Gospel Story Finder

The missionaries taught me the gospel when I was 10. When I asked my dad if I could be baptized, I was so sad when he said no. I prayed and had faith in the Lord. I asked my dad a couple more times. One night I asked, and he said yes. I was so excited! That night I prayed to Heavenly Father and said thank you. On Sunday I got baptized. So have faith and pray to the Lord.
Quirino S., age 11, Utah, USA

When I was at my friend’s house, we put up a tent in the backyard. My friend brought out a small TV and put a movie in. There were some things in the show that I felt weren’t good. I said, “We should put on another movie.” My friend said that there weren’t any more bad parts, but I said we should watch something else just in case. We put in another movie that was better. I felt good that I made the right choice and that my friend listened to me.
Kaitlyn L., age 10, Yukon Territory, Canada

Some years ago, I found myself in an auditorium at the Churchill College of the University of Cambridge in England for an annual meeting for the company I worked for. On that occasion, I had the privilege to receive from the company’s global president and CEO an award in behalf of my team for the excellent work we performed that year.
As company leaders from all over the world, representing 80,000 employees, clapped their hands and praised our team for our achievement, I thought, “This must be my best day of work ever!” The atmosphere of that moment was exhilarating.
Upon reflection, I decided that receiving an award at Cambridge was my second-best day of work. The best and happiest day at work was in a much more humble setting: a little bakery with no audience or standing ovation. It was just me and my dad. That day, he taught me to love and value work and helped me feel the joy of making something from scratch with my own hands. I learned that hard work is satisfying to both the body and the soul.
I can still hear the applause and the words of encouragement coming from that audience at the University of Cambridge, but more dear to me is the memory of my day at the bakery with my father and the smell of those loaves of bread as they came out of the oven.

