Gospel Story Finder

I had a conversation once with a young man I cannot forget. His story of activity, complete inactivity, and a return to activity included the description of two classrooms. He said: “When I was about 15, I started to have a lot of questions about the Church. I thought maybe there would be a chance to talk about my questions at church, but it didn’t happen. In priesthood it seemed like most of the time everybody talked about the game the night before. Sunday School was about the same—maybe a little lesson thrown in during the last five minutes where the teacher asked questions, and it was kind of ‘guess-the-right-answer-from-the-manual-time.’”
Well, other things happened—late Saturday nights, a switch to an earlier meeting schedule—and soon the young man’s attendance dropped to nothing. Several years passed by until he found himself in church again. This time his face lit up as he described his Sunday School class:
“The teacher was this unimpressive-looking guy, but he was so excited about what he was teaching. He didn’t waste a minute. He asked important questions. Everyone had their scriptures. They looked up verses, shared ideas. They listened to each other. They talked about problems at school and how they fit in with the lesson. You could tell that the people in the class were all different, but they had one amazing thing in common—they were all interested in learning the gospel. After five minutes, I knew that this was a good place for me.”

As I came out of school, the sunlight reflected on the knee-deep snow. The air was icy cold, but all four of us guys jammed into the cab of Reed’s truck so the chill and the snow did not much matter to us. All we had to bother with was keeping the steam off the inside of the windows.
As we pulled out of the school parking lot, Wayne started cutting up, as usual, and Sid started cutting Wayne down, as usual, while Reed and I mainly listened. We passed the Chicken Inn, where even the snow couldn’t freeze out that frying smell, and turned up the hill to my house. Up ahead we could see a girl struggling over the ice. I mean really struggling. The hill wasn’t all that steep, but like I said, it was one icy day, and she sure looked funny. Her arms juggled a load of books, and her feet were slipping and sliding as if she were walking on a moving sidewalk. Her coat was pulled up around her ears. She looked like a turtle trying to decide whether to go in or come out of its shell.
“A definite specimen of a 1,” Sid laughed, and so did we.
“Who is she anyway?” Reed asked.
“Rachel Roberts,” I answered. “They moved into the ward a while back.”
“Trust Matt to know about the new girls,” Sid teased, and Wayne slugged me in the arm.
“Yeah. Lady’s man Bingham.” Wayne exaggerated each word and made his voice about two octaves higher.
“Cut it out,” I growled. “She’s my sister’s friend.”
“Sure!” Reed laughed.
“Look, she’s a 1,” I said. “A definite 1!” I grumbled a little to let them know I’d had enough.
“Think she’ll make it to the top of the hill?” Wayne asked.
“Bet you a chocolate shake she won’t,” Reed offered, but no one took up the bet.
As the old Ford pulled up alongside Rachel, Wayne called out, “Give her a scare. Fire it!”
“Yeah!” the others shouted. Without hesitation Reed turned the ignition off then on, and the muffler let out a bang that sounded like a Civil War cannon. Inside the cab, the roar of laughter was almost as loud as a cannon as we watched Rachel go into a balancing act. We jerked around and wiped at the back window while Reed shouted, “Tell me what’s happening, will ya? Did we scare her?”
“I’ll say!” Wayne shouted. “You should see the look on her face. Her eyes are as big as billiard balls!”
“Hey, she’s down,” Sid said. “Feet up, arms everywhere!”
“Books sliding all over the place!” Wayne was laughing so hard he could barely talk.
“What a klutz,” I added. But as I said it a sick sort of heaviness bit into my stomach. I tried to get it out of there by laughing harder, but it didn’t work. About then I realized my conscience was working.
It’s not like I really knew Rachel. She was only a sophomore and kind of a quiet nobody. What I mean is that she was not exactly the kind of girl you would look at twice. Now here I was laughing at her and at the same time feeling awful about laughing. But what was I supposed to do? Reed, Wayne, and Sid were almost hysterical.
The laughter died down, and I sensed an uneasiness in the small cab. Slowly I turned back around, all the while wondering if their stomachs felt like mine. “Maybe we ought to go back and see if she’s all right,” I said.
No one answered. Finally we pulled into my driveway. “Ah, she’ll be fine,” Wayne said. “It just scared her a little. See ya at basketball practice.”
I went into the house, and while I fixed a sandwich and poured a glass of milk, I figured it out. I hadn’t been the one to suggest it and I wasn’t the one who turned the key, so why should I be the one to worry about it? By the time I finished my fourth sandwich I’d forgotten the whole thing. Then with homework and basketball practice, even my conscience didn’t have much time to remember it. But about ten o’clock I was in the kitchen getting some cookies when I realized that my sister Jennifer and my mom were talking about Rachel.
“How’s she doing?” Mom asked.
“They’re not sure yet. She’s got a cast on it now, but they want to wait two weeks and see how it’s healing. Her mom says they may have to put a pin in to help it heal right.”
