Gospel Story Finder

On my family’s ranch in Idaho, we have about 40 horses. We break some of our horses to ride, but most of them we use to raise colts to sell. I learned many things from working with those horses, but I never expected to learn something about the gospel from them.
On our ranch is a 60-acre hill that doesn’t receive much water. In early summer, we put the horses on this hill to eat the grass that grows after the spring rain. One summer, there was a severe drought in our valley, and our horses had picked the hill clean of all its grass. My dad decided it was time to move the horses down to the meadow, which was covered in lush green grass.
Under the direction of my father, I opened the gate to allow the horses into the new pasture. A few of the horses immediately ran through the gate and began to eat the untouched grass, but the rest of the horses stayed on the barren hill. I tried to herd them through the gate by chasing them, but they wouldn’t go. Then I broke a bale of hay in front of the gate to lure them through, but that didn’t work either. The horses seemed content to eat the few blades of grass on the hill instead of coming through the gate.
My dad asked me to drive his truck up the hill and herd the horses through the gate while he did some work on the irrigation ditches. I was excited because my dad didn’t give me permission to drive his truck very often. But my excitement turned to disappointment. Whenever I would get the horses headed in the right direction, one old mare would take off in the wrong direction, leading the herd away from the gate.
I drove the truck faster than before, trying to herd those stubborn horses off the hill. With all my yelling, the horn honking, and a cloud of dust rising up from the hill, my dad came over from the ditches to see what was going on. I was hot and frustrated, and explained to him that I couldn’t get the horses through the gate. We both tried to herd them through with no success. Finally, we decided to leave them, hoping they’d come through the gate on their own, sooner or later.
As I walked back to the truck, feeling frustrated, I thought, “I bet this is how God feels with us sometimes.” As I pondered that, the gospel really came alive to me. I realized that sometimes we become content with the things of this life and we forget that our real destination is a “greener pasture” in God’s kingdom. When we’re headed in the right direction, Satan, like the old mare, tries to tempt us away from the path. Jesus Christ is our gate to greener pastures. He is the only way we can return to our Heavenly Father and have everlasting life (see Mosiah 3:17).

The next morning, the Columbia Ward did go on the welfare assignment and spent the whole morning canning green beans. “We had done 1,050 cans when I lost count,” said Tre Pennington.

It was a lot of work. It left you feeling like you never wanted to see anything green again. But it did give everyone a chance to work together. And while they worked, they answered questions about life as a Latter-day Saint, about life in the Church.

“When the missionaries were teaching me, I knew right away that it was true. I didn’t have any doubt. My dad got baptized; then I got baptized the next Saturday,” said Stephanie Rawlins. “I enjoy being in the church I know is true. Friends I have who aren’t members can’t talk the same way. They don’t understand. With my friends in the Church I can open up; I can talk about things that are really important.”

“I’ve thought many times about what it means to have the priesthood,” said David Dawson, 16. “It means I’m more than just somebody on the street. I know where I can be in the eternities. Holding the priesthood is like being with God every day. It’s a great feeling if you live right.”

“Most of my nonmember friends go to their own churches,” Jason Sawyer said. “If you talk about religion to them, they look at you funny. But when I tell them our religion says we have the right to hold an office in the priesthood, they think that’s quite an honor.”

Jason also talked a little bit about what it’s like to be the stepson of a bishop who makes doughnuts for a living. “He gets up early to start baking, then sleeps in the middle of the day. A lot of times he’s gone doing church work. But he loves us, and he tries to be there when we need him. Besides, we always have plenty of refreshments!”

“That does it!” Melissa said, setting the last can of beans in a cardboard box. “I’m tired, but I’m not so tired that I couldn’t eat breakfast. Where’s a McDonald’s?”