It all started when Brandon, my two-year-old brother, got in the fridge and began dropping eggs onto the kitchen floor. Actually, things had been pretty crazy all morning. Mom, who is usually up and dressed by 7:00 every day, was still in her robe and slippers at noon, waiting for a chance to slip into the shower. The phone had been ringing all morning, the new baby was fussy, my little sister, Emily, had broken two glasses while setting the table for breakfast, Brandon had tried to be a “big helper” by washing out his oatmeal bowl in the toilet, and I had been whining all morning for Mom to drive me to my cousins’ house so that I could go roller-skating with them.
Mom had finally gotten the baby to sleep and was picking up the broken glass, when Brandon got into the eggs. Before she could do anything about him, the phone rang again. Sister Halvorson wanted to talk over Primary stuff with Mom, who is her first counselor. But Mom couldn’t hear a word she was saying, because Emily was prancing around, hollering that she needed to go to the bathroom. (The door was latched up high to keep Brandon from getting into it again.)
Mom told Sister Halvorson that she’d call back when things were calmer—in about fifteen years—and hung up. She dove for Brandon, who had run out of eggs and was trying to improve the color of the gooey mess on the floor by adding catsup, and called for me to unlatch the door for Emily.
But I was still mad about not being able to go roller-skating, so I just stood there pouting. “It’s not fair,” I said. “You get to do whatever you want whenever you want just because you’re a grown-up. I never get to do what I want. I wish I were the mom!”
That’s when it happened.
“Boingo!” Mom sang out, plopping Brandon back down in his egg and catsup concoction. “That’s it. I quit.” And with that, she turned and slid through the egg slime, out the back door, and calmly crawled inside the doghouse. (We had a large dog.)
I followed. Squatting, I peered in. “Mom, why are you in the doghouse?”
“Because I couldn’t climb the tree in my robe,” she answered matter-of-factly.
“Are you going to clean up the mess Brandon made?”
“No,” Mom replied sweetly. “I’m going to let you have your wish. Abbra-ka-doobra-ka-broccoli-boop!” she chanted, ceremoniously tapping my shoulders with the dog’s bone. “There! You are now officially ‘Mom’ for a while! You get to clean up the mess!”
“Oh, I get it,” I said. “We’re going to switch roles. I read a book about this!”
“No, no. You wished to be a mom. I didn’t wish to be a kid again. I’ve been there. That’s not so easy, either. No, I think I’ll just be a dog today.”
“Oh! This is going to be fun!” I shouted, envisioning myself filling shopping carts with frozen pizzas and Popsicles, serving ice cream and doughnuts for supper, and staying up all night watching TV.
“But, Megan,” Mom interrupted my daydream, “you have to take the whole package. I’ll be fair and take care of the baby, but you’ve baby-sat Brandon and Emily before, and it’s time you learn that you can’t just take the freedom without taking the responsibility too. Understand?”
I nodded and waited for Mom to tell me to start by cleaning up Brandon and the eggs, but she just barked, circled around a couple of times on her hands and knees, and settled herself comfortably in the doghouse.
I hesitated a moment, then headed for the house. As I reached the back porch, Mom stuck her head out and called, “Please leave the door open so I can hear if the baby wakes up.” She barked again and disappeared.
One look at the kitchen was all I needed to repent real fast. All my wonderful visions of endless roller-skating and unlimited ice cream exploded like a blitzed video arcade target. Brandon had discovered a bowl of leftover spinach in the fridge and was gleefully draping the limp, greenish globs over his head as he jumped up and down in the catsup-streaked egg mixture.
I almost went right back out to the doghouse to beg Mom to forsake her canine ways and be the mom again, but I didn’t. Not because I was too stubborn to admit that I was wrong, but because I suddenly realized that being a grown-up really wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. And Mom was stuck with it twenty-four hours a day, whether she liked it or not. The least I could do was let her be a dog for a few hours.
I unlatched the door for Emily, checked on the baby, who was sleeping peacefully, then tackled the job of getting Brandon and the kitchen cleaned up. A couple of times I thought I saw Mom peeking in the window, but I wasn’t sure.
Sopping up all those eggs gave me a lot of time to think about what Mom had said about freedom and responsibility. I was still getting used to the idea that maybe grown-ups sometimes got tired of being grown-up. I guess we all need a break sometimes, no matter who we are, I mused. I remembered reading in the New Testament that even Jesus had grown weary on occasion and had gone into the mountains where he could be alone for awhile.
I was fixing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Emily and Brandon, when I remembered that Mom hadn’t even had any breakfast—someone had come to the door just as she was about to eat her bowl of cereal, and by the time she got back, it was soggy.
With great care I made a sandwich for Mom, adding extra grape jelly, which I knew she adored. I carried the sandwich outside and knelt down by the doghouse. “Shall I put this in the doggy dish, or will this plate do?” I asked, giving Mom a big “everything is OK” wink.
Mom winked back. Then she crawled out of the doghouse, yawned, stretched, and brushed the dog hair off her robe. “Now that’s what I call a good vacation!” she declared, taking the sandwich and marching toward the house.
When Dad got home from work that evening, I took him aside and told him all about Mom’s morning. He was extra helpful that night. After dinner, while Dad was helping Emily and Brandon with their prayers and getting them to bed, I sat by Mom on the sofa as she nursed the baby.
“Megan, why don’t you call your cousins and tell them I’ll drop you and your roller skates off for a few hours in the morning,” she said, putting her free arm around me.
I thought for a moment before answering. “Thanks, Mom, but there’s something else I need to do tomorrow. I think I’ll give that old doghouse a good cleaning. After all—” I grinned— “you never know when you might need it again!”

