Gospel Story Finder

Jeffrey didn’t even remember waking up—he just slipped from pleasant dreams to smelling Mom’s cooking. He wiggled his feet between the sheets as he listened to her distant, busy, kitchen sounds.
Later that morning, after his mother had gone visiting teaching, Jeffrey repeated her instructions over and over to himself. “I won’t be gone long,” she had said, “and I’ll be right next door if you need me. There is one thing I would like you to help me with while I’m gone—and two things I want you to not do.”
The thing Mom wanted him to do was one of Jeffrey’s favorites—the dishes. And the not-do things were easy—he wasn’t to eat any cookies or watch TV.
Just before she left, his mother had hugged him and then stretched her arms out wide. “This much,” she’d said. Jeffrey had smiled and stretched his arms out, too. “This much, Mom.”
Once, when Jeffrey was much smaller—he was almost seven now—his mother had asked him how much he loved her. He had flung his arms as wide as he could and said proudly, “This much!” That gesture had become one of their private messages to each other.
Jeffrey stood on the kitchen stool, washing the dishes with a sponge and setting them in the warm rinse water. He felt important for doing something to help Mom. As he worked, he thought, I won’t take a cookie, of course, but I wonder if they’re cowboy cookies?
Cowboy cookies were his favorite. Mom made them with oatmeal, coconut, semisweet chocolate, and raisins. He looked at the bear-shaped cookie jar on the far end of the counter. “I’m not going to take one,” he said aloud, “but I wonder … ?”
He moved his stool, climbed up to the counter, and pulled the jar to him. As he lifted the lid, the welcome smell reached him almost as quickly as his memory of it. Yep, they’re cowboy cookies all right!
His tummy grumbled, wanting one. “Nope, I won’t,” he told his tummy. But as he looked into the jar, he saw a bump on the side of one cookie—you know, the little bump that sticks out so that the cookie isn’t quite round. Mom probably wouldn’t mind if I just ate that, he thought.
Almost on their own, his fingers picked up the cookie and removed the little chunk from its side. It was a short move from there to his mouth. Mmmm, it was good! He set the cookie back in the jar, but now it had a ragged dent in its side. When Mom sees that, she won’t like how it looks. He took the cookie out and looked in the jar. That looked better. He put the lid back on, returned the jar to its place, and climbed off the stool, cookie in hand.
Jeffrey never thought that he would eat a cowboy cookie he didn’t like, but as he sat at the table, eating this one, all he could think of was how sad Mom would be if she knew.
He climbed back up to the sink and continued to wash the dishes. At least I didn’t look at the TV. During the day, there weren’t programs on he wanted to watch, anyway. Then he remembered watching cartoons about this time of day at his friend Mark’s home. Mom said no watching TV, and I’m not going to. But, he thought, I can just check to see if that channel with the cartoons is on our television.
He dried his hands on his apron, went to the television, and turned it on. It came to life with older people doing boring, older-people things. He turned to the station he thought Mark had had on. There were the cartoons! He watched the captivating characters scurry across the screen. As he burst out in laughter at them, his feet, as if on their own, backed him onto the couch.
He was only there a moment, he was sure, when he heard steps coming up the walk! It must be Mom! He shot up from the couch, shut off the TV, ran to the sink, and began to wash more dishes.
When his mother had unlocked the door and come in, Jeffrey didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. He was ashamed of himself and hoped that she would never know how poorly he had done. He felt even worse when his mother rested her hand on his shoulder and asked, “Jeffrey, are you all right?”
“Yes.” But his voice didn’t even convince him.
Mom sat down at the kitchen table. “Come here,” she gently requested. “You know what?”
“What?”
“You have chocolate on your face.”
Jeffrey didn’t even try to wipe it off. He just sat down heavily on the chair next to her and hung his head.
“What happened, little buddy?”
The story poured out in a flood of tears. As she listened, she tenderly pulled him over onto her lap and rocked him back and forth. After a while she gently asked, “Do you know why you didn’t do what you really wanted to do?”
Jeffrey didn’t know. He wished that he did, and he told her so.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
“Yes, Mom—you know I do.”
“How much?”
He smiled a little. “More than this.” He opened his arms wide.
“Then,” she said, “let me tell you an important truth. You must promise never to forget it, and you must use it.”
He nodded, listening to her closely.
“OK,” she said, “Here it is: We will never arrive at the place we don’t want to go, if we don’t take the first step to get there.”
“Yeah?” Jeffrey waited for her to tell him the rest.
“That’s it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mom explained, “There are things you will not want to do because they make you sad. And there are things you will want to do because they make you happy. No matter how hard the first step seems that takes you to happiness, once you take it, everything gets easier.
“And,” she continued, “no matter how easy or safe the first step to sadness seems, don’t take it. Then you will never get to where you don’t want to be. You see, you fooled yourself when you decided to just see if the cookies were cowboy cookies.”
“Ohhhh.” Jeffrey began to understand. If he hadn’t looked in the cookie jar to see if they were cowboy cookies, he wouldn’t have seen the cookie with the bump. Looking was his first step to where he wished he had never gone. He thought of how innocent and small it had seemed to him at the time. “And,” he blurted, “the first step with the TV was when I turned it on to see if there really were cartoons.”
Mom smiled, pleased that he understood. “Every first step we take is always the most important. After we take it, the other steps always come quicker, made stronger by the first one. So, if we never take the first step …”
“… we will never get there,” Jeffrey completed. “And that’s why the first step is the most important step.”
He and Mom sat together quietly for a while. “Will you remember?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, I’ll remember,” he assured her. It was so simple. I won’t fool myself and take the wrong first step again, he promised himself. He turned to Mom. Together, they said, arms stretched wide, “This much!”

