Gospel Story Finder

Reflecting on my own life, I am certain that Heavenly Father was helping me develop at a relatively young age those characteristics that would later benefit my understanding of how the gospel provides valuable insights into secular learning. I had the privilege of being raised in the Church, and therefore discussions regarding such questions were a frequent occurrence in my youth. And since debates were, and continue to be, a favorite part of all my family’s get-togethers, there was ample opportunity to express opinions. One very significant episode in my journey, however, came when I was a senior in high school. I was taking a sociology class, and because we had to complete a final group project and presentation on personal and social roles, I proudly volunteered my dad, then a psychology professor at BYU, to come speak to the class.

When the day arrived for his presentation, I was very excited that friends and classmates were going to see what an intelligent father I had. Because it was a rather unique experience at the high school, we all listened intently to everything he had to say. He addressed the several roles of high school students—including child, sibling, friend, etc.—but he particularly focused on our role as student. He told the class that he had always encouraged his own children from a very young age to challenge and question the ideas that were dispensed at school. He asserted that such interaction would bring about a fuller understanding of the topic at hand, and real learning could thus take place. This assertion in his talk, in particular, greatly astounded the students, and I remember one of the rather bold boys in the class asking in amazement, “You mean you really tell your kids to question what the teacher says?”

My father looked over at me for confirmation and said, “Yes, I do. Don’t I, Martha?” I rather timidly nodded yes, even as I realized that I certainly had not significantly lived up to my father’s dictum to that point in my education. I also committed to myself at that moment that I would no longer accept as truth what every seeming authority had to say on a subject, and I would more thoroughly, albeit respectfully, question the ideas put forward and search out answers for myself.

Elsie and Edwin Dharmaraju joined the Church in Samoa and were called by President Spencer W. Kimball to return back to their home in Hyderabad as missionaries to their family. In 1978, 22 of Elsie and Edwin’s family members were baptized, and from this beginning the first stake in the country was organized in Hyderabad in 2012.6

They also listened to John Santosh Murala, then serving in the mission presidency, talk about how his aunt Elsie and uncle Edwin Dharmaraju came to Hyderabad to teach their family the gospel. John was the youngest of the 22 pioneer members to be baptized in 1978.

I still remember the moment I was glad for social distancing.
I’d been given the news that, as South Africa embarked on its lockdown in an effort to curb the spread of the COVID-19 virus, 9.6 million school children in South Africa would be going without food.
The school feeding scheme in South Africa forms a vital form of social support. For many children in the country, it is the only meal they can reliably look forward to each day.
As a journalist, I had just finished five consecutive interviews with various leaders from civil society. They were desperately concerned about how the children would get through the next few months.
“I am highly and extremely worried about what the kids are eating,” one lady who usually runs a feeding scheme for 150 children in one of Johannesburg’s townships had told me. “And there’s just nothing, absolutely nothing I can do about it.”
After hours of similar conversations, I could hear my voice beginning to crack from emotion. At the end of the last interview, I hung up the phone, put my head into my hands and cried.
It was then that I was glad that for social distancing. In normal times, I would probably have been having that conversation face to face. Crying would have been awkward, to say the least.
At least this way I could sob without being seen.
I felt a mounting sense of heaviness and desperation. How could I sit in my home doing nothing while millions around me were going to bed with empty stomachs? I felt like I needed to do something, and yet, in the circumstances, I did not know what.
And then the text message came.
It was from a sister in my ward, a perennial do-gooder. She told me about an old age home that she had been assisting. The home had permission to remain open during lockdown and was now helping to feed the extra mouths that usually relied on feeding schemes that had been forced to shut. They needed food, and lots of it.
At first, I planned to simply go to my friend’s home and drop off some food donations. But then a thought occurred to me. What if I were to open up my home as a collection point? What if, instead of simply donating to the cause, I created my own “forcefield” of influence?
I created a digital poster for distribution. I double-checked the legality of what I was doing. I collected plastic containers and lined them up outside my gate. Then came the hard part: sending the poster, along for an appeal for help, to my neighborhood WhatsApp group.
There were about 250 participants in the group, and I knew some could be harsh critics. What if they attacked me for suggesting that people leave their homes in order to drop off food? What if I was accused of inadvertently spreading the virus? What if I exposed one of my three young children to COVID-19? To be completely honest, I was terrified.
After re-writing the message about 20 times, with my heart in my throat, I finally pressed send. A few minutes later I received a message from a stranger.
“We would be happy to put a box of food together for you,” he said. “Thank you for this.”
For the second time in a few days, I felt my eyes fill with tears.
The phone calls started shortly thereafter. There were people I had never met who had heard about the project from a friend and wanted to help. Friends—local and international—wanting to transfer cash from afar. A sister from my ward sent a truck from her local wholesaler. And a seemingly unending stream of strangers silently deposited maize meal, rice and canned goods outside my gate.
In the end, I raised R100,000 in cash and food donations. Some sisters from my ward sewed 150 cloth masks. Instead of helping one home, we were able to help three. Hundreds of families were assisted at a time of desperate need thanks to the combination of many small efforts. Galvanized by this experience, my friend went on to organize a nonprofit organization called Bubele (meaning kindness and generosity in Xhosa), helping unemployed people to clean up the city and receive food parcels in return.
What did this experience teach me? It taught me the sacred interlink between faith, hope and charity.
Taking that first step of faith was truly difficult and scary for me. But the result?
A sense that our Heavenly Father knows and is mindful of each one of His children. A greater feeling of love for my fellow men. An ability to better see the potential in everyone around me. An inkling of charity, in the truest sense of the word.
The sweetest part about it, though, was hope. I felt that feeling of despair begin to dissipate. I felt, as Elder Jeffrey R. Holland puts it, that when I when I exercise faith and determination, I can keep moving, keep living, and most importantly, I can keep rejoicing.1

