Gospel Story Finder

I know where you be coming from. My mother died when I was eight. I was bitter, and I hated everything that had anything to do with the Church. I especially hated God for taking my mother from me and my family.
For the longest time I just went through the motions of Church activity, and then when I was 17 my Laurel adviser gave a lesson on families being forever. That lesson really made an impression on me. After that I started praying and reading my scriptures. I finally got some answers that were real to me. I also talked to my bishop. He helped me understand what I was reading and receiving in my prayers.
Families are forever.
Tina Miller, 19Danbury, Connecticut

The San Jose 18th Ward was in charge of the decorations for the dance. Jeanne Meeks, the Laurel adviser, said a month of planning was involved in the decorations. “The kids did it all. That’s one thing that made it so much fun for them,” she said, noting that several nonmembers helped in designing bow ties, eyes, and a hat that were attached to the Volkswagen.
A late-model Beetle had originally been chosen as the car to be brought into the gym. But when the dance committee tried to get it in the door, it was two inches too wide! Someone commented that older cars were smaller. The committee contacted Brother Bert Smith, a science teacher at one of the local schools, and they were able to squeeze his older car through the opening.
The dance committee also asked Brother Smith to use test tubes to set up a “mad scientist” booth at which he brewed root beer. With a wig on his head, surrounded by a cloud of dry ice “steam,” and dressed in a white lab coat, he served thirsty dancers throughout the evening.

For over 40 years, my great-grandfather, J. Hatten Carpenter, served as the recorder for the Manti Utah Temple. Each day he would walk from his home in Manti to the temple to fulfil his duties and responsibilities there. As the temple recorder, he was aware of sacred spiritual experiences that occurred in the temple.
One such experience he shared involved a patriarch watching vicarious baptisms being performed in the temple one day.
He recounts that the patriarch saw “the spirits of those for whom they were officiating in the font by proxy. There the spirits stood awaiting their turn, and, as the Recorder called out the name of a person to be baptized for, the patriarch noticed a pleasant smile come over the face of the spirit whose name had been called, and he would leave the group of fellow spirits and pass over to the side of the Recorder. There he would watch his own baptism performed by proxy, and then with a joyful countenance would pass away [to] make room for the next favored personage who was to enjoy the same privilege”1.
As time went on, the patriarch noticed that some of the spirits looked very sad. He realised that the people in the temple were finished with baptisms for the day. The unhappy spirits were those whose baptisms would not be performed that day.
My great-grandfather said, “‘I often think of this event … for I so often sit at the font, and call off the names for the ordinances to be performed which means so much to the dead.’”2

