Gospel Story Finder

Teddy pounded up the stairs and right past Cecil. “What’s up?” yelled Cecil as his big brother ran by. Teddy didn’t answer, so Cecil followed him into the bedroom, where Teddy was already shaking his robot bank as hard as he could. A nickel fell out, and the rattling stopped.
“Rats,” said Teddy.
“Rats, what?” asked Cecil.
“A nickel’s no good.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Cecil. “I wouldn’t mind having a nickel. I’d give it to Freddy Jackson so he’d let me play with his toad. Did you know that toads don’t really give you warts?”
“I’m not interested in warts,” said Teddy. “Or toads. I’m interested in Mother’s Day.”
“Mother’s Day? I’d rather talk about toads. Did you know—”
“Listen a minute, will you?” interrupted Teddy. “Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. We need to get a present for Mom, and all I have is a crummy nickel!” Teddy looked at his brother. “Cecil, old pal,” he said, “you’ll help me out, won’t you? After all, who’s your best friend if it isn’t your own brother?”
“Freddy Jackson,” Cecil answered promptly. “He lets me play with his toad.”
“Listen, Cecil, this isn’t for me; it’s for Mom. Maybe I’m not your best friend, but she’s a good mom, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” agreed Cecil. “She is. So what do you want?”
“Money for a present, of course,” said Teddy. “How much do you have?”
“None,” Cecil answered.
“None? What about that dollar you earned last week?”
“Gone.”
“Already? What did you do with it?”
“Ten cents for tithing and fifty cents for ice cream that I just happened to share with my big brother.” Cecil looked hard at Teddy.
“Oh, yeah,” said Teddy, scuffing his toe on the carpet. “I forgot about that. But that still leaves forty cents.”
Cecil shook his head. “Twenty-five cents for a glider. The one you accidently stepped on.”
“Oh,” said Teddy, scuffing his toe harder. “Sorry about that. But what about the last fifteen cents?”
“Three turns with Freddy Jackson’s toad,” answered Cecil. “Have you ever seen a toad catch flies? He sticks out his tongue and—”
“So all we have is a lousy nickel,” interrupted Teddy. “What can we get Mom with a nickel?”
“Well …” Cecil said. Suddenly his face brightened. “Hey! Maybe she’d like to play with Freddy Jackson’s toad.”
“You have to be joking,” said Teddy. “Now think!” He paced around the room with his face all scrunched up, thinking.
After a minute Cecil said, “Maybe we could earn some money.”
“But it’s already Saturday afternoon,” Teddy pointed out. “By the time we earn any money, the stores will all be closed. And Mother’s Day is tomorrow.”
“Maybe we could cut some flowers from the garden,” suggested Cecil.
“Oh, great,” said Teddy. “I’m sure Mom would just love a present she grew herself. You’re full of wonderful ideas, aren’t you?”
“At least I’m trying,” said Cecil. “I don’t hear much coming from you.”
Now both boys were pacing the floor.
“Hey!” Teddy yelped a couple minutes later, stopping so suddenly that Cecil ran into him. “I do have an idea! Listen.” He bent over and whispered into Cecil’s ear.
Cecil’s forehead wrinkled while he thought. Finally he smiled. “Not bad,” he said, “but we’ll have to keep it a secret. A secret Mother’s Day present.”
The next morning Cecil woke up, hopped out of bed, and jumped on top of Teddy. “Good morning!” he said loudly, right in his brother’s ear.
“Good morning, yourself,” muttered Teddy as he tried to roll over to go back to sleep. Cecil hit him with a pillow. Teddy laughed, and the boys wrestled until all the covers were on the floor. When Teddy stopped laughing enough to talk, he said, “Do you remember our secret present for Mom?”
“Yup,” said Cecil.
“This is going to be fun,” said Teddy.
“Yup,” said Cecil.
“Is ‘Yup’ all you can say?” asked Teddy.
“Yup.”
The boys washed, dressed for church, and straightened their room. They were making breakfast when Mom walked into the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why are you boys up already? And washed and dressed and even making breakfast? What’s the occasion?”
“Why, nothing,” said Cecil, setting the table as casually as if he had done it every day of his life.
After breakfast the boys did the dishes. Then the family went to church. Teddy and Cecil sat quietly all through the meetings. Cecil didn’t even giggle when Freddy Jackson passed him a picture he had drawn of a toad that looked like Teddy.
On the way home Mom said to Dad, “Did you ever see two better-behaved boys in church?”
“Never,” agreed Dad.
Teddy and Cecil smiled at each other.
As soon as they got home, the boys changed into playclothes and put away their Sunday clothes. “Now,” said Teddy, “I’ll set the table while you help Mom in the kitchen.”
“OK,” said Cecil.
“And remember,” Teddy warned, “don’t give away our secret.”
“Who, me?” said Cecil as he ran downstairs.
During dinner, the boys were very polite. They said, “please” and “thank you” and ate all their vegetables. No one spilled anything or argued or teased. Finally Mom asked if they were feeling all right.
“Of course,” said Teddy.
“We’re fine,” said Cecil. “By the way, we’ll wash the dishes, Mom.”
“Now I know they’re sick!” Dad said with a laugh.
That evening Dad came into the family room, where Mom was reading. “I think you’d better look at something,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mom, jumping up quickly.
“Nothing, I just want you to see this. I think it’s a Mother’s Day present.”
Mom and Dad walked into the living room. In the middle of the floor was a bumpy-looking mound covered by a striped sheet with a bow on top.
“What on earth … ,” Mom began.
“I told you,” Dad said. “A Mother’s Day present.”
Just then something under the sheet squirmed.
“A squirmy Mother’s Day present,” said Mom.
Then something giggled.
“A squirmy, giggly Mother’s Day present,” said Dad.
Then something else went, “Sssh!”
“A squirmy, giggly, sssh-y Mother’s Day present,” said Mom. “This I must see.”
She pulled off the sheet. Teddy and Cecil were huddled together on the floor, grinning.
“Surprise!” they said together. “Happy Mother’s Day! We’re your Mother’s Day present,” said Teddy, “the two good boys you always want us to be. Today we did everything we could to be good and make you happy. Aren’t we a good present?”
“The best I’ve ever had,” said Mom, giving them both a hug.

