Gospel Story Finder

My girl friend used to be very in tune with and enthusiastic about the gospel. But recently she’s been going out with people who have different standards than the Church teaches, and as a result she’s doing things that aren’t good for her. She isn’t attending Mutual and has started drinking and dating boys with bad reputations. I wrote her a letter, telling her how much I love her and the gospel, and I asked her if there is anything I can do. She wrote back saying she knows that what she is doing is wrong. Yet, she keeps doing it. Her family is really strong in the Church. They are trying to help her, but it’s not working. This problem is tearing her apart, and it’s hurting me as well. What should I do?
“When a young person is confused and not living the correct standards, she is in need of love and understanding from those who are around her, especially her friends and family. ‘A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity’ (Prov. 17:17). You mustn’t leave her alone to face the world in this troubled time of her life. A kind and strong hand can help lead her out of despair and back into the happy and secure life of the Church. The important thing is that she realizes she is doing wrong. Someday she may realize how unhappy her life really is and do something about it. That final decision must be her own. For now you can be a friend and pray for her to have the strength to see through the dark into the light of the gospel.”
Barbara LordsAberdeen, Idaho
“Oh, boy! Does this situation sound familiar. This last year one of my close friends fell into this same situation. It was hurting me and her and everyone else involved, and it seemed that we had tried everything to help her. Then one night as I was praying for her, the idea came to hold a special fast for her. We contacted everyone who knew her and informed them of this special fast. Then after the fast we set a goal to be especially kind and loving to this girl (but not in an over-obvious way). Eventually, with the help of all these people and her family, this girl came back into the Church.
“The only advice I can give is to try what we tried. Pray and fast for her and constantly, by your actions, reassure her that she is loved. Don’t condemn her but follow the advice in 3 Nephi 18:23–24.” [3 Ne. 18:23–24]
Sherry StottBynum, Montana
“In our highly materialistic society, it’s easy to become caught up in the ‘worldly pleasures’ that are allowed to dominate in others’ lives. It is distressing when this happens to someone close to us, especially when he or she acknowledges his wrongdoing.
“As a friend you can help by continuing to show concern. Be an example and an encouragement. Invite her to join in Mutual, and in time, I’m sure she’ll come to realize that nothing can replace the gospel’s true teachings.
“Paul said that we walk by faith, not by sight. Faith is expressed in living so that our actions reflect our belief. Through consistent prayer and example, you can help lead her home, just as the lost sheep was found.
“‘Likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance’ (Luke 15:7).”
Cathy PiperHemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire, England
“Before you can really help her, you must truly love her. The Lord requires a great sacrifice from us when we have a special feeling for others. He requires that we do more than express our love and feelings for the gospel through letters or other one-time attempts. Not to say that these efforts aren’t important, but show her through consistent action what your true feelings are for her. Treat her as though she were active, and soon she will assume the confidence she needs. Change comes by example and practice. Show her by your example what the gospel can do to change lives. Only then will she really desire to change. Remember who you are first, be accepting of her, and then the Spirit of the Holy Ghost will help her to change her life.”
Debbie MitchellEl Dorado Springs, Missouri
“Your problem is not as uncommon as you might think. Coming from a community where Mormons are a minority, I have faced the same problem.
“Sometimes the reason a person becomes associated with people of different standards is because no one with the same standards will take time to be her friend. We can get so wrapped up in our own problems that we don’t realize that our friends need help.
“All you can do is be her friend. A letter is a great idea, but perhaps just a little impersonal. Wouldn’t a phone call, or better yet a personal visit to your friend, be better? Let her know that you’re concerned about what’s happening to her. Call her and offer her a ride to Mutual. Take action against the problem. Don’t expect her to do it all by herself.”
Dana ReidRedwood City, California
“Somewhat the same circumstance happened to a very dear friend of mine. The solution I have found is simply to love her, to accept her, and to be there with a kind, listening ear. That is what builds a divine friendship. To love one another is God’s simple plan, and it really works. One thing you must always remember is that everyone has his own agency to choose how he wishes to live.
“I guess all you can do is wait, and pray, and realize for your own life how great the Church really is. My dear friend is now very active in the Church and will soon hold callings in it. One last word would be, ‘People take time.’”
Jane Alice KinserNorwalk, California
“The worry of rebellious children is no new concern; even the son of the prophet Alma in Book of Mormon times was led astray and was held for a time in Satan’s grasp. Much faith and many prayers pleading for his return to the faith were offered by both parents and friends.
“Of course, all wandering youth don’t have such a miraculous turnabout, but consider for a moment the teaching of Solomon, son of King David, found in Proverbs 22:6 [Prov. 22:6]: ‘Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.’ You must steadfastly continue your prayers, friendship, and good influence on this friend, and surely some day, after the rebellious streak has taken its course, your friend will find sorrow in her actions and return to the principles that she knows to be correct.”
Carol ShurtzBountiful, Utah
“While we are responsible to set a good example and strive always to encourage and uplift our fellowmen, all children of our Father in Heaven have been given agency to choose for themselves between right and wrong. Even though our desires for a person may be for their benefit, we cannot make their decisions for them.
“I experienced a similar situation several years ago. I befriended a person to try and help him, and I associated regularly with him. Although I feel I helped him, I ended up having a lot of problems, which I brought upon myself. It was a hard and painful road back.
“The best thing to do is set a good example and love and encourage her, but do not allow yourself to be adversely affected by her choices. Do what you know is right, and even though it may not help right now, sometime in the future, this girl will look back and say, ‘He was so happy and at peace. What am I doing wrong?’”
Elder Don PattersonKorea Seoul Mission
“When a person is interested in reconforming her life to meet the gospel standards, she is often frightened and reluctant for fear of rejection by active Church members. Satan is also very active in telling her she is already past hope, so why try to repent. This can be convincing to a heart that feels both confused and guilty.
“The best you can do is to let your friend know that you and others love her and that Heavenly Father loves her, too. I suggest that you call her and offer to take her to Mutual yourself, then treat her as if she were still active.
“Talk to her leaders in Mutual—her class president, adviser, and Young Women president—and ask for their help and prayers. If she turns down your offer, respect her free agency, but don’t give up. Just keep offering her a ride. And keep remembering her in your prayers.”
Mary Ann StoutRome, New York
“To help your girl friend, you must exercise your faith and prayers. You can ask her family to do the same. You must ask our Father in Heaven to help you to know what to say to your friend and how to say it so it will affect her. Don’t overwhelm her with lectures, or she will drop you and cut off communication. Pray for help and guidance and remember to let your light so shine that men may see your good works (see Matt. 5:16).
“You must set an example for her to follow. If you are strong and she is sincere about returning to the Church, she will follow what you do. You must pull her forward; don’t push from behind. She is watching you, so set the right kind of example.”
Kathy BellistonProvo, Utah