When I arrived in my third area in the Philippines Bacolod Mission, the rainy season had already started. I was assigned to a small, lovely city surrounded by farms in northwest Negros, an island in the south.
In December 2014, Typhoon Ruby hit the province. The devastation was not so severe in our area, but the dirt roads became muddy and slippery. Despite the unfavorable weather conditions, we continued to work.
One of our most promising areas was a little community in the outskirts of the city. All of those we taught and the recent converts there were farmers. Because they worked in sugarcane fields during the day, we taught in the afternoon and evening.
To get to the community, we had to walk through muddy fields, wary of dogs, frogs, snakes, and mosquitoes. We always brought flashlights and umbrellas. Church members accompanied us home after dark.
At times, I felt like giving up. I wasn’t sure if I could walk through muddy sugarcane fields every day, so I prayed for help. The answer came: “Buy rain boots!”
My companion and I each bought a pair. I was thrilled to have boots, but my excitement soon faded because they were so heavy and uncomfortable. They made my feet sweat and prevented me from walking fast.
After our lessons one evening, we went home and changed into our regular proselyting shoes. Then we set out for another appointment in the city. As I was walking, I felt light. I was happy to wear my plastic shoes again. I wondered why I suddenly felt grateful for shoes I had worn my whole mission.
The answer came as a thought: “The rain boots made the difference.” Until then, I hadn’t realized how much comfort my plastic shoes had given me.
Suddenly, my mission hardships and challenges flashed through my mind. My plastic shoes had been an everyday, unappreciated friend. While trying to understand my mixed emotions, I felt a voice saying, “You go through trials and difficulties in life so that you can learn how to recognize blessings and be grateful for them.”
I realized that I had to experience hardships so I could appreciate Heavenly Father’s blessings. Through my trials, I recognized my blessings and became grateful for them.

Seeking to walk in the Lord’s footsteps recently brought me in contact with a young man and his father. The young man and a friend were up hiking in the lower foothills near Cody, Wyoming. The friend jumped across a high-power line that was down, but the young man got tangled in it and was electrocuted. The friend turned and ran all the way back down to where the father lived—and it wasn’t a short distance—and told the father that his son had been electrocuted and that he was dead. The father, who was not a young man, ran all the way back up, taking about fifteen minutes. When he got up to where the boy was lying across the wires, he somehow removed the boy from the wires with a board or a large branch. Then he picked his son up in his arms and held him, saying, “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power and authority of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood, I command you to live.” The dead boy opened up his eyes in his father’s arms and was taken to the University of Utah Medical Center, where he recovered.

All of Samuel’s creative planning paid off when he had some of his stories published. He turned in a writing assignment to a teacher, and she asked him for more of his stories. The teacher worked to have Samuel’s stories published as a book. They named it The Adventure Collection, and it was given out at a teachers’ conference. The teachers who attended the conference received a copy of the book to take back to their schools. Samuel even got to speak at the conference and autograph his books. Samuel says he was really happy. “I said to my dad on the way home that I didn’t want the day to end!”

I am encouraged by a story that appeared in the New Era some years ago. The author recounted the following:
“When I was young, our little family lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. I slept on the couch in the living room. …
“My dad, a steelworker, left home very early for work each day. Every morning he would … tuck the covers around me and stop for a minute. I would be half-dreaming when I could sense my dad standing beside the couch, looking at me. As I slowly awoke, I became embarrassed to have him there. I tried to pretend I was still asleep. … I became aware that as he stood beside my bed he was praying with all his attention, energy, and focus—for me.
“Each morning my dad prayed for me. He prayed that I would have a good day, that I would be safe, that I would learn and prepare for the future. And since he could not be with me until evening, he prayed for the teachers and my friends that I would be with that day. …
“At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them that I understood completely how my father felt about me.”22

My parents helped me prepare for my baptism and to understand the reasons why I needed to be baptized. I started reading the Book of Mormon with my mother, and the more we read, the more I liked it.
Later, the missionaries taught me, and I started understanding the things I learned in Primary. When the missionaries asked if I wanted to take upon me the name of Christ, I was a little scared because I knew the responsibilities baptism brought with it. But I said yes—I wanted to be baptized as soon as I turned 8.
On November 14, 2004, I was baptized a member of the Church. Since then, I have faced many situations that have caused me to remember that I need to always live the way Jesus Christ did. For example, my sisters are 7 and 2 years old, and now I know what kind of example I need to be for them. I try to take care of my sister at school and help her behave. I work hard at school, and at home I always try to be quieter so my sisters will do the same. I help my mom fix breakfast every Sunday, and I have started fasting on the first Sunday of the month like my parents.