I swallowed one homemade chocolate chip—cookie—whole and felt it scratch all the way down.
“What happened?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t us, but somehow knowing it was.
“Some guys made a truck backfire next to her when she was coming up the hill after school. She slipped on the ice and broke her ankle.”
Suddenly I wasn’t hungry. It had been a joke. We hadn’t meant to hurt her. My stomach churned. I wished I hadn’t eaten any cookies at all.
You all right?” Jennifer asked.
“Sure,” I said, trying to get hold of myself. “I just swallowed wrong.”
“Those guys are probably still laughing about their joke,” she said, her face growing red and her eyes mad, “while Rachel’s over there hurting.”
I’m not laughing, I thought. But that didn’t help much.
All night long I tossed and turned and tossed some more. It was a joke. That’s all. We’re really not bad guys. Wayne was always pulling something, and we always joined in. But we’d never hurt anyone.
The next morning when Reed picked me up I guess I looked bad.
“Hey, what’s with you?” Wayne asked. “Terrie turn you down for the dance?”
“No!” I snapped.
I was the last one in and as we shoved together, everything got kind of quiet, a heavy kind of quiet. We got almost to school without breaking the silence. Then Sid spoke up, “Come on, Bingham. What’s wrong?”
I hesitated a minute and then told them the whole story. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but as I looked around I could see they felt about like I did.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Reed said. “Just a little scare.”
“It wasn’t just you,” Wayne added, and Sid nodded.
We pulled into the school parking lot, and for the first time ever I was glad to be at school. Maybe concentrating on classes would keep my mind off Rachel and her ankle. But it didn’t work. All day long I kept seeing her face, crying, hurting, sitting alone at the bottom of that hill. Why hadn’t I made them go back?
Back at the truck after school I saw the others for the first time since that morning. I could tell just by looking that instead of leaving, the feeling had settled harder, colder. We climbed into the cab and started for home. We got all the way to my driveway before anyone spoke.
“Look, I don’t know about you guys, but I think we ought to do something,” I said.
“Like what?” Reed asked.
“I don’t know. Take her some flowers and candy or something. Apologize.”
“Flowers and candy? Those are for the girls you’re trying to impress. The 10s! Rachel is more of the ‘sweet spirit’ kind.” I knew Wayne was trying to make a joke, trying to lighten the heavy mood, but no one laughed.
“You think we ought to do that?” Reed asked. “I mean go to her house and everything?”
I wanted to say, “Nah, I’m just joking!” But I knew that wouldn’t work. I could see now that much as I didn’t want to face Rachel, let alone risk seeing her mom and dad, my conscience wasn’t going to take a time out unless I went.
“Well, I’m going tonight. If you guys want to come with me, be here at seven.” Then I got out and went into the house.
The next part was the hardest. I found Jennifer and before I had time to chicken out I told her the whole story.
“Matt Bingham!” she started to yell.
“Look, Jen,” I interrupted, holding her hands so she couldn’t hit me. “We didn’t mean to hurt her. We’re sorry, and now I need your help.”
She looked at me a minute as if trying to decide what to do, then wiggled her hands loose.
“Please, Jen?” I asked real nice.
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Just help me get the flowers and candy. I don’t know what kind she likes or anything, and I don’t want to go in there apologizing and find out she hates flowers and is allergic to chocolate.”
Jennifer laughed, and that made me mad. Then I realized I must be sounding a little weird. I smiled back. “Will you do it?”
“You know,” she said, “as far as brothers go, you’re not so bad.”
“Will you help?”
“I’d better,” she said. “In the first place Rachel doesn’t like candy.”
“See what I mean? What am I …”
“Hold on,” Jen interrupted. “If you’ll drive me, I’ll pick it all out for you. I know exactly what her favorite things are.”
Now that that was all set I felt a whole lot better. But I still worried that none of the other guys would show. I really didn’t want to go all alone, but I shouldn’t have worried. At seven o’clock all three showed up at the front door looking as nervous as I felt.
“Well, you ready?” Sid stammered.
“Yeah, just a minute.” I was afraid that if I waited even one second more I wouldn’t have the nerve to go through with it.
“Do we really need to do this?” Wayne asked.
“Yes!” I tried to sound real positive and found that just by saying it I somehow felt better. I grabbed the flowers and pepperoni pizza that Jennifer had picked out, and we left.
It was the third silent ride that day. Slowly we pulled up in front of the brown brick home and stopped the engine. No one moved.
“Well?” I finally asked.
“I think Matt ought to be the spokesman,” Sid said, “seeing as this is his idea and all.”
The others agreed, and I knew I was stuck.
“Come on then,” I said. “Let’s get it over with.”
From the truck to the front door was the longest walk I’d ever taken. Snow crunched under my feet. My breath formed heavy puffs of steam that hung in front of me. And my heart beat—I mean BEAT. Once on the porch I hesitated, then punched the icy doorbell, hoping that no one would answer it. Before I could turn and run, a woman opened the door, a startled look crossing her face as she saw the four of us standing there with a pizza box and flowers.