The next night after supper he went with Fitzie and some of his friends to play basketball in the school gym. They played for two hours.
Afterward they were all in the locker room. Kevin had already showered and was just putting on his shoes. The others were in various stages of getting dressed.
Suddenly the lights went out.
“Okay, who’s the clown?” Fitzie yelled. “Turn the lights back on!”
“I didn’t turn ’em off,” someone answered. “Where’s the light switch anyway? … Ow! My toe! … The switch doesn’t work.”
“There aren’t any lights anywhere in the building,” another voice added.
“Oh no,” Fitzie groaned, “another blackout. Do any of you guys have a lighter?”
“I do,” someone volunteered. “It’s in my shirt pocket if I can find it.” Kevin could make out a figure fumbling in a locker near him. “Here it is.”
A small glimmer of light shone in the otherwise dark room.
“Hurry up, you guys! I’m low on lighter fluid.” Kevin sat on the bench and watched unknown figures make use of the small light as they finished preparing to leave the room.
“Man, I never thought I’d be glad somebody had a cheap lighter,” a voice drawled.
“What do you mean, cheap lighter? It cost me two bucks.”
“Yeah, well it sure seems bright in here.”
Finally they were ready. “Kevin, what are you doing sitting there? Let’s get out of here.”
On Sunday Kevin went with Jenny to class, mainly to be with her. He had already discounted any possibility that their teacher could teach him anything, so he sat with his shoulders hunched over, his head down, wrestling with his problems.
It wasn’t until Sister Mattson called on him that he looked up. “Kevin,” she said, then read aloud from the manual, “this can best be seen by examining what the Savior said. Will you read Matthew, chapter 5, verses 14 through 16?” [Matt. 5:14–16]
Jenny loaned him her Bible and helped him find the reference. “‘Ye are the light of the world,’” Kevin began mechanically. “‘A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light …’” He stopped and stared at the words on the page.
“Yes, go on,” Sister Mattson urged.
“‘… and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.’”
“Kevin, there’s one more verse,” Jenny quietly prompted.
“‘Let your light so shine before men,’” he read slowly, “‘that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’”
“Yes, and what can we learn from this scripture?” Sister Mattson asked.
He didn’t say anything. He pictured the small light in the darkened locker room and the dim figures of people moving around, each attracted by the light and using it as their reference point.
“Jenny, do you know what we can learn from this scripture?” Sister Mattson asked, thinking that Kevin did not have an answer.
“We can learn a lot,” Kevin said quietly, almost to himself. “The first thing is that in order to be a light, we have to live the commandments. You have to set your standards. You can’t re-decide what to do every time someone asks you to do something wrong. You’ve got to make a mental list: This is what I will do. This is what I won’t do. You have to decide what your life is going to mean, or it won’t mean a thing.”
“Thank you,” Sister Mattson said. “Now we should get on with the rest of the lesson.”
Kevin interrupted. “The problem is, I keep thinking that if I didn’t live here, it would be easier. It doesn’t really matter where you live. What matters is that you set your standards once and for all. If you do that, you can be a light.”
“Yes, thank you, and now we’d better get on to Ephesians,” Sister Mattson said.
“You’ve got to be a light to the people around you. Do you know how much light one small lighter can throw in a completely dark room?”
“No,” Jenny replied.
“Enough. That’s the point. Enough for everyone in the room to find his way out of the darkness. And the darker it is, the more the light is noticed. And people who enjoy the light will come nearer to it. That’s how I can find friends who will help me live my standards! We can gather friends around us who will help us, and the light will get even brighter.”
Sister Mattson by now was just looking at both of them.
“Do you know what I’m going to do?” Kevin burst out. “I’m going to memorize jokes from my brother’s Boy’s Life magazine. It has some of the corniest jokes in the world. Every time I hear someone starting a dirty joke, I’m going to bombard him with corny jokes. And I’m going to have a party of my own, at my house, with kids from school and the missionaries. In a nice friendly way, they’re going to know I’m a Mormon.”
“Thank you, Kevin,” Sister Mattson broke in. Turning to Jenny, she asked confidentially, “Jenny, what did he say?”
Jenny put her hand on his arm and answered proudly, “He said that he’s going to be okay.”
“How nice,” Sister Mattson said. “Well, we’d better get on with the rest of the lesson.” She looked at the page of the manual, paused, and then shut the book.
“No. I think Kevin’s story can teach us the same thing. What were you saying about the light in the dark room?”

“Want to try again?” Elder Higgins asked as we approached a group of houses next to a church.
I knocked on the door and stood back waiting. A tall man wearing a clerical collar opened the door and smiled at us like the cat about to eat the canary.
“What can I do for you boys?” he said with a very proper British accent. He obviously knew who we were.
I glanced at the mailbox as I swallowed and stepped back. “The Reverend Richard Cutts, Ph.D.,” it said.
What could I say to this man? How could I challenge what he believed? I whispered a quick prayer. I could see Elder Higgins getting ready to jump in.
It’s funny how much can go through your mind in a few seconds. I thought of my first Primary teacher, Oma Santos, telling the story of Moses and the burning bush; my Sunday School teacher, Cloe Davis, explaining the importance of Joseph Smith’s first vision; Velda Dalton teaching about the Sermon on the Mount; and my Uncle Elton talking about the restoration of the priesthood in deacons class. I grew up in a small town in southern Utah. None of my teachers had Ph.D. behind their name. None of them read Greek or Latin like Reverend Cutts most likely did. But it didn’t matter. What they knew was much more important.
“I’m Elder Roberts,” I said, feeling for the first time the strength and importance of what I’d been taught, what I was here to teach. “This is Elder Higgins, and we’d like to tell you about the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
The expression on Reverend Cutts’s face changed. He looked a little surprised. “Come on in,” he said, smiling.