New Era: Was there ever a time in your life when you were discouraged and felt that baseball wasn’t for you?
Brother Killibrew: Yes, I’ve had setbacks. I think everyone at some point in life experiences disappointments, no matter what field he is in. I’m no exception. In the early years of my career, I was moved around quite a bit, and I got really discouraged.
I was really down. I told my wife that I was convinced I could play major league baseball, but that I had to prove it to everyone else. I had two choices: give up and quit right there or try to prove to them that I could play major league ball. This was the low point in my career. The next year I had a good year in Chattanooga. Then I played for Washington, and I have stayed in the major leagues since then.
I learned a lot through all of this. There is a statement that every baseball player hears a lot: “Just try to meet the ball.” Well, for me that is not the way to do it. I feel that you’ve got to really attack the ball and swing with some authority—and that is what I try to do. When I’m up, I try to hit the ball hard and let it go where it will. And I think life is a little like that. There is no use taking a half-hearted swing at anything.

“My husband’s family was very poor. His mother made rugs to sell at a store in a sparsely settled area, and his father tended sheep, cut firewood, and hauled water for the family,” explained the lovely young wife of this General Authority, while rocking a baby on her lap.
“There were ten in his family and they lived 24 kilometers from the nearest town in a remote desert area. There were no cars or running water. And the drinking water was often so bad that the people there would drink fruit juices and soda pop instead.
“When my husband was four years old, he became very ill and went into a coma. Everyone thought he had died. In fact, his body had been placed in a casket for burial. In a little while they heard a faint knocking on the inside of the casket. The child was alive! The casket was quickly reopened and the boy sat up. ‘I want a soda pop,’ he said.
Thereafter, he was known as the ‘soda pop child’. His parents have often said that after this experience he was a changed child. He was more responsible and would help tend the others in the family. He was concerned about others and seemed to be blessed with a special spirit.
“The main food for his family was fry bread made from biscuit dough, mutton stew, and often soda pop. Today, his favorite foods are anything hot and spicy that he can put pepper on.
“He herded sheep until the age of nine; then he was placed in boarding school. Since the people there could not pronounce his real name, they gave him an English one. The only problem was that they also gave three other children the same name. So there was a number one, two, three, and four with the same name.
“A Latter-day Saint missionary couple at the store baptized my husband when he was ten years old, and he attended Church services from that time on. He was selected to participate in the Church’s education program and was to be sent to Utah to live with a foster family and go to school. An hour before the bus was to leave, a friend, Brother Bloomfield, put a bowl on his head and gave him a quick haircut. All of his belongings were put into a shoe box—he had no shoes. There were more holes in the denim pants he was wearing than there was denim material. He was put on a bus at night, given two dollars by Brother Bloomfield, and told that he would arrive there by morning.”
At this point, I was thinking how difficult it must have been for that little boy to leave his family to go all alone on a bus to a place with a different culture where he knew no one. The only tie that he had with them was that he was a member of the Latter-day Saint Church.”
The General Authority’s wife continued: “On the first day at his new school in Utah the children all gathered around my husband. They had never seen an Indian before. ‘Where’s your war paint?’ they asked. ‘Where are your moccasins?’
“The new foster parents were concerned because their Indian son was so shy. In fact, the only words he spoke to them during the first three months were yes and no. At Christmastime they gave him some new clothes—two pairs of pants, four shirts, two pairs of socks, etc. The mother asked him to go upstairs and try them on. After quite a while he came downstairs with all of the shirts, pants, and socks on at the same time. It was difficult to get used to a new language and customs.
“Even though my husband is now very busy, he enjoys football and basketball. When he has spare time, which isn’t often, he loves to play the harmonica. Last Christmas he played for the General Authorities at their Christmas party.
“My husband believes that family home evening is a great time to train children to be leaders. He always has one of our children conduct. One of them will assign the prayers and choose the hymns. At the conclusion, the one conducting thanks all those who participated. Usually the person who gave the lesson is sincerely complimented. Then the closing song is announced and the name of the one to give the closing prayer.