Larry scuffed at the dirt with his worn sneaker. His hands were pushed deep into his jeans pockets as he considered the deepening hole that he had unconsciously dug.
“Well, c’mon then, let’s go,” Steve said impatiently. “We won’t get caught,” he added. “I’ve done it lots of times.”
“How far is it?” Larry asked.
“It’s not far. C’mon, let’s go.”
Larry kept his head down as he dug out the sloped sides of the hole with his toe. Now the walls were almost straight. Perfect, he thought, for a game of pots. Since he’d left the prairies, he hadn’t played marbles. They just aren’t big on marbles out here, he had decided.
“Ahh, forget it. You’re just afraid of getting caught,” Steve said, turning to walk away.
“No, I’m not,” Larry mumbled, but he knew that he was. He had just moved to the West Coast with his family, and he knew that his parents would be unhappy with him if he got into trouble with the first friend that he made. On the other hand, Steve had seemed like a decent guy to have as a friend, and now Steve was going to show him where a real cherry tree was!
“OK, OK, I’m coming,” Larry called, “but I have to be home for supper.”
“No problem,” Steve called back, gesturing for Larry to catch up.
“I hope there aren’t any dogs,” Larry added as he trotted up beside Steve.
“Don’t worry. There’s just an old lady who lives by herself.”
“Those cherries better be as good as you say they are.”
“They’re the best cherries around. Hey, haven’t you ever gone raiding before?” Steve asked.
“I swiped some tomatoes once,” Larry answered, embarrassed. “But I knew I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Tomatoes!”
“They don’t have cherry trees on the prairies, where I came from.”
“There’s the yard,” Steve whispered.
A two-story house, surrounded by a tall wooden fence, was at the intersection of two quiet streets. In the middle of the backyard, reaching as high as the house itself, was the cherry tree. Larry could make out the tempting clusters of ripe cherries. He told himself that they couldn’t possibly taste as good as the ones in the store—the ones that his mother usually said were too expensive to buy.
“This way,” Steve said as he quickly cut into the lane that ran behind the house.
Peering through a crack in the fence, Larry could see beautifully manicured bushes and rows of brightly colored flowers that lined the fence and the carpetlike lawn. It’s just like a picture, Larry thought. Then he spied a woman meticulously weeding a bed of flowers at the back of the house.
“Rats!” Steve growled. “We’ll have to call it off for today.”
“Why?” Larry asked.
Steve drew his cheeks in and puckered his lips as if he had just bitten into a lemon. “Why! Man, are you crazy? The old lady is right there. How are we supposed to get to the tree without her seeing us?”
“I have an idea,” Larry said. “Follow me.”
“What are you going to do?”
Larry was pretty sure that Steve wouldn’t think much of his idea, so he didn’t answer. Instead, he strode along next to the fence until he came to a gate that was next to the back of the house. He felt a little strange, knocking on a gate, but he did it anyway.
“What are you doing?” Steve hissed again, just as a small, pleasant voice called out from inside the yard, “Yes?”
“Uh, my name’s Larry. I was wondering if my friend and I could pick your cherries for you.”
“I don’t believe it,” Steve muttered. “I’m getting out of here.” He turned to go, but Larry grabbed him by the arm.
The gate opened with a click, and a tiny, smiling face with glasses peeked out. “Hello,” the old lady said. “I couldn’t quite hear you before. What did you say?”
Steve folded his arms and looked up at the sky.
“I noticed that you hadn’t picked your cherries yet, and well, I was just wondering if we could pick them for you … and maybe keep some for ourselves too,” Larry stammered. He scuffed his toe in the dirt next to the cement walk, unconsciously digging another marble pot.
The orange ball of a sun began to dip into the west horizon, and a light, cool wind rustled through the leaves of the sturdy cherry tree. Larry grabbed a clump of four dark red cherries dangling in front of him. He put three into the plastic pail and popped one into his mouth. He couldn’t believe how sweet the cherry was, better than any he had had from any store.
“I don’t believe it,” Steve said, spitting out a cherry pit. “We get to keep half of what we pick. How did you know she’d go for it?”
“I guess when you want something bad enough, you’ll even ask for it,” Larry told him.
“My folks will sure be happy to have some of these,” Steve said, holding up a pail loaded with ripe cherries ready to be divided.
“Mine, too,” Larry agreed, looking at his own pail.
“I was just thinking,” Steve said as he climbed down from the tree. “I know where there’s a great plum tree just a few blocks from here.”

Regardless of one’s opportunities for formal education, a person can engage in lifelong learning. My grandfather was Jim Gordon. His parents were Scottish immigrants. He was only able to finish the eighth grade before he went to work. He drove a delivery wagon in San Francisco when he was a young man.

Automobiles replaced horse-drawn wagons. Later my grandfather became a mechanic. He brought books about diesel engines home from work, and he read them. Eventually he became the supervisor over all the diesel equipment for a substantial company. Although his opportunity for formal education was limited, he kept learning on his own. His most important learning experiences occurred when, later in life, he decided to enter the waters of baptism and to receive the blessings of the temple.

When my grandfather was young, he drove a horse-drawn wagon. However, his world changed. During his lifetime he flew in passenger planes, and astronauts landed on the moon. Your world will change too. Many of the changes will be positive and exciting; others may present challenges. Will you be prepared to meet the challenges that will arise during your lifetime?