Sara slipped into the long, soft, blue robe that she was to wear in the Christmas program. Pulling the matching hood over her brown curls, she turned to Jennie. “Do I look like Mary now?”
Jennie grinned. “You sure do, except for your size. It won’t matter, though, because Joseph is only eight too.”
Sara giggled at Jennie’s joke, then said seriously, “I really wanted to be Mary in the program, but now that it’s time for the performance, I’m a little scared.”
Jennie reached out to straighten the folds on Sara’s robe. “You’ll do just fine. Everything went well at rehearsal this morning.”
Sara’s stomach gave a little lurch when she heard the organ begin playing “Silent Night.” That was her cue to go on stage.
Sister Perkins came over and smiled at both girls. Looking at Sara, she said, “The curtains will be opening soon. It’s time for you to take your place.”
Sara hurried to her spot on the stage and sat down on a bale of straw. Eric, who was playing Joseph, was already there beside the manger. As Sara bent to arrange the blankets around the doll representing Baby Jesus, she heard the music change and the gentle strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” swell.
The curtains slowly opened on the quiet scene. A single spotlight highlighted Mary and Joseph admiring the Baby Jesus. Neither Mary nor Joseph had to say anything. Brother Egger stood out of sight with a microphone and told about the events of Jesus’ birth as they were silently portrayed on stage. The organ played softly while he spoke: “And it came to pass in those days, …”
Sara was distracted by something moving just below the stage. She moved her eyes carefully, trying not to turn her head and spoil the scene. There, climbing the stairs to the stage was her three-year-old sister, Katie.
Sara’s heart sank as Katie came toward her. What shall I do? she wondered. Why isn’t Katie sitting with Mom and Dad? Sara sneaked a peek at her parents. Her mother wore a stricken, helpless look. Sara felt Katie brush against her knees as she bent to look into the manger. Katie’s going to ruin the Christmas program! Why did she have to do this?
Sara was startled out of her thoughts by Katie’s awed “Oh! He’s beautiful!”
As Katie continued to just stand and intently watch the doll in the manger, Sara swallowed and felt calm. There was something about the spell around Katie that Sara couldn’t bring herself to break. 1 think the best thing to do is just let her stay, Sara decided. She’s being quiet.
So Sara reached out and slipped her arm around her sister’s waist and nestled her next to her on the bale of straw. Katie relaxed against Sara, still gazing lovingly at the Baby Jesus.
Katie sat watching quietly as the shepherds came. The organist played “The First Noel,” and Brother Egger read from the Bible about the shepherds coming to see Jesus. Even after the shepherds had left and the Wise Men had entered, Katie leaned against Sara, enraptured.
Katie really loves Baby Jesus, Sara thought. I don’t blame her for wanting to get close and see better. She gave Katie a little squeeze. I’m really glad now that she came.
When the curtains closed, Sara gently whispered into Katie’s ear, “It’s time for the next scene, so you must go back to Mommy and Daddy.”
Katie looked at her sister. “OK.” She started to leave, then paused and turned. “Thanks, Sara. I liked looking at Baby Jesus with you.”
Sara smiled. “I’m glad.” She led Katie to the side stage door. “Now go back to Mommy.”
After the program the students looked through the crowd for their families. Just as Sara found her parents, she overheard an elderly man speaking to her mother. “I’m so glad I came. Because of your girls, I caught a glimpse of the Savior tonight that I’d never seen before. Thank you.”
Nobody at home said anything about Katie’s unexpected appearance in the program until Mother tucked Sara into bed. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Katie,” Mother said, “but I’m really sorry she interrupted your program. She’d slipped off Dad’s lap, and by the time we realized what she was doing, she was up in front, and it was too late to stop her.” Mother sat down beside Sara on her bed. “I hope it didn’t ruin things for you.”
“No. It was fine, Mother.” Sara squeezed her mother’s hand.
“I really admired the way you handled it,” Mother continued. “It’s hard to know what to do at times like that. What you did was beautiful. Usually people giggle when something unplanned happens, but people got especially quiet after Katie said how beautiful the baby was.”
“At first I was really worried,” Sara admitted. “I didn’t know what to do. Then I realized that the real Mary would have wanted her sister, as well as shepherds and Wise Men, to see her baby. Anyway, there was something special about Katie tonight. It was as though she really understood about Baby Jesus somehow.”
“You’re right, Sara.” Mother’s voice was soft. “Several people came up to me afterward and said the same thing. Even though Katie’s part in the program wasn’t planned, I think it touched people’s hearts. I think a lot of people will never forget tonight’s program.”
Sara settled back on her pillow. “I’m glad.”
Mother bent to kiss Sara. “I think you’re really special too. You taught us older folks a lot in the kind way you treated your sister. I’m sure Jesus was pleased with how you represented His mother tonight.”

Elder Christofferson graduated from BYU with a bachelor’s degree in 1969 and then pursued a law degree at Duke University. Upon graduating in 1972, he was hired as a law clerk for Judge John J. Sirica, serving during the Watergate proceedings.
“It was an exciting experience for a first job out of school,” Elder Christofferson says. “I saw some of the best and some of the worst in the legal profession all mixed together. But that experience showed me what good legal work could do, and that gave me confidence and aspiration.”