“One morning the children’s father had to leave at 5 A.M. for an early meeting at the Church offices. Later he called when the children were just getting up and we all had family prayer with him on the telephone.”
His small children had these comments: “When Daddy comes home, he tells me that if I eat my dinner he’ll give me a ride on his back. Sometimes he’ll give my friend a ride too!”
“Dad is helping me to save money for my mission.”
“My daddy shows us how to clean. He always tells us to clean the counter after we wash the dishes.”
“He’s kind.”
“When he plays football with us, we all have to speak nicely.”
When asked about her husband’s favorite topic to speak on, she said, “He always says that we’re all God’s children, no matter what color we are, and that our church has no room for prejudice. When he speaks, he represents the whole Church, not just the Lamanite people.”

In their ward in Winnipeg, the Primary is small. Michael and Kaylene are the only members of the Church in their school. “Michael is really missionary-minded,” says his mom, Judy. When the missionaries in his ward had an open house at the church, Michael wrote his testimony in a few copies of the Book of Mormon and did his best to give them to his friends at school. None of his friends were interested, but Michael says that he’s not going to give up.

“Hurry faster!” Mary Jane’s friends cried as they ran down the street.
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” Mary Jane yelled back, bending to put one more rock into the bulging pockets of her light blue apron.
For a nine-year-old girl in Wales in 1846, Latter-day Saint missionaries coming to town meant excitement. She and her friends had heard many terrible stories about the “Mormons.” Surely such people deserved to be pelted with stones.
As the three girls rounded a corner, they heard music. A small crowd was singing a familiar hymn. Mary Jane was a good singer, so she joined in after she caught her breath. She didn’t know all the words, but she enjoyed humming the melodies.
As the singing ended, Mary Jane followed the elders’ example and knelt to pray. One by one, the rocks fell from the pockets of her apron. When the prayer ended, Mary Jane’s friend picked up the rocks. “Let’s get them!” she said.
“No,” Mary Jane said quietly. “I want to listen to what they’re saying.”
She turned her eyes toward the missionaries and listened carefully. One of the elders said that a prophet named Joseph Smith had seen Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, in a grove of trees. Another explained why we are born on this earth. As Mary Jane listened, her friends slipped through the crowd and ran off to play. When the elders finished preaching, Mary Jane walked slowly home, thinking about all she had heard.
As the days passed, Mary Jane kept listening to the elders. She loved what she was learning about Heavenly Father. Her mother did not. She was so opposed to what the missionaries taught that she sometimes hid Mary Jane’s clothes or denied her food so she would stop going to church.
But Mary Jane loved the gospel more than ever. She had learned to pray, and her prayers for a testimony were answered. She wanted to be baptized. Finally on a cold December night, she was baptized in a frozen river. The elders had to use an ax to cut a hole in the ice. Even though Mary Jane’s body was very cold that night, her heart was warm. She knew that she had made the right decision.
But she was sad because her mother could not understand the true gospel. Every day, Mary Jane knelt to pray. “Heavenly Father, I am so glad to be a member of the Church, but I want my mother to be baptized, too,” she said. “Please help her to understand the message. Please let something happen to help her accept the gospel.” For three years Mary Jane prayed for her mother. She never gave up hope.
When Mary Jane was 13 years old, her mother became seriously ill with a disease that settled in her foot. It was very painful.
One day Mary Jane said to her mother, “Why don’t I ask the elders to come and give you a priesthood blessing?” Because her foot was hurting so much, Mary Jane’s mother finally agreed. The elders gave Mary Jane’s mother a blessing, and to her amazement, her foot immediately stopped hurting. Mary Jane knew her prayers had been answered.
Soon afterward her mother started going to Church meetings. It wasn’t long before she also joined the Church. Mary Jane was happier than she had ever been.
When Mary Jane was 17 years old, she and her mother sailed to America on the ship Jersey and then traveled on to Utah. For the rest of her life, Mary Jane followed the Savior as she had been taught on a street corner in Wales. She was always grateful that she had listened to the elders that day. She was especially glad that when she was nine years old she had decided not to throw the rocks that had fallen from the pockets of her light blue apron.