When one young woman read this statement, she decided she didn’t want to walk even close to the line of immodesty. Immediately she removed anything in her wardrobe that wasn’t consistent with being a representative of the Savior. She said, “I would be smart if I didn’t even try on anything in stores that I knew I shouldn’t wear. Why be tempted?” The principle of representation helped her make that firm resolve.

Fielding Winward, a friend, age 78
“We had a hay farm up above the Bensons, and we’d go there to get a load of hay for our livestock every day, up past Bensons. The day after President Benson came home from his mission, my father and I got our team and sleigh to go up and get a load of hay. With snow on the ground and no shoes on the horses, we weren’t making any noise. The sleigh just slipped along so easily. When we got pretty close to Bensons, Father said, ‘Brother Benson just came home last night, and he’ll be tired this morning, so we won’t bother about calling on him now.’ And we’d just got past their lane when President Benson came out of the house just as fast as he could. He climbed up on our sleigh and was just so joyful and happy to see us. And we felt the same way about him. He shook hands with us and gave us a squeeze. We visited a minute, even though it was cold. He was such a joyful, pleasant-looking fellow that it made you feel good just to know him.”

I can personally testify to this form of revelation because I have experienced it.

For example: I was once concluding a talk I had given at the funeral of a fine Latter-day Saint mother and was almost ready to say amen and sit down. There came into my mind the words, “Turn around and bear your testimony.” And this I did. I thought no more about the event for several months until my sister, then living in a neighboring stake, paid us a visit and told us this incident:

She said: “There lives in our ward a woman who for many years has taken no interest in the Church. Our efforts to activate her have been fruitless. Recently she has completely changed. She pays her tithing, attends sacrament meetings regularly, and participates in all Church activities. When asked what caused the reformation, she said: ‘I went to Salt Lake City to the funeral of my mother. During the services a man by the name of Romney spoke. After he had given an ordinary talk, I thought he was going to sit down; but instead he turned around to the pulpit and bore a testimony which greatly impressed me. It awakened in me a desire to live as my mother had always taught me.’”

It was while we were finishing a serving of the thin mashed potatoes the French call purée that Elder Granville told Sister Dupont a story.
“Did you ever hear about the missionary who was eating dinner and asked his companion to pass the butter? The butter was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it because it was so close.”
“What?”
“Simple. It’s like you and the gospel. All these years your husband has had it right here in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because it was so close. You keep asking where the butter is when it’s right in front of your plate.”
It may not have been the strongest analogy, but Elder Granville was trying. When we got home that night, he brought me a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Why don’t you sign this with me?” he said, turning to a dedication on the flyleaf. “It’s for Sister Dupont.”
I looked at what he’d written.
“Voici le beurre,” it said. “Here is the butter.”

I remember when I was young, I had a stutter and had difficulty reading and writing, but my mother always expressed confidence in my ability to overcome these challenges. Her belief in me led me to enter a speech contest for youth held at church. To my surprise, I came in first place among the boys and second overall out of 14 youth in the contest. To this day, I still remember that speech. I was able to do this because I felt the confidence of my mother and leaders to do what was hard for me. I never would have imagined that I would be where I am today, speaking at conferences or writing articles for Church magazines. Our youth need us to believe in their ability to do difficult things as they turn to God and live in a higher and holier way.