I grew up on a small dairy farm. We milked a small herd of cows and we grew most of our own crops. My parents kept a large and well-tended garden and a small orchard adjacent to our home. So I am very familiar with the concept of harvest and it brings sweet memories to me. My mother adhered to the adage of gardening, “You eat what you can and what you can’t, you can!” In the late summer we began canning and freezing. We made freezer corn, we canned green beans and pickles. We bottled peaches and pears and other fruits. Later in the fall we picked apples and made them into apple sauce, pie filling, apple juice and apple cider. Tomatoes were canned and stored as salsa, juice or other sauces. Finally, our potatoes were dug up and bagged for the winter.

In addition to these activities, my parents stored a number of other food items. Of course the hard red wheat had its place in our basement storage room along with other staples such as flour and sugar. In a small shed adjacent to our home were extra freezers filled with frozen meats, jams and other items.

Try to visualize this with me. At the bottom of an old set of concrete steps in my parent’s home is their basement storage room. When you open the doors you are met with a rich earthy smell. Turning on the light reveals a relatively small space packed with shelves and at the end of canning season, these shelves are filled with jars and cans and boxes and tubs of the items I just described to you. If you were to walk into the outside shed you would see bags of potatoes on the floor, boxes filled with apples, tomatoes, fall squash and freezers filled with meat. Can you get a sense of the satisfaction, safety, self reliance and wealth this type of resource represents?. It makes me hungry just thinking about it.

This was our family food storage and it was used wisely. Once in place we didn’t just sit back and wait for a famine to strike before we began to use it. Items from these shelves adorned virtually every meal. My mother would pull from these stores items for side dishes, main dishes, garnishes and desserts

I watched her practice her considerable home economy skills as she used this resource to bless the life of our family and many others. On many occasions we would be about to sit down to dinner when company would arrive. They would be invited to join us. With a few quick trips to the basement, a meal that was intended for 6 would easily feed twice that. It was literally like witnessing the miracle of the loaves and the fishes first hand.

On more than a few occasions when Amber and I were newly married and our children were young. Our budget was stretched thin. As we left my parents home following a visit, we were almost always presented with a box or several boxes of food items from storage. My parents just seemed to know what we needed. We loved going home!

In May 2010, over 1,200 youth from eight stakes in British Columbia and the Bellingham Washington Stake gathered in Vancouver for a temple celebration marking the completion of the Vancouver British Columbia Temple.
The celebration, titled “A Beacon to the World,” highlighted the land, history, and people of British Columbia. Part of the celebration included the youth’s guiding 172 of the area’s oldest Church members down to the floor for recognition. After dancing and performing music for the program, the youth closed the program by joining hands and circling around a replica of the temple.
Sabrina Blackmore, 17, of the Blackmore Ward in the Prince George British Columbia Stake, rode 15 hours on a bus to participate in the event. “This is the best experience ever,” she said.

When President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, studied physics and mathematics in college, he felt overwhelmed. His discouragement led him to stop studying and to think about quitting school.

But one night, he recounted that “help came as a voice, an actual voice in my mind. It was not my voice. It was a soft and loving voice—but firm. The words voiced were these: ‘When you realize who you really are, you will be sorry that you didn’t try harder.’”1

This insight led President Eyring to finish college, pursue graduate school, and later become a teacher. We may be content with where we are in our education or career, but God can see a potential in us that even we can’t always see. We lose nothing and gain everything by engaging in lifelong learning.

Pierre’s idea for a choir of homeless men never got off the ground in Paris because he didn’t stay in Paris. His older brother and sister had moved to Montréal, and he visited them frequently. In April 1995 he moved to Québec to get married. His engagement didn’t work out, but Pierre fell in love with Canada and decided to stay. He set up a successful dental lab and, of course, began volunteering.
“On my second day here,” he says, “I inquired at the tourist office where I could volunteer.” By coincidence, the tourism officer was a volunteer at l’Accueil Bonneau, a homeless shelter, and told him how to find it. “I arrived in time for lunch, and they gave me an apron,” he recalls. “I started to serve lunch to the homeless. For more than a year I did this.”
But the same frustrations he had felt in Paris resurfaced, and so did his idea. He typed a flyer and handed out 600 copies to the men in the food line. It offered employment to “singers, even beginners, for part-time work. Men only. Any age. Any nationality. Must love to sing. Musical knowledge not necessary.” Thirty men expressed interest, but at the first rehearsal only 3 showed up. However, 7 came the next day. The day after, 12 showed up. Pierre taught them four Christmas carols from the LDS hymnbook.
The metro was an inspired and logical location for their performances. “If the mountain won’t come to you, you must go to the mountain,” says Pierre. “Thousands and thousands of people come to the metro.”
Residents of Montréal are accustomed to seeing homeless people on the street, but they were not prepared for what they encountered in the metro station at 7:30 A.M. on 17 December 1996. It was an unforgettable experience for the performers and the commuters. “I couldn’t see the faces of the spectators,” Pierre explains, “because I was conducting, but I could see the faces of my friends in the choir. Their faces changed. People crowded around us. Several missed their trains to listen longer. One woman began to cry, and her sobs filled that improbable event with incredible emotion. It was like a tide coming in. People were crying, singing with us, putting money in the hat to the cadence of the melody, clink, clink. They started to make a line to put money in the hat. It was a wonderful experience.”
That first concert brought in more money than they had expected. The next morning the choir earned even more. “But the greatest pay the men received,” says Pierre, “was when people came directly up to them, spoke to them, and shook their hands. This meant much to men who had spent their lives digging in garbage cans, begging, or even stealing simply to survive.”
The choir sang every day that Christmas season except Sundays. The money they earned allowed all of them to spend the holiday in more comfortable circumstances. A few were able to visit relatives. Some hadn’t seen their families in years.
“After the last performance,” Pierre recalls, “I asked my friends, ‘Do you want to keep going with this choir, or do you want to stop now and start it up again next Christmas?’ ‘Keep going,’ they insisted.”
After the choir’s first subway concert, the media quickly learned about them. Two days later they were invited to introduce the weather forecast for a large television station, and the next morning articles appeared in most of the Québec newspapers. This unexpected free publicity allowed the choir to sign contracts for concerts at festivals, schools, churches, banks, and other television stations.
“The media,” says Pierre, “has helped give us a voice for our message that life is beautiful, that it is really worth living, and that we should never give up. Everyone deserves a second chance, and no one should be excluded, even if he or she is different.”

