Gospel Story Finder

Like you, I have felt what King Benjamin meant when he said that we could become like a little child before God. I have prayed, as you have, to know what to do when choices that I faced would have eternal consequences. Over many years I have seen a recurring pattern in the times when the answers to such a prayer have come most clearly.
Once, for instance, I prayed through the night to know what I was to choose to do in the morning. I knew that no other choice could have had a greater effect on the lives of others and on my own. I knew what choice looked most comfortable to me. I knew what outcome I wanted. But I could not see the future. I could not see which choice would lead to which outcome. So the risk of being wrong seemed too great to me.
I prayed, but for hours there seemed to be no answer. Just before dawn, a feeling came over me. More than at any time since I had been a child, I felt like one. My heart and my mind seemed to grow very quiet. There was a peace in that inner stillness.
Somewhat to my surprise, I found myself praying, “Heavenly Father, it doesn’t matter what I want. I don’t care anymore what I want. I only want that Thy will be done. That is all that I want. Please tell me what to do.”
In that moment I felt as quiet inside as I had ever felt. And the message came, and I was sure who it was from. It was clear what I was to do. I received no promise of the outcome. There was only the assurance that I was a child who had been told what path led to whatever He wanted for me.
I learned from that experience and countless repetitions that the description of the Holy Ghost as a still, small voice is real. It is poetic, but it is not poetry. Only when my heart has been still and quiet, in submission like a little child, has the Spirit been clearly audible to my heart and mind.

I can still remember my mother speaking softly to me one Saturday afternoon when, as a little boy, I asked her for permission to do something I thought was perfectly reasonable and which she knew was dangerous. I still am amazed at the power she was granted, I believe from the Lord, to turn me around with so few words. As I remember them, they were: “Oh, I suppose you could do that. But the choice is yours.” The only warning was in the emphasis she put on the words could and choice. Yet that was enough for me.

Her power to warn with so few words sprang from three things I knew about her. First, I knew she loved me. Second, I knew she had faced similar situations and had been blessed by making the right choice. And third, she had conveyed to me her sure testimony that the choice I had to make was so important that the Lord would tell me what to do if I asked Him. Love, example, and testimony: those were keys that day, and they have been whenever I have been blessed to hear and then heed the warning of a servant of the Lord.

When I was a little girl, I had a lot of daydreams. Sure, almost all children have fantasies. But these were not your ordinary, everyday, run of the mill, childhood dreams. I was not a normal child. Yet, what child is normal, and what fantasy is ordinary? Anyway, as I was saying, I had some extraordinary ideas.
First, and probably most unusual, I believed I was a blonde. Don’t ask me why; imagination usually doesn’t provide a “why” or a “because.” I believed the dark-haired, fair-skinned image in the mirror was someone else who had been hired to trick me into believing that I resembled Snow White more than Cinderella. I would stand in front of the mirror for hours on end trying to catch her blinking at the wrong moment or making some other false movement that would give her away. Apparently she had been trained well in the art of imitation, and I never caught her off guard.
Long flowing blonde hair reminds me of gold and sunshine. Angels have blonde hair, and so do all the beautiful princesses who live happily ever after.
There is something magic about blonde hair, and since I imagined I had blonde hair, there was something magic about me.
It’s funny some of the strange things a person can do when she’s magic. Dolls talk, elevator doors open when she waves her hand, and cardboard boxes become sleek new cars. I had traveled in parts of outer space where the shuttle flights hadn’t been. I could talk to bumblebees, make friends with warring natives, and even turn a single pink balloon into an entire birthday party.
Of course, being as magic and as beautiful as I was, I was naturally the center of the universe. When I skinned my knee, the whole world felt the pain; when my goldfish died, everyone mourned with me; when I played the harpsichord for the PTA in the second grade, the room was packed, and they had all come to listen to me.
It was a wonderful world I lived in. It was a good feeling knowing that everyone loved me and that the whole world was watching out for me. It is too bad that kind of fantasy can’t last forever.
One day, as I was looking in the mirror, I felt a strange sense of realization, and reality slowly filtered through the magic. That girl, standing there, staring back at me, was me. Those were my eyes, those were my eyes, those were my freckles, that was my skin, and that, like it or not, was my hair. It was not sunshine or gold. It didn’t shine or gleam or make me look like an angel. It was black.
I stared at the girl for a long time in one last futile attempt to discover her identity. She didn’t flinch. I moved ever so slightly to the left. She moved with me. I lifted my hand above my head, then suddenly jerked it back down. She did it also.
I went into my room and shut the door tightly. Then I lay down on my bed and thought.
I thought about all the people who went to PTA, but not to hear me play the harpsichord. I thought about all the people who were laughing the day my goldfish died. I thought about cardboard boxes and elevator doors. I thought about pink balloons and dolls. I thought about gold and sunshine and everything I could think of.
Then I got up and went back to my mirror. There I was—me—black hair and all.
A smile tickled the corners of my mouth and then leaped boldly to my lips.
Long flowing black hair reminds me of night and the manes of wild stallions, and there is something magically alive about night and wild stallions.

Just before my junior year in high school, my family moved 3,000 miles to the San Francisco area. I started the year knowing exactly one person—my freshman sister.

Redwood High School was very different from the strict high school I had been attending. The whole atmosphere was intimidating.

