Gospel Story Finder

This summer I was in a 4-H club. At the county fair I showed my lamb, Queenie. I won two trophies for showmanship and was invited to a round robin competition for a big trophy. When the judge told me that the competition was going to be on Sunday, I felt a weird feeling inside, as if my heart had stopped pumping blood. I told him that I couldn’t go. I was disappointed, but the Holy Ghost let me know that I was doing the right thing. It was hard, but now I know that I can make hard decisions. This will help me the next time I have a hard decision to make.

On the day of my baptism, I was a 22-year-old college student. I was part of a small group that assembled at a swimming pool in Brussels, Belgium. We didn’t have a chapel at that time. There was no baptismal font, no bishop, just two missionaries and a few branch members to support us. I had no family members with me. I had a sure testimony of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer; of Joseph Smith, a prophet; of the Book of Mormon; and of the Church, the only true one.
Three months passed before I was interviewed and ordained a deacon. That Sunday morning I stood in front of the sacrament table to distribute the emblems of the atonement of the Lord Jesus Christ. I still remember the surroundings: the dining room of a home had been transformed into a meeting hall for sacrament meetings that were attended by a few members. It was my first opportunity to magnify my priesthood calling. Nine months later, I was ordained a teacher and learned how to teach and to watch over the few members of the branch.
Another four months passed, and I was ordained a priest. Now I stood on the other side of the sacrament table. The decor was the same, but I felt different. It impressed me that now I was blessing the emblems of the Atonement and memorizing “that they may eat in remembrance of the body of thy Son, and witness unto thee, … and always remember him and keep his commandments … ; that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (D&C 20:77).
Two years passed after my baptism, and the day arrived for me to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood and to be ordained an elder. The mission president once again laid his hands upon my head. The higher authority and power to act in the name of the Lord were given.
The Church is a divine institution led by the authority of the priesthood. I testify that Jesus lives, that this is the only true church, that the priesthood of the Son of God is vested herein, and that the prophets, seers, and revelators who preside over this church are appointed to preserve the pure doctrine of Jesus Christ and the authority of his priesthood for the salvation of his people.

Some years ago a colleague of mine, who was a devout member of another Christian denomination, was curious about our beliefs. As I answered questions that touched on the plan of salvation, we read together about the Apostle Paul, who stated on Mars Hill in Athens that “we are the offspring of God.” After a moment of reflection, he asked, “Do you realize the implications of these passages?”

I thought I did, but I soon realized he had picked up on something quite profound.

He said, “It looks like the Apostle Paul is addressing nonmembers of the Church here and referring to them as the literal offspring of God. I have always thought of ‘children of God’ as only referring to those who accept Jesus Christ as their personal Savior, but this makes me wonder if there isn’t more to this.”

Although he declined my invitation to meet with the full-time missionaries, he did do considerable research on his own and concluded that the doctrine of the premortal existence had once been part of his religious tradition and that of many others. This actually made him more committed to his own faith. I learned from him, and later confirmed on my own, that the doctrine of a premortal existence was a common theme that was widely taught and written about by early Christian theologians and scholars until a council in A.D. 543, when it was branded as heresy (see Brent L. Top, The Life Before [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1988], 15–19).

How blessed we are to have this plain and precious truth not only restored in our day but also elaborated upon by modern revelation in ways that provide direction and meaning to our lives as we consider our divine nature and destiny.