Eight feet dragged downstairs to Mom’s sewing room. “Mom,” said Johnny, as he, Benjamin, Katie, and Miriam opened the door, “we’re bored. What can we do?”
“Go swimming?” Mom answered.
“We did that yesterday,” said Katie.
“Why don’t you ride your bikes?” suggested Mom.
“We did that this morning,” Johnny answered.
Mom smiled. “Then catch some monkeys.”
“What?” Benjamin jumped.
Mom laughed. “I just wanted to see if you were listening.”
“Sure we’re listening,” said Benjamin. “We don’t have anything else to do.”
“OK,” said Mom, “how about having a Popsicle race?”
“A Popsicle race?” Miriam asked.
“You mean, see who can eat one the fastest?” asked Katie. “We always race each other in everything. We want to do something different.”
“Oh, this is different,” Mom said. “Eating the Popsicles is just the first part. The fun part comes when all you have left are the sticks.”
The children frowned. “What do you mean?” asked Benjamin.
“Here’s how it works,” Mom explained. “Everybody gets a Popsicle and goes in a different direction. Then you have to think of an unusual and interesting thing to do with your Popsicle or its stick. It’s a race because you have to be back here within an hour.”
“You mean, we try to do something with a Popsicle or the stick that we’ve never done before?” asked Johnny.
“That’s right.” Mom nodded. “And there’s one more rule. Whatever you do must make someone else happy. Whoever comes up with the best idea wins. How does that sound?”
The children looked at each other for a moment. “I think that it sounds like fun,” Benjamin said.
“Me, too,” Miriam and Johnny agreed.
“Let’s go!” shouted Katie, and eight feet pounded up the stairs toward the freezer.
A few minutes later Mom looked through the window and smiled at four excited children with four brightly colored Popsicles dashing off in four different directions.
Nearly an hour had passed before Benjamin came running downstairs, grinning. “Hi, Mom,” he said. “Anyone else back yet?”
“You’re the first,” Mom answered, looking out the window. “But here comes Johnny, and Katie is right behind him. And I see Miriam down the street.”
Within minutes the children all gathered in the sewing room. The girls were laughing, and Johnny was so excited that he could hardly stand still. “I did it!” he said. “Let me tell first!”
“No!” shouted the girls. “We want to tell!”
“Hush, now,” Mom said. “You can tell your Popsicle stories in the order of your return. Benjamin, that means that you’re first.”
“OK,” said Benjamin, jumping up. “Well, I ate my Popsicle while walking down the sidewalk and trying to think of something to do. When it was gone, I sat down on the curb to think some more. I was sitting across from Mrs. Taylor’s house. I remembered about Mr. Taylor dying last year and about Mom and Dad saying what a hard time Mrs. Taylor’s been having trying to do everything by herself. I wished that I could help her. Then I noticed that her garden patch was full of weeds—and I got my idea. I went over and asked Mrs. Taylor if it was all right, then used my stick as a tool to dig weeds out of her garden!”
Mom hugged Benjamin. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “What a great idea! I know that it made Mrs. Taylor very happy.”
“My turn!” Johnny called, jumping up and down.
“Yes, Johnny,” said Mom. “What did you do with your Popsicle?”
“First I ate it.” Johnny giggled, showing his red tongue. “And I had to think for a while to get an idea too. As I was thinking, somebody called to me. It was Jeffrey—the boy in my class who has to stay in a wheelchair. He was on the porch of his house and asked me to come over. He seemed pretty sad. I thought that if summer vacation gets boring for me, it must really get boring for him: no bike riding, no baseball, no swimming. So when I went over to his house, I knew what I was going to do with my stick. His mom got me a piece of heavy paper and a pin, and I folded a paper airplane. Then I worked the pin through the middle of the Popsicle stick and stuck it into the nose of the airplane to make a propeller. I gave it to Jeffrey, and do you know what? Even though he has some pretty neat toys, he thought the airplane was great.”
“And you’re pretty great, too,” said Mom. “Good job!”
“I came back next,” said Katie. “Does my idea count even if the someone I made happy wasn’t a person?”
“I don’t see why not,” answered Mom.
“OK. Then I can tell you. After I ate my Popsicle, I ran over to Mrs. King’s house. Her yard is full of things for birds, and I wanted to see if there were any hummingbirds at her feeder. There weren’t, but I saw two sparrows having trouble eating from the seed bell that hangs in the tree. There weren’t any branches close enough for them to sit on while they ate, and they were too small to reach the bell from the branch it hung on. So I asked Mrs. King for two pieces of string. I tied a piece to each end of my Popsicle stick and tied the other ends of the strings to a branch. Now the stick hangs next to the seed bell, and it’s a perch for the birds to sit on while they eat!”
“Terrific!” exclaimed Mom. “But I know someone you made happy besides the birds: Mrs. King. Now there will be more birds for her to watch. You did very well.” Mom turned to Miriam. “Now it’s your turn, honey.”
Miriam looked at the floor. “I think I goofed,” she said. “I didn’t come up with a good idea like the others.”
“I’m sure you did fine,” Mom said. “Please tell us what you did.”
“Well, I didn’t eat my Popsicle,” began Miriam. “I saw Tony on his front porch. I said, ‘Hi,’ but he didn’t say anything. Then I remembered that he had his tonsils taken out Monday. That really makes your throat hurt. So I gave my Popsicle to him, and I sat by him and told him stories and jokes until I saw everyone else coming back here. When I left, he still didn’t say anything, but he smiled.”
“Miriam,” said Mom, kissing her, “that was a good idea. You made someone just as happy as Benjamin and Johnny and Katie did. In fact, now we have a problem.”
“What?” asked the children.
“I don’t think I can decide which idea was best. They were all wonderful.”
The children looked at each other. They were smiling. “That doesn’t matter, Mom,” answered Benjamin. “I think we each got a prize anyway. We all feel great!”
And eight feet skipped up the stairs and outside to play.

The year began well. The missionaries were blessed to find and teach Craig Smith, then 17 years old. Though at the time there were no priests in their ward, Craig was welcomed by all the young men and fit in well.

“I was made to feel so welcome by the other young men and quickly felt comfortable being around them, even though they knew much more about the Church than I did,” Craig recounts. “It was hard letting go of some of the things that I used to do with my friends before I joined the Church, but I know that living the gospel will make me much happier.”

The Lord had been preparing the hearts of Patrick and Miguel, who were of deacon and teacher age, respectively. Together with Craig, their baptisms meant that each quorum had increased by one, which exactly matched the goal the quorums had prayerfully set. On their baptismal day, most of the ward members were there to see these two young men make a sacred covenant with their Heavenly Father.

In 1995, with our two very small children, we set out on a great adventure when my husband accepted a position at the prestigious United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. Little did we know at that time that our lives would be significantly shaped, molded and impacted by this CHOICE and that we would serve and work there for 25 years.

That choice to move came after the extension of a job opportunity, through the Lord, and the reassuring feelings from the Holy Ghost that we were supposed to accept that opportunity. As a young patriarch, my husband had adopted a scripture which became our family motto:
3 Nephi 13:33 “But seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you”. [9]
For over 30 years we have tried to live by that promise. Our children can often be heard saying, “Put the Lord first, and everything will fall into place”: our family’s interpretation of 3 Nephi 13:33.

