Gospel Story Finder

“Hey, Mike! Can you take the lady in the hallway back to her room on the third floor?” the radiology tech asked.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “You just love to keep me busy, don’t you?”
“You know what they say. We’re supposed to run the candy stripers into the ground with work,” he shot back.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said to an older woman in a wheelchair, “I’m here to take you back up to your room.”
“Tell me,” she said, “when did they start employing doctors in their teens?”
“Oh no,” I said with a laugh. “I’m only a volunteer. I come here to help out.” I didn’t add, And to gain experience that will help me get into a decent college.
“Well that’s very sweet of you,” she replied.
“So how are you doing?” I asked, not really because I cared, but because I was supposed to be nice and foster a pleasant atmosphere for the patients.
“I could be better,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you get better.” We chatted as I wheeled her to her room. At the same time, I was thinking about how many more people I would need to bring to their rooms before the end of the day. “Hey, I never got your name. I’m Michael.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Michael,” she said sincerely. “I’m Rebecca.”
“It’s been a pleasure to meet you as well,” I said. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Maybe I’ll see you again.”
“Thank you, Michael,” the woman replied.
I wasn’t too affected by the experience. I took people from the Radiology Department to some designated area in the hospital every day. It was my assignment. After saying good-bye, I went downstairs to attend to some more people in wheelchairs.
Later in the afternoon I received a call from the Intensive Coronary Care Unit. I was shocked. Teenagers weren’t allowed in ICCU.
“Hello? This is Michael Brodeur,” I said into the phone.
“Oh, you’re the one! You’re the boy who was so nice,” a nurse said. “Could you come up to ICCU for a little while?”
“Okay, ma’am, I’ll be there right away,” I said, not quite knowing what to expect. I was curious as to why I had been called, but soon, thoughts of schoolwork, the upcoming football game, and food replaced my curiosity.
“Right this way,” a nurse pointed when I arrived. “It’s the door right in the middle of all the others.”
I knocked at the door. “Hello? This is Michael,” I said.
“Please come in,” a weak voice responded.
It was the woman I had wheeled to her room earlier that day. “What’s wrong?” I immediately asked, sensing something was terribly wrong.
“I just found out my cancer has progressed to a very bad stage,” she said.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Well, I just wanted to talk to you,” she replied. “You were so kind to me this morning, and, well, I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Of course! I’d love to do that,” I answered.
“You remind me so much of my grandson. You have the hair, the eyes, the face. He looks so much like you,” she said.
“So where does your grandson live?” I asked.
We talked for about 30 minutes. I learned about her grandchildren. I learned that she used to win beauty pageants. I learned that her husband of 42 years had died just under a year ago. I learned a lot.
That’s when it hit me: these are lives I’m touching. Why have I been so casual about people’s lives?
I found out that after she was told about her condition, she had asked for the “boy who had been so nice to her.” The boy who had been so nice? I hadn’t been mean, but I certainly hadn’t been the most sincere person around. After all, for me this volunteer work was just a way to get into college. I resolved to change. Never again would I so lightly consider these people I was serving. I redoubled my efforts as a volunteer and started to take pride in my work.
I was only 17 years old. But I could make a difference.

When President Nelson invited the women of the Church in October 2018 general conference to read the Book of Mormon before the end of the year, Matthew, Andrew, and Isaac, along with their father and younger brothers, decided to offer Mom their support. “We’ll read it with you!” they said. Every morning before seminary, they woke up to read together.
Matthew was going through a hard time when the family started reading every morning. He says, “I wasn’t doing well in school. I struggled with my personal scripture study and my relationship with Heavenly Father, and I kept it all to myself. I didn’t talk about it with my parents.”
However, as Matthew spent more time reading the Book of Mormon, the gospel began to take first priority in his life. He also put more effort into school. He worked hard and got his grades up.
“I also realized how much Heavenly Father and my parents love me and how much they help me. And I have a greater testimony of Jesus Christ. He has helped me overcome bad habits and helped me get my life headed in the right direction. I’m so glad we took President Nelson’s challenge as a family. It changed my life.”

When the call came to be a mission president, there was no question about his accepting it. But none of the family realized how profound would be the change it would bring in their lives. Becoming a mission president required him to give up a good job, and his daughters were concerned about that. As the time neared for him to be released, in July of 1981, one of them asked him several times where he planned to work afterward. He had no answer, except that he was not worrying about it.

Then, on 16 March 1981, there was a telephone call from President Spencer W. Kimball in Salt Lake City. The prophet asked how things were in the mission, and asked about the welfare of Elder Abrea and his family. But “I didn’t think he had called me just to see how I was,” Elder Abrea says, smiling. Then President Kimball issued the call to the First Quorum of the Seventy, as well as to the presidency of the temple that was to be built in Buenos Aires. He talked to Sister Abrea and called her to be the first matron of that temple.

Suddenly, everything about the Abreas’ life had changed. Elder Abrea remembers that President Kimball told him on the telephone that day, “You will never finish your mission. This mission is for the rest of your life.” He was sustained a member of the quorum 4 April 1981, and moved easily into full-time service as a way of life.

How does a man who is so dedicated relax? “My only hobby is to work in the Church,” Elder Abrea replies. When there is an opportunity, he enjoys watching soccer, a game he used to play on high school and university teams. (Claudia notes that he also used to make a creditable contribution as a member of Church basketball teams.) “I like to read. I like to talk to people. I like to be with people.”

