Gospel Story Finder

Sarah sat on her bed, waiting to hear Mom’s tap on the door. She tried to gulp away the sobs, but tears kept trickling down her face.
Earlier that day, she and her friend Megan were pretending that they had discovered a buried treasure. They placed Sarah’s allowance, some foreign coins from Dad’s mission, and Megan’s plastic jewelry in a shoe box. When Megan saw the old, worn poetry book on the living room shelf, it seemed like the perfect antique to finish off their treasure. “Grab that old book,” she said. “Let’s pretend it’s a diary.”
Sarah knew that she wasn’t supposed to play with it—it had belonged to her great-great-grandmother, and its yellowing pages almost crumbled when touched. Mom cherished it as one of her family heirlooms. But Sarah was sure that nothing bad would happen to it if she borrowed it for only a little while.
She and Megan sneaked out the back door to “bury” the shoe box under some bushes.
A sick feeling welled up in her stomach even before her brother Spencer told Mom.
Mom knocked on the bedroom door and slipped in. “Have you been thinking?” she asked. Sarah nodded. “And how do you feel?”
“Awful.” Sarah sniffled. “I took your book when I knew I wasn’t supposed to.”
Mom smoothed Sarah’s hair and kissed her forehead. “Heavenly Father doesn’t want you to feel awful. He wants you to feel sorry.”
“No problem!” Sarah thought. It seemed that she had been feeling sorry a lot lately.
“I forgive you,” Mom said, “but you need to pray for forgiveness, too. Since you were baptized last month, you are now accountable for your sins.”
“That’s just it!”
“What do you mean?” Mom looked surprised.
Sarah blinked at the floor, hating how puffy her eyes felt. “When I got confirmed, I was given the gift of the Holy Ghost, right?”
“That’s right. As long as you’re worthy, the Spirit will be with you.”
“Then why is it still hard?” Sarah wiped her eyes, angry that the tears wouldn’t stop falling. “I thought that the Holy Ghost would make it easy to be good. But it seems that ever since I’ve been baptized, I’ve made as many mistakes as I did before.”
Mom hugged her. “That’s why there’s repentance. Even when the Holy Ghost helps you know what the right thing is, what you do is still your choice. Sometimes it’s hard to do what you know is right.”
Sarah nodded. She was confused, though. Even before her baptism, she’d had enough sense to know that taking Mom’s book would be wrong, but she’d never been tempted to do it. What had happened today?
Sarah sighed. She’d just have to try harder. When Mom left the room, she got down on her knees to pray.
In school on Monday, Marcus slid his math assignment next to hers.
“Let me check my paper,” he said. “I want to make sure I have the same answers you do.”
Sarah handed him her paper, as she always did, but this time she saw Marcus scribbling out his answers and writing hers down. He wasn’t checking—he was cheating! Sarah knew it was wrong to let Marcus cheat, but she didn’t want to make him feel bad. Wasn’t being nice more important than being honest about one little math assignment? After all, she wasn’t cheating—he was.
A familiar, uneasy feeling crept into the pit of her stomach. Remembering how bad she had felt a few days ago, she yanked her paper away.
“What are you doing?” Marcus cried.
“I can’t let you cheat,” Sarah said. Even though Marcus gave her a dirty look, she didn’t give in to the temptation to let him copy her answers. She realized that she had made a right choice because she felt calm and happy inside. “That’s what the Holy Ghost feels like,” Sarah thought. Her quick decision hadn’t been easy, but she had done what was right.
After school, Mom drove Sarah to Megan’s soccer game. On the way there, Sarah told her about the experience she’d had.
“I’m proud of you, Sarah!” Mom said. “See? You’re learning from your mistakes.”
“I guess so,” Sarah agreed. “Now I know what the Holy Ghost feels like, but I’m still confused about something else.”
“What’s that?”
“I wonder why I think about disobeying lately. I never wanted to touch your book until Megan told me to, and I never wanted to let anyone cheat until today. I almost let Marcus copy my paper, even though I knew I shouldn’t.” Mom was quiet, so Sarah continued. “That isn’t all. Sometimes I’m mean to Spencer. Sometimes swear words pop into my head, and I want to say them. I want to be good, but I keep being tempted!”
“That’s what happens when you join a team,” Mom said. “The opposing team gets mad.”
“What?”
“Think of watching soccer,” Mom said. “It’s obvious that you’re loyal to Megan’s team, because you cheer for them. The other team might not like it, but you’re on the sidelines. You can’t help them to win or lose as much as if you jogged onto the field and started playing.”
“What do you mean, Mom?”
“When you were baptized, you chose sides,” Mom said. “You know that baptism shows Heavenly Father your love and commitment to obey. Don’t forget that it proves to Satan whose side you’re on, too. He’ll tempt you to change your mind.”
“I went to church every week before I was baptized,” Sarah protested. “Didn’t my going to Primary upset Satan just as much then?”
Mom pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. “You were on the Lord’s side, but you were cheering from the sidelines. Now you’re in the game. Being righteous will take more effort than it has before. And it will take more courage, and it will definitely take more repentance.”
Sarah thought about that. “I guess watching a game is much easier than playing it.” No wonder the gift of the Holy Ghost hadn’t taken away all of her problems. The Spirit could help her see when Satan was tempting her, but the temptations wouldn’t just disappear. “Is that what ‘opposition in all things’ (2 Ne. 2:11) means?” she wondered. She had read in the Book of Mormon that without agency to choose between good and evil, no one could become more like Heavenly Father.
“Even if it’s harder, it’s more worth it to play than to just watch,” Sarah decided aloud.
“Especially when you win,” Mom added with a smile.
Sarah got out of the car and walked toward the field. She silently promised herself that she would really, really try to follow the Holy Ghost, no matter how much she was tempted. She had chosen the Lord’s side. As long as she did her best to be worthy, the Spirit would bless her with the courage to keep choosing the right.
“We cannot sign on for a battle of such eternal significance and everlasting consequence without knowing it will be a fight—a good fight and a winning fight, but a fight nevertheless. …
“Sure it is tough—before you join the Church, while you are trying to join, and after you have joined. That is the way it has always been, … but don’t draw back. Don’t panic and retreat. Don’t lose your confidence.”Elder Jeffrey R. HollandOf the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles(“‘Cast Not Away Therefore Your Confidence,’” Ensign, Mar. 2000, 8.)

