, and even helped with the burial clothing—this amazing man who never faltered, nor flinched, nor wavered throughout this agonizing ordeal—sat down on a pile of beet tops and sobbed like a little child.
“Then he arose, wiped his eyes, … looked up at the sky, and said: ‘Thanks, Father, for the elders of our ward.’”

As a boy, I well remember Sunday School on Mother’s Day. We would hand to each mother present a small potted plant and sit in silent reverie as Melvin Watson, a blind member, would stand by the piano and sing, “That Wonderful Mother of Mine.” This was the first time I saw a blind man cry. Even today, in memory, I can see the moist tears move from those sightless eyes, then form tiny rivulets and course down his cheeks, falling finally upon the lapel of the suit he had never seen. In boyhood puzzlement I wondered why all of the grown men were silent, why so many handkerchiefs came forth. Now I know. You see, mother was remembered. Each boy, every girl, all fathers and husbands seemed to make a silent pledge: “I will remember that wonderful mother of mine.”

When I was young and new to the Church, I was assigned to minister to an elderly man who lived by himself. He lived on the edge of town in an old motel room that had become an extended-stay residence for those who couldn’t afford apartments. He didn’t appear to have many possessions or family in the area and lived a lonely life. During one visit, he told me about the child who was stillborn to him and his wife. I marveled that he was brought to tears by the recollection of something that must have happened at least 50 years before. It would only be a brief time before I better understood his feelings.
Two years later my wife and I drove past the scene of a car accident. I realized that no police or ambulance had arrived yet. I had just completed an emergency medical technician course, so I stopped to see if I could help. When I made my way through the crowd, I saw an overturned vehicle with a small child lying nearby on the ground. There was no one giving her any care. I kneeled beside her and began to assess her condition, which was serious.
As I did, I heard someone call my name. I looked up into the face of a man in our ward who was less active. I realized this was his young daughter, who had attended our Primary. A nurse arrived, and we began CPR. When the ambulance crew took over, I returned to my friend’s side. I learned later that his child had ended up partially under the vehicle and others had pulled her out before my arrival. Her injuries were internal, and she did not survive.
Less than a year later, we were expecting our fourth daughter, and my wife carried her the full nine months. My wife woke me early one morning, saying her water had broken. We went to the hospital. After I parked the car, I went to her room and was told that the baby had died. I didn’t immediately understand, since we had only just arrived. When the doctor did his initial check, he couldn’t find a heartbeat. We never knew why. Instead of enjoying a newborn, we found ourselves planning for her funeral and taking down the nursery items.
Less than a year after that, a two-year-old boy in our ward was run over and killed by a service truck in the parking lot where he lived. I visited the family and spoke at his funeral. The mother mentioned he had been unusually cuddly that morning, almost as if he were saying goodbye.
Our ward had experienced the deaths of three young children in just over one year.
About a year after the death of our baby, we moved and I was assigned to minister to a young couple with two children. The older daughter had contracted an infection while in the womb and was born with a severe mental disability. Although she was nine years old at the time, she was like an infant developmentally. It was a struggle for the young family, who had limited means.
One day I received a phone call telling me she had died during the night. No member of the bishopric was available to visit just then, so I was asked to visit until they could get there. I arrived as her body was being removed, and I had a chance to talk with the father. The wife’s ministering sister arrived and did an amazing job comforting the family and taking care of the home.
I went with the father to the funeral home to make the arrangements. I suppose I was able to render some service because of my prior experiences. I don’t consider myself a great ministering brother, but I was glad I wasn’t a stranger in that home.
Many years later, one of our daughters was expecting her first child. She had married later in life and we knew from tests and exams that the child would need corrective surgery at birth. She went into early labor, but his condition apparently placed too much stress on his heart and he died before birth. We knew how she felt, but it was very difficult to see her so heartbroken.
When reflecting on these events, I wrote in my journal that I never expected to have so much to do with the death of children. The experiences, although tragic, helped me feel greater love and compassion for others because I understood what they were going through.
When I ponder what the gospel means to me, I have to say it is about relationships: those we had before, those we form in this life, and those we hope for after this life—the type of relationships and love that would cause an elderly man to mourn the loss of a child he would never know in this life.
Photograph at Oakland California Temple by Christina Smith
I don’t know how the blessings and protection of the temple reach out from the house of the Lord to touch our families, but I believe they do. Heavenly Father strengthens us according to our needs and uses us to help others in their trials. The hope and promise of priesthood ordinances and covenants are provided by a loving Father who knows our trials.