As a result of following that motto, we have had wonderful opportunities to grow and serve. My husband has received many awards and accolades for his professional success, but his most cherished titles and responsibilities are that of being a disciple of Jesus Christ, a husband, a father, a son, and a brother who puts the Lord first.

Ken has served in many callings in the Church with his last one being the Annapolis Maryland Stake President. It was an amazing miracle to watch him go from performing the duties of head coach of the Navy Football team to presiding as our stake president.

When you put the Lord first, everything else falls into place. When you begin with the end in mind, your choices become the right ones. When you “think celestial,” you stick to your standards, decision after decision, year after year, and increase your spiritual safety so you can reach your goal.

Elder F. Burton Howard of the Seventy acquaints us with a strong testimony of the converting power of the Book of Mormon: Sister Celia Cruz Ayala of the Puerto Rico San Juan Mission decided to give the Book of Mormon to a friend. She wrapped it in attractive paper and set out to deliver her present.

On the way she was attacked by a bandit who stole her purse and with it the wrapped copy of the Book of Mormon. A few days later she received this letter:

Mrs. Cruz:
Forgive me, forgive me. You will never know how sorry I am for attacking you. But because of it, my life has changed and will continue to change. That book [the Book of Mormon] has helped me in my life. The dream of that man of God has shaken me. … I am returning your five pesos for I can’t spend them. I want you to know that you seemed to have a radiance about you. That light seemed to stop me [from harming you, so] I ran away instead.

I want you to know that you will see me again, but when you do, you won’t recognize me, for I will be your brother . … Here, where I live, I have to find the Lord and go to the church you belong to.

The message you wrote in that book brought tears to my eyes. Since Wednesday night I have not been able to stop reading it. I have prayed and asked God to forgive me, [and] I ask you to forgive me. … I thought your wrapped gift was something I could sell. [Instead,] it has made me want to make my life over. Forgive me, forgive me, I beg you.

Your absent friend (Church News, Jan 6, 1996, 16).

Such is the conversion power of the Book of Mormon.

My brother, sister, and I grew up in the rural town of Blackfoot, Idaho. My family didn’t have a lot of money, but that didn’t stop us from being excited about Christmas. We would wake up early in the morning, sneak into my mom and dad’s room, and ask them if we could get up. They’d say with tired voices, “No. It’s only three o’clock in the morning. Go back to bed.”
So we’d climb back into our beds and wait and wait and think, “Boy, it’s got to be later now.” Then we’d get up again and ask my parents, “Mom, Dad, can we get up now?”
They’d say, “No, it’s only 10 minutes after 3:00. Go back to bed.” It seemed like so long before we’d finally get up to celebrate Christmas.
In those early years, we began to understand the importance of the Savior by celebrating Christmas. By developing a relationship with Him, we were able to make good choices and receive many wonderful gifts in our lives.
True friendship has been one of those gifts. I had several good friends while growing up. The gospel bound us together, and special leaders helped us choose the right. We had a wonderful Sunday School teacher named Eva Manwaring who knew how to handle a group of ruffian boys. I don’t think there were too many sisters who would have put up with us, but she did. Her husband took care of us in Scouts, helping us get our Eagle ranks. I am grateful for good friends and leaders who helped me make good choices, especially the choice to serve a mission.
When I first arrived in Brazil as a missionary, I immediately loved the beautiful, green country and the open, loving, humble people.
The work was often difficult. Representatives of another church would tell the youth to throw rocks at us. We were put in jail. It was hard for people to join the Church, because their neighbors would ostracize them. That was in the late 1950s when the Church didn’t have even one stake in Brazil.
Now there are almost 200 stakes. It has been a spiritual blessing to see the miraculous growth of the Church in Brazil as I’ve returned with my family as a mission president and member of an Area Presidency.
After my first mission was over, I sailed for home on a boat. I stood on the deck and cried as I saw Brazil disappear over the horizon. I’m always excited to return, but it hasn’t gotten easier to say good-bye.
When I got back from my mission, I met a beautiful lady named Sandra Joelene Lyon at stake conference. We both attended Idaho State University in Pocatello but lived in Blackfoot. The best part about commuting was that Sandra and I carpooled in the same group. I could tell she was one of God’s precious daughters, and I knew she was the right one for me to marry. One day I sat next to her in the car and said, “You know, you really ought to write your missionary a ‘Dear John’ letter because you know you’re going to marry me anyway.” It wasn’t quite that simple, but after a couple of years we were married.
We got engaged in December, which makes Christmas especially meaningful. Being married for eternity is the greatest gift we could have given each other. My wife is a wonderful blessing as she provides gifts of love to me, our children, their spouses, and our grandchildren. Her love does much to keep our family united.
After a few years of marriage, Sandra and I had our third child, a little boy named Stephen who was born just three days before Christmas. When he was born, he could not inflate his lungs. He had a valiant little spirit about him. He fought for life, but the doctors said it wasn’t likely he would live. Our bishop invited the ward to join their prayers with ours for our son.
The greatest gift that special Christmas Eve was being able to give him a blessing. After the blessing, I felt prompted to go to Sandra’s hospital room and tell her Stephen was going to be just fine and that she shouldn’t worry. On Christmas morning, the doctors told us Stephen was going to be OK. They had no idea what had happened. It was a miracle. I’m so grateful for the power of the priesthood. We consider Stephen’s survival to be one of our family’s greatest Christmas gifts.
The great gift we receive at Christmas is a remembrance of the Savior’s birth. He is our gift from the Father. Living close to the Savior while growing up helps us to make good decisions. You don’t want to disappoint Him. Forming a testimony while you are young will help you to always appreciate His miraculous sacrifice.
It’s critical to live close to the Savior and know that He is always there and that He always loves you. Following His example and His teachings brings wonderful feelings at Christmas and marvelous blessings in eternity. I testify that the Savior lives. Merry Christmas, beloved brothers and sisters.

After returning from his mission to Scotland, he married his college sweetheart. On a cold morning in January 1901, he and Emma Ray Riggs arrived in a horse-drawn buggy at the Salt Lake Temple, there to be married in covenant before the Lord. So well were the promises of love and honor kept between them that over sixty years later, their suite in the Hotel Utah was affectionately referred to by some as the bridal suite. “Sixty-nine years is none too long for a honeymoon,” they agreed, “especially when you are planning to be married forever.”