My brother was the first member of my family to join the Church. He is a great example to me. A few years after he was baptized, my whole family started listening to the missionaries. I decided to join the Church because I know that Jesus Christ is real and this is His true Church. After I was baptized, it felt like I was reborn into a new life. I promised God I would keep His commandments. If we want to go back to Heavenly Father, we need to obey His commandments.

At first he couldn’t think of anything, but then things started to change. On Monday after family home evening, he swallowed his pride and went to Emily. “Do you ever see any backbiting or evil speaking in our ward?”
“Sometimes.”
“What causes it?”
“Not every girl comes from a family with enough money for expensive clothes. That can cause people to talk.”
“I don’t see how I can stop that,” said Kevin.
“I try to stop it,” Emily said. “Whenever anyone starts saying bad things about a girl, I try to say good things. You could do that too.”
“That’s not going to stop it.”
“It will if more people look for the positive instead of the negative.”
Kevin felt a twinge of conscience. One of the boys in the deacons quorum was Justin Evanston. Everyone else in the quorum liked sports and camping, except Justin. The boys sometimes made fun of Justin, especially when he tried to play basketball. He was uncoordinated and awkward. Kevin himself had made fun of Justin. He felt bad about it now.
At school on Monday, Kevin saw Jon Dunford in the halls. Jon lived in their ward but didn’t come anymore. He’d gotten into drugs in the seventh grade and a few months later was arrested. He spent six months in a juvenile correction facility and then came back to live at home. Kevin had seen him the first day after he got back. “I’m going to start back to church,” Jon had said.
“Right,” Kevin had replied sarcastically.
Jon came to church once but never returned. Eventually he went back to his old friends. Kevin figured it was only a matter of time before Jon would be put away again.
Kevin decided to talk to Jon.
“Jon, that time you came to church after you first got back, what was it like for you?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I just want to know.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you,” said Jon, an edge in his voice. “A lot of cold stares, a lot of whispering behind my back, and nobody my age talking to me. A lot of the adults said they were glad I was back, but nobody my age did. Not even you.”
Kevin swallowed hard. “Sorry.”
“When I first came back, I really wanted to change my life,” he sighed. “But it’s too late for that now.”
“Give us another chance,” said Kevin. “Come to church with me next time. I’ll do better.”
Jon looked at Kevin for a long time. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“Maybe sometime,” Jon said, starting to walk away.
“What about tomorrow night? We’re going to a TV studio to see how they do the news.”
Jon pursed his lips. “That doesn’t sound too bad. Maybe I’ll go.”
The next day before school Kevin found Jon in the parking lot behind the school with the guys he partied with. “Is tonight still okay?”
Jon smiled. “I’ve never seen you out here before.”
“What about tonight? We could pick you up a little before seven.”
“That’d be okay.”
When they stopped by later that night, Jon wasn’t home, but Kevin wasn’t discouraged. He’d just have to keep asking until Jon gave in and went with him.
The next Sunday after church, Kevin waited to see the bishop. He no longer felt bad that the bishop had asked him to come back; in fact he was glad. This time, when the bishop asked him what a teacher could do to see that there was no backbiting or evil speaking, Kevin had some things to say.
He could hardly wait to see the bishop.

President Dallin H. Oaks shared how the commandments of God guide and steady our lives. He said: “Our experiences in mortality are like the little boy and his father flying a kite on a windy day. As the kite rose higher, the winds caused it to tug on the connecting string in the little boy’s hand. Inexperienced with the force of mortal winds, he proposed to cut the string so the kite could rise higher. His wise father counseled no, explaining that the string is what holds the kite in place against mortal winds. If we lose our hold on the string, the kite will not rise higher. It will be carried about by these winds and inevitably crash to the earth.”