“Yes?” she finally said.
“Hello. I’m Matt Bingham, and we came to see Rachel.” The words spilled out like water over a dam.
I’m sure she recognized us from church, but she seemed puzzled.
“She’s probably never had a boy come over before,” Wayne whispered from behind me, and I could feel Sid and Reed giggling. I hoped Mrs. Roberts hadn’t heard.
“Come on in,” Mrs. Roberts said and opened the storm door. “Rachel is in the family room. Right this way.”
She started down the hall, and we followed.
“Rachel,” she said, as she turned into the room. “You have company.”
Rachel was lying on the couch reading a book, her left foot in a cast and propped up on two pillows. It hurt just to look at it.
“Hi,” she said shyly, not as surprised as I thought she’d be.
We stood awkwardly for a moment, no one saying anything. Finally Reed spoke up, “How’s it feeling?”
“It hurts, but it’s getting better,” she answered.
Her mother slipped out of the room and that made it easier.
“I guess you know we’re the ones who were in the truck,” I said, hoping to get it over with so we could leave.
“Yeah,” she said with no trace of anger or anything.
“Well, we want you to know we didn’t mean to hurt you. We feel bad, and we really hope you don’t have to have surgery or anything like that.”
“It was supposed to just be a joke,” Wayne added.
“Anyway, we feel bad about how it turned out, and we wanted to tell you we’re sorry. But I guess that doesn’t help your ankle much. But we are real sorry about it.” I knew I was repeating myself, but I couldn’t figure anything else to say and I felt stupid standing there not saying anything.
“It’s nice of you to admit it,” she said. “Most guys wouldn’t have bothered.”
There was another awkward pause. Then Sid gave me an elbow in the ribs and whispered, “The flowers!”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, embarrassed. “We brought you these.” I handed her the flowers and pizza.
“Daisies,” she smiled. “I love daisies. These are beautiful.”
She opened the box. “You’re kidding! Pepperoni pizza. That’s almost worth a broken ankle. Thanks!”
“It’s the kind you buy at a restaurant, then take home and cook,” I explained.
She breathed in a big whiff. “Smells fantastic.”
I’d never really seen her up close. As she smiled and laughed she didn’t really look as plain as I’d always thought she was. It’s not that she’d ever win a beauty contest or anything. But there was something about her that I’d never noticed before, a kind of extra something that I couldn’t explain.
“Pull those chairs over and sit down,” she invited.
“We’d really better be going,” Wayne said uneasily.
“But you haven’t even had a piece of pizza yet,” she said.
“Well, maybe we could stay for a minute,” Reed said and pulled over a chair.
Rachel called her mom back in and asked her to cook the pizza for us. We all got a chair and sat down around the couch. Before we knew it, we were laughing and talking as if we’d been friends for years. She talked easily, not like she was trying to impress us or anything, and she never once talked about movie stars or clothes. I’d never known it was so easy to talk to a girl before. She was reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court by Mark Twain, and she told us about the eclipse and all. Even Wayne thought it was one of the best jokes he’d ever heard of. Then Mrs. Roberts brought in the pizza and some hot chocolate and donuts, and we talked some more. Before I realized it, we had been there for two hours.
“Oh wow!” Sid suddenly noticed. “I told my dad I’d be home by nine-thirty. I’ve got to go.”
“Me too,” we all agreed as we pushed back the chairs and apologized one last time.
“Don’t worry. I know you didn’t mean for it to turn out like this,” Rachel said, then laughed. “Just don’t let it happen again!”
“We’ll check back and see how you’re doing,” I said.
“Thanks for the flowers and the pizza,” she called as her mother showed us to the door.
The ride home wasn’t silent. Wayne was his old self again, and we all laughed and joked.
“She’s not so bad after all,” Reed said.
“Not a 10 though,” Wayne said. “It’s got to be a 10 for me.”
I knew what Wayne meant. But maybe he was wrong. Rachel wasn’t a Miss America, but all the same there was something about her I couldn’t describe, a warmth or something, that made it so that when I was around her I didn’t seem to notice if she was a 1 or a 10. I’d never been around a girl like that before, unless maybe it was Jennifer. But I doubt sisters count.
I thought about it as I listened to the others joke around.
“What you really want, Wayne, is a 12. But they don’t make 12s anymore,” Reed said, and we laughed again.
Maybe what we need, I thought, though I didn’t say it aloud, is a new measuring system.
“Here we are,” Reed said, as he pulled into my driveway. “See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks for going with me,” I said. The others only nodded, but then they really didn’t need to say anything. I could feel it.
I hurried into the warm house and found Jennifer waiting.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Fine,” I answered.
“She’s nice, isn’t she?” Jennifer asked.
“I guess so,” I said, and for the first time I didn’t think of nice as an adjective you used for a girl because you couldn’t think of any other word. “She’s okay,” I added, then hurried to my room before Jennifer could ask any more questions.