It all started when Brandon, my two-year-old brother, got in the fridge and began dropping eggs onto the kitchen floor. Actually, things had been pretty crazy all morning. Mom, who is usually up and dressed by 7:00 every day, was still in her robe and slippers at noon, waiting for a chance to slip into the shower. The phone had been ringing all morning, the new baby was fussy, my little sister, Emily, had broken two glasses while setting the table for breakfast, Brandon had tried to be a “big helper” by washing out his oatmeal bowl in the toilet, and I had been whining all morning for Mom to drive me to my cousins’ house so that I could go roller-skating with them.
Mom had finally gotten the baby to sleep and was picking up the broken glass, when Brandon got into the eggs. Before she could do anything about him, the phone rang again. Sister Halvorson wanted to talk over Primary stuff with Mom, who is her first counselor. But Mom couldn’t hear a word she was saying, because Emily was prancing around, hollering that she needed to go to the bathroom. (The door was latched up high to keep Brandon from getting into it again.)
Mom told Sister Halvorson that she’d call back when things were calmer—in about fifteen years—and hung up. She dove for Brandon, who had run out of eggs and was trying to improve the color of the gooey mess on the floor by adding catsup, and called for me to unlatch the door for Emily.
But I was still mad about not being able to go roller-skating, so I just stood there pouting. “It’s not fair,” I said. “You get to do whatever you want whenever you want just because you’re a grown-up. I never get to do what I want. I wish I were the mom!”
That’s when it happened.
“Boingo!” Mom sang out, plopping Brandon back down in his egg and catsup concoction. “That’s it. I quit.” And with that, she turned and slid through the egg slime, out the back door, and calmly crawled inside the doghouse. (We had a large dog.)
I followed. Squatting, I peered in. “Mom, why are you in the doghouse?”
“Because I couldn’t climb the tree in my robe,” she answered matter-of-factly.
“Are you going to clean up the mess Brandon made?”
“No,” Mom replied sweetly. “I’m going to let you have your wish. Abbra-ka-doobra-ka-broccoli-boop!” she chanted, ceremoniously tapping my shoulders with the dog’s bone. “There! You are now officially ‘Mom’ for a while! You get to clean up the mess!”
“Oh, I get it,” I said. “We’re going to switch roles. I read a book about this!”
“No, no. You wished to be a mom. I didn’t wish to be a kid again. I’ve been there. That’s not so easy, either. No, I think I’ll just be a dog today.”
“Oh! This is going to be fun!” I shouted, envisioning myself filling shopping carts with frozen pizzas and Popsicles, serving ice cream and doughnuts for supper, and staying up all night watching TV.
“But, Megan,” Mom interrupted my daydream, “you have to take the whole package. I’ll be fair and take care of the baby, but you’ve baby-sat Brandon and Emily before, and it’s time you learn that you can’t just take the freedom without taking the responsibility too. Understand?”
I nodded and waited for Mom to tell me to start by cleaning up Brandon and the eggs, but she just barked, circled around a couple of times on her hands and knees, and settled herself comfortably in the doghouse.
I hesitated a moment, then headed for the house. As I reached the back porch, Mom stuck her head out and called, “Please leave the door open so I can hear if the baby wakes up.” She barked again and disappeared.
One look at the kitchen was all I needed to repent real fast. All my wonderful visions of endless roller-skating and unlimited ice cream exploded like a blitzed video arcade target. Brandon had discovered a bowl of leftover spinach in the fridge and was gleefully draping the limp, greenish globs over his head as he jumped up and down in the catsup-streaked egg mixture.
I almost went right back out to the doghouse to beg Mom to forsake her canine ways and be the mom again, but I didn’t. Not because I was too stubborn to admit that I was wrong, but because I suddenly realized that being a grown-up really wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. And Mom was stuck with it twenty-four hours a day, whether she liked it or not. The least I could do was let her be a dog for a few hours.
I unlatched the door for Emily, checked on the baby, who was sleeping peacefully, then tackled the job of getting Brandon and the kitchen cleaned up. A couple of times I thought I saw Mom peeking in the window, but I wasn’t sure.
Sopping up all those eggs gave me a lot of time to think about what Mom had said about freedom and responsibility. I was still getting used to the idea that maybe grown-ups sometimes got tired of being grown-up. I guess we all need a break sometimes, no matter who we are, I mused. I remembered reading in the New Testament that even Jesus had grown weary on occasion and had gone into the mountains where he could be alone for awhile.
I was fixing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Emily and Brandon, when I remembered that Mom hadn’t even had any breakfast—someone had come to the door just as she was about to eat her bowl of cereal, and by the time she got back, it was soggy.
With great care I made a sandwich for Mom, adding extra grape jelly, which I knew she adored. I carried the sandwich outside and knelt down by the doghouse. “Shall I put this in the doggy dish, or will this plate do?” I asked, giving Mom a big “everything is OK” wink.
Mom winked back. Then she crawled out of the doghouse, yawned, stretched, and brushed the dog hair off her robe. “Now that’s what I call a good vacation!” she declared, taking the sandwich and marching toward the house.
When Dad got home from work that evening, I took him aside and told him all about Mom’s morning. He was extra helpful that night. After dinner, while Dad was helping Emily and Brandon with their prayers and getting them to bed, I sat by Mom on the sofa as she nursed the baby.
“Megan, why don’t you call your cousins and tell them I’ll drop you and your roller skates off for a few hours in the morning,” she said, putting her free arm around me.
I thought for a moment before answering. “Thanks, Mom, but there’s something else I need to do tomorrow. I think I’ll give that old doghouse a good cleaning. After all—” I grinned— “you never know when you might need it again!”

I believe my first experience in having the courage of my convictions took place when I served in the United States Navy near the end of World War II.

Navy boot camp was not an easy experience for me, nor for anyone who endured it. For the first three weeks I was convinced my life was in jeopardy. The navy wasn’t trying to train me; it was trying to kill me.

I shall ever remember when Sunday rolled around after the first week. We received welcome news from the chief petty officer. Standing at attention on the drill ground in a brisk California breeze, we heard his command: “Today everybody goes to church—everybody, that is, except for me. I am going to relax!” Then he shouted, “All of you Catholics, you meet in Camp Decatur—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!” A rather sizeable contingent moved out. Then he barked out his next command: “Those of you who are Jewish, you meet in Camp Henry—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!” A somewhat smaller contingent marched out. Then he said, “The rest of you Protestants, you meet in the theaters at Camp Farragut—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!”