Years ago I taught a seminary class filled with some of the best and most successful students in the school. And because of who they were, they had a great influence in the lives of others. They were looked up to and admired by the other students. Sometimes, even without knowing it, they could create a social pressure among the other students in the school. The effect of this peer pressure—this attitude of one’s age group—was demonstrated to us one day in class. We all learned a sorry lesson that almost any of us can bend to peer pressure. Here’s how it happened.
I had read a magazine article on negative peer pressure. The article described an experiment I was tempted to try on my class of students. The experiment was designed to show, in a very convincing way, how powerful peer pressure can be. It didn’t really occur to me that the experiment might have some negative consequences.
In class the next morning I did as instructed in the experiment. On the chalkboard I drew a star, a circle, an oval, and a square. I told my class that for the class period, the objects on the board were to be identified as a star, a circle, an oval, and a triangle, even though the square was obviously a square. It was now to be called a triangle and nothing else! In a moment they would have an opportunity to convince an unsuspecting visitor that the square was actually a triangle.
Five of my most influential students were invited to sit on chairs at the front of the class. We had a football player, a young lady very involved in various school activities, the school student president, a top scholar, and a young man successful in everything he attempted. A sixth chair was left vacant for our visitor, a freshman, a student in his first year, who immediately recognized that he was among the “best” of the high school. My class students made him welcome, and he began to relax and enjoy himself in their company.
I invited him to take the vacant seat in front of the class. I explained that when it came his turn, he was to simply identify the objects drawn on the board. He agreed. The others smiled. The lesson began.
“Mr. Footballer, will you identify the objects on the board?” I asked.
In a deep, manly voice he said, “Star, circle, oval,” and then, coming to the square, he confidently said, “Triangle.”
Our visitor, forgetting himself, let out a laugh, but the rest of the people in the room were absolutely silent. He quickly searched the faces of those present for acknowledgement of Mr. Footballer’s obvious mental fumble, but my students were playing their parts. To them that square was nothing more than a triangle. Mr. Freshman had a bewildered expression.
I then turned to the young lady.
“Would you please identify the objects on the board?”
She enthusiastically replied, “Star, circle, oval, triangle.”
The freshman fidgeted in his seat.
The class remained silent. Twice more the question was asked. The student president and the successful young man answered as we had planned.
By now our visitor looked slightly ill and had that “may-I-please-be-dismissed” expression on his face.
The scholar responded to my question, “Star, circle, oval, triangle.”
Now it was the freshman’s turn. With each object his voice grew weaker, shakier, and less confident.
“Star … circle … oval …” Then silence.
We looked at him. He looked at us.
“What’s the last object?” I asked.
Silence.
“Come on, what is it?”
Then finally, quietly he spoke.
“Triangle.”
I thought we’d all break the tenseness of the moment with a good laugh. The experiment had worked. But instead there was silence.
I searched the students’ faces. They were all deep in thought. Some heads were bowed.
Then I realized something. Each one in the class knew how the embarrassed freshman felt. Each in a foolish moment, wanting so badly to be accepted or to be part of a group, had in his own way called a square a triangle, had committed a wrong when there should only have been a right. Even I could add my name to the list. And we all realized, especially me, that we had been unkind to put the freshman in such an awkward situation.
We spent the remainder of our class time sharing feelings and regrets, but more importantly sharing desires, hopes, and longings to be more courageous. Mr. Footballer put his arm around the freshman, and we all reassured him that we’d made the mistake of giving in to pressure before, too. By the end of the class he was accepted by his peers—not because he’d given in, but because we’d all come to see the importance of never surrendering, of calling a square a square despite the consequences.
When the bell rang, we left as a group, wiser, more hopeful, and with a greater resolve to stand for that which is right even though we were subject to the pressures of the world.

Once, as I sat by my father’s bedside through the night, he talked about his childhood. He spoke of the love of his parents in difficult times and of the love of his Heavenly Father and the Savior. I knew he was dying of cancer, so it did not surprise me that at times he mixed up his feelings for his Heavenly Father with the love and kindness of his earthly father. My father had often said that when he prayed, he thought he could see in his mind the smile of Heavenly Father.
His parents had taught him by example to pray as if he spoke to God and that God would answer him in love. He needed that example to the end. When the pain became intense, we found him in the morning on his knees by the bed. He had been too weak to get back into bed. He told us he had been praying to ask his Heavenly Father why he had to suffer so much when he had always tried to be good. He said a kindly answer came: “God needs brave sons.”
And so he soldiered on to the end, trusting that God loved him, listened to him, and would lift him up. He was blessed to have known early and to never forget that a loving God is as close as a prayer.

It is related of Spinola and Richardet, the ambassadors sent by the king of Spain to negotiate a treaty at the Hague in 1608, that one day they saw some eight or ten persons land from a little boat and, sitting down upon the grass, proceed to make a meal of bread, cheese, and drink.
“Who are those travelers?” asked the ambassadors of a peasant.
“These are our worshipped masters, the deputies from the state,” was his reply.
Spinola at once whispered, “These are not men to be conquered.” (From Happy Homes and the Hearts That Make Them by Samuel Smiles.)