My family had an amazing mystery adventure in a cemetery. We felt like explorers—or detectives! We followed a map, looked for clues, and made it through lots of obstacles.
The mystery started when Grandma found a list of family members who were buried in a family cemetery. She wondered why her own grandpa wasn’t on the list.
Grandma knew he was buried there, but she had never visited the cemetery before because she lived far away.
“I wish we could help Grandma,” I said during dinner. I felt sad that Grandma couldn’t find out about her grandpa.
“I do too,” Dad said. “Maybe we can take a trip to the cemetery and find her grandpa’s headstone.”
I was excited to solve the mystery. My little brothers, Joseph, Hyrum, and Daniel were excited too!
First we had to drive a long way and do some detective work before we even found the cemetery. We stopped to ask a man if he knew where it was. Guess what! It was hidden down a road on his farm!
The cemetery was in the middle of a muddy field. It was surrounded by a cinder-block wall and covered with overgrown plants. We had to cut through vines just to open the gate.
It was like a jungle inside! Big trees filled the cemetery, and thorny vines wrapped around the headstones. We had to clear them off to read the names.
“Who is Marenda Ann Thomas Humphrey?” I asked, pulling plants off a headstone.
Dad ran over. “She’s your great-great-great grandmother!” he said. “Hopefully your great-great grandpa’s headstone is nearby.”
We looked and looked for his headstone but couldn’t find it anywhere. Mom and Dad cut and cleared vines. My brothers and I cleaned off dirt, bugs, and spider webs. It was gross! Some headstones had tipped over because tree roots grew under them. They were heavy, but we worked together to lift them up again.
We worked hard all day. When the sun was going down, Dad said it was time to go.
“I don’t think we’re going to find it today,” he said. He sounded pretty disappointed.
I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to find the headstone for Grandma.
“Let’s say a prayer,” I said.
“That’s a great idea. Heavenly Father can help us find it,” said Mom.
We said a prayer and looked one last time. Dad found a long wire and used it to poke the ground. Suddenly the wire hit something solid. Maybe a headstone?
“I think Dad found something!” I said.
We knelt down and cleared away vines and weeds. Under a thin layer of dirt, we found a headstone. The name on it was Rodolph Jackson Humphrey.
“Dad, do you know who this is?” I asked.
When I looked at Dad, he had tears in his eyes. “This is exactly what we were searching for! It’s your great-great grandpa’s headstone,” he said.
“Yay!” we all shouted.
I gave my brothers high fives. “I knew we’d find it! We just needed a little help,” I said.
Mom smiled. “That’s what prayer is for.”
It was tricky and fun searching through the cemetery. We had to overcome walls, mud, thorns, and vines. But it was all worth it to get to know more about my great-great grandpa.
I know that the Holy Ghost helped us and that Heavenly Father answered our prayer. And the best feeling of all was hearing Grandma cheer when we told her all about it.

I highlight repentance because we are not perfect. While growing up, my mom always made sure my hair was neatly cut and combed. I didn’t think much about it because she would always just let me know when it was time for her to cut my hair. At the beginning of my senior year of high school my mom cut my hair to look nice for senior pictures. After senior pictures, I decided to let my hair kind of grow out a little. I know it’s a little hard to imagine, but it was awesome. I didn’t realize how curly my hair was because I had always kept it nicely trimmed. Throughout the course of my senior year, I started loving letting it grow out. I had a lot of comments about it looking so good. When I applied to college and agreed to obey the honor code, my hair wasn’t too long yet and I got my endorsement.

During my freshman year, I just kind of kept letting it grow. I thought it was probably getting close to being out of standards, but I was waiting for someone to tell me I needed it cut and my mom wasn’t there to tell me. There were also a couple of other guys who had long hair and I was kind of justifying my hair length because of theirs. It had been well over a year since I had a haircut. Although my hair was long, it was also curly, so unless it was hanging down wet, you may not have noticed its true length. To try and keep the standards, I had my roommate buzz some of my hair in the back to keep it off my collar. It didn’t really work. I pretended that it did though. I thought no one would notice and that I could big brain the dress and grooming standards.

A couple of more months passed…then one day I was in the temple, doing proxy baptisms in behalf of those who have passed away. After one particular baptism, I remember coming up out of the water. My hair was wet and laid straight, revealing its true length, as I came up. I distinctly remember hearing and feeling the spirit speak to me. He said, “Joel, it’s time to shape up. You can do better.” That was it. Someone finally told me…I wish someone else would have told me first though.

I actually knew that I had been flirting with being out of standards. Now I knew that God knew that I was out of standards. He actually always knew, but I was ignoring Him. Finally, He spoke quite directly to me and I knew that I needed to change immediately. The next day I found a ride home so my mom could give me a haircut. I got my hair back in standards and focused on preparing more diligently for a mission.

I had to be chastened by the Lord to shape up and get a haircut. Maybe that’s why it never grew back.