Shortly after school began, I tried out for cheerleader. I didn’t even make first cuts. In October I went to an audition for a Christmas choir program. Before I even sang a note, the choir director asked me if I had ever been in a school choir. When my answer was no, I was ushered out the door and told thank you very much.

The one bright spot in my day was early-morning seminary, where I always felt welcome and accepted.

At school I worked hard and occasionally forced myself to contribute during classroom discussions. Eventually I made some friends and found a group to eat lunch with. I went to the ball games and school plays, volunteered during spirit week, and hung out at the dances. But I still never felt like I quite belonged.

I kept busy my senior year filling out college application forms, taking entrance exams, and applying for scholarships. Three weeks before graduation, Lee, the good-looking, iron-pumping, brainy debate team member and senior class president, called out to me after class and asked me to walk with him. I was stunned that he even knew my name.

As we walked he explained that he was the president of his church youth group. The group had been studying the religions of the world, and someone had expressed interest in learning about Latter-day Saints. Lee turned to face me and asked if I would deliver an hour-long presentation about the Church to his group.

Weakly I managed to reply, “You don’t want me to speak; who you really want is our missionaries. I’ll ask them for you.”

His response startled me, “We don’t want your missionaries. We want you. We know you, we’ve watched you, and we like who you are.”

Stunned again, I told Lee I would be glad to speak to his group.

The next five days were a flurry of preparation. My seminary teacher, my parents, and the missionaries helped me prepare to explain the basic principles of the gospel and how The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints differs from other churches. Knowing that Lee and his friends were forceful debaters who could be merciless against opponents, I also fasted and prayed for divine guidance.

The day of the presentation arrived. With scriptures in hand and a prayer in my heart, I entered the meeting hall. The 35 people in the room—kids from school, a few adults, and the pastor—all turned to look at me as I walked to the front. After Lee greeted me warmly and introduced me, I took a deep breath and began by telling the Joseph Smith story. A calm feeling filled the room, and for the next 45 minutes the words I spoke came smoothly and effortlessly. I ended by bearing my testimony of modern-day prophets, revelation, and the love Jesus Christ has for each of us.

Then, with great apprehension, I asked if there were any questions. Hands shot up all over the room. Oh boy, here it comes, I thought to myself. But to my surprise, none of the questions were hostile or quarrelsome. As I left the hall I knew that a power stronger than my own had directed the evening’s event.

Throughout high school I had always assumed that being popular meant dating cool guys, appearing in lots of yearbook pictures, or being prom queen. Through this experience, I finally realized that there is a different kind of popularity—popularity based on respect.

Another time when I learned the importance of prayer was when I was preparing for my first piano recital. I was about seven years old, and I was very nervous. I was afraid I would forget the piece, and I was also worried that my hands would shake so badly that I couldn’t play.
My mother knew I was scared, and she suggested that before I go on stage to play, I bow my head and ask Heavenly Father to help me feel calm and remember what I had practiced. I followed Mother’s advice, taking a moment to pray right before I performed.
He answered my prayers, and I learned that Heavenly Father could help me at all times in my life, even during piano recitals! I started to realize that He could help me in school. I prayed and asked Him to help me study and learn and take tests.
A few years later, when I was ten, my family visited the Hill Cumorah and the Sacred Grove. I remember standing on the Hill Cumorah and listening to Daddy explaining exactly what happened there. Then we went to the Sacred Grove, and Daddy told us about Joseph Smith praying to Heavenly Father for the truth. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to young Joseph, blessing him with the answer to his prayer. I knew that if Joseph could get answers, so could I.
Throughout my life, I have talked to Heavenly Father regularly through prayer. I am very grateful to my parents for teaching me that Heavenly Father lives and that He always listens to us. He listens to me, and He listens to you. I know that He will always be there for you.