I guess I’ve really changed a lot, for the better, I hope. I got into a big argument with Jared today, though. I know I should show more love toward him, but it’s hard when he acts as aggravating as he did today. He came storming into the house, shouting, “I hate girls!”
“Why?” I asked.
“They’re stuck up, that’s why! The Church leaders are always telling us fellows that we should get married, but how can we when all the girls think they’re too good for us?”
I felt like hitting him. “I like that! I spent all last year losing weight and trying to make myself attractive like President Kimball tells us to, but do you think guys are swooning at my feet? No! The trouble with you and all your snobby friends is that you only want to take the glamorous girls out. They already have plenty of dates. You never pay any attention to the girls who have to try hard to be pretty!”
He considered that. “Don’t all girls try hard to be pretty?”
I thought for a moment. “I guess we all just try to be our best.”
And, as far as I know, that’s the truth.

I broke up with my first boyfriend on a clear summer night.
Earlier that day, Carter (name has been changed) and I had been fighting—which wasn’t abnormal in our three-year, on-and-off relationship. We fought about everything—from what to eat to future plans. In the beginning, I waved our differences aside with the adage that “opposites attract.” But our occasional playful banter eventually morphed into an exhausting chain of disagreements.
That summer night we had taken a telescope into the desert to look at the planets. But we found that the brightness of the moon against the dark sky obscured our view. Frustrated, we started arguing—again.
I ended up walking off to compose myself. “This isn’t me,” I thought. I was known as the peacemaker among my siblings, and I spoke gently and kindly to my other friends. So why was I yelling at the guy I claimed to love?
I looked up at the dark sky and prayed to know how I could improve my relationship with Carter. Suddenly, overwhelming peace replaced my anger, and I felt impressed that the best thing I could do for both of us was to end our relationship.
Healing took time. There were moments I was tempted to dismiss the prompting to break up with Carter because I missed the familiarity of our relationship. I sometimes felt frustrated at God, believing that He had slammed one door shut without opening another. Even so, I clung to the counsel of Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “In moments of fear or doubt or troubling times … hold fast to what you already know and stand strong until additional knowledge comes” (“Lord I Believe,” Liahona, May 2013, 93–94).
I didn’t receive that “additional knowledge” for many months, and I began to wonder if I ever would. After one of my heartfelt prayers about the breakup, the Spirit pressed on my heart, telling me that Heavenly Father’s promptings are for the well-being of His children. The details of His reasoning aren’t as relevant as my faith in Him is.
Knowing that Heavenly Father had a plan for me gave me hope for my future and helped me to start dating again. One morning I read Doctrine and Covenants 88:40, where the Lord teaches that “light cleaveth unto light.” I suddenly realized that this principle can apply to dating. I knew I would be happier with someone who shared my values and light.
I eventually met Austin. We connected instantly, from our love of tacos to our respective stateside missions. His gentle spirit felt familiar and compatible with mine, and I eventually married him. What we have isn’t an explosive relationship like you might expect in a popular romance movie. It’s sweet and stable—something I believe can last forever.
Many of us yearn for an explanation when we receive difficult promptings. From my experience, I learned that faith in the Lord can help us remain obedient without knowing the why. As we trust in an all-knowing God, we can feel peace in our decisions to act on promptings until we do receive the “additional knowledge” He has promised the faithful.