Elder Abrea undoubtedly has the opportunity to be with many people as temple president. The Buenos Aires urban area includes approximately eleven million residents, more than a third of Argentina’s population. His wife and daughters recall the pleasure of living in Salt Lake City, a “small city” where most people they meet are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

It is time for more Argentines to become Latter-day Saints, Elder Abrea says. Many are better prepared than ever before to hear the gospel message because of the growth of the Church and the building of the temple in their country. Sister Abrea notes that the Church has become well enough established in Argentina for its influence to be felt over decades; her nephew represents the fourth generation of Church members in his family. Elder Abrea says Church growth has accelerated in his native country during the past fifteen or twenty years.

“The Church has the great respect of the government and the people. They respect the members. They don’t know the doctrine, but they can see how the Mormon people act, how they live. I think that example of the people of the Church is the best proselyting tool we have.”

In fact, he says, people throughout South America are now much more prepared to hear and accept the gospel. “I think the hand of the Lord is at this moment on those countries. We have more missionaries working. More local members of the Church are doing missionary work.” Handling rapid growth is one of the Church’s biggest challenges in South America. But that very growth makes Latter-day Saints more visible and gives them more influence.

When he was fifteen, reflects Elder Abrea, “the only temple I heard about was in Salt Lake City. I couldn’t imagine a temple in my country.” But the House of the Lord that is there now is a symbol of the progress being made in Argentina, and throughout South America. So, too, he says, are the rising attendance figures; in some areas, there is a 75 percent activity rate for Melchizedek priesthood holders.

“I am a witness of the latter-day miracles,” Elder Abrea affirms. “We need to look at what the Church is doing with the eyes of faith. There are so many miracles being done in South America.” Members who look beyond the routine affairs of the organization will see the hand of God at work.

He speaks quietly, but firmly. He is back in South America to work. With Elder Abrea, and South Americans like him, laboring under the Lord’s direction, one expects that the Church will continue to experience many more miracles of growth and spirituality.

Being introduced to the responsibility of home teaching at such an early age made me feel like I was special, and it helped me to feel the Spirit. One of the people we home taught was a widow who lived alone. She struggled with various medical problems and always appreciated our visits and our company. Knowing that we were there to bring her happiness and to bring the priesthood into her home was a witness to me of how important our responsibility is.

Failure to achieve such academic breadth put me in a bind when I graduated and found that geologists weren’t being hired. My narrow focus made me vulnerable to the fall in the price of oil, which put a temporary stop to exploration for new oil reserves. Yet things could have been different if I had been better prepared. Energy companies such as Exxon didn’t stop refining oil and selling gasoline. They still needed recent college graduates to help manage their refineries and their thousands of gas stations. If I’d taken even a few business courses, or, better yet, earned a minor or certificate in that field, I might have found a good job that could have prepared me to reapply to the Harvard Business School after two or more years.

Fortunately, I had taken some valuable courses outside of my geology major. Thanks to a technical writing course and two elective literature courses, I was a confident writer. I also had a passion for history. Those interests and abilities made me a good candidate for law school. I enrolled in BYU’s J. Rueben Clark Law School and found success there, becoming a student editor of the law review. I also applied for and received a summer internship in Exxon’s law department in Houston. My geology studies in college helped me succeed in that internship.

Tamika curled up under the soft blanket and took a deep breath. The quilt smelled sweet, like the cherry lotion her grandma used. She loved that smell.
“Gram, I’m glad Mama and I came,” Tamika said.
Gram sat on the bed next to Tamika and stroked her hair. “I’m glad too. Do you want a bedtime story?”
Tamika nodded. “Tell me about when Grammy Rose escaped.” Tomorrow they were visiting a place where her great-grandma Rose might have stayed, and she wanted to hear the story again.
“Again?” Gram laughed. “All right. That’s one of my favorites too.” She leaned back and got comfortable.
“Your great-grandma Rose lived on a big farm called a plantation with her mama and daddy. They were slaves, and they wanted to be free,” Gram said. “One day, Rose’s mama died of a fever. Her daddy decided it was time to escape with Rose.”
Gram’s fingers traced lines along the quilt as she talked, like she was tracing a map of the journey.
“They left at night and followed the North Star. It’s part of a constellation called the Big Dipper,” Gram said. “Back then, slaves called it the Drinking Gourd.”
“What’s a gourd?” Tamika asked.
“It’s like a squash. Slaves would use hollowed-out gourds as spoons to scoop water from buckets to drink,” Gram said. “Rose and her daddy followed the Drinking Gourd north. People from the Underground Railroad helped them along the way.”
Tamika nodded. She knew that the Underground Railroad wasn’t really a railroad. It was a name for the people who helped slaves escape to safety. Tomorrow Tamika and her mom were going to a house called Slave Haven, where some of the slaves hid on their journey north.
“But we don’t know for sure if Grammy Rose stayed in Slave Haven,” Tamika said.
Gram looked thoughtful. “That’s right. Rose couldn’t write, so we don’t know the exact places she stayed,” Gram said. “But when I was a girl, Rose told me her story, and I wrote it in my journal.”
Tamika sat up. “Can I read what you wrote?”
Gram nodded. “We can look at it tomorrow—”
Just then, Mama came in to kiss Tamika goodnight.
“Are you two still talking about Grammy Rose?” Mama said. “Tomorrow you can explore secret passages and trap doors at Slave Haven. But right now, it’s time for bed.”
As Mama tucked the blankets around Tamika, Gram told her one more thing about Rose.
“Grammy Rose always said that miracles from God brought her safely north. That taught me to look for miracles every day,” Gram said. “Like warm sunshine.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Mama said, looking at Gram. “Or a beautiful smile.” She turned to Tamika. “Or the miracle of Tamika finally falling asleep!”
Tamika laughed. She had never thought about sunshine and smiles as miracles, but the world would be pretty dark and sad without them!
Tamika felt happy and warm thinking about how brave her great-great-grandma was. Just before Gram shut the door, an idea popped into Tamika’s head.
“Gram? Can I have a journal? I want to look for miracles and write them down too,” Tamika said.
“We’ll get you one tomorrow,” Gram said.
“I know what my miracle is today,” Tamika said.
“What?” asked Gram.
“It’s you,” Tamika said. “And Mama, and us coming to visit, and learning about Grammy Rose …” Tamika’s words became softer and softer until she finally fell asleep, curled up beneath the warm, sweet-smelling quilt.