A few years ago a girl I knew well submitted a story in the Mayhew Contest. Like many of the other stories submitted that year, hers featured raw “realism”—sex, violence, etc. I was puzzled because I was this girl’s campus bishop, and I had heard her several times in sacrament meetings bear testimony of the gospel and otherwise express her feelings. She seemed an unusually spiritual, refined, sensitive girl, and I could not understand why she would write such a story. So I called her to my office.
“Why did you write this story?” I asked. “Is this the real you coming out, the inner self that just had to be expressed?”
“Oh, no!” she answered. “I’m not at all like that, Bishop.”
“Then why did you write that way?”
“Because I thought I had to write that way to be published,” she said.
Right then I determined to do something so that students might know that they don’t have to write “that way” to be published. And this essay is one of my efforts. Young writers, and old ones too, should have freedom to write any way they want, for an artist must be true to himself—no matter what the truth. But writers who want to resist the popular fashions of our times and write in harmony with convictions and ideals that may be out of fashion also need reassurance that this is their privilege and that there may be an audience larger than they realize who will rejoice in their affirmation, integrity, and courage.

The first obstacle was finding a place for the trek. “We had no idea how hard it would be to find land that we would be allowed to cross,” said Marlene Meyer, the stake Young Women president. “In some ways it reminded us of the feeling the pioneers had when they were driven out of every place they tried to call home.”

For months the leaders scoured the state looking for a suitable site that could handle 150 people pulling handcarts and camping along the way. Because much of Alaska is covered in wetland, they knew they needed to find an abandoned road with dry campsites every 12 miles. Fourteen days before the event was scheduled to begin, the leaders were contacted about the possibility of passing through some land in a small area called Anchor Point. Miraculously, it had oil pad sites, areas covered in gravel and suitable for camping, positioned every 12 miles along an old road. With only days to spare, stake leaders got the permits and the trek went forward.

I have some health issues that weaken my body and mind, but I am thankful that I can understand and enjoy the New Era articles. Recently I read the February 2008 issue, and I was so impressed with two of the stories that I read them out loud to the rest of the family so they wouldn’t miss out. I really appreciated the articles “Too Fast!” and “What I Learned from Lisa.” They reminded me of an experience when I went to a rental car agency where I had worked 10 years earlier. When I asked if I could test drive a car, the sales manager remembered me and told me that I could drive any car I wanted to. He said, “One thing I remember about you is your integrity and honesty.” I was honored that someone would remember that about me a decade later. I hope I can always be worthy of that type of reputation.

After completing school, I decided to stay in Lomé to be closer to Church members and pursue a university degree in civil engineering. After a couple of years, I deferred my studies to serve a full-time mission. On June 23, 2016, I was called to serve in a newly created mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Mbuji-Mayi. Today I am a missionary and, in a few months, I will finish my mission with honor.
I have learned a lot from the Church and by the daily reading of the Book of Mormon, which is the keystone of our religion. Although weak, I have been shaped by the Lord to bring souls to Him, and I rejoice in this privilege that He has granted me to fulfill this sacred duty of the priesthood.

One of the most powerful experiences I’ve had with this feeling was in my search to find a house to purchase. I was single and had been contemplating buying a house for several years. I told my realtor what I was looking for, and she did an excellent job of finding houses that fit my description. She would show me houses, but I would turn them down because they didn’t feel right. She started asking me what I disliked about each one so that she could better show me homes that would fit my needs. Unfortunately, I couldn’t articulate very well what was missing.
Finally, one afternoon we walked through a house that wasn’t as nice as some of the others we had seen. It was a little more expensive than others. It fit my description for what I had said I wanted but not as perfectly as some we had seen. Nevertheless, after walking through it, I told my realtor I wanted to put in an offer. She seemed somewhat surprised at my willingness to act so quickly. Considering my reluctance through previous months, she was right to be surprised. But the feeling that this was where I needed to live was almost overwhelming. I didn’t feel a need to stop and think about it.
I put in an offer, and the sellers accepted my bid, despite the fact that it was not the highest offer they had received. I told my family that I knew I was supposed to live in that house, though I didn’t know why.
I found out why I needed to live there fairly quickly. I met a woman in the singles ward within a month of moving in. A little over a year later, we knelt across the altar in the temple, where we were sealed as husband and wife.
The Lord truly moves in mysterious ways. I had no idea that He was leading me toward eternal marriage when He helped me choose a house. All I knew was that I was being guided to take this step, and now I can see that that guidance came from His Spirit.

About three years ago my son, Mark, was diagnosed with cancer. Surgeons operated on him, but the cancer continued to spread. The entire family prayed and fasted for him during those long months.
I had read in the scriptures and in various conference talks how important and real the power of faith is. I decided to fast and pray, feeling that my faith was strong enough that a miracle would occur. My son would be made well, or his cancer would go into remission. I always closed my fervent prayers with “Thy will be done.”
I read every talk on faith I could find given during past general conferences or appearing in other materials published by the Church. I found talks by President Russell M. Nelson especially comforting.
Our son died on June 28, 2021. We were all devastated and heartbroken. I felt that my faith had not been strong enough after all.
One day I looked on the back cover of a general conference issue of the Liahona and saw a photo of President Nelson standing at the pulpit. Under the photo was a paragraph taken from one of his talks. He said it takes faith to join the Church, follow the prophets, serve a mission, live the law of chastity, and teach the gospel. “It takes faith to plead for the life of a loved one and even more faith,” he added, “to accept a disappointing answer.”1
I read that sentence at least three times before I realized it was meant for me. A calm feeling came over me. I knew that our prayers for my son had not been in vain. My faith was strong in a way the Lord knew and had accepted.
Our family has experienced our share of loss, including the passing of my husband and three grandsons. My faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ tells me my deceased son is with my husband and grandsons. That knowledge brings me peace. Despite our family’s adversity, we still love the Lord and His gospel, and our testimonies have grown. I testify that President Nelson is a prophet and that the counsel he gives comes from the Lord.