Miguel Arrellano looked out the window of the tar-paper shack. Thunderclouds had opened up, pouring forth torrents of rain. Such storms were not unusual in his small village set in the mountains of Colombia.
Normally Miguel did not mind the rain. It watered the crops that the family depended upon for a living. Today, though, he prayed for the rain to stop.
It was a special day—the day he and his parents would be baptized members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
He remembered when the two missionaries had found them. Elder Berger and Elder Santos, dressed in dark pants and white shirts, had appeared at their door. They wore small, black, name badges proclaiming that they represented the Church.
Elder Berger was tall, almost two meters. He came from Utah in the United States of America. In Colombia, men are rarely so tall. Papá was only a few centimeters taller than Miguel. Elder Santos was a native missionary and even shorter than Papá.
Miguel had practiced saying Elder Berger’s name. The syllables sounded strange upon his tongue. They laughed together as the American missionary tried to say Arrellano.
The elders told the family the story of Joseph Smith and the Restoration. When Elder Berger bore his testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel, tears streamed down his face. He and Elder Santos both testified that Joseph Smith had been a prophet and that Gordon B. Hinckley was now the prophet. Though Miguel was only eleven, he knew that he was hearing the truth.
Mamá had cried when the elders had spoken of families being together forever. “Always, we search for something,” she had said. “Now I know we have found it.” She’d placed her hand on her heart. “I feel it. Here.”
The rain continued to fall in sheets and showed no signs of letting up.
Miguel looked from Mamá to Papá. “We must go. We told Elder Berger and Elder Santos that we would be there.”
Papá pointed to the flooded road. “There will be no bus today.”
The family had no car and had to rely on the bus. They had to change buses twice to reach the church. Each week, they carefully counted out the coins necessary to buy the bus tokens for Sunday. This week, they had taken money from their small food budget to pay for the extra trip to the church.
Papá worked very hard, but there was never enough money. Mamá had saved a little and made them new clothes. She had sewn Miguel and Papá shirts and herself a blouse. Miguel thought that she looked pretty in the bright yellow color.
He remembered the picture of President Hinckley the two young elders had shown the family. The prophet would not give up. He would find a way to get to the church, Miguel decided, and so will we.
“Señor Tomás,” Miguel said, glancing out the window and seeing their neighbor. “He goes to the city every day. Maybe he will give us a ride.”
Miguel ran across the muddy yard to their neighbor’s humble home. Señor Tomás nodded agreeably as the boy explained the situation. Miguel and Papá climbed into the back of the truck; Mamá rode in the cab with their neighbor.
They held on tightly as the old truck bounced over the rough roads. When they arrived at the small meetinghouse, they were wet and very tired, but happy.
The elders greeted them. Their clothes were wet and wrinkled, too, but the smiles on their faces were the brightest Miguel had ever seen.
“We weren’t sure you could make it,” Elder Berger said. “We’ve had problems here, too.”
They shared stories. Elder Santos explained that the pipes that carried water to the chapel had burst so that the baptismal font could not be filled. After praying, the elders had filled buckets with rain water and carried them inside the church to fill the font.
Miguel and his parents explained how they had found a ride with their neighbor.
“It’s a miracle you made it,” Elder Santos said.
Papá looked at the baptismal font and said, “We have many miracles today.”
“And much to be thankful for,” Mamá added.
Miguel and Papá changed clothes in a small dressing room while Mamá changed clothes in another one. Miguel touched the crisp white shirt and pants the elders had given him. They felt strange against his skin.
The water was so shallow that the elders had to kneel to perform the baptisms.
Miguel waited while his parents were baptized. When the time came for his own baptism, he felt a warmth come over him, even though the water was cold.
After everyone had changed into dry clothes, Elder Berger and Elder Santos confirmed Miguel and his parents members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Miguel hugged his parents, then Elder Berger and Elder Santos. He would never forget this day or the baptism miracles.

I can personally testify to this form of revelation because I have experienced it.

For example: I was once concluding a talk I had given at the funeral of a fine Latter-day Saint mother and was almost ready to say amen and sit down. There came into my mind the words, “Turn around and bear your testimony.” And this I did. I thought no more about the event for several months until my sister, then living in a neighboring stake, paid us a visit and told us this incident:

She said: “There lives in our ward a woman who for many years has taken no interest in the Church. Our efforts to activate her have been fruitless. Recently she has completely changed. She pays her tithing, attends sacrament meetings regularly, and participates in all Church activities. When asked what caused the reformation, she said: ‘I went to Salt Lake City to the funeral of my mother. During the services a man by the name of Romney spoke. After he had given an ordinary talk, I thought he was going to sit down; but instead he turned around to the pulpit and bore a testimony which greatly impressed me. It awakened in me a desire to live as my mother had always taught me.’”

by Karen Blaisdell
In the rugged terrain of the coal fields of southern West Virginia, a small branch of the Church rests snugly against the side of a mountain. The Welch Branch of the Bluefield Virginia Stake has set standards of excellence in several areas. One in particular is the writing, producing, and performing of winning road shows.
Branch President Albert Chappell said, “That first year we lost miserably because we didn’t know what a road show was. However, we learned quickly and we came home and went to work. There was so much love and excitement you could feel it. The members wanted to do their best and have fun trying. Everyone did his part, from children to parents to the elderly, all working toward a common goal of excellence.”
If not acting or working backstage, members helped by making costumes or working with scenery. We have developed our talents in this area and have been tremendously blessed from our experience. Our shows serve as an excellent missionary tool and fill a great need for fellowship among our branch members. This year makes the fourth consecutive year the Welch Branch has won the Bluefield Virginia Stake road show competition.

Several years ago we took our grandchildren on an escorted tour of the Church printing facilities. There, all of us saw the missionary edition of the Book of Mormon coming off the delivery line—printed, bound, and trimmed, ready for reading. I told the grandchildren, “The operator says that you can remove one copy of the Book of Mormon to be your very own. You select the copy, and it will then be yours.”

Each removed one finished copy and expressed his or her love for the Book of Mormon.

I really don’t remember other events of that day, but I shall never forget the honest expressions of love for the Book of Mormon—expressions which came from the hearts of those children.

The year 1998 was a turning point in my life. During that year, though concerned about my studies, I decided to work part time after school to avoid my father. Our relationship had been tense for a long time, but it was now turning into hostility. The anger we both felt was ready to erupt.
Then a miracle changed our relationship. One night at work, two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints paid a visit to one of my coworkers. They shared a brief message with him, and I listened casually to what they said. Curious to hear more, I accepted their invitation to listen to the discussions.
In the first lesson, I learned I could live with my family even after death. A sense of remorse concerning my relationship with my father filled my heart. I knew it was time to repair the damage. My desire for a happy and a forever family gave me the courage to speak to my father. At first he didn’t respond, but my fervent and constant prayers and my faith in God gave me the strength to keep approaching him. I knew as long as I did my part, Heavenly Father would do His.
Day by day, God answered my prayers. The misunderstanding between my father and me dissolved, and our hearts softened. God’s love overwhelmed me, and in three months I was baptized into the Church, becoming a member of the Hsin Ying Branch, Tainan Taiwan Stake. I still show my love to my father, just as my Heavenly Father did to me.

