Gospel Story Finder

While I was in graduate school, I had a professor who claimed that there were no "local communities" left in our modern world, that we couldn't really "belong" anywhere any more. I wrote a paper in response, claiming that the Church was a local community. She disagreed and made me defend my point in class. But I won the day, for you see, two weeks after arriving in Pennsylvania to go to school, I was called as the Relief Society president for the ward. So within the first few months, I came to know many people well and to participate in their lives. I used several examples to support the fact that I "belonged" to this community even though I had only been there a short time. For example, within one week I had helped dress the body of a beloved ninety-year-old sister for her burial and held the new daughter of my counselor and her husband just two hours after she arrived on earth.
For you to see, here is a current picture of that beautiful baby, Lici Kanan, seated with her mother, Shannon. How could I not feel that I belonged when I had the privilege to share these most important moments of life with those in my church community? How can you not belong when o share your life and love with children?

Jay stepped off the bus and slung his big backpack over his shoulder. It was a long walk home, and his load was heavy.
He kept remembering the disappointed look on his teacher’s face when she realized he’d lied about his homework. He hadn’t meant to lie. Not really, anyway.
This whole mess started about two months ago.
“Hi, Jay,” Mom had said when he came home from school. “How was your day? Do you have any homework?”
His day had actually been pretty lousy, and he didn’t feel like doing homework.
“Uh, I don’t have any,” he’d said. “I finished it at school.” It was only a little lie, he thought. And besides, he told himself, he’d just do his homework on the bus ride the next morning, so maybe it didn’t even count.
As he trudged to his room, Jay ignored the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
A few days later it happened again. When Mom asked about his homework, he pulled out his math worksheet but left the rest in his backpack. So easy!
Before long, though, his backpack was growing heavy with unfinished homework.
And then there was the whole school-lunch problem. A friend asked him a couple of weeks ago if he was sitting with the hot-lunch kids or the cold-lunch kids, and Jay ditched his sack lunch on the spot.
Over the next few weeks, Jay shoved several of his home lunches to the bottom of his backpack and tried to ignore them. Mom never went through his bag, so how would she ever find out?
The problem was, as the backpack got heavier, so did his heart. Why did he always feel so rotten inside? He’d even started snapping at his little brother.
Jay dreaded seeing the look on his parents’ faces when they found out.
Walking in the door, he dropped his heavy backpack with a thud and slunk into the kitchen. “Hi, Mom,” he said.
She hugged him and stood back. “Jay, I got an email from your teacher today. She said you lied about your homework. We need to talk.”
Jay sat down at the table and buried his head in his arms as Mom opened his backpack.
“Honey, when did this thing get so heavy? What do you have in here?”
She pulled out two months of unfinished homework and at least six lunches.
Jay burst into tears. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I just didn’t do my homework, and no one noticed. I’m so sorry! Can you and Dad forgive me?”
Mom sighed and pushed the pile of unfinished papers and moldy lunches aside. “Sweetheart,” she said, “We will always forgive you, but you’ve got a lot of work ahead of you here.”
“I’ll do it!” he said, looking up. Suddenly he felt hopeful for the first time in weeks. “I’ll do every page, and I’ll pay for the lunches too.”
He dashed to his room for his money box. “Here, Mom,” he said, pushing the dollars and change toward her. “There’s over 20 dollars; just take it all.”
Mom carefully counted out the necessary amount and gave him back the rest.
Walking back to return his box, Jay paused in his room. He knew he still had one more apology to make. Kneeling by his bed, he bowed his head and asked Heavenly Father to forgive him. Then he ran back to the kitchen table to start his homework.
The next morning before school, Jay grabbed his backpack with his finished homework in it on his way out the door. “Hey!” he said to his mom, “This thing is so light! It’s like there’s nothing in it!”
He headed off with a smile. His backpack wasn’t the only thing that felt lighter. So did his heart.

A few weeks after the temple dedication, Louisa Pratt and her daughters started west with a company of Saints. Ellen was now fourteen, Frances was twelve, Lois was nine, and Ann was five. They had two yoke of oxen, two cows, and a wagon loaded with new clothes and provisions.

Before crossing the river into Iowa, Louisa called at the post office and found a long letter from Addison dated January 6, 1846—five months earlier. Addison reported that he was now in Tahiti with some Tubuaian friends, the married couple Nabota and Telii, on their way to help his fellow missionary Benjamin Grouard with missionary work on the nearby Anaa atoll. He had sent Louisa sixty dollars and loving words for her and the children.

Addison expected to serve among the island Saints for many years to come, but not without his family. “If you can get any books,” he wrote, “and have any leisure time, I think you and the children had better attend to the studying of the Tahitian language, for in my opinion you may have use for it within a few years.”32

The letter pleased Louisa, and she found her journey west surprisingly joyful. The spring rains had ended, and she liked riding horseback beneath clear skies while a hired man drove her wagons. She rose early every morning, gathered up stray cattle, and helped to drive them during the day. Occasionally she worried about how far she was traveling from her parents and other relatives, but her belief in Zion comforted her. The revelations spoke of Zion as a place of refuge, a land of peace. That was what she wanted in her life.