Instantly there flashed through my mind the thought, “Monson, you are not a Catholic; you are not a Jew; you are not a Protestant. You are a Mormon, so you just stand here!” I can assure you that I felt completely alone. Courageous and determined, yes—but alone.

And then I heard the sweetest words I ever heard that chief petty officer utter. He looked in my direction and asked, “And just what do you guys call yourselves?” Until that very moment I had not realized that anyone was standing beside me or behind me on the drill ground. Almost in unison, each of us replied, “Mormons!” It is difficult to describe the joy that filled my heart as I turned around and saw a handful of other sailors.

The chief petty officer scratched his head in an expression of puzzlement but finally said, “Well, you guys go find somewhere to meet. And don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!”

As we marched away, I thought of the words of a rhyme I had learned in Primary years before:
Dare to be a Mormon;
Dare to stand alone.
Dare to have a purpose firm;
Dare to make it known.

Although the experience turned out differently from what I had expected, I had been willing to stand alone, had such been necessary.

Since that day, there have been times when there was no one standing behind me and so I did stand alone. How grateful I am that I made the decision long ago to remain strong and true, always prepared and ready to defend my religion, should the need arise.

Doodling cartoons on his math and spelling tests at school may not have earned Val Chadwick Bagley higher scores, but his teachers probably had a blast grading his papers.
“I’ve always wanted to be a cartoonist,” Val says. He would draw every chance he could. On his mission, for example, he kept a regular journal and four complete cartoon journals on top of that.
Elder Bagley serving as a missionary in Virginia, USA, in 1978.
While serving as a missionary in Virginia, Elder Bagley mailed in a cartoon to the New Era. The cartoon was picked up and printed in the March 1978 issue, exactly 40 years ago this month.
Val’s first cartoon sent to the New Era and published in 1978.
“In my mind, I had reached the big time!” Val says. He’d grown up reading and loving the New Era, especially the cartoons. Seeing a cartoon of his own in its pages was a dream come true.
Val has been a regular contributing cartoonist to the New Era ever since. If you’ve read “The Extra Smile” (now included in “Fun Stop”), you know his stuff. He’s also done loads of other projects in his cartooning career, including publishing over 100 books, games, and other items. Yet whenever somebody asks Val what he does for a living, he always has the same answer.
“I always tell them that drawing for the New Era is the pinnacle of my accomplishments.” (The New Era thinks you’re awesome too, Val!)
Published March 2003
Published Oct. 2004
It hasn’t been all fun and laughter, though. There have been some major setbacks along the way.
Val remembers hitting his own personal rock bottom. He’d been working for several years designing cheese and hot-dog labels for an advertisement company. Then that company went out of business. He’d attempted college four different times without finishing a single term. He was close to bankruptcy and running out of options. He didn’t know what to do next.
So he went to the temple for guidance. While there, he picked up the Book of Mormon and opened to Helaman 12:2. Val read about how the Lord prospered His people “in the increase of their fields, their flocks and their herds, and in gold, and in silver, and in all manner of precious things of every kind and art.” His eyes landed and stayed on the word art.
“It was an answer to prayer,” Val said. The next day, he launched his cartoon business. He’s been going strong ever since.
Published Feb. 1997
Published July 1996
Val believes we’re all given gifts and that “you get to decide what to do with your talents.” Artists can portray literally any subject under the sun. For Val, he chooses to use his time and energy strengthening others in the gospel with his cartoons. “I’ve especially enjoyed working on anything that has to do with the Book of Mormon.”
For the past 40 years, Val’s cartoons have made you laugh, lifted your spirits, and brightened your days one punchline at a time. And that’s been his goal all along.
“I feel so blessed and fortunate that I get to do this,” he says.

As a young dancer I studied with a distinguished teacher in California, Rozelle Frey. She had been a member of the Anna Pavlova Dance Company in her youth. Her story and influence had remarkable lessons and impact for me. Initially she had trained to become a concert pianist, but when she was taken to see a classical ballet concert, she knew immediately what she wanted to do with her life. There, in her native Sweden, her family, having means, took her to study with a great ballet master teacher. After looking at her work in her audition, he told her that she should continue her career in her piano work, that she had little hope of becoming a dancer. She had a problem that in those days was called “banana legs.” Her legs curved outward like bananas. This simply was not compatible with the turnout or rotation of the legs required in the positions of ballet. She pleaded with this teacher to give her a chance to study, to prove herself. She was told that his time was simply too important to work with students who had no potential. However, she could come to the classes, stand back by the piano, and satisfy herself, but she would receive no help or criticism from him and would be completely on her own. She accepted with great enthusiasm.