She was always there, like a great stone face looking down on them from the prominent pinnacle of her own importance. She was the vast image superimposed on their horizon, the ever-present shadow on their youthful, sunburned shoulders. She was Bobby’s mother, Sister Eustacia M. Broderick, stake Relief Society president and stalwart Mormon matriarch par excellence. She was also the first person Kelly Sue thought of whenever she felt guilty, and in spite of Peru and Bobby’s new haircut and all the excitement of anticipation, Kelly Sue felt guilty now.
It wasn’t, certainly, that Bobby was unworthy of his mission, or that Kelly Sue had somehow sullied his honorable intentions by some inappropriate word or deed. Thank heaven she did not have to answer for anything like that! Outwardly she had given Bobby nothing but encouragement about his mission. And discounting a gentle arm across the shoulder, an affectionate clasping of hands, and an occasional kiss usually stolen beneath the birch tree that dominated the south corner of Bobby’s yard, their friendship had been what it was always meant to be, innocent, fresh, uncomplicated.
Except that for as long as Kelly Sue could remember, Bobby had been there, across the cedar fence which separated their back lot gardens, shooting marbles at eight, baskets at ten, and leaning on the gate at seventeen to tease and flirt and finally win the heart of the girl next door. And now the boy next door was leaving, going clear to Peru for 18 months, while his mother, Sister Eustacia Broderick, stood valiantly by, eager for him to fulfill the Lord’s call, as firm and resolute as Kelly Sue was miserable, as vocal as Kelly Sue was silent, as proud as Kelly Sue was ashamed. Bobby was marching off to serve the Lord, and Kelly Sue wondered gloomily if she might ever be forgiven for being so unhappy.
“There was never any question about whether Bobby would go on a mission,” said Sister Broderick from the pulpit. It was Bobby’s last Sunday at home, and the pews overflowed with family and friends and well-wishers, and Kelly Sue sat transfixed by Bobby’s new pinstriped demeanor. He sat to the right of his father with his new set of scriptures on his knee, looking oddly mature for his 19 years. “The prophet has decreed that every young man should serve a mission,” Sister Broderick declared. “Every young man. And Bobby has never considered doing otherwise.” Kelly Sue spotted the natural arch of Sister Broderick’s left eyebrow and noted how it always seemed to be raised in judgment, even when she smiled. Kelly Sue had always been in awe of this woman, Bobby’s mother, and now her words rang convincingly across the chapel pews. “There was never any question,” she repeated, “about Bobby following the advice of his leaders, about his going into the mission field to serve the Lord in bringing the gospel to others.”
Sister Broderick paused for only an instant and then stepped back to begin anew. The arch of her brow seemed higher than ever to Kelly Sue and her tone did not soften. “There is a birch tree in the south corner of our yard,” she said, “as straight and tall and fine a tree as any backyard could wish for. Through the years we’ve carved notches in the bark of that birch to mark the growth of our son Bobby.”
Kelly Sue saw Bobby’s shoulders stiffen proudly against the back of his chair as he watched his mother and knew what she might say. Kelly Sue stiffened too, but her pride in Bobby was overshadowed by the cold ache she felt and could not smother in spite of Sister Broderick’s stirring words. “There’s a mark on that tree about this high,” she declared, measuring up from the floor with her hand. “That’s the day Bobby started Primary 16 years ago. There’s a special notch a little further up that we made the day he was baptized, and another to mark his being ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood.” Sister Broderick paused again, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin before she continued, “We carved the latest notch in the birch tree last week when Bobby was made an elder. He’s grown so tall I had to stand on tiptoe to see the mark was straight.”
Kelly Sue closed her eyes and envisioned the little family ceremony in her mind. Bobby had stood self-consciously but proudly against the tree with his dog Max yapping happily around his feet, while his mother had indeed reached on tiptoe to mark the tree just at the top of his head. His father had snapped pictures of the two of them and then had carved a more conspicuous notch in the tree with his pocket knife. “I remember the day Bobby started Primary,” Sister Broderick had told Kelly Sue, rubbing her fingers across the first notch. “He bawled like a baby and didn’t want to go, can you imagine?” Her fingers lingered momentarily at the notch, but she moved away when she caught Kelly Sue’s eye. “Yes, he did,” she said. “He cried like a baby.”
“Seems to me,” drawled Brother Broderick, “he did the same thing when he was eight. He was scared to death of the baptismal font. Cried all the way to the stake house.”
Bobby, who was pleasantly taking all of this while leaning against the tree with his arm draped around Kelly Sue, looked casually at the new notch nearby. “I won’t cry over this one,” he said. “I’ve never been so excited in my life.”
Back in the chapel Kelly Sue decided that Bobby’s mother was pretty excited too. “That birch tree has always pointed to the stars,” she was saying, “and so do the notches measuring Bobby. He has grown into as straight and tall and fine a young man as any family could want, and as a mother I could not be more proud to send him to Peru and follow the voice of the prophet!”
Sister Broderick sat down, but for Kelly Sue the remainder of the meeting was a blur. Even Bobby’s farewell speech, so sweet and determined and sincere, left her feeling weak. She longed to escape the reality of his leaving. She longed for a return to those warm summer evenings, walking hand in hand with Bobby around the lilac bushes or through McCarty’s orchard as they took a shortcut from school. She longed for the feel of laughter by the lake, the burn of wind on the ski lift, the taste of homemade ice cream on the patio in July. She wanted to be chased across the ball field, to end up rolling in a wild, bruising tackle executed by either Bobby or usually Max, yapping at the top of his canine lungs. She yearned to stroll around the birch tree alone with Bobby and carve her own memories into its pale gray trunk. She yearned for all these things and felt ashamed and guilty because of them. Sister Broderick was right. Bobby’s bent was toward the stars; how could she ever want to hold him, clinging to the past?