We were on our way to Mammoth Mountain, California, where we planned to enjoy a wonderful week of ski racing and fun in the snow. Just as we were entering Tonapah, Nevada, the driver of the car asked me to take the wheel for a minute. Three of us were in the car. The third member in the back seat grabbed the wheel in a joking manner, turning it almost completely around. The car spun from side to side on the road, finally going off a 10- or 15-foot ledge. I was thrown from the car after it left the road; seconds later the big Travelall rolled over me.
As I hit the ground I turned my head. I don’t know why I did, but I just did. This saved my face from being crushed into the ground. Then I blacked out, but not for long. I remember getting to my feet and standing a few seconds until my friends laid me back on the ground. The only thing I was really worried about was having a broken back because it hurt. It was hard to breathe. I remember thinking that when people die they usually say, “Well, this is it.” I didn’t think “this is it,” but I was sure that dirt and gravel were in my lungs because it was so hard for me to breathe.
I was taken to the tiny Nye Valley hospital where the only patient they had that day was me. Luckily there was a doctor on call. He and the staff cleaned me off, sewed up my cuts, and told me I had a broken back. I was glad it was nothing more serious but felt terrible about not going on to Mammoth Mountain.
Shortly after, two elders who were passing the hospital came in and gave me a blessing. No one had told them to come. They were just going by the hospital and decided to come in and see if they were needed. The two just came up to me and asked me if I wanted a blessing. They didn’t know then, and neither did I, but I had a ruptured spleen that immediately repaired itself or I would have bled to death. The internist who cared for me later said, “This is a very unusual occurrence—a spleen healing itself. In fact, it is almost unheard of.”
The next morning a doctor from my hometown, Provo, Utah, flew in to see me. As soon as he looked at me, he started to give orders, and I was out of that hospital and into a plane in a hurry.
I don’t remember much about the plane ride, but the doctor told me it was a nightmare. He said I blacked out completely two times. The pilot wanted to fly above the storm, but the doctor told him to stay at a lower altitude to keep me alive—the plane did not have a supply of oxygen. An ambulance, oxygen, and my dad were waiting at the Provo airport.
After three weeks of pain, discomfort, discouragement, no food—it wouldn’t stay down—continuous intravenous feeding, being rushed to intensive care and onto an ice bed several times to reduce an extremely high fever, several blood transfusions, and having my back and side punctured to remove the fluid from my lungs, the doctors decided that the only thing left to do was to operate and remove one of my kidneys to try to stop the infection and bleeding.
Members of our ward and many of our friends and relatives fasted and prayed for my recovery. I had many wonderful blessings from my father and the bishop. We all had faith that everything would be all right. I made it through the operation, but my heart was weakened. We also wondered if the remaining kidney, which was also diseased, would take over.
The next week was spent in the intensive care unit with a heart monitor registering every beat. At one time the monitor stopped. I told the nurses to call my mother and tell her that the machine said I had just died and ask if she wanted to come and see me.
I can’t tell you how often and how sincerely I prayed for little things—that the nurse would find a vein that wouldn’t collapse, that I could swallow something that would stay in my stomach, or that my fever would go down without my having to be packed in ice again. These prayers and many others were always answered.
The doctors, three specialists, told me later what was wrong. Besides a broken back, I had three broken ribs that had punctured my lungs. The pressure, the fluid in my lungs, and infection, as well as drugs they had to give me, had injured my heart. I also had had a ruptured spleen, which was healed after my blessing from the elders. One badly diseased kidney was removed, and the other one had infection in it. When my folks asked the operating physician if I would make it, he just shook his head and said, “We can hope. His insides were a mess.” He and the other specialists told us later that by all medical standards I should have died soon after the accident and many times since.
I stayed in the hospital about two months. I lost 50 pounds and was so dizzy that I couldn’t walk without help. I was to have stayed at home and been taught by a tutor. However, I was determined to go to school. With the help of a good friend I was able to do it.
Within a few months the doctors said I was completely well. In fact, after a final examination by the internist, he brought out a large assortment of charts and papers, held them up in the air, and said, “What can I say? You are okay. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Be careful about contact sports—you have only one kidney—but many, many people live to a very old age with only one kidney. In fact, some people are born with only one. Come back and see me in a year.”
I am grateful to be alive and well. I can do anything I ever did before—ski, play tennis, play basketball, exercise. I am so thankful for dedicated doctors (I hope to be one some day), wonderful, patient nurses, and for well-equipped hospitals; but most of all I thank my Father in heaven for his many blessings to us. I’m especially grateful to be serving the Lord in the Canada Calgary Mission. I know our Father loves and guides us and that he has a mission for each of his children. He does preserve lives for a purpose greater than we realize.