May I tell you of the hour of my true conversion to the Lord Jesus Christ and his restored gospel. Perhaps my experience will strengthen those who desire a closer relationship with our Father in Heaven and a more profound testimony of the truthfulness of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Some years ago while traveling to a mission in Germany, I found myself, in stormy November, aboard a ship sailing from New York to Bremerhaven. The ocean boiled with turmoil. We were all seasick. All we could eat were soda crackers and Zwieback. I was almost afraid I was not going to die!
As the days passed it dawned on me: “I’m really going on a mission.” Do I truly have a testimony? Am I prepared to bear it “at all times and … in all places”? (Mosiah 18:9).
I thought I had a testimony, but now the real trial of my faith was coming. I was going to a foreign land where the only words I could speak in German were Volkswagen and auf Wiedersehen.
During the voyage I realized my testimony was not a spiritual fire of conviction, particularly of the Book of Mormon. And so I knelt down on the cold steel floor of that rocking ship and begged the Lord with my tears. I prayed, “Dear Father, I have got to know that the Book of Mormon is true. I have read it, I think I understand it, but I desire the fire which helps a man know that the Book of Mormon is thy word. Please, Father, help me.”
Somewhere out on the lonely Atlantic, during those turbulent days, a sweet spirit and peace came to me—“the peace of God, which passeth all understanding” (Philip. 4:7). I received a witness that the Book of Mormon is the word of God, and that supernal event became my hour of conversion.
If you question whether you have a testimony of the restored gospel, I encourage you to read, ponder, and study the Book of Mormon. Why the Book of Mormon? Because this holy scripture is the great testifier and converter. This ancient record is a spiritual compass for us to follow. Joseph Smith said, “The Book of Mormon was … the keystone of our religion, and a man would get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book” (History of the Church, 4:461). When you come to know that this testament of Christ is true, you will know that Joseph Smith is the prophet of the Restoration and that Ezra Taft Benson is the Lord’s prophet today. The Book of Mormon was written for our day to convince us “that Jesus is the Christ” (Book of Mormon title page). If your soul is searching for a more profound testimony of Jesus Christ and his restored kingdom, I suggest, in conjunction with studying the Book of Mormon, there are four steps you can take which will lead you to your hour of conversion.
These four steps are (1) Desire, (2) Works, (3) Prayer, and (4) Trust in the Lord. Let me briefly explain.
First, Desire: Oliver Cowdery desired a more firm witness of the plates which contained the Book of Mormon record. The Lord said to Oliver: “If you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things. Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter?” (D&C 6:22–23). The Lord told Oliver that, first of all, a person needs to have desire.
Alma said, “Even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you” (Alma 32:27).
Second, Works: Oliver Cowdery took a positive action. He moved himself from thinking to doing. In my case, while on board that ship, I had more intimately studied and pondered the Book of Mormon. Young Joseph reflected on the Bible, then went into the woods to pray. Moses climbed Mount Sinai. My Great-grandmother Nelson boarded a ship in Denmark, with a flock of little children, to join the Mormons in Utah. Righteous works yield a divine harvest. The Lord said, “He who doeth the works of righteousness shall receive his reward, even peace in this world, and eternal life in the world to come” (D&C 59:23).
Third, Prayer: “Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed” (Hymns, 1985, no. 145).
As we sincerely pray to the Lord and rely upon his divine whisperings, that still, small voice will come to us (see Hel. 5:30). We will receive a peace, knowing that God has answered our prayers. Remember the peace that Oliver received. These spiritual embers can grow into a flame of testimony (see Hel. 5:45).
Alma, upon meeting the four sons of Mosiah, who had been on a fourteen-year mission, rejoiced at their knowledge of the truth. He said, “They had searched the scriptures diligently, [and] they had given themselves to much prayer, and fasting; [and] they taught with power and authority of God” (Alma 17:2–3).
“Ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ,” counseled Moroni, “if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, … he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moro. 10:4).
Surely the Lord would not ask us to pray if he did not intend to answer our prayers. “He is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him” (Heb. 11:6).
Fourth, “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding” (Prov. 3:5). We can trust the Lord. He is our truest Friend. He always keeps his word. “Dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith,” admonished Ether (Ether 12:6).
May I ask you to extend your trust in the Lord. Take the Book of Mormon into your hands. As you read it, ask yourself, Could any man write this? Then ask the Lord, Is this thy word?
A word of caution: Satan wants to stop you. He will try to distract, deceive, and weaken your desire, your righteous works, your sincere prayers, and your trust in the Lord. Do not be afraid. We have already overcome the evil one at another time and place. We are told that in the great premortal war, “[we] overcame [Lucifer] by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of [our] testimony” (Rev. 12:11). We had a valiant testimony in our premortal state, and we can resist Satan and awaken that testimony again today.
The Book of Mormon is our testimonial Liahona (see Alma 37:45). This voice from the dust guides us to know that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, and that his Church has been restored.
If you have even a small desire for a greater witness, please do the works of righteousness, trust in the Lord, pray and anxiously explore the Book of Mormon. I testify that it is the word of God. This iron rod marks the path that will guide your soul to your hour of conversion. I rejoice with you in that glorious event. In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen.