Rooma didn’t really want to study the scriptures. Vaitiare didn’t really want to go to seminary. And they didn’t have to. But when they chose to, their lives changed.
Why would a teen choose to spend two hours every Thursday night studying the scriptures with his mom? A year ago Rooma Terooatea of Tahiti probably would have wondered the same thing.
Now he might ask why a teen would choose not to.
During three years of seminary, Rooma had never really paid attention when his teachers assigned scriptures to read for the next lesson. “I didn’t want to read them,” he says. “The scriptures really didn’t jump out at me.”
But he wondered why Church leaders in his ward and stake always used the scriptures in their talks and lessons. He watched his leaders. He noticed how easy it was for his stake president to quote from the scriptures.
So when the Faaa Tahiti Stake divided the seminary students into teams to hold scripture mastery competitions throughout his last year of seminary, Rooma decided to give the scriptures a chance.
That’s when his weekly study sessions with his mother began. Each Thursday night they studied together for the class competition the next day, learning where important verses are and even memorizing many of them.
And that’s when things began to change for Rooma. His scripture study strengthened his relationship with his mom. He started to see the parallels between what the scriptures teach and what is happening in the world today. As he prayed about what he was reading, he realized it was of God.
It also helped him lead his team to victory in the stake scripture mastery championship.
Rooma recognizes in the blessings he’s received a lesson he learned in his studying. “In Mosiah 2:24 King Benjamin taught that when we choose to do what the Lord asks, we are blessed immediately,” says Rooma. One of the greatest blessings he has received is that “after studying the scriptures this year, I know that the Book of Mormon is true.”

I learned from my wife the importance of exchanging notes. Early in our marriage I would open my scriptures to give a message and I would see an affectionate, supportive note slipped into the pages. Sometimes they were so tender that I could hardly talk. Those precious notes from a loving wife were and are a priceless treasure of comfort.

I began to do the same thing with her, not realizing how much they truly meant to her. When she passed away, I found in her private things how much she appreciated the simple messages we shared with each other. I found that she not only kept the notes, but she protected them with plastic coverings as if they were a valuable treasure. There is only one that she didn’t put with the others. It is still behind the glass of our kitchen clock. It reads, “Jeanene, it is time to tell you I love you.” It remains there to remind me constantly of that exceptional daughter of Father in Heaven.

In her final days of illness, I tried to find supporting scriptures that would help her. I put printed copies of them around the house. I found each one of those messages carefully protected as if they were very valuable. In like manner, I have kept the precious notes she has given me.

“All those who can sustain Brother Rulon T. Sheets as our new bishop, please show it by raising your right hand.”
My hand shot into the air. I was excited to have Brother Sheets as our new bishop. His daughter, Peggy, was a friend of mine. Even though she was a few years older, she often invited me to activities at her house. Brother Sheets would pop in and out of these activities, showing us a certain dance step with Peggy or taking his turn at a guessing game. Sometimes he would make popcorn and sit down and talk with us for a while.
I was happy to sustain Brother Sheets as our new bishop. But as I held my hand up in church and looked around at the chapel full of upraised hands, I wondered what kind of support my small, 11-year-old hands could offer to such a great man.
One of the first things I did was use my hands to make cookies for our new bishop. My mother told me that bishops spend a lot of time at the church and sometimes miss meals at home, so we whipped up a batch of our best oatmeal cookies. I stirred the batter until it was just right. Then, when the cookies were ready, I carried them carefully to his house. He was thrilled, but I wanted to help more.
A few weeks later, I was at an activity at Peggy’s house. She put me in charge of the music. I used my hands to turn the dial on the radio, listening for a station with appropriate music. Then I turned down the sound so it wasn’t too loud. This was the bishop’s house, and I wanted to help make it a peaceful place.
When school started, the bishop’s family invited a foster girl named Carla to live with them. The first time I met her I extended my hand and welcomed her. I knew it would help the bishop if Carla was able to make some new friends.
As the months passed, the bishop became ill and had to use a cane to help him walk. My mother said he was sick and he needed our prayers and support more than ever.
When my 12th birthday approached, I had an interview with Bishop Sheets. My mom and I walked to the church and arrived just as the bishop got out of his car. He gave me a cheery wave and shuffled over to the sidewalk. I noticed that, even though it was Saturday, he had dressed in a suit and tie just for my interview. I felt honored.
When the bishop got to the curb, he paused and looked worried. I realized that he was too weak to step up. I ran over to him.
“Take my hand,” I said. “I can help you.”
Gratefully, he grasped my hand and pulled himself up. Then I ran ahead of him and pulled open the heavy church doors.
“I should be doing that for you,” he said softly. “Thank you.”
In his office he eased himself into his chair with a sigh. He then asked me to offer a prayer. I folded my arms reverently, and even though I didn’t mention the bishop in my prayer, in my heart I asked Heavenly Father to bless and strengthen him.
When the prayer was over, the bishop looked more like his old self again. He sat up straight in his chair, and there was a light in his eyes. At the end of the interview he gave me a firm handshake, which I happily returned.
As my mom and I walked home from my interview, I thought about how much I loved Bishop Sheets, and I knew he was called of God. I was grateful that, even though my hands were small, I could still find ways to support and sustain my beloved bishop.

Several years ago my wife, Susan, and I had the opportunity to tour the New Zealand Christchurch Mission. As part of the mission tour we included a preparation day and took a bus trip to see the beautiful Milford Sound. Part of the trip involved stopping at several scenic sites along the way. At one of those stops, I became curious about a group of passengers standing in a circle on the road taking photographs. As I peered over the people, I saw in the circle a frightened baby lamb on wobbly legs. It appeared to be no more than a few hours old.
After all the passengers finally boarded the bus, the driver picked up the frightened lamb in his arms, held it tenderly against his chest, and brought it on the bus. He sat down, closed the door, picked up his microphone, and said to us: “Undoubtedly a band of sheep has gone through here this morning, and this little lamb has strayed. Perhaps if we take it with us, we might find the band of sheep farther up the road and return this baby lamb to its mother.”
We drove through several kilometers of forests and finally came to a beautiful meadow of tall, flowing grass. Sure enough, there in the meadow was a band of sheep feeding. The driver stopped the bus and excused himself. We all thought he would put the lamb down on the side of the road and come back, but he didn’t. With the lamb in his arms, he carefully and quietly walked out through the grass toward the band of sheep. When he got as close as he could without disturbing them, he gently put the lamb down and then remained in the field to make sure the baby lamb returned to the fold.
As he returned to the bus, he once again picked up his microphone and said, “Oh, can’t you hear that mother sheep saying, ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you for bringing my lost lamb back home to me!’”

