Gospel Story Finder

When I was 13 years old, I thought that I had life all figured out. I thought that I had all the time in the world, and so did everyone else. Then something happened—something that had an eternal impact on my life—and I realized that I had a lot left to learn.
In the spring of my 13th year, my grandpa, my mother’s father, died. He had been very ill for six weeks, but still his death was unexpected and very sad for all of my family.
Because my grandmother had died the previous year, their home was now vacant. All of the activities that had taken place there for the last 25 years were now only fond memories. The house in Salt Lake City stood there with birds on the roof and tall trees hugging almost every corner; within its walls the memories filled each room with an empty silence.
As my mother and her two sisters worked to remove everything from my grandparents’ home in order to sell it, they would come across objects that recalled a certain precious time or event in their lives. Even a small object, such as a vase or a book, could revive a feeling that had faded with time. When an especially meaningful object was found, they would draw lots to see who would get the privilege of keeping it. It was the most fair way of deciding what to do.
Through this process of drawing lots, my mother acquired my grandpa’s old paint can. My grandpa had been a painter for most of his life. He painted cars mainly but would do other things, too. When I was little, I sometimes used to watch him work. I used to watch his skilled hands in awe as he slowly, yet with confidence and pride, painted our car. Grandpa loved his work. He had an attitude of perfection and always did his best. I wondered why he did his job this way, since he received the same payment regardless of how carefully he worked. I later came to realize that an inner pride made him want to do his best. From this attitude and the quality of his work, he earned a reputation as an excellent painter.
At first I couldn’t understand why my mother even wanted the old paint can. It was dusty and bent, with many different colors of paint streaks dripped down its sides. It was puzzling to me why my mother was so happy to have it. Personally, I couldn’t see that it had worth.
After a time, my mother decided to use the paint can to hold the paint brushes she uses for her hobbies. She washed and dried the can with a solemn reverence. My dad carefully straightened a bent part on the can as if to try to bring it back to a former state of perfection. My mother then sprayed the can with clear lacquer.
When she had finished, I couldn’t believe the transformation that had taken place before my eyes. It was no longer an old, dirty paint can, but a powerful remembrance of a life.
Every streak of color represented a day in my grandpa’s life. He had spent hours at work doing a job, and when that job was finished, he went on to the next one, and the next color. The pattern that was left was unique and varied—as was his life.
As the months passed, I thought more and more about my grandpa’s paint can. One day a thought struck me. All of our lives are like his paint can, with each day represented as a streak of paint. Whatever we do, we are exchanging a day of our lives for it. We can choose the “color” our days will be—some days are bright and others dark; some days overshadow others. Some days can even be redone by wiping out a bad “color” through repentance. When our lives are finished, we want to look back at them and be proud of how they turned out, as my grandpa was proud of his work.
Whenever I see my grandpa’s paint can, I always think of his life. I hope that somehow he knows how much he has influenced my life for good. He has inspired me to do my best. He left me a legacy—his example, his love, and his paint can.

Sometimes we are unwise and even cruel in our unwillingness to accept change in others. I recently learned of a man who raised his family and pursued his professional life in a small country town. He was not without his problems but was a good man with a great heart who loved the Lord and the gospel. Mistakes, even small ones, are not soon forgotten in some neighborhoods, however; and he never seemed to be “allowed” to grow, blossom, develop, and change into what he could become.

As a missionary serving overseas, he had made a remarkable contribution. The mission president said he had done more to bridge the cultural gap between the two countries than any other adult American was able to do. Yet when his mission was over, he returned to the small town; and without malice or evil intent but with the insistent burden of memory, his neighbors did not invite him or let him be the man he had become, but rather seemed quite prepared to see him as the less attractive man of an earlier period.

Because of their expectations, he completed the last years of his life much less happy and much less involved and surely much less productive to the kingdom than he had been for that one glorious period where people in a new land and in a different time allowed him to change and to be what he really wanted to be and, in his heart, really was.