Why did God chasten me about my hair? Was it really that big of a deal? I don’t know, but I had made a commitment with Him and He didn’t want me on the edge of the Honor Code with any of my behaviors. I think my willingness to comply with the dress and grooming standards in the Honor Code was an outward expression of my inner commitment to follow Him and His Son. I made a choice that did not match my inner commitment of my love for the Savior. I hadn’t lost my commitment to follow the Savior. My testimony wasn’t wavering. Remember, I had a temple recommend and was even attending the temple. But I was still chastened by the Lord. Why? Because he loved me and knew I could be a better disciple of Him. I also loved Him and wanted to demonstrate my willingness to do His will.

Although I always strove to keep the commandments and live worthily, I truly started preparing to receive my own endowment before going on my mission.
I took a temple preparation class that was very helpful to me. Two ministering sisters offered to answer questions and help me know what to expect. And as I listened to their experiences and their testimonies, my anticipation to enter the temple intensified.
But much to my surprise, after I finished taking my temple prep class and as the day of my endowment drew closer, I started facing a lot of temptations.
Likewise, I saw a lot of opposition in preparing to serve a full-time mission. I experienced a lot of anxiety. My mental health started to dwindle, and I had to take necessary steps to face my feelings and move forward with faith.
As this was happening, I realized that the adversary did not want me to take these great spiritual steps.
To combat this opposition, I prayed every day for help to overcome temptations and my anxious feelings. I relied on Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ more than I ever had before. I fasted, studied the scriptures, and sought revelation. I prayed for strength to make the right decisions, to overcome my weaknesses, and to simply feel peace in my heart and keep an eternal perspective.
Those small spiritual practices helped me better recognize and follow the promptings of the Spirit. I also felt my anxiety lessen. I gained a greater understanding of the healing power of Jesus Christ and was often enveloped in peace when I turned to Him.
Ironically, it was through facing temptations and fear that I was able to come closer to Christ and prepare myself to receive my endowment.
And when I entered the Sapporo Japan Temple, the familiar Spirit I had felt as a child in the Tokyo Temple lobby was there, but this time it was so much stronger, just as I had always imagined it would be.
After receiving my endowment, I sat quietly in the celestial room and said a prayer, asking Heavenly Father what He wanted me to know.
The Spirit revealed to me that Heavenly Father knew me and my circumstances (see Doctrine and Covenants 38:2). I knew that He was pleased with me for making covenants and that He wants us to come to His house—a house that can truly distance us from the hectic world while strengthening us and bringing us closer to Him and Jesus Christ.
I felt the most powerful feeling of peace in my heart. And I was also able to receive the revelation I needed to feel confident in my decision to serve a mission.

During the next few years, growing together as a couple, we set a spiritual goal to serve a full-time mission as a senior couple in 2018. In preparation, we committed ourselves to attend the weekly missionary preparation class organized by the Brazzaville Stake. Since Congo had no previously experienced full-time senior missionaries, we were combined with the prospective young missionary class. This training took place throughout the year until we completed our missionary application forms and submitted them to our bishop and stake president.
It was while waiting for our mission call, that the hand of Heavenly Father intervened and opened the doors of the temple so that we could serve and learn. Instead of receiving a mission call, we were invited to live in Johannesburg for 12 months and serve as temple ordinance workers in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple.
Wendy W. Nelson, wife of President Russell M. Nelson, has said, “Everything we do in the Church leads us to the holy temple.”1 This has certainly been the case in my seven years of Church membership, as I have truly been led to the house of the Lord. There is no other place on earth where I feel peace as I do in that place—I know for myself that I have already lived in an atmosphere of glory.

