Gospel Story Finder

Big teardrops splashed down Bobby’s cheeks as he watched Freddie and Dick lug Freddie’s wading pool over to Dick’s house.
All the way home from school, the three boys had eagerly planned to make a jungle hideout in a pile of dirt behind Dick’s garage. Dick’s father had said they could.
Freddie’s wading pool would be their hidden lake. The green branches Dick’s father had pruned from his shade trees would be the jungle trees. They would use their stuffed toys and odd-shaped rocks and pieces of wood for animals. Bobby knew where there was a crooked stick, streaked brown, that looked like a snake. He planned to put it on one of the trees, pretending it was a huge python.
They were going to wear shorts and go barefoot. They’d creep through their jungle with bows and arrows, looking for wild animals. What fun they were going to have!
Bobby had rushed into his house to get a snack and to put on his cutoffs—and there, on the refrigerator door, was the note: DON’T FORGET, BOBBY! Love, Mom.
He was so disappointed he didn’t even look to see what she had left for a snack. Who’d feel like eating when he had to weed two rows of corn before he could play!
It didn’t help to remember that it was his own fault. He had fooled around all day Saturday while Dad, Mom, Susan, and Peggy did their weeding. Then, when he was about to start, who should come to visit but Aunt Alice, Uncle John, Nick, and Michael.
“We’ll let it go for now. We don’t want to disappoint your cousins. They have come a long way to play with you,” Mom had said, adding firmly, “but you may not play after school Monday until your weeding is done.”
And there was the note to remind him.
Bobby started to cry. He felt awful. He felt even worse when he saw Freddie and Dick go by with the wading pool. They were going to make the jungle without him. And it was his own fault.
Trudging to the garden, he began pulling weeds. He started working fast, hoping to finish in time to play a while before dinnertime. Then he remembered how Dad had told him to be extra careful not to injure the tender shoots of corn. He couldn’t work fast. He had to be careful.
When he looked down at the row of corn, it looked as long as a road that never ends. And he had two of those long rows to weed before he could play! He would never get through in time to play in the jungle with his friends.
Bobby started to cry again, which, of course, only made matters worse—no weeds were pulled while he cried.
He noticed a shadow approaching and looked up. His father was standing behind him.
Usually Bobby was happy when Dad came home. But not today. If Dad was home already, it would soon be dinnertime. That meant no time at all to play.
“My boy seems upset,” Dad said.
Bobby tried to sniff back the tears.
“Those rows must look mighty long to you,” Dad guessed.
“Yes,” Bobby said. His lower lip began to quiver. “And Dick and Freddie are making a jungle—and I don’t get to help.”
“I know a trick,” Dad said.
“What kind of trick?”
“One that makes long rows grow shorter,” Dad answered, his eyes twinkling.
“No trick can do that.”
“Try it and see.” Dad tossed a small stick a little way down the row. “If you don’t look one bit farther than that stick, the row will grow shorter. Go on. Try it.”
Bobby started pulling weeds. In no time he had reached the stick.
“Now throw it a little farther down. But don’t look up,” Dad said.
This time Bobby seemed to reach the stick even faster. Dad tossed the stick again, and Bobby weeded to it. Again. Suddenly Bobby’s head almost touched the fence. He had reached the end of the row! “Wow! The row really did grow shorter!”
“Now do the other row the same way,” Dad suggested.
Bobby tossed the stick, then weeded to it. Again and again he tossed the stick and weeded to it. Then, as if by magic, he was through!
“Now look at the rows,” Dad said.
Bobby was amazed. The two rows weren’t shorter at all. They were as long as the other rows in the garden, just like before.
Then Bobby understood Dad’s “trick”: To make a job go faster, do it a piece at a time and work as hard as you can. He looked up. The sun was still a long way from the mountain. Dad must have come home early. There was still time to play!
“Yippee!” Bobby shouted. He gave Dad a big hug, then got his “snake stick” and rushed to Dick’s yard to help transform a pile of dirt into a dark, mysterious jungle full of fun and adventure.