Brother Thomas Rice recently stood up in a fast and testimony meeting and said, “I am the richest man in the world and it is all because of a young girl in our neighborhood who invited our daughter to go to Primary with her. On many Saturday mornings this girl even came to our home and helped rouse Becky from her bed and then helped her to get ready for Primary.
“A short time after Becky started attending Primary, two missionaries visited our home and presented the discussions to our family. We had been active in another church when we lived in Pennsylvania, but after moving to Ohio we had not found a Church we wanted to attend.
“During our meetings with the missionaries, the gospel plan unraveled before our eyes and soon we had a testimony of its truthfulness.
“Whenever I see that young girl who first invited our Becky to Primary, I want to put my arms around her and tell her how much we love and thank her for making possible our membership in the Church. Our family has realized many rich blessings through temple marriage, missionary service, and calls to serve in positions in the ward and stake.”

It was the first day of school on a hot, late-August day in New Mexico some years ago. I excitedly entered the school, looking for my friends and hoping that they would be in my fifth grade class. As I walked through the door of my new classroom, I immediately noticed that Mrs. Moore had attached every student’s name to an assigned seat. My name was attached to a desk near the front of the room and next to the bulletin board. The bulletin board was brightly adorned with “Welcome Back to School” and other decorations, as well as important fifth grade information.
Two small cards on the board, hanging almost evenly with my desk, caught my attention. The top one read: The Golden Rule: Do unto Others As You Would Have Them Do unto You. The bottom card asked: What Would Jesus Do?
Although the contents of the bulletin board changed monthly, these two cards always remained in the same place. I don’t know who put them there, but it seemed that during moments of daydreaming, my mind was drawn to them. I had heard the Golden Rule and could think of a few times when I had even put it to use with my little brothers. The question “What would Jesus do?” was not something I had ever thought much about before.
I had been baptized a couple of years earlier, and I had heard the stories of Jesus from my parents and in my Primary classes since I was little. I knew about Jesus Christ and what He did, but now as I thought about that question, I asked myself, What does it have to do with me? I knew that He was and is the Savior. Wise Men visited Him when He was a baby. He fed five thousand people with just five loaves of bread and two fishes. He calmed a raging sea. He healed people and brought the dead back to life. He died for me and was resurrected. But I’m just a ten-year-old girl. How could I ever do anything He might do?
A couple weeks into the school year, a class party was planned. I was on the food committee, and each member brought some sort of treat. There were several small watermelons, a sheet cake, and other treats. One boy brought lots of party sandwiches. We all enjoyed the party on a hot day in September. When the party was over, my committee stayed afterward and packed up the leftover food. There were several half-eaten watermelons, about ten pieces of sheet cake, and some sandwiches. We were instructed by Mrs. Moore to take it all home with us.
Even though we were late leaving school, we stopped to talk at a bench on the school grounds. Excited by the success of the party, we began planning the next one. Our excitement built until we were running and jumping off the benches and over each other.
One member of the group yelled out a reminder that we were all going to be late getting home. We continued running and jumping, but we picked up the party leftovers and went around the corner to the front of the school. There was no one in sight. No teachers’ cars or principal anywhere. We were late!