John R. Moyle lived in Alpine, Utah, about 22 miles as the crow flies to the Salt Lake Temple, where he was the chief superintendent of masonry during its construction. To make certain he was always at work by 8:00 A.M., Brother Moyle would start walking about 2:00 on Monday mornings. He would finish his work week at 5:00 P.M. on Friday and then start the walk home, arriving there shortly before midnight. Each week he would repeat that schedule for the entire time he served on the construction of the temple.
Once when he was home on the weekend, one of his cows bolted during milking and kicked Brother Moyle in the leg, shattering the bone just below the knee. With no better medical help than they had in such rural circumstances, his family and friends took a door off the hinges and strapped him onto that makeshift operating table. They then took the bucksaw they had been using to cut branches from a nearby tree and amputated his leg just a few inches below the knee.
When against all medical likelihood the leg finally started to heal, Brother Moyle took a piece of wood and carved an artificial leg. First he walked in the house. Then he walked around the yard. Finally he ventured out about his property. When he felt he could stand the pain, he strapped on his leg, walked the 22 miles to the Salt Lake Temple, climbed the scaffolding, and with a chisel in his hand hammered out the declaration “Holiness to the Lord.” (See “Two Traditions of John Rowe Moyle,” in Biographies and Reminiscences, ed. Gene A. Sessions, 1974, 202–3.)

A few years ago a Baptist minister friend and I were driving through Boston in an effort to get to the LDS Institute of Religion at Cambridge. As has been my custom most every time I have been to Boston, I was absolutely lost and had no idea where we were. We stopped several times for directions, and each helpful person would point to us the way and say with much assurance “You can’t miss it.” After having heard that phrase five or six times, I asked our seventh helper for directions and began my question with “Please don’t say you can’t miss it, because I assure you that we can, for we have done it again and again.” During our scavenger hunt of sorts, we chatted. My colleague commented on a matter that we had discussed several times, namely the idea that Latter-day Saints are more prone to rely upon feelings than tangible evidence for truth of religious claims. In response, I asked: “Do you believe in the literal bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ?” The look he gave me was similar to that which a sixteen-year-old would give to someone who had asked what the teenager felt to be an inane question. “Of course I believe in the resurrection, Bob; I’m an ordained minister.” I followed up: “Why do you believe in the resurrection? How do you know it really happened?” He answered: “Because the New Testament teaches of the resurrection of Jesus.” I shot right back “But how do you know that the New Testament accounts can be trusted? How do you know the Bible can be trusted? Maybe someone just made all of this up. Maybe the Bible is a giant hoax.”

“No,” he said, “There is strong evidence to support the truthfulness of the Bible.” “Like what?” I asked. “Well, there are archaeological, historical and cultural evidences that what is being described actually happened.” I then queried. “And so that’s how you know the resurrection is real?”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” he said. At this point my mind began to race. And I found myself saying something I hadn’t planned to say. “You know, I feel a great sense of sadness right now.” My Evangelical friend was surprised and asked “Sadness? Why are you sad?”

“I was just thinking of a good friend of mine, an older woman in Montgomery, Alabama.” My partner asked: “What about her?” I then said, “Well, I was thinking of how sad it is that this wonderful and devoted Christian, a person who has given her life to Jesus and studied and memorized her Bible like few people I know, a woman whose life manifests her complete commitment to the Savior, is not really entitled to have a witness of the truthfulness of the Bible.”

“Why is that?” he followed up. “Well, she knows precious little about archaeology or languages or culture or history or manuscripts, and so I suppose she can’t really know within her heart that the Bible really is the word of God.”

“Of course she can,” he said. “She can have her faith, her personal witness that the Bible is true.” I pulled off to the side of the road and stopped the car. I turned to him, smiled, and stated: “Do you mean that she can have the power of the Holy Spirit testify to her soul that her Bible is completely trustworthy and can be relied upon as God’s word?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.” My smile broadened as I added: “Then we’ve come full circle.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked. I said: “You’re telling me that this good woman, one who has none of the supposed requisite background or knowledge of external evidence, can have a witness of the Spirit, including deep personal feelings about the Bible and that those feelings are genuine and heaven-sent.” At that point my friend looked into my eyes and he smiled. “I see where you’re going with this.” We then engaged in one of the most productive conversations of our time together as friends. We agreed between us that it is so easy to yield to the temptation to categorize and pigeonhole and stereotype and even demonize persons whose faith is different than your own. It is so easy to overstate, to misrepresent, to create “straw men” in an effort to establish your own point.