Susan: “For a while, any contact my husband, Tim, had with the Church was very stressful for me. I was constantly praying that someone would say the thing that would open his eyes and that no one would do or say anything that would offend him.

“Five years passed before I finally realized that during my own investigation of the Church, no one had smoothed the way for me or prepared every personality for my benefit. There had been unsettling experiences for me now and again; but through it all, I had retained my agency. When I decided to be baptized, I did so because I knew through prayer and study that the Church was true.

“Now I have accepted the fact that my husband is capable of making the same mature investigation of the Church whenever he is ready.”

Bruce eased his paddle into the lake water, slicing the dark substance noiselessly, watching the droplets drip from the end of his wooden blade, interrupting the rhythm of his strokes to observe the shimmering return of water to water. Wet diamonds, Bruce thought, as he watched the droplets recombine with the lake.
For the moment, they were the richest and loveliest jewels he could know.
It was late September, and the predusk air was just beginning to acquire the distinctive and leafy mustiness of early autumn. The Connecticut evenings were chilly already, yet Bruce sensed the first morning of frost was still weeks away. When he was younger, the coming of the frost mattered little to him, for September meant only one horrible and inescapable event: the removal of freedom. He was not conscious of beginnings then, as he was today; he was aware only of endings. He smiled as he pushed the paddle deep into the water again, for he could still feel the horrible cringe in his mind that haunted him during the last weeks of summer every year. How he hated to relinquish the freedom of his summer to the walls of a school.
And they had been extraordinary summers. After finishing his job at the pet shop or completing his gardening assignments at Geysmar’s estate, he would hop into his beat-up VW, pick up Bob at the gas station, and they’d rumble and downshift their way over the winding roads to the lake. A few cans of soda, some bug repellant and fishing tackle, and they were set at least until dark. Sometimes longer.
Again Bruce smiled, this time more to the familiar back that occupied the forward seat of his canoe than to the endless water. He had picked Bob up tonight at his gas station, both of them curious to try out the old fishing spots one more time before Bruce took off for Utah and then Germany. They had left the station at 4:30, and when they arrived at the lake, there still were a few hours of daylight left.
“You really think there’s fish left in this puddle?” Bob asked, as he and Bruce lifted the canoe off the roof of the Bug and carried it over their heads to the water’s edge. “Bet the acid rain has just about wiped this place out.”
“Sure there’s fish. How can you doubt it? You just have to find them.” But they had found none so far, Bruce had to acknowledge, though the reawakening of memories had been well worth the trip.
“Hey Bruce, can’t you remember those stars?” Bob said. The silent onset of dusk had begun to slip in over the lake. “Don’t you remember those nights?” He was silent for a moment, then continued. “It really isn’t that long ago—just two years since the last time we were up here, right? But man! Those stars. Sometimes when I work the pumps at night now, I remember those stars.”
How could anyone forget them, Bruce thought, checking his line for bass as Bob spoke. They had been trolling the lake for about a half hour now, but still no luck. Sometimes it was like that.
“Those stars, Bruce.” Bob laughed. “Man, I still can’t say what they make me feel.”
They stopped paddling, then floated freely, words stuck in the stuff of their memories. Suddenly it seemed to Bruce that he was 14 again, and he and Bob were lying on their backs on the seats of their old rowboat, their lines limp at the side of the boat.
“Hey Bruce, do you think there’s ever an end to those stars?” Bob had asked. And Bruce had felt it then, as surely as he knew it again this evening, that the stars stretched on forever.
“Can’t you imagine a wall out there, Bruce? Can’t you feel it? You know, all of a sudden you reach the end of the space, and then there’s this big giant wall. Bam! That’s it. The big end.” And they had laughed.
But Bruce had found that he had to stop laughing that night. The waters licked softly at the base of the boat; a peeper sounded from the shore. There was nothing but blackness in the middle of the lake, all that black and silent water. Bruce shook his head vigorously, shutting his eyes, sitting up so suddenly that he hurt the bones in his back on the seat of the boat.
“No way, Bobby,” Bruce said, still shaking his head. “I just can’t handle that. It’s like something cracks—snap!—in my head. You know what I mean? I just can’t handle a wall in space. I just can’t handle it ending. Things have got to go on. Don’t you think, Bobby?” But it was more feeling than thinking, he knew.
Nights like that had made it easier to believe the missionaries, Bruce realized, when they had come knocking on his parents’ door. Nights like that had helped his new faith to seem almost reasonable. If space was endless, then life was endless, and endless life demanded a God. And if there was a God, Bruce just couldn’t imagine any other church being truer than the one that the missionaries had taught to him. He’d felt it as sure as he felt the warmth of the sun. And so he’d done it. He’d slipped gently into the bright waters of baptism, knees bending, his white clothes clinging to him as he felt his body going down and then up, lifted from the wetness by some power much greater than skinny old Elder Larsen. He had felt himself rising from the waters, a new person.
Water. It was always water for him. Once, when he was ten, he had tried to walk on the lake water. Lying on his back on the dock near his parents’ old cabin on the lake, he had become curious with the possibilities of faith. He had heard the story countless times in his Methodist Sunday School of the Savior walking on the water, but now his wondering made him restless. If he had enough faith, would the substanceless substance become firm beneath him? He stepped confidently out, then fell clumsily into the water.
“You caught any fish back there?” Bob asked, snapping Bruce back into the present.
Bruce looked at his line; it hung lifelessly in the dark.
“Maybe it’s time to head back,” Bob suggested.
Bruce said nothing. It was hard to stop fishing. He was always filled with the wild hope of just one more minute, just one more moment of patience, and then the tiniest movement of the line would come. If you weren’t careful, you would miss that gentle sign of interest, and the hope would be gone.
“Another 15 minutes, Bob. Let’s wait till it’s real dark. Then we’ll go back.”
Bruce reeled in his line, then pulled the pole back and cast out with one final hope for success. Setting the rod in the bottom of the canoe, he turned in the seat to get more comfortable and bumped his pole in the process. It jerked precariously, the line getting caught under the bow of the canoe. Impulsively, Bruce reached his hand into the black and unknowable water, the dark liquid now fused with the dimming horizon that was tentatively lit by a few of the earliest stars. Bruce tugged at the trapped line with his hand, freeing it, and then, for some reason, felt reluctant to let it go. Unexpectedly, the line raced through his enclosing fingers, pulled taut with certain promise.
“Hey Bob!” Bruce called softly, carefully pulling his hand in from the water, unwilling to disturb the pulse of the line. “I think I’ve got something, my friend.”