“What’s a testimony?” I asked my mom one Sunday as we were getting ready for church. I knew it was fast Sunday, which meant that people would be “bearing their testimony,” and I wasn’t sure what a testimony was.
My sister Diana hurried by, and Mom asked her, “What do you think a testimony is, Diana?”
“I think it’s when the Holy Ghost tells you something is true,” she said. “We’ve been studying about Jesus in seminary. I have a testimony that Jesus loves me and died for me. It’s a good feeling inside to know that Jesus will help me when I have problems.”
“We can have a testimony of many things, Bryan,” Mom said. “Bearing a testimony means you tell why you know a gospel principle is true.”
“I have an idea, Bryan,” Mom said later as we were going into the chapel. “Why don’t you write down all the things that the people bear testimony of in sacrament meeting today?”
“I can help you spell the people’s names,” Daddy said. “Pretend that you are a secretary or reporter. It will help you learn what a testimony is.”
After the sacrament, Daddy handed me a piece of paper and a pencil. At the top he had written “Name, Testimony” and had drawn a big line underneath. I felt like a news reporter as I wrote down everything.
Brother Nielson talked about how his prayers had been answered that week, and I wrote “prayer” beside his name.
Brother Brown, who seemed like the oldest person in the ward, bore his testimony next. He told how a priesthood blessing had saved his sister’s life. Daddy showed me how to spell “priesthood.” I know that when I have a sick stomach or a really sore throat and Daddy gives me a blessing, I feel better immediately. Sometimes my stomach or throat still hurts, but I feel better. It’s like the feeling I have when I have a bad dream and Mom comes and holds me and tells me about Jesus. After she does this, the bad feeling goes away and I feel sleepy again. I think I have a testimony of priesthood blessings, just like Brother Brown.
Sister Hatty cried when she bore her testimony about how glad she was that families can be together forever. Daddy whispered to me that Sister Hatty’s father had died the week before. I couldn’t think what to write down as her testimony, so Daddy finally spelled out “resurrection” for me.
As I wrote the names and topics, a strange feeling began to grow in me.
“Daddy,” I whispered a few minutes later, “how old do you have to be to bear a testimony?”
“You can bear your testimony when you’re old enough to have a testimony,” Daddy whispered back.
“Can someone my age bear his testimony?” I finally whispered.
“If a person is old enough to know what a testimony is,” Daddy whispered back, “he can bear it. Children know things are true just like grownups.”
When Mitchell went up to bear his testimony, the funny feeling inside me grew bigger. Mitchell was still in elementary school, like me. Mitchell said he was glad that his older brother, Aaron, was serving a mission. Mitchell said he wanted to go on a mission, too, when he got older. I wrote down “mission” by Mitchell’s name and thought how wonderful it would be to be a missionary like Aaron. Mitchell said that missionaries bear their testimonies all the time.
It was then that I decided I wanted to bear my testimony. I wasn’t old enough to be a missionary, but I could tell what I believed in. Daddy smiled and gave me a hug when I whispered that I was going to bear my testimony.
When Sister Morris sat down, I took a deep breath and started walking to the front of the chapel. I felt really scared, and I wished I could run back to my seat beside Daddy. But the feeling that I wanted to bear my testimony kept me moving toward the front.
“I love Heavenly Father and Jesus,” I said shakily and very loudly. I paused, and I felt better. “I like to read the Book of Mormon. I get a good feeling when I read it, even when I don’t understand all of it. I like to pray. I know Heavenly Father answers my prayers.” The wonderful feeling had spread all over me, and I felt warm and safe, like when I am wrapped in Daddy’s strong arms.
I felt really good when I finished my testimony, and I quickly walked back to Mom and Daddy. Diana gave me a big hug as I squeezed in by her. I whispered to her, “A testimony is a really good feeling that makes you happy inside, Diana, just like you said.” Then I added, “Bearing your testimony makes the good feeling inside feel even better.”

1 Always live the standards in the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet, and avoid “unholy places.” To enter the temple, we must be worthy. It helps when we stand in holy places now. That means avoiding places and times when we would be tempted to make wrong choices. I recall a story by President J. Reuben Clark Jr. (1871–1961), a counselor in the First Presidency, about his teenage daughter. She was leaving for a dance, and he said, “Have fun, my dear. Be back by midnight.” She replied, “Daddy, this is the night of the prom. We go to the dance and are not back until early morning.” President Clark responded, “Yes, I know that is what many will be doing. But you must be back before midnight.” She, then, in desperation said, “Daddy, you just don’t trust me!” To which he replied, “My dear, in the wrong place, at the wrong time, I don’t even trust myself. Be back by midnight.”

While in an airport several years ago in São Paulo, Brazil, I saw in a bookstore showcase a book titled “The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.” I doubted that our decaying and directionless world would accept another testament of Jesus Christ, and I spent the weekend thinking about the book.
Finally, I could no longer endure my curiosity, and I returned to the bookstore to buy it. When I arrived, however, I couldn’t find it. I described the book to the store attendant, but he said he had never seen it. Nor could he find a record of it, even though all books displayed in the showcase were cataloged.
Sometime later while in a pharmacy, I noticed an open book on a counter. As I began to read it, I learned about a man named Korihor who insisted on doubting the power of God and was eventually struck dumb. When I reflected on the words I read, I recognized them as being from God.
During this time I had been looking for divine direction. One day I knelt and fervently prayed asking God to show me the true path that would bring me to Him. A few days later our son became ill, so I returned to the pharmacy. When I was about to leave, three young Americans wearing name tags entered. I immediately felt a warmth in my breast, which prompted me to speak with them.
They told me they were in Brazil to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. I asked if they could teach me, and we scheduled an appointment.
When I heard about the Prophet Joseph Smith for the first time, I knew my prayer had been answered. Then the missionaries gave me a book. To my astonishment, it was a Book of Mormon—just like the one I had seen in the showcase. I again felt a sweet warmth and became so happy that I was barely able to speak.
The missionaries explained the origin of the book and then asked me to pray and ask God if it was true. I already had an absolute certainty of the divinity of the book, for the Lord had shown it to me—twice. Nevertheless, I examined it in great detail. Upon reading chapter 17 in 3 Nephi, I knew it contained a divine story because it contained the words of Jesus Christ.
The foundation of my testimony is in knowing that the Book of Mormon contains the word of God. It has changed me and continues to change me.