We agreed that “traditional Christians” and Latter-day Saint Christians both base their faith upon evidence—both seen and unseen.

As an elder in Boise, one evening I was working on the stake farm with Brother Olsen from the bishopric. As I recollect, only the two of us were there. Brother Olsen worked for the Idaho Power Company. Again, he was a few years older than I, and he was directing the work. One of the jobs we had to do was to repair some power lines. Ever since my childhood I have feared electricity. Even now I turn off all the power in the house if I am going to repair some electrical equipment. That evening the last thing we had to do before it got dark was to climb a telephone pole and splice two wires together that furnished power for part of the farm.

Brother Olsen offered to go up the pole. But though I feared what had to be done, I was younger and knew that I should do it. I asked him what to do. He gave me clear and complete instructions. I was to climb up the pole, take one wire and strip off the insulation about six inches, then take the other wire and strip off the insulation about six inches, join the wires together, and then reinsulate.

I asked him if the power was off. He assured me it was. I climbed the pole and followed his instructions. No one will know how difficult it was for me to take a large, high-powered line in my hand, strip off the insulation, then hold that wire and the connecting wire in my hand, splice them together, and then reinsulate them. Merlin was right. There was no power in the lines. I was absolutely safe.

The thing that I remember about that experience is that I had some doubt as to whether the power was off or not. I was fearful that someone else on the farm might throw a breaker and turn on the electricity. Nevertheless, my faith in Merlin and the fact that I was doing what the Lord wanted me to do was enough to overcome my fear.

In the parable of the lost coin, the coin was lost because of the neglect of the owner, and it is almost the total responsibility of the owner when he recognizes what he has done to “light a candle” (go right away) and search diligently until he finds that which was lost. I know of an instance where a young Latter-day Saint father, after the birth of his first child, bought a box of cigars to announce the happy event. Surely he was following the traditions of the world. Naively and with some innocence he offered a cigar to the bishop. The bishop accepted the cigar, and then realizing what it was, crumbled it up and threw it into the trash in front of the once happy father. This thoughtless act so offended the new father that he never came back to church. In fact, he has raised his entire family of children and grandchildren outside the Church.

In my opinion the bishop was partially responsible for the loss of this soul and had the responsibility to search until he had found this “coin” and returned it. It probably would not have been difficult if the bishop had done it right away. If he had “lighted a candle” (went immediately) and apologized for his thoughtless act, explaining what his feelings were when handed a cigar by a member of the Church, the new father probably would have returned and could have even been made stronger than before. From this parable we get the message that those who offend have the responsibility to make it right or search until they find that which was lost.

A few years ago I awoke in the middle of the night after dreaming that I had been asked to be a speaker in a BYU devotional. In that dream the complete outline of what I was supposed to talk about was clear to me. For the first time in my life I groped in the dark for a pencil and a Post-It pad on the nightstand and wrote the title of this talk. I promptly went back to sleep. The note was barely readable the next morning, and, worst of all, the memory of the details of the talk had faded from my mind just like dreams normally do. When I told my wife about this dream and showed her the note, we joked about the unlikely possibility of ever having to give the talk. During the next few years, however, I was intrigued by the topic and occasionally jotted down notes in my journal, not really thinking that I would have this opportunity.
Elder Scott’s advice to immediately write down spiritual impressions you receive is important for all of us. Imagine how much more I might have remembered had I followed the impression of my dream by not just recording the title but getting up and recording the impressions of that dream. I am eternally grateful for how patient and long-suffering our Heavenly Father is.

Many years ago a couple of fellow airline captains and I decided to fulfill a boyhood dream of restoring an antique airplane. Together we purchased a worn-down 1938 Piper Cub and started the work of returning it to its original form. The project was a labor of love. It had special meaning for me because I had learned to fly in a similar airplane when I was a young man.
This airplane was first built only 35 years after the Wright brothers made their famous first flight. Just thinking of that makes me feel very old.
The engine did not have an electric starter; as you were priming the engine from the cockpit, someone else on the ground would grab hold of the propeller and hurl it with might until the engine would run on its own. Each engine start was a moment of excitement and bravery.
Once the plane was airborne, it became clear the Piper Cub was not built for speed. As a matter of fact, when there was a strong headwind, it seemed as though we were not moving at all. I remember flying together with my teenage son, Guido, above the autobahn in Germany, and sure enough, the cars below passed us comfortably!
But, oh, how I loved this little plane! It was the perfect way to experience the wonder and beauty of flight. You could hear, feel, smell, taste, and see what flying was all about. The Wright brothers expressed it this way: “There is [nothing] equal to that which aviators enjoy while being carried through the air on great white wings.”