May I offer counsel of a general nature, first with comments about General Authorities. We recognize them as instruments in the hand of the Lord, yet realize that they are ordinary human beings. They require haircuts, laundry services, and occasional reminders just like anyone else. President Benson once shared with us a story to illustrate. He said:
“Orson F. Whitney … was a great man to concentrate. One day when he was traveling by train, he was so preoccupied that he did not notice the train pass the station where he was to get off. So he had to [be driven] back to where he should have been. Meanwhile, the stake president waited and waited. … Finally when he decided that something had more than likely happened to Brother Whitney and he was not going to make it, they commenced the meeting. As Elder Whitney approached, he was greeted by the opening hymn, which was ‘Ye Simple Souls Who Stray.’”
We honor such a man because of his extraordinary calling. His official acts are valid on earth and in heaven. Well do I remember the first time I met one of the General Authorities. It was a feeling beyond description. Though I was but a boy, immediately—almost instinctively—I rose to my feet. Even now I feel that same way when one of the Brethren enters the room. A General Authority is an oracle of God.

The sun was low in the sky, and the air was cooling when Cal Fredricks came over to our camp. My father was sitting next to our tent. They shook hands, and then Cal took his wallet from his back pocket and began peeling off greenbacks.
“Never seen anything like what you and the Scot did,” he exhaled the words of emphasis. “Nothing like it. It was worth the hundred. There’s a dance and a party a little later. You’re sort of the guest of honor. Your wife and daughter are welcome to come up to the house to clean up.” He turned and walked away. “What a contest. Never seen anything like it.”
My father put the money into a small box with the rest of our earnings and then put the box under the seat of our truck and locked the door.
The dance was a wild foot-stompin’, hootin’, Montana-sheep-man dance with plenty of fiddle players, fried chicken and, in our honor, homemade root beer. It was held on a wood platform on the edge of the grass and sagebrush prairie. The moon was monstrous and bright yellow that night; hanging low against the rolling hill it threw almost more light than the lanterns hung from poles around the platforms. I remember seeing the silhouette of a flock of birds fly across the moon. The air was cool, still edged with winter and smelling of the rain, cool enough to make you want to keep dancing for most of the night.
To watch my father you would never have guessed he’d sheared 330 sheep that day. At about midnight, with the help of Cal’s son, I threw an entire carton of firecrackers onto the floor, just to quicken the pace of things a little. My father didn’t even ask any questions. He took one look at me and told me to go to bed and added that we’d be having a pretty serious discussion in the morning. I fell asleep with the music of the violins and the shouts of the dancers.
“Bobby.” My father was shaking me. “Wake up.” I opened my eyes. It was still dark. My father was holding a lantern in his hand.
“Someone broke into the truck. Did you hear anything?”
I shook my head. “Did they get the money?”
My father nodded as he turned and walked out of the tent.
“Did you notice the truck when you came back?” he asked when I came out of the tent. I shook my head again. All of our money had been in the truck, all of it.
I looked down at my bare feet. “Went straight to bed,” I whispered.
My father hung his head for a few seconds and took a deep breath.
“I’ll go up to the house and call the sheriff.”
The money was never found. The next morning my mother came out of the tent carrying another small bag. She handed it to my father. He opened it and pulled a handful of money from it.
“This is our tithing money,” he whispered.
She nodded. “It’ll get us home, maybe buy seed for the farm. We can pay it back.” She had her head down. “It’s all we have.”
My father looked down for a few seconds and then he looked up grinning. “Bedbugs with green paint on their backs. Come on, there’s something we need to do.” He started toward the truck. “Won’t take long.”
We drove down into Helena where my father stopped the truck in front of a bank. He leaned on the steering wheel.
“I’m going to get a check for this money,” he said. “And then I’m going to send it to Bishop Anderson. It’s not our money to decide what to do with.”
I thought my father had lost his main drive bearing. He had to be crazy, sending the only money we had back to the bishop.
What I remembered most about the rest of the summer was the terrible feeling of being stranded 700 miles from home. Work was hard to get. The shearing season was over. All the big sheep operations had finished their shearing. We took anything. We made a few dollars helping Cal bag his wool and load it for market. My mother took a job in Jack’s Dirt Cheap World Famous Truckstop and Post Office as a cook. Kathey and I washed dishes.
My father found plenty of work, but where he had been making over twenty dollars a day shearing, he was only able to make one or two dollars for work that was just as hard.
It was late fall before we were able to make our way back home, and it was several years before I would begin to understand what my father had done.

Elder Christensen served a mission in Uruguay from 1959 to 1961, and it was there that he developed a strong testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith. “Prior to that I could relate the story of the First Vision. But when I arrived in the mission field and prayerfully and sincerely taught it to others, I came to have a certain testimony of the Prophet Joseph and the restored gospel,” he says. “That testimony came in a vivid and sure way, and I knew what I was teaching was true.”

An ominous darkness hangs over Metropolis. Thousands of men and women plod along its busy streets, little suspecting that something important is missing from their lives. Suddenly a young man in a vermillion cape springs from a telephone booth. It’s Captain M, the member-missionary marvel, to the rescue!
His muscles of steel rippling, he shouts the Golden Questions as he hurls ten men through the air to his secret fortress where the missionaries are waiting. At super speed he spins a family off to a visitors’ center. He wows a whole crowd at a bus stop with a catchy lead-in about family home evenings. He leaps aboard a subway and converts everybody except one small boy who is asleep.
His cape flying like a banner behind him, he then whirls away through the city, accosting total strangers and committing them to learn more. That evening all the residents of the city, now members of the Church, gather to pin a hero’s medal on his broad chest.