I grew up in a family where three generations—my grandparents, parents, two younger brothers, and one aunt—all lived together under the same roof. My grandmother took care of my aunt, who had both intellectual and emotional challenges. After my grandmother passed away, my mother took full responsibility for my aunt and cared for her in our home night and day.
My aunt eventually moved into a community center. Even though it was a long distance away, my mother visited her regularly. After my mother’s death, I became my aunt’s main source of family support. I came to understand how devoted my mother had been. I also became extremely grateful for the attentive people who watched over my aunt.
My own family experience has helped me to understand that caregivers face a variety of challenges. Cultural expectations, family relationships, availability of facilities—all may affect caregivers. But there’s one challenge just about every caregiver faces at some point: fatigue. This can be particularly true when one older person is taking care of another, usually one spouse taking care of the other. In fact, research indicates that caregivers ages 66–96 who are experiencing stress have a 63 percent higher risk of mortality than noncaregivers.1

In the fall of 2024, not long after being called to be an area organization adviser in the Europe Central Area, Laura Echarri Hermoso traveled more than 5,000 miles (8,047 km) from her home in Pamplona, Spain, to sing as a guest member of The Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square.
She had been in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, for just three days when she tested positive for COVID-19 and quarantined herself. Her opportunity to sing in the choir for the upcoming general conference seemed out of reach.
In the loneliness and isolation of her hotel room, she knelt and prayed. She hoped for healing. She longed to be able to sing. She kept her faith.
In a difficult time of loss when fertility treatments proved unsuccessful and her mother was suffering from Alzheimer’s, Sister Echarri couldn’t find her voice to sing as much as she once had. It was hard because music had always been an important part of her life. “It’s a need I’ve always had since a girl,” she said.
Sister Echarri (left) with her mother, María.
While praying, a thought came that she needed to sing with more people. A week later, she was contacted by a Church authority who interviewed her. “He spoke about a musical project the Church was starting and that they were looking for singers,” Sister Echarri said.
He didn’t say the specific purpose, but after a second interview, the authority revealed that the Church wanted guest singers for The Tabernacle Choir’s Global Participant Program to sing in general conference.
“And I started to cry because I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I felt the Lord was there and that the Lord was aware of me, and it was something I never, ever expected,” she said.
The interview was only preliminary and was followed by a second interview with others. Sister Echarri also had to record herself singing and submit several recordings. Then she had a final, virtual interview with Tabernacle Choir associate music director Ryan Murphy. “I was super nervous,” she said.
Ultimately, she was chosen with 13 others worldwide to sing in general conference, and in September 2024, she boarded a plane for the United States. After arrival, she was diagnosed with COVID-19 and that’s when her quarantine began.
Solitary isolation far from home taught a profound lesson: The Savior would provide comfort in her loneliest moments (see John 14:26–27). “I thought I was not going to make it,” she said. “I was quite discouraged, but I had faith. At the same time, I wasn’t feeling well. Now one of my main objectives is to look for those who may feel alone and try to give them relief.”
After eight days of isolation, her health and voice recovered, and she practiced with the choir. She joined her voice with hundreds on the stand in the Conference Center and sang at the October 2024 general conference.
“God lives. He’s aware of us, of each one of us,” she said. “Music is healing, has healing power, and we need to fill our lives with music. It’s very important. I feel that is something that the Lord is trying to tell me: Fill your life with music.”

To make sure that answer holds true, I testify today that supporting the rising generation in a time of unusual challenges and temptations is an essential responsibility given to parents and bishoprics by Heavenly Father. Let me illustrate the importance of a bishopric with a personal experience.
When I was a deacon, my family moved to a new home in a different ward. I was beginning junior high school, so I also attended a new school. There was a marvelous group of young men in the deacons quorum. Most of their parents were active members. My mother was completely active; my father was exceptional in every way but was not an active member.
The second counselor in the bishopric, Brother Dean Eyre, was a devoted leader. When I was still adjusting to the new ward, a father-son event was announced for Bear Lake—about 40 miles (65 km) away. I did not think I would attend without my father. But Brother Eyre issued a special invitation for me to go with him. He spoke highly and respectfully of my father and stressed the significance of my opportunity to be with the other members of the deacons quorum. So I decided to go with Brother Eyre, and I had a wonderful experience.
Brother Eyre was a marvelous example of Christlike love in fulfilling the bishopric’s responsibility to support parents in watching over and nurturing the youth. He gave me an excellent start in this new ward and was a mentor to me.
A few months before I left for a mission in 1960, Brother Eyre passed away from cancer at age 39. He left a wife and their five children, all younger than age 16. His oldest sons, Richard and Chris Eyre, have assured me that in the absence of their father, bishoprics supported and watched out for them and their younger brothers and sister with Christlike love, for which I am grateful.

