Gospel Story Finder

Five years later, on 18 June 1844, nine days before Joseph’s martyrdom and amid all the excitement aroused by mobsters, Joseph gave his last public speech. It is quite possible that the man in the audience described by English convert Charles Lambert was a repentant mobster:
“I was present when the Prophet preached his last sermon. … It was powerful. There was a tall man standing behind me sobbing and crying. When I turned around to look at him, he said he would never fight against the Mormons; no, never. He was a stranger to me.”9

Ten years after the death of my father, as if guided by the Spirit, Mother left Nago amid the opposition of friends and relatives and moved to Naha, the capital of Okinawa. A few years later, about 1967, the missionaries knocked on our door. At that time our house was isolated and surrounded by sugarcane fields and a graveyard. The road to the house was in poor condition, and few people ever called on us. The missionaries were Elder Jackson and Elder Fuchigami, a second-generation Japanese-American from Hawaii. The missionaries asked, “May we speak with you about God?” Mother had been concerned about her sons’ education and thought we might learn something good from the missionaries, so she invited the elders in and said, “Please teach my children about God.”

Mother found peace as she learned about the gospel. She was impressed that the missionaries paid their own way and that Elder Jackson was serving a mission, even though he had lost his parents in an automobile accident when he was younger and had struggled along with an older sister. As she listened to the missionaries, Mother shed tears for the first time since my father’s death. She felt the Lord’s love and the Spirit through the discussions. She knew that this was the church our family had been searching for.

To set an example for her sons, Mother was baptized first. She was touched by the missionaries’ message and by their loving, kind behavior. She began to think that the greatest education she could give her children would be for us to learn the gospel and become missionaries. Mother always told the missionaries, “There are eight boys in our family. Please come to our house and teach the gospel to them. When they are all converted, there will be eight more priesthood holders at church. And they may be missionaries in the future.”

In October 1840, 34-year-old Vilate Kimball wrote a letter to her husband, Elder Heber C. Kimball of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “President [Joseph] Smith has opened a new and glorious subject … which has caused quite a revival in the church,” Vilate wrote to Heber, who was serving his second mission to Great Britain. The subject of Joseph Smith’s teaching on this occasion was baptism for those who hadn’t had the opportunity in their lifetimes.
“Joseph has received a more full explanation of it by Revelation,” she reported. “It is the privilege of this church to be baptised for all their kinsfolks that have died before this Gospel came forth.” Vilate celebrated the revelation that in doing these proxy baptisms for deceased family members, “we act as agents for them; and give them the privilege of coming forth in the first resurrection.”
The Kimballs had moved from New York to be with the Saints in Kirtland, Ohio, and then moved to Far West, Missouri. Just a year later, in 1839, they had to flee Missouri with thousands of other Latter-day Saints to escape persecution at the hands of violent mobs. They made their home in Nauvoo, hundreds of miles from where their journey had started.
Although their arrival in Nauvoo had been under trying circumstances, Vilate’s October 1840 letter to her husband was teeming with excitement. “I want to be baptised for my Mother,” she exclaimed. “I calculated to wait until you come home, but the last time Joseph spoke upon the subject, he advised every one to be up and a doing, and liberate their friends from bondage as quick as possible. … Thus you see there is a chance for all. Is not this a glorious doctrine?”
Vilate was one of the first women to be baptized for the dead in Nauvoo.

My four brothers and I loved to play soccer in our backyard. We had no money for a soccer ball, so our mother made us a ball out of old clothing. We used two fruit trees in our backyard as our soccer goals.

Kelly McGuirt of the Tampa Florida Third Ward took the challenge. She was among the first group of Laurels to complete her Young Womanhood Recognition, identifying the value that went with each goal. It was a lot of writing because she went the extra mile and went back and wrote about the goals completed in all her years in the Young Women program. Encouraged by her Young Women leader, Kelly chose as a Laurel project to become involved in the community March of Dimes. She led a team committee to get teenagers interested in the Walk-a-thon the March of Dimes sponsored in the area. It was easy for her to identify the value of good works in her project.