“Sometimes I feel cheerful,” she wrote in her journal on June 10. “The Lord has called us, and appointed us a place where we can live in peace and be free from the dread of our cruel persecutors!”33

Five days later, Louisa and her company arrived at Mount Pisgah, one of two large way stations the Saints had established along the Iowa trail. The encampment hugged the base of some low, sloping hills crowned with a grove of oak trees. As Brigham had envisioned, the Saints there lived in tents or log cabins and cultivated crops to supply food for companies who would arrive later. Other areas of the camp provided pastureland for the livestock.

Louisa selected a site in the shade of some oak trees for her family. The place was beautiful, but overhead the sun beat down on the encamped Saints, many of whom were exhausted from the rain and mud they had battled that spring.

“May the Lord reward them for all their sacrifices,” Louisa thought.34
Farther ahead on the trail, Brigham and the Camp of Israel stopped at a place called Mosquito Creek, not far from the Missouri River. They were hungry, two months behind schedule, and desperately poor.35 Yet Brigham still insisted on sending an advance company over the Rocky Mountains. He believed that a group of Saints needed to finish the journey that season, for as long as the Church wandered without a home, its enemies would try to scatter it or block its way.36

Brigham knew, however, that outfitting such a group would strain the Saints’ resources. Few had money or provisions to spare, and Iowa provided limited opportunities for paid labor. To survive on the prairie, many Saints had sold prized possessions along the trail or worked odd jobs to earn money for food and supplies. As the camp moved west and settlements thinned, these opportunities would only become harder to find.37

Other matters also weighed on Brigham. The Saints who did not belong to the advance company needed a place to spend the winter. The Omahas and other Native peoples who inhabited the land west of the Missouri River were willing to let the Saints camp there over the winter, but government agents were reluctant to allow them to settle on protected Indian lands for a long period of time.38

Brigham also knew the sick and impoverished Saints in Nauvoo were depending on the Church to take them west. For a time, he had hoped to assist them by selling valuable property in Nauvoo, including the temple. But so far this effort had been unsuccessful.39

On June 29, Brigham learned that three officers from the United States Army were coming to Mosquito Creek. The United States had declared war on Mexico, and President James Polk had authorized the men to recruit a battalion of five hundred Saints for a military campaign to the California coast.
The next day, Brigham discussed the news with Heber Kimball and Willard Richards. Brigham had no quarrel with Mexico, and the idea of helping the United States galled him. But the West could become American territory if the United States won the war, and assisting the army could improve the Saints’ relationship with the nation. More important, the enlisted men’s pay could help the Church fund its westward migration.40

Brigham spoke with the officers as soon as they arrived. He learned that their orders had come after Thomas Kane, a well-connected young man on the East Coast, had heard about the Saints’ plight and introduced Jesse Little to important officials in Washington, DC. After some lobbying, Jesse had met with President Polk and persuaded him to help the Saints move west by enlisting some of them in military service.

Seeing the benefits of the arrangement, Brigham endorsed the orders wholeheartedly. “This is the first offer we have ever had from the government to benefit us,” he declared. “I propose that the five hundred volunteers be mustered, and I will do my best to see all their families brought forward, as far as my influence can be extended, and feed them when I have anything to eat myself.”41

Drusilla Hendricks was furious with Brigham’s decision to cooperate with the United States. Her husband, James, had been shot in the neck during a skirmish with Missourians in 1838, leaving him partially paralyzed. Like others in camp, she still resented the government for not helping the Saints at that time. Even though her son William was old enough to volunteer for the battalion, she did not want to let him join. With her husband’s paralysis, she depended on her son for help.42

Recruiters visited the camp daily, often with Brigham or other apostles. “If we want the privilege of going where we can worship God according to the dictates of our conscience,” Brigham testified, “we must raise the battalion.”43 Many Saints swallowed their resentment and supported the endeavor, but Drusilla could not bear parting with her son.

Sometimes the Spirit whispered to her, “Are you afraid to trust the God of Israel? Has He not been with you in all your trials? Has He not provided for your wants?” She would acknowledge God’s goodness, but then she would remember the government’s cruelty, and her anger would return.

On the day of the battalion’s departure, William rose early to bring in the cows. Drusilla watched him as he walked through the tall, wet grass, and she worried that her lack of faith would do him more harm than good. He could get hurt traveling on the trail with his family just as easily as he could marching with the battalion. And if that happened, she would regret having made him stay.

Drusilla started breakfast, unsure what to do about William. Climbing onto the wagon to get flour, she again felt the Spirit’s whisper: Didn’t she want the greatest blessings of the Lord?

“Yes,” she said aloud.

“Then how can you get it without making the greatest sacrifice?” the Spirit asked. “Let your son go in the battalion.”

“It is too late,” she said. “They are to be marched off this morning.”

William returned, and the family gathered for breakfast. As James blessed the food, Drusilla was startled when a man interrupted the camp. “Turn out, men!” he shouted. “We lack some men yet in the battalion.”

Drusilla opened her eyes and saw William staring at her. She studied his face, memorizing each feature. She knew then that he would join the battalion. “If I never see you again until the morning of the resurrection,” she thought, “I shall know you are my child.”