One day while playing with his friends as a boy, Elder David A. Bednar accidentally broke a window in a store near his home. The glass shattered and set off a security alarm! Elder Bednar thought he would have to go to prison. He was so afraid that he hid under his bed until his parents helped him calm down and apologize to the store owner. Elder Bednar used this story to teach that all of us are scared sometimes, but when we look to Jesus Christ and follow Him, we can feel peace instead of fear.

My mother always wanted our family to pray. It was part of our practice at home. Same thing with reading scriptures too. These things were ingrained in us. One night I slept over at Anthony’s place. As I prayed before bed, Anthony saw me and asked what I was doing. I don’t remember what I said exactly; I just remember we were in his room and we talked about prayer.
Anthony came a few times to my house, and he saw us read the scriptures, ask a blessing before eating, and pray as a family. He saw us sing hymns together too. I asked him once or twice to come to church. I must have seen from his reaction that he wasn’t too excited about the idea of coming to church. I told myself, “Well that’s it, I guess, and it’s too bad, but we’ll just continue to be buddies.”
At first I was a little distant about the Church. I didn’t understand much, and I was a bit afraid to speak with Cayo about how his family gathered together for prayer. So in the beginning I didn’t respond to invitations. But little by little, I felt good. I felt in my heart that Cayo’s family was different from other families.
Eventually we both moved on to other things. We lost track of each other several times over the years, but we would always bump into each other again. When we were teenagers, we became close friends again.
I could see that Cayo was different from my other friends. We all do dumb things as we’re growing up, but Cayo helped me choose a good path.
Anthony started to come to church with my family. Then things evolved naturally, the missionaries spent a lot of time with us, and Anthony became quite familiar with the Church. He knew what prayer was, he knew the hymns, he knew all that—he was just not a member.
From age 8 to age 18, I reflected a lot about getting baptized. But it took me a long time because I had a lot of things I needed to change in my life, even though I tried to live good principles.
At the age of 18, I met the missionaries in Cayo’s home. The missionaries taught me the lessons to prepare me for baptism. They helped me, and their message touched my heart. During this time, my mother and my little sister were introduced to the missionaries. They were baptized a few months before I was. I was baptized on March 10, 2007.
It took the time that it took, more than 10 years, but finally he was baptized.
It’s interesting to see how the Lord does things. After that, I went on a mission in France and we wrote to each other. Now we’re going to be separated because Anthony just became a gendarme [policeman], and he will leave to work for two to five years in Guyana, but I’m sure we’re going to stay in touch.
Since I joined the Church, I do what is required to stay on the strait path and to share the gospel with those around me. It’s something that’s very simple, but the gospel can be difficult for others to accept and to live. As members of the Church, we are truly different from others.
Other members of my family had trouble seeing why my mother, my sister, and I get ready for church every Sunday. I get dressed in my suit and leave at 8:30 to be to church by 9:00, and I often stay until 3:00 in the afternoon because of my calling. I enjoy visiting with other members and finding out what’s going on in their lives. I like being able to participate with the members; it’s exceptional. It’s important to have people around us who are members, to have unity, and to feel like we’re strengthening each other.
I believe the Lord does everything He can so we can truly, honestly, and deeply change. Becoming a Latter-day Saint and a disciple of Christ is not just a question of deciding to adopt certain attitudes; it is to witness a profound change in ourselves. I saw that change in Anthony.
Knowing I have a Heavenly Father comforts me. It also comforts me to know that He sent His Son, Jesus Christ, to die for us—for me.
But, in any case, I know it’s true. I also know the scriptures are true. The Book of Mormon is true. I’m convinced of it. The Church is true. We have a true prophet, Thomas S. Monson. The Twelve Apostles are truly called of God.
That’s something I didn’t understand before, and I think that, even today, I don’t understand it completely. It’s very powerful and it’s unique as an emotion.

As a young man, I remember my mother placing her and my father’s temple clothes on the kitchen table. She would then take a temple robe and carefully iron each pleat on an ironing board. She always took her time. This is one of my earliest memories as a youth.
At the time, I did not fully appreciate the temple, but as I watched my mother iron her and my father’s temple clothes, I could see how important the temple was to them. Their example taught me how sacred the temple is and how vital it is to “stand … in holy places, and be not moved” (Doctrine and Covenants 87:8).

My first visiting teaching companion was Sister Necochea. She and I were the first two people in Quilpué to accept the gospel. Now we have a stake plus a large district here, but in those early days we traveled long distances to visit our sisters. One of them, Mercedes, was the wife of a seaman who was often gone from home. She lived with her five children on an elevated site near a stream. Their fine house had a solid foundation with five or six steps leading up to the door. Two faithful dogs guarded it.
One winter when it was very rainy, the stream near their home turned into a raging river. It overran its banks and flooded the land, sweeping away homes, animals, and all kinds of objects. When the worst had passed, Sister Necochea and I went to visit Mercedes. She cried with joy to see us and excitedly related how her family had been preserved.
For several stormy days she had watched anxiously as the river kept rising. Then one night the dogs, who were tied outside, began barking desperately. She opened the door and found to her amazement that there was a lake where her yard had been. She waded in water up to her knees to untie her animals and bring them into the house.
She woke up her two older children, about ages ten and twelve, and had them get dressed. The three of them watched transfixed in the open door as the water covered, one after another, the steps leading up to the house. Then the three of them got on their knees and cried to the Lord with all their strength. The water stopped two steps away from the floor and did not go one centimeter higher. They never had to leave their home. How wonderful it was that day for my companion and me to be able to offer encouragement to Mercedes and hear her inspiring experience!