Then it happened. Splat!! Right in front of my feet landed a watermelon. The rind was broken, and the juice was spilling onto the sidewalk. Over my head flew a piece of cake. Something hit me right in the small of my back—a piece of watermelon. Its juice ran down my back, and the seeds stuck to my blouse. I immediately flung the half-eaten watermelon back at the friend who had struck me. Then I picked up a piece of cake from the ground, now soaked with watermelon juice, and flung it at another friend. The boy with the sack of sandwiches was swinging the sack madly as a shield. The sack finally burst, and became a thousand crumbs scattered in the watermelon juice. Watermelon rinds were strewn along the front of the school. Someone yelled about how late it was, and we all began running toward home.
When we came to the corner that would take us out of the view of the school, I happened to turn around. Then I saw it—watermelon carnage everywhere! My heart sank. What had we done? It had been so much fun, but I hadn’t realized what the damage would be, and I know that none of the others did, either.
I motioned for the others to turn around. A look of shock came over their faces. I asked if we should go back and at least clean up the big pieces. “No way!” “It’s too hot.” “My mom’s going to be mad if I get home any later.” “It’s the custodian’s job, anyway.” All their answers made sense to me, and I headed home, too.
But when I turned around to take one more look, the question on that card on the bulletin board came flooding into my mind: What would Jesus do?
I immediately answered myself that Jesus Christ would never have gotten into a watermelon fight, to begin with. I didn’t even know if there were watermelons where He lived almost 2,000 years ago. Besides, what the other children had said made sense, and I really needed to get home, too.
When I got home, I found my mother busy with one of my younger brothers. I was able to quietly change clothes and brush the watermelon seeds from my hair. As I was doing this, “What would Jesus do?” reentered my mind. I pictured the custodians out early in the morning, cleaning up the mess. They shouldn’t have to do that. I thought of the principal, Mr. Nance, picking up watermelon rinds and that bread sack. He shouldn’t have to do that, either. I somehow imagined that the sixth grade crossing guards might even have to clean up the mess on the crosswalk. I knew that they shouldn’t have to do that. At that moment I knew what Jesus Christ would do.
Although I knew what He would do, I still persuaded myself that it was too hot to be out on the cement and pavement, that it was too hard a job for one ten-year-old girl. But I thought about it again and again.
Finally I went and told my mom that I needed to go back to school for something. I quietly took the broom, dustpan, and a towel and got on my bike and rode toward the school.
As I got to the corner by the school, I hoped the scene had miraculously disappeared. But there it was, exactly as I had remembered. A watermelon war zone. I parked my bike and began sweeping and soaking up juice and seeds.
Two of my watermelon-flinging friends rode up on their bikes and asked me what I was doing. I timidly told them I was cleaning up the mess, hoping that they would offer to help. They only laughed and rode away.
I was carrying the watermelon rinds to the garbage can across the street, when a car approached with a woman and a small child inside. As they got close to me, the car slowed down. The woman had a look of complete bewilderment on her face. I began working faster. I wondered if I was doing the right thing—no one else seemed to think so.
But the job was finally done. Only a trace of the juice was left, along with some seeds, cake, and bread crumbs that had been baked into the hot asphalt after being run over by cars.
The next morning as I walked to school with my little brother, we saw things happening as they did every morning. The crossing guards were there. The flag was being raised. Teachers and the principal were walking the grounds. The custodians with their brooms were happily greeting everyone. Only a trace of watermelon seeds stuck to the pavement, unnoticeable to the untrained eye.
I entered my classroom. None of my classmates spoke of the watermelon incident or how the mess was cleaned up. When I sat at my desk, I looked at that card on the bulletin board—What Would Jesus Do?—and I knew then what the question had to do with me, a ten-year-old girl—and every other person, regardless of age. I knew that I could do what Jesus would do, even though it might be hard and other people may not understand.