In June 1830 the prophet Joseph Smith’s brother, Samuel, set out on the first missionary journey for the Church. He took with him several copies of the Book of Mormon, but was unsuccessful in his attempts to sell them. He returned home disappointed and discouraged, feeling that his work had proved to be fruitless.

Samuel Smith felt he had been a failure, but the one Book of Mormon he managed to give away made its way into the hands of Brigham Young, who passed it to Heber C Kimball. We too can see amazing results if we but try.

Sister Glazen smiled at Tyler as she nudged him toward Jason’s bedroom door.
“Tyler,” he heard Jason call, “is that you?” His best friend’s voice sounded normal, considering he had been in the hospital for two months.
“Yeah, I’m here.” Tyler’s voice squeaked.
Tyler would never forget the day the Bishop had come into his Primary class and told them that Jason had been hit by a car and seriously injured. The bishop had added that the doctor believed that Jason might never walk again.
Beth raised her hand. “Bishop, didn’t you give Jason a blessing?”
“Yes, his dad and I blessed him that night.”
“Then he’ll be all right,” Beth said.
“You have great faith, Beth. Heavenly Father truly blessed Jason, and I believe that he will live. But I can’t say whether it’s His will that Jason walk again. The Lord’s will is not always our will.”
Bishop Johannsen’s words hit Tyler like a sledgehammer. Jason? Not walk? It didn’t seem possible. Jason could jump higher and run the court faster than any other kid on the basketball team!
“Jason needs your help,” the Bishop said. “Will you all pray for him?”
Tyler had been praying for Jason for two long months, but his friend still couldn’t walk. …
Bright sunlight filled the bedroom. Tyler had to blink before he could see Jason sitting by the window. But what was Jason sitting in?
A wheelchair! It was black with big steel and rubber wheels. Jason looked so small in it! Tyler tried to smile but couldn’t.
“Thanks for coming.” Jason looked up at him.
Tyler sat on the bed. “No problem. How do you feel?”
Jason shrugged. “You heard that I can’t walk?” Tyler nodded. Jason continued, “My spinal cord was injured. I can feel a little bit in my legs, but the feeling is sort of fuzzy. Dr. Miller says I might get some movement back in them if I work hard.”
Tyler felt an ache in his chest but managed not to cry. After all, he wasn’t the one who couldn’t walk, who’d never play basketball again.
The room was quiet for a few seconds before Jason said, “Tyler?”
Tyler felt his lip quiver. “What?”
“It’s been a real long time since I’ve been down to the playground. Would you push me there? Mom said it would be OK … if you wanted to.”
Tyler stood up and pointed at the wheelchair. “How do I work this thing?”
Jason smiled. “First, I release the brake, then you grab the handles and push. I can do it myself by pushing on the wheels, but you need the exercise.”
“Oh yeah? You’re the one who never could do chin-ups in PE,” Tyler teased, surprised he was able to kid around.
“Look whose talking!” Jason joked back, “A guy who can’t do five chin-ups!”
“I can too!” Tyler said. “I’ll prove it at the playground.” Jason looked happy.
Sister Glazen held open the door as Tyler pushed Jason outside. “I’ll come for you soon,” she promised. “I wouldn’t want you to miss lunch.”
When the boys reached the playground, they saw Ian, Juan, and Beth playing basketball. Ian dribbled the ball off his foot when he saw Tyler pushing Jason across the asphalt.
“Surprise!” Jason called with a wave.
The other kids stopped playing. Tyler worried that their glum faces would make Jason feel bad, so he blurted, “Jason thinks I can’t do five chin-ups. Excuse us while I teach him a lesson.” Tyler jogged the wheelchair to the chin-up bars.
“Prepare to apologize,” he told Jason, jumping up and grabbing the bar. His palms burned as he pulled himself up. He did ten chin-ups before collapsing on the grass.
“Not bad,” Jason said, surprised, “but you’re still not as good as me.”
“What are you talking about?” Tyler panted. “You never could do more than eight or nine.”
“That was before the accident. Now I can do twenty.”
“How can you do chin-ups when you can’t even get out of that wheelchair?” Ian asked.
“I’m not glued to this thing. Besides, chin-ups are part of my physical therapy. You wouldn’t believe all the exercises I have to do every day!”
“You exercise?” Beth was surprised.
“Of course. I have to strengthen my arms so I can do things for myself, like transfer out of my wheelchair. My physical therapist also helps me exercise my legs and back. To tell the truth, it hurts a lot sometimes, but I need to be strong so I can do all the things I want to do.”
Tyler stood up. “What do you want to do?”
Jason grinned. “I want to beat you at one-on-one basketball again.”
The other kids stared at Jason. Did he really expect to play basketball again?
Jason understood their thoughts. He began pushing himself toward the court. “Tyler, would you get the ball for me, please?”
Tyler retrieved the ball and walked toward Jason.
“No—pass it to me.”
Tyler gently lobbed the ball to Jason. “Not like that,” Jason said, firing the ball back to Tyler. “Pass it to me like you mean it.”
Tyler looked at the other kids, shrugged, then passed the ball hard. Jason caught it easily.
“See—I don’t break.” Jason wheeled himself to the free throw line. “Watch this.”
He shot the ball.
They all watched as it sailed through the air—and fell short of the basket. Tyler started after it, but Jason said, “I’ll get my own rebound.” Bending at the waist, Jason picked up the ball and shot again … and again, … but missed every time. His friends stared. Jason had never missed this often before. Jason was just as surprised. His head fell to his chest.
Beth said, “Jason, we don’t care if you can’t shoot a free throw. We’re just glad you’re here. My mom says you’re lucky to be alive.”
“Funny,” Jason replied, “I don’t feel very lucky.”
Wanting to help Jason, Tyler prayed silently. Then, remembering what the bishop had said that day in Primary—“The Lord’s will is not always our will”—he said softly, “Jason, there must be some reason Heavenly Father let this awful thing happen. Sure, it’ll be hard to learn to play basketball from a wheelchair, but you can learn.”
“Tyler’s right, Son,” said a gentle voice behind them. “You can learn.” Jason’s mother had quietly joined them. “In fact, this has been a lesson for us all—a lesson about the difference between being lucky and being blessed. You weren’t lucky to be in that accident, but you are blessed. Just look at the kind friends you have.”
Jason raised his head and looked at the people around him. He locked eyes with Tyler, then whispered, “I’m scared.”
“Me, too,” Tyler admitted softly.
Sister Glazen paused, then said, “Remember that scripture in the Book of Mormon—the one about our weaknesses becoming strengths?”
“I remember it,” Juan said. “Does that mean Jason’s legs will become strong again, since they’re weak now?”
“I don’t know what the Lord’s will is for Jason’s legs, his mother said, “but it looks like His will, at least for now, is a wheelchair.”
Jason and his friends all nodded slowly. Then Jason spoke. “I think the scripture means that Heavenly Father will strengthen me when I need it. I never really understood what faith is until now. I need Heavenly Father like I never have before.” Jason looked at his mother, then at Tyler, then at his other friends. “I need all of you, too. I need you to help me learn to play basketball from this chair.” He paused, thinking. “But what I need most is for you to keep praying for me.” His smile was small, but real.
Tyler smiled back. “Sure thing!” He turned Jason’s wheelchair toward the chin-up bar. “Right now you’re going to prove that you can beat my ten chin-ups.” His smile turned into a grin. “And tomorrow we’ll all meet back here, same time, for a little basketball practice.”