This was before the time of seriously practiced physical therapy, so the result was unexpected. For seven years she worked diligently—pulling, strengthening, stretching, working. At first she went unnoticed, and then gradually she was accepted into the class and finally placed as an example at the front of the class where the students had to pass the teacher’s review.

Through the continued, repeated effort of working the muscles correctly and placing on them certain demands, the body responded by adapting to those demands. Because she was young and some bone was not yet solidified but cartilaginous, her legs became straight and tall. Remember I said she became a member of the Anna Pavlova Dance Company eventually. That is remarkable in itself; but even more startling to me was the fact that of the group of dancers she trained with for seven years, she was the only one who was ever chosen to dance in a professional company. Why? Perhaps the others did not have to try as hard or care so much. We all have stumbling blocks placed in our way—those are our growth-promoting experiences. If ever there was a stumbling block for a dancer, it was banana legs. But she made those stumbling blocks into stepping-stones. They caused her to have to try harder, to be more committed. So Miss Frey rose above those in the ordinary, easier paths, and she was able to reach greater heights.

Three years ago when President Wheelwright and I were service missionaries at BYU-Idaho for a short period of time, I received a telephone call from my stepmother in Salt Lake City. She said that my dear 96 year old father was not doing very well and she thought that I should come home. I left Rexburg that same morning and drove to Salt Lake. I was blessed to be with my father the last two weeks of his life. What a blessing that was for me to help care for him as he lay in a hospital bed in the family room of his home. I was able to sit beside him and talk to him and read to him and kiss his wonderful forehead each time I walked by his bed, even when he didn't know I was there. Those were incredible days for me!
Four days before Dad died he became very lucid and wanted to talk. It was a Sunday afternoon and all five of us children were with him, surrounding his bed. When he started talking I was wise enough to take a notebook and pen and write down the things he said to us. Those were the last words he uttered to us. As I tell you this story, you need to know that my mother had passed away 25 years before. Dad began by saying, Your mother is with me to tell you some important things. His message for us was that the family is the most important thing on this earth. He was able to tell us children several other wonderful things before he drifted back into silence, but I will never forget those words The family is the most important thing on this earth.

At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and in everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them, that I understood completely how my father felt about me.

I have a Young Women leader named Jennifer. She is my inspiration. When I was in seventh grade, she showed up at my doorstep every Wednesday and Sunday, wondering if I was going to go to Mutual or church. I always came up with the excuse of being “busy,” so I said no. Then I noticed her visits were a repetition. She was showing up every week, so one Wednesday I decided to try going to Mutual.
When I went, I felt so loved. I just loved being there with the other young women and leaders. I went home and cried myself to sleep, I was so happy. On Sunday, Jennifer was at my door again. I said no, so she made me a deal. She said if I went to just Young Women and liked it, she would continue to take me; if not, she would keep bugging me. So I went, and I loved it.
I started getting back into the Church, and I remembered how much I loved the gospel. Jennifer has been there for me through everything. I am so glad that Heavenly Father has blessed me with my leaders, especially Jennifer. She has made such a great impact on my life. I haven’t always made the right choices, but I am glad and so grateful that I have her on my side. She has motivated me to become active again. I don’t know how I could ever repay her. I thank Heavenly Father that I have her in my life.
I now know how to appreciate my leaders more. I know that they are here for us and they can help us become better young women and men. That’s why God blessed us with them.

One of my earliest memories of sacrament meeting occurred when I was probably 3 or 4 years old. As a kid I loved to actively participate in Church meetings as much as I could. This meant that when we were asked to sustain someone in a new calling, I loved to raise my hand when everyone else did. One Sunday, I was not paying attention as members were called and sustained. In fact, as I recall, I was playing on the floor instead of sitting in my seat. On this particular Sunday my family was sitting almost in the very back of the chapel, in the overflow area. The leader who was conducting read out the name of someone who had been called and asked for the sustaining vote. I didn’t realize what was happening until everyone had already lowered their hands. At that point, the leader asked, “Are there any opposed?” I did not know what that word meant, but wanting to participate and feeling disappointed that I missed the first time that hands were raised, I quickly climbed onto my seat, stood as tall as I could, threw my hand as high as I could and shouted, “I do!” While most everyone found it humorous, I could tell from my parents’ reactions that I had done something that I shouldn’t have. I was inexperienced and I lacked understanding. I did not understand how things really were – despite my feeling of confidence that I did. Before I got lost in Little Brush Creek Cave, I had complete confidence that I knew where I was going.