When Carrie and her mother, Ginger, returned home, they organized the youth in their ward, taught them how to read Old German script, and helped them prepare the names to be submitted for work at the Chicago Temple.
“We knew we were going to the temple, and we wanted to make the experience more meaningful,” explains Sister Hamer, a counselor in the ward Young Women presidency and a past president of the Minnesota Genealogical Society. “We wanted the youth to know that these names for which they would be baptized were not just names; they were actual people. We could even show them photos of their hometown.
“But it wasn’t until they began actually working with the names that the people became real. Suddenly the youth were saying things like, ‘Hey, this person was born on Christmas,’ or ‘This family had three sets of twins.’”
Young people in the stake became so interested that they spent several summer vacation days copying names. Then in October, 36 teenagers traveled to the temple and were vicariously baptized for 565 people who were no longer just names on a chart. The rest of the 1,500 names were also submitted for temple work.

Perhaps the hardest lesson I have had to learn is trusting Heavenly Father’s timing more than mine.
One day as I was reading the blessings He promised to me in my patriarchal blessing, I was overwhelmed with the idea that because of my OCD, the blessings described would be impossible for me. I was promised that I would feel peace, but how could I with so much anxiety?
How would I ever learn to love the temple when I always felt unworthy to attend?
I pled for God to remove my OCD from me. But as I did, a single thought came to my mind: “Would I continue to follow the Savior if He didn’t take my OCD away?”
The thought that Heavenly Father wouldn’t take my mental disorder away was devastating. In the days since, I’ve pondered that question a lot: “Will you follow me if not?”
I’ve learned that although OCD might always be present in my life, God will help me to handle its symptoms and continue to grow. My healing still includes crying, bouts of guilt and anxiety, therapy, and pleading on my knees.
But more and more, my healing involves reclaiming joy in my life, offering myself love and grace, and connecting with the Savior. As I turn to Him, He helps me have the strength to carry on. He is by my side as I weep. I have felt His presence more than ever as I plead for His help in dealing with OCD. I now understand how “he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people” (Alma 7:11). I am learning that He truly does know how I feel and will provide me with what I need as I keep moving forward.

Peter Brooks and Donald Willis were both five years old. They had always been next-door neighbors and number-one buddies. With Donald’s Dalmation, Pokey, at their side, the tireless twosome kept law and order on the “prairies” of the corner vacant lot.
“What those two don’t think up!” Donald’s mom laughed one day as she and Peter’s mom watched the boys zoom past.
“They’re two of a kind,” Peter’s mom agreed. “They always have big plans!”
One day the two pals decided to spend an afternoon exploring new territory—Donald’s garage.
“Just be careful,” Donald’s mom cautioned.
“OK!” the eager boys yelled as they scrambled to raise the heavy garage door.
Inside, Peter and Donald found piles of wonderful stuff: garden supplies, old lumber, carpentry tools, broken appliances. Why, even the walls were covered with fan belts, bicycle tires and chains, camping gear, and kites. But the greatest find of the afternoon was perched high on a dusty shelf. It was a violin case.
Peter steadied a stepladder while Donald climbed carefully up—Mother had said to be careful—and lifted the case down from the shelf.
“Wow!” exclaimed Peter, opening it and removing the instrument. “Look at this old, scratched-up violin.”
With its worn body, loose tuning pegs, and cracked bow, the violin seemed useless to the five-year-olds.
“Hey, look! It doesn’t have strings anymore,” Donald said, giggling. “It can’t even make music.”
The boys’ imagination went right to work. Perching himself high on top of the stepladder, Donald became an orchestra conductor while, below, Peter moved the broken bow across the imaginary strings of the violin.
“I have a better idea,” Donald said. “Let’s chop up this old piece of junk with my dad’s hatchet.”
“Are you sure it’s OK?” Peter asked.
“I—I think so,” Donald stammered.
Without thinking further, the boys took the hatchet from the workbench, and soon the woodchips were flying. Chopping with a hatchet was great fun, but the boys grew silent when they saw the old violin in splinters at their feet.
“Boy, I don’t feel very good,” Peter confided as he looked at the remains of the violin.
“Me either,” Donald said softly.
Just then the garage door swung open, and Donald’s mother walked in. “Hey, you two,” she said, “what’s all the racket out here?”
Looking down, she saw what was left of the violin, and her smile faded. “That was my mother’s violin!” she wailed. “I was going to have it refinished for you one day, Donald. It was one of my greatest treasures.”
Looking very sad, she took Donald by the hand and walked back to the house.
Peter watched with a big knot in his throat. His eyes stung with tears. Donald’s in big trouble, he thought. And it’s my fault too!
Telling his own mom and dad about the violin didn’t make Peter feel any better. “Repenting is more than just feeling bad about the mistake you’ve made,” his dad explained. “When you repent, Peter, you must do all that you can to right the wrong.”
Peter thought about that. I can’t bring the violin back, he decided, but I can tell Mrs. Willis how sorry I am. And I could earn some money to help buy her a new violin. He figured that a new violin would cost at least a dollar.
Peter set out to earn the dollar. He emptied garbage cans, washed dishes, cleaned bathrooms, and dusted. With every dime he earned, Peter felt happier.
After two weeks of hard work, Peter had enough money to pay his tithing and to give Mrs. Willis a dollar.
Peter’s mother helped him write a special note to Mrs. Willis: “I’m sorry for wrecking your treasure. I like you very much, and I’m going to be kinder and think before I do things. I earned this dollar so that you can buy a new violin.” He slid the money into an envelope with the note and left it on the Willises’ doorstep.
“Do you think Mrs. Willis will ever forgive Donald and me for chopping up her violin?” Peter asked his mother that night.
“I hope that she will,” Mother said, smiling gently. “You have done all that you can do right now to make it right.”
The next morning Peter was surprised to find a letter for him on the kitchen table. It said:
Dear Peter,
I got your note and the money. You must have worked very hard to earn a dollar. I realize how sorry you are for your part in destroying my mother’s violin, and I forgive you. I want you to know that I love you very much.
Your friend,
Mrs. Willis
Peter had never before felt such joy or relief. He knew that he had truly repented and that he had learned an important lesson from the precious violin.