He smiled as he reminded his daughter of one of her favorite rides at the amusement park when she was younger. “Remember how much time you used to spend on that large spinning platform? You and the other children would scramble toward the center and try to hold your places as the huge platform spun around. It was just like a giant turntable.”
“Oh, yes,” the daughter replied. “Once that turntable started spinning, the children closest to the edge went sliding off just like that cotton ball, and the ones who managed to hold their position near the center stayed on. I tried my best to work my way from the edge toward the center, but it was a real struggle. I had to crawl and pull myself along. And if that weren’t hard enough, I always had to watch out for the children who didn’t make it to the center, because they usually grabbed someone else as they spun off and tried to take them with them.”
“In a way, life is like that,” her father explained. “There are struggles, and people going downward sometimes tend to drag those nearby down with them. We, on the other hand, are trying to climb against those forces that are pulling us down.

Getting up early Christmas morning is a tradition that’s a favorite. “Our earliest was 4:30 A.M., but because my father says Santa’s helpers need their sleep, we’ve moved the time back 15 minutes each year,” said John Webber, 16. “This year we’re at 6:15. We’re not allowed to use alarm clocks, though, so if we oversleep, that’s our parents’ luck. When we do wake up, we put on a record of alarm clocks going off so our parents will wake up. Then all of us kids go to the top of the stairs in the children’s hallway and wait until our parents and grandmother come down from the upper staircase. Dad takes a picture of us, then we run into the living room where we each have a particular spot for our presents. We make special cards for our spot, and each year we add more decoration to the cards.”

I blame this all on Mr. Barnes, our social studies teacher. He’s the one who paired Joe and me up to work on—now get this—a team project on Finland. Can you believe it? What I know about Finland can be written on the back of a postage stamp.
Why Joe McCabe? Up until this point, I probably had as much meaning in his life, as say, cauliflower. Now it’s me and Joe Cool, no escape. After class, Joe comes up to me and says, “Hey, Ben.”
And I, not knowing how to speak cool, mumble something like, “Glrrrrk.”
“We’ll ace this report. Let’s get together on it right away. I can stop by your house on Thursday. Don’t you live on Oakway Street?”
Again, I utter a sensitive, insightful comment, “Uh-hur.”
“About eight o’clock okay? My mom has a business dinner at our place that night. Next time we get together it can be at our house.”
I nod my head meekly, wisely having given up trying to speak.
“See ya’ then, bud,” says Joe before he saunters away.
* * *
Now it’s dinner time on Thursday, less than two hours from Joe time. Everything is more or less normal at the Grundys. We are at the kitchen table, finishing off the main course—Mom’s almost-famous cheesy noodles.
“Anyone doing something special tonight?” Dad says, shoving a bite of cheesy noodles around his plate. “You up to anything, Ben?”
“Not much. Someone is coming over for a little social studies project.”
“A girl?” asks Mom, with great hope in her voice. Mom is aware of the fact that I’m socially awkward, and she drops these subtle hints about how she wishes I’d date more often. “Is it that cute little Margaret Gromo? I think she’s darling.”
“No, Mom. It’s not Margaret. It’s a guy. His name is Joe McCabe.”
Suddenly, life in the Grundy household comes to a grinding halt. My sister April almost chokes on a bite of noodles. My twin brothers, Philip and Andy, stop chewing in mid-bite. Mom ponders, “Where do I know that name from?”
“Joe McCabe?” Dad asks. “Isn’t he the football player I keep reading about?”
“Yeah.”
“Joe McCabe is coming here? Tonight?” mumbles April, suddenly taking off her thick glasses and running her fingers through her hair. “He is so conceited.”
“Do you think he’ll throw the football to us?” asks Andy, with hope.
“No. It’s dark out. Now look, Joe and I are, like, assigned to do a social studies project together and he’s coming over and we’re going to talk about some ideas. That’s all. Joe is very popular, so please …”
What I want to say is “don’t embarrass me,” but instead I say, “just leave us alone so we can get some work done.”
“Well sure, son. We can do that. You won’t even know we’re here.”
Exactly on time, the doorbell rings. Andy and Philip almost kill each other trying to get to the door first. Joe is dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, running shoes, and a leather jacket. Andy and Philip are fighting over who can hang up Joe’s jacket.
Dad, who can usually be counted on to act fairly normal, stands up and says to Joe, “So you’re the famous Joe McCabe. BYU could sure use someone like you on its football team. Are they trying to recruit you?”
Joe smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, I think they are.”
Mom walks into the room. “I just have to ask, Are you the one dating Margaret Gromo? She’s this nice girl on the track team who lives down the street.”
“No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Grundy. It must be someone else,” Joe says, as I look for something to crawl under.
This is not the way I hoped the evening would start.
I usher Joe into the living room, hoping to get working before any other social blunders are committed. We start talking about what we know of Finland, which basically is nothing. At least April is keeping her word and not doing anything to embarrass the Grundy name.
Just then I hear a thump from near the doorway. It’s April, now in a dress, without her glasses, which is unusual because her range of clear vision without them is about three inches. April, the one who was so determined not to impress Joe, has just accidentally walked into one of our living room chairs.
“Oh, Benjamin! I didn’t know you had company!” she says, straightening up and speaking in what I think is a slight English accent. “How gauche of me! And what might be your guest’s name?”
“This is Joe McCabe. Joe, this is my sister, April.”
“Hi, April. I’ve seen you at school. Are you a tenth-grade cheerleader?”
She almost falls over at his question. “Uh, no, but I’ve thought about trying out,” she stammers, suddenly forgetting the phony accent.
“Well, you should give it a try. I bet you’d be good.”
“Oh.” April leans against the wall for support. “Well, I … I must be going. I have to … to, like do … my hair. Yeah, my hair.”
With that, she walks out of the room, although on somewhat wobbly legs.
We finally get down to the task at hand, although I notice Andy and Philip peeking in at Joe every once in a while. Just after nine we finish. We still don’t know much about Finland, although we dug up a few facts from the encyclopedia. “It’s a start, Grundy. We’ll hit it again next week.”
“Okay, Joe.”
I close the door and then slump into a big chair in our front room. There must be no doubt in Joe’s mind where I got my geekiness from. It runs in the family.
April comes around the corner, her glasses back on, dressed in baggy sweatpants and a sweatshirt. She has a thoughtful expression on her face, as though she is about to say something profound.
She clears her throat. “You know what, Ben? Joe McCabe isn’t as conceited as I thought.”