The houselights fall; the last few coughs and whispers fade; and a girl comes on stage. Under a soft spotlight her face is beautiful, its innocence incongruous in the gaudy, western saloon. As she feels her way from table to table, her eyes wandering blankly across the painted bar and rows of painted bottles on the canvas backdrop, the audience realizes that she is blind.
“Is there no one here?” she asks timidly, to be answered only by silence. “Will no one help me?” she says a little louder, her voice quavering on the edge of a sob. There is no reply from the empty saloon. She sits down unsteadily in a chair, her face inexpressibly weary, her shoulders drooping. “Will no one help me?” she whispers hopelessly. Her vacant eyes pass once over the audience as if yearning to penetrate the darkness, and then with a small sigh she bows her head and seems to give up.
Suddenly, a few rows back, a man springs to his feet. He struggles free from the row of knees and backrests and is quickly on the stage. Drawing up a chair to face the actress, he takes her two small, trembling hands in his two large, strong ones. “I’ll help you, dear,” he says softly.
His words produce instant pandemonium. The audience surges to its feet, sending wave after wave of cheers and applause crashing against the tiny stage, and for several long minutes the melodrama waits; the stage crew waits; the actors backstage awaiting their cues wait; the whole little theater world waits while men and women and children are happy out loud.
It wasn’t exactly a theatrical triumph; there was no such line in the script; the man wasn’t a cast member; no one was more surprised than the “blind girl” at the unexpected offer of assistance. The incident, which really happened, wasn’t so much theater as it was a peculiar form of magic, and it took place, as that sort of magic often does, at a little theater in West Yellowstone, Montana, known as the Playmill.

I met Megan when my family moved into our new house. She lived down the street, and we were both in Sister Crawford’s Primary class. We became friends and played together a lot. I watched Megan closely, trying to remember how she told a joke or how she fixed her hair or how she talked to other kids so easily. I thought Megan was perfect. I was shy. I wanted to be like Megan.
One day I called Megan to see if she wanted to play. She didn’t say anything at first.
“Caitlin is already over here,” she finally said.
Caitlin was in our Primary class too. I waited for Megan to invite me over, but she didn’t. Her end of the line was quiet.
“Oh. OK,” I stammered. Megan hung up without saying anything else.
That Sunday in Primary, Sister Crawford asked us, “What does it mean to be a good friend?”
I smiled at Megan, but she didn’t see me. She turned the other way and whispered to Caitlin. Suddenly Caitlin laughed out loud.
“Please quiet down, girls,” Sister Crawford said. They stopped whispering, but their shoulders trembled with giggles. Sister Crawford turned to me. “Angie, what do you think makes a good friend?”
“Well, someone who is nice and likes to play with you and—”
Megan and Caitlin giggled louder. My face got hot, and I looked at the floor. Were they laughing at me?
Sister Crawford frowned at them, then smiled at me. “That’s right, Angie,” she said. She looked around at the class. “How can you be a good friend?”
Adam raised his hand. “We can help people,” he said.
Sister Crawford nodded. “A good friend wants to help and serve others. Jesus Christ taught that when He lived on the earth. He also taught us that we should be kind to everyone.”
I looked at Megan and smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. I felt an empty spot in my chest. Didn’t Megan like me anymore?
At the end of the lesson, Sister Crawford held up a small basket. “I have something for you,” she said. She reached into the basket and showed us colorful strings that had been tied in small circles. “These are friendship bracelets. You wear it on your wrist, and whenever you look at it you can remember to be a good friend.”
Maybe friendship bracelets would help! Maybe Megan and I could get matching bracelets. As the basket went around the class, I leaned toward Megan. “What color are you going to get?” I asked her.
Megan shrugged. “Maybe a yellow one.”
“Me too,” I said.
Caitlin chose a blue bracelet. Then she passed the basket to Megan. Megan fingered a few bracelets, then pulled out a blue one too. I stared at her. Blue? She quickly handed me the basket. I stared into it, not knowing what to do. There were only yellow bracelets left. I slowly pulled one out.
Megan and Caitlin giggled and held out their arms side by side, admiring their matching blue bracelets. I felt a lump rise in my throat. Tears stung my eyes. I clenched my teeth together to keep from crying. I was not going to cry in front of them.* * * *
I threw myself into Mom’s arms as soon as we got home from church. “What’s wrong, honey?” Mom asked as I started to cry. Through my tears I told her what had happened. She sat next to me on my bed and held me close. “I’m sorry, Angie,” she said.
“Doesn’t Megan want to be my friend anymore?” I asked.
Mom stroked my hair. “Sometimes we don’t know why people do certain things,” she said. “I’m sorry that happened.”
“Sister Crawford said today that we should try to be kind to everyone, like Jesus was. But I don’t want to be kind to Megan.”
“I understand,” Mom said. “But I also agree with Sister Crawford. It might be hard, but we should try to be kind even if someone hurts our feelings. Jesus taught us to forgive others.”
“How can I do that?” I asked. I thought of the way Megan and Caitlin had laughed, and I felt that empty feeling again.
Mom pointed to a figurine of a girl kneeling in prayer that I kept on my nightstand. “Whenever someone hurts my feelings, I ask Heavenly Father to help me forgive that person. I ask Him to soften my heart and the other person’s heart.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
Mom smiled and kissed the top of my head. “I always feel better when I’ve talked to Heavenly Father,” she said.
When I said my prayers that night I thanked Heavenly Father for the friendship I had with Megan. Then I asked Him to help me forgive her. I scrunched up my eyes and thought hard. “Please help Megan and me be friends again,” I said.
I prayed for those things for the next few days. On Saturday I was swinging on our swing set when Megan came up our walk. I stopped swinging. We looked at each other but didn’t say anything. Finally Megan reached out and put something in my hand.
“This is for you,” she said. I opened my hand and saw a blue friendship bracelet.
“Do you want to play?” Megan asked. “Caitlin is coming over to my house. We’re going to pretend we’re princesses, and Noodle is going to be the queen.”
Noodle was Megan’s gray-striped cat. I giggled, picturing Noodle wearing a crown. I felt the empty spot inside shrinking. “Yes, I’d like to come over,” I said. “Thanks.”
I smiled at her, and this time Megan smiled back.