Spiritual strength frequently comes through selfless service. Some years ago I visited what was then called the California Mission, where I interviewed a young missionary from Georgia. I recall saying to him, “Do you send a letter home to your parents every week?”

He replied, “Yes, Brother Monson.”

Then I asked, “Do you enjoy receiving letters from home?”

He didn’t answer. At length I inquired, “When was the last time you had a letter from home?”

With a quavering voice, he responded, “I’ve never had a letter from home. Father’s just a deacon, and Mother’s not a member of the Church. They pleaded with me not to come. They said that if I left on a mission, they would not be writing to me. What shall I do, Brother Monson?”

I offered a silent prayer to my Heavenly Father: “What should I tell this young servant of Thine, who has sacrificed everything to serve Thee?” And the inspiration came. I said, “Elder, you send a letter home to your mother and father every week of your mission. Tell them what you are doing. Tell them how much you love them and then bear your testimony to them.”

He asked, “Will they then write to me?”

I responded, “Then they will write to you.”

We parted and I went on my way. Months later I was attending a stake conference in Southern California when a young missionary came up to me and said, “Brother Monson, do you remember me? I’m the missionary who had not received a letter from my mother or my father during my first nine months in the mission field. You told me, ‘Send a letter home every week, Elder, and your parents will write to you.’” Then he asked, “Do you remember that promise, Elder Monson?”

I remembered. I inquired, “Have you heard from your parents?”

He reached into his pocket and took out a sheaf of letters with an elastic band around them, took a letter from the top of the stack, and said, “Have I heard from my parents! Listen to this letter from my mother: ‘Son, we so much enjoy your letters. We’re proud of you, our missionary. Guess what? Dad has been ordained a priest. He’s preparing to baptize me. I’m meeting with the missionaries; and one year from now we want to come to California as you complete your mission, for we, with you, would like to become a forever family by entering the temple of the Lord.’” This young missionary asked, “Brother Monson, does Heavenly Father always answer prayers and fulfill Apostles’ promises?”

I replied, “When one has faith as you have demonstrated, our Heavenly Father hears such prayers and answers in His own way.”

Clean hands, a pure heart, and a willing mind had touched heaven. A blessing, heaven-sent, had answered the fervent prayer of a missionary’s humble heart.

On Monday Jeremy wore his blue-and-white striped overalls. He was playing with his blocks when he heard his father’s car in the driveway. Jeremy ran to the front door.
“Hi there,” his father said as he came through the door. “I didn’t know a railroad engineer lived here.”
“No, Daddy, it’s just me, Jeremy,” Jeremy said. “These are only my overalls.”
Jeremy laughed as his father lifted him high in the air and swung him around until his mother called them for dinner.
Tuesday morning, when Jeremy came down to the kitchen for breakfast, he was wearing his astronaut pajamas, the ones with the rockets and stars on them.
“I didn’t know that a spaceship landed here last night,” Jeremy’s father said to Mother.
“No, Daddy, it’s just me, Jeremy,” Jeremy said.
“Well, we always feed hungry astronauts around here,” his father said, piling Jeremy’s plate high with pancakes and making zooming noises as he landed the plate in front of Jeremy.
Wednesday afternoon Jeremy ran to the door to meet his father when he came home from work. Jeremy ran fast because he was wearing his new running shoes and his sweat suit with the stripes down the arms and legs. He opened the door before his father reached the house.
“What do we have here?” his father called. “It looks like a famous athlete, right here in our own home.”
“No, Daddy, it’s just me, Jeremy,” Jeremy said. “I’m not a famous athlete.”
“Let’s see how fast you can run, anyway,” Jeremy’s father said. He chased Jeremy around the living room. Jeremy laughed as he tried to outrun his father, but he caught Jeremy in his strong arms, and they tumbled to the floor, wrestling and laughing.
Rain was pouring down on Thursday morning. After Jeremy ate his oatmeal, he got dressed for nursery school. He was pulling on his yellow rain slicker and his rubber rain boots when his father came into the room.
“Ahoy there, matey,” his father said. “Going fishing today?”
“What?” Jeremy asked, puzzled.
“Well, you must be a fisherman, dressed like that,” his father said.
“No, Daddy, it’s just me, Jeremy,” Jeremy said.
“Well, catch a lot of fish for dinner tonight, Jeremy the fisherman,” his father said as he went out the door on his way to work.
On Friday morning, Jeremy’s father stayed home. He was working in the yard when Jeremy woke up. Jeremy pulled on his favorite blue jeans and T-shirt and went out to help him.
“Who are you today?” his father asked. “A construction worker?”
“It’s just me, Jeremy,” Jeremy answered. “I’m a little boy.”
“A little boy?” his father said. “My goodness. All week I thought that you were someone else.”
“Maybe when I grow up, I’ll be a railroad engineer, or an astronaut, or a famous athlete, or a fisherman, or maybe a construction worker,” Jeremy said. “But right now I’m just a little boy.”
Jeremy’s father reached over and pulled Jeremy into a hug. “I know. You’re my little boy, and I love you just the way you are. But do you actually think that you could be someone else today too?”
“Who?” Jeremy asked.
“A gardener,” his father answered. He plopped a sun visor onto Jeremy’s head and put a rake into his hands.
Jeremy liked being a gardener. But Jeremy and his father didn’t get much work done. Every time they raked together a big pile of leaves, they jumped into the pile, laughing and scattering the leaves all over the yard. Then they stuffed leaves down each other’s shirt.
Jeremy and his father had a lot of fun that day, just being a little boy and his father.