In 1977 the newly created Ottawa Ontario Stake in Canada, was facing some unique challenges. With headquarters in Ottawa, this large stake took in eastern Ontario, part of the province of Quebec, and northern New York State. The new stake thus showed a varied ethnic composition. It included a Chinese branch in Montreal, Canada, where two missionaries from the Hong Kong Mission aided in proselyting; a bilingual (French-English) branch at Hawkesbury, Canada; and an all-Lamanite branch at Hogansburg, New York, on the St. Regis Reservation.
One of the most urgent needs of the new stake was the erection of suitable buildings, since many wards and branches were meeting in rented halls and schools. Our stake president, Boyden E. Lee, felt impressed that before the Church could more rapidly increase its growth in the area, suitable chapels would have to be built. A five-year stake building plan was initiated, but by the end of the first year it had produced very limited results.
So the stake presidency decided on a special program to raise the required amount—one million dollars—in two years. President Lee worried a great deal about this decision, wondering how, during a period of inflation and financial stress, he could ask the members of the stake for such a large amount of money in such a short time.
As he prepared for a special stake assembly, he said he felt impressed to pronounce a special blessing and promise upon the members of the stake and to seal that promise by the power of the priesthood, just as one would in giving an individual blessing. He was initially hesitant, but the impression persisted, and he was unable to forget it.
The special stake building fund program was presented at the assembly. Adult members of the Church had been asked to fast and pray before coming to the assembly. At the close of that meeting, President Lee did indeed pronounce a special blessing on the members of the stake and promised then that if they would do all they could, the Lord would open doors to enable them to meet their building-fund assessments. This promise was sealed upon each member of the stake by the power of the priesthood.
Many others reported similar experiences. Jobs were found, promotions were obtained, seemingly worthless investments became profitable, bank accounts long since forgotten were discovered, and inheritances were received.
Two years after the challenge was issued, over $ 800,000 had been raised for the stake building fund. Three chapels have since been completed, two more are under construction, and four have been approved for construction. When these buildings are completed, each of the sixteen wards and branches of the stake will indeed have a modern chapel.
The refrain from the familiar hymn that “sacrifice brings forth the blessings of heaven” (Hymns, no. 147) has been richly felt throughout the stake. Our special building program is now bearing fruit in increased spirituality and convert baptisms. On 6 July 1980, only three and a half years after its creation, the stake was divided into the Ottawa Ontario Stake and the Montreal Quebec Mount Royal Stake, thus laying the foundation for future growth and development.

“It is related of Tamerlane (1336–1405) the honored warrior, the terror of whose arms spread through all the eastern nations, and who was victorious at almost every step, that he once learned from an insect a lesson of perseverance, which had a striking effect upon his future character and success.

“When closely pursued by his enemies—as a contemporary tells the story—he took refuge in some old ruins, where left to his solitary musings, he espied an ant tugging and striving to carry a single grain of corn. His unavailing efforts were repeated sixty-nine times, and at each time as soon as he reached a certain point of projection, he fell back with his burden, unable to surmount it; but the seventieth time he carried away the grain of corn, in triumph, and left the wondering hero reanimated and exulting in the hope of future victory.”

Near my home in the north woods of upper Michigan, there once stood an old turn-of-the-century home. For years it had been abandoned, its black, weather-beaten frame cracking with age and crawling with snaky tendrils of ancient vines that wrapped and coiled themselves across the windows and around the doors. Various out-buildings were scattered here and there, but they were barely distinguishable beneath the creeping tangle of brush and brier. The house towered three stories high and cast a forbidding shadow on the bleached and withered ground. This shadow had spread throughout the community and entered the fearful heart of every child around.

When I entered the ninth grade, however, I decided it was time to get over being frightened of the old place. I wondered if perhaps I couldn’t use it for a party. Now, being the only Latter-day Saint in my high school, I had heard and tolerated some pretty cruel things. I figured I could stand up to jokes and criticism for not smoking and drinking, but what I couldn’t take was hearing over and over again about how Mormons just didn’t know how to really have fun at parties. Because of that, my bishop (who was also my dad and a biology professor at the nearby university) came up with an idea to prove my friends wrong. On Halloween night he would temporarily move into the local neighborhood haunted house. But by then—thanks to the efforts of my dad, brother, and missionaries—it would be transformed into a terrifying realm of horror and fright. According to plan I invited about 20 of my closest nonmember friends. Since all of them lived in town, about six miles away, I assumed none of them had ever heard of the old Sutinen home. I assumed correctly.

At 7:00 the party began at my house; and after about an hour of games, pizza, and root beer, I suggested we visit a poor old man named Toivo. I explained he lived alone but always had treats ready for any trick-or-treater who dared venture down the lonely, overgrown trail that led to his home. My suggestion was enthusiastically received until they saw Mr. Sutinen’s home. Even I, who knew my dad waited within, felt a shiver of fear creep along my spine, like a spider on a web of nerves. We approached cautiously toward where the house loomed up, outlined starkly against the moonlit sky. To add to the eerie effect, a single light flickered from behind the drawn curtains. Ghostly wisps of fog clawed at our legs, and branches whipped wickedly against our faces. We were considering bravely marching on, when shrill laughter split the tomblike quiet. Some of the group turned, running wildly for home, while the rest huddled near and bombarded me with questions. “Are you sure this is the right house?” “How long have you known this man?” “Are you positive he’s harmless?” and finally, “If this is a joke, you’re gonna be sorry!”