While the boys were hiking, sharpening axes, and canoeing, Tami was learning to talk with her hands.
Tamara Anderson, 16, was spending the summer with her father at Scout camp. The camp had hired an interpreter for the deaf, and while dad was busy making sure the camp ran smoothly, Tami cornered the interpreter and soon had him teaching her to “sign.” “Signing” is the use of hand gestures to communicate with the deaf. Before the summer was over, Tami had the system fairly well mastered.
Returning home to Burley, Idaho, Tami found that a new family with a girl her age had moved in next door. Lee Anne Whitesides was deaf. Tami’s summer experience helped her to communicate with Lee Anne, and the two girls became best friends. Tami says her mother appreciates her friendship with Lee Anne because “we are two of the quietest teenagers she has ever seen.”
With practice Tami’s skill increased. She began interpreting for Lee Anne at sacrament meetings, bishop’s interviews, and other special events. Talking with her hands soon became as fun as talking on the telephone. “One good thing about sign language is you can talk with your mouth full—but the problem is you can’t talk with your hands full,” says Tami.
Tami’s abilities came to the attention of her stake president, and she was called as a regional Sunday School teacher for the deaf. The program for the deaf had just been started, and Tami was called to teach the children’s classes.
Sunday mornings Tami climbs into the family car and drives ten miles, picking up her students to take them to Sunday School. The first week of the program Tami and her students taught a few signs to the members of the ward where the Sunday School is held so they could communicate with the deaf students. During opening exercises Tami sits on the stand and interprets the talks and announcements for her students.
For the class itself, Tami has had to use a lot of ingenuity. Although she uses Church course materials, many of her lessons are her very own because of the mixed ages of her students. “I just use what I have learned about our Heavenly Father.”
It has been challenging to hold the children’s interest in class. Because her students learn by looking, Tami has to have good visual aids. One of Tami’s innovations is her teaching assistant—a Raggedy Andy doll that uses its hands to “talk” to the class. “I work the hands of the doll to make a few simple words and phrases like ‘My Heavenly Father loves me, and he loves you too.’ They really understand what Andy says. I only wish he could say more.”
After Sunday School Tami drives her students back home. “It’s a job to be driving and have the kids signing to me while I’m trying to watch the road.”
During sacrament meetings Tami sits at the back of the chapel with Lee Anne and interprets the meeting for her. Tami’s hands fly deftly, and Lee Anne seldom misses a word of the meeting. Sunday evening Tami starts to work on next week’s Sunday School lesson. In showing her love for the deaf, her actions as well as her hands speak louder than words.

The glacier glows from deep within, pulling scarce light from a gray day and turning it an eerie blue. Mostly, the glacier is dirty white. But from parts of the vertical face comes faint, cold blue fire. “Ice blue” is a real color.
At the glacier’s foot a shallow lake of ice melt is dotted with an occasional miniature iceberg. A stream of glacial water tumbles into the lake with a distant, dull rumble. It’s the only sound you hear until—
Splash! “Whoop!” Someone has just jumped into the lake. Or fallen. Or been pulled. Youth of the Juneau Alaska District are holding their annual games on the sandy shore. Relays rage back and forth across a shallow inlet. Put on hip boots, wade-run through thigh-high ice water, take off the boots and hand them to a teammate for the return trip. Splash! Someone else has tried to run too fast. Again, a sharp intake of breath and “whoop!”
Soon, a stout rope is drawn across the same inlet and the teams take sides, muscles straining, heels dug into the sand. Rhythmic chants of “pull … pull … pull” echo across the lake. Inch by inch the losing team is drawn toward the incredibly cold water.
Incredibly, too, some of the youth who didn’t get wet in the relay or tug-of-war give berserk yells and wade into the bone-chilling water for the sheer daring of it. Afterward, when everyone has dried off and is back at the chapel warming up, the kids explain. It’s not insanity, just enthusiasm.

A beautiful illustration of Joseph F. Smith’s love for his family comes from his early years as a father, when he was existing on a poverty wage and was paid only in commodities. In these destitute circumstances, he made a trip to town one day before Christmas to buy “something for my chicks.”
“I wanted something to please them, and to mark the Christmas day from all other days—but not a cent to do it with! I walked up and down Main Street, looking into the shop windows … everywhere—and then slunk out of sight of humanity and sat down and wept like a child until my poured-out grief relieved my aching heart; and after awhile returned home, as empty as when I left, and played with my children, grateful and happy … for them.”