The power of a plain, unadorned testimony is always impressive to me. I recall a twelve-year-old boy standing in front of a large congregation to share his testimony. As he stood trembling in fear and emotion, his voice failed him. He stood speechless; our hearts went out to him. The creeping seconds dragged on, making the silence of the moment intense. Prayerfully we hoped that he might gain composure and the ability to express his testimony. After great uneasiness and anxiety peculiar to a young person in such a circumstance, he raised his bowed head and softly said, “Brothers and sisters, my testimony is too small.” He cleared his voice and sat down. His message had been given. I thought then, as I think now, what a timely observation. Whose testimony isn’t too small? Whose testimony doesn’t need to be added upon? After this one-sentence sermon, I acknowledged before the congregation that my testimony was too small also and I was going to give it a chance to grow by more frequent sharing. I had been taught by a plain, simple statement.

Early in our marriage my wife and I attended school in the northeastern United States, where winters are harsh and road salt is plentiful. After several winters, the body of our old car began to corrode, culminating with a passenger stepping through the floor of the car. With optimism I purchased some sheets of aluminum and pop rivets, and we called my parents to see if we could visit that weekend and work on the car.
We arrived late Friday night, and my father and I got up early on Saturday to work on the car floor. We pulled back the rubber mats and started looking for sound metal to which we could fasten the metal sheets. Our search revealed nothing but corroded metal. We looked at each other silently, replaced the mats, and went to breakfast.
After we made the slow and careful five-hour drive back to our apartment, the phone was ringing when we walked in. Mom had decided that she “needed” a new car and wondered if we would like her old one. My dad cautioned that the car was three years old and had many miles on it. My mom then joked that it couldn’t be too bad—it had been driven by a full-tithe payer. We laughed, and after we hung up the phone, we danced around the apartment in honor of this bit of manna from heaven.

One sunny day when I was seven years old, I was playing outside my grandmother’s home while my family visited on the front porch. As I walked along a shrubbery-lined path by the side of the house, I suddenly felt a sharp, terrible pain in my ankle. My family heard my screams and rushed to my side. To their shock they saw that I had been bitten by a snake.
I had to get to a doctor, but we were out in the country and didn’t have a car. My uncle ran several miles to a neighbor’s home to borrow a cattle truck, and once we were in the truck, we even had to stop to get gasoline. My leg started swelling, and we didn’t know what kind of snake had bitten me.
We finally reached the hospital—a little one-story frame building—and after some tests, the doctor determined that I had been bitten by a rattlesnake. Judging from the fang marks, it had been a huge snake—about five feet long! As the poison from the bite rose in my blood, it turned my skin black, until it was black only two or three inches below my heart.
I was in the hospital for many days, and it was a painful and difficult time. I can remember having nightmares and screaming. One time, a young medical student who lived in a house across the street heard my screams as he was taking a shower. He dashed over to the hospital to help me with just a towel wrapped around him. Another time, the owner of a small restaurant about two blocks away became alarmed when he heard me, and he called the hospital, wanting to know what was going on.
I’m told I almost didn’t survive, but while in the hospital I was given a blessing. Because I was unconscious at the time, I didn’t hear the words, but my family later told me that I had been blessed that my life would be preserved for a special purpose. My relatives later told and retold this experience at family gatherings. This has given my life special meaning, and it has strengthened my testimony of the importance and power of the priesthood.