Shelby didn’t like hearing bad words, especially when her friends at school took the Lord’s name in vain.
“Please don’t say those words around me,” she’d say to her friends.
But sometimes they forgot, and she had to remind them.
One day Shelby’s friend Beth rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, yeah, I forgot. Nobody says those words in front of Shelby. She’s trying to make us good like she is.”
The other girls laughed.
Shelby was embarrassed. She felt bad for always asking her friends not to say those words around her—especially when they didn’t think the words were bad.
When Shelby got home from school, she flopped down on her bed. Her mother came in a few minutes later, and Shelby told her what had happened.
“Try not to worry about it,” Mom said. “You just keep doing the right thing, and eventually your friends won’t want to say those words anymore.”
“Why does it matter if my friends say those words?” Shelby asked. “It’s not like I am swearing.”
“The prophets have taught us that we should keep ourselves worthy to feel the Spirit at all times. Bad words offend the Spirit,” Mom said.
Shelby remembered times she had felt the Spirit: at family home evening, when she bore her testimony, when she got a blessing from her father. Shelby liked feeling the Spirit, and she didn’t want to do anything that would offend that warm, peaceful comfort.
She made up her mind to keep being an example to her friends and help them to understand that she didn’t like to hear those words.
The next day at school, she heard those words again.
“Please don’t say those words around me,” Shelby asked Becca.
Becca glared at Shelby and then ignored her. Shelby was glad she had said something but felt sad that her friend was upset.
At recess Shelby heard someone say those words again. This time it was Beth.
“Please don’t say that around me,” Shelby said.
“Sorry,” Beth said, rolling her eyes.
Shelby felt silly once again.
At softball practice after school, Shelby hit a ball. It bounced to first base and got there before Shelby did. Shelby heard Bonnie, the new girl on the team, take the Lord’s name in vain.
Shelby hesitated. She was tired of asking people not to say those kinds of words around her. She didn’t want the other girls to make fun of her.
“Please don’t say those words around her.”
Shelby turned around to see who had spoken.
Beth was telling Bonnie that Shelby was a Latter-day Saint and that she didn’t say those kinds of words and didn’t feel comfortable hearing those words either.
Bonnie turned and looked at Shelby. “Sorry, Shelby. I didn’t know.”
Beth grinned at Shelby. “I guess we’re all becoming more like you,” Beth said.
Shelby smiled. She was happy she had made the decision to be a good example to her friends and to follow the prophet’s counsel to keep the Spirit with her.

As a young boy, Spencer watched other boys his age steal watermelons from neighbors’ fields or slash the melons open to rot and then run away.
Boy: I dare you to do it, Spencer.
Spencer: That’s not my idea of fun. It’s just plain mean.Why, if you asked any farmer in Thatcher, he’d give you all the melon your belly could hold.I won’t join in.
When Spencer was a deacon, his duties included gathering fast offerings, which at the time were often fruit, flour, and vegetables. His father lent him the horse and buggy, and Spencer took the responsibility very seriously.
Spencer: The other boy hasn’t shown up. Well, the job still has to be done.I’ll just have to do it alone.
Spencer went on to become the secretary and then president of his deacons quorum.
A few years later, Spencer was stopped by the superintendent as he left Sunday School.
Superintendent: Spencer, I want you to teach a Sunday School class.
Spencer: Me? But I’m only 14.
Superintendent: Lean on the Lord, and you’ll do fine.
In high school, Spencer was voted class president. One day Spencer and some friends borrowed an old buggy for a field trip to the mountains. The rough road was too much for it.
Friend: What’s wrong?
Spencer: A spring broke.
The next day in class, Spencer spoke up.
Spencer: That spring has to be paid for, even if I have to do it myself.
Friend: If you’re pitching in, Spencer, so will I.
Friend: I guess I will too.
The Lord was able to use Spencer W. Kimball as a leader and an example because he was honest, obedient, and filled with integrity.
The qualities he developed in his youth helped him become a great prophet.

Take me for example. I’d had LDS friends since I was 13, and I eventually joined the Church when I was 19. But despite learning a lot about Church culture over those years, I had a hard transition. To me, the Church culture and practices were so different that they seemed kind of weird.
I grew up in a church that in many ways is quite unlike the one you know or are coming to know. At church the ministers and choir wore robes similar to high school graduation robes. During worship service—their equivalent of sacrament meeting—the ministers gave sermons and did all the talking. Every Sunday we all repeated the Lord’s Prayer in unison and always sang the hymn “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow.” Babies were baptized by having water sprinkled on their heads, but confirmation happened at around 14 years old.
We used grape juice instead of water for the sacrament, and high school kids attended Sunday School with the adults in a class that talked about current issues in society.
Even our building was different from the LDS buildings I had visited. We had a large chapel modeled after Christian churches in Europe, with a high peaked roof and tall, stained-glass windows. There was a cross in the choir loft. A beautiful, tall bell tower stood out front. I loved ringing that bell after church services. It was heavy enough that it could lift a small child off the ground as the rope went up and down.
Our customs and social beliefs were different too. We were taught that it was OK to drink alcohol or smoke. Having a boyfriend or girlfriend as a teenager was OK. In fact, we were taught that you could even have sexual relations before marriage as long as you believed you were in love. We never talked about having a testimony. The first time I saw a fast and testimony meeting—wow! I couldn’t believe how odd that seemed. No one ever stood to share their beliefs like that in my church.
Coming to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints wasn’t just about learning new doctrines, such as the premortal life and baptism for the dead; it was a change in culture and lifestyle and expectations. Resolving those differences was a hard road to walk.
The first six months after my baptism were really hard. I almost didn’t make it. Everything was so different, especially because I was attending church without my family. I still struggled with certain doctrinal points, as well as feelings of being estranged from my past.
Fortunately, my friends in the Church were patient, kind, and constant. They took me to activities, invited me to their homes for dinner and family home evening, and prayed with me. That made a huge difference not just in my joining the Church but also in my staying active and finding strength when my testimony wavered. I owe a lot to them for helping me figure things out.