“It’s not that I don’t think he’s doing the right thing,” Kelly Sue said to her mother the morning Bobby was scheduled to leave for the Mission Training Center in Utah. “I know he is.” She was watching from the front window as Brother and Sister Broderick were busily loading their car with Bobby’s luggage and books. Bobby himself, carrying a garment bag containing his new suits, waved to her from the street and motioned for her to join him. Kelly Sue was planning to go with him to the airport, but she hesitated now, pondering the car through the window, the car with all of its trappings of imminent departure, and Sister Broderick valiantly standing by, orchestrating the whole affair as if she had planned it for a lifetime. And indeed she had.
“I know he’s doing the right thing,” Kelly Sue repeated, and her mother joined her at the window, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “But I’m young, and I’ll miss him,” she added, suddenly releasing a flood of emotion. “I’ll miss him so much that down deep in my heart I wish he weren’t going, and I feel terrible about it, just terrible.”
“We’ll all miss him, Kelly Sue,” her mother whispered, pressing a finger to the girl’s cheek to catch an errant tear. “You needn’t feel guilty about that.”
Kelly Sue faced the window again, focusing her eyes on Sister Eustacia Broderick as she efficiently packed the last piece of luggage into the car. “She’s so strong,” Kelly Sue breathed. “How can she always be so strong, so faithful? Bobby adores her. He wishes I were more like her. I know he does.”
“Sister Broderick is a wonderful woman,” returned her mother quickly. “I’ve seen her raise Bobby from a child into a fine young man, and I’m sure she loves him, but people show love in different ways, just as Bobby loves you for yourself just as you are.” Kelly Sue’s eyes were still on Sister Broderick standing across the drive, and her mother’s final words, though lovingly said, cut into her heart more painfully than she could imagine. “Try not to feel anger or resentment toward Sister Broderick for somehow taking Bobby away from you and sending him on a mission. She’s really not to blame.”
The words tiptoed through her mind for the remainder of the day. She remembered them as she stood with his family and waved him out of sight amidst the farewell chorus of a dozen familiar, happy voices. And at the center of it all was Sister Broderick, straight and determined and tearless, bidding her only son good-bye, and Kelly Sue suddenly knew that her mother was right. She had resented Sister Broderick, just as she had been intimidated through the years by her constant presence in the backyard of Bobby’s life as well as her own. Her steadfast attitude regarding Bobby’s mission was the final straw. Surely there was some room for wistfulness, for nostalgia, for the longing and ache that is naturally part of a long farewell. Yet, Sister Eustacia Broderick displayed a need for none of these, so firm was her faith in what Bobby was doing.
Kelly Sue said her prayers early that evening. Alone in her bedroom, still fully clothed, with the last rays of an orange sunset still flooding her window, she knelt down to come to grips with her feelings. She was determined not to cringe in Sister Broderick’s shadow for the next 18 months, not to be burdened by her presence, not to let anything negative come between herself and the yard across the back fence. Finally, in the midst of her prayer, she knew she wouldn’t have to. She imagined Bobby in Peru, saw him greeting people and loving them. She saw how his unique charm was brightening their lives, as it had hers for as long as she could remember. And suddenly she was proud, too, proud to share her own best friend with all those people who needed him.
“Thank you, Sister Broderick,” she said aloud, as the warmth of understanding and reconciliation swelled within her and a genuine smile played along her lips for the first time in days. “You knew it all the while, didn’t you?” she added triumphantly, still speaking to the woman from the house next door, who was no longer a threat but an example.
From across the fence, Kelly Sue heard the Broderick’s back door open and knew someone had come out. With new resolve she bounded down her own stairs, determined to complete the reconciliation by telling Sister Broderick how she felt, by apologizing, by making peace at last, if only within herself.
She hurried through the grass by her own yard, past the garden and the clothesline, straight to the gate of the high cedar fence, hoping to keep the light for a few minutes more. She moved quietly through the gate and looked curiously toward the house which seemed veiled and silent, even gloomy in the twilight. No one seemed to be around. Even Max had apparently retired to his favorite corner of the garage.
“He never was a very good watch dog,” Kelly Sue laughed inwardly, happy now in the warm evening air. She looked over Bobby’s backyard, filled with so many memories, for one last time, just as the darkness settled in, and she was about to turn again to her own gate when she was caught short by an odd sound coming from the south corner, through the lilac bushes, by the birch tree.
It began as a whimper and at first Kelly Sue thought a kitten may have become tangled between the fence slats at the end of the yard. She moved silently now, not wishing to disturb the house, and it was only as she neared the birch tree that the form huddled against the trunk became apparent in the shadows. It was Sister Broderick, slightly illuminated by the silky white bathrobe she wore, so that even in the gathering darkness Kelly Sue could see the woman’s cheek pressed against the bark of the tree as her fingers ran gently over a notch of memory carved nearby. Sister Broderick was weeping, softly, controllably, but most assuredly weeping, as though her heart would crack. And the silent old tree stood beside her, straight and unswayed in the darkness.
Kelly Sue crept quietly back to her own gate, her own yard, her own bedroom. From a window there she viewed Bobby’s birch tree for the next 18 months, standing straight and tall in the corner of his yard, realizing somehow that she was no longer very young anymore.