Andrea looked out the window into the late-winter afternoon. It had stopped snowing, leaving another inch of white powdery stuff dusting the sidewalks and driveway. She knew that it was cold—it had been all week. Her homework was finally finished, and she reached for her new library book.
“Andrea,” her mother called, “Would you please sweep the snow off the driveway and sidewalks before it gets dark? I have to get dinner ready, or Daddy won’t have time to eat before he has to leave again for his meetings at the church. He’ll be home in a little over an hour.”
Andrea sighed as she set the book on her nightstand. She’d been looking forward to reading it all day, and it seemed like she’d only just warmed up from walking home from the bus stop. It didn’t seem fair that she was always cleaning off the walks, but she knew how tired Mom was with the new baby, and how busy Dad was since he had been called to be a counselor in the bishopric.
“I’m coming,” she called as she pulled on her snowsuit and boots. She found a dry hat and gloves and went out through the garage, picking up the old broom her mom kept there.
At least it didn’t snow as much today as it did yesterday, she thought, remembering how long it had taken her to shovel the eight inches of heavy, wet snow off the driveway the day before. Her fingers had felt like ice cubes by the time she was finished.
It was almost fun sweeping the snow today. It was light and fluffy, and it looked like the world had been sprinkled with powdered sugar—just like her mother’s brownies. Before she knew it, the driveway and walk in front of the house were cleared. But Mrs. Walker’s sidewalks next door were still covered with snow, so Andrea kept on sweeping. The widow’s arthritis would keep her from doing the job herself, and Andrea’s dad wouldn’t have time to do it. Besides, he’d shoveled Mrs. Walker’s snow last night before family home evening. She had just finished sweeping the sloping sidewalk, when she saw Kaitlyn come out of her house on the corner and start sweeping her own sidewalk.
Kaitlyn had moved into the neighborhood the past weekend. Andrea had met her at the bus stop, but they were in different grades, so Andrea hadn’t really had much chance to get to know her yet. Andrea had been praying for a long time that a member of the Church would move into the neighborhood—sometimes it was really hard being the only Latter-day Saint at school. She did have lots of friends, but her closest friends were her friends at Primary, and she usually only saw them on Sundays or at branch activities.
Kaitlyn wasn’t a member of the Church, but Andrea called out anyway, “Hey, Kaitlyn. Do you want some help with your snow?” In less than a minute she was down at Kaitlyn’s house, sweeping. Before long, that was clear, too.
“We sure do make a good team, Andrea,” Kaitlyn said. “See how good it looks! Why haven’t the other people swept their walks yet?”
“Almost everyone in the neighborhood works in the city and won’t be home until after dark. Nobody else on our block has kids. Remember?—we’re the only ones at our bus stop.”
“Oh, that’s right. Hey—let’s see how many walks we can clean before it gets dark. Do you think we can make it all the way down the block?”
“I don’t know,” Andrea answered, “but let’s try.”
The two girls hurried down the street, one sweeping to the left, and the other to the right, the light snow flying off the walks and driveways. The orange-red sun peeked out from behind the clouds as it sank toward the mountain across the lake. Soon the Labascos’ driveway was cleared, then Mr. Zadlock’s was done. Mrs. Fischer’s was next, and then the Romanos’.
Mrs. Keem drove in just as they were finishing her driveway. “Why, thank you, girls! How thoughtful you are. Would you like to come in for some cocoa?”
“Not today, thank you,” Kaitlyn said. “We still have more work to do.” The girls waved good-bye, then swept on down the street.
“We’re more than halfway done!” exclaimed Andrea as they began Dr. Randazzo’s walk, on the other side of the street. The snow was literally flying off the walks and driveways of the Changs, the Petrenkos, Miss Smith, the Porters, the Daniels. The sun was sinking behind the hill as they started on the Kelshaws’, the last house on the block. Just as they finished, Andrea’s dad drove down the street.
“We did it!” shouted Kaitlyn. “What a team!”
“That was so much fun,” laughed Andrea. “But now I’m cold and starved. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Kaitlyn’s going to be a great friend, Andrea thought as she walked into the kitchen fragrant with fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Maybe she’ll even come to Primary with me if I ask her to. I think the quarterly activity is coming up soon. …