Downtown Salt Lake City was lit up like a Christmas tree. Shoppers laden with an abundance of bags of beautifully wrapped packages ran from store to store, purchasing this and that. Groups of carolers sang out the melodies of good tidings, welcoming in Christmas and the New Year to everyone. Snowflakes with many glorious patterns sprinkled like fairies’ dust over the city streets. There was a feeling of love towards everyone on earth.
I was walking with my dad on Temple Square, admiring the shimmering lights. Our family had planned to spend an enjoyable evening listening to the Mormon Youth Symphony and Chorus and looking at the lights. My mother, my two brothers, and my two sisters were already seated, and my dad and I were going to meet them. We arrived only eight minutes late, but the ushers wouldn’t let us in. We explained that half of our family was already seated, but “policy was policy,” and Dad and I were left out in the cold—the cold snow to be exact.
“Oh, Dad, we were planning on a family activity tonight,” I moaned with disappointment. “Now what are we going to do?”
“Let’s dash over to the visitors’ center,” he replied, with typical enthusiasm. “We’ll be out of the cold, and we can catch a tour while we wait for the others.”
By the time we made our way through the crowds and into the visitors’ center, the last tour had already begun, and the lady at the desk was announcing that the center would close in 15 minutes. Hungry, tired, and discouraged, I plopped myself on one of the benches and tried to tune out my dad’s effort at cheery conversation.
Moments later, my mom rushed in with my brothers and sisters, chattering about how worried they had been and how glad they were to find us.
“Okay, kids,” Dad announced, “we missed the concert, and the visitors’ center is closing, but such a lovely evening should not be spoiled; so I’m treating you all to burritos!
“Yahoo!” we shouted.
“Honey,” my dad said to my mom, “how much money do you have in your purse?”
“Uh, I didn’t bring my purse—not even my checkbook.”
“Oh, no,” I muttered, “my mom always brings her purse, and she had to forget it tonight.”
“Well, kids, I don’t have any money except for one dollar,” my dad said sadly, as he rummaged through his wallet. “Check your pockets for spare change.”
Between the seven of us we came up with an additional $1.37. How was our family going to eat out on two dollars and 37 cents?
“I promised you all burritos,” Dad announced, “and a promise is a promise. So, c’mon, I’ll race you all to the car!” The twinkle in his eye confused us all, but he had already set a brisk pace. We didn’t ask how or why; we just hustled along behind.
Curiosity and suspense mounted as we drove to the restaurant. How could a family of seven be going out to dinner with less than $2.50 and no credit cards?
When we arrived, Dad escorted us in, seated us at a table, and stepped up to the cashier to place his order.
“Are you sure that you only want one burrito?” inquired the puzzled cashier.
“That’s it,” answered my dad.
“Sir,” she asked, “are you positive you wouldn’t like any drinks?”
“Yup, only one burrito. I can’t afford drinks.”
Overhearing his conversation, we burst into giggles and imagined that everyone in the restaurant was staring at us. Giggles turned to hysteria as we watched Dad carry his order to the table as if it were a wedding cake on a silver platter. Carefully, he cut the single burrito into seven bite-sized pieces and presented one to each of us ceremoniously. Dad savored his bite of burrito as he would escargot and reminded us that it’s not what you get in life that counts—it’s how it’s served. Dad always has a mini-sermon to share, but this one we truly savored. He told us of a boyhood Christmas with only one orange but lots of love, of folks he knew with lots of money but poor health, and of friends with great material wealth but no family to share it with.
It took us less than a minute to devour our share of that single burrito, but somehow as we left, I felt full of appreciation for good health, a fun family, and a rather zany dad who taught me that sometimes a burrito Christmas outing can be the one you treasure most.

Example #2:
My family and I were converted to the Church in Alabama when I was young. I attended Primary about a year before I became a deacon. We went to church occasionally until I was a teacher, then after that I fell into in-activity. Family night, family scripture reading, personal scripture reading, singing primary songs, was all foreign to me, but not to some of my close LDS friends. Luckily, I was able to get reactivated in the church my senior year of high school and came to BYU. Being around so many Mormon’s who grew up in the church was strange to me at times. At the end of the first semester, I went to tithing settlement. After tithing settlement, I stopped by my FHE sister’s apartment to say, “Hi.” I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and had just come from my first ever tithing settlement with the Bishop. When they found this out, they all laughed and said that my appearance was a “No no.” I should have been dressed in Church clothes. I was so embarrassed. Up until that moment I had been so pleased with myself that I had attended my first tithing settlement. However, what others saw from their perspective, was an irreverent individual who went to his interview in shorts and a T-shirt. Their perspective was correct, it was not appropriate dress, but their judgment was not. The Bishop and the Lord had a different perspective, they were glad I was coming to church and had gone to my first tithing settlement, regardless of my clothes.