I had joined with a few other brothers in my ward to help a sister move. But as we arrived at her apartment, a van that had been parked improperly prevented us from accessing her place with our van.
I called the phone number on the side of the van to ask that someone come and move the van. A man answered and promised he would come soon.
After 15 minutes, I called again, but he didn’t answer. Finally, after one more call, he appeared with two children. He was angry and said something that got under my skin. I tried to forget about it as we proceeded with the move.
That evening I thought about the experience. I prayed that Heavenly Father would help me forget my feelings and forgive the man. He answered my prayer.
A little while later, however, I was reading a local newspaper and noticed an article about this man. It included his picture. My negative feelings toward him returned. So, I again went through the same process. I asked the Lord that this insignificant matter not bother me any longer and that He help me forgive the man. A good feeling came.
It wasn’t long before I happened to meet this same man in a store. My bad feelings returned yet again. I was amazed. I asked the Lord why I wasn’t able to get over this experience. A few days later, He taught me a lesson.
I was pulling away from the grounds of the Helsinki Finland Temple when I noticed this same man working in the temple gardens. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My mind opened and I understood that he, like me, was serving the Lord and that he, like me, has frustrating days when things don’t work out. I was then able to see this man as my brother. With new eyes, I felt respect and love toward him. After that, all the earlier feelings left, never to return.
When we see others as the Lord sees us, we can follow His commandment to forgive completely (see Matthew 6:14–15; Doctrine and Covenants 64:9–10). This experience was a memorable, tender mercy of the Lord, which I still ponder in my heart.

Leah looked around the third-grade classroom. The desks were lined up in neat rows, and bright posters hung on the walls. Most of the other kids were talking with their friends.
Leah sat down at her desk. She didn’t really know anyone in this class. She hoped she’d be able to make a new friend at school this year.
“Hey.”
Leah looked up. A girl had sat down next to her.
“My name is Anna,” she said. “Want to be friends?”
Leah smiled. “Sure!”
Later Leah and Anna ate lunch together. During their break, they played four square and jumped rope. At the end of the day, Anna waved goodbye to Leah through the window of the bus. “See you tomorrow!” she said.
From then on, Leah and Anna were good friends. They played together every day. In the winter, they made long paths in the snow. When the snow had frozen over, they slid down the paths. One time they were partners for a science project about space. Leah had fun making a poster of the planets with Anna.
But one day Anna started acting kind of strange. She didn’t wave back to Leah in the morning. She joined a new group for math practice. And at lunch, she barely talked at all.
“Hey,” Leah asked, “what’s going on?”
Anna sighed. “Look, I don’t think we should hang out as much. My friend Audrey said you were weird.”
“Oh.” Leah frowned. She and Anna had fun together. Why would Anna care so much about what other kids thought?
Anna said they could still be friends, but after that, she never talked to Leah. Leah tried not to feel hurt, but it was hard to be by herself while Anna played with other kids.
Soon the school year ended, and their summer break began. Leah stayed busy with lots of fun activities. She went to ballet class and cooking class. She also took a sewing class with her best friend, Ellie.
Ellie and Leah had known each other since they were little. They went to the same school, but they’d never been in the same class. Sometimes Ellie came over to play at Leah’s house. Leah found a pair of fake glasses to wear that looked like Ellie’s. That made Ellie laugh.
“I can’t believe summer is almost over,” Ellie said. “I wish we got to see each other more.”
Leah smiled. “Me too.”
Another school year was coming up fast. Leah was excited for fourth grade, but she was a little nervous too. She was fine with being by herself most of the time. But a year was a long time to not have a friend in her class. She remembered how she felt when Anna stopped being her friend. She didn’t want to feel lonely.
Leah kept praying to Heavenly Father for peace. When summer ended, she felt hopeful. She knew things would turn out OK.
On the first day of school, Leah walked into her new classroom.
“Leah!”
She couldn’t believe it. Ellie was in her class!
Ellie ran to Leah and gave her a hug. “I’m so happy you’re here! This will be the best year ever!”
Leah smiled big. She knew Heavenly Father had been with her, even when it was hard. And Ellie was right—this year would be the best one yet!
This story took place in the USA.

One Christmas, my young son needed two dollars to make me a present. On Christmas morning, he was so excited about it that, in spite of the many brightly wrapped packages with his name on them, he insisted I open his present first. It was a pencil holder for my office—made from a jar covered with brightly colored macaroni shells. The two dollars bought pencils and erasers. I was pleased with his innocence and love. He then eagerly turned to his own presents.

“I was baptized at five o’clock in the morning in a river. The water was very cold, but I felt warm. It was a good feeling.”
Recalling his conversion to the gospel of Jesus Christ some twenty-two years ago, Kriangkrai Pitakpong, president of the Khon Kaen District echoes experiences similar to those enjoyed by the almost 4,000 converts to the Church in the beautiful country of Thailand.
Because proselyting is not permitted in Thailand, most investigators come from member referrals. Other investigators, like Kriangkrai Pitakpong, become curious when they see the missionaries. “I used to see the missionaries riding their bicycles, and I wondered who they were and what they did. When I finally made contact with them, I accepted their invitation to attend the English language classes they were conducting. Then I began studying the gospel and reading the Book of Mormon. I was baptized in October 1970, when I was nineteen years old.”