“Annie, we need a cabbage for Christmas dinner tomorrow,” Mother said. “Please go to the Olsens and trade these potatoes for one. Hurry now. Night’s coming.”
Eleven-year-old Annie sighed, dropping her knitting and picking up the burlap bag of potatoes. It was a tradition in Norway for families to have a cabbage for Christmas dinner, and Annie knew it would be delicious. But she didn’t want to leave the warm fire. “Can Gunnild come, too?” she asked hopefully.
“No, she must feed the goats and help your father.”
Annie buttoned her sheepskin coat and hurried outside into the brisk air. The snow crunched under her feet and the sharp wind whipped her blonde braids as she scurried down the path.
A few minutes later she reached the Olsens’ cabin and rapped on the wooden door. Mrs. Olsen peeked out, her blue eyes wide with surprise.
“Why, Annie! What are you doing out in this bitter wind? Your cheeks are as bright as strawberries. Come in and warm yourself.”
Annie’s fingers and toes tingled as she stood by the crackling fire. “Mother asked me to trade these potatoes for a cabbage,” she said.
“Oh, child, I’m sorry. I have no more cabbages. We ate our last one yesterday.” Mrs. Olsen stirred the big black kettle hanging over the fire. “Would you like some porridge?”
“No, thank you,” Annie replied. “I can’t stay. Do you know where I can get a cabbage?”
“The Petersens may have one. Jens had a good crop this year. But if you go there, you must hurry. It feels like there’s a storm brewing.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Olsen,” Annie said as she hurried outside. Tucking the bag under her arm, she plunged her hands deep into her pockets and trudged forward. The icy wind slapped her face, and black clouds rumbled overhead.
After what seemed like hours, she reached the Petersens. Luckily, Mrs. Petersen had an extra cabbage to trade for Annie’s potatoes. Waving good-bye, Annie headed home. Tiny snowflakes fluttered around her, covering the path with a goose-feathery whiteness.
Annie thought of her family’s warm cabin. She could almost smell the savory lutefisk (dried codfish) and potatoes cooking. Perhaps her mother was also making riskrem (rice pudding) and hiding an almond inside. Maybe Annie would be the lucky one to find it.
The snow began to fall faster. Thick flakes coated her eyelashes and buried the path. Annie stared at the landscape ahead of her, struggling to find the trail. “Is that our cabin?” she thought, noticing a dark shape in the swirling snow. But it was only a thicket of trees. Annie was confused. “Where am I?” she wondered. “Why do the mountains look like giants?” She felt like she was in a dream.
Huge snowdrifts seemed like a warm, white feather bed, urging her to stop and sleep. At first she resisted by thinking about home. She plodded forward on what felt like wooden-post legs, clutching her cabbage. But finally her weary legs collapsed, and she lay down, wrapping herself in a soft blanket of snow.
Back at home, Annie’s father stared out into the whirling whiteness. Where was Annie? He bundled up in his heavy coat and grabbed his lantern. He hurried down the trail, shouting into the wind, “Annie, Annie!”
Next to a giant spruce tree he noticed a strange mound. He rushed forward, swinging his lantern. In the dim light, he saw a pale figure in the snow. Was it Annie? He rushed to her, gathering her in his arms and wrapping his fur coat around her.
“Please, God,” he prayed, “let her live.”
A faint breath stirred Annie’s lips as she whimpered, “Papa.”
“Annie, you’re alive! It’s a miracle!” he cried. “God has preserved your life for a special purpose.”

For instance, President Thomas S. Monson remembered the promised words of the Savior as he blessed me six months ago to stand fearlessly in my calling when it seemed hard. These words of the Savior, which He gave to His tiny band of priesthood holders in this dispensation, came to the prophet’s mind as he laid his hands on my head: “And whoso receiveth you, there I will be also, for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.”
The promise which President Monson remembered and quoted was fulfilled for me. Confidence replaced doubt, the Spirit came, medical helpers were inspired, my life was preserved, and I was borne up. Because of that blessing by President Monson, it will always be easy for me to remember the Savior and trust His promise that He goes before and beside us in His service.