In 1878 my great-grandfather George F. Richards was 17 years of age. As was sometimes the case in those days, he had already been ordained an elder. One Sunday his mother was groaning in intense pain. As his father was not available, the bishop and several others were invited to give her a blessing, but no relief came. Accordingly, she turned to her son George and asked him to lay hands on her head. He wrote in his diary, “In the midst of my tears for my mother’s suffering and the task of performing an administration such as I had never yet done, I retired to another room where I wept and prayed.”
When he became composed, he laid his hands on her and gave her a very simple blessing. He later noted, “My mother ceased her groaning and received relief from her suffering while my hands were yet on her head.” He then recorded in his diary this most insightful observation. He said he had always felt that the reason his mother did not get relief from the bishop’s blessing was not because the Lord failed to honor the bishop’s blessing but because the Lord had reserved this blessing for a boy, to teach him a lesson that the priesthood in the boy is just as powerful as the priesthood in the man when exercised in righteousness.

One day after my doctor told me that I would have to receive physical therapy for months, I went home in tears and asked Heavenly Father, “How long will I have to endure this?” Immediately, it was as if a tender and clear voice told me, “You can’t progress without trials. You still need even more.”
I couldn’t believe that I had received an immediate response to my prayer. At that moment, I was determined to move forward in faith. I decided to resubmit my mission papers and serve God, despite my challenges. A few months later I received my mission call to the Guatemala Guatemala City South Mission! But getting to that point wasn’t easy either. It took a lot of bravery and courage to accept my circumstances, forget myself, and invite others to follow Christ.
My mission was wonderful. I learned to value the principles of the gospel even more, and I found confidence in myself to share my testimony and bring hope to many people who didn’t know where to find it. I felt my heart being changed by Heavenly Father. I had never experienced what it felt like to love total strangers and be willing to give everything I had for them without hesitation until now—walking day in and day out, rain or shine, my feet tired and sore.

When my stake president first asked me if I would be willing to serve a service mission, my first thought was, “Yes!”
I trusted that the Lord had a work for me to do, and I believed that whatever He wanted me to do would bring me growth and happiness because He loved me and wanted what was best for me.
My second thought was, “What’s a service mission?”
My stake president explained what a service mission was as we met together in his office on that Sunday, but I didn’t really understand it or the importance of it until much later. At the time I even wondered if this calling meant there was something wrong with me, because I didn’t yet see the bigger purpose behind service missions.
I received my call to serve about a month before my mission actually started. This meant that I met my service mission leaders, attended a service mission conference in my area, and was even asked to lead companion study for the other two sisters in my area before I had been set apart.
I used the month between getting my call and giving my “farewell” talk (even though I didn’t go anywhere) to learn about service missions and the service missionaries around me.
At the service mission conference I attended, I learned that a lot of service missionaries, when they are first called, feel like they just weren’t good enough to serve a proselyting mission. I sheepishly recalled my own initial reaction to my call.
Ultimately, I realized that I wasn’t called to a service mission because I was inadequate, but because this was Heavenly Father’s direction for me. I wasn’t “less than” proselyting missionaries; rather, He needed me to help build His kingdom through other means of service. I received a strong testimony that all missions are important to Heavenly Father and important in His work, because all missionaries desire to serve Him and serve His children.
After learning about the other service missionaries in my area, meeting them, and hearing their stories, I knew they were wonderful, righteous servants of the Lord. I realized that even though some of us had felt a little sorry for ourselves at the beginning of our missions, we all came to the same conclusion: the Lord loves service missionaries and that we are right where He wants us to be, learning and growing while serving Him as His hands on the earth.

A few years ago, when Elder M. Russell Ballard and I were the General Authority advisers to the Church Public Affairs Department, we realized that media outlets often contacted people who weren’t members of the Church to find out about the Church. Desiring a change, Elder Ballard and I, under the direction of the First Presidency, began visiting the editorial boards of major newspapers, sharing the message that, as Latter-day Saints, we are politically neutral. We don’t take a position in terms of candidates or parties. We do, however, want to be the ones who define our own faith. “We want you,” we told them, “to come and talk to us if you’re going to discuss what we believe.”
Those visits were well received, and we found that our request resonated. And we’re now finding a much better understanding of Latter-day Saints among the media. Some old stereotypes have been broken down, and we see other people recognizing us as people of character who try to approach life from an educated and informed point of view. We’ve also noticed a realization outside the Church that Latter-day Saints aren’t all the same; our people are very different from one another in good and interesting ways.