Thunk, thunk, thunk! My two older brothers and I were “washboarding” our baseball bats along the rails on our banister. There were twenty-three steps heading down in a gentle, sloping curve. Between the noise of the bats and our own squeals, we didn’t hear Mom come in.
“What are you three doing? I left you working. You promised that if we moved here, you’d help with the fixing-up. Now get busy.”
We trudged back to our chores.
I felt like Cinderella. Work, work, work! And I couldn’t even escape to a friend’s house, since I hadn’t met anyone here yet.
I sprayed my bedroom walls with water and scraped the ancient layers of wallpaper till strips of brown paper lay in soggy piles at my feet.
When we first moved here, it was fun. We all enjoyed destruction. We helped knock down rickety sheds in the yard and plaster from the walls. By now, however, everything was drudgery.
Our house had been built by our great-great-grandfather, and when the opportunity came for my father to buy it, he leaped at the chance. Mom was more reluctant. I understood why better now.
I brushed a sweaty strand of hair from my eyes. At least the scraping was nearly done. Next we’d patch cracks and put up the wallpaper that waited in my bottom drawer.
As I was scraping near the mantel, I noticed marks on the plaster. I uncovered more and saw that someone had painted flowers twining all around the fireplace—and down near the baseboard something was scribbled: Lizzie Johnson, August 10, 1905!
“Well, for goodness’ sake,” Dad said when I showed him. “Her last name shows that she’s a relation. Let’s look her up in the old family Bible.”
Dad lifted the heavy book from its shelf and gently turned the brittle pages. He found where the names of my great-great-grandfather’s family were listed. They were all boys except one. “Elizabeth Johnson” was written in faded, curlicue letters.
“That must be her,” Dad said. “Lizzie is short for Elizabeth, so she’s your great-great-aunt. I bet your bedroom was hers when she was a girl.”
Suddenly Dad clapped a hand to his forehead. “I knew that name sounded familiar! I think I have her journal with our family papers. She’s one of the people your mother and I have done the temple work for. Would you like to read her journal?”
I was jumping up and down with excitement. “Yes! Please, please, please!”
That night I eagerly read what Lizzie had written. The June 6, 1905, entry made me gasp:
I was angry with Freddy when he took my journal and drew pictures in it.
So Lizzie was tormented by her brothers too!
I’m not mad anymore. We were rattling sticks along the stair railing, and he broke a spindle in it. Dad says he has to do extra chores all week. Poor Freddy!
I dashed to the stairway and searched the banister till I came to a spindle with a thin crack where it had been glued. What a strange feeling it gave me—it was like secrets being whispered through time!
Over the next three days I read Lizzie’s journal. She was so much like me! I felt as if I knew all about her and, strangely enough, as if she knew all about me.
What happened last week made me feel even closer to Lizzie. It was a steamy, sweltering day, and Jacob and I were digging in the cool earth beneath our back porch.
We found pieces of broken china buried there. We pretended we were archaeologists and sorted them into bags.
Then I dug up something small and round, caked with red clay.
“What is it?” Jacob asked.
“I think it’s a doorknob. I’m going to wash it off.”
As I carefully scrubbed away the mud, a rosebud mouth, dark eyes, and round pink cheeks emerged. It was the tiny head of a doll, made of thick china! Even her black hair was china. Except for a few nicks, it was in amazingly good condition.
“Cool!” Jacob cried. “Let’s see if we can find the rest.”
It felt sort of gruesome, digging for body parts.
We found her feet and hands, minus the tip of one foot and a thumb. Mama said her body had probably been made of cloth and had rotted away. She helped me sew a new body from muslin, and a gown of pink taffeta.
How did the doll end up beneath our porch? Did someone leave it there and forget about it till it was buried by time? I guess we’ll never know.
I like to think it belonged to Lizzie. I hope she knows that I have it now and is glad.
When school starts, I’ll make other friends, but Lizzie is my best friend right now. I think we knew and loved each other before I was born.
My family have only been members of the Church for a few years. We have a lot of work to do, finding and turning in our ancestors’ names and dates so that we can do the temple work for them. I’m glad that Lizzie’s work is done so that we can be together some day. Thanks to her, I know that all those names belong to real people, people who were once kids who played with dolls and rattled sticks along the railing—like my friend Lizzie.

The Sunday School class of 14- and 15-year-olds in the McMinnville Second Ward, McMinnville Oregon Stake, did far more than just sit and listen to their lessons each Sunday. They got involved in a class educational service project. Since they were studying about the prophets of the Church, they decided to build a small model of a house that represented their idea of how one of Joseph Smith’s homes might have looked. When it was finished, they asked their bishop to give the house to a needy child for Christmas.