“I was walking several steps ahead of grandpa [President Lorenzo Snow] when he stopped me, saying … ‘It was right here that the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to me at the time of the death of President Woodruff. … He stood right here, about one meter above the floor. It looked as though He stood on a plate of solid gold.’
“Grandpa told me what a glorious personage the Savior is and described His hands, feet, countenance and beautiful White Robes, all of which were of such a glory of whiteness and brightness that he could hardly gaze upon Him.
“Then grandpa said … ‘I want you to remember that this is the testimony of your grandfather, that he told you with his own lips that he actually saw the Savior here in the Temple and talked with Him face to face’” (Allie Young Pond, personal journal).

Spiritual strength frequently comes through selfless service. Some years ago I visited what was then called the California Mission, where I interviewed a young missionary from Georgia. I recall saying to him, “Do you send a letter home to your parents every week?”

He replied, “Yes, Brother Monson.”

Then I asked, “Do you enjoy receiving letters from home?”

He didn’t answer. At length I inquired, “When was the last time you had a letter from home?”

With a quavering voice, he responded, “I’ve never had a letter from home. Father’s just a deacon, and Mother’s not a member of the Church. They pleaded with me not to come. They said that if I left on a mission, they would not be writing to me. What shall I do, Brother Monson?”

I offered a silent prayer to my Heavenly Father: “What should I tell this young servant of Thine, who has sacrificed everything to serve Thee?” And the inspiration came. I said, “Elder, you send a letter home to your mother and father every week of your mission. Tell them what you are doing. Tell them how much you love them and then bear your testimony to them.”

He asked, “Will they then write to me?”

I responded, “Then they will write to you.”

We parted and I went on my way. Months later I was attending a stake conference in Southern California when a young missionary came up to me and said, “Brother Monson, do you remember me? I’m the missionary who had not received a letter from my mother or my father during my first nine months in the mission field. You told me, ‘Send a letter home every week, Elder, and your parents will write to you.’” Then he asked, “Do you remember that promise, Elder Monson?”

I remembered. I inquired, “Have you heard from your parents?”

He reached into his pocket and took out a sheaf of letters with an elastic band around them, took a letter from the top of the stack, and said, “Have I heard from my parents! Listen to this letter from my mother: ‘Son, we so much enjoy your letters. We’re proud of you, our missionary. Guess what? Dad has been ordained a priest. He’s preparing to baptize me. I’m meeting with the missionaries; and one year from now we want to come to California as you complete your mission, for we, with you, would like to become a forever family by entering the temple of the Lord.’” This young missionary asked, “Brother Monson, does Heavenly Father always answer prayers and fulfill Apostles’ promises?”

I replied, “When one has faith as you have demonstrated, our Heavenly Father hears such prayers and answers in His own way.”

Clean hands, a pure heart, and a willing mind had touched heaven. A blessing, heaven-sent, had answered the fervent prayer of a missionary’s humble heart.

Although not very active in the Church when I was 14, I was invited to attend seminary. By divine design, the Lord blessed me with a simple but profound answer to a prayer only a couple of days earlier and I was prepared to accept the invitation. That year, we studied the Book of Mormon. Through the support of a loving teacher and my classmates, I accepted the invitation to read the Book of Mormon during the year. More importantly, I accepted the prophet Moroni’s invitation to ask God if the book was true. (See Moroni 10:3–5.)
Shortly after starting seminary, I approached my Father in Heaven again, with a sincere heart and real intent, wanting to know for myself if the Book of Mormon was true, and whether Joseph Smith had translated it by the gift and power of God as he had claimed. That same feeling I’d experienced earlier washed over me. That feeling of pure love burned through me, and I knew—absolutely knew—that the Book of Mormon was the word of God.
Simultaneously, I knew that because the Book of Mormon was true, Jesus Christ was my Saviour, Joseph Smith was His prophet, foreordained to restore the Lord’s true Church on this earth, and that a living prophet on the earth gave counsel and guidance that I needed to follow as I tried to live the commandments and standards of the Church. Those were profound things to know as a 14-year-old boy.
That knowledge changed me. I wanted to be good. I wanted to do the right things, and when I made mistakes, I felt sorry for what I had done, I repented, and relied on the Lord to help me to do better. My faith in Jesus Christ grew daily through my strengthening testimony and understanding of the teachings in the Book of Mormon.