Many years ago, before I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve, I had the opportunity to address a business convention in Dallas, Texas—known as “the city of churches.” After the convention I took a sightseeing bus ride about the city’s suburbs. As we would pass the beautiful churches, our driver would comment, “On the left you see the Methodist church,” or “There on the right is the Catholic cathedral.” As we passed a beautiful red brick building situated upon a hill, the driver informed us, “That building is where the Mormons meet.”

A lady’s voice from the rear of the bus asked, “Driver, can you tell us something about the Mormons?” The driver pulled the bus over to the side of the road, turned around in his seat, and replied, “Lady, all I know about the Mormons is that they meet in that red brick building. Is there anyone on this bus who knows anything about the Mormons?”

I gazed at the expression on each person’s face for some sign of recognition, some desire to comment. I found nothing—not a sign. Then I realized the truth of the statement “When the time for decision arrives, the time for preparation is past.” For the next 15 minutes I had the privilege of giving, as Peter declared, “a reason [for] the hope that is in you” (1 Peter 3:15). At that time I developed a much greater appreciation concerning the matter of preparation.

As a young girl growing up in communist Czechoslovakia, I was always trying to discover the purpose of my life. As I looked at my parents and at other adults around me, I wondered: Is this the life I will have to live after finishing school? Will I always be tired, unhappy, without any freedom? Life seemed meaningless.
I didn’t believe in God, because nobody had ever taught me about him. In fact, the communists taught us in school that there is no God, no life after death, and no spirit. So why do I live? I wondered. Without a purpose in life, I did not have any desire to be better. I was very unhappy.
One day in 1989, while I was a student at a university, one of my schoolmates took me to a meeting where a small group of young people were listening to the words of an older man. He spoke with great authority, and I was impressed. I learned that he was Otakar Vojkuvka from Brno, Czechoslovakia, and that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As he spoke about God and about the purpose of our lives, I knew he was telling the truth. His words were medicine for my spirit! I was so happy.
Suddenly I knew that I was not a worthless piece of matter living just by chance—but that I was actually a child of God! I received the Book of Mormon, read it, and had no doubts about its truthfulness. And as I discovered these truths, I had the feeling that I had known these things before. It seemed to me that I was awakening, taking off dark glasses, and seeing the truth clearly.
At that time, missionaries were not allowed in Czechoslovakia. But that fall, Czechs gained freedom through the “velvet revolution,” and the Church received official recognition in the country in March 1990. I was baptized in May of that year.
My life totally changed. It became a joy to study, because now there was purpose in life. I made many friends, tried to be a better person and to do what is right, and started to realize what it means to be happy. I finally knew why I was alive.
With this new-found happiness and purpose, I had great desires to serve a mission. In May 1992, two years after my baptism, I received a call to serve a mission in my native Czechoslovakia. Soon I found myself standing with my suitcases at the bus station in my first city, which was not too far from my home. I was really happy on my mission. I learned patience and tolerance—and had the wonderful privilege of sharing with others what I had learned about the purpose and meaning of life.
Now I have completed my full-time mission and live in Prague, Czech Republic. Occasionally I see people I taught as a missionary, some of whom were baptized. We are still friends. I am happy now because I know what love, charity, and service are. I want to live in such a way that I can fulfill the meaning of my life on this earth. And that is possible only through the gospel of Jesus Christ.

I did not serve a regular mission until my wife and I were called to preside in New England. When I was of missionary age, young men could not be called to the mission field. It was World War II, and I spent four years in the military. But I did do missionary work; we did share the gospel. It was my privilege to baptize one of the first two Japanese to join the Church after the mission had been closed 22 years earlier. Brother Elliot Richards baptized Tatsui Sato. I baptized his wife, Chio. And the work in Japan was reopened. We baptized them in a swimming pool amid the rubble of a university that had been destroyed by bombs.

Soon my 12th birthday came. I was ordained a deacon. Around this time, my family moved to Madison, Wisconsin, USA. I missed my friends, but I was excited to make new ones. Madison was much bigger than Manti. My new school was large. There weren’t many members of the Church. One day some popular kids invited me to a party. But the party was on the same night as a Church activity. I had learned from my experience in Primary that good things happen when I am faithful in attending my Church meetings. I thanked them for inviting me, and I explained why I couldn’t come.
The day after the party, everyone at school was talking about it. They had been drinking alcohol at the party, and everyone who went got in a lot of trouble! I was so grateful that I had been where I needed to be.