When he was a boy, it was often Spencer’s duty to ride atop the hay wagon, tramping down the hay as his older brothers pitched the hay up. It was hot, dusty, scratchy work, but he did it—except when the church bell rang to signal the beginning of Primary, which at that time was held during the week. He had a perfect attendance record and was not going to miss. His brothers had other ideas and began pitching the hay onto the wagon even faster. When they noticed the hay was piling up, Spencer was halfway to Primary. Spencer W. Kimball went on to serve as a missionary, a bishop, and a stake president before his call to the apostleship in 1943. His work ethic was legendary, despite a number of serious illnesses that included a heart attack and throat cancer. He urged Church members to lengthen their stride, and his personal motto was simply “Do it.” Because of his health, some thought Spencer W. Kimball’s administration as President of the Church might be brief. But he presided over the Church for 12 years, during which time the number of operating temples doubled, the number of missionaries increased 50 percent, and the priesthood was extended to all worthy male members.

Frances couldn’t sleep. She felt like jumping up and down with excitement, but she forced herself to lie still so she wouldn’t wake her three younger brothers on the floor beside her.
She pinched herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. “Tomorrow I’m really going with Father to Salt Lake City for the temple dedication. This will be my happiest birthday ever!” she thought.
It seemed only minutes had passed when Father nudged her and whispered, “Wake up, Frances. It’s nearly sunup.”
She quickly slid into her dress and smoothed her hair. Clutching the small bundle containing her other dress, she hurried to the wagon.
Frances had never been away from home. She wanted to see everything. But by mid-morning, she realized that red soil, gray sagebrush, and dark cedar trees were the only sights for miles around. “I wish we could go faster,” she said. “I can’t wait to see the temple. Perhaps we’ll even see the prophet!”
“Singing will make the journey go faster,” Father suggested. He began singing his favorite hymn, “The Spirit of God.”* After he finished singing, Father said, “That song was sung at the Kirtland Temple dedication. I expect it will be sung in many more temples of the Lord.”
Frances and her father began to sing in harmony. The hymns “Now Let Us Rejoice” and “Redeemer of Israel”** echoed through the nearby hills. Frances smiled. “I’ve never been so happy,” she thought.
After Father stopped the team for the night and the two of them had eaten, Father said, “It’s time for scripture study. Will you read from Isaiah, Frances?”
She opened Father’s well-worn Bible to the page they had read the night before and began reading.
After scripture study, Frances lay on the corn-husk tick (mattress) in the wagon and quickly fell asleep.
April 6, 1893, dawned cold and windy. Frances awoke early. She could hardly contain her excitement! “Today we will finally see the temple!” she thought. “I couldn’t receive a better birthday present.”
The scenery changed as they traveled north. The mountains were higher and more rugged. The air was cooler with cloudy skies, threatening to rain.
When they arrived in Salt Lake City, many wagons and buggies bumped along the busy, dusty road toward the temple. “It looks like everyone in the Church is going to the dedication with us,” Frances exclaimed.
Rounding a curve, she gasped. In the distance a huge granite building with six majestic spires rose in splendor. Standing high on one spire was a golden statue of the angel Moroni.
Father stopped the wagon. Tears filled Frances’s eyes as she hugged Father’s arm. “The temple is even more beautiful than I had imagined,” she whispered.
Father’s eyes were moist, too. “It’s taken forty years of sacrifice and hard labor to build this temple, but it is a small price to pay to finally receive the blessings the Lord has in store for us in His house.”
To Frances’s surprise, Father drew a tiny box from his pocket and placed it in her hand. “I want you to always remember this day,” he said. Opening the box, he removed a gold locket and fastened its delicate chain around her neck.
Tears of joy flowed down her cheeks. “Father, I love you so! I’ll always treasure this locket. It will help me remember the things you’ve taught me.”
“Always remember the importance of the Lord’s house,” Father said. “The desire of my heart is for all of my children to be sealed in the temple. I’m depending on you to set the example and teach your brothers and baby sister.”
“I will, Father,” Frances promised.
Father jerked the reins, and the horses moved forward. Outside the temple a large crowd was assembling. Father parked the wagon a short distance from the temple, secured the horses, then helped Frances climb out of the wagon.
As Frances studied each detail of the great temple, she remembered the words she had read in Isaiah the night before:
“Even them will I bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer: their … sacrifices shall be accepted upon mine altar; for mine house shall be called an house of prayer for all people” (Isa. 56:7).
She looked at the golden angel, high against the ash-gray sky. Walking reverently beside her father, she whispered, “I’ve never felt this close to the Lord. I know that this is His house.” She reached for her father’s hand. A feeling of joy and peace filled her heart as they walked toward the temple doors.