Paint buckets and plundering. Our lives are busy, and it was difficult to read every day. We finally decided that we would read no matter what, and we found ourselves reading in some rather unusual places—sitting on paint buckets as we worked on our remodeling project or around a campfire in our backyard. We wondered if our four-year-old was even listening at times, but then one day when asked why his room was so messy, he replied, “Someone has been plundering in there!” Buxton family, West Point, Utah, USA

I placed my heavy textbook down on the table as the bell rang for first period. My biology teacher was finishing up some work at his computer. “Hello Hop,” he said as I walked in. I sat down and unzipped my pink backpack, pulling out my homework while the other students came through the open door. I had worked hard to get my worksheet on plants done late the night before.
I greeted my friend sitting in the chair next to me. I had fun chatting with her every morning at the beginning of biology class.
“Emily, I need your help,” she said.
“What can I do for you?” I responded cheerfully.
“I couldn’t get my homework done, and I was wondering if I could use your answers. I’ve missed so much being sick, and I really need to get this assignment in or my grade will drop.”
My mind started to whirl. “But isn’t that cheating?” I questioned in amazement.
“Well, I already did this assignment, I just don’t have it with me now. Can I hurry and copy your paper before class starts?”
She was my friend and I really wanted to help her. It was a fill-in-the-blank worksheet, so the teacher wouldn’t know they were my answers. He was busy, so he wouldn’t see her copying my notes. I sat there undecided, a battle raging in my mind. Should I help her cheat, or should I refuse to help my friend? It was true that she had been sick and missed a lot of class, and I really wanted to be a good friend.
As I hesitated, my mind made a long list of reasons why it would be OK to help her. On the other hand, I knew it wouldn’t be right. Then I made a choice. I wanted to be a reliable friend, but even more, I wanted to be honest.
Apprehensively, I turned toward her. “I wish I could help you, but I don’t feel right about letting you use my answers,” I said. “I am really sorry.”
It was hard for me to disappoint my friend, but I had a good feeling inside, one that comes from knowing I had kept my integrity and been honest even with a good friendship on the line. As my teacher started the day’s lesson, many students in that first period biology class thought it was just a normal day. But for me, it was a day to remember. That day marked an important decision in my life. That choice defined what was honest and what wasn’t honest. The next time I faced someone asking me to share my answers, I had already made my decision. I had made the resolve to be honest under all circumstances.

It had little effect, due in large part to the moral courage of one man, a nonmember named George Ramsden, manager of the passenger department of the Guion Line. At his death the Millennial Star published an obituary describing him as a man of “integrity and honour.”3 Several of Mr. Ramsden’s colleagues warned him that he would run a great risk if he attempted to land any Latter-day Saints in America, but he had the courage to ignore the circular, knowing that it had its origins in prejudice and religious intolerance. When government officials put up posters on his ships stating that Church members would not be allowed to land in New York, he had them taken down and forbade the distribution of the circulars among his passengers. To the American consul he simply said that he was not willing to apply a religious test as to who should, or should not, be his passengers.4
The Millennial Star concluded “that the Latter-day Saints, notwithstanding the hostile attitude of the American government towards them during a number of years, have not been prevented from landing in America is in great degree due to the wise discretion and superior tact displayed by this courageous and broad-minded gentleman.”5 Qualities still in great need today.

A human drama illustrating the bond between the teacher and the young women in her class has been an inspiration to me, as I know it will be to you. It is the account of a first-year Beehive in Young Women. I share it with you, using her own words:
“One day, a few months before my 12th birthday, I noticed a note card on the dresser of the room I shared with my older sister. It read, ‘I’m happy to be your teacher and hope that we have a great year in Mutual.’ It was signed ‘Baur Dee.’
“I soon learned that all of the girls loved Baur Dee. They visited her at home, wanted to sit with her in church, and stayed after Mutual each Wednesday to talk with her.
“Looking back so many years, I am amazed that I still have such a vivid memory of my earliest real meeting with Baur Dee. That first night, as I walked in the front door of our ward building to attend Mutual, she stood waiting to greet me. I noticed for the first time the smile which always transformed her appearance from average to beautiful. ‘Welcome,’ she said to me. ‘I’m so glad you’re in my class. We’re going to have a great time!’ There was no adjustment period for me from Primary to Mutual. I felt right at home from that moment.
“Over the next few weeks, I joined the other girls as one of Baur Dee’s fans. At the time, I didn’t try to figure out her popularity. So many years later, though, I believe I understand. She really, truly cared about each one of us, and we knew it.
“Baur Dee suffered from a disease called nephritis—a disease which not too many years later would be treated with dialysis and often cured with a kidney transplant. But for Baur Dee there was no cure, no miracle. She passed away peacefully. She was 27 years old.
“After the funeral services, as we girls stood somberly around the open grave at the cemetery, we made a vow that we would visit Baur Dee’s final resting place together every Memorial Day throughout our lives and that we would never, ever allow her memory to die.”
Forty years have gone by since Baur Dee, this teacher of girls, passed away—yet the pledge lives on. One of her girls has said: “Wherever I go, whatever I do, something of Baur Dee goes with me and with each of her ‘girls.’ She lives on in us and in those with whom we have shared her lessons.” As Henry Brooks Adams observed, “A teacher affects eternity; [she] can never tell where [her] influence stops.”