It is interesting to note that in addition to such testimonies about President Monson’s loyalty to the elderly, many unsolicited testimonials of his equally urgent concern for the youth of the Church are also offered. There is something perpetually youthful about President Monson which allows him to relate to all the members of the Church, but especially the young. He loves them, is conscious of them, and is devoted to their spiritual success.
Immediately after young Tom Monson’s discharge from the navy following the conclusion of World War II, he was called to serve as a ward clerk. One evening he sat silently taking minutes while the bishopric agonized over the obvious lack of success with the young people in their ward, including challenges within the MIA program. Apparently the young clerk took it about as long as he could and then said, “Excuse me, brethren, but may I say something about the MIA and the youth challenges in this ward?” He then launched into a rapid-fire and profound summary of not only what was wrong with their ward youth program but what could rather quickly make it right. Then, realizing he may have been too bold and too presumptuous, he said, “Forgive me. I think I have said too much,” and excused himself from the room.
He was no sooner out the door than the bishopric looked at each other and said, “What are we waiting for?” They immediately called him back into the room, released him as ward clerk, and called him to be the superintendent of the MIA. In six months the 6–7th Ward combined program, with its totally committed young superintendent, was the example to which every other leader in the Temple View Stake looked for their own youth activities.
That lifelong devotion to youth is currently reflected in President Monson’s 25 years of service on the National Executive Board of the Boy Scouts of America, a longer term of service rendered than that of any other man who has ever been seated in that distinguished circle. Jere B. Ratcliffe, Chief Scout Executive for the Boy Scouts of America, says, “I don’t know any person about whom I could say more good things than I can say about Tom Monson. For me, Tom personifies enthusiasm in its original meaning—‘God within,’ or literally ‘inspired.’ He lights up every meeting he is in. The LDS Church is blessed to have such a leader of youth.”
One associate says that President Monson relates well to youth “because he is still just a boy at heart. Have you ever seen him at a Utah Jazz or collegiate game? He follows every play with keen personal interest. Tom is a big man with big responsibilities, but he still displays the enthusiasm of youth.”
Somehow that observation rings true, especially when we realize that this is the 12-year-old boy who, when making his first visit to the Seagull Monument on famed Temple Square, spent time wondering how a person could get those nickels and dimes, which had been thrown there by the slightly more contemplative, out of the reflecting pool. Actually, Tommy Monson was very touched by that visit to Temple Square, returning to his ward to give the first talk he ever delivered—on that wonderful pioneer story of the seagulls and the crickets.

After weeks of anticipation, it was finally Christmas Eve. Almost our whole family was with us—Grandma and Grandpa Fletcher, our three daughters and their husbands and children. It was getting dark and the streets were lighting up. Houses sparkled with beautiful decorations while Christmas trees twinkled happily in the windows.
We were getting ready to go to the Nativity Pageant, which the Church had presented for many years in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. Every Christmas Eve we looked forward to going to the outdoor pageant that was complete with donkeys, sheep, Wise Men, shepherds, Roman soldiers, angels, and a powerful sound system. It brought the spirit of peace, love, and the real meaning of Christmas to our hectic celebrations.
We arrived at Heritage Park, where the pageant took place, and were soon enjoying the beautiful music of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the story of the Savior’s birth. Lauren, our oldest grandchild, was three at the time. She was captivated by the sights, the sounds, and the story unfolding before us. Our breath clouded the chilly air under clear, starlit skies. We watched as the people playing Joseph and Mary obeyed the decree of Caesar Augustus to go to Bethlehem to be taxed. The woman playing Mary was “great with child” (see Luke 2:5), and the only place they could find to stay was a lowly stable. There, “she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger” (see Luke 2:7). The spotlights swept over the hill where we could see people as shepherds watching “over their flock by night” (see Luke 2:8). Suddenly, an actor dressed as an angel appeared dramatically in the air, a bright light shining on him. Lauren spontaneously cried out in love, “Jesus, it’s me, Lauren!”
Everyone around us heard her greeting and laughed softly, enjoying the surprise. It was an innocent case of mistaken identity, but for us it memorably enhanced the pageant that year. Lauren knew that Jesus knew her, and we were reminded of our knowledge that He does know each one of us. We wondered if Lauren had some memory of her Savior whom she had left three short years earlier. Lauren’s spontaneous greeting gave us hope that we too will recognize Him when we meet Him. Her love for the Savior and His love for Lauren warmed our hearts on that icy Christmas Eve.