When I was nine years old, I committed a crime. I made a decision to steal a comic book from the small town store which kept an old twirling black metal rack over in the corner by the stacked wooden cases of bottled soda pop. The owner did not catch me stealing, but at home my parents were suspicious, knowing that I had no money to purchase the comic book. Prying the truth out of me, my mother finally marched me back to the store, where I confessed my guilt to the owner. He let me decide how to make full restitution and how I was going to go about learning not to steal again.
The store’s floor was made of old-time hardwood, and each evening he would throw sawdust down and sweep it to get up all of the dust balls and grime from the foot traffic of the day. That chore was assigned to me. I was sure that I would only have to do it for a few days. As I came into the store each afternoon after school to do my sweeping, the proprietor would nod his greeting and motion toward the broom and cardboard box of sawdust in the back. It was weeks before he told me one night that he thought I had swept long enough.
I relate this particular incident, not to rehash the sin, but to point out that it is the sweeping and the price I had to pay that I remember vividly. I still have the memory of taking the comic book, but the feelings of guilt, heartsickness, distress, and deep sorrow are long gone because I was helped to repent. I remember those long hours of sweeping now to remind me of the price of stealing. That encourages me not to be dishonest again.

Isaac Ernsten pulls on a pair of rubber gloves while one of the other young men in the quorum helps tie a hospital gown over his white shirt and tie. They all put on surgical masks and make sure they have both the sacrament trays before they walk into the hospital room. The man in the bed is one of many who has requested that the young men bring the sacrament to him.
Each Sunday, patients in the Salt Lake Regional Medical Center who can’t make it to church have church brought to them by the young men from the Salt Lake Emigration Stake. During the months of January and July, it’s the responsibility of the young men from the 21st North Ward.
“In church, some people take the sacrament just because it’s a part of the sacrament meeting,” says Isaac, a priest who helps bring the sacrament to hospital patients. “These people have to request that the sacrament be brought to them. I think it means a lot to them. Some of them are so happy to see us when we get there. I can tell that they really want the sacrament.”
Most of the young men will admit that sometimes it makes them a bit nervous to be around people who are seriously injured or dying, but they feel it is their duty, and they enjoy doing it. And even though the man in the hospital bed does not feel well, he is happy to see them come in.
The stained glass windows around the small chapel glow with the bright light from outside. The hospital branch uses a chapel that was built by the Catholic Church when the hospital was known as Holy Cross Hospital. More than half the congregation is made up of the young men from the 21st North Ward, and there are fewer than a dozen of them. Others in attendance include the branch presidency, Relief Society presidency, a few patients who feel well enough to leave their beds, and some hospital staff.
It takes one deacon only a few minutes to pass the sacrament to everyone. Then the young men put on the sacrament meeting program. They give the talks, offer the prayers, and fill in wherever else they are needed.
“In our home ward, preparing the sacrament can sometimes become routine,” says Abe Daris, a priest who has helped prepare, bless, or pass the sacrament at the hospital since he was a deacon. “Not that it should be routine, but here it is something more. It makes me realize how important the sacrament is. Even if there are only one or two members who show up, it’s still important enough for a whole quorum to help out a branch president and conduct a sacrament meeting. It’s important that members renew their covenants every week and feel the Spirit.”
After the meeting, the young men visit the individual rooms of people who have requested the sacrament. “That’s my favorite part,” Abe says. “It makes me realize how important the sacrament is to people. When we come with the sacrament, they just light up, and they’re so excited.”
All of the priesthood holders can remember specific people and experiences in the hospital that strengthened their testimonies. Abe remembers a woman who was very ill. “She had a lot of trouble breathing,” he said. “She couldn’t talk at all and could barely move. Even though we couldn’t communicate verbally, we could see in her eyes that she was happy to receive the sacrament. We smiled at her, and she smiled back. We could feel the Spirit and knew she appreciated it. It’s hard to explain. You had to be there.”
One of Abe’s brothers, Jeremiah, a teacher, remembers helping a woman who couldn’t move to take the sacrament. “I had to hold the sacrament water out and pour it into her mouth,” he says. “That was probably one of the more memorable experiences. I was helping someone who couldn’t do it for herself. She was really happy to get the sacrament. I’m sure she was glad I was there.”
Before they bless the sacrament and pass it to the patients, Simon Williams, one of the teachers, enjoys visiting. “There are all sorts of people there. Sometimes we visit new mothers, and sometimes we visit older people,” he says. “When you are in a hospital, I think you have a lot of time to think about life. People start thinking about what they’ve done in the past and start thinking more about Heavenly Father and the gospel. I think taking the sacrament for the people in the hospital can mean more for them than for many people because a lot of the people in the hospital are going to have some pretty big changes in their lives.”
Each week as the young men give service in the hospital, they receive something themselves. One thing they all agree on is that their assignment has given them a greater understanding of the importance of the sacrament. “A lot of times in my home ward I don’t really take the chance to think about what the sacrament means because I’m focused on passing it,” Simon says. “Sometimes we take the sacrament for granted. But it really stands for something amazing.”
The youth feel it is their duty to serve others. But no matter how much they give, they say they are the ones who are rewarded most. “We have such a good time doing it that it’s not really like it’s a sacrifice,” Abe says. “When you’ve been given so much, you have to serve and help other people. This has just been another way for us to give back, and not only to help other people, but to grow ourselves. Our duty to God is to serve Him by serving other people.”