The jaded, blank-faced crowd congesting the Las Vegas strip paid little attention to the boy behind the wheel of the shiny Corvette. “Just another kid out cruising in his father’s car,” thought anyone who happened to glance his way.
But that was all right with 18-year-old Jack Farley, because he didn’t care much for the crowd, either. He had other things on his mind. He’d started working at age 14, and four years later he’d become sort of a bubble gum baron, controlling his own vending business. He’d paid for the Corvette himself and he’d driven it from the California coast to the desert resort town for an exciting weekend.
Yet something was bothering him. Something wasn’t quite right. His mind kept reverting back to what those Mormons were teaching him in the Sunday School class he’d started attending—things like service to others and eternal families. He’d be missing that church Sunday. Or maybe he wouldn’t—what was he doing here anyway? If he turned around now, he could easily make it back by morning.
The decision to drive back to his home in Mission Viejo, California, was one of the most important choices Jack ever made. Although he’d fought and won many battles in his life, the choice to go home for church led to what he considers the ultimate victory of his life so far. “I’m real thankful for the Church,” he says, “real thankful. I can’t even dream of where I’d be without it. Outside the Church, it’s like you fall into a river and it carries you wherever it goes. In the Church, you have control.”
Jack had been battling strong currents in that river for a long time. He began one major battle clear back in the third grade. Although it was obvious that he was a bright child, he couldn’t keep up with the other kids in school. “I was diagnosed as having dyslexia,” Jack explained. “That’s a reading disability where your letters sometimes appear to be jumbled up a bit. Sometimes Ds look like Ps and stuff like that. You can still read; it just takes a bit longer.”
It took Jack a lot longer. He was placed in special classes and got a lot of help from specially trained teachers, but he never quite caught up. “The gap between me and the other kids just kept getting wider and wider,” he said. “At times, when the teacher would call on me to read out loud to a class of about 30 kids, it was embarrassing when I couldn’t even sound out the word the.”
But if Jack had trouble reading, there was one thing he excelled in, and that was work. Hard work. At 14 he got a job in a print shop, sweeping and doing various other cleanup chores. After that, choosing to work diligently became easy.
Work provided the reinforcement Jack wasn’t getting in the classroom. “I was behind all my friends at school, but I was doing really well at work, and I started learning about business,” he said. He decided to try his hand at entrepreneurship. With a little training and a lot of inspiration from a concerned teacher at his high school, Jack started a vending business.
“My main thing is gumball machines,” he explains. “I have about 100 in stores—mom-and-pop type stores, where I had to get permission from the owners to put them in. I also have a few pop machines, but I like gumball machines better. It just comes down to how much time you spend on getting new locations as to how much money you make.”
And Jack did make money. Lots of it. He met his material goals of buying his own sports car and just about anything else he wanted. He joined a special school/work program, where he could incorporate his business with his studies. Before he knew it, he had graduated from high school and was out on his own. “I should be happy now,” he thought. But he wasn’t.
“There had to be more. All I had faith in was money, and that had nothing to do with happiness at all,” he said. That realization started his search for the truth. He thought it might be a good idea to thank Heavenly Father for all the blessings he’d been given, so he went to pray in the only nearby church he knew of—San Juan Capistrano, the famous Catholic Mission, built centuries ago. It seemed logical that the Lord would hear his prayers from such a place.
The Lord did. In response, he sent a messenger to Jack’s door. But it wasn’t the type in a suit, white shirt, and tie. It was Randy Smith, an insulation salesman and a recent convert with a lot of enthusiasm. He started talking to Jack about insulation, and somehow the subject got around to the gospel. It didn’t take Randy long to invite Jack out to the missionary prep class that his brother Tom taught.
“But I didn’t join right off,” Jack said. “I kind of sat back and doubted for a while, but I wish I hadn’t.” His Las Vegas excursion helped him appreciate the truths they were teaching him. “I looked around at the people there and thought ‘Lots of these people have money, but they’re still looking for something to make them happy,’” Jack said. Maybe he really could find what he was looking for in the Church.
He’d previously been attending Sunday School with a lackadaisical attitude, but now he decided to take the gospel seriously and learn some more. He began the missionary lessons and discovered that it would take the gospel to make him happy—happier than banking billions from bubble gum ever could. “Once the missionaries started teaching me, it only took about a month and a half before I was baptized,” he said.
Jack’s choices didn’t end when he joined the Church, though. Other decisions were in store. “I decided to go on a mission right after I decided to get serious about the gospel,” Jack said. “I thought, if it’s true, it’s all true, and of course you want to tell other people about it. It would be wrong not to go.”
But what about his business, and what about his car? “I sold the Corvette,” Jack says, with a surprising lack of remorse. “The insurance was costing me a fortune anyway.” The bubble gum business is still booming, however. His mother will manage it while he’s in the mission field, and the profits will help keep him afloat financially.
Jack feels he is well prepared for the mission field, but when his call came, he was stunned. He will be serving in the Japan Nagoya Mission. He was surprised that with his reading disability, he would be called to learn such a difficult language as Japanese.
“I was confident I would go to an English-speaking mission,” he said. “When I went to take the language aptitude test, I asked the girl who administered it which were the hardest languages, and she said both Chinese and Japanese were challenging. I thought, good—at least I won’t have to worry about them. Then when I got my mission call, I was surprised.”
But Jack doesn’t worry about the battle with the language. “When you’re doing the work of the Lord, he’s going to help you out. When I first got a Book of Mormon, I found it really hard to read, but since I started reading the scriptures, my reading has improved, and it’s the first time I can really see that improvement.”
Jack pulls out the scriptures, and reads, out loud, his favorite: Alma 32:28. It talks about the faith he needs to serve, and the faith the people need to receive his message: “Now, we will compare the word unto a seed. Now, if ye give place, that a seed may be planted in your heart, behold, if it be a true seed, or a good seed, if ye do not cast it out by your unbelief, that ye will resist the Spirit of the Lord, behold, it will begin to swell within your breasts; and when you feel these swelling motions, ye will begin to say within yourselves—It must needs be that this is a good seed, or that the word is good, for it beginneth to enlarge my soul; yea, it beginneth to enlighten my understanding, yea, it beginneth to be delicious to me.”
As Jack reads that scripture, you notice that he reads clearly and precisely; he doesn’t stumble over a word.
Hey Jack—did you know you just read that scripture perfectly?
“I did? Wow, well thank you. I guess I’m getting a lot of help.”
The same Spirit that helped Jack choose to head home from Las Vegas is still helping him now. And it will continue to help him as he teaches the Japanese.
Editor’s note: Since this story was written, Elder Farley has completed training in the MTC. He is now serving in the Japan Nagoya Mission.