Years before serving as a counselor in the Young Men General Presidency, Brother Bradley R. Wilcox and his wife, Debi, sent their reluctant 14-year-old son to Especially for Youth (EFY) at Brigham Young University.
They worried that he “didn’t have a spiritual bone in his body.” The teen came home different—more focused and sensitive to spiritual things. Now, years later, he is serving in a bishopric and mentoring the youth in his own ward.

Illustration by Allen Garns
Several times a year, my work requires that I travel from Taiwan to San Francisco, California, USA, for training. The problem with traveling between these two places is the 15-hour time difference. Jet lag made me want to sleep during the day, and it kept me awake all night.
Colleagues from all over the world attend these trainings. They told me they coped with jet lag by drinking coffee to keep them awake and drinking red wine to help them sleep.
Some colleagues offered me these drinks, but I politely told them I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and had promised the Lord I would not drink wine or coffee. Some teased me and said those commandments made my life harder. At times, it felt like I was being mocked by the people in the great and spacious building in Lehi’s dream (see 1 Nephi 8:26–27).
Over time, however, keeping the Word of Wisdom began to feel like a tedious burden. During one sleepless night, I realized my faith was weakening. Thankfully, my wife sent me a message that day encouraging me to keep my faith, rely on God, and keep His commandments regardless of the circumstances. With her encouragement, I started to pray for help and began to look at things differently.
On one trip, I noticed a colleague had two cups of coffee. I asked him about the second cup.
“One cup is not strong enough to keep me alert anymore,” he replied.
I was surprised to notice the same was true for those who drank wine. They needed to drink more to sleep. Sometimes, they even overslept because they drank too much.
Watching my colleagues become more dependent on alcohol and coffee made me realize how important it is to keep the commandments. If I had chosen to disobey the Word of Wisdom, I could have been in the same boat.
My jet lag has not completely gone away, but the situation has improved. One morning, I woke up after a good night’s sleep and saw the sunrise. As the sunbeams shone through the window, I realized that with Heavenly Father’s help, I can handle any trial, no matter how big or small. I just need to continue to obey, keep my faith strong, and endure to the end.

Beehives from the Vacaville Third Ward, Vacaville California Stake, decided to do something about the environment in their area, and started their own ward recycling program, calling it “BEE-A-RECYCLER.”
The Beehives sent a sign-up sheet around the ward for those who wanted to participate, and twice a month the girls went to those homes, picking up the plastic, newspapers, glass, and aluminum that were set out for them. They then placed thank-you notes on each door. Everyone who participated felt they were making a real contribution toward helping the environment.

Across the ocean in Clay County, Missouri, Michael Arthur, another great-great-great grandfather who was not a member of the Church, also had a choice: persecute the Mormons or help the Mormons. He chose to give jobs to Lyman Wright, Wilford Woodruff, and others and offered the use of a cabin on his farm where Joseph Smith disbanded Zion’s Camp and organized a stake. Michael Arthur also wrote to the newspapers and spoke passionately against the persecution of the Saints in Missouri.

In Puerto Francisco de Orellana, an isolated village in the jungles of Ecuador, members have a strong bond of love and faith. The monthly branch council reflects their caring. They focus on individuals and families first, then how programs can help. Inspiration follows.
Many members need help finding work. The branch council finds that the members’ challenges can often be solved at the local level. As the council discussed the needs of a single mother with a young daughter who has health problems, the Relief Society president knew of a job where the mother could work and still be near her daughter.
The branch council also draws on Church resources, such as the LDS Employment Services career workshop materials.2 They established a class taught by a branch member, which helped another branch member find a better job.
Ramiro Reyes, first counselor in the branch presidency, says of the branch council: “We are instruments in the hand of the Lord. He will achieve His goals through our works.”