The auditorium is dark. Downstage a spotlight picks out a white telephone. Rrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrring!

Then a deep, penetrating voice asks, “Waiting for a call?” And as the voice continues, figures begin to gather onstage. “They are. They’re waiting for a call from Heavenly Father. They don’t realize he is always calling and ready to listen. All they have to do is lift the receiver.”

The orchestra begins to play ever so softly and is joined by a male voice singing.

It is the beginning of the play “Awaiting Answers,” written, produced, and directed by high school seminary students. But, of course, that isn’t really the beginning. It started one spring at the annual Davis County Seminary District “S-Day” traditionally held at the Regional Center in Bountiful, Utah.

Shirley Anderson of Kaysville, Utah, was there as a chaperone. “The professional music program was good,” she recalls, “but I had the strongest feeling an S-Day program should be something the kids can take home with them.” So Sister Anderson devoted her speech and drama talent to guiding the seminary students for the coming year in an effort to create a really good, seminary-produced play. Two co-directors were appointed, Carolyn Hawkins and Todd Williams, and a committee of representatives was formed from every seminary in the district.

Like the teenagers who did the work, those in the story came out triumphant. With love of God and a growing love for each other, the actors acted, the singers sang, the orchestra played, and the dancers danced; and when they were through and the lights were lowered on the last strains of “Oh, my child, this is Saturday. Blessings are in store, blessings are in store,” there was scarcely a dry eye in the audience or on stage.