Sara stared at her bowl of oatmeal. She hated oatmeal. She had always hated oatmeal. But ever since Grandma had come to live with them, she cooked a big pot of oatmeal every morning. Sara had told her grandmother that she didn’t like oatmeal, but Grandma always forgot. Grandma forgot a lot of things. Sometimes she forgot to put her teeth in. And she often forgot where she had left her glasses. Even worse was the way she dressed and talked. She called Sara “Sarey,” and she wore flowered cotton housedresses that came down to her ankles. And when she went outside, she always put on a sunbonnet.
Sara’s mother said that they should be kind and humor Grandma. Well, today I don’t feel like humoring anyone, thought Sara. Her best friend, Gail, was moving to San Diego, and this was her last day of school. “I’m not hungry,” Sara said. She pushed away the hated oatmeal, got her books and sweater, and went out the back door.
Sara walked slowly down the street toward Gail’s house. They had been walking to school together since second grade. In fact, they had been doing everything together since second grade. Gail, as usual, was waiting in front of her house. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, while Sara had dark hair and eyes.
A big yellow moving van, with its back doors open, was already parked in front of Gail’s house.
“Hi,” said Gail.
An enormous lump filled Sara’s throat, and she couldn’t answer for a minute. The girls walked to school in silence. Sara went through the motions of schoolwork and lunch and recess as if she were a robot.
After school the girls walked home together for the last time. When they got to Gail’s house, they stopped. The moving van was almost loaded. The front door of the house was wide open, and Sara could see the empty rooms inside. She had never felt so lonely in her life. Nothing would ever be the same again.
“Be sure to write,” said Sara in a choked voice.
“I will,” Gail said, her eyes brimming with tears. They had talked before about writing and visiting each other during the summer, but this time it was for real.
Suddenly the dam in Sara’s throat broke, and sobs wracked her body. She turned and ran. As she got close to home, her heart sank even further. A tiny figure topped by a sunbonnet was bent over the flower bed.
Oh, no! I can’t talk to Grandma now, thought Sara. I’ll go around to the back door. Grandma’s hearing isn’t too good, so she’ll probably never notice me.
Sara cut across the lawn and was almost to the corner of the house when Grandma’s shrill voice cut the still air. “Sarey, is that you?”
Sara had a wild impulse to keep going, but she stopped. She pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped her eyes, then turned around. “Yes, Grandma. It’s me.”
“Will you come over here a minute? I need some help.”
Sara sighed. “All right, Grandma. I’m coming.”
Grandma peered up at Sara from under the sunbonnet. She looked like a sharp little bird. Sometimes Sara had the uncomfortable feeling that Grandma could see right through her.
“You’ve been crying, Sarey.”
“A little,” admitted Sara. “Today was Gail’s last day at school.”
“Oh,” said Grandma. “Sarey, would you mind helping me plant these tulip bulbs. It won’t take long if we both work at it.”
Sara put her books down and knelt beside Grandma. Grandma dug a hole with her trowel. “Now, set the bulb right in there,” she said.
Sara did as she was told. Then Grandma poured water into the hole from a watering can, placed dirt on top of the bulb, and watered it again. “There, that’s all there is to it. Do you think you can do that?”
“Sure.” Sara picked up the other trowel and started to dig where Grandma showed her.
“When’s your friend moving?”
“Today,” said Sara.
“Too bad. That will be a big change for you.”
“Yes,” said Sara in a choked voice. She wanted to tell Grandma to be quiet, that she didn’t want to talk to her about Gail.
Grandma was quiet for a while, then started chuckling. “Did I ever tell you about my Grandma Ruth, Sarey?”
“No,” said Sara, grateful that Grandma’s mind had wandered off to a different subject.
“She was born and raised in North Carolina and moved to Kentucky when she was a bride of sixteen. She rode a horse alongside her husband. They had everything they owned piled onto their two horses, and it wasn’t much, I can tell you.”
Grandma set a bulb into the hole she had been digging and continued, “One thing that Ruth had with her was a little bag of tulip bulbs. Her mama gave them to her before she left. As soon as Ruth’s husband got a little log cabin built, Ruth planted those bulbs. Then came one of the hardest winters on record in Kentucky, and she and her husband nearly froze to death. But when those tulips came peeking through the ground in the spring, she knew that they would make it.”
Sara put dirt over a bulb and patted it down.
“Ever since then, we’ve been a tulip family,” Grandma went on. “I received some bulbs from Grandma Ruth when I married and went to Missouri with your grandpa. Many’s the year the tulips coming up in the spring have lifted my spirits. Grandma Ruth always said that tulips are the Lord’s promise to us. No matter what happens, those tulips just keep coming up every spring.”
Sara stopped digging and looked at her grandmother. “You brought these bulbs with you from Missouri, didn’t you?”
Grandma ducked her head shyly. “Yes. I put them in my suitcase because I was really afraid to come out here to live. I figured I needed that promise more than ever to hold on to.”
Sara looked down at her dirty hands. “Some things will always be the same, won’t they?” she said softly.
“That’s a fact,” Grandma agreed.
Suddenly Sara had an idea. “Grandma, do you think you could spare one or two of these bulbs?”
Grandma’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why, sure, honey. I brought plenty.”
Sara held out her hands for the bulbs Grandma gave her. “I want to give these to Gail to take with her. She can plant them at her new home. Is that all right?”
Grandma smiled. “It’s a fine idea. Grandma Ruth would have liked knowing that her tulips will go all the way out to California.”
Sara stood up and dusted off her hands. “Grandma, do you have any pictures of her? Of Grandma Ruth, I mean.”
“I sure do, honey, and I have a peck of stories about her too.”
Sara reached down and hugged her. “I’ll be back in a little while, and you can start telling me about her.”
Sara clutched the bulbs in her hand and started for Gail’s house.