Susan’s spring vacation seemed doomed to be boring. The first day, it rained, a drizzling, gray rain. The second day, Mother had a doctor’s appointment and errands to run, so Susan had to tend her younger brother, Larry, who had the chicken pox.
“I want to go outside and play,” Larry complained.
Susan sighed. “I wish you could, too, but Mom said no friends and no playing outdoors until you’re better.”
“When will Mom be home?” Larry asked.
“After lunch.”
Larry plopped onto the couch. “That’s three hours away!”
“Well, right now I’m going to practice the piano. After that, I’m going to finish my scripture project for Primary,” Susan told him.
“But I want you to play a game with me,” Larry said grumpily.
“Why don’t you play with your trains?” Susan suggested, going over to the piano. Suddenly she turned back. “Hey, I have a great idea! I’ll make a game for you and do my scripture project at the same time!”
Larry sat up. “What are you going to do?”
“That’s the best part,” Susan said mysteriously. “It’s going to be a secret. While I get everything ready, you go to your room and listen to the scripture tapes so you’ll get into a scripture-thinking mood.”
Susan’s Primary teacher, Sister Anderson, had asked the class to use the Bible for their Merrie Miss project, so Susan flipped to the Topical Guide in the back and turned page after page. She discovered lots of possibilities for her game.
Next, she found some index cards, wrote down the scripture references that sounded fun for her clues, then hid all but one of the cards around the house.
After that, she hurried to the kitchen and fixed a surprise before going to get her brother. “Everything’s ready,” she announced, leading Larry to the family room. Handing him a card and a Bible, she said, “The clues will lead you to a surprise, but you’ll need the Bible to get you there.”
Larry looked at the first card and saw:
Clue #1
Matthew 6:6 [Matt. 6:6]. He quickly looked up the reference and read:
“‘But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.’”
He looked up. “Does this mean I need to look in the closet?”
“Why don’t you go find out?”
They ran to the hall closet, and Larry opened the door. Taped to the vacuum cleaner was another card:
Clue #2
Genesis 37:3 [Gen. 37:3]. In his Bible, Larry read:
“‘Now Israel loved Joseph … and he made him a coat of many colours.’”
He grinned. “Coats!”
Larry looked up and saw the family’s winter coats hanging in the closet. He dug his hands deep into the pockets. It was in the pocket of his very own coat that he pulled out a third card:
Clue #3
Matthew 9:16 [Matt. 9:16]. “‘No man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment,’” he read from the Bible.
Puzzled, he asked Susan, “You mean cloth like in a fabric store? How can we go there?”
“We can’t, of course, but there’s a place in our house that’s a lot like one,” she hinted.
Larry let out a whoop. “Mom’s sewing corner!” He scurried to Mom’s sewing corner in the family room. Underneath a box of fabric was another card:
Clue #4
John 14:16. After finding the scripture, Larry read:
“‘And I will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you for ever.’”
Turning to the Bible Dictionary, he saw that Comforter referred to either the Holy Ghost or Jesus Christ. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Where do I look next?”
“I had to stretch the language a bit on that one,” Susan admitted. “What would you think of if Comforter wasn’t capitalized?”
“Oh, I know now—it must be the thick comforter quilt on Mom and Dad’s bed!”
In their parents’ bedroom, Larry pulled back the big comforter and discovered the next card underneath a pillow:
Clue #5
Matthew 10:9 [Matt. 10:9]. “‘Provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purses.’”
Larry stuck his hands on his hips. “But Mom took her purse with her, and I can’t get into it without her permission, anyway.”
“There’s still mine,” Susan said with a grin, “and you may open it.”
Larry raced to his sister’s room and found her purse right on the dresser. It was empty except for a card that read:
Clue #6
Isaiah 7:15 [Isa. 7:15]. “This one says,
“‘Butter and honey shall he eat, that he may know to refuse the evil, and choose the good.’”
“I know where to look for butter and honey!”
In the kitchen, he opened the pantry door. On a shelf sat a plate covered with thick slices of homemade bread spread with butter and honey. Underneath the plate was a card. It said:
Last Clue
Ecclesiastes 4:9 [Eccl. 4:9]. “Hey,” Larry cried, “This scripture is talking about us! Listen—
“‘Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour.’”
“You’re pretty smart,” Susan told him. Then she realized that tending her brother hadn’t been so bad after all. She got two glasses of cold milk from the refrigerator, and they sat down at the table.
Larry took a big bite of his bread. Honey dribbled down his chin, and he licked it off. “Let’s do this game for family home evening next week with Mom and Dad. It was a lot of fun.”
Susan smiled at her brother. “OK, we can work together on the clues.”