Ten years later, in the spring of 1969, I received a call to serve a full-time mission for the Church in the Japan Okinawa Mission. Most of my friends would have been delighted with a call to such a mysterious and exotic place, but not me. I was stunned, and inside I was deeply disappointed. In high school I had concluded that I had absolutely no foreign language skills. I had studied Spanish for two years with little or no success. I decided that I would be delighted to serve a mission as long as I did not have to learn a foreign language. A call to Japan for me seemed devoid of inspiration. I was heartsick!

However, over the six weeks before I entered the Mission Home in Salt Lake City, I tried hard to adjust my feelings and prepare for a mission to Japan. But in all honesty, as I entered the Mission Home on June 14, I was still a reluctant servant. Three days later I left Salt Lake City with a group of new missionaries and traveled to Laie, Hawaii, to study Japanese for two months at what was then called the Church College of Hawaii. From the moment I exited the airplane in Honolulu, I was homesick and deeply discouraged by what seemed to be an absolutely impossible task.

That first evening each of us missionaries was handed an 81-page booklet containing the six missionary discussions in Japanese. We were informed that our task over the next two months was to memorize all six discussions. What our teachers failed to tell us was that so far no one had been able to accomplish the task. Nonetheless, it was perfectly clear to me that it was impossible. I struggled along on the verge of tears most of the time. I wanted so badly to go into the mission president’s office and have him tell me that a terrible mistake had been made and that I had been reassigned to the Hawaii English-speaking mission. But there was no such luck. From morning to evening I struggled, becoming more and more discouraged with the passing of each day. The only thing that kept me from giving up and going home was the thought that my parents would be bitterly disappointed if I quit.

One Saturday, our preparation day in the Language Training Mission, I was reading my scriptures. I had just started the New Testament and was reading in the book of Matthew. I had read several chapters that morning and then suddenly realized that the mail had probably arrived. Since mail from family and friends was the one thing that seemed to lift my spirits, I decided to walk down to the mission office and see if anything had come for me. I was delighted to discover that I had a letter from home! As I looked at the envelope more closely, I was immediately alarmed. The letter was from my father. My father never wrote to me, and a letter from him invariably meant that something was wrong. With dread building in my soul, I took the letter back to my cubicle, opened it, and read it.

Just as I had suspected, the news was not good. My father, ever so briefly, explained that my mother was quite sick and had been taken to the hospital for surgery. He indicated that the prognosis was not good but that he would let me know more as soon as he was able to discuss the situation with the doctors. As I recall now, he didn’t even tell me in the most general way what my mother’s problem was.

My father had been assigned to Germany in December of the previous year, and I had not seen my family in more than six months. I had no idea how to place a phone call, and certainly my father had no idea how to contact me by phone. I would have to wait for his next letter. I was truly overwhelmed. I remember kneeling by my bed to pray. At first no words would come out of my mouth. I felt betrayed and abandoned. Then the words came slowly. With a measure of pain and disappointment, I reminded the Lord that I was trying to be His missionary and that the whole mission proposition had not been easy at all. I was frustrated and discouraged before, but now with the uncertainty of my mother’s situation I was angry and devastated. It all seemed so unfair and unreasonable that I could have made such an incredible commitment to Him and now He was failing me. Between my tears I told the Lord that I was very unhappy with the way He was handling the whole situation. I also told Him that I had had all I could bear and that I was fully ready to call it quits and go home. I don’t remember how long I went on, but I finally wiped away the tears and laid down on my bed.

Eventually I picked up my Bible again and began reading. In some miraculous fashion, just before I went to check the mail, I had finished reading Matthew 9. So when I resumed my reading, I started with chapter 10. In short order I reached verse 37, where I read these words:

He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me: and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.
And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worthy of me.
He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it. [Matthew 10:37–39]

In the words of Joseph Smith, “Never did any passage of scripture come with more power to the heart of man than this did at this time to mine” (Joseph Smith—History 1:12). I was completely stunned. I knew, beyond any capacity on my part to doubt, that the ancient Apostle Matthew had recorded those words so that a young, struggling, latter-day missionary would finally be able to get his soul in order. Every ounce of my self-pity and personal uncertainty was swallowed up in the absolute knowledge that I had to make a choice, and that choice might very well be between my mother and my Savior.

I teetered only for a brief moment and then fell weeping back onto my knees. I pleaded for forgiveness. I had accepted His invitation to serve but had held back most of my heart. I knew then that anything less than my whole soul, fully committed to Him and His work, was not good enough. With a resolve that I had never experienced before, I promised Him that I would be different than I had been, that I would give everything that He required, even whatever mortal time I had left with my mother.

Instantly my grief and disappointment were gone. There was no longer any heaviness or uncertainty in my heart. In an instant I had committed all I had, and He had in return cleansed my soul of every burden and filled my heart with a sublime peace. I was His, and without any reservation I knew He was my Savior and Master. I had finally “put [my] hand to the plough” (Luke 9:62), and never once since that day have I looked back!

I am grateful to say that my mother is still alive today, and I have been richly blessed with a long and meaningful relationship with this beautiful and wise woman. But I am here today to tell you, if she had died in 1969, it would not have changed my commitment to Christ. Just as I found out that summer day in 1969, I still know today that He is first and foremost in my life, He is my Savior and Master, and He has never forgotten me!