I remember as a young bishop getting a call from the hospital late one night to inform me that a widow in my ward had died. I went to the hospital, then obtained the key to her apartment. A note had been left that this was to be the procedure I was to follow. As I entered her humble basement apartment, I turned on the light and went to the little table that was in the small living room. There on the table were two small bottles with a note beneath them. The bottles were filled with coins. This sweet little widow, Kathleen McKee, with no relatives surviving her, had written this note. “Bishop, here is my fast offering. I have been just with the Lord.” I think we simply need ask one another, have we been just with the Lord? Remember the principle of the true fast. Is it not to deal our bread to the hungry, to bring to our own house the poor who are outcast, to clothe the naked, to hide not ourself from our own flesh? An honest fast offering, a generous fast offering, will certainly be an indication to our Heavenly Father that we know and abide this particular law.

Accepting President Hinckley’s challenge to read the Book of Mormon by the end of last year, the young women of the Fayetteville First Ward in Arkansas decided to mark their progress with quilting squares. The young women sewed the squares together and created quilts to give away to a home for neglected and abused children.
Each square on every quilt represented 40 chapters read from the Book of Mormon. So with just a little math—7 quilts, each with 16 squares, each square representing 40 chapters—we have 4,480 chapters. “Not only were our testimonies increased,” says Linda Connor, the ward Young Women president, “we were able to serve others through this project.”

When Ali’s eighth birthday drew near, she asked her parents if she could be baptized on her birthday—she was too excited to wait a day longer! They were able to schedule it, so on July 11, 2000, she was baptized a member of the Church. She was delighted to have her Grandma and Grandpa Balsor in attendance. “My grandparents were so touched by the Spirit that they cried,” she said. After the baptism, her mother felt inspired to give them a copy of the Book of Mormon.

In June 1834 a young mother who was faced with being disinherited by her father wrote a bold and moving letter sharing her conviction of the Restoration. Although she must have known her prospects of changing his mind were dim, Rebecca Swain Williams nevertheless stood firm despite the impending consequences. She declared to her father, Isaac, that the Book of Mormon and the Church were true, just as the Prophet Joseph Smith described, and that she had heard the Three Witnesses “declare in public meeting that they saw a Holy Angel come down from heaven and [bring] the plates, and la[y] them before their eyes.”1
One of Rebecca’s most abiding hopes was that her family, her father in particular, would accept the restored gospel and receive the joyous blessings of the faith. She had, like Lehi, tasted of the love of God and wanted to share it with those closest to her (see 1 Nephi 8:12). With that in mind, Rebecca eagerly wrote to her family about her conversion and testimony and the great joy she felt as a member of the Church.
However, Rebecca’s conversion infuriated her father. In his terse response he demanded that she leave the Church. But Rebecca would not be swayed. She responded, as a family historian describes, that “she was more firm than ever in her conviction of the truth of Mormon doctrines” and included her own powerful testimony.6 To her sorrow this letter did not produce the results she had hoped for. Her father threatened to disown her and vowed to cut off all communication with her if she did not leave the Church.
Still, Rebecca did not yield and continued her efforts to share the gospel. In 1834 she wrote another letter—the only one to survive—to her father, revealing the depth of her faith and the pain she felt that he refused to accept anything of the Mormons.
Her father had read newspaper reports attacking the Church, particularly with regard to the Book of Mormon and the testimony of the Three Witnesses, and tried to dissuade Rebecca on these accounts.
“It gives me pain to hear that your mind is so much disturbed about the Book of Mormon,” she wrote. Quoting scripture from the Book of Mormon and from Joseph Smith’s new revelations, Rebecca shared her witness of the Book of Mormon. She also explained that the book prophesied of the selection of three witnesses to it. As evidence, she quoted the ancient prophet Ether, who said that “in the mouth of three witnesses” would the truth of the book “be established” (Ether 5:4).7
Rebecca then described how she had personally seen the Three Witnesses—David Whitmer, Martin Harris, and Oliver Cowdery—and heard them testify of having seen an angel and the gold plates. After defending their testimonies and character, she urged her father to further investigate the work. For, she wrote to her father, should “you and mother know the circumstances as we do in relation to this work, I am persuaded you would believe it.”8
Echoing Moroni’s promise at the end of the Book of Mormon, Rebecca pled that her family would ask God if “he would enlighten [their] minds in the way of truth.” And then she planned to send a missionary “capable of teaching the Gospel as it is in Jesus,” to further help them.9 In the end her father would have nothing to do with it.
Even her letters to her brother John—to whom Rebecca was particularly close—were returned unopened. On the back of one of the returned letters, John wrote, “Father forbids me read your letter, or to write to you. Goodbye and God bless you always. Your brother, John.”10
No matter the heartache and pain Rebecca felt from her father’s choices, she still loved him. She wrote: “My heart mourns for my relations according to the flesh. … I pray the Lord to comfort you in your last day with his Holy Spirit and may they be your best days. … I hope your mind will be composed concerning this work. Be assured that we feel firm in the cause knowing that the Lord is at the helm.”11