For example, a few months ago, a loved one was struggling with her faith. One night she tearfully explained her feelings to me. I wanted her to believe in the gospel so badly and to fix every doubt she had.
In my preferred reality, I would answer every question perfectly, and we would both leave the conversation with a sense of renewed faith and joy, complete with sunshine and rainbows!
But I knew that wasn’t likely.
So I said a prayer in my heart to know how to help her. And I felt a distinct impression from the Spirit:
Just listen.
Through listening, I let go of my instinct to fix and instead saw that she simply needed to know that she is loved. I testified of the love I and Heavenly Father have for her. And although that conversation didn’t end with her renewed faith, it did end with a renewed sense of Heavenly Father’s perfect love—which is often the greatest help we can offer those who are struggling.

I remember the smile of Sister Ruby Haight. She was the wife of Elder David B. Haight, who was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. As a young man he served as the president of the Palo Alto stake in California. He prayed over, and worried about, the girls in the Mia Maid class in his own ward.

So President Haight was inspired to ask the bishop to call Ruby Haight to teach those young girls. He knew she would be a witness of God who would lift, comfort, and love the girls in that class.

Sister Haight was at least 30 years older than the girls she taught. Yet 40 years after she taught them, each time she would meet my wife, who had been one of the girls in her class, she would put out her hand, smile, and say to Kathy, “Oh! My Mia Maid.” I saw more than her smile. I felt her deep love for a sister she still cared for as if she were her own daughter. Her smile and warm greeting came from seeing that a sister and daughter of God was still on the covenant path home.

When I was a young man, my home was on Long Island about 30 miles from New York City. We had woods around us, and we enjoyed nature. My father had a large yard with hedges, rock gardens, fish pool, vegetable garden, lawns, and trees. They all required regular care. There were always chores, like cutting the lawn in the summer and raking leaves in the autumn. I thought we worked pretty hard taking care of our yard, but it was nothing like my father’s boyhood on the sugar beet farm in Burton, Idaho.
One day my father said to me, “You’re never going to learn how to work until you go out and work on the ranch with your Uncle Frank.” So I spent that summer in Skull Valley near Tooele, Utah, learning how to work.
The change from the lush greenery of my home in Long Island to Skull Valley’s dusty, stark desert environment was hard for me to believe. It gave me an appreciation of the first impressions that pioneers coming from Europe and the eastern part of the United States must have had when they were told, “This is the place.”
I had grown up near a large city. Ranch life was an education for me. I was impressed to see the cattle and the horses and the hard work necessary to bring about the harvest. I can remember the feelings when I first realized that an enormous amount of preparation was necessary before the crops were brought in. We had to plow, disk, harrow, plant, cultivate, weed, irrigate and then continue to cultivate, weed, and irrigate, endlessly it seemed. That summer was a great lesson to me. It is a cherished part of my heritage, because it was here in this almost desolate, remote corner of the world that I learned the law of the harvest.

Not long ago, as I sat waiting for the opening exercises of priesthood meeting, my home teaching companion mentioned that my scriptures were in the ward lost and found.
When I looked to my side, however, I saw that I still had my new set of scriptures, which my wife had given me. As for my old set, they were sitting in a basket next to a chair in our front room. I was puzzled.
“What’s your middle initial?” my companion asked.
“R,” I said.
“That’s what the name said,” he replied. “I’ll go get them for you.”
He returned a moment later and handed me a Bible with my name in faded gold letters on the front. I recognized it immediately. I struggled to unzip the old black cover. The book fell open to the first page, which bore a note in my father’s handwriting. I was holding the Bible that my parents had given me for my 12th birthday.
I was now living in Arizona, and the last time I had seen this Bible, I was living in Utah, preparing for a mission. I took my seminary set of scriptures with me to the mission field and left this Bible home. I found the odds staggering that my old Bible could have somehow made its way, over the course of 30 years, from my parents’ home in Utah to my ward building in Arizona.
My father, a student of the scriptures, instilled in me at an early age a desire to read and study the word of God. A portion of the note he wrote in my Bible gave me counsel as a preface to my receiving the Aaronic Priesthood:
“David, on this, your 12th birthday, you will receive the priesthood of Aaron as a deacon and become a servant of the Lord, even as your namesake, David the king. As he behaved himself wisely, the Lord blessed him.
“So shall it be with you. If you will behave yourself wisely and follow the Lord, He will bless you and call you to serve Him.
“Be strong and faithful, Son. Study this book diligently, and it will give you strength.”
My father’s words are as meaningful to me now as they were 30 years ago, perhaps even more so. How grateful I am to have again received the gift of my first Bible with the timeless counsel of my father.