My friend Max was baptized when he was eight years old. His father was not a member of any church, and Max could go to church or not go.
As a teenager, after not attending for several months, Max had the feeling that he needed to go back to church and determined one Sunday morning that he would return. But his resolve weakened as he approached the front door of the church; his stomach tightened.
There, standing at the door, was the new bishop. Max didn’t know him, and he felt sure the bishop didn’t know Max. As Max approached, the bishop’s face lit up, and he put his hand out and said, “Max, it’s so good to see you!”
“As he spoke those words,” Max said, “a warm feeling came over me and I knew I had done the right thing.”11

One such couple sat in my office just days after the husband’s disclosure of a pornography habit that had plagued him since his youth. While listening to a Relief Society lesson based on Sister Linda S. Reeves’s April 2014 general conference address, “Protection from Pornography—a Christ-Focused Home,” the wife began to recognize in her husband’s critical behavior toward her many of the tendencies the instructor was describing. Following the lesson, she confronted her husband with the question, and he confessed the secret that he had been concealing for so long. Her already-battered self-esteem was now compounded with a burning resentment. During their first meeting with me, they struggled to see how their marriage could continue. I assured them that there was hope, gave some initial counsel, and then invited them to come back and meet with me individually.

Along with the fervent prayers that I offered in preparation for those meetings, I also reviewed the suggestions provided in Ministering Resources on LDS.org, particularly in the resource for supporting the spouses of pornography users, where I read the following: “Express your love and concern for her individually, as well as for her spouse. Clarify that she is not responsible for her spouse’s pornography use or poor behavior and is not expected to endure abusive behavior.”

As I met with this sister, I heeded this counsel and added to it the assurance that her husband’s actions were not about her at all, not about something that she had or had not done, but were instead about his own internal conflict. I watched a wave of relief and consolation come over her as she grasped these words and felt the Spirit’s confirmation that they were indeed true. At the end of the interview, she asked if I would give her a priesthood blessing. I realized that I was the only one to whom she could turn for such a blessing, as she preferred to keep her situation private from family and friends.

To help with the healing process, I invited the husband to attend a local Latter-day Saint addiction-recovery group, and I encouraged his wife to attend the corresponding group for spouses and family members. She told me of the comfort she felt from meeting with other sisters who understood what she was suffering and the hope that it gave her to see couples who had waded through the same trial and had managed to emerge from it together.

Several months have now passed since my first meeting with this couple, and my love and concern for them have grown as a result of our numerous interactions. While I recognize that their continuing path will not be without setbacks, it is a joy for me to learn of each additional month that the husband has kept himself free from lust and pornography and to see his wife’s increase in self-worth and confidence, which is readily apparent.

In recent interviews with them, the anguish and tears from our early meetings have been replaced with frequent smiles and even laughter. But perhaps the greatest outcome has been hope—hope that not only can their marriage continue but also that it even has the potential to become something beautiful and exalting.

After months of planning and preparing, the Bowie Ward Mutual in the Silver Spring Maryland Stake presented their special treat to the senior citizen’s group of their city. Thirty of the older Bowie, Maryland, residents were escorted to the meetinghouse where they feasted on a dinner of chicken, Hawaiian casserole, jello, salads, home-baked breads, and ice cream. During the dinner the youths and the young-at-heart dined together, enjoying each other’s company as much as the delicious meal. Afterwards, the young people presented their award-winning roadshow, “The Knight Life—or a Short Dragon Tale,” as entertainment.
Plans for the evening began six months earlier when the Young Men and Young Women of the ward decided to collaborate on a service project. Details were worked out at the monthly bishopric youth committee leadership meetings. The youth sponsored a ward taco dinner and made and sold corsages to help provide the funds necessary to put on the senior citizens’ dinner. After the service project was completed, one of the youth of the ward summarized the feelings of many by saying, “The senior citizen dinner helped us to see the service we can do for others. Our guests enjoyed it, and it was a pleasure to meet them and be in their company for the night.”