One such experience occurred three months ago when I was with a graduate student at a professional meeting. He had worked many hours on wording, rewording, and crafting his talk in order to present as clearly as possible his data and conclusions. He had organized, reordered, and revised his slides to present plainly the most important information in a logical, easy-to-follow sequence. This preparation continued in his hotel room well into the night before his talk. At the end of his presentation, which was the last in that session, many scientists in the audience came to the front to greet him as he stepped down from the podium to commend and congratulate him and even offer to remain in contact regarding his future research. One woman, an official from the National Institutes of Health who administers research grants, pulled me aside from the group and said, “This was tremendous! This is the way science should be done.” The student in his preparation neither sought nor anticipated such praise. His goal was simply to make the best presentation possible and represent himself and BYU as capably as he could.

In 1979 we held in St. George, Utah, our 20-year class reunion for Dixie High School. An effort was made to find current addresses for the entire class and get everyone to the reunion. In the midst of all that fun, I remember the terribly painful letter written by one very bright—but in her childhood, somewhat overweight and less than popular—young woman who wrote, “Congratulations to all of us for having survived long enough to have a 20-year class reunion. I hope everyone has a wonderful time. But don’t reserve a place for me. I have, in fact, spent most of those 20 years trying to forget the painful moments of our school days together. Now that I am nearly over those feelings of loneliness and shattered self-esteem, I cannot bring myself to see all of the class and run the risk of remembering all of that again. Have a good time and forgive me. It is my problem not yours. Maybe I can come at the 30-year mark.”

But she was terribly wrong about one thing—it was our problem, and we knew it. I have wept for her and other friends like her in our youth. We simply were not the Savior’s agents or disciples that he intended a group of young people to be.

I cannot help but wonder what I might have done to watch out a little more for the ones not included, to make sure the gesture of a friendly word or a listening ear or a little casual talk and shared time might have reached far enough to include those hanging on the outer edge of the social circle, and in some cases barely hanging on at all.

Even the physical presence of the temple has changed people’s lives. I know of a young man who was very much involved in the drug scene during the turbulent 1960s. One night as he and a friend drove through a heavy rainstorm on their way home from a rock festival, he looked out the window of his car, trying to clear his drug-fogged brain. He saw the Washington Temple, beautiful and serene, bathed in brilliant light. It had a startling effect upon him. He couldn’t erase that image from his mind. Upon returning to his apartment, he called the bishop of his home ward and asked what he needed to do to get his life in order so that he could attend the temple. With the passing of time, his sincere repentance brought him to the house of the Lord where, in stark contrast to the counterfeit stimulation of drugs, he experienced the sanctifying power of our Heavenly Father.

Some, because they lack faith or understanding of the eternal plan, become bitter and lose hope. One such was a 19th-century writer who achieved both success and wealth with his dazzling wit and writing style. His wife came from a religious family, and he wanted to have faith in God but wasn’t really sure God existed. Then he was hit by a series of crushing blows. In 1893 a national financial crisis left him deeply in debt. His oldest daughter died while he was on a speaking tour. His wife’s health failed, and she died in 1904. His youngest daughter died in 1909. His own health declined. His writing, which had formerly been so full of sparkle, now reflected his bitterness. He became progressively depressed, cynical, and disillusioned and remained so until his death in 1910. With all his brilliance, he lacked the inner strength to deal with adversity and simply resigned himself to his misfortunes.
It’s not so much what happens to us but how we deal with what happens to us. That reminds me of a passage from Alma. After a long war, “many had become hardened,” while “many were softened because of their afflictions.” The same circumstances produced opposite responses. The writer who lost so much was not able to draw from the well of faith. Each of us needs to have our own storehouse of faith to help us rise above the troubles that are part of this mortal probation.