Though only moments remained in Franklin High’s last preseason scrimmage, several players were still fighting for their basketball survival. Final cuts were tomorrow, and the intense action on the court reflected the athletes’ anxiety. It was now or never to make that one last good impression.
Jeff Anderson, on the other hand, was as confident as they come. A slim six-foot-one senior with aspirations of a college scholarship, Jeff had made the varsity team three years running. He had even been named an all-star twice. The competition was a little tougher this year, the team had a new coach, and Jeff hadn’t exactly found the top of his game yet, but that was nothing to worry about. His position was sure.
When the buzzer finally sounded, the exhausted contenders headed for the showers. On the way off the court, Jeff found himself next to Mark, a freshman who had been giving his all to make the varsity squad. Poor Mark probably didn’t have a chance, Jeff thought.
“Think you’ll make the cut?” Jeff asked him anyway.
“I don’t know,” Mark replied cautiously. “I hope so.”
“Well, since this is your first year, don’t take it so hard if you don’t land a spot. Good luck, though.”
“Thanks,” Mark said as the two split to go to their separate lockers. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”
The next day when Jeff reported to practice, the final team roster was posted outside the coach’s door. Jeff almost didn’t bother to read it, but curiosity made him stop.
Mark had made the cut, as had a few other underclassmen. But when Jeff got to the end of the list, a terrible realization hit him like a right hook to the jaw—his own name was missing.
Jeff went white with shock. For five minutes he stood there dazed, frantically scanning the paper over and over. This can’t be happening, he thought. In desperation, he opened the door and asked the coach if there had been a mistake. There hadn’t.
“But why?” asked Jeff in disbelief. “I’m a senior and a two-time all-star. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
The coach sat down. “Yes, Jeff, it does,” he began, “but I have to go with my best players. This year there were a lot of younger guys who were better. I could have kept you on the team and let you sit on the bench, but didn’t think that would be fair to you. I’m sorry, Jeff.”
It’s still not fair, Jeff thought as he walked away. You just don’t cut an all-star. He could feel the anger and frustration swelling within him. Even if your younger guys were better, seniors should have priority. But right now it didn’t matter what he thought. That morning he had been a star basketball player and a member of a real team, but now he was nobody, and when people found out, his life would be over for sure.
That afternoon, Jeff’s mom was quick with her usual greeting.
“Hi, Jeff. How was your day?” she asked cheerfully, unaware of the day’s events.
“Bad,” Jeff retorted bluntly. Avoiding eye contact, he threw down his backpack and stomped into the kitchen. His mom followed.
“How bad?” she asked. “What happened?”
Silence. He didn’t want to talk, but he guessed it would have to come out sometime.
“It’s so stupid,” he finally confessed, banging his fist on the counter.
“What’s stupid?”
“The basketball team,” Jeff started. “The new coach thinks the sophomores and juniors are better than me and today he cut me from the team—just like that.”
Jeff’s mother knew how much basketball meant to him. “Oh, Jeff, I’m sorry, but it’s not the end …” she stopped abruptly, knowing this was not the time for a lecture.
“End, nothing,” he replied angrily. “My life is ruined.” And with that he tromped upstairs to his room and slammed the door.
By dinnertime, word of Jeff’s catastrophe had spread through the entire family, and as expected, everyone had questions and advice he didn’t want to hear.
“Are you still going to be on the basketball team?” Jeff’s ten-year-old brother, Doug, wanted to know. As younger brothers often do, Doug idolized Jeff and wanted to know every detail of his athletic affairs.
“No,” Jeff snapped, still mad at the world. “I got cut, okay? Now leave me alone.”
Jeff’s dad tried to offer some sympathy. “Well, I think the coach made a poor decision,” he said. “But even if we could make him take you back, you know he wouldn’t play you. Just don’t let it get you down. When I was a freshman in high school I wanted to be a star baseball player, but I didn’t make the cut either. I was angry and disappointed like you, but instead of letting it eat at me, I got involved in other things and still had a fun four years. Just look at this as a kind of intermission,” Dad continued. “With the right attitude, you could still have a great second half.”
“But Dad,” Jeff countered, “I’ve already made the team three years in a row. You hadn’t put as much into it as I have. You still had plenty of time to start over. I don’t.”