I witnessed this uncommon loving of an adversary at a stake conference many years ago. As I looked over the audience before the meeting began, I had an unusual impression to call on a particular woman in a yellow dress. I asked the stake president if he believed this woman would give a suitable talk if called on. He said he thought so. At my request, he later called her out of the audience to give a short talk.

As she came forward, I was apprehensive about what she might say. She introduced herself as a nurse employed to watch over patients in a maximum care facility. Her patients included one she described as “the most repulsive man” she had ever met. (Where was this heading? I asked myself.) From his bedridden position, he did everything he could do to make life miserable for the nurses who were caring for him—including foul language, spitting on the floor, and constantly insulting them in other repulsive ways. She despised him.

One evening she heard a loud crash from this man’s room. Responding, she ran to his room and was shocked to find him fallen out of bed and thrashing about in a pool of broken glass, liquid, and blood. In that moment, a profound change came over her. She felt an almost electric current of love from our Heavenly Father to this man. She saw him as a child of God.

As she knelt and held him in her arms and tried to give him comfort, he said, “I want to go home. I just want to go home.” In a short time, he was dead. She testified that being brought to see a despised enemy like this as a child of God was one of the great spiritual experiences of her life. For me, this was a lesson I needed to learn about our Heavenly Father’s love for all His children. That lesson can transform all of us to see each other as children of God who belong to each other.

Ben stood with his friends after school in the hot sun as they waited for the bus home. He wished for the thousandth time that there was some shade at the bus stop!
“Hey, here comes Frankie,” one of his friends said. Frankie was part of their group.
“Dude, your shoes are so old they must’ve been made out of dinosaur skin!” Vince said once Frankie got closer.
Ben laughed at the joke as he glanced down at Frankie’s feet. Yup, his friend had on the same pair of tennis shoes he’d worn all school year. It was almost summer vacation. By now, the ratty shoes had holes in them and were falling apart.
They liked to give him a hard time about it, but Frankie always laughed it off.
Sure enough, Frankie was chuckling along with everybody else. But then Ben noticed something he hadn’t seen before. Frankie’s smile seemed different somehow. Like he was trying to cover up that he really was upset.
Something cold turned in Ben’s stomach.
His friends teased Frankie about the old shoes until the bus rolled up. This time, though, Ben didn’t laugh with them. He couldn’t help but feel like they’d hurt Frankie’s feelings.
As Ben plopped down onto the hot green vinyl seat of the school bus, he kept remembering the look on Frankie’s face from a few minutes earlier. Frankie walked to the back of the bus and chose a seat by himself.
Ben looked down at his lap. Had they gone too far? He knew Frankie’s family didn’t have a lot of money. In fact, now he wondered if those old scuffed shoes were his only pair besides church shoes.
Even though Ben had snagged a window seat on the bus, he couldn’t enjoy the ride home.
The next day Ben’s bad feeling grew worse. He thought about how he would feel if his friends made fun of what he wore. How often had they done that to Frankie?
And then he saw his friend at school. Ben’s eyes widened. Frankie was wearing new shoes! Not just new shoes, but cool new shoes. Ben felt another stab of guilt as he wondered if Frankie’s family could afford them.
At recess he grabbed a basketball and went over to shoot some hoops with Frankie. “So, where’d you buy those shoes?” Ben asked. “They’re awesome!”
Frankie shook his head and said quietly, “I didn’t. DJ bought them for me.”
Ben nearly dropped the basketball. DJ was one of the kids they hung out with at school. A kid who, now that Ben thought about it, never teased Frankie.
While the rest of them had made fun of Frankie, DJ did something nice instead.
I’m supposed to be Frankie’s friend, Ben thought. Why hadn’t I been nice too?
Ben cleared his throat and stopped bouncing the ball. “Hey. So, um, I’m really sorry about yesterday. You know. At the bus stop. That wasn’t nice of us.”
Frankie just shrugged. “It’s OK.”
“Hey, wanna play a game of one-on-one?” He passed the ball to Frankie. “You can start!”
Frankie’s face lit up in a smile, and Ben knew how he wanted to act from then on. He wanted to help make his friends happy every chance he could.

On Christmas Eve there were only two presents under our little tree. One was for my two-year-old sister, Marycielo, and one was for me. Money was tight, Mama said, so it was all we would have.
That night Mama read a story from the Liahona about a Christmas without any presents. As she read, I felt happy and peaceful. Maybe having only one present wasn’t so bad. Then Mama said, “Instead of playing games like we usually do for Christmas Eve, what if we bring gifts to a family in the ward?”
“But what can we give them?” I asked.
“Well, we have a bit to spare.”
I glanced at our two presents, then at the picture of Jesus on the wall. “I guess Jesus would share what He had.”
We prayed about which family to visit. Many of the families we knew didn’t have much that year. After praying, we felt like we should visit the Córdoba family. They had three children, and their papa had lost his job.
We went to the store and bought panetón (a holiday bread), a baked chicken, and three little presents. We had fun picking them out. Mama spent all the money she had, about 30 Peruvian soles (about U.S. $10).
Once we were done, we drove to the Córdobas’. I held Marycielo’s hand as we walked to the door.
Sister Córdoba saw us and came out to hug us. “What a nice surprise! Come in! Sit down,” she said. As we walked inside, she squeezed Mama’s hand and patted my shoulder. “Rolando and the girls will be so happy to see you,” she told me.
The floor inside the house was made of dirt. There was no electricity, just candles. I was a little sad for the Córdoba family. I wished we could do more to help them. But Mama didn’t seem to notice the dirt or candles. She was just happy to be here with Sister Córdoba.
“We came to wish you a feliz Navidad!” Mama said. “We’re glad we’re friends.” She gave the food and presents to Sister Córdoba, who gave a big smile and said thank you.
Rolando, Madeline, and Raquel ran in from the other room to say hello. Marycielo peeked around my leg and smiled. She laughed when Rolando made a funny face at her. Soon everyone was talking, telling jokes, and laughing.
“This is better than playing games by ourselves,” I thought. I was glad we had come. It didn’t matter that we didn’t have much to share. And it didn’t matter if the floors were dirt. Christmas wasn’t about what we had. It was about being together.
As we got ready to leave, Sister Córdoba hugged us again. “Thank you so much,” she said. Her voice was shaking, and I could see tears in her eyes. I stood on my tiptoes and kissed Sister Córdoba on the cheek.
“Feliz Navidad,” I said.