It had never been hard for me to be honest. When given too much change at the market, it had been easy to refund the overpayment immediately. When I had found several large bills on the ground at an amusement park, turning the money in to lost and found had followed as a matter of course. In fact, I did not remember a time when other people’s property had been a temptation.
Except now. I was alone in my eighth-grade classroom, the students gone for the day. In my hand I held an open leather and velvet case from which shone 50 beautiful sterling silver coins, one for each of the 50 states. Carefully, I took the 31st of the miniature coins from its place on the velvet and examined it. On the front was an outline of the state, a 49er panning gold, and the state nickname (“The Golden State”). Turning the coin over, I saw the state flower (Golden Poppy) and the year of admission to the Union (1850).
Three years had passed since the principal had handed the commemorative coin set to me in his office. “Jack,” he had said, “it was your U.S. history classes more than anything else that led to our receiving a second Freedoms Foundation award and these commemorative coins. Since we already have one set of coins in the display case, why don’t you take this second set and use it in your classroom?”
And now as I cleaned out my files I had rediscovered the beautiful and valuable coins where I had put them for safekeeping—and forgotten them.
No longer was I alone in room B-16. An evil, covetous thought flashed across my mind: If after three years I had forgotten the coins, might not everyone else have forgotten them too? The principal who had given me custody of the coins had gone on to the new high school. Retirements and reassignments had removed the few others who had ever known that I had the coins.
The evil presence in the room spoke to my mind: Why not keep them?
Because they’re not mine.
But no one remembers that you have them. No one.
They’re not mine.
They certainly are yours! Didn’t the principal say that it was your efforts that resulted in their being awarded to this school?
Well, yes. But other teachers and students were involved, too.
Not as much as you were. And think of this: it was mostly for your after-school work that the award was given—after-school work for which you were never paid. By all rights these coins should be yours as payment for your after-school work.
Should be, perhaps, but aren’t. They belong to this school.
Or district. If you took them with you to your new assignment at the high school, they’d be in the same district still.
True. And I could probably make even better use of them with high school students than would be possible if the coins stayed here with eighth-graders at the junior high.
Certainly. You know that if the coins stay here they’ll probably just go into the display case—and there’s already one set there. That would be a waste.
But hold on a minute. If I haven’t already used the coins as part of my teaching, I probably wouldn’t use them in the future either. And anyway, they’re not mine.
But consider this: there’s no teacher anywhere in this district who is the coin collector you are or who’s so wacky about geography and states and all of that. No one would appreciate these coins as much as you would.
I believe that. But they’re not mine.
So who do they belong to more than you? You’re a taxpayer too, aren’t you? Can sterling silver coins belong to a building? a school? You are a trustee for all the other taxpayers who own the coins jointly. You’ll take the best possible care of the coins for everyone else.
That’s a bit farfetched, isn’t it? Whether the coins belong to the school or the district or the taxpayers, they for sure don’t belong to me.
But who would be hurt if you did take the coins? The school already has one set, and they wouldn’t even know. Neither would the taxpayers. No one would feel the slightest loss if you took them.
I would. I’ve never stolen anything in my life.
Steal? Who said steal? It’s not as if you’re breaking into a school and robbing the place. The coins were put into your hands by the principal.
Right. Because he trusted me and I won’t violate that trust.
You wouldn’t be violating a trust. The man would never know. He would never feel that you had violated his trust. And besides, he’s principal at the high school, isn’t he? You and the principal and the coins will all be together again when school starts again next September.
You’re really persistent, aren’t you? Why don’t you go bother someone else?
Am I bothering you? I’m just trying to see that you get what is rightfully yours. Have you ever seen such magnificent craftsmanship and beauty as in these coins?
They are beautiful. Someday I’ll buy a set for my own.
Are you serious? On a teacher’s salary? You’ll never own a set of sterling silver coins if you don’t take these right now.
I suppose you’re right.
And wouldn’t they look fantastic displayed in your family room next to your buffalo nickles and the European coin set?
Now you’re kidding. Do you think I could actually put a stolen coin set on display in my home? People may have forgotten that I have this set, but seeing them on display would make them remember.
Maybe they would be safer in your safe-deposit box.
I thought you were suggesting that they go to my new schoolroom for use in teaching. How would having them in a safe-deposit box promote that?
Well, it doesn’t matter much. By all rights they are your coins, and you can do what you like with your own property.
Are we going to go through that again? They’re not my coins.
All right, look at it this way. No one is perfect. The Lord won’t thrust you down for one small sin, will he? You’ve been honest all your life—so what if you do take something that’s almost yours just one time?
Just one time. No thanks. If I’m going to lose my integrity, it won’t be over something as insignificant as a commemorative coin set.
You know, don’t you, that teachers are underpaid? You get small pay for much preparation, no Christmas bonus, no stock options, no fringe benefits. These coins are in the nature of a Christmas bonus.
A Christmas bonus—in May? And anyway, I love teaching. I can’t complain about my work or my pay.
What about the tanks full of gas you’ve donated to school projects? What about the money spent out of your pocket for bulletin boards and other things? What about the hours and hours of after-school time you were never paid for? You’ve earned these coins.
Salaried people don’t punch time clocks. And anyway, I’ve enjoyed every bit of it. Now, I’m going to walk down to the office and give this set of coins to the principal.
Not yet. Think about it for a few days. There’s no need to be rash about this.
No, I’m going to go right now.
He’s probably gone home already.
I doubt it.
And how do you know he won’t just keep them for himself? He looks suspect to me.
He’s a good, decent man. And so what if he were a crook? My character isn’t determined by other people’s flaws.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to wait a few days to turn them in, would it?
Why don’t you go away and let me work? I’ve got all these files to clean out and boxes to load and books to turn in and year-end report cards to mark and I’ve got to move all my stuff to the high school. I’m really busy; go away.
I’m glad you’ve decided to keep your coins for a few days at least. Why not take them home and show them to your wife and children? You shouldn’t miss the opportunity to use these coins to educate your children.
“That’s it. I’m going to the office with them right now!” The sound of my voice broke the stillness of the room and startled me.
“Now what am I going to do with this set of coins, Jack?” the principal grinned. “I just received a letter from Valley Forge today informing me that our school has again been chosen to receive an awards medal and another set of commemorative coins.”
As I drove home I thought of the irony of it all. What indeed would the junior high school do with three sets of commemorative coins? But then that wasn’t my problem. Unfortunately, none of the three sets was mine.
In the days that followed I was too busy to think much about the coins. Only occasionally would I feel a combination of quiet peace that I had won my silent battle—and sadness that I would not have something that I had wanted so desperately for my own.
In the morning of the final day of school the awards assembly took place. The program worked its way down through a pledge of allegiance, a message from the student-body president, a message from the principal, scholarship awards, attendance awards, and athletic awards.
As they began with the presentation of the Freedoms Foundation awards, I was concentrating more on quieting restless types from my homeroom than on what was being said. I had heard the talk twice before and was preoccupied. I saw the principal accept the awards and was about to tweak Leonard Womack’s ear, when I heard my name spoken by the principal. I noticed that everyone in the auditorium was looking at me. I had been invited to come to the stage.
I don’t recall all of what happened next. Some complimentary things were said—things about integrity, devotion to duty, excellence, and sadness that I would not be at the junior high school next fall. What I do remember well is the part where the principal placed a leather and velvet box with 50 sterling silver coins in my hand—and told me to keep it for my very own.