Alia twisted the new CTR ring on her finger. At church today her Primary teacher had given everyone in the class a CTR ring. Alia loved the shiny green shield. She took her ring off to show Mom.
“What does ‘choose the right’ mean?” Mom asked.
“It means you do what Heavenly Father wants you to do,” Alia said.
Mom nodded. “You choose the right in lots of ways. Like when you’re kind to your brother and sister, or when you help Dad and me at home.”
Alia smiled and traced the letters on the ring.
She kept a close eye on her ring while she stacked blocks with Ethan and Grace. She liked the way the letters shone. She was careful with it during dinner. She didn’t want it to fall into the mashed potatoes! When she helped clear the table, she kept her fist clenched so the ring wouldn’t slip off.
Mom and Dad were washing dishes when Alia remembered to ask, “Why wasn’t Mikayla at church today?”
Mikayla was Alia’s newest friend. They’d met at church a few months ago, and Mikayla and her mom were planning to be baptized soon.
“I don’t know,” Dad said. “Maybe you could visit her tonight.”
“Could we take her some cookies?”
“Good idea,” Mom said. “After Ethan and Grace are in bed, we can take some of the cookies we made yesterday.”
As they got in the car later, Alia said, “I think I should give my CTR ring to Mikayla.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I guess we could just give her the cookies, but …”
Has the Holy Ghost ever prompted you to do something hard?
“I know you love your ring, so you decide. Listen to the Holy Ghost,” Mom said. “Then follow that prompting!”
“But how do I know if it’s the Holy Ghost?”
“You’ll feel peaceful and happy inside. Why don’t we pray about it? If you feel good, then you know that’s the Holy Ghost.”
“OK. But if I give her my ring, can I get another one?”
“Yes, but it might take a while to come in the mail.”
After the prayer, they drove to Mikayla’s house.
“I’ll give them the cookies,” Mom said as they walked to the door. “I won’t say anything about the ring—that’s up to you. Just tug on my sleeve if you decide to do it.”
Alia twisted the ring around and around on her finger. She thought hard about what she should do.
Mom rang the doorbell. Mikayla’s mom answered and invited them in.
“We missed you at church today,” Mom said. “We wanted to let you know we were thinking about you.”
“Thank you. These cookies look great. Mikayla, come say hi.”
They talked for a few minutes. Mom was saying goodbye when Alia tugged on her sleeve. Mom looked down and smiled at Alia.
“Looks like there’s one more thing.”
Alia slid her ring off and handed it to Mikalya.
“Alia wanted to give you this,” Mom said. “We prayed about it before we came. She wants you to have it.”
Mikayla put the ring on her finger. “Thank you!”
Alia grinned. “It means ‘choose the right’!”
As Alia and her mom walked back to the car, Mom said, “Well, how do you feel?”
“A little sad that I don’t have the ring anymore, but glad I listened to the Holy Ghost.”
“I’m proud of you. And now you know what the Holy Ghost feels like!”
Alia smiled. “Can we get lots of CTR rings? In case the Holy Ghost tells me to give more away?”
Mom hugged her. “Good idea,” she said.

Mommy stopped at Austin’s bedroom door. She looked around the messy room. There were books, trucks, puzzles, blocks, and stuffed animals scattered all over. Mommy stepped over the clutter and into the room. “Austin, did you make this mess?”
Austin looked up from his stack of blocks. “Not me, Mommy.”
“Then who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She knelt down next to a large dump truck. “Dump truck, did you make this mess?”
“Mommy!” Austin giggled. “Dump trucks can’t make a mess. Trucks can’t even talk. But I can.” He snatched up his truck. “Brrrm. Brrrm.” Austin drove the truck into the toy box.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She scooped up a handful of puzzle pieces. “Puzzle, did you make this mess?”
Austin said, “Puzzles can’t make a mess. Puzzles don’t have fingers to use. But I do. I can pick the pieces up like this.” Austin dumped all the puzzle pieces into their box on the shelf.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She stood up and leaned over the bookcase. “Books, did you make this mess?”
Austin rolled his eyes. “Books can’t make a mess. Books can’t even jump from high places. But I can.” Austin climbed onto a chair and jumped into Mommy’s arms. She put him down. Austin bent over and picked up some books. He climbed back onto the chair and set the books on the shelf.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She gathered together three teddy bears. “Teddy bears, did you make this mess?”
“Teddy bears can’t make a mess,” Austin said. “Teddy bears can’t even turn somersaults. But I can.” Austin crouched low, tucked his head under, and flipped over. He stood up, gathered the bears in his arms, and laid them on the windowsill.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She picked up a stuffed lion. “Lion, did you make this mess?”
Austin said, “The lion can’t make a mess. The lion can’t even give hugs. But I can.” Austin gave Mommy a hug. He took the lion and gently placed it on the bed.
“Know what, Mommy?” Austin said. “Toys can’t make a mess, but I can. I made this mess.”
Mommy leaned over and gave Austin another hug. “Austin, you made this mess. But you cleaned it up, too. You are my big helper.”
Mommy’s face grew serious. “You did something besides making a mess, Austin. You told Mommy a lie. But you cleaned that up, too, by telling the truth. Toys can’t tell the truth. But you can.”
Austin smiled. Being a big helper felt good. Being a truth-teller felt even better.