Another time the words “Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs” weighed heavily on my mind. Our family members loved and had a good time with each other, but I felt that we were far from our spiritual potential. The words of the proclamation inspired my wife, Juanita, and me to begin having a family testimony meeting on fast Sunday after church. Unfortunately, our first attempt did little to provide for our children’s spiritual needs. None of them really wanted to be there. Several children complained about how hungry they were, and our youngest asked several times, “When is this going to be over?” Still, we persevered, and after a few months the complaining stopped and we started feeling the Spirit more. This family testimony meeting became a precious time to share sacred truths and to help us “rear [our] children in love and righteousness.”

I served as a bishop during the period of the Korean War. We had received from Church headquarters a letter indicating that bishops should send a personal letter to each serviceman every month, along with a copy of the Church magazine at that time, the Improvement Era, and a subscription to the Church News. That took a little doing. In our large ward we had about eighteen servicemen. We did not have much money. The priesthood quorums, with effort, supplied funds for the subscriptions to the publications, and I took care of the letter writing. From my experience in the navy at the end of a previous war, I knew the importance of receiving word from home.
One day the sister who took the shorthand for those individually dictated letters said to me, “Bishop Monson, don’t you ever get discouraged?”
I said, “No, I don’t. Why?”
“Do you realize,” she explained, “that this is the seventeenth consecutive monthly letter you have sent to Lawrence Bryson, and you have never received a reply?”
I said, “Well, send number seventeen. It might do the job.” And it did. I received a reply from an APO number, San Francisco. Brother Bryson, far away in the Pacific, had written a short letter which began: “Dear Bishop, I ain’t much at writing letters [I could have told him that seventeen months sooner], but today has been a special day. I have been ordained a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood. My group leader has stayed close to me, and I am grateful to him.” Then he said, “By the way, thanks for the Church News. Thanks for the magazine. But a special thanks for your letter which comes each month.”
Years later at a stake conference in the Cottonwood Stake, when Elder James E. Faust was stake president, I mentioned that experience in a stake priesthood meeting. A man came up after the meeting and said, “Do you remember me?”
I looked at him. It had probably been twenty-two years since I’d seen him. I said, “Lawrence Bryson!”
He said, “That’s me. Thanks for the letters. That’s why I’m here today.”
Where is Lawrence Bryson now? He and his wife are currently serving full-time missions. Their lives demonstrate full activity in the Church. They are searching for sheep that are lost. I think they will know where to find them. I know they will save them.
I still have that wonderful letter written to me from Lawrence Bryson and dated “Christmas Day, December 25, 1953.” It was one of the most treasured Christmas gifts ever received by me. Sure, you sometimes wonder after seventeen letters have been sent why no reply has come, but I remembered a line of truth: “The wisdom of God may appear as foolishness to men. But the greatest single lesson we can learn in mortality is that when God speaks and a man obeys, that man will always be right.” The leaders of the Church had spoken. We as bishops needed only to obey. The blessing was sure to follow.

You are a lucky one if nobody has even offered you a cigarette. I was not so lucky.

It began with what I thought was going to be dinner at a small cafe. After we were on our way, my best friend informed me that really we were going to a party at someone’s house. Instead of insisting that I be taken home right away, I went along. That was mistake number one. Mistake number two came when I decided that I looked stupid being the only one not drinking, so I gave in and had a few drinks. That started my trouble with alcohol.