Just two weeks into the new school year, my best friend, Scott, and I were driving home discussing our plans for later that evening. As we pulled into the driveway, I saw my dad working on the barbecue. As I stepped out of the car, I told Scott I would be ready for him to pick me up later. My dad, overhearing the conversation, told me that he was having students from his college ward over that evening for a ward social. “I could use your help getting things ready,” he said. I turned to Scott and told him that our plans would have to be postponed.
As Scott left, my dad asked me to take the grill’s propane tank to the store and fill it. After quickly changing my clothes, I loaded the tank into our truck and drove toward the store.
Between my home and the store there is an elementary school. I was well aware of the school as I had gone in that direction many times. But this time I was in a hurry and did not pay attention to the school zone speed limit. I knew school had been out for about an hour, so I ignored it.
After filling the tank, I headed home. As I approached the school, I had the feeling I should slow down. I didn’t heed the prompting and continued on. As I came closer to the school, I saw Bobby Logan,* a young boy from my ward, run onto the road.
He was on his way to the school to play with his sister and some of his friends. As Bobby came to the road, he stopped and looked at me. I started to slow down, again feeling the prompting. As I approached Bobby, he looked directly at me. We had eye contact for a second, and I had the thought that he was going to run in front of me. At that very moment, he did.
I was too close to miss him, and although I hit the brakes, it was too late. Realizing what had just happened, I quickly got out of the truck and ran to Bobby, who was lying on the ground. I ran to his house and told his mother to call an ambulance. Then I went back to Bobby’s side. I offered a silent prayer and pleaded for his life as I knelt beside him.
Bobby’s mother arrived and immediately checked for a pulse. I was crying hysterically and repeatedly said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit him.” Sister Logan looked at me and told me that she forgave me.
The ambulance arrived and took Bobby to the hospital, but he died about 30 minutes later. My bishop came to our home with the tragic news of his death. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t know what to do or say. I was devastated.
A few days later I saw the Logans. As we visited, Sister Logan told me that the family felt strongly that Bobby was happy. She told me they held no harsh feelings toward me. As I heard these things, I felt the Spirit testifying to me that what she said was true, and their sincerity was very real.
During the next few days I struggled with the realization that I had taken another person’s life. As I battled with my emotions, I withdrew more and more. I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything.
One day my mom and sister persuaded me to go with them. They were conversing in the front seat of our car, and I was lying on the back seat, pondering the question why and wondering how I could ever move on from that point in my life. Again I offered a silent prayer to Heavenly Father for the strength to overcome this obstacle. In the midst of my crying and praying, I suddenly felt the most overwhelming feeling of joy and peace. It was at that moment that I knew Bobby was fine and that he was happy. I also realized how much love my Heavenly Father has for me. I could truly feel His arms of love and understanding around me.
Since that day I began healing from my emotional pain. It took a long time for me to get to the point where I could accept myself again, but I knew I was on the right track. Because of this experience, I have become even more grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ. I can’t imagine trying to endure this without the love of my family, the Logans, and countless friends who rallied around me. I saw the gospel in action. I saw my Savior’s healing hands work through those I love. I also know the Spirit is one of the most precious gifts we have.
The Logans are my heroes because they epitomized Jesus Christ from the very beginning of this ordeal. They forgave. For that I am eternally grateful. I know that I will see Bobby again and that hopefully then his family and mine will rest together in the heavens.