Reassuring them that everything was fine, I boldly knocked upon the blistered door. Like something out of a horror movie, the door slowly creaked open, and I gazed into the red-rimmed eyes of a madman. With a start I realized this white-haired maniac was my father!

“Trick-or-treat,” my friends whispered as Toivo Sutinen ushered us into his parlor. This room was dimly lit by two flickering candles perched on large polished skulls. Nice touch, Dad, I thought as I gazed at the skulls, the cobwebs, and the coffin set back in a corner.

“Wall now, ain’t dis a surprise. Ten purdy gerls cum ta visit ol’ me,” muttered Mr. Sutinen in a slurred drawl. “Ah was jist gunna eat ma supper. Join me, hey?”

Carol, the Good Samaritan of our group, slapped “old” Toivo on the shoulder and heartily agreed. The rest warily glanced around. And Mary, still hovering near the door, asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Uh, Mr. Sutinen, what were you planning to eat?”

“Why, ma favorite,” happily responded Mr. Sutinen, “barbecued bat wings!”

Too late we noticed the dozens of murky specimen bottles crowding the counters and shelves of the kitchen.

“Unless, of course,” finished Mr. Sutinen, whacking something near him, “you want ta wait until Mabel here thaws out.”

Looking up, we saw a row of frozen cats hanging stiffly from the rafters!

This, of course, made sense when one remembered my dad was a professor of biology and used such things in his labs. But to my friends it was a ghastly spectacle and required a hasty exit by the nearest door—which was locked! Mary promptly began to cry, and several others looked like they wanted to. I begged my friends to stay and humor this crazy old man a little while longer, and they agreed.

“Wall, ah kin see yer not hungry,” cheerfully said the old man, picking up one of the candle skulls. “Why don’t ah take you on a tour of ma home?”

Happily accepting any excuse to leave the kitchen and its occupants, we followed Toivo Sutinen up the rickety, wooden steps and into a narrow hall.

“First room on the left here was ma dear Mildred’s” explained Toivo opening the door wide and allowing us to enter.

Except for a dusty end table on which lay a bloodstained knife, everything in this room was covered with enormous sheets. Avoiding eye contact with the knife, we halfheartedly listened to Mr. Sutinen reminisce about his dear departed wife. Uncomfortably we began to realize he was talking about Mildred as if she were still alive.

“Yep, ma heart was near broke, couldn’t stand it no more. So went out late one night and brought ma Mildred back home.”

With a flourish, Mr. Sutinen pulled back the bed sheet. And there, in all her skeletal beauty, lay the former “Mrs. Sutinen”!

That was too much; my dad had gone too far! Screaming frantically we ran from the bedroom and down the stairs. We must have triggered something because as we ran ghosts in Victorian dress swooped past, bats squeaked, and howls echoed through the empty corridors. The door was now wide open, but as we bounded down the steep steps, something huge and hairy jumped out from behind a nearby tree.

I don’t remember much after that except a lot of screaming and running. Within minutes we were safely back in the security of my home, breathlessly reliving each terrifying moment. My mother insisted I tell my friends the truth, but it took some doing to convince them crazy Toivo was not only my father but the “minister” of my church.

Later, when my dad, brother, and the missionaries returned, everyone wanted to ask them questions. I’m not sure that much gospel doctrine got discussed that night, but all in all the experience had a positive effect on my friends. Two of them later joined the Church and four others seriously considered it. The greatest result, however, was that from then on there wasn’t a single Church activity that wasn’t attended by as many nonmembers as members.