The happiness I feel in seminary is a lot like the happiness I feel when I’m in the temple. Before I turned 11, my siblings and friends had all been to the temple but I hadn’t.
When I was finally old enough to go inside and do baptisms, I felt a great peace. Even though my family and friends had described to me the feeling of being in the temple, I was so excited that I was able to feel that for myself.

In addition to being an early witness of the Restoration, Lucy exercised faith that was undaunted by seemingly insurmountable circumstances. After the Church was organized in April 1830, persecution stagnated Church growth in New York while the number of members increased in neighboring Ohio. By winter, a revelation commanded the Church members to “go to the Ohio” and gather with the Saints there (Doctrine and Covenants 37:1).

Lucy and several dozen Saints responded to the command of the revelation and traveled by boat on the Erie Canal to Lake Erie, then crossed the lake to Ohio. When they arrived at the banks of Lake Erie, however, the water was frozen with no foreseeable passageway. Many Saints on board the boat began to complain. Lucy rebuked them, asking, “Where is your faith? Where is your confidence in God? … Suppose that all the Saints here should raise their hearts in prayer to God that the way might be opened before us, how easy it would be for Him to cause the ice to break away so that in a moment’s time we could be on our journey.”5

After testifying of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, Lucy pleaded with the Saints to pray for the ice to be broken up so they could continue their journey. In that moment, a noise “like bursting thunder” was heard and the ice parted, leaving a narrow passage for the boat that closed no sooner than the boat had passed.6 The Saints then held a prayer meeting to thank God for His deliverance.

“Thank you, President, I’ll be there tomorrow.”
What a great man, I thought to myself as I hung up the telephone. President Jerry E. Callister of the Mississippi Jackson Mission had just extended a two-week mission call to me to serve the Lord in the Bossier City, Louisiana, area. What a way to find out what true missionary work is like, I said to myself over and over.
I spent the next 24 hours packing, praying, and preparing myself for everything I could possibly come in contact with during the next two weeks. I prayed that I would be helpful to the missionaries, Elders Abbott and Watkins, with whom I would serve.
Saturday came quickly. My family drove me to Bossier, where we ate lunch before I called the elders from a pay phone across the street. After what seemed like an eternity but was only 10 or 15 minutes, the two young men, only a few years older than myself, pulled alongside us in their late-model mission car. I didn’t know what to do or how to act, but Mom quickly nudged me towards them. I timidly introduced myself to Elder Abbott. What a spiritual giant; I can’t possibly be of help to him, I thought to myself. And I questioned why I was out there.
After meeting Elder Watkins, I had nearly convinced myself that I couldn’t be of help to either of them.
I said good-bye to my family, and before I knew it the elders and I were out on the streets knocking on doors. I was amazed at how eloquently the elders approached the people. After an hour of tracting, Elder Abbott turned to me and said, “This house is yours.” I almost panicked. Out of nowhere I had this bone-chilling, nerve-deadening feeling.
“I can’t,” I said embarrassed.
“Yes you can,” he said. “You’ve got to think positively. There may be a potential convert in there.”
“Okay, okay,” I answered.
Knock, Knock.
As the door opened I could feel my heart sink down to my socks. The room was filled with drunken teenagers—I was only a teenager myself. As I began the door approach they began mocking and tempting us. Why me, Lord? I silently asked.
I didn’t knock on another door the rest of the evening. Later that night I began thinking about my day as a “full-time” missionary. Why did I have such feelings? Why was I scared to talk to people about the gospel? How would I be able to serve a two-year mission if I couldn’t even stand up to people and share the truths of the gospel for two weeks? I decided that there was only one way to get help with my concerns.
As I knelt down in humble prayer and poured out the desires of my heart to Heavenly Father, a peaceful feeling came over me. A still, small voice told me to search the scriptures. I began flipping through the pages of my Bible when I saw a verse outlined in red. It was a seminary scripture from the previous year. As I glanced down at it I knew my prayer had been answered. A warm feeling of insight and understanding came over me as I read the verse: “For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth” (Rom. 1:16).
Never before had this scripture come across to me with such astounding force. “The power of God unto salvation,” I said aloud. That was the key. I need not be ashamed of the gospel because it is the very key to salvation. Without it, not one soul will ever progress after this life.
The next morning I awoke with an inexpressible desire to spread the gospel.
Now five of the people I helped teach in those two weeks are members of the Church. What a strength we can receive through listening to the promptings of the Spirit!
I vividly remember the feeling I had as the Holy Ghost bore witness to me of that important scriptural message found in Romans. And to this day when I am confronted with an opportunity to share the gospel, that same still, small voice whispers in my ear, “the power of … salvation, the power of … salvation.”

Early in our marriage my wife, Mary, and I decided that to the extent possible we would choose activities that we could attend together. We also wanted to be prudent with our budget. Mary loves music and was undoubtedly concerned that I might overemphasize sporting events, so she negotiated that for all paid events, there would be two musicals, operas, or cultural activities for each paid ball game.
Initially I was resistant to the opera component, but over time I changed my view. I particularly came to enjoy the operas by Giuseppe Verdi.1 This week will be the 200th anniversary of his birth.

I watched, confused, as my family and I watered the concrete foundation of our house. I felt ridiculous. Who has ever heard of watering a house? When we moved to Texas, USA, our neighbor explained that in that particular area we needed to water our house’s foundation so that the weather wouldn’t cause the house to settle and crack. So I watered the house, even though I felt crazy doing it.
The watering helped for a time, but eventually, our house started to crack. We soon discovered that our house wasn’t built on solid ground. It had been built on a landfill, which caused our house to sink as buried trash below decomposed over time. We watered the foundation, but our house would still crack. So we eventually moved away.