I recall just a few years ago seeing a drama enacted at the Salt Lake Airport. On this particular day, I got off an airplane and walked into the terminal. It was immediately obvious that a missionary was coming home because the airport was full of conspicuous-looking missionary friends and missionary relatives.

I tried to pick out the immediate family members. There was a father who did not look particularly comfortable in an awkward-fitting and slightly out-of-fashion suit. He seemed to be a man of the soil, with a suntan and large, work-scarred hands. His white shirt was a little frayed and was probably never worn except on Sunday.

There was a mother who was quite thin, looking as if she had worked very hard in her life. She had in her hand a handkerchief—and I think it must have been a linen handkerchief once but now it looked like tissue paper. It was nearly shredded from the anticipation only the mother of a returning missionary could know.

Two or three younger brothers and sisters were running around, largely oblivious to the scene that was unfolding.

I walked past them all and started for the front of the terminal. Then I thought to myself, “This is one of the special human dramas in our lives. Wait and enjoy it.” So I stopped. I moved to the back of the crowd to watch. The passengers were starting to come off the plane.

I found myself wondering as to who would be first to breakaway from the welcoming group. A look at the mother’s handkerchief convinced me that she would probably be the one.

As I sat there, I saw the returning missionary start to come down the stairs from the airplane. I knew he was the one by the squeals of excitement from the crowd. He looked like Captain Moroni, clean and handsome and straight and tall. Undoubtedly he had known the sacrifice this mission had meant to his father and mother, and it had made him exactly the missionary he appeared to be. He had his hair trimmed for the trip home, his suit was worn but clean, his slightly tattered raincoat was still protecting him from the chill his mother had so often warned him about.

He came to the bottom of the steps and started out toward the airport building and then, sure enough, somebody couldn’t wait any longer. It wasn’t the mother, and it wasn’t any of the children, or even the girlfriend standing nearby. It was father. That big, slightly awkward, quiet and bronzed giant of a man pushed his way past an airline attendant and ran out and swept his son into his arms.

The missionary was probably 6?2? or so, but this big father grabbed him, lifted him off the ground, and held him for a long, long time. He just held him and said nothing. The boy dropped his briefcase, put both arms around his dad, and they just held each other very tightly. It seemed like all eternity stood still, and for a precious moment the Salt Lake City Airport was the center of the entire universe. It was as if all the world had gone silent out of respect for such a sacred moment.

And then I thought of God the Eternal Father watching his son go out to serve, to sacrifice when he didn’t have to do it, paying his own expenses, so to speak, costing everything he had saved all his life to give. At that precious moment, it was not too difficult to imagine that Father speaking with some emotion to those who could hear, “This is my Beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” And it was also possible to imagine that triumphant returning son, saying, “It is finished. Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”

Even in my limited imagination, I can see that reunion in the heavens. And I pray for one like it for you and for me. I pray for reconciliation and for forgiveness, for mercy, and for the Christian growth and Christian character we must develop if we are to enjoy such a moment fully.

When I was 10 years old, my family became refugees in a new land. I had always been a good student in school—that is, until we arrived in West Germany. There my educational experience was a significantly different one. The geography we studied in my school was new to me. The history we studied was also very different. Before, I had been learning Russian as a second language; now, it was English. This was hard for me. Indeed, there were moments when I truly believed my tongue simply was not made to speak English.
Because so much of the curriculum was new and strange to me, I fell behind. For the first time in my life, I began to wonder if I was simply not smart enough for school.
Fortunately I had a teacher who taught me to be patient. He taught me that steady and consistent work—patient persistence—would help me to learn.
Over time, difficult subjects became clearer—even English. Slowly I began to see that if I applied myself consistently, I could learn. It didn’t come quickly, but with patience, it did come.