“There are still plenty of activities you could try,” his mom interjected. “Maybe you could audition for the drama club or join the school choir.”
“Ha ha,” Jeff said dryly. “You couldn’t get me into those things if you paid me. Besides, I’m an athlete.”
“How about baseball?” Doug suggested. “You could be the pitcher!” Any sport was fine for Doug.
“Baseball is different than basketball,” Jeff explained, brushing Doug aside. “Now could everyone please just let me eat in peace?”
The room immediately fell silent. Except for the occasional clink of knives and forks, no one spoke for several minutes. Finally, someone dared to try again.
“I hear there’s an opening for a sports reporter on the school paper,” suggested Cindy, a year younger than Jeff. “You’ve always been a good writer, and that might be right up your alley.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Jeff said, getting up from the table. He couldn’t stand it anymore. “If none of you mind, I’ll just run my own life.” He stomped from the room, and with a loud clatter he dropped his plate in the kitchen sink and disappeared. It looked to be a long basketball season for the Andersons.
Several days passed, and Jeff refused to cheer up for anyone. He avoided his family whenever possible, and at school he distanced himself from friends. At lunch he sat alone, far from anyone who might dare talk to him, until one day he had a surprise visitor.
“Hi, Jeff,” she said as she sat down across from him. Her name was Kristy Campbell, and Jeff knew her from a few classes they had taken together. She had also been in his sixth period study hall at the beginning of this year but had disappeared after only a few weeks.
“Lately you look like you could use a friend,” she announced, “so I’ve come to apply for the position. What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Jeff shot back. It was a nice gesture on her part, but it looked to him like she only wanted to be his psychiatrist, and the last thing he needed was one more self-styled shrink to analyze his plight.
“I heard about the basketball team,” Kristy revealed. “That’s really too bad.”
“Yeah, what else is new?” Jeff asked sarcastically. He wasn’t in the mood for this.
Kristy chuckled. “What are you doing with your spare time now that you’re not playing basketball?” she asked.
“Not a lot,” Jeff answered evasively, looking down at his tray.
Kristy didn’t give up. “Say, don’t you have a free hour sixth period?” she remembered.
“It’s my study hall hour,” he said. “Why do you want to know?”
“Well, since you’ve got a little time on your hands, I thought you might be able to come down to the gym sixth period and help me out with something.”
“Like what?”
Kristy got up from the table. “It’s a surprise,” she said with a smile, “but it has to do with basketball, and you’re just the person I need. I’ll see you there.”
She turned and bolted for the door. By the time Jeff could say anything, she was yards away and out of earshot. Oh well, he thought, she’ll be disappointed when I’m not there.
By the end of fifth period, however, Jeff’s curiosity was piqued. What kind of favor could Kristy possibly need that involved basketball? And why him? His homework was light today, so maybe he would at least go see what it was. If it didn’t look interesting, he could always go back to the library and study.
When the bell sounded, he walked slowly down the hall, still imagining what might lie ahead. As he neared the gym, he heard basketballs bouncing. He racked his brain again for possible explanations. Nothing could have prepared him for what he was about to find.
When he entered the gym he saw several students dribbling or shooting basketballs, but they weren’t in any of his classes and they weren’t on the basketball team. They were members of Franklin High’s special education class, and all of them had some kind of mental disability. Some were physically handicapped as well.
Jeff instantly felt out of place and turned to make a quick exit, but an excited Kristy Campbell stood between him and the door.
“You came!” she nearly shouted. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Then she explained. “You see, I’ve been using my study period to help out with the special ed P.E. class, and today we’re playing basketball. I thought I could use a little help, and with your expertise, you’re the perfect person to be my assistant. Come and let me introduce you.”
This was awkward. Jeff had seen the special ed class in the halls and in their own corner of the cafeteria, but he had never felt comfortable enough to talk to them and didn’t feel like starting now. He didn’t know them, and they were, well, different.
“Attention everyone. This is Jeff Anderson,” Kristy announced to the group. “He was on the school basketball team last year and today he’s going to watch and give us a little advice.”