But using healthy humor to smooth the trials of life is part of a happy home. Couples marry each other in part because they are happy when they are together. How wonderful it is when, after marriage, they continue to make each other laugh. Dan’s humor, in all kinds of situations, has been a delight and a balm to our family. One day when I was doing some hand sewing, I lost my needle in the carpet. Dan knelt down to find it. As I started to help, he said, “No, don’t. I’m sure I’ll run it into my hand any minute.”

Every marriage has incidents that can become private, lighthearted signals to each other. One of ours began many years ago when Dan told me of an idea that had come to him. We’ve both forgotten what it was, but I must have abruptly squelched it, because he paused, then said, “Well, for just a minute there, I thought it was a great idea.” Now, whenever one of us feels put down and says, “Well, for just a minute there, I thought … ,” we both laugh, and the message is clear and friendly.

There are some family crises that can become laughable lessons. My aunt and uncle, both fond of practical jokes played on themselves and others, lived on a ranch without running water. One cold, rainy evening, my uncle came in drenched to see his wife sitting comfortably by the fireplace. She said, “Dear, since you’re already wet and cold, will you bring in a bucket of water?” He went out and returned with the water, dumped it on her, and said “Now you’re wet and cold. Could you go get the water?” They laughed as they retold the story, and the incident became a family joke. So now when we really shouldn’t ask a favor, or when we realize we are imposing, we start the request with, “Since you’re already wet and cold … ,” and the job usually gets done with a smile.

A key to unlocking healthy fun in marriage is faith—faith in God, in each other, and in the future—faith enough to relax and enjoy the day we are now living. With faith, we can see some humor even in our trials.

If we want the spirit of the Lord in our marriages and in our homes, we must “come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny [our]selves of all ungodliness” (Moro. 10:32). If Christ would not say it, we will not say it, even at home. If Christ would sacrifice to sanctify a relationship, so will we—especially at home. Spirituality is loving what Christ loves. It is wanting a celestial marriage enough to let go of telestial attitudes. A telestial attitude is selfish, with the focus on my needs, my pleasure, my time. Terrestrial attitudes—worrying too much about what other think—hurt marriage, too. Is our family comparable to those around us? Is our home nice enough? What do our neighbors think of the way we spend our leisure time?

Since we are sons and daughters of celestial parents, our spirits respond with joy when we live like celestial people. A marriage built on celestial principles has a power available to it that is greater than our combined strength.

While we were expecting our ninth child, an examination revealed that I had cancer. The doctors could not determine the source or extent without endangering the baby, and she wasn’t old enough to survive birth. But they did know the cancer was spreading. So we were asked to decide whether the doctors should operate despite the risk, or if they should wait until the baby had developed more fully.
To me there seemed to be no answer. I wanted to live and to rear our eight children. But I also felt protective of the child I was carrying. We struggled for several weeks, giving the baby more time to mature, prayerfully seeking to know the will of the Lord. Our answer came when, after much prayer and fasting, Dan said to me, “Barbara, it will be all right. I have scheduled surgery.”
Because of priesthood power, he could do more than make that difficult decision. He called our home teacher, a neighbor who had had his own struggle with cancer, and my brother. In the name of Jesus Christ, my husband, assisted by those men, blessed me and our baby that what was done would be best for both of us.
Dan again wrote me a letter the night before surgery: “These past days have been filled with more anxiety and soul searching for me than any time in my life. … As we have passed through swells of faith and depths of fear, I have experiences a purging I didn’t know I needed. The priesthood blessings you have received are from the Lord. Tonight as we sat in your hospital room, I was aware of your struggle between fear and faith. I experienced it myself for many hours after I returned home. Just now I have received, with burning assurance, the Lord’s seal upon the blessings you have received. … [The doctors], as instruments in the hands of our Father in Heaven, will do what is needed to perform His work.”
The surgery was successful. Our healthy daughter, now fifteen years old, was born seven weeks later.
Our burdens and challenges continue, but we are still striving to improve. Dan is living the promise he made on our wedding day. He does what he knows is right. He is never harsh or unkind. I am learning how to express my happiness and gratitude, and even to make decisions more quickly.
Brother Gerald Lund, a Church Educational System administrator, tells the story of medical personnel taking a truckload of supplies into the jungles of Africa to set up a hospital. The bridges they had to cross were not strong enough to support the truck. Rather than lightening the load by leaving precious supplies behind, they stopped at each river or ravine to strengthen the bridge.
When we set out to build a celestial marriage, we have no choice but to carry the whole load the whole way. We cannot drop off the heavy things, such as problems with children, financial burdens, or poor health. When we, in our problem-solving truck, reach a chasm, sometimes we must be willing to stop and strengthen the bridge for our marriage to get through.
When we do so, our love increases, and together we find happiness. We also draw closer to the Lord and come to know of our Savior’s deep concern for our family.
If we are faithful to marriage covenants made in the temple, the Lord has promised that we “shall inherit thrones, kingdoms, principalities, and powers, dominions, all heights and depths … and … shall pass by the angels, and the gods, which are set there, to [our] exaltation and glory in all things” (D&C 132:19).
If Dan and I are together forever, we will both be perfected. My challenges for today are to see my sweetheart now with that eternal potential, to patiently work on my own imperfections, and to let the Lord influence my husband to work on his. Through love, laughter, and spirituality, the two of us will work together toward exaltation.