After breakfast, Drusilla prayed alone. “Spare his life,” she pleaded, “and let him be restored to me and to the bosom of the Church.”

“It shall be done unto you,” the Spirit whispered, “as it was unto Abraham when he offered Isaac on the altar.”

Drusilla searched for William and found him sitting in the wagon, his head buried in his hands. “Do you want to go with the battalion?” she asked. “If you do, I have had a testimony that it is right for you to go.”

“President Young said it is for the salvation of this people,” William said, “and I might as well have a hand in it as anyone.”

“I have held you back,” Drusilla said, “but if you want to go, I shall hold you no longer.”44

On 31 July 1995, a group of Church members from the Toa Baja Puerto Rico District made a trip to the Orlando Florida Temple. As four buses unloaded on the morning of 1 August, the members saw the temple for the first time. While waiting for the doors to open, they sang “The Day Dawn Is Breaking,” “High on the Mountain Top,” and “How Great Thou Art.” Fifty young men and young women performed 3,600 baptisms for the dead. Even when they became cold and tired, they wanted to keep working.
The following day, Hurricane Eryn arrived on the coast of Florida. Orlando was battered by heavy winds and rain, and many temple workers could not get to the temple. So, the Puerto Rican members volunteered throughout the temple, working as escorts, officiating in ordinances, working in the kitchen and dressing rooms, ironing, folding, and distributing clothing.
Though there was chaos outside, in the temple there was peace. The members felt as if “the world outside of the temple walls did not exist, and time stood still.” Each member who participated had his/her own personal spiritual experiences, but together they experienced unity and love.
At the end of the trip, Angel Rodriguez, president of the Humacao Branch, expressed that feeling. “During this trip I met many brothers and sisters from many different branches and towns from Puerto Rico. Today, I can say that I no longer feel that I am just a member of this or that branch of the Church. I know that we are all truly brothers and sisters.”

As the date of our divorce hearing drew near, my husband sent me a 16-page letter evaluating our marriage. Despite priesthood counsel to the contrary, I began to believe my husband’s assertions that the problems in our marriage were my fault—that I was even the cause of his infidelity.
Torn with doubts, I turned to the scriptures. There I found hope and understanding in the Savior’s words. I reflected on how His words had already blessed and lifted me. I wrote in my journal: “The tides of self-pity, self-reproach, and self-destruction rage against my shore. And at my shore the Savior is ever there, building—shoring up—protecting against the onslaught—telling me I have value—telling me to believe in myself. His is the voice I prefer to hear, the voice I must heed.”
I was blessed with opportunities to rebuild belief in myself. Priesthood counsel and blessings offered me divine comfort. Through the Savior’s great love, strength and courage returned.

One day, while waiting her turn at the dentist’s office, Heidi felt impressed to give a copy of the Book of Mormon, with her picture and testimony inside, to a neighbor lady who was also waiting. “You can have this,” Heidi said, handing the woman the book. “It’s a true book, and ours is the true church.”
The spirit of truth worked quickly. The next day the neighbor lady, Lajla Pedersen, phoned and asked if she could go to church with the Pedersens the next Sunday. Soon Lajla and her husband, Jan, were converted to the Church. Within weeks he was baptized, ordained a priest, and was able to baptize his wife, his daughter, Lisabeth, and his son, Kim.

As my missionary companion, Elder Platt, and I were walking through a market in the streets of Taichung, Taiwan, we stopped at a main intersection and waited at the red light. Just after stopping, I heard a familiar sound behind us. As several scooters pulled up beside us, I turned to see who we could talk to. At that moment, a distinct impression filled my heart and my mind. No voice was spoken, no words were uttered, but I felt impressed that I needed to talk to the man on the scooter just a few steps to my left.
I moved with a sense of urgency to speak with the man. It felt as if someone was actually pushing me from behind and moving my feet for me. I opened my mouth and asked the man, “Are you having a good day today?” He looked at me and responded that he was having a bad day. At that instant the stoplight turned from red to green, and my heart fell. I was afraid the man would drive away. I had said nothing to him of the Restoration of the true and living Church of Jesus Christ, of the Prophet Joseph Smith, or of the Book of Mormon. I had not even told him the name of the Church.
The people around us began to drive off, but the man did not. He suggested that we move to the side of the road to talk more. I was shocked, but I gratefully complied with his suggestion. At the side of the road, Elder Platt and I shared with him the name of the Church and much more.
A few weeks later, that man, Su Meng-Wei, and his two sons and two daughters were baptized and confirmed members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Heavenly Father knows and loves each of us individually. In no coincidental way, He provides a way for all of us to come to a knowledge of the restored gospel. The Lord was mindful of the challenges and difficulties in Su Meng-Wei’s life. He knew that Su Meng-Wei had recently become unemployed. He knew that contentious words had been spoken in the Su house that morning.
The gospel has brought more peace to the Su family and has strengthened their family relationships. It has helped them find greater happiness and direction in life. They have found the power to face life’s challenges with hope and without fear.

When I was a mission president, one of my missionaries came to see me because he was struggling to understand the words of Isaiah.