My wife, Rhonda, and I have parents who are just regular people—probably a lot like your parents. But one thing I love about our parents is that they dedicated their lives to serving God, and they taught us to do the same.
When Rhonda’s parents had been married for just a couple of years, her 23-year-old dad was called to serve a full-time mission. He left behind his young wife and their 2-year-old daughter. Then his wife was called to serve with him during the last seven months of his mission—leaving their daughter in the care of relatives.
A few years later, now with four children, they moved to Missoula, Montana, so her dad could attend the university. However, they had been there only a few months when President Spencer W. Kimball and Elder Mark E. Petersen extended a call to my father-in-law to be the first president of the newly created Missoula stake. He was only 34. Thoughts of the university were left behind as he sought to do the Lord’s will—not his own.
My parents have served in the temple for more than 30 years—Dad as a sealer, Mom as an ordinance worker. They also served five full-time missions together—in Riverside, California; Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia; Nairobi, Kenya; the Nauvoo Illinois Temple; and the Monterrey Mexico Temple. In Mexico they worked hard to learn a new language, which wasn’t easy at 80 years of age. But they sought to do the will of the Lord rather than to pursue their own desires in life.
To them, and to all such dedicated Latter-day Saints throughout the world, I echo the words spoken by the Lord to the prophet Nephi, the son of Helaman: “Blessed art thou, … for those things which thou hast done … with unwearyingness … , [for thou] hast not sought thine own life, but hast sought my will, and to keep my commandments.”8
As we seek to do God’s will by faithfully serving Him and our fellowmen, we feel His approval and truly come to know Him.

It was just a few days before Christmas, and we were newlyweds traveling home for the holidays. It was a 42-hour drive by car, but that didn’t discourage us at all because we were so excited to be home with our families again! We had been on the road all day and most of the night when we came upon a terrible snowstorm. We found ourselves in a blinding blizzard, and the snow was growing deeper on the highway with each passing moment. The night was pure black. We couldn’t see where we were going, and because of the deep snow we couldn’t see the lines on the road. This was a frightening situation!

Suddenly in front of us we began to see a huge semitruck going slowly and steadily ahead. We could barely make out his taillights, but seeing them gave us hope. My husband, who was driving, fixed his eyes on the lights from the truck, and we drove along in the tracks it made through the deepening snow. Our panic subsided somewhat with that guide up ahead, because he knew the route, he sat up higher than we and could have a better view, and surely he had communication equipment if it was needed.

With prayers on our lips and white-knuckled hands holding on, we followed that light through the storm. We passed many cars off both sides of the road before we sensed that the truck was slowing down and pulling off the highway. In an act of faith, we followed him and soon found ourselves, to our great relief, in a place of safety, a place of refuge. We were so very thankful! We could hardly wait to tell the driver of the truck how grateful we were for his help—for leading the way.

He had big dreams. He and his partner had placed second at the junior level United States nationals, third at U.S. nationals, and first in an international competition in China. His plan was to compete in the 2006 Winter Olympics and then go on a mission after he turned 21. But when he was 18, just when everything was going smoothly, he ran into a snag.
“I wasn’t really enjoying it, and I was having a hard time with the sport,” he remembers. “I was just trying to push through it, and I could not do it anymore. I said, ‘Lord, what do I do?’”
Chris got the first part of his answer when he went to talk to his bishop, who encouraged him to pray about his plan to delay his mission. “His advice kind of went in one ear and out the other,” Chris admits. “But my life got to the point where I really did have to ask, and I really did have to listen.”
The second part of Chris’s answer came during a sacrament meeting. As he listened to his Young Men president talk about his own mission call, the Spirit told him, “‘Chris, you need to serve a mission when you’re 19, or you’re going to have a tough life.’ The message was so clear I actually turned around to see if someone was there,” he says. “The feeling came back 10 times stronger, and I knew I had to go on a mission.”
That night Chris called his partner and coaches to give them the news. When he had first started training with them, he told them that a mission was a possibility. But none of them had expected him to go—at least not yet. Although they were disappointed, Chris says, “They’ve been very supportive of me and my mission, and I give them credit for that.”
Chris feels peace about his decision and where his life is going. “I’m grateful Heavenly Father gave me that prompting,” he says. “But it’s been really hard since then. Satan tried to bring me down in any way possible.”
To combat the fears and temptations, Chris read the scriptures and prayed the way he used to dedicate himself to practicing at the ice rinks in Delaware, where he lived while he trained. He studied the scriptures at least twice a day, and he set aside time to pray earnestly at least three times a day. “That really protected me,” he says. He also credits much of his help to surrounding himself with good friends and family when he came back home to the Thirteenth Ward of the Salt Lake Central Stake.
There are lots of rules in ice dancing—lots of required and restricted moves. To succeed takes a lot of creativity and dancing talent. Chris thinks his experiences with ice dancing will help him on his mission—experiences like learning to get along with a partner, following strict rules, and being dedicated to something every day for a long time.
His call to the Baltic States Mission, Russian speaking, was exciting for Chris, especially since he knows speaking Russian will help him if he still wants to return to ice dancing after his mission. (Many of the competitors and coaches speak Russian.) He also wants to be a coach eventually. But for now, he says, “I just want to try to bring people to a knowledge of the gospel.”