I wish I could let someone else feel the way it feels when you are in that kind of a prison. Your whole sense of reality is numbed to the point that you don’t care what you do anymore. So be scared! It will save a lot of tears and heartache, and maybe your life if you’ll only be scared!

Always know that there is a way back if you stray from the iron rod. But it saves you a lot of pain and time and embarrassment if you never let go.

Just remember that your Heavenly Father loves you so much that he gave his Son for you. Please don’t throw that away.

Name withheld

On the night of September 21, 1989, Hurricane Hugo passed with all its fury over the beautiful city of Charleston, South Carolina. My good friend Alvie Evans lived in a low-lying area near the water, where the maximum strength of the storm was headed. He gathered his family together and moved to higher ground, to the home of his mother.
Late in the night, 150-mile-per-hour winds raged around them, uprooting trees and ripping away parts of the house. The storm became so severe they began to fear they would experience physical harm. Alvie, with his wife and children, his mother, and his brothers and sister and their families, knelt together in the entrance hall of the home and prayed humbly to the Lord, asking for protection and for safety.
The next morning they viewed the devastation. Of the fifty or more large, strong oak trees that had been growing in his mother’s yard, only eight remained standing. There was damage to the house, the cars, the entire city, but the family was safe. The Lord had heard their prayers and had protected them through the storm. Alvie said, “I didn’t know then if we would have a house to return to, but I knew we would always have a home, because our family was intact and secure.”

For example, when we first started having discussions about faith, one of Meghan’s concerns was around our children having priesthood interviews without one of us present.
We started by asking, “What’s working?” and we agreed that we both love our children and care about them. We both want what is best for them. We want them to progress and to grow. And we reestablished the fact that we are on the same team.
Then we focused on “What’s not working?” For instance, Meghan didn’t feel comfortable with some of the questions our teenage children would be asked in bishop interviews without us there.
That brought us to question 3: “What do we want to do or think differently?” Meghan and I sat down and discussed a plan. We agreed that one of us would be present with our children if they had interviews with members of the bishopric. We spoke to our bishop about this, and he was supportive. He reminded us that he had all of our growth and welfare in mind.

I shuddered, remembering that first day I had asked my parents’ permission to be baptized. They knew I had been studying with the Mormons and going to their meetings, but I don’t think they had admitted to themselves how serious I really was. My father is a quiet man, and kind. He thought about it for a long time before he replied. But my mother reacted immediately. Her face went pale and her mouth hard and tight.

“Absolutely not, Michelle,” she said, and her voice sounded cold and deeply angry. “It is absolutely out of the question, so don’t mention it again.”

“But why?” I demanded. “Why?”

“Why?” she screamed back, her eyes blazing. “Because you don’t know what you’re doing. I’m trying to save you from making a terrible mistake, Michelle. I know. You just have to trust me. I know.”

I wondered what awful things she knew or thought she knew about the Mormons. But no matter how persistently I questioned her, she wouldn’t talk. She just kept saying no in that hard, tight way. In the end, though, my father prevailed. He usually did because he was so reasonable and so patient. He kept reminding her that I was 20 years old. In a few months I would be able to decide for myself, without their approval. He reminded her of what a good girl I was: smart and hardworking, obedient and truthful. “She deserves to find her own way in life,” he told my mother gently.

So we made a bargain. I was to meet with the minister of my own church for classes in theology. I was to learn everything I could about the beliefs and doctrines of the church I had belonged to my whole life. In other words, I was to give their way one last, real chance, as much a chance as I had given the Mormons. Then, if I still wanted to leave—to reject their ways, to become a Latter-day Saint—they would give their consent.

Those visits with our minister, I reflected, had led to one of the most solemn, impressive experiences of my life. I remembered vividly how nervous, almost foolish, I had felt as I walked the path to the old stone church and pulled back the heavy door. My footsteps sounded loud and obtrusive as I crossed the hard, polished floor and knocked tentatively on the door of the pastor’s office. The office, itself, was enough to make me feel overwhelmed. It was large and thickly carpeted, and one entire wall was lined with shelves that supported hundreds of thick, old, impressive-looking volumes. Dr. Allred sat in a brown leather chair behind a massive desk, which separated us awkwardly as I perched on the edge of a chair across from him.

“So you think you want to be a Mormon?” he said suddenly, and his face never changed expression. I couldn’t begin to tell what he was thinking. Before I could find an answer, he continued. “It’s your parents’ idea that you come here, isn’t it?”