I inquired what he was doing to study Isaiah. His reply indicated that he was essentially just reading Isaiah and hoping that enlightenment would come.

When I heard his answer, it became clear that he hadn’t yet paid the price required to understand. We then talked about learning the history of the Jews, reviewing the footnotes related to the Isaiah passages in the scriptures, praying for understanding, and pondering the things he didn’t understand.

He went off and did these things. A few weeks later, he reported that he could finally understand the words of Isaiah, and that they brought him great joy. I have found that with most topics, if I will do the work to understand the topic, I find it to be interesting and enjoyable.

When I was in high school, I got offended about some of the Church doctrine. It eventually led me to become less active. I attended some activities at another church, but my joy was not full. It was as if there was something missing.
It took me time to find what was missing, but one day after I prayed, I opened my eyes and saw the Book of Mormon on my table. I was about to go to sleep when a thought came to me: “I was born a Mormon. How come I haven’t finished reading the Book of Mormon?” So that day I decided I would finish reading the Book of Mormon.
After many years of searching, I finally found the missing piece of that happiness.
Elder Jayme Promise, Philippines Quezon City Mission

One day when we were walking home from school, we saw a big black dog. We were afraid and tried to hide by the side of a neighbor’s house. The dog wouldn’t leave. We decided to say a prayer. As soon as we were finished, a lady came out of the house. She saw us and helped us get the dog away so we could hurry home. We had faith that Heavenly Father would hear and answer our prayer.Jared Curtis and Erin Rhodes, age 6, with help from Jared’s mom, American Fork, Utah

Many people, though, are unsure of how to judge their own spiritual impressions. Recently, a friend reached out to me wanting to know whether I thought she should speak out about something that had been bothering her. She happened to contact me as I was writing this talk, so I asked her whether she had sought the Spirit to know what to do. She said that she had tried but that she sometimes felt confused as to whether her inspiration came from God or herself. I wondered whether my friend and God might work more seamlessly together rather than in opposition, so I asked her instead about her spiritual gifts. What are they? And might they serve as conduits for her to receive inspiration? She shared three of her gifts: discernment, love, and forgiveness. I replied that perhaps these beautiful gifts directed her not to the question of whether she should speak but how—that perhaps addressing the situation that was bothering her in a discerning, loving, and forgiving way would allow the Spirit to communicate with and also through her. This small suggestion that she trust her own spiritual gifts seemed to open in her a channel of inspiration and increase her spiritual confidence.

When I was in my 20s, I had to take a very hard exam to get into a prominent business school in France. I had been studying long hours every day for two years. But I always went to church and institute and fulfilled my Church responsibilities.
The most important part of the exam was the interview. I had an interview with one school, and when they found out I was a member of the Church, it didn’t go well.
Then I took the exam with the school I wanted to go to most. After some time in the interview, the interviewers started asking questions about what I did outside my studying hours. I knew that it was a go/no-go question for me. But I decided in a second I would be faithful to my principles.
I said, “I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” and then I spent 15 minutes explaining what I did in the Church.
The director of the school said, “You know, I’m glad you said this. When I was a student, I studied in the United States, and one of my best friends was a Mormon. He was a great man, a very kind person. I consider the Mormons to be very good people.”
What a relief! I was one of the first candidates that year to be accepted to this school.
There are two lessons out of this story. First, we shouldn’t underestimate the influence we have on others. Second, we should always be faithful to our principles. Make your best effort, and the Lord will help you with the rest.

One day I watched an interview with Brother Tad R. Callister, who was then the Sunday School General President. As I took notes, I had an impression on how to heal my relationship with my son, John. I was impressed that we should read the entire Book of Mormon together prior to his baptism six months later.
This impression was so clear that I even knew which room we should read in and at what time we should read. I also felt a distinct impression that we should finish our reading on the grounds of the Meridian Idaho Temple.
As we took time to read one-on-one each night, our relationship sweetened. We had more patience for each other, we better understood each other’s perspectives, and we regularly felt the presence of the Holy Ghost.
The night before we finished the book, we read Moroni’s promise that if we ask God with a sincere heart, with real intent and faith in Christ, if the Book of Mormon is true, we will know the truth of it by the power of the Holy Ghost (see Moroni 10:4–5). We felt the confirmation that the Book of Mormon is true, that Joseph Smith was a prophet, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the kingdom of God upon the earth.
The next day we sat on a bench on the temple grounds. We looked up at the statue of angel Moroni and read again his final testimony. Since that day, John has mentioned on multiple occasions the time we read the Book of Mormon together at the temple. Now every time I attend the temple, I see the bench and reflect on the special moment John and I had when we completed our inspired goal.

President Heber J. Grant tells of a different type of reward that comes from trusting in the Lord. When he was a young man, he heard his bishop in a fast meeting, which was then held on Thursdays (in the early days, we held our fast meetings on Thursdays), make a strong appeal for donations. At that time President Grant had $50 in his pocket which he intended to deposit in the bank. But he was so impressed by his bishop’s appeal that he tendered the whole $50 to the bishop. The bishop took $5 and handed him back $45, stating that $5 was his full share. Then President Grant replied, “Bishop Wooley, by what right do you rob me of putting the Lord in my debt? Didn’t you preach here today that the Lord rewards fourfold? My mother is a widow and she needs two hundred dollars.”