Great, Jeff thought. Now I’m stuck.
“And since he’s such a hotshot superstar,” Kristy continued, shooting Jeff a grin, “we should all be pros by the end of the period.”
As soon as Kristy finished, Jeff was immediately mobbed by his new fan club. One boy in particular was eager to get close to him.
“My name is Joseph,” he shouted above the clamor. He was Jeff’s age, and he shared Jeff’s love for basketball, but he also suffered from Down’s syndrome. Jeff didn’t know what to say.
“I went to five games last year and you played great,” Joseph said. “In the last game against Jefferson you scored 18 points and Franklin won, 55–40. Can you teach us to shoot baskets like you? Please?”
Jeff was flattered by Joseph’s compliments, but more than that, he was astounded at Joseph’s amazing memory of scores and statistics. He hadn’t thought anyone like Joseph could be capable of such a feat, but now he realized that he was wrong. More than that, he was intrigued.
“Sure, I can show you,” Jeff finally agreed, his face now sporting a visible grin. The small crowd erupted in cheers, and Jeff began to notice that for them this was an exciting day.
From there Kristy basically ran the show, naming the drills and organizing the students. Jeff, meanwhile, demonstrated each move and offered pointers and assistance wherever he could. All the participants loved his attention, and no one was the least bit annoyed with his suggestions. If only everyone could respond this well to coaching, he thought.
At one point during a shooting exercise, Joseph became discouraged because he couldn’t get the ball in the basket. He had tried several times from the same spot and hadn’t come close to hitting anything.
“I give up!” he shouted in disgust. “I’m never going to make it from here.”
“Hey, relax,” Jeff broke in. “Let’s try it again. Bend your knees a little bit, and push off with your feet when you shoot. Focus on the front of the rim and try to shoot the ball just over the rim.” He gave the ball back to Joseph, who followed his instructions carefully. The shot still didn’t fall, but this time it went high enough and far enough and banked off the rim.
“The most important thing to remember is to never give up,” Jeff told Joseph. Then almost as a joke he added, “And if that doesn’t work, try a different shot.”
“Thanks,” Joseph said. “You’re awesome. That’s good advice.”
“You bet,” Jeff replied without thinking. But as he passed the ball on, it suddenly hit him. These students were the embodiment of perseverance and improvisation. If anybody needed that advice, he did.
When the bell rang, the regular instructor returned and Kristy asked the students to gather up all the equipment. While they were busy, she ran to grab Jeff before he left the gym.
“Thanks a lot, Jeff,” she said. “I know you didn’t have to stay or even show up in the first place.”
“You really didn’t need me here,” Jeff pointed out. “You could have done all this yourself.”
“Maybe,” she answered, “but they needed you. You gave them your attention, along with a shot of inspiration, and they won’t soon forget that. Besides, I think you needed them.”
Jeff didn’t admit it, but he knew exactly what Kristy meant. Just being there to actively help her students had forced him out of his shell. It had even been fun. What’s more, Joseph’s astute observation had made him realize that he shouldn’t let anything keep him down for too long—not even getting cut from the basketball team.
“We don’t play basketball every time,” Kristy continued, “but we could sure use you again if you have the time. Our next class is Wednesday, same period.”
Jeff hesitated. Although the hour had gone well, he wasn’t sure he wanted to make a habit out of it. “Well …” he started.
“Hey, Jeff!” a voice suddenly bellowed from behind. It was Joseph, on his way out the door with the rest of the class. “Are you coming back Wednesday?”
Instantly all Jeff’s excuses seemed to vanish. “Sure,” he answered. “You can count on it.”
Joseph grinned and waved good-bye. Jeff waved back and then turned to look at Kristy. “Thanks,” she said as she hoisted the equipment bag over her shoulder. “You’re a real hero.”
On the walk home that afternoon, Jeff thought about the day’s developments. He wasn’t any closer to regaining his spot on the varsity basketball squad, but now he had a new team, and for the first time in weeks, he felt important. He had only coached Kristy’s students in small ways, but they had managed to teach him a lot more. He still had a lot to give, no matter what uniform he was wearing.
As for Kristy’s class, Jeff would see them Wednesday, and maybe more Wednesdays if Kristy asked. In the meantime, he might even check into that reporting job with the paper. If he couldn’t play the games, at least he could write about them. The second half was about to begin.