Stewart tapped his mom on the wrist. “When will Daddy be done? I’m hungry.”
“In just a few minutes, Stew.”
“What’s he doing in there, anyway? I want to go home.”
“Daddy’s talking to the bishop.”
“Why?”
“He’s answering questions like, ‘Do you tell the truth?’ ‘Are you kind to your family members?’ ‘Do you follow the prophet?’ Questions like that.”
“Why?”
“When Daddy answers questions like those, the bishop knows whether or not he is a commandment-keeper. If he is a commandment-keeper, he’ll get a special piece of paper, called a temple recommend. Only Church members with temple recommends can go inside the temple.”
“Oh.”
The bishop’s door opened, and Stewart’s daddy stepped out. He shook the bishop’s hand and smiled. “Your turn,” he said, looking at Mommy.
“I’ll be right back, Stew.”
Stewart sat quietly in his seat, thinking.
“So tonight’s the night for chocolate chip cookies, right Stew?” Daddy asked.
Stewart looked up. “Yes.”
“Are you going to help me bake them?”
“Yep.”
There was silence.
“Dad, are you a commandment-keeper?”
“I try to keep the commandments, Son. Sometimes I make mistakes, but I repent and try harder. It’s hard to be a commandment-keeper, but I do my best.”
“Did you get a temple rec– … rec– What’s that word?”
“Temple recommend. Here. Do you want to see it?” Daddy handed Stewart a small piece of paper.
Stewart looked at it carefully. “What does it say?”
“Well, I still have to talk to the stake president. But right now, it has the bishop’s name, and my name. And at the bottom, it says that I’m worthy to enter the temple.”
“Because you’re a commandment-keeper?”
“Right.”
Before long, Stewart’s mom opened the bishop’s door.
“Come on,” said Daddy. “Let’s go home and get those cookies ready to bake and eat!”
Riding home in the car, Stewart was quiet. Mom looked into the rearview mirror and saw that he looked sad. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
At a stoplight, Daddy turned to the backseat. “Stew, what’s the matter? Aren’t you excited about making our treats?”
“I wanted to tell the bishop I keep the commandments. I wanted my own special paper.”
Mommy and Daddy looked at each other.
“You wanted a temple recommend?” Daddy asked.
“Aren’t I good at keeping the commandments?”
“You’re very good at keeping the commandments. But you have to be twelve to go inside a temple. When you’re twelve, you’re old enough to get your own recommend and do baptisms for the dead,” Dad explained.
“So I don’t get a paper like yours till I’m twelve?”
“No.”
Stew looked out the window. Daddy and Mommy quietly looked ahead. Then Daddy had an idea. “Hey! You can still have a piece of paper that says you keep the commandments! After we get the cookies started, you come into my office!”
Stew gave his dad a cautious smile. “OK.”
Once at home, the family set to work on the cookies right away. When the first batch went into the oven, Stewart went to his dad’s office.
“Have a seat, Son. I’ll sit here, across from you.”
Stew climbed into a chair and got comfortable.
“Now let’s start with a prayer.” Daddy folded his arms and Stew followed. Daddy asked Heavenly Father that His Spirit would be with them as they talked. He told the Lord that he loved his little boy. Stew felt happy inside.
When the prayer was finished, the questions began. Daddy looked Stewart in the eyes. “First, do you believe in Jesus Christ?”
“Yes I do.”
“I do, too, Stew. He’s my very best friend. Now, do you believe that the scriptures are true, and do you read them every day?”
“Well, Mommy reads them to me, but yesterday we both forgot.”
“Do you read them most days?”
“Yes.”
“That’s great. Reading the scriptures is one of the best ways to learn about Jesus Christ. Do you say your prayers?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Wonderful. How do you feel when you pray?”
“I feel glad because Heavenly Father can hear me and answer me.”
“Yes, He likes it when we pray to Him. The more we pray, the more He can help us. And you and I need lots of help, don’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe that Gordon B. Hinckley is a true prophet?”
“I know he is a prophet.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what you told me.”
“Heavenly Father will tell you, too, if you ask Him. I’ve asked Heavenly Father, and He’s told me,” Daddy said. “Now, do you tell the truth?”
Stew frowned. “Well, I lied about that mess in the kitchen. But you already knew that.”
“I remember. You blamed a friend for the mess, and it was really you who did it.”
Stewart’s shoulders drooped. “So I guess I’m not a commandment-keeper?”
“Well, did you repent of telling that lie?”
“I told you and Nathan I was sorry.”
“Did you really feel sorry? Sorry enough to want to tell the truth from now on?”
“Yes.”
“If we repent when we make mistakes,
Heavenly Father forgives us and forgets about the mistake. We’re still commandment-keepers, as long as we keep trying and keep repenting.”
Stewart sat tall again. He felt thankful for repentance.
Daddy asked more questions about the commandments: “Are you good to your parents?” “Do you keep Sunday special for remembering Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ?” “Do you pay tithing?” “Do you stay away from dangerous foods and drinks?”
Soon Stewart had answered every question. Daddy held out his hand. “Congratulations! You are a commandment-keeper.”
Shaking hands with his dad, Stewart beamed.
Daddy wrote some words on a small note card and handed it to Stew. “This piece of paper says that you’re a commandment-keeper. Right now, you’re not old enough to go into the temple, but you are worthy enough. That’s terrific!”
Stewart smiled, put the note card in his pocket, and said, “When I’m twelve, I’m going straight to the temple.”
“Great!”
“But right now”—Stewart grinned—“I’m only five, and I’m going straight to the kitchen. I can smell those yummy cookies and I’m starving.”
“Me too! Let’s go.”

“FIRE! Fire!” Frantic pleas for help broke the stillness of the quiet afternoon in Nauvoo. But it wasn’t a barn or a shed that was in flames that February 9, 1846.
Eleven-year-old Aurelia Spencer was nearby and could see men on top of the temple, swinging their hats and calling for assistance. Many members of the Church were busy preparing to leave Illinois for Utah, but when the alarm sounded everyone left whatever they were doing to help save the temple.
Willard Richards, a leader in the community, was on the temple grounds when the fire started and he immediately took charge. He shouted for everyone, including women and children, to rush to the closest wells to fill buckets with water. Two rows of men were formed on the stairs leading up to the attic roof of the temple where the fire had started. They passed full buckets of water up one row of fire fighters and returned them empty down another. Aurelia ran back and forth carrying pails of water to the men in the bucket brigade. But the wells were soon emptied, and teams of horses were driven to the river to obtain water.
There were a few moments of confusion when another alarm called some of the Saints to help rescue the victims of an accident nearby involving two riverboats. But in spite of this interruption, the temple fire was put out after about half an hour.
Hosea Stout, one of the fire fighters, said that a hole about 3 1/2 meters square had been burned in the roof. Later it was found that the temple fire had been caused by a red-hot stovepipe that ignited some clothes drying in an attic room.
When the fire was completely extinguished, Aurelia joined with the Saints as they rejoiced with loud shouts of Hosannah. Brigham Young, President of the Council of the Twelve, had seen the smoke from some distance and arrived just as the crowd began to celebrate. The Nauvoo band then climbed to the top of the roof and began to play for those gathered below.
Aurelia felt privileged to be able to help put out the fire that could easily have destroyed the Saints’ beloved temple. She later wrote, “Child as I was, I could not help noticing the order that prevailed and the calmness of the men that superintended the work.”
Aurelia grew up to become the president of the first Primary organized in the Church.