“My boy,” queried the bishop, “do you believe that if I take this other forty-five dollars you will get your two hundred dollars quicker?”

“Certainly,” replied President Grant.

Now here was an expression of trust in the Lord which the bishop could not withstand. He took the remaining $45.

President Grant testified that on his way back to work, “an idea popped” into his head, acting upon which he made $218.50. Speaking on this incident years later, he said, “Someone will say that it would have happened anyway.

“I do not think it would have happened. I do not think I would have got the idea.

“I am a firm believer that the Lord opens up the windows of heaven when we do our duty financially and pours out blessings upon us of a spiritual nature, which are of far greater value than temporal things. But I believe He also gives us blessings of a temporal nature.” (Improvement Era 42:457.)

Tom had traded his bicycle for a rabbit, and that’s why he was walking the 1.6 kilometer home from Primary. His younger brothers, Ivan and Brent, had ridden ahead on their own bikes. They didn’t approve of Tom’s trade. But it was a magnificent rabbit, a New Zealand Red doe, half grown. He could breed her with Jone’s New Zealand buck and earn enough money to buy another bicycle, a shiny new one. It was a good deal all right, he decided.
Tom unlatched the white picket gate to the yard and detoured around the house to where his rabbit hutches stood under the big willow tree out back. He was trying to think of a good name for the new doe, something elegant. Suddenly he stopped, and his heart seemed to drop into his stomach. The hutch door was open, and the red rabbit was gone!
Tom whirled toward the house when something else caught his eye. Leaning against the hutch was the green bicycle he had given Lester Simpson in exchange for the rabbit. Tom picked up the bicycle and looked at it more closely. It looked as if a car had run over it. He dropped the bicycle and ran for the house.
As he burst into the bright living room, Brent and Ivan jumped up from the couch. Tom could see by their faces that they already knew. “What happened?” he demanded.
“Lester brought the bicycle back and took the rabbit,” Ivan said.
“I can see that!” Tom said angrily. “If you were here, why didn’t you stop him?”
“I tried to keep him from opening the door,” Ivan said, “but he pushed me against the hutch.” Then he pulled the neck of his striped shirt down and showed Tom the scrape on his shoulder.
“He told us the bike was no good so he was taking the rabbit back,” Brent reported. “And he said if you try to get it back again, he’s got four boys waiting to beat you up.”
“Lester said he gave you a prize rabbit and got a bad bicycle in return,” Ivan explained. “You’re going to fight him, aren’t you? We’ll help you. We can probably get the Jenkins boys to help too.”
At that moment their dad came through the front door. “What’s going on?” he asked, looking at the three serious faces.
Tom told his dad what had happened. “It was a good bicycle when I traded it to him,” he explained. “I think it was worth as much as the doe.”
“More,” Ivan put in.
“His dad probably ran over it with a tractor or something,” Brent said.
“So what are you going to do about it?” his father asked, sinking into the big rocker.
Mother stepped in from the kitchen. “I don’t want any fights,” she cautioned.
“What do you think I should do, Dad?” Tom asked.
“In a situation like this it’s best to ask yourself what the Savior would do.”
“Did people do awful things to Him, Dad?”
“They were always trying to confuse Him or trick Him into saying something they could condemn Him for.”
“He didn’t fight them, did He?” Brent asked.
“Not with fists. He fought with His mind and always came up with the right answer.”
Dad looked at him kindly and said, “Lester Simpson will be ordained a deacon next month. Usually he’s not such a bad boy. Maybe you can think of some way to make him realize what he’s done.” His father stood up and said, “Let’s eat; I’m very hungry.”
After dinner Tom went outside to look at his rabbit hutches. All his rabbits were just regular white rabbits. They furnished his family with meat, and any extra he sold to the neighbors. I finally had a real purebred rabbit, he thought. Now it’s gone. Tom’s fingers could still remember the incredibly thick, soft fur and the sturdy little body beneath it. Lester must have taken good care of it. I really wanted that rabbit!
Suddenly the solution seemed obvious and simple. He would just have to buy the rabbit. Most of the money he earned from his rabbits had to go for school clothes and other necessities, but he did have seven or eight dollars saved. After all, it is an investment.
Tom thought about Lester and his tough friends waiting there when he went to buy the rabbit. They’d probably call him a coward and “stupid” for not fighting, for buying a rabbit that had already been fairly traded. He guessed he could endure that. His brothers might think the same thing, though, especially Ivan, who was always ready to fight when necessary. Tom’s solution did not seem very clever or tricky but it seemed right, and he went to bed feeling fairly easy in his mind.
At breakfast the next morning, Tom told his family of his decision and asked Dad for the loan.
“I think that’s a courageous decision,” Dad said, smiling. Tom felt a lot better.
“I’ll go over right after school,” Tom said, “so I’ll be a little late getting home.”
Tom saw Lester around school that day, but he did not speak to him nor look at him.
After school, Tom and his brothers went in the direction of Lester’s house. Tom could see Lester up ahead with some friends. From time to time they looked back nervously. At the last corner, Tom told Ivan and Brent to go home. He watched with regret as they rode away on their bicycles. The boys up ahead looked back and, seeing Tom alone, laughed and ran toward Lester’s house.
When Tom unlatched the gate, he could see Lester and his four companions standing by the rabbit hutches. Without looking at the others, Tom walked straight up to Lester. “I’ve come to buy that red rabbit,” he said.
Lester looked at his friends in surprise. “Do you have another bad bicycle to trade me?” He looked at his friends again, and they all laughed.
“No, I have the cash—fifteen dollars. I think that’s a fair price.” Tom looked directly into Lester’s eyes. Lester didn’t laugh this time, but looked down at the ground and scuffed his shoe around in the dirt. “It is a deal?” Tom pressed.
“Well, yes … I guess so,” Lester finally replied.
Tom handed him the money, but Lester still wouldn’t look at him. His friends began to snigger quietly. “He is really dumb!” one whispered.
Tom walked over to the hutch and opened it. He pulled out the New Zealand Red and tucked it up under his shirt. It snuggled against his skin, and Tom felt happy again. There was nothing they could say that would bother him.
Then they started taunting him, “I guess he was afraid to fight.”
“He always was a coward. His dumb little brothers are too.”
“His daddy gave him the money so he wouldn’t have to fight.”
But now their laughter sounded forced. Lester said nothing, and he didn’t laugh. Tom walked out the gate and started walking along the road, feeling calm and happy, the rabbit held securely against him.
He was about halfway home when he heard someone running behind him. He turned around and saw Lester coming up the road. Tom stopped and waited and when Lester reached him, they walked along silently together. Finally, Lester spoke, “Why didn’t you fight? Your brothers would have helped you. You could have gotten some other boys to help too.”
Tom smiled at Lester. “I did fight, Les. I won. I got me this fine rabbit.” He patted his shirt. “What did you get?”
They walked in silence for a few more minutes. Then Lester reached into his pocket and pulled out the money. He handed it to Tom. “I guess I didn’t get anything. Here’s your money.” Tom stuffed it into his pants pocket. “My dad ran over the bicycle with his cattle truck,” Lester explained.
“I guessed something like that happened. I’m sorry it happened,” Tom said.
“Yes, well, that’s the way it goes sometimes.”
“This is a fine rabbit, Les. You must have taken good care of her. I’d like to get more rabbits from you when I can,” Tom said.
“Sure,” Lester smiled. “Anytime I’ve got something you want. I had better get home. Mom’ll have dinner ready,” he slapped Tom lightly on the back, turned around, and started back to his house.
Tom tucked the rabbit up higher and walked home, smiling in the shadowy autumn afternoon.