It all started with a joke: “You guys should make a commercial. They make millions!”
Joseph Sim of Alberta, Canada, had been chatting with his friend about how to save money for their missions when his friend’s dad joked that they ought to try their skills behind a camera and strike it rich.
The idea stuck, if only for the adventure factor. They began working together to create a fake commercial even though they didn’t expect fame or fortune to knock on their door anytime soon. The two friends started a YouTube channel and began uploading funny videos that were all about their quest of finding a way to make a commercial.
Things kind of snowballed from there.
While they were living it up creating the short videos, Joseph realized quickly how much he loved the art. He wanted to do more. “I had found my passion for filmmaking and started an LDS film group with my friends,” he said.
Those first videos from the LDS film group were goofy and funny shorts about Mormon culture, boasting such titles as “Stuff Mormons Say.”
After the new videos began gaining an audience Joseph decided to step up his game. He launched a web series about an ambitious young filmmaker looking for his break. These new comedy videos started getting more attention than ever before—so much attention, in fact, that the web series caught the eye of a major Canadian restaurant chain who wanted to partner with Joseph.
They contacted Joseph and said they wanted to advertise their product through the storyline. Joseph couldn’t believe his luck. “In my mind, this was the chance, the break,” he said. “I knew film production was where I wanted to end up.”
The restaurant chain liked his material so much they offered to re-shoot the existing four episodes he’d already finished. That meant better cameras and equipment, a budget, the works. Fame and fortune came a-knockin’ after all.
But then came the catch.
“They wanted to change the material,” Joseph said. “They wanted to taint the humor with sexual references and immoral situations.”
Joseph began feeling uneasy as soon as they started telling him their vision of reshaping his web series into something other than the clean material he’d created. They had a specific bar-and-grill type audience in mind and wanted the videos to appeal to that group. “Are you with us?” they asked.
Joseph’s head was spinning. “They had everything I thought I wanted,” he said. “But then I was reminded of a scripture, 3 Nephi 13:24: ‘No man can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will hold to the one and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and Mammon.’ I knew there was no middle path. This was a simple choice.”
A simple choice, maybe, but not easy in the moment. “I felt panicked, worried, and scared I’d be left with regret,” he said. “But when I did in fact decline their offer, I felt total reassurance that I had made the right choice.”
They parted ways. The deal was off.
Fast-forward a couple years since that big decision. Joseph Sim is now Elder Sim of the England Leeds Mission. He still hopes to pursue film in the future, but he doesn’t regret in the slightest having turned down the offer.
“At the time I’m pretty sure I thought the earth itself would shatter in two,” he says. “But with a bit of hindsight, I’m fairly confident I simply stood in front of something all of us have faced: the crossroads of the world and the gospel. I’m also confident that this crossroads is a daily thing, not some milestone event in our lives. We’re constantly making the decision between convenience and covenants.”
Even though the web video deal didn’t go through, Elder Sim still learned a ton from his time behind the camera. A lot of which helps him as a missionary.
“I’ve noticed that a major key to success in filmmaking and missionary work is creativity, anything that makes us unique,” he said. “We spend so much time worrying about what other people will think and trying to be someone else that the world ends up missing out on us altogether.”
No matter who you are, your life’s a story in the making. Make sure you tell a good one.

My sisters and I were talking about how well we did feeding our neighbor’s dogs. My mom said she would pay us for doing such a great job. Then my mom reminded us about tithing. I made a big fuss about that. Then my mom said I could either keep all my money or give tithing to the bishop. I knew that paying tithing was the right thing to do. I was happy I made the right choice, and I hope Heavenly Father was too.

Sometimes the fear of the consequences of confessing a sin keeps us living in the past.
I once counseled an elderly sister who had kept in her heart a serious sin that she had committed as a teenager. Every time she had looked upon any of those she had wronged, she wept inside.
I wondered why she had not already heeded the Lord’s counsel, “By this ye may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold, he will confess them and forsake them” (D&C 58:43).
She told me, “I just couldn’t find the courage to confess my sin. I finally got so weary of looking back that I couldn’t go on. Lately I have feared that I would not be able to cleanse my soul before I die.”
My heart ached for her. She had forsaken her sin long ago. But because she had never confessed, she had never known the joy of feeling forgiven. She had never been able to forget the past. After her confession, she lived in peace. Later, when I attended her funeral, I felt grateful that she had finally been able to stop looking back.