Nancy Ashby of Draper, Utah, tells the following experience: “I was having my doubts about the Church. Was it really true? Was it really worth all the effort? Wouldn’t it be all right to marry outside of the Church (which I was seriously considering at the time)? After this life is over, is there really anything else?

“Then my mother asked me to do some typing for her. It turned out to be genealogy sheets. She also handed me an article on genealogy that included the statement:

“‘It matters not what else we have been called to do, or what position we may occupy, or how faithfully in other ways we have labored in the Church, none is exempt from this great obligation. It is required of the apostle as well as the humblest elder. Place, or distinction, or long service in the Church, in the mission field, the stakes of Zion, or where or how else it may have been, will not entitle one to disregard the salvation of one’s dead.’ (Joseph Fielding Smith, Doctrines of Salvation, vol. 2, pp. 148–49.)

“I decided to do something about all this, considering the words of the Savior: ‘If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself.’ (John 7:17.) I found that genealogy can be fascinating and fun—and for me it has resulted in a firm testimony and conviction of all the other principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It changed my life.”

For me as a young teenager, school was about putting on an act. You know, the way the bad guy in the movies delivers the smooth, clever lines and comes off super cool in the process? I yearned to be able to do that. I tried to rule the screen just like the best of the bad guys. I pretended my morals were low because I wanted to impress my friends at school. I loved the sound of laughter when I used inappropriate language or joked about people.
I wanted to be the one audiences rooted for. So I figured out how to be a people pleaser. I became a regular comedy act in my biology class, managed to convince my volleyball team I was a party animal, and demolished my reputation as an innocent, naive young woman. I thought, “I don’t want my friends to think I’m a goody-goody!”
Since I wasn’t actually committing the serious sins people thought I was, I desperately tried to convince myself that it was OK to have a rough attitude. I was so wrong! My real-life movie-screen hit reached the point that I couldn’t stand to watch it myself. The more popular I became, the less I liked the character I played.
One day, two of my friends were talking about a sweet, friendly athlete named Jennifer who wasn’t embarrassed to stand up for her beliefs. One of my friends, the most gorgeous, popular, and smartest girl in the seventh grade said, “Jennifer is so different. I wish I were brave enough to believe in my church like she does. She’s the only person I know who lives her life like that.” I was stunned.
“How could she say something like that without even mentioning me?” I wondered. “After all, my church has high standards!” I was furious that she hadn’t even considered me a good example. Then, suddenly, I felt like I was sitting on the front row of a movie theater showing my life as the main feature.
I reflected on the poor example I had been to my friends. What kind of kid was going to watch me and think, “I wish I were brave and unique like her”? I really disliked who I had become.
Changing my character and reputation was a long process, and I’m still trying to keep my mouth shut instead of blurting out crowd-pleasing insults. But I realized I could make my friends laugh without hurting someone else’s feelings, and I could leave the room during a crude joke without being ridiculed. No one has to be a “bad guy” to have lots of friends. I changed my attitudes and behaviors because being at peace with what I believe is so much cooler than trying to hide who I am.

These youth and others from the Payson 20th Ward in the Payson Utah Mount Nebo Stake started indexing after their bishop challenged them to index 250 names each to qualify to go on a trip. He also extended the challenge to the leaders as well as the youth.
“We challenged them that we leaders could index more names than they could,” says Bishop Steven Pace. “The losers had to serve the winners dinner … and the leaders ended up serving the youth dinner.”
Four months after the challenge was issued, the youth had far surpassed the original goal of 250 names per person and had indexed more than 50,000 names altogether. The leaders realized the goal was too low and upped the challenge to 1,000 names, and they made the challenge not only between the leaders and youth, but also between the different quorums and classes.
“The priests quorum needs to pick it up,” says Kendall Little, 17, who has indexed more names than any of the other teens. “We don’t want to be one of the bottom two classes, because then we have to do dishes on the trip.”
The youth were originally motivated by the competition, but now they say they do indexing because it’s fun, and they know they are helping those who lived before.
“I like to think about the people we are doing this for and how much they must appreciate it,” says Miranda Hyer, 14. “When I first started indexing, I thought they were just old people who lived a long time ago, but they’re not that different from us.”
One of the big differences between the times of the people in the records and today is the writing style used. The youth said the only hard thing about indexing is trying to figure out how the names are spelled when the writing is hard to read.
“Some of the cursive writing is like hieroglyphics,” says Jason Trauntvein, 12. “My mom would have to come and help me.”
Being able to distinguish names that were difficult to read taught the youth that they were doing the work of the Lord and that He was helping them.
Amanda says there were times when she would think she knew what a name was while she was indexing and then just have a feeling that it was something else. “Then I’d look at it again and I’d see that it clearly said the name I was feeling,” she says. “Those were really good experiences.”
Having experiences helping those who lived in the past has also helped these youth strengthen their testimonies and live in the world today.
“Doing indexing helped show me the importance of temple work,” says Kendall. “I also know that God is willing to help us and give us the answers if we’ll just listen to Him.”
The willingness to provide this service is something that has changed them. And it’s also given them something worthwhile to do during their free time.
One time when Trevor had some extra time after taking a biology test in a class, he got on a computer and started indexing. Other students were on the computers playing games although the teacher told them not to. “The kids who were playing games got in trouble,” Trevor says, “but the teacher just told me to finish up my batch.”
The youth say being able to index names has been a satisfying endeavor, and counting the names they have indexed is way better than any score they could get on a computer or video game.
All of those names the youth indexed are real people who lived before, so there are thousands of Heavenly Father’s children being affected by their efforts with indexing, people Kendall says he hopes to meet one day.
“If you think about it, you’re kind of making lots of friends that you’re going to go meet eventually when you die,” he says. “Then they’ll all come and say, ‘Thanks for doing my name,’ because without you their work may have never been done.”
Receiving so many blessings has taught these youth and their leaders something many Church members have discovered: indexing is easy, fun, rewarding, and engrossing.