In 1837, when the Church was struggling in Kirtland, Ohio, the Prophet Joseph Smith called Heber C. Kimball to go to England to open the work there. Brother Kimball exclaimed in self-humiliation: “O, Lord, I am a man of stammering tongue, and altogether unfit for such a work; how can I go to preach in that land, which is so famed throughout Christendom for learning, knowledge and piety … and to a people whose intelligence is proverbial!”
But then on reflection he added: “However, all these considerations did not deter me from the path of duty; the moment I understood the will of my Heavenly Father, I felt a determination to go at all hazards, believing that he would support me by his almighty power, and endow me with every qualification that I needed; and although my family was dear to me, and I should have to leave them almost destitute, I felt that the cause of truth, the Gospel of Christ, outweighed every other consideration.” (Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball [Bookcraft, 1967], p. 104.)
He traveled over the sea and commenced the work in Preston, Lancashire, with the very devils of hell opposing him and his companions. And thus began a work in that part of the world that has blessed for good the lives of hundreds of thousands. The great conference recently held in Manchester was but the lengthened shadow of that fearful but faithful beginning.

The only girl and the youngest child in her family, she teases back her four big brothers when they occasionally tease her. When her family took her oldest brother, Rick, to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, two years ago, she knew that she’d miss him, but she wanted him to go on a mission.

After his mission in New Jersey, Rick joined the family as they visited important places in the early history of the Church. Caliana enjoyed seeing the Grandin Press, where the first Book of Mormon was printed, and the Sacred Grove. “All of those places helped me appreciate Church history and the pioneers. They were so faithful, and it helps me want to be true, too.”