Let me share with you my own experience with respect to race issues. As I indicated, I grew up in Logan, Utah, which at the time had very little racial diversity. My initial interaction with Blacks was through athletic competitions and Boys Nation.

In the summer of 1957, when I was almost seventeen years old, I was elected from Utah Boys State to be one of the two senators to attend Boys Nation in Washington, DC.28 Our accommodations were at the University of Maryland at College Park. At breakfast on the first morning, suddenly most of the young men from the South stood on their chairs and sang the song “Dixie.” I did not have a clue what was going on, but I could see that the one African American from the Northeast was visibly uncomfortable. This concerted action seemed very inappropriate, but I did not understand all the implications. One of the reasons I was surprised is because in my home, kindness and fairness for all Heavenly Father’s children were emphasized, particularly by my mother.

The first and most important truth about navigating this journey is that you are not alone. Heavenly Father and the Savior will always strengthen us as we turn to Them. There were times when Kay was struggling so much, and I (Stephen) was so exhausted. She didn’t know who I was for three years, and every day was painful. Sometimes I look back and wonder how I managed to get through those difficult times, and then I realize I was only able to endure the pain by fully relying on the Savior (see Matthew 11:28–29).

Always remember that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are very much aware of what you are going through. President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, reminded us of this truth: “You are being nourished and comforted by a loving Savior, who knows how to succor you in whatever tests you face.”1 Regularly make time for prayer and temple attendance, and invite the Spirit into your home. As you do, you will find guidance, peace, and the sustaining strength you need to keep moving forward.

As families, we all have needs. Just a few heartfelt words about mothers who parent alone: Let me share with you the story of a mother of five whose husband was deployed overseas. She relates:
“When my husband left in early February, we had reliable vehicles. However, by November, they had broken down, and we were not able to repair them. During this same time, my 17-year-old son let me know that he wasn’t planning to serve a mission because he wasn’t sure if the gospel was true. If ever there was a time in my life that I needed the blessings of the priesthood, it was then. I don’t remember all the details or when and where, but I distinctly remember receiving more than one blessing from caring priesthood holders during that time. I always knew that I could call on my home teachers and they would be there. Neither one could fix my van, but they could give me much-needed priesthood blessings, and they found someone who could fix the car.”

Just like Rexburg, Bountiful was never on the list of recommended or even possible temple sites during the time I was doing the work for the Prophet of God. In the late 1980s, in fact, a brilliant man working for the Presiding Bishopric and for me prepared a list, using careful statistical analysis, of one hundred places deserving temples. I delivered it to the President. Based on the criteria we used to make that list, Bountiful, which is where my family and I then lived, would not have appeared in the second or third-hundred possibilities.

Not many weeks after I sent the list of one hundred sites to the President, our son John, the one born in the old Madison Memorial Hospital, came home from the Bountiful Seminary. He announced with some enthusiasm, "A Dad in seminary today told me that the Church has purchased a site for a temple on Bountiful Boulevard." I said to him with great emphasis, and some annoyance, "John, I am in charge of evaluating and buying sites for temples. If you look as if you even think that unfounded story might be true, people will believe it."

Within a day or two, my wife said that she had heard in Relief Society that the Church had purchased a future temple site in Bountiful. I told her, "Kathy, I am in charge. That is an unfounded rumor, and you mustn't even appear to believe it."

The next day in the media, the Church announced the purchase of a temple site in Bountiful. I called Clair Bankhead, who worked with me buying temple properties and sites. I asked, "Clair, why didn't you tell me?" He said, "President Benson told me to buy it and not to tell anyone. So I did what the Prophet asked."

When John came home that day after hearing the news, he said with a smile, "Now I know what it means for you to be in charge." So did I. And now so do you. The Prophet, who holds all the keys of the Kingdom, including the keys of the sealing power, is directly accountable to the Lord for temples. Others may help, but the Lord decides and tells His Prophet. It was a miracle that Bountiful, twenty minutes from Salt Lake and twenty-five from Ogden, received a temple.