One young married couple applied for PEF loans. During the application process, they took the short training course designed to help them choose a career and budget their money. Upon reflection and upon working out their budget, they decided what unessential expenditures they could reduce or eliminate, such as eating in fast-food establishments. They were startled to discover that by exercising frugality they would not need the loans. They could pay for their own schooling.

Temple Sealing—Mom, Dad, and I were sealed as a family today in the Logan Temple for time and all eternity. Bill was still in school back in Kansas.
Temple Marriage—Elder Tuttle married Jan and me this morning in the Salt Lake Temple. Today was even more special because Bill was finally sealed to Mom and Dad. In addition, Mom’s cousins from Missouri were also sealed for time and eternity in the Lord’s house. Mother played a large role in their conversion.

As I agonized over my inadequacies this week, I received a distinct impression which both chastened and comforted me: to focus not on what I can’t do but rather on what I can do. I can testify of the plain and precious truths of the gospel.

One day I was in my room, and I looked at my picture of Jesus. I felt a warm feeling inside that Heavenly Father loves me. I also felt the Holy Ghost tell me that Jesus is real and He loves me too.
Anne M., age 5, Utah, USA

I’m so grateful that I know the truth. I’m also thankful for the Tambuli (English), which is an interesting magazine.
Because being a member of the Church is so wonderful, I share my gospel knowledge using the magazine. I know this is a way people can know about the Church and can apply its principles in their lives. One of my best friends in school wanted to look at the magazine, and now she enjoys reading it from cover to cover.
Thank you for helping me know the truth. I know that I am truly a child of God and that I’m a very blessed young woman.
Sally H. ValencianoMilaor Ward, Naga Philippines Stake

The first winter in the Salt Lake Valley was hard for the Smith family. Food and shelter were scarce. When summer came and the family finally had a crop, Mary insisted that they pay a full and honest tithe. In those days, tithing was often paid in goods. Mary selected her best potatoes and headed for the tithing office. When William Thompson, a tithing clerk, saw her, he questioned her need to pay tithing, because she was so poor. Mary retorted, “William, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Would you deny me a blessing? If I did not pay my tithing I should expect the Lord to withhold His blessings from me; I pay my tithing, not only because it is a law of God but because I expect a blessing by doing it.”

Mary continued to pay her tithing, whatever her circumstances. She remained independent, raising chickens, sheep, and cattle. Her faithfulness impressed her children with the importance of tithing.

The volunteers gathered in the Waiting Room of the Temple after the Dedication. Little did they know that they were in for a pleasant surprise!
When the door opened, they quickly stood up astonished seeing President Dallin H. Oaks in front of them!
Pres. Oaks commended and thanked all who helped make the Open House and Dedication a success.
He added, probably referring to the 15-minute power outage during the afternoon session, “Anything can go wrong but there’s nothing we can’t do something about.”
He continued, “I’ve been to many temple dedications and I can say that this team was excellent, if not the best.”
Elder Gregorio Karganilla shared:
“When Pres. Oaks came to the Waiting Room before heading home to Utah, it dawned on me that it was as if Jesus Christ visited us in the room to express His gratitude for all that we’ve done to make the Temple Dedication edifying and successful.”
President Oaks then expressed his love to the volunteers and left them with tears and joyful spirits.

At work, Francisco Lopes (who has since married) was subjected to frequent spiritual tremors. “Some of the people I worked with were skeptical of my beliefs and criticized me for what I believed in,” he says. “They often questioned me, using science that seemed to conflict with our faith.”

Brother Lopes recalls discussions about evolution, DNA, and more. “They did their best to convince me the Church is false,” he says of the questions for which he had few answers. “I had to rely upon my testimony of God and His gospel. I am grateful for that foundation.”

Sometimes, as with Brother Lopes, members are faced with questions to which they don’t have answers. But he didn’t let something he didn’t know shake his faith in something he did know.
“There are things that I don’t know yet. But I don’t question those things because I know that in time God will reveal what I need to know,” Brother Lopes says, “not in my time or when I want it, but when He thinks that it needs to be revealed.”

What does one do when faced with tough questions that don’t seem to have answers?
“Most of our answers are in the scriptures,” says Brother Lopes, who has faced questions not only from friends and co-workers but from his parents, who questioned his decision to join the Church at age 14. “But finding and understanding those answers depends on personal revelation. I can also go to my Church leaders or ask God directly. I’m grateful for the Holy Ghost and a caring Father in Heaven.”

For school events, my classmates or even my friends tell me to wear clothes that are not appealing in God’s eyes. They say, “You must look cute. You must look different.” Sometimes they say that I must forget my beliefs in order to fit in with this world. But my answer is always no. I know that being the real me is being true and different from the world. It’s OK if they don’t like me for being me. It is not about what others say; it’s about following Heavenly Father’s ways.
Jazzy C., age 19, Philippines

My father especially encouraged me to pay my tithing, so one day I asked him about his testimony of this principle. “When did you really know the importance of paying your tithes?” I asked. In response to my question, my father told me a story about his parents paying their tithing.
When my father was growing up in Utah, his family was poor. His shoes were so worn out that the soles had holes in them and were barely attached to his shoes.
One day his father gave him an envelope full of money and said, “Take this to the bishop. This represents our tithing to the Lord.”
So my father started walking through the fields to the bishop’s house. It was winter, and there was snow on the ground. As my father walked, his feet were very cold. He felt the money in his hand and thought how much he could use a new pair of shoes.
But my father kept walking, and he thought to himself, “I guess this has to be a very important thing, so important that my father would take this money and give it to the bishop even when we need it so badly.”
Walking through the snow that day, my father realized the importance of tithing. He came to understand that tithing is more a matter of faith than of money.