I didn’t know what to do. President Benson said that we should all read the Book of Mormon, but it isn’t that easy. My mom and dad think that since I’m only five years old, I’m too young to have a Book of Mormon of my own. Since I don’t have my own Book of Mormon, I needed to borrow one.
The first thing I did was look for my father’s Book of Mormon. I was climbing on a chair to get it from the top shelf, when Dad came into the room.
“What are you doing, Melissa?” he asked.
“I want to read the Book of Mormon.”
Dad got his book and sat down in a chair with me on his lap and showed me the picture of Nephi stretching out his hand, and the one with Abinadi standing before King Noah, and even the one of Jesus coming down from heaven. Then he closed the book, gave me a hug, and lifted me off his lap.
“But I want to read it,” I said.
He opened his Book of Mormon to one of the front pages. “See this yellow spot?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“That’s mustard from your last hot dog. See this brown smudge on page two hundred twenty-nine?”
I nodded.
“Chocolate from your hot-fudge sundae.”
“Oh.”
“See these last two pages that won’t come apart, even when I shake them?”
“Yes.”
“Peanut butter and jelly.”
Dad put his Book of Mormon back on the shelf and walked away. I decided that I would have to borrow someone else’s.
I went up to my brother’s room. It’s full of all kinds of things, but I rummaged around until I found his Book of Mormon in the bottom drawer of his dresser. It’s a small one with tiny print and a real leather cover, and it has his name written in gold on the front. Ryan says that he’s saving it to take on his mission. I was just opening it when he came into the room. When he saw me, his eyes went wide. He rushed over and grabbed it from my hand.
“But I want to read it,” I said.
“Leave it alone!” he shouted, flipping it open. “Look at this!”
“It looks like a crayon mark,” I said.
He turned to another place. “And this!”
“It looks like someone accidentally tore the page,” I said.
He closed the book and put it back in his dresser drawer. I slipped quietly from the room.
I went to my own bedroom and huddled in a corner. After a while my nine-year-old sister came in. “What’s wrong, Melissa?” Gina asked me.
“I want to read the Book of Mormon.”
Gina smiled and patted my head. “You can read mine,” she said. I watched her look around the room until she found her Book of Mormon hidden under a pile of blankets. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. It was a big one, with large print.
“Thank you,” I said. I sat down on my bed and opened it. I looked at the words really hard, but I still couldn’t read them. I squinted at the page. I turned the book upside down. I lay on my back and lifted the book above me in the air, but it was no use. No matter what I did, I couldn’t read the Book of Mormon like the prophet told us to. I closed it and put it beside my pillow. Maybe the prophet hadn’t meant for five-year-olds to read it.
That night my mother came up to my room to tuck me into bed. She leaned over and kissed me and pulled the covers up to my chin. Then she looked around the room for my bedtime storybook. The one she is reading to me now is called Katie Curtis in Katmandu, and it’s about a little girl who travels all over the world. Mom looked in the toy box and under the bed, and while she was still searching, I remembered Gina’s Book of Mormon.
“What about this book, Mom?” I asked.
She picked it up. She looked at me, then at the book, then back at me again. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes,” I said.
She opened it to the first page. “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents, …” she began.
It was better than Katie Curtis any day.

When I was at U.S. Steel, I had a very choice friend—a great young man with a great intellect. He had graduated with an electrical engineering degree when he was 21 years of age. He just had a finite mind. He was an inactive member of the Church, and one time he told me, “Jim, I’m going to prove that the Church is not true.” And so he went to the writings of the Prophet Joseph Smith and explored them, and one of the things he read about was the discovery of the golden plates. He took this as his first premise to build his own foundation, and he wrote about his exploration. He showed that the mass—which, according to the Prophet, was six by eight by eight, or approximately 288 cubic inches, and made up of malleable gold—could be assumed, based on the density of malleable gold, to weigh in the neighborhood of 184 pounds. And there would be no way that a young boy, even a farm boy, could bring 184 pounds of gold out of the stone box in the hillside.
Then he read further, and in order to recreate the case properly he built that body of mass to prove to himself what it looked like and to get a good feel for his subject matter. When he got through he noticed two interesting things: there were voids between the plates, and that accounted for loss of mass and weight; and also, according to the Prophet’s description, there were engravings on the plates, and that would account for loss of metal. When my good friend finished, he guessed that the plates probably weighed 94.35 pounds. And it would have indeed been possible for a twenty-year-old farm boy to carry those out of the hills.