During my first Christmas as bishop, a single mother with three small children lived in our ward. This young woman had a strong testimony of the gospel and lived it to the best of her ability. She cleaned homes and did sewing to try to make ends meet, but often she could not.
Single-handedly raising three boys under the age of eight was a real challenge. These active, energetic youngsters always seemed to be in trouble of one sort or another. I remember pulling them from more than one tussle with their classmates.
Several good people helped this struggling family. I’ll never forget the brother who came into my office one Sunday just a couple of weeks before Christmas, asking to speak with me privately. He was concerned about the young mother and her family, and he wanted to do something for them. Would I accept his contribution and use it in the best way I could to help them? As we spoke, I hardly noticed his small son who remained in the office with us.
The man explained that he did not know what the woman and her family needed. He just wanted to help and felt that I would be inspired to know what to do. He then entrusted to me quite a remarkable sum of money—not remarkable in the amount, but remarkable in terms of his modest means, of which I was well aware. I knew that this gift meant a real sacrifice of his own family’s Christmas, at least in the temporal sense. But this wise brother knew where real rewards come from.
Seeing the resolve shining in his eyes, I protested only gently. Then I cleared my tightening throat, thanked him for his unselfish gift, and promised to do my best to make Christmas a little brighter for the young mother and her sons. I also agreed to honor his request for anonymity.
The story might well end here and still be memorable. But the event that has etched this experience in my mind was yet to occur. It wasn’t the way I was able to help the family with the unselfish contribution—although that turned out to be most gratifying—but rather what took place in my office one week following that good brother’s visit.
It was just a few days before Christmas, and I was between tithing-settlement interviews. I heard a soft knock on the office door, and when I opened it, I saw, standing quite alone, the six-year-old boy who had sat quietly in my office while his dad and I had talked the Sunday before.
He asked politely if he could talk to me for just a minute. After we walked into the office—which I presume is always a bit of a frightening experience for youngsters—I invited him to sit down. He fidgeted with something in his pocket and, after some struggle, pulled out three small coins and laid them on my desk. He apologized that the coins were all the money he had, and they were a little old and dirty, since he had had them quite a while. The money, he explained, was for me to use to help his three friends, like his dad was helping their mother. As my heart swelled and my eyes became moist, he added that he felt I would know best how to divide his treasure among his friends.
What lessons culminated in that moment—a father’s unselfish example, the trust of a small boy in his bishop, and the humble, Christlike act of a child without guile. Only a few weeks before I had pulled this boy from a scuffle involving the soon-to-be recipients of his forgiving love and charity.
I hugged him, partly to hide my tears—and mostly to tell him how much I appreciated him and how much I knew his Father in Heaven loved him. I then walked him to the door, shook his hand, and assured him that I would do the best I could to help his friends this Christmas with his generous gift. As I turned to go back into my office, he whispered after me, “And remember, Bishop, don’t ever tell anyone it was me.”
Well, I never have told anyone until now, my young friend. I hope relating our special story in this way is all right so that others might feel a bit of the quiet Christmas spirit of love and charity that we felt that day.