I didn’t want to go on a mission. Down deep, I knew that I ought to go. I also knew that I ought to want to go. But I didn’t. Although I felt a little guilty, I also felt like it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t want to go. I mean, the Church believes in free agency, right? Just because my dad and brothers and cousins had done the “mission thing” didn’t mean I had to.
To tell the truth, a mission didn’t sound like much fun. I was afraid they might send me someplace where they didn’t have pizza, or where hot dogs were made out of real dogs.
Besides, I was basically happy with my life the way it was. I had a cute girlfriend and a nice car. I was doing okay in college and played for the baseball team. The coach said I would be a starter the next season. Plus we lived only two blocks from the beach and I could go surfing whenever I wanted. Why would I want to leave all that?
No one ever said I had to go on a mission, of course. It was just that everyone simply assumed I would. It was kind of like a tradition in our family. After high school, you went to college for a year, then you went on a mission for two years, then back to school. Also, my dad was kind of a missionary freak. In addition to serving a full-time mission and a couple of stake missions, he had been the ward mission leader three or four times. I think he holds the stake record for attendance and participation at convert baptisms.
As the school year drew to a close, several of my LDS friends were making mission plans and a few had already received their calls. I had a job lined up with a construction company for the summer, and I tried to put missionary work out of my mind. In our house, that wasn’t easy to do. Even Karen, my nine-year-old sister, had a “mission fund.”
Karen kept herself busy with a map of the world, trying to decide the best place for me to go. She started with scenic areas like Switzerland and Hawaii; then she moved to more remote regions of the globe like Madagascar and Sri Lanka. One day, Karen discovered Mongolia in an old copy of National Geographic.
“Do they have missionaries in Mongolia?” Karen asked.
“I certainly hope not.”
“That would be a great place for you to go, Scott!” my sister chirped.
“It’s way up in the mountains between Russia and China. Part of it is a big desert, the Gobi Desert. People there ride camels and live in tents because they move a lot. But up in the mountains they ride little long-haired horses. And in the winter it gets so cold that you have to wear a lot of fur, or you freeze to death.”
“Sounds like my kind of place,” I said.
“Would you have to wear a white shirt and tie under the fur?” she wondered aloud.
I shook my head and left the room.
As the summer progressed, it seemed my family talked about missionary work more and more, and I talked about it less and less. Soon, my silence on the subject was deafening.
One night while I was reading, my dad came in the room and shut the door behind him. “We need to talk, Scott,” he said, shutting off the CD player and sitting on the edge of my bed.
It was showdown time, and I knew it. I had to tell Dad that I wasn’t going on a mission. Turning in my chair to face him, I mentally ran through the little speech I had prepared. My heart was pounding and I was just about to speak when my dad interrupted my thoughts.
“Son, I don’t think you should plan on leaving for your mission this summer.”
“Huh?”
“Morally, you’re worthy, and I’m grateful for that.” He took a deep breath and continued, “But spiritually and emotionally, I just don’t think you’re ready.”
“Well, I don’t think …”
“It’s hard work to be a missionary. It takes long hours of study and prayer, planning and diligence. You need a lot of self-discipline.”
Now I was speechless.
“A mission is a privilege, Scott. It wouldn’t be fair to send you out with the attitude you have right now.”
“Not fair?”
“That’s right. Not fair to you, or your mission president, or your companions, or the Lord. It would be a wasted two years.”
“Oh,” was the only response I could muster.
Dad stood up and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, son,” he said. Then he left the room. Somehow, it wasn’t the way I’d planned for the meeting to go.
That was the beginning of a difficult summer.
First of all, my girlfriend decided to spend ten weeks touring Europe with her cousin. Then Arnold, my best friend, broke his ankle in a motorcycle accident. Finally, my friend Luz—my number one surfing buddy—got a job working nights in a factory.
At least I still had my car.
I often wonder if my life would have been different if I hadn’t come home early that night and turned on the news. With cookies in one hand, and a glass of milk in the other, I watched the usual evening newscast.
Things started out pretty much the same that night as they usually do: people starving in countries I’d never heard of, riots against oppressive governments, AIDS, drugs, political corruption. My mind was wandering when suddenly my attention was jerked back to the television by a familiar name. The latest gang violence in south Los Angeles was being reported, and I heard the name Alfred Jefferson. Alfred Jefferson! I knew an Al Jefferson. As the report droned on, I came to the stunned realization that it was the same person. Al was a teammate of mine at college. He had just graduated and was going on to graduate school in Colorado.
He was dead. Victim of a senseless act of violence. There was an interview with his grieving grandmother and then one with my badly shaken baseball coach talking about Al as a person and a player.
I turned off the television and stared at the blank screen. It isn’t possible, I thought. Al hadn’t really been a close friend. He was a senior and our best player. I was just a freshman trying to make the team. But the fact that I knew him made the tragedy very personal.
What kind of a person would do such a thing? Al had just been standing on the porch talking to his grandmother. He didn’t do anything to anyone. I began thinking about all the horrible things in the world and wondering how people could be so evil. Don’t these people realize that we’re all brothers and sisters? We’re all children of God. Someone really ought to tell people …
My thoughts were leading to a dangerous place, so I got up and wandered around the house. The walls were covered with paintings and photos, needlepoint and school awards. There was the wagon wheel lamp I had made in wood shop, sitting on the end table Douglas made. The cutting board that Steve made when he had shop was hanging in the kitchen near the sink. On the side of the refrigerator was a family “portrait” that Karen had painted during a recent creative burst. Among the decorations on the kitchen wall was a crudely made wooden heart with “Happy Mother’s Day! Love, Scott,” printed in pencil and shellacked over. As I wandered from room to room, I began to realize how much I loved the people that lived here, how lucky I was to have a family that loved me, and how selfish I was for not sharing my happiness with others.
I walked out to the front porch and sat on the swing, surveying the neighborhood. I looked out to the driveway and noticed my car. It was a ’68 Mustang. I loved that car. It wasn’t much to look at when Dad brought it home, but we restored it from the tires up until it was better than new.
If you sold the car, you could help pay for your mission.
Selling the car I had spent two summers working to restore? Selling my car so I could go to a faraway place and teach the gospel? I think my friend Arnold liked the car even more than I did. He was always trying to buy it.
I walked in the house and picked up the phone.
“Hi, Arn. This is Scott.”
Suddenly, I forgot what I was going to say.
“Uh, well,” I stammered.
“You okay, Scott?”
I knew what I had to do. I gulped and took a deep breath.
“Hey, Arn, you interested in buying a car?”