Seeing new temples built makes President Hinckley happy because temples bring blessings. In 1985, he traveled to Mexico City for the temple dedication there. He had visited Mexico before, and he remembered how poor some of the people were. This didn’t stop them from coming to the temple dedication, smiling brightly and dressed in their best clothing. They knew that they would be blessed because a temple had been built in their country. President Hinckley was impressed by their joy. He said, “What a wonderfully uplifting experience it was to be with them and to witness the miraculous power of God in their lives.”‡

I conclude with one more tool. I have observed that the happiest among you refuse to whine. I’ll say that one more time. I have observed that the happiest among you refuse to whine. Please envision this scene in the real life happening of a little boy and his dad.

The little boy is five. He loves his big wheel. He is known in the neighborhood as the “big-wheel king.” His big wheel is not an ordinary one. It is jet black with wide tires and a gold cobra on the side.

His favorite thing to do was to back up against the garage door of their home, shoot down the driveway through the dip in the gutter and out into the street. His parents warned and warned and warned. And he would promise and then forget. One day it was such that after he had promised and had sincerely meant not to do it again, he did it again; and he received a little paddle. No child abuse involved here, I’m sure. And he cried, and through his tears he said to his father, “All you want to do is ruin all my fun.”

Now, I don’t know who you are, but there is someone here who has some of those kind of feelings. Not only about this place, but about the Church, and maybe even about the Lord himself—that the whole intent and purpose seems to be to ruin our fun.

The dad assured him that was not the case, and the little boy was left with the commitment not to do it again. Weeks, even months, passed.

One Sunday they returned from church; and as the family went inside, the little boy, in a forgetful moment, got on his big wheel and tore down the driveway. His dad, just entering the living room, could see him going down the driveway and the neighbor coming home from church; and he could see out in the middle of the street where they were going to meet. He ran to the door to holler out a warning, but it was too late. He got there and saw the big wheel struck by the car. He ran to the street. Gratefully and fortunately and happily, the little boy was scraped and bruised, but not critically injured. His big wheel was under the car. And as the dad pulled him out from under the car, the little boy said these remarkable words: “Don’t worry, Dad. I won’t ever do that again.”

What a journey between “All you’re trying to do is ruin all my fun” and “Don’t worry, Dad. I won’t do that again.” What happened? One thing. He came to understand what his mom and dad had always known—those who create seek to understand rather than to whine.

In February I decided to read to people in my ward and my relatives for 10 cents a minute and donate all the money for a wheelchair through the LDS Humanitarian Services.
I got the idea from a story in the February 2015 Friend about Zach’s lemonade stand. I wanted to combine service and my reading talent to earn enough money for a wheelchair.
I have read 414 minutes and earned $208! Some people donated extra money, and some people let me read to them over video chat!
Sometimes it was tiring to read for a long time, but I kept on reading because I knew that is what Jesus wanted me to do.

