Gospel Story Finder

“I’m not going to Primary any more if I have to sit by Jimmy,” I told Mom as I got into our car.
“What does Jimmy do that bothers you?”
My sister, Christine, who is two years older than I am, cut in. “He’s a real pain. He’s always pulling someone’s hair or poking them in the side or untying their shoelace. I don’t blame Alan. I wouldn’t want to sit by him, either.”
I looked at her gratefully. It was nice to have an older sister, especially when she agreed with me.
Mom looked at me. “Is that why you don’t want to sit by Jimmy?”
“Yes,” I said. “He always gets me in trouble.”
“How does his being naughty get you in trouble?”
Christina came to my rescue again. “When someone keeps hitting you and pulling your hair, you finally hit him back. Then you’re in trouble too.”
“Is that what happened today, Alan?” Mom asked, looking me right in the eye.
“