Coming back to the modern day, I recently heard of a woman who wrote to one of the national columnists—whose name you would know if I shared it with you—and said, “I am a nurse working at a hospital in the child abuse section. Every time they bring children in, it just about breaks my heart; I can’t stand to see these little children beaten, mutilated, bruised, and hurt. I guess the straw that broke the camel’s back came the other day when they brought in a little five-year-old girl. As I held her in my arms, her mother said, ‘I didn’t think I was hitting her that hard.’”

The nurse said, “The little girl passed away in my arms. Just before she passed away, she opened her eyes and said, ‘My mommy says I’m a bad girl.’”

I would have given anything to have been the national columnist responding to that letter. It would have said something like this: “No, sweetheart, you are not a bad girl; your mommy is a bad mommy.”

A few years ago I was in a Salt Lake hospital emergency room with my sons and a neighbor boy—the result of a backyard touch football game.
While we waited in the emergency room for the doctor to put one of the participants back together, we saw a young lady brought into the hospital. She may have been seventeen—tall, willowy, well dressed, and having a wild reaction to an overdose of drugs. As we watched, she collapsed, and I thought, There is no way this child can survive this experience. I wondered how she had come to this sad situation in her life. Had she not heard the words of the prophets? Had she heard them and laughed as if they were the warnings of men out of touch with the realities of a modern world? Had one of us been negligent in our opportunities to teach her? Had her parents known the truth but not been willing or able to help her understand?
While waiting in that hospital thinking, pondering, and praying for her, I recalled a principle the Lord teaches us in the 89th section of the Doctrine and Covenants. It is found in the fourth verse:
“Behold, verily, thus saith the Lord unto you: In consequence of evils and designs which do and will exist in the hearts of conspiring men in the last days, I have warned you, and forewarn you, by giving unto you this word of wisdom by revelation.”

Years ago, I served as a local Church leader. One of our young men, Danny, was outstanding in every way. He was obedient, kind, good, and had a great heart. However, when he graduated from high school, he started to associate with a rough crowd. He got involved in drugs, specifically methamphetamine, and traveled down the slippery slope of addiction and destruction. Before long, his appearance completely changed. He was hardly recognizable. The most significant change was in his eyes—the light in his eyes had dimmed. Several times I reached out to him, but to no avail. He wasn’t interested.
It was difficult to see this incredible young man suffer and live a life that was not him! He was capable of so much more.
Then one day, his miracle began.
He attended a sacrament meeting where his younger brother shared his testimony prior to departing for a mission. During the meeting, Danny felt something he had not felt for a long time. He felt the love of the Lord. He finally had hope.
Although he had a desire to change, it was difficult for Danny. His addictions and the accompanying guilt were almost more than he could bear.
One particular afternoon, when I was out mowing our lawn, Danny pulled up in his car unannounced. He was struggling terribly. I turned off the mower, and we sat down together in the shade of the front porch. It was then that he shared the feelings of his heart. He truly wanted to come back. However, turning away from his addictions and lifestyle was extremely difficult. Adding to this, he felt so guilty, so ashamed for falling so far. He asked, “Can I really be forgiven? Is there really a way back?”
After he poured out his heart with these concerns, we read Alma chapter 36 together:
“Yea, I did remember all my sins and iniquities. …
“Yea, … the very thought of coming into the presence of my God did rack my soul with inexpressible horror” (verses 13–14).
After those verses, Danny said, “This is exactly how I feel!”
We continued:
“While I was harrowed up by the memory of my many sins, behold, I remembered also to have heard my father prophesy unto the people concerning the coming of one Jesus Christ, a Son of God, to atone for the sins of the world. …
“And oh, what joy, and what marvelous light I did behold” (verses 17, 20).
As we read these passages, tears began to flow. Alma’s joy was the joy he had been searching for!
We discussed that Alma had been exceptionally wicked. However, once he repented, he never looked back. He became a devoted disciple of Jesus Christ. He became a prophet! Danny’s eyes widened. “A prophet?” he said.
I simply responded, “Yes, a prophet. No pressure on you!”
We discussed that while his sins did not rise to the level of Alma’s, the same promise of complete and perfect forgiveness is made to everyone—in and through the infinite Atonement of Jesus Christ.
Danny now understood. He knew what he needed to do: he needed to begin his journey by trusting in the Lord and forgiving himself!
Danny’s mighty change of heart was nothing short of a miracle. Over time, his countenance changed, and the brightness in his eyes returned. He became temple worthy! He was finally back!
After several months, I asked Danny if he would like to submit an application to serve a full-time mission. His response was one of shock and awe.
He said, “I would love to serve a mission, but you know where I have been and the things I have done! I thought I was disqualified.”
I responded, “You may be right. However, there is nothing precluding us from making a request. If you are excused, at least you will know that you expressed a sincere desire to serve the Lord.” His eyes lit up. He was thrilled with this idea. To him this was a long shot, but it was a chance he was willing to take.
A few weeks later, and to his amazement, another miracle occurred. Danny received a call to serve a full-time mission.
A few months after Danny arrived in the mission field, I received a telephone call. His president simply said, “What is it with this young man? He is the most incredible missionary I have ever seen!” You see, this president had received a modern-day Alma the Younger.
Two years later, Danny returned home with honor, having served the Lord with all his heart, might, mind, and strength.
Following his missionary report in sacrament meeting, I returned home, only to hear a knock at the front door. There stood Danny with tears welling in his eyes. He said, “Can we talk for a minute?” We went outside to the same porch step.
He said, “President, do you think I have truly been forgiven?”
Now my tears accompanied his. Before me stood a devoted disciple of Jesus Christ who had given his all to teaching and testifying about the Savior. He was the embodiment of the healing and strengthening power of the Savior’s Atonement.
I said, “Danny! Have you looked in the mirror? Have you seen your eyes? They are filled with light, and you are beaming with the Spirit of the Lord. Of course you have been forgiven! You are amazing! Now what you need to do is move forward with your life. Don’t look back! Look forward with faith to the next ordinance.”
Danny’s miracle continues today. He married in the temple and returned to school, where he received a master’s degree. He continues to serve the Lord with honor and dignity in his callings. More important, he has become an incredible husband and a faithful father. He is a devoted disciple of Jesus Christ.
President Russell M. Nelson taught, “Without the [Savior’s] infinite Atonement, all mankind would be irretrievably lost.” Danny wasn’t lost, and neither are we to the Lord. He stands at the door to lift us, to strengthen us, and to forgive us. He always remembers to love us!