Michael and his friend Daniel were having fun playing with cars in Michael’s room.
Daniel, I talked to your mother. She said you can stay for dinner.
Yes!
Go wash your hands and come sit at the dinner table.
After washing their hands, Michael and Daniel sat down at the table.
This looks yummy.
Daniel, don’t eat yet.
Why not?
We need to say a prayer first. Dad, can Daniel say the prayer?
He’s welcome to say it if he wants to.
I don’t really know how.
I can help you.
OK.
You just need to close your eyes, bow your head, fold your arms, and tell Heavenly Father that we are thankful for the food and for other good things. Then you say, “in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Daniel closed his eyes, folded his arms, and bowed his head. He said a short prayer.
How was that?
Good. You are good at praying.
Yes, he is, Michael. And you are good at teaching.

Looking around at the girls, the stake camp director was able to point out some real success stories. One junior counselor had been reactivated into the Church because of camp. She had been so shy that she wouldn’t participate in most Church activities. But as she learned the camping and leadership skills taught in the Campcrafter program, she gained the confidence and know-how to be a junior counselor in charge of teaching skills classes and conducting camp activities. She started attending her other Church meetings as well.

I sat in the temple waiting to do baptisms for the dead, and I prayed. I was 20 years old, and I wanted to know: Should I serve a full-time mission? I had a feeling the answer was no, but I wanted to ask once and for all.
Suddenly I shivered all over, as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over me. No was the impression I felt. No mission for me.
Although I knew the expectation for young women to go on missions is not the same as for young men, I was confused. Why did the Spirit encourage me not to serve? Wouldn’t I be good at spreading the gospel?
As some of my friends received mission calls, I sometimes wondered what my future would hold. My 21st birthday was approaching, and I couldn’t help thinking, “There’s still time to be interviewed and submit my mission papers.”
I was studying in England when my parents called me. I could hear my mother crying as she told me the devastating news: She had been diagnosed with cancer.
A month later when I came home to the United States for the summer, chemotherapy was making Mom weak. I started helping around the house, learning to manage chores and meals. I also spent hours talking to Mom, fearful that I might lose her. I learned that managing a household is complicated, time-consuming work, and I gained a new appreciation for Mom’s efforts over the years. I barely managed to put decent dinners on the table.
Fortunately, ward members and others in the community helped us.
Mom’s treatment went on, and meanwhile our family grew closer. Mom told us stories about her youth, and we played lots of board games. We talked about the scriptures. My dad shared his fears with me as well as his testimony.
During that summer, I learned eternal lessons. I knew my place for now was at home with my family. My testimony grew as I felt Heavenly Father’s love all summer long. I became better friends with the ward members I had known all my life. My family grew closer, comforted by the knowledge that our family ties would last beyond death. I thanked the Lord for answering my question about serving a mission, guiding me to serve my family.
Editor’s note: Since her treatments, the author’s mother has recovered her health.

Let me share two experiences that illustrate how the Master’s sacrifice and the knowledge of the merciful plan of our Heavenly Father helped Latter-day Saints cope with great sorrow:

We were attending Sunday meetings at a black branch outside of Cape Town South Africa. I invited several members to bear testimony. One of them was a lovely middle aged sister who told of the death of her husband a year earlier in an automobile accident. She expressed her gratitude for the sealing powers of the priesthood.

A few days later we met with all of the missionaries in the Johannesburg South Africa mission. I invited about eight missionaries to speak. As one elder was talking it became clear that he was the son of the sister in the small branch near Cape Town. After the meeting I told him how impressed I was with his mother and then said: "I am sorry you have lost your father". He responded: "I have not lost my father for I am sealed to him. He is mine and I am his forever.”

Another example of President Kimball’s discipleship occurred one Christmas Eve several years ago. He called and asked if I were busy. I quickly responded, “Not at all. What can I do for you, President Kimball?” He told me he needed a companion to go with him to the Primary Children’s Hospital to give a few blessings. It turned out that he had heard of several children from South America, as well as some American Indian children, who were in the hospital. We went from floor to floor giving blessings to all the Latins and Lamanites and many others too. I was deeply affected by the love of President Kimball and his tender friendship with each child. He was a friend to the sick—a friend to those far from home. He exemplified the tender, loving friendship that the Savior would give. It was easy to see how he could say, “The Savior is my best friend.”