I came to understand more fully the relationship between the “priesthood” rocket and the “opportunity to benefit from Christ’s atoning power” payload several years ago. During a weekend, I had two assignments. One was to create the first stake in a country, and the other was to interview a young man and, if all was in order, restore his priesthood and temple blessings. This 30-year-old man had joined the Church in his late teens. He served an honorable mission. But when he returned home, he lost his way, and he lost his membership in the Church. After some years, “he came to himself,”22 and with the help of loving priesthood leaders and kind members, he repented and was readmitted by baptism into the Church.

Later, he applied to have his priesthood and temple blessings restored. We set an appointment for Saturday at 10:00 a.m. at the meetinghouse. When I arrived for the earlier interviews, he was already there. He was so anxious to have the priesthood once again, he just could not wait.

During our interview, I showed him the letter explaining that President Thomas S. Monson had personally reviewed his application and authorized the interview. This otherwise stoic young man wept. I then told him that the date of our interview would have no official meaning in his life. He looked puzzled. I informed him that after I restored his blessings, his membership record would show only his original baptism, confirmation, priesthood ordination, and endowment dates. He choked up again.

I asked him to read from the Doctrine and Covenants:
“Behold, he who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more.
“By this ye may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold, he will confess them and forsake them.”23

Tears filled his eyes a third time. Then I placed my hands on his head, and in the name of Jesus Christ and by the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood, and with the authorization of the President of the Church, I restored his priesthood and temple blessings.

The joy that came over us was profound. He knew he was once again authorized to hold and exercise the priesthood of God. He knew that his temple blessings were again fully operative. He had a bounce in his step and a radiant light about him. I was so proud of him, and I sensed how proud Heavenly Father was of him too.

Thereafter, the stake was organized. The meetings were well attended by enthusiastic, faithful Saints, and a wonderful stake presidency was sustained. However, for me, the historic occasion of organizing this first stake in a country was overshadowed by the joy I felt in restoring the blessings to this young man.

I was a typical high school football player with a typical football vocabulary. I was one of the captains of the football team at El Segundo High School and didn’t have the best reputation. Glenda’s locker was a couple of lockers from mine, and whenever she walked by I suddenly improved my language. I worried that if I offended her she would avoid me.
As the semester progressed so did our mutual respect and friendship. She was unique, but I did not understand why. One thing I knew for sure, though, was that she never attended the parties I went to.
So, when she invited me to a Christmas party at her home, I didn’t know what to expect. Although I enjoyed my friends, I had seriously considered changing my bad habits. I was searching for something different. I was interested to see what kind of a party she would throw. I put on my best clothes, poured on the cologne, and off I went.
Was I surprised! I was shocked to see everyone having fun, dancing, playing games, and drinking—soft drinks! After a while, I couldn’t believe that I was having fun too. I was surprised to meet Glenda’s parents at the party, since all the parties I ever attended occurred while the parents were away. Most everyone was a bit surprised to see me. Still, they were all smiles and treated me with kindness.
As the evening ended I offered to provide rides home to anyone who needed one. Fortunately, one particular girl I had my eye on during most of the party needed a ride. I drove all around town dropping people off until we were alone. I drove her home very slowly.
I asked her what she was doing for Christmas, and she told me her family was leaving for Argentina the next day. What a small world, I thought. I briefly explained to her that my family had immigrated from Argentina 11 years ago. She said her father had served a mission there, and they were going to visit some of her father’s old friends. Soon we were at her home, and I didn’t get a chance to ask her what a mission was, but the seeds of curiosity were sown and so was my interest in her.