I received a shock when I moved to the Salt Lake Valley a few years ago. At that time I really didn’t know much about the Mormons—I just had a vague notion that they lived “somewhere in the West” and that they had somehow contributed to its development. My interest and knowledge both stopped at that point. I was therefore surprised to find that I had come to live in a whole state full of Mormons!
I suppose my background had a lot to do with my lack of interest in any particular religion. I was born an Episcopalian, but my father died when I was nine, and I then entered a nondenominational orphanage. My experience there left me without preferences for one church over another. I later attended several different churches and found good in all of them.
As time passed in our new home and my wife and I began to realize who and what the Mormons were, I patiently waited for the onslaught of well-meaning Mormons trying to convert me. But the onslaught didn’t come. The Mormons I knew were friendly, but they didn’t press. So I asked questions. But the answers didn’t seem to be quite relevant.
Then one day I met Dick Reisner. He had a fine and beautiful family, and was to be coordinator during a year of training in a new career field. He was an enthusiastic Mormon, and I was impressed. His dedication to his faith was precise and honest. He’d ask me questions good-naturedly to see what I knew about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. By this time I knew quite a bit; I had read the early history of the Church and knew generally of its government and beliefs.
The chief obstacle for me concerned the principle of faith. I reasoned that if God could show himself to the sinner Saul on the road to Damascus and speak through a burning bush to Moses, then he could manifest himself to me in a similar way. Once convinced, I would surely be one of God’s strongest defenders and most able architects; but my conversion had to be at least as dramatic as a burning bush.
All too soon my training in Utah was completed and we moved to St. Augustine, Florida.
As time went by, however, we found that we missed Utah—especially the people. We checked the phone book to see if there were any Mormon churches in the area. The closest one listed was 64 kilometers north. We decided we would do without; we didn’t want the Church as much as we did the companionship of the people who made it up.
After one particularly tiring day, I returned from work early to find my wife busy in the kitchen.
“We had some visitors today,” she smiled.
“Really. Who? Salesmen?”
“Yes … a kind of salesmen.
“Who?”
“Two Mormon missionaries.”
“You’re teasing!”
“No. They left a pamphlet. See for yourself. It’s got a telephone number in it.”
“I’m going to call them. I bet that will shock them!”
She laughed. “I called them and invited them over. They told me the branch met in town over at the Odd Fellows Hall. I thought I had misunderstood, but thanked them and hung up.”
The two young men who came to see us offered us six easy lessons over a period of six weeks. Why not listen? We thought to ourselves. It was a small price to pay for the companionship of Mormons. Besides, I had had discussions with some very knowledgeable people.
That Sunday we arose early. In good spirits we turned our efforts to the task of getting four children ready. But we misjudged the time.
“We’re late,” said my wife, as we drove into the parking lot of the Odd Fellows Hall.
“Perhaps,” I said, “it would be better if we waited. We don’t even know which way the congregation is facing. It could be pretty embarrassing to go in and find that they’re all facing us.”
The dilemma was resolved, however, when a pleasant-looking gentleman got out of one of the parked cars and introduced himself as the branch president. Knowing that we might arrive late, he had decided to wait for us.
The children were taken to their particular classes, while we were introduced to the investigators’ class. Our instructor was obviously a learned man and knew his material well. Finding people of his intellect belonging to a church and staunchly professing a belief in God forced me to reassess my own reasoning.
We had a good time that day. Attending church made us feel much closer as a family. And we felt something magnificent, challenging, and rewarding in the simple humility of this branch.
Shortly thereafter I contacted another friend in Utah, Dennis Hill, with whom I had worked. I told him I was now attending his church. He said he was going to send me a book, even though I tried to convince him that I was attending only because I liked the people.
The book, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder by LeGrand Richards, came after our second visit to the little church. I set it aside to read “sometime later.”
The third Sunday we decided we were too tired to go to church. No one called to ask “Where were you?” and we were disappointed.
But Monday night the telephone rang. It was the missionaries!
“We missed you at church Sunday.”
“Yes, but you know how it is.”
“Yes, we do.” A pause. “We promised you six lessons; we would like to begin them soon.”
“Fine! How about tomorrow night and every Tuesday thereafter?”
That was the beginning of a very fine friendship. The children loved these two young men who exuded faith and happiness.
I cooperated with their attempts to use psychology on me because I felt they needed the practice; however, I had to set the limit when they invited me to offer prayer at the opening and close of these meetings. I was happy to have them or anyone else offer the prayer, but I would have felt hypocritical praying to a God whose existence I wasn’t sure of.
The next Sunday was stake conference in Jacksonville, Florida, and the speaker was to be none other than Elder LeGrand Richards. I grabbed my book and started reading. (If I’m going to listen to a speaker, I want to know as much about him as possible.) When the day came, I managed to sit way up in the balcony where I could hear and see well. This man’s keen mind impressed me; but I was even more moved by his sincerity, conviction, and faith.
The missionary lessons continued, and we began to acquire a better comprehension of what the gospel was all about. About the fourth lesson we began to realize that these missionaries were planning to finish this by inviting us to be baptized.
I won’t do that! I told my wife. “I don’t even trust myself in a thing so simple as prayer. I’m not going to do all of that.” She agreed.
The missionaries finally mentioned it by telling us that a date had been selected for baptism. Would we like to go? “No,” I told them. “I don’t feel the urge.”
“Well,” they continued, “this Friday we are going to baptize two others. Would you like to come and observe?”
“Where?”
“A block from here—in the ocean.”
“The ocean!” gasped my wife. “That’s too cold this time of year.”
“Yes, we know.” Missionaries always seem to be undisturbed.
We went. After the baptismal service, the missionaries asked us, “Doesn’t that make you want to be baptized next time?”
“No!” I answered. And I meant it.
All of this time the elders had been teaching another family, a beautiful young couple by the name of John and Louise Hatch.
We had met the Hatches only briefly at Church, but were impressed by their vibrance and sincerity. At the time of our sixth and final lesson, the elders told us that John and Louise had elected to be baptized the following Friday, which happened to be Good Friday. The thought occurred to me that that would certainly be the ideal time to be baptized, that it would be a kind of “thank you” to Christ to commemorate that particular day with one’s own baptism. Nonetheless, I felt no urge to do so. I was still looking for that burning bush.
But as the elders prepared to leave following our sixth lesson, they asked, as was their custom, if I would like to offer the prayer. To my amazement, I heard myself agree; after my benediction, two somewhat astonished missionaries congratulated me. I was deep in thought when that beautiful evening ended.
The next day before I left for work, I gathered my courage, took a deep breath, and told my wife I had decided to be baptized on Friday and wanted her to join me. She would have been just as surprised if the roof had blown off or if Florida had begun to slip slowly into the sea.
“You can’t do this to me!” she said.
“Why not?”
“The ocean is too cold!”
“I know, but I’ve decided. With or without you, I’m going to do it. Think about it and let me know tonight because I’m going to call the missionaries tomorrow and tell them so they can get me some special clothing.”
I kissed her and left her standing in the doorway. But I couldn’t leave her in suspense all day, so I called her later.
“Have you decided?”
“I’m not going to let you do it without me!”
“Fine. I’ll call the missionaries tonight. Ask the kids if they want to join in, and let me know after work.”
The two older boys elected to join us. (The two younger children were still too young.) We were baptized on Friday; and I have not doubted since coming up from the water that I made the right decision.
Why did I suddenly decide to be baptized? Because I realized the night of the sixth lesson that a burning bush was not the right thing to look for. I realized that by looking for a burning bush I was missing something just as important. Perhaps the answer lay in the simple things that had been happening to me.
I thought back to the week before we had decided to be baptized. We had once again arrived late to Church. To dispel the awkwardness of the situation, a very young man, Eddie Markle, had welcomed us with a simple handshake. At that moment I sensed in him a faith so strong that I was deeply impressed. It was the kind of faith spoken of by Jesus to Thomas: “Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed; blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.” (John 20:29.) I decided I wanted that kind of faith.
I realized my previous experiences had impressed me in a similar way, but, because of my desire for a miraculous conversion, I had failed to recognize the promptings of the Spirit. My encounters with members of the Church had not been spectacular, but yet they had been very significant.
Each person had—in his own way—displayed a strong yet simple faith: Dick Reisner had planted the seed; Dennis Hill had sent the book; the missionaries had knocked on my door; President Pressler had waited for us that first Sunday; Elder Richards had delivered an inspiring message; Eddie Markle had eased an awkward moment with a handshake. Each person—through his example—had let the powerful light of his testimony shine forth. And to me, having been in darkness, each example was as “the bright shining of a candle” (Luke 11:36), bringing me to a testimony of the truth.
The Mormons love their families and I love them for that. As a religious group they are, in fact, a family themselves—with all the love and learning that implies. Yet through it all one fact never changes: they have the gospel of Jesus Christ. A burning bush is not the answer. We have free choice—we can choose a darkness devoid of faith or we can light it brilliantly and forever with our belief. The Mormons believe! And so do I.