I nodded, while he gazed at me, until finally a slight smile began to break up the corners of the thin, long line of his mouth. “Well, let’s see what we can do,” he said, leaning forward across the desk.

We met together three different times, and I read the books and pamphlets he gave me. I answered his questions and he answered some of mine, but our discussions were always very polite and restrained. On our last evening together he sat behind his desk and looked across at me, and he left unopened the heavy book we were supposed to talk about together. Instead he lifted his eyebrow in a thoughtful manner and said, “I’ve done what your parents desired, Michelle. But there’s really nothing I can teach you; both you and I know that. What you do now must be your own decision, of course.”

He hesitated, and I found myself leaning forward in my chair, drawn by the expression on his face and something I felt in the tenor of his voice. He pushed his chair back suddenly and rose, walked quickly to the expanse of books and pulled down a small, slender volume. Returning to the desk he set it down firmly, then pushed it over until it rested mere inches from my own hand, which was gripping the smooth edge of the big desk. The lettering on the leather cover was close to me and easy to see. I gave a little gasp as I read the words: Book of Mormon.

“That’s right,” he said, “the Book of Mormon. I get some of the material for my sermons out of that book.” His voice was soft, but it penetrated deep inside me so that my heart began to beat wildly, and I felt a warm, tingling sensation across my skin.

“I would be a Mormon myself if it were possible.” He picked up the volume and balanced it thoughtfully in his hand. “I am a minister; it is my life. It’s all I’ve ever known. My father was a minister, and his father before him.” He paused and looked up, and his eyes held a sadness that was almost an intrusion to look upon. “But if I were you,” he continued in the same soft, firm voice, “I would become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

Dr. Allred rose and replaced the book. I rose from my chair. I knew there was nothing left to be said between us, but I was wrong. At the door he shook my hand warmly, holding me with his eyes. “What I said tonight I have said for you alone. If you repeat it, I will deny that it was ever spoken. And you know, of course, which of us would be believed.”

I nodded, trying to answer with my eyes and my smile, too overwhelmed to be able to do more, and walked home alone through the crisp, silent night.

The next week I was baptized. None of my family attended the baptism. This was something I wanted to do, and I had their permission. But permission and support are not the same thing. Even my kindly father could not offer support for something he could neither agree with nor understand.

President Monson tells the story of a retired executive named Ed who lived the example of a quorum member. On one occasion President Monson was speaking with Ed and asked him, “‘Ed, what are you doing in the Church?’ He replied, ‘I have the best assignment in the ward. My responsibility is to help men who are unemployed find permanent employment. This year I have helped 12 of my brethren who were out of work to obtain good jobs. I have never been happier in my entire life.’” President Monson continues: “Short in stature, ‘Little Ed,’ as we affectionately called him, stood tall that evening as his eyes glistened and his voice quavered. He showed his love by helping those in need. He restored human dignity. He opened doors for those who knew not how to do so themselves.”

The challenges that face us and our families as disciples of Christ are somewhat different than those of Joshua’s Israelites. Let me illustrate with an experience. Our family lived for many years in the state of Florida. Because Florida has a high concentration of sand, lawns there are planted with a large broadleaf grass we call Saint Augustine. A formidable enemy of a Florida lawn is a small, brown insect called a mole cricket.

One evening as my neighbor and I stood on the front steps, he noticed a little bug crossing my sidewalk. “You better spray your lawn,” he warned. “There goes a mole cricket.” I had sprayed the lawn with insecticide not too many weeks previously, and I hardly felt that I had the time or money to do it again so soon.

In the light of the next morning, I examined my lawn closely. It was lush and beautifully green. I looked down into the grass to see if I could see any of the little bugs. I could see none. I remember thinking, “Well, maybe that little mole cricket was just passing through my yard on the way to my neighbor’s yard.”

I watched my lawn for more than a week, looking for signs of invaders, but none was evident. I congratulated myself that I had not overreacted to my neighbor’s warning.

The story, however, has a sad ending. I came out the front door one morning, about 10 days after the conversation with my neighbor. Shockingly, as if it had happened overnight, brown spots covered my lawn. I ran to the garden store, bought the insecticide, and sprayed immediately, but it was too late. The lawn was ruined, and to return it to its former state required a new crop of sod, long hours of work, and large expense.

My neighbor’s warning was central to my lawn’s welfare. He saw things I could not see. He knew something I did not know. He knew that mole crickets live underground and are active only at night, making my daytime examinations ineffective. He knew that mole crickets did not eat the leaves of the grass but rather found nourishment in the roots. He knew that these little inch-long creatures could eat a lot of roots before I would ever see the effect above the ground. I paid a dear price for my smug independence.