Cindy swung open the door of the Middleton post office and went inside. “Hi, Mrs. Tyler, remember me?” she asked the tall woman standing behind the counter.
“Why of course, Cindy. My, how you’ve grown!”
“No more standing on my toes to buy stamps.”
“No, indeed.” Mrs. Tyler opened a half-door in the counter. “Come in so I can give you a big hug. How’ve you been? Do you like your new home?”
“It’s not new any longer,” said Cindy. “I’ve been living in Rockville for three years now. I love it.” She stepped behind the counter. “It seems so long ago when Dad was transferred and we had to move away from Middleton. I thought I’d never be happy again.”
“I remember that. When you came here to say good-bye to me, I never saw a more somber-looking child. By the way, there’s the African violet you gave me that day.”
“You still have it?”
“Of course. After all, you gave it to me so that I wouldn’t forget you.”
“I know, but it was such a puny thing. I’m surprised it lasted this long.”
Mrs. Tyler picked up the plant. “Can you believe all these violets are blooming? Every year it gets bigger and better.”
“Then I guess my leaving was just the thing it needed,” Cindy joked.
“Now, now—you remember how sad we all were to see you go.”
Cindy remembered the good-bye party her parents had had. She’d invited all her school friends and Mrs. Tyler and Mr. Nealy. That reminded her. … “Mrs. Tyler, I went by the train station to see Mr. Nealy, but it was closed.”
“Oh, they changed the hours again. But you wouldn’t have seen Mr. Nealy, anyway. He retired as stationmaster the year after you left. You and he were good friends, weren’t you?”
“I saw him every school day when I was in third grade.”
“Why was that?—I don’t remember.”
“The train station was where the school bus stopped. Mom couldn’t get back from taking care of Grandma until four-thirty, so I spent about an hour waiting at the station until she came. Have you seen him lately?”
“Yes, and you need to know that he’s very sick. He has Alzheimer’s disease. Do you know what that is?”
Cindy nodded slowly. She thought of Mrs. Clark, her friend Linda’s grandmother. Cindy’d seen Mrs. Clark once. She was hunched over in a rocking chair, staring at the wall. She didn’t answer Linda’s questions but just sat there, constantly rubbing the chair arms with her hands. Linda had said that her grandmother seemed happiest when she sat in the rocker. It bothered Cindy; she never visited Mrs. Clark again.
“I’m sure Mrs. Nealy wouldn’t mind your seeing him,” said Mrs. Tyler. “I have their number. You can call from here.”
“That’s OK. I think I shouldn’t bother them.”
“Oh, I see.” Mrs. Tyler busied herself with some packages.
She sees all right, Cindy thought. She sees what a chicken I am. I don’t care—I can’t bear to see Mr. Nealy be like Linda’s grandmother.
As she watched Mrs. Tyler place stamps on the packages, Cindy thought about the first time she saw Mr. Nealy. She’d been too shy to talk to him, and the time had really dragged while she waited for her mother. But after Mr. Nealy made friends with her, that hour flew by. Later she realized that Mr. Nealy enjoyed her company as much as she enjoyed his. Between three and four o’clock was a slow period when there were few travelers. She helped him sweep the floor, wash the windows, check for burned out light bulbs. He talked about trains, and she talked about school.
He was fond of black licorice and often asked her to go to the nearby store and buy him a package of it. She remembered how he always said, “Black licorice, Cindy. Not red. And not the shoestring kind, either.” And he always gave her extra money to buy candy for herself.
As the memories flooded her mind, Cindy saw him standing very tall, with beautiful silver hair and a thick mustache. He was strong, picking up cargo as if the crates were empty. That Christmas she gave him a conch shell that she’d found in Florida while on vacation, and he gave her a pin in the shape of a caboose. She still had the pin.
Thinking of that shell made Cindy smile. Mr. Nealy kept it at his office, where it lay among the forms and tickets and stamps. It looked out of place, but he never moved it, except to put it to his ear sometimes and listen to the sound of the sea. “That’s where I should be right now,” he’d say, “lying on a beach, loafing my life away.” Then they would laugh.
To see him like Linda’s grandmother—Cindy shuddered at the thought. Turning now to go, she said, “It was nice seeing you again, Mrs. Tyler.”
“You, too, dear.” Mrs. Tyler gave Cindy a good-bye hug. “Come back to visit.”
“I will.”
As Cindy passed the train station once more, she tried to not think of Mr. Nealy. But the thoughts kept coming.
The store had not changed. Cindy quickly found the black licorice at the candy counter. Maybe he won’t be as sick as Linda’s grandmother, she thought. Maybe he just started getting that way. And I don’t have to stay long. She fumbled with the licorice, trying to make up her mind. Should I go? She saw a pay phone on the wall. Should I call?
Fifteen minutes later she pushed the doorbell of the Nealy house. Patting the package of licorice in her jacket pocket, she felt good about her decision.
“I’m glad to finally meet you, Cindy,” Mrs. Nealy greeted her. “Henry will love seeing you again.”
“I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Of course not. As I told you when you phoned, we love to have company. Come in.”
Cindy felt a little strange. She’d never pictured Mr. Nealy having a regular house. The station had seemed like his home—he’d cared for it and cleaned it as if he lived there day and night.
“Mr. Nealy doesn’t get many visitors anymore. At first he might look strange to you, but it will pass after a little while. He’s in the living room.”
Cindy followed Mrs. Nealy toward the sound of a TV. She could see the back of Mr. Nealy’s head as they entered the room. He was sitting in a swivel chair in front of the television.
Mrs. Nealy bent over the chair. “Henry, look who’s come to see you. It’s Cindy.”
Cindy watched the chair swivel toward her. Mr. Nealy was hunched over, his eyes showing no recognition. He pushed the chair around and around, and each time he passed her, his eyes remained blank.
“Sit here, Cindy.” Mrs. Nealy pointed to the sofa. She asked Cindy questions about her new hometown, her school, and her new friends. After most of Cindy’s answers, Mrs. Nealy said, “Isn’t that nice, Henry?” or “Did you hear that, Henry?”
As she watched the retired stationmaster circle that green chair round and round, Cindy thought that it was hopeless to even pretend that he knew what they were saying. Seeing him was worse than seeing Linda’s grandmother, because Cindy could not forget how he used to be. As she talked to Mrs. Nealy, memories of his deep laughter, his wide smile, his stories and silly jokes swirled within her until she could no longer bear the sight and sound of his chair. “I have to go, Mrs. Nealy. It’s getting late.”
She pulled the licorice from her jacket. “Would you give these to Mr. Nealy. He used to like black licorice.”
“He still does. He’ll be pleased.”
“Mrs. Nealy, he doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“In his way, he knows. Please—you give him the candy.” She got up, and Cindy followed her to the swivel chair. “Henry, Cindy has a present for you.” She stopped the chair.
“Mr. Nealy, these are for you.” Cindy waved the candy in front of him, trying to catch his attention.
When he saw the licorice, he grabbed at it. Close to him now, Cindy saw that he wasn’t so different, after all. He still had the lovely silver hair and thick mustache, his eyes were still deep blue, and he still wore his railroad ring.
“Cin, Cin,” he uttered, staring at her.
“Yes, Mr. Nealy. It’s me, Cindy.”
He raised a hand, and Cindy stooped to let him touch her face. He smiled, then pointed to a table. Cindy could not understand his words, but she recognized the conch shell.
“You still have this?”
Cindy picked it up and took it to him. But when she tried to place it in his hands, he pushed the shell back to her.
“Thank you, Mr. Nealy. It will remind me of you.”
He smiled, and Cindy decided that somehow he understood. Then he ripped open the licorice and started his chair whirling again, and she knew that he was back in his own world. She turned to Mrs. Nealy. “It hurts to see him this way—is he in pain?”
“No, Cindy. He isn’t in pain.”
“He isn’t, but we are.” Cindy put the shell to her ear and listened to the sound of the sea. She looked up again at Mrs. Nealy and managed a brave smile. “I’m glad that at least we have some happy memories.”