I anticipated success when I entered a Lions Club speaking contest that spring, too. The topic was “Generation Gap—Fact or Fantasy?” My talk was custom-tailored for the judges’ preferences, and I won the contest by defeating a girl named Karen, a Mormon.
I won because I had said what the judges wanted to hear. But in my mind, Karen’s talk based on her church’s doctrines, was far more thought-provoking. Her delivery enveloped me in its sincere conviction. We became friends.
As we got to know each other, our conversations sometimes evolved into debates, with Karen defending religion while I argued for science. Our discussions served mostly to frustrate her.
But Karen had a friend named Nese. Nese never said more than “Hi” to me in the halls, but she had paid close attention to my conversations with Karen.
Nese never told me directly that she was a Latter-day Saint. She strolled up to my table in the library one day during study hall. “May I sit down?” she asked. At some point during the conversation, she said she was a member of the house of Israel. I assumed she meant she was Jewish.
We had study hall at the same hour, and during the remaining months of our senior year, Nese and I sorted through the many religious questions flooding my mind. She told me later she “just wanted to share her opinion with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” I would voice my ideas on a subject like life after death, and then she would explain her beliefs. Her confidence amazed me. It wasn’t until later that I found out she was a Latter-day Saint.
By then our talks were so enjoyable I began spending lunch hours with Nese and her Mormon friends. They were refreshing to be around. No smoking, no swearing, no off-color jokes. Best of all, they never seemed to put anybody down—they respected each other’s feelings. It was different being with them, and I enjoyed it.
Toward the end of the school year, Karen invited me to a Gold and Green Ball, whatever that was! I had never been to a dance in a church, and I had to dress in a suit! I was amazed to see a gym in a church building.
But what went on in the gym surprised me even more. Adults and teenagers were talking, laughing, and even dancing together. My friends had always thought it was “uncool” to like your parents. All over the nation there was an uproar about communication breakdown between parents and their children. But these people all seemed to be friends, regardless of age.
I asked Karen about it. She said it was because of the Church. As she took me on a tour of the building, I pondered what she had said. By the time I went home that night, I felt these people were unique, choice in some way I didn’t fully understand. They had a lot to be proud of.
After graduation my summer job stole me from my new-found group of friends. I was employed at a gas station, where I was nearly starved by my co-workers’ lack of concern. I was depressed, unhappy, and alone.
One afternoon in July, Nese and a friend drove up to the station. Just seeing them boosted my morale. They were planning to sing in the Oakland Temple Pageant and invited me to attend.
I’ll always remember that special evening. It was the first time I heard the story of Joseph Smith and learned the history of the Latter-day Saints I had grown to admire. At the end of the pageant, the audience rose and sang “The Spirit of God Like a Fire is Burning.” How I wanted to know the words of the song so I could join the chorus! I felt completely full of respect and love.
The crowd left slowly. Standing in the parking lot, I looked up at the temple. A voice in the back of my mind told me that some day I would enter that building.
When fall came, Nese left to attend Brigham Young University. I returned to Berkeley. Loneliness encompassed me again. Nese’s letters arrived regularly, two or three times weekly. I asked her why she was Mormon. The next letter bulged the envelope. It was a detailed explanation of her struggle to remain active and maintain a firm testimony while living with her inactive family.
I decided I had to go to church. That was a difficult decision because no one pushed me to attend. I had been allowed to come to the conclusion on my own.
I nearly changed my mind when I opened the door. I entered the chapel by myself, spotted an empty seat on the back row, and quickly sat down. Not all alone here, too! I wondered inside.
Then suddenly Karen, who had appeared from nowhere, was shaking my hand. “Good morning, David,” she said, grinning. I wasn’t alone anymore. She introduced me to people, showed me which class to go to, and sat beside me the entire time.
I was impressed to find a class I could bring my questions to and get answers. To top it off, the teacher, Sister Booras, took time afterwards to thank me for coming. “You added a great deal to our class,” she said. I had never felt so at home before.
But I still didn’t have that spiritual testimony all the Church members kept telling me about. I liked the Church; I could believe in many of its teachings, but I didn’t know it was true. I kept attending the meetings anyway.
One month later, Nese urged me to come to BYU. I jumped at the chance and rushed to Provo for a whirlwind visit. She described her school as if it were part of her. As we walked around campus, all we talked about was religion. My mind was overflowing with questions again, as it had been in the high school library. I still didn’t see how everything fit together.
The stone in my path was the principle of eternal progression. “It’s no good,” I said. “How can man, who was created by God, ever hope to be a god?”
We were standing in front of the Joseph Smith Building. Nese paused for a moment.
“Dave,” she said, “before we were ever created physically, we were created spiritually as God’s sons and daughters. A part of us, our spirit, comes directly from him as our Father.”
It finally clicked! It all fell into place. My grin spread to a smile and erupted as a laugh. I couldn’t stop grinning. My mind jumped from doctrine to doctrine. “Yes, yes, it all fits!” I wanted to dance or sing or run.
There, on the steps of the Joseph Smith Building, the Spirit bore witness to me of the gospel plan. I knew in my heart I would join the Church.
I still had to read the Book of Mormon, learn to pray, and take the missionary discussions. But my life was changed from that moment on. I had found truth, purpose, and a life to fulfill. Five weeks later I was baptized.
Eighteen months later, my impression that I would one day enter the Oakland Temple came true, as I received my endowments one week before leaving on a mission. When I returned, Nese and I decided to continue the eternal journey we had begun with conversations at a table in a library. We were married in the Provo Temple.
Every time I look at my wife, I thank the Lord that there was a girl in my high school with enough faith to “just want to share her beliefs with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” She touched my head and changed my life.