I once spoke in a sacrament meeting that I will long remember. The conducting officer, a member of the bishopric who introduced me as the speaker that evening, gave an unusual, rather lengthy introduction that went something like this:
“Brothers and sisters, Elder Ashton will undoubtedly be disappointed when he hears what I am going to say about him and about myself. I heard him say to a group of prisoners once, ‘When you fellows leave this prison and go back into a regular environment, don’t apologize or boast about being ex-convicts. Just go on from where you are.’ Well, many of you in the congregation don’t know it, but I am an ex-convict of the Utah State Prison. About six years ago, when I met Elder Ashton, he was in charge of the Church prison program under the Social Services Department. A few weeks later when I became better acquainted with him, I told him I was a long-distance runner. I asked him if there was any chance for me to run in the annual Salt Lake City 24th of July marathon race. Elder Ashton encouraged me and said he would talk to the prison warden about my getting out for the day to participate in the race. He told me later that the warden agreed if Elder Ashton would take the responsibility for me. Elder Ashton assumed that responsibility and later told me he trusted me and expected me to do well in the contest.
“I’ll never forget that marathon race in July 1971. It was hot, the course was challenging, and I wasn’t in the best physical condition. My only preparation had been running around the prison grounds when I had free time. Halfway through the race I felt completely exhausted; my legs were sore, and blisters covered the bottoms of both my feet. I wanted to quit. I felt I couldn’t continue. Just as I was about to drop out, the thought flashed through my mind, ‘You can’t let Elder Ashton down. He’s counting on you.’ I made it into the final section of the marathon route, and I had the urge to stop. Again the thought came to me: ‘You can’t quit. You want Elder Ashton to be proud of you, don’t you?’
“Well, I finished the race. Not among the first 25, but I finished. I went right back to the prison after the race, according to my agreement. Elder Ashton told me he was proud of me for finishing the race and proud to have me for his friend. I don’t mind telling you that I was a little pleased with myself for one of the first times in my whole life.
“It wasn’t too long after the marathon race that I was released from prison. About a year later I met a lovely young lady; we had a good courtship, and some months after that Elder Ashton accompanied us to the temple and performed our marriage and sealed us for time and all eternity. Tonight, six years later, I am proud to be serving in your bishopric.”

When my wife, Regina, and I returned home to Brazil after serving in the Angola Luanda Mission from 2016 to 2019, we had an important decision to make. We had sold our house before our mission. A year after returning home, we had to choose between buying or renting a house. How would we choose what was right for us?
In deciding whether to buy or rent a house, my wife and I prayed, pondered, and talked a lot about it. Eventually, the feeling came to our minds and hearts that we should not buy a house. We followed in faith according to the answer we received, not knowing what was about to happen in our lives.
About 18 months later, in April 2022, I was called as a General Authority Seventy. After the April 2022 general conference, we had only three weeks to leave Brazil for our first assignment. Living in a rented house at that time made the process of moving much easier. Today, Regina and I can clearly see that the Lord guided us in our decision.