Dear Brother and Sister Heath,
You do not know who I am, yet I am deeply indebted to you. Because you followed President Benson’s counsel to “flood the earth with the Book of Mormon,” my life has been changed forever. You see, your testimony is on the inside cover of the Book of Mormon given to me by two missionaries in August 1988. You wrote, “It will touch your life as nothing has before.” How little did I realize on that August day just how true those words would become for me. I want to share my story with you.
My name is Randi Spurling and I was raised an active member of my church. However, gradually I fell away from my beliefs. When my husband deserted our family in February 1988, he took all the money and left me with many bills. The only solace I found was in attending church every week. I felt I needed the church, but just attending the meetings once a week wasn’t spiritually fulfilling.
One evening during this turbulent time in my life, I heard a knock at my door. I opened it to find two clean-cut young men in crisp white shirts, and dark suits. They said they were from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and asked if they might speak with me. Since my good friend and neighbor, Lorrie, was a Mormon, I decided to listen to them, if only to help me better understand Lorrie’s beliefs.
As I watched those two young men, I recalled a conversation I had had with Lorrie a few months earlier. She had asked me if I had ever considered getting married again. I had emphatically said, “No!” Because I knew that if I ever decided to remarry, I would want a man who didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t cheat on his wife, who went to church, was honest, didn’t swear and who loved his family more than material goods. “Men like that just don’t exist,” I told her. “I could be looking forever.” Lorrie smiled and explained that most of the men she knew were just like that. I had only laughed.
Now, I stood looking at those two missionaries and I was curious. So, I asked them to return.
A few days later Elder Walker and Elder McAllister presented the first missionary discussion to me and it went wonderfully. They gave me a Book of Mormon and asked me to read it and pray about it. Brother and Sister Heath, that Book of Mormon contained your testimony and your photograph. I was very touched by your message.
On the missionaries’ second visit, I had a problem accepting the missionary discussion. They seemed to be challenging all of my religious beliefs. For example, they asked me how I felt about baptism. I told them I had already been baptized. When they explained that it was necessary to be baptized by immersion, I thought they were crazy. We discussed the subject for what seemed like an eternity. Then Elder Walker quietly asked if I would kneel with them and pray. I had never pictured any man on his knees praying, especially praying in my behalf. We knelt and prayed together.
Pondering on what the missionaries had told me, I became emotionally upset. To believe in their message would mean my life would have to be changed—and I didn’t want to change. I liked my life as it was.
At that moment I decided I would never again open that Mormon “book” and I would never again allow the missionaries into my home. But, that night before going to bed, I succumbed to the Spirit, opened the Book of Mormon and read until I could no longer keep my eyes open.
As I drifted off to sleep, I saw myself wandering, lost in total darkness. I kept clawing at my eyes, because I felt as if they were blinded by sand. If only I could find a way to clear them. I was overjoyed to find a pool of clear water. I entered the water and submerged myself so that I could fully wash the sand away. As I came out of the water, I was surrounded by the most radiant light. At last I could see clearly! How happy I felt!
As I awoke, I felt a sudden fear. The missionaries were right! Now what was I going to do? How could I admit to them that now I believed baptism by immersion was necessary? I resolved not to tell the missionaries of my experience, but as we met for the next discussion, the Spirit took control and excitedly I described my dream to them.
We continued with the discussions and I hungered for the knowledge that the Book of Mormon contained. Many, many nights I read until I was exhausted. On two occasions I simply held the book and wept, feeling unworthy to be allowed to read such precious truths. I knew that what I read was true, but I still could not make the commitment to change my life. Yet, a loving Heavenly Father continued to provide the opportunity for me to learn more.
For example, I attended church meetings and activities with Lorrie; listened to the words of the prophet during a broadcast of the annual General Women’s Meeting; attended a fireside presentation on the Doctrine and Covenants; visited Relief Society homemaking meetings; and became so familiar with the Book of Mormon that I began to recognize quotations from it when they were used in talks or magazine articles.
I was beginning to make friends with many of the people I met at Church meetings and activities and I developed a special relationship with the missionaries. But, I was scared. I was afraid to let go of my “old” life. I told myself I had to break away from these people now before I became any more involved with them and their beliefs.
When the sixth and last discussion was over, I felt so relieved. Now I could just go on with my life and not have to think about things that I did not want to worry about. But I underestimated the missionaries and the members. These were people who lived the principles of their religion day after day. What was their secret?
I found the answer in November when I was invited to a baptism. Nothing was really out of the ordinary until the moment Elder McAllister entered the font to baptize a young man. I could not stop the tears. I was so touched by the Spirit that I had no doubt in my mind which church I needed to belong to.
Two weeks later the missionaries invited me to a Christmas program on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. As I watched and listened I realized that I couldn’t live the rest of my life as a non-Mormon who reads the Book of Mormon believing it to be the word of God, or be a non-member believing that Latter-day Saints led the most Christ-like lives of anyone I knew. As I looked around me, a still, small voice said, “These are your people. Go to them.”
The next day I contacted the missionaries. I told them I needed to set a date for my baptism. I wish I would have been able to record the joy I heard in their voices. I hope to remember it forever.
I was baptized 11 December 1988.
I am grateful to the missionaries, to Church members I met, and to you, Brother and Sister Heath, for sharing your testimony and providing me, a stranger, with the precious Book of Mormon. President Ezra Taft Benson said, “I have a vision of flooding the earth with the Book of Mormon.” Thank you for sending the flood my way. It didn’t drown me, it buoyed me up. I am more alive now than I have ever been before.
Your sister in Christ’s Church,Randi Spurling