Since my baptism after I graduated from high school, my life has never been happier, never more fulfilled. My love for the Church is deep and real.
As I studied the scriptures, prayed, and served in various callings and activities, my testimony grew even stronger. As I learned to use the gift of the Holy Ghost, I was blessed to know how true and how exciting the gospel is. I was sure nothing could ever shake my faith—until an anti-Mormon television show was broadcast on our local Christian station. I saw only part of it, but I felt terrible watching, it and afterward I felt angry and scared. I thought, “How could anyone say things like that about us? We don’t believe those lies!”
The empty, dark feelings I had experienced while watching the show stayed with me. A frightening thought came: what if the Church isn’t true? In spite of the blessings my Church membership had brought into my life, I was tempted to begin doubting it.
A few days later my husband, Paul, felt inspired to ask me if I’d like to go to the temple. This was no easy task, as the nearest temple from where we were living at the time was six hundred miles away. Could we just pack up and go?
Paul was willing for us to fly there instead of taking the time to drive. We had just enough money to afford the trip, with a few dollars left over.
I thought about it and prayed very hard. Yes, I finally decided, I needed this trip.
The peaceful feeling I felt at the temple was wonderful. But I still had questions. Exactly what was I doing there? What was the temple, or for that matter, the Church, really all about?
I went through the first session wondering “Why?” then, on the next session, I was able to relax and concentrate more on what was happening.
When I least expected it, an answer came. I could feel the presence of a warm, loving spirit that seemed to say, “You’re doing the right thing.” This calm reassurance instantly wiped away all of my doubts.
I had been confounded by the adversary’s propaganda, but I am grateful for that struggle. My testimony of this church is stronger now than ever before.

George Albert also learned a great lesson at the knee of Brigham Young. When he was only five years old, his mother dressed him in his black velvet suit and sent him to see Brigham Young. He carried a letter asking for help in buying some railroad tickets to go to Ogden. George Albert’s father was serving a mission in Great Britain, and his mother needed some assistance.
George Albert walked the two blocks to President Young’s office and pushed open the huge timber gate in the wall that then surrounded the headquarters of the Church. He found himself face to face with a large security guard named John Smith, who demanded of the boy, “What do you want?” Frightened, George answered, “I want to see President Young,” to which the man bellowed back, “President Young has no time for the likes of you.” According to President Smith’s own account, he was by now nearly ready to faint, but just then the door of the office opened and President Young walked out and asked: “‘What’s wanted, John?’
“John replied, ‘Here is a little fellow wants to see President Young,’ and then he roared with laughter. He thought it was a good joke. But with all the dignity in the world, President Young said to him, ‘John, show him in.’
“There was nothing else the guard could do then but to let me in and he took me up to the porch where President Young was standing. …
“President Young took me by the hand and led me into his office, sat down at his desk and lifted me up on his knee and put his arm around me. In the kindest way one could imagine, he said, ‘What do you want of President Young?’
“Just think of it! He was President of a great Church and Governor of a Territory, and with all the duties he had to perform, yet I as a little boy was received with as much dignity, and kindness as if I had come as a governor from an adjoining state.”
George Albert never forgot that lesson in courtesy, and he always tried to be sensitive to other people’s feelings, regardless of their station in life.

President Thomas S. Monson told a story about a man from the east who was traveling by bus to San Francisco. In Salt Lake City a Primary girl got on the bus and sat next to the man. As they started talking, he asked her if she was a Mormon. She answered yes. He asked her what Mormons believe. It was a big question for such a young girl. What would you have said? Imagine the look on the man’s face as she recited and explained the Articles of Faith. He couldn’t believe it!

After she got off the bus, the man thought about her courage and knowledge. As soon as he arrived in San Francisco, he looked in the telephone directory for the Church’s phone number, then called the local mission president and asked questions about the Church. The mission president sent missionaries to see him, and later the man’s entire family was baptized—all because a Primary girl knew and understood the Articles of Faith and had the courage to share them. (See Ensign, April 1994, pages 67–68.)

I went to the swimming pool with my mom and little brother. A boy I didn’t know started bugging me and my brother by pulling on us. My mom told him to leave us alone. Later, I was practicing swimming, and the boy came up to me and asked if I could teach him to swim. I taught him what I had learned in my swimming class. He was glad for the help and was nice to me after that. I felt good for helping him.
Seth Root, age 8St. George, Utah