In earlier times, tithing was paid in kind—a tenth of the herdsman’s increase, a tenth of the farmer’s produce. I am sorry that our modern cash economy deprives parents of the wonderful teaching opportunities presented by the payment of tithing in kind. In a recent book, Tongan Saints: Legacy of Faith, the author quotes a Tongan bishop’s memories of one such example:
“Grandpa Vanisi’s spirituality inspired an awe in me as a child. I remember following him daily to his plantation. He would always point out to me the very best of his taro, bananas, or yams and say: ‘These will be for our tithing.’ His greatest care was given to these ‘chosen’ ones. During the harvest, I was often the one assigned to take our load of tithing to the branch president. I remember sitting on the family horse. Grandfather would lift onto its back a sack of fine taro which I balanced in front of me. Then with a very serious look in his eyes, he said to me, ‘Simi, be very careful because this is our tithing.’ From my grandfather I learned early in life that you give only your best to the Lord” (in Eric B. Shumway, trans. and ed., Tongan Saints: Legacy of Faith [Laie, Hawaii: The Institute for Polynesian Studies, 1991], pp. 79–80).

A young mother was running late to a very important meeting one time. As she dashed from her bedroom, her little three-year-old stopped her and said, “Mommy. Mom.”

To which the mother replied, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Mom, I need to tell you something.”

“Not now,” said the mother with an impatient wave of her hand.

“Mom,” began the little girl again.

“Oh, what is it?” said the mother.

“I just wanted to tell you I love you!”

When my wife, Blanca, and I were married, the laws of Guatemala required that we be married civilly first. I didn’t like that ceremony—it said that we were married only until death. The next day we left for Arizona, though we had to sell some of our possessions to afford the trip. Being sealed to my wife in the temple for eternity was one of the most joyful experiences of my life.
But we soon discovered that we didn’t have enough money to return to Guatemala. When we went to church, a man shook my hand and left a U.S. $20 bill in it. Another man did the same. I had said nothing of our problems. But we had told Heavenly Father.
I was a stake president when the temple in Guatemala was announced. It was my privilege to help raise funds for the temple and prepare the people to be worthy to enter it. We were asked to raise U.S. $10,000. Children, young people, and adults all participated. The people of the stake were so enthusiastic that we raised about $27,000—almost three times as much as our goal.
When our youngest child, Daniel, was 11 years old, he told us he wanted a special gift when he turned 12. He wanted to go to the temple and be baptized for some of his ancestors. The whole family got involved in family history. We grew closer to our living relatives and found several ancestors whose temple work had not been done. On my son’s 12th birthday, he was baptized for these people. I performed the ordinances. Daniel gained a greater testimony of temple work.
As you can see, many of the best moments of my life have been spent in the house of the Lord. It can be the same for each of you.
Always remember that our Lord Jesus Christ loves children. When we read about His visit to the Americas after His Resurrection, we learn that He called the children to Him and blessed each of them. There are not many times in the scriptures when the writer couldn’t record the things that were said, but this was one of them. The words and the blessings were so sacred they could not be written. (See 3 Ne. 17:12–23.) Jesus loves you just as He loved those children.
I believe that my testimony was just as firm when I was 12 years old as it is today. You do not have to be a grown-up to have a testimony of Jesus Christ or to make a difference. Perhaps sometimes you don’t realize how much good you are doing for your parents, for your relatives, and for the world.

Many years ago in Boise, Idaho, I attended a testimony meeting with Emily. We were young and newly married and I remember a somewhat shriveled old man, a revered and respected long-time member of the ward, got up to speak. He was hunched over the podium, but he spoke slowly and clearly. He said, “Brothers and sisters, when I was young I used to think I knew quite a bit. I thought that by the time I got to be the age I am now, I’d probably know pretty much everything. Well, now I’m old, and I feel like I know even less. But one thing I do know, more than I ever have, is that God loves us and we cannot be separated from that love.”

He sat down, and I remember feeling kind of strange. A little uneasy. Looking back now, I think it was the feeling of paradox. How could this old man who had seen so much claim to know so little? Wasn’t a benefit of growing old becoming more confident in your knowledge, more certain of everything? Nowadays, I am beginning to understand more what this old man meant. In the days of our probation, as we seek to answer life’s questions, often what we find on the other side of those answers are more questions. Some questions seem to have no answers. Some questions we get wrong when we’re sure we’re right. And sometimes other people are right when we’re sure they’re wrong. At times like this, when answers seem to be missing or beyond reach, it is worth remembering that life is not only a test, but a gift. And the most important thing about a gift is that it is given with love.