If you had told me I would be standing inside a temple sealing room at only 17 years old, I would have laughed. No, wedding bells didn’t chime, but there I was, inside the sealing room of the house of the Lord. It’s amazing how life has a way of turning out.
In January 1995 my second baby brother was born. We called him Michael Jon Loveland. He was beautiful with tiny hands, an adorable little nose, and eyes you couldn’t stop smiling at. There was an instant connection between us.
As I looked around the hospital room at my mom, dad, older sister, and two younger brothers, I remember thinking nothing could ever change the serenity I then felt knowing that this was my family. This was the family I would be spending eternity with.
In the weeks that followed, however, it became clear that something wasn’t right. My mother began noticing things about Michael Jon that only a mother could notice. Her concerns were soon justified only a few weeks later.
I can still clearly remember the night my parents reluctantly told us the news. I’m still not sure how they managed to get it out, but somehow through tears and quiet sobs, we soon discovered what the problem had been. Michael Jon, my new infant brother, had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor.
The days that followed are now fairly hazy. I can’t even begin to describe the countless emotions that ran through me. Fear, confusion, anger. How could this be? He was only six weeks old! How could something so vile and destructive be inside my baby brother, so beautiful and pure?
The doctors said he had weeks, maybe a month. After prayerful consideration, my parents decided that bringing Michael home would be the best decision. In order to do this, however, my parents would need to be trained and aided by a team of home doctors and nurses who provided hospice care.
Having Michael spend time at home, as opposed to the hospital, was a quiet blessing in more ways than one. I still have fond memories of silently going into his room at night and just holding him, holding and rocking the small miracle that God had placed in our lives and would just as quickly be taking away. But aside from the fact that we all got to spend time with him, there was another small miracle that was slowly taking place.
The rest of my story, however, generally revolves around one of the hospice nurses in charge of taking care of Michael. As the weeks passed and Michael’s health began taking a dramatic plunge, she was constantly at our house, doing everything she could to relieve the strain my parents were feeling.
In April 1995, on my mom’s birthday, which was also Easter Sunday that year, Michael’s last day came. It’s one of the few times in my life that I have ever seen my father cry. It seemed so unreal! Yet this valiant spirit had slipped in and out of our lives in only three months. The impact his life had left, however, will never be forgotten.
At the time, though, it still seemed pointless. Why would Heavenly Father allow Michael to go through such tremendous amounts of pain and suffering? It all seemed so unfair. I had lost my baby brother, and all for what? I would never get to tease him about his first-grade crush, never get to congratulate him on making the high school baseball team, and never write letters while he served a mission. But, oh, how shortsighted earth life can leave us. At the time, I could not even fathom the remarkable mission Michael had already been called to serve.
With Michael gone, it was time the team of hospice nurses moved on. For whatever reason, however, my mother and the head nurse remained in contact, frequently bumping into each other at the grocery store or other activities. Of course, it was viewed as merely coincidence.
Then it happened, one of those rare occasions when you can actually step back and see the pieces begin to fall into place. Two years after Michael’s death, my mother received a call from the hospice nurse. Due to some unusual circumstances, two of her grandchildren were in need of a stable home.
I came home from Mutual to find a new baby girl, only 10 weeks old, lying on the sofa. “Where did she come from? How long will she be staying?” Within the next four weeks, we received her brother. Two children had suddenly been dropped into our lives without certainty as to how long they would be staying. Well, five years later, that question was answered. They’ll be staying for eternity.
We ended up adopting both David and Candace in February 2002, and five months later I found myself stepping inside the sealing room of the Idaho Falls temple. The temple sealing was incredible. Words can hardly describe the spirit that was present. I couldn’t stop crying as I witnessed David and Candace sealed to our family for all of time and eternity. I have no doubt that Michael was there as well. After all, had Michael not been born into our family, we never would have had these two children introduced into our lives.
It’s amazing how life has a way of turning out. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Even the hardest trials are placed in our lives to serve as an anchor to strengthen us. We just need to have the faith and courage to endure to the end, trusting in the Lord.

At any given recovery meeting, a variety of addictions may be represented. Steve, for example, was addicted to prescription drugs. He initially took medication for a back injury, but after his injury had healed, he lied and eventually stole in order to get more prescription drugs. Steve, who served as a counselor in a bishopric, ended up in jail wearing his suit one Sunday when he was supposed to be conducting sacrament meeting. It was at that point he knew he needed help.
Steve, who found himself in jail wearing his church suit, says, “Today I’m clean and sober because of my Heavenly Father and the 12 steps.” His activity in the Church is especially meaningful to him. “I am a father. I am a priests quorum adviser. I am also a facilitator because I want to give back to a program that gave so freely to me.”

Amid the suffering in Winter Quarters, Brigham received word that a mob of about a thousand men had attacked the small community of Saints still in Nauvoo. About two hundred Saints fought back, but they were defeated in battle after a few days. City leaders negotiated for a peaceful evacuation of the Saints, many of whom were poor and sick. But as the Saints left the city, the mob harassed them and ransacked their homes and wagons. A mob seized the temple, desecrated its interior, and mocked the Saints as they fled to camps on the other side of the river.28
When Brigham learned about the desperation of the refugees, he dispatched a letter to Church leaders, reminding them of the covenant they had made in Nauvoo to help the poor and assist every Saint who wanted to come west.
“The poor brethren and sisters, widows and orphans, sick and destitute, are now lying on the west bank of the Mississippi,” he declared. “Now is the time for labor. Let the fire of the covenant, which you made in the house of the Lord, burn in your hearts, like flame unquenchable.”29
Though they had sent twenty relief wagons to Nauvoo two weeks earlier and had little food and few supplies to spare, the Saints at Winter Quarters and neighboring settlements sent additional wagons, ox teams, food, and other supplies back to Nauvoo. Newel Whitney, the presiding bishop of the Church, also purchased flour for the impoverished Saints.30
When relief parties found the refugees, many of the Saints there were feverish, ill-equipped for cold weather, and desperately hungry. On October 9, as they prepared to make the journey to the Missouri River, the Saints watched as a flock of quail filled the sky and landed on and around their wagons. Men and boys scrambled after the birds, catching them with their hands. Many recalled how God had also sent Moses and the children of Israel quail in their time of need.
“This morning we had a direct manifestation of the mercy and goodness of God,” wrote Thomas Bullock, a Church clerk, in his journal. “The brethren and sisters praised God and glorified His name that what was showered down upon the children of Israel in the wilderness is manifested unto us in our persecution.”
“Every man, woman, and child had quails to eat for their dinner,” Thomas wrote.31