I don’t know what I would do without my sweetheart and companion, and certainly in terms of eternity this companionship is what the gospel of Jesus Christ is all about. I had something happen a few years ago that was quite important to me. Sitting at my desk in southern California, I heard the telephone ring. I reached over to pick up what I thought was another routine telephone call, when the voice on the other end of the line said, “Brother Simpson, this is President David O. McKay speaking.” I couldn’t believe my ears; I couldn’t believe that a prophet would be calling an ordinary member of the Church seven hundred miles away. During the next couple of minutes, he proceeded to call Sister Simpson and me to preside over the New Zealand Mission.

As I hung up the telephone in total shock, my first thought was the same as most of you have had as you have been called to Church positions—“Why me?” I then proceeded to think of dozens of others who might have been called instead. I thought to myself, “The prophet probably looked for someone who knew the Maori language,” but immediately I jotted down a dozen names of other missionaries who knew how to speak the Maori language as well as or better than I. Then I thought to myself, “He probably needs someone who has had administrative experience in the Church, such as in a bishopric or high council.” Then I proceeded to jot down another list of returned New Zealand missionaries who had had this experience. Then this thought came to my mind—indelible, sharp, and clear—“But of all these men, you’re the only one married to Jelaire Chandler, and that’s why the Lord has called you.” Now, young people, that’s how important it is to find a sweetheart and companion to be at your side who can supplement you in your priesthood and share with you the dream of exaltation and eternal life together.

One day in August 1989, I was doing my chores when my mother asked me to join her in listening to a message from two sister missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Even though I was only 12 years old, I was interested in what they said. The missionaries asked me to pray about the Book of Mormon and the principles they had taught us. I said I would.
When the sisters returned to give another lesson, my mother had lost interest. But with her permission, I continued to listen to them. The sisters always reminded me to pray and ask Heavenly Father if the things they were teaching me were true. I took this seriously and prayed constantly, but nothing happened.
I attended church twice and liked it very much, but I was still not sure of its truthfulness. I told the sisters I could not be baptized because I had not received an answer of any kind. The sisters merely repeated their invitation to be baptized and asked me to pray with greater fervor.
Again I accepted their challenge and prayed fervently for an entire week. Perhaps because I was so young, I expected to receive a glorious manifestation, such as a dream or a visitation from an angel. Nothing like this happened. Sunday came, and I told myself this was the last time I would go to church.
That day I attended all three meetings, starting with priesthood meeting. Then I went to Gospel Essentials class and finally to sacrament meeting. Right in the middle of sacrament meeting, something indescribably wonderful happened. Something began to burn inside my heart, and I was overcome by a feeling of certainty unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was a simple feeling, but it was clear and sure. It reached deep into my soul and penetrated my whole being. By the end of the meeting, I was a different person. I went to tell the sisters I was ready to be baptized.
I know Heavenly Father hears our prayers when we pray with real intent. He knows us individually, and He knows when the time is right to answer our prayers.