“Hey, Mike, let’s run out to the silo,” Lance called to his younger brother as he ran past him.
“Wait up!” Mike ran as fast as he could to catch up.
The two boys lived on a big farm in the country with their mother and grandfather. They loved the fresh air, the open space, and the green fields that turned gold in the fall. But most of all, they loved the silo. To Mike, it looked like a giant soup can without the label.
As the boys got closer to it now, they could see its rusty patches, dents, and cracks. Once Mike had asked Lance about them. Lance explained, “You know how Grandpa’s face is kind of wrinkled and how he has brown spots on his hands? It’s because he’s old. Well, that’s how it is with the silo. I bet it was shiny and smooth when it was new.”
For two boys with active imaginations, the silo was all sorts of things. Some days it was an ancient castle. Sometimes they pretended it was a tall skyscraper or a pirate ship. Mike especially enjoyed standing in the center of it and yelling as loud as he could, then hearing his echo bounce off the curved walls.
When the boys reached the silo, Lance said, “Let’s play spaceship.” For the next twenty minutes, they pretended to soar through space and discover new planets.
They took turns climbing to the top of the steel ladder rungs welded inside and outside the silo, pretending that they were on the spaceship’s observation deck. Just as Mike spotted a new planet, Mother’s voice brought both space explorers back to earth.
“Mike! Lance! Time for supper.”
During supper, Grandpa asked the boys what they had been up to.
“We were playing spaceship in the silo,” Lance said.
“You boys sure enjoy that old silo, don’t you?”
“You bet,” Mike said. “Grandpa, can I ask you a question? Back in the old days, what was the silo used for?”
“Well, it was kind of like a big closet to store things in,” Grandpa said. “When this farm was in full swing, we needed somewhere to store all the feed for the cattle.”
Mike’s eyes grew big. “You mean you filled the whole silo with just feed? You must have had a lot of cattle!”
“We did. I remember when my papa had the silo built. I was just about your age. It was new and shiny, and one of the tallest things I’d ever seen.”
After supper, Mike cleared the table, and Lance helped Mother wash the dishes. When the dishes were done, Lance asked if he and Mike could go play.
“No,” Mother said. “I want to talk to you both. Let’s go into the front room.”
From the look on Mother’s face, Lance knew that she had something serious on her mind. The boys followed her into the front room and sat down.
“I know how much you enjoy playing in the silo,” she began, “but today I had a strong feeling. Right before I called you in for dinner, I felt that you shouldn’t play in it anymore.”
“But Mom, that’s our favorite place to play!” Lance cried.
“Yeah, Mom!” Mike frowned.
“I know you like playing there. But I can’t deny what I felt. You’ve learned about the Holy Ghost at church, and we’ve talked about Him at home. Mike, what does the Holy Ghost do?”
“He helps us figure things out.”
“Yeah, and He helps us know what’s true,” Lance added. “But what does that have to do with the silo?”
“And that’s how you feel about the silo?” Lance asked.
“That’s right. I can’t give you any other reason except that I strongly feel you shouldn’t play there anymore.”
Later that night, when they were both in bed, Mike asked, “Lance, do you really believe what Mom said about the Holy Ghost?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“How come?”
“I’ve never told anyone this, but do you know Bobby Morrison?”
“The tall kid with red hair?”
“That’s the one. Well, last year he and I planned how to cheat on a history test. I’m not going to tell you what the plan was, because I don’t want you trying a dumb stunt like that.”
“If it’s so dumb, why did you do it?”
“Well, I’m getting to that part. When the test started, it was like I could feel this voice. And it was really strong. It said, ‘You know it’s wrong to cheat.’ After that, I just couldn’t go through with it.”
“And that voice was the Holy Ghost?”
“Yeah. So I know that there is a Holy Ghost. If Mom says that He spoke to her, I believe her.”
“So you’re not even going to sneak over to the silo?”
“No.”
“Well,” Mike said reluctantly, “I guess I won’t either.”
The next few days were hard for the boys. They had to think of new games to play that didn’t involve the silo. One afternoon Lance said, “Let’s put a puzzle together.”
“Ah, who wants to do that?” Mike groaned.
“Do you have any better ideas?”
Since Mike didn’t, they set up a table on the porch and started working on a puzzle. But Mike had a hard time concentrating—his eyes kept wandering in the direction of the silo. The good old silo. “Too bad we can’t play there anymore,” he thought miserably.
“Hey, stop daydreaming,” Lance said.
Before Mike could reply, Mother came out with a pitcher of cool lemonade.
As the three of them drank from frosty glasses, they heard a low rumble. The ground trembled, and the puzzle pieces on the table started doing a crazy dance.
“Look!” Mike pointed at the silo.
It wobbled and leaned to one side. The rumble grew louder while another sound filled the air—the sound of metal scraping, grinding, and ripping. A great cloud of dust rose up as the silo crashed to the ground.
Grandpa came running out of the house. “What in the world?” Then he saw the silo. “Oh! Oh, my!”
That night Mike lay in bed awake. Mother really had been prompted by the Holy Ghost. He was glad that he and Lance had listened to her. He promised himself and Heavenly Father that he would live the kind of life that would allow him to hear for himself the Holy Ghost’s still, small voice.

Later, when I became a full-time missionary, I continued to learn from mission presidents. My first president always had a firm belief that things would eventually go well, even when times were tough. From him, I learned to be positive.
My second mission president was a former fighter pilot, but as a Church leader, he was tenderhearted and sensitive, filled with Christlike love for his fellow servants. While I was an assistant to him, I felt that some missionaries were abusing certain privileges and taking advantage of his kindness. I suggested we create stricter rules with stronger enforcement. He said he felt it would be better to trust the missionaries to choose the right rather than doubting their intentions. From this role model, I learned to follow Joseph Smith’s advice to teach correct principles and let people govern themselves.

When my baptism and confirmation was only a day or two away, I had a fever and was not feeling very well. I did not want to postpone my baptism. I felt I should go ahead on the appointed day. Many relatives and friends, some of whom are not members of the Church, came to my baptism. When I was baptized, my fever went down right away, and I felt a lot better. That day I felt the Holy Ghost very strongly. I am grateful that I could be baptized and receive the Holy Ghost.
Sara M., age 8, Spain