McLear was different from most deer. Most deer are timid, but McLear wasn’t afraid of anything!
He would go into the haunted house or jump off the high bridge over Blueberry Creek. He would even walk past the mean bull in the back pasture.
He could run faster down the slope and climb higher up the bluff than anyone else. So naturally when little Betty Bobcat climbed too high and was afraid to come down, everyone thought of McLear.
“McLear will rescue her,” cried Reggie Rabbit. He ran to get McLear.
“Come quick!” he shouted. “Betty is stuck on the bluff, and no one can get her down.”
When they reached the bluff, McLear saw that it was very steep and that the little bobcat was on a very narrow ledge. But he bravely climbed up and brought her down.
After that everyone said that he was the bravest deer in the whole world. And pretty soon he began to believe them!
But Willy Weasel did not like all the attention McLear got. One day Willy said, “I’ll bet you’re not brave enough to pick up Sulky Snake.”
“Pooh,” bragged McLear. “I’m not afraid.” He grabbed Sulky by his tail and held him high.
“Oh! McLear is the bravest deer in the whole universe!” cried Milly Meadow Mouse.
“Humph!” sniffed Grandfather Bear. “That’s not brave. That’s foolhardy. Some day he’ll pick up the wrong snake. Then he’ll learn that it’s sometimes smart to be afraid.”
McLear just laughed and took every dare his friends could think of. Once they dared him to sneak up on Sammy Skunk and scare him. Then they wouldn’t play with McLear for a week because he smelled so bad.
Another time Willy dared him to eat a red pepper in one bite.
“Don’t do it McLear!” cried Reggie.
McLear had never tasted a red pepper. But he didn’t want Willy to think that he was afraid, so he popped the whole pepper into his mouth and chomped. Suddenly he felt like he was on fire! He nearly drank Blueberry Creek dry, hoping his mouth and stomach would stop burning.
Willy and his friends rolled on the ground. They laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. McLear knew that they weren’t laughing because he’d been brave.
The next day the forest animals saw Percy Porcupine sleeping under a tree.
“McLear,” said Willy, “I dare you to sneak up and pat Percy’s tail.”
McLear looked at Percy’s prickly tail. Then he looked at Willy. Willy had a sly grin on his face. McLear gulped hard. “No!” he shouted. “You just want to see me get hurt so that you can laugh at me!”
The forest animals gasped.
“I never thought that McLear would be afraid of anything,” Reggie said sadly.
“I guess he’s losing his nerve.”
“You’re wrong, Reggie,” said Grandfather Bear. “That’s the bravest thing McLear has ever done. It takes more courage to say no than to take a foolish dare.”

As a teenager, however, I started falling away after I moved to a new ward. I attended youth activities most weeks, but I kept to myself and didn’t participate much. I didn’t enjoy church on Sunday, but I attended off and on. I realized that I was not really converted to the gospel and its teachings. I didn’t have a testimony of my own.
As usual during one fast and testimony meeting, my mind wandered. I wasn’t really listening as ward members bore their testimonies, but I said amen at the end of each one. Then a sister went up to the pulpit and started bearing her testimony. When she mentioned cake, I looked up and started paying attention.
“I always speak to Heavenly Father, even when I’m baking a cake,” she said. “I say a little prayer that the cake will rise and come out well. I know He answers our prayers.”
I didn’t think much about that testimony until our car wouldn’t start when we needed to go to the store to get some food. At that moment I remembered the words of the sister. So, I went back to my bedroom to ask God to help us so that the car would start. I knelt and prayed. When I finished, I took the car keys and put them in the ignition. And then came the answer to my prayer—the sound of the car starting.
Because of that answer to a simple prayer, I went from almost falling away to continuing on a path that has helped me gain a personal testimony and become fully converted to the gospel. The words to my favorite Primary song, “I Feel My Savior’s Love,”1 became more than just words of a song. They became feelings that I really have.
I pray about everything now. And though the answer or the timing isn’t always what I desire, I still choose to hear Him as I remember Nephi’s words: “But behold, I say unto you that ye must pray always, and not faint” (2 Nephi 32:9).