Many years ago an elder who served a mission in the British Isles said at the end of his labors, “I think my mission has been a failure. I have labored all my days as a missionary here and I have only baptized one dirty little Irish kid. That is all I baptized.”

Years later, after his return to his home in Montana, he had a visitor come to his home who asked, “Are you the elder who served a mission in the British Isles in 1873?”

“Yes.”

Then the man went on, “And do you remember having said that you thought your mission was a failure because you had only baptized one dirty little Irish kid?”

He said, “Yes.”

The visitor put out his hand and said, “I would like to shake hands with you. My name is Charles A. Callis, of the Council of the Twelve of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I am that dirty little Irish kid that you baptized on your mission.”

That little Irish boy came to a knowledge of his potential as a son of God. Elder Callis left a lasting legacy for his large family. Serving as a mission president for 25 years and in his apostolic ministry for 13 years, he blessed the lives of literally thousands. I feel privileged to have known this great Apostle of the Lord when I was a young man.

Elder Andersen explained how he felt when he was called to The Quorum of The Twelve Apostles. He said when he first sat in the seat that Elder Ulisses Soares now occupies, he looked up the row at the other 11 Apostles and the First Presidency, and feelings of personal inadequacy overwhelmed him. When I heard Elder Andersen say that, I sat up straight in my chair because I knew that what he had just said—and what he was going to say next—was specifically for me.
Elder Andersen said he struggled with this issue for a while and then it came: He heard the voice of the Lord say, “Neil, you did not put yourself there. I did, because I love you, and I know you can change, and I know you can help with my work.”

I was also informed concerning the aboriginal inhabitants of this country and shown who they were, and from whence they came; a brief sketch of their origin, progress, civilization, laws, governments, of their righteousness and iniquity, and the blessings of God being finally withdrawn from them as a people, was made known unto me; I was also told where were deposited some plates on which were engraven an abridgment of the records of the ancient Prophets that had existed on this continent. The angel appeared to me three times the same night and unfolded the same things. After having received many visits from the angels of God unfolding the majesty and glory of the events that should transpire in the last days, on the morning of the 22nd of September, A.D. 1827, the angel of the Lord delivered the records into my hands.

These records were engraven on plates which had the appearance of gold, each plate was six inches wide and eight inches long, and not quite so thick as common tin. They were filled with engravings, in Egyptian characters, and bound together in a volume as the leaves of a book, with three rings running through the whole. The volume was something near 15 cm. in thickness, a part of which was sealed. The characters on the unsealed part were small, and beautifully engraved. The whole book exhibited many marks of antiquity in its construction, and much skill in the art of engraving. With the records was found a curious instrument, which the ancients called “Urim and Thummim,” which consisted of two transparent stones set in the rim of a bow fastened to a breast plate. Through the medium of the Urim and Thummim, I translated the record by the gift and power of God.

In this important and interesting book, the history of ancient America is unfolded, from its first settlement by a colony that came from the Tower of Babel, at the confusion of languages to the beginning of the fifth century of the Christian Era. We are informed by these records that America in ancient times, has been inhabited by two distinct races of people. The first were called Jaredites, and came directly from the Tower of Babel. The second race came directly from the city of Jerusalem, about six hundred years before Christ. They were principally Israelites, of the descendants of Joseph. The Jaredites were destroyed about the time that the Israelites came from Jerusalem, who succeeded them in the inheritance of the country. The principal nation of the second race fell in battle towards the close of the fourth century. The remnant are the Indians that now inhabit this country. This book also tells us that our Savior made His appearance upon this continent after His resurrection; that He planted the Gospel here in all its fulness, and richness, and power, and blessing; that they had Apostles, Prophets, Pastors, Teachers, and Evangelists; the same order, the same priesthood, the same ordinances, gifts, powers, and blessings, as were enjoyed on the eastern continent, that the people were cut off in consequence of their transgressions, that the last of their prophets who existed among them was commanded to write an abridgment of their prophecies, history, etc., and to hide it up in the earth, and that it should come forth and be united with the Bible for the accomplishment of the purposes of God in the last days. For a more particular account, I would refer to the Book of Mormon, which can be purchased at Nauvoo, or from any of our Traveling Elders.

As soon as the news of this discovery was made known, false reports, misrepresentation and slander flew, as on the wings of the wind, in every direction; the house was frequently beset by mobs and evil designing persons. Several times, I was shot at, and very narrowly escaped, and every device was made use of to get the plates away from me; but the power and blessing of God attended me, and several began to believe my testimony.