I asked the missionaries to come back almost every day after that. I believed what they taught me. I believed that Joseph Smith saw Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in the Sacred Grove. But before I could be baptized, I needed to get permission from my mother. I called her and said, “Mother, I’ve found a wonderful church. I need to get your permission to join.”
She said, “No. I lost my husband; I don’t want to lose my son.” She was afraid that if I joined the Church I would leave her.
I said, “I’m not going anywhere.” And then she hung up.
The missionaries fasted and prayed for me, and I did too. I called her again and said, “Please don’t hang up on me until I’ve really explained it.” She suggested that I study more and take some more time to decide. But I felt strongly that now was the time I should be baptized.
Finally she told me, “Son, if you are going to quit right in the middle, don’t do it. But if you will stay with it all the way through, then you have my permission.” That caused me to always take my membership in the Church very seriously.

The second convert I’d like to mention - Adem Kocaman. Adem saw the tag on a wheelchair that read “LDS Charities.” He researched out LDS and contacted the then Humanitarian Missionary Couple, was taught and baptized. Adem is a young single adult working on his doctorate in Human Genetics. He serves as the First Counselor in the ?stanbul Branch Presidency. He travels every other week to ?stanbul to attend Church all the way from Samsun on the Black Sea where he attends university, a ten hour bus ride each way.

As I entered the rest home, my thoughts were not really on grandma, even though she was dying. I loved her, and it made me sad to realize she would soon be leaving, but she had been waiting so long to be with grandpa again that it seemed like her dying would be a blessing, a long-awaited reward for her faithfulness. My own mind longed for such assurance of what the future would hold. I was wrestling with an important decision and was filled with confusion; I found myself pleading with the Lord for peace of mind. That’s why I was so surprised when such a feeling of calmness came over me when I walked into grandma’s room. She was weeping. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and told me softly that as she looked back at her life, she was overcome with the blessings the Lord had given her. Her quiet reflection and gratitude totally removed me from my earthly worries. I hardly realized I was standing there, listening to her in the darkness. She was radiant, thin and dying, but glowing.
Any unappreciative thought I’d ever had about her was erased from my mind, and I was so humbled that I can’t find words to explain it. Why don’t those times stay with us forever? I put my unwrinkled hand over her wrinkled one and held it. I asked her what she was thinking. She said something I’ve often felt but could never quite express. She shook her head and said, “Oh, dear, if you knew all I think about.” Then she told me I looked different. I told her it was because I had no eye makeup on and she probably couldn’t recognize me. But she hadn’t even looked at me. She’d been looking out the window and then she said, “No, you are different than when you came in. You’re seeing your future laid out in front of you, and you wonder what will happen to you.” Tears came to my eyes. She was right. “Don’t be impatient, my dear. The Lord has many good things in store for you, and he loves you very much. But you are impatient like me. You want to tell the Lord when you’re ready and when you’re not.”
Then she smiled. “I have been a trial to my Lord all my life because of my impatience, and now I see my life closing, and I realize he still loves me—he loves me.” When she had finished, tears fell down her cheeks. I wasn’t crying outwardly, but when I saw her tears, mine came, too. At that moment we were sharing something together as children of God, not as an old lady and her granddaughter. That is how I will remember Grandma Windsor, and when my time comes to join her, I hope she will be proud of me.
I walked down the rest home steps with one more testimony that there really is one greater than ourselves, and that he loves me far more than I can even imagine. He has blessed me so much! Knowing that, I can’t be anything less than my best. When I fail, I punish myself. He is a God of abounding love, not hate or resentment. I do so many things wrong, and yet he still loves me. Looking at grandma’s face that day, I could see that love. I could see wisdom, humility, and peace—an overwhelming peace. I wish I could have written on stone plates that would last forever the feeling I had then.

Annemarie and I met the summer before high school. We were the only freshmen on the varsity soccer team and had to stick together. It seemed we had nearly everything in common, until we attended our first end-of-the-season team party. It was the night after we became state champions.
“You’re not going to have a beer?” she questioned skeptically, snapping open the can of beer offered her. “Coach left already. You’re not going to get caught.”
“I know,” I replied. “That doesn’t matter. I don’t drink.” There was an uncomfortable pause as I awaited her reaction. Slowly, Annemarie put the can back on the counter as she watched me searchingly.
“Are you serious? Not even one to celebrate?”
I shook my head.
“Okay,” she conceded, “then I won’t drink tonight either. In fact, let’s leave.”
That night the two of us started a tradition of leaving team parties with the coach. Sometimes we went out for shakes instead, and often other team members joined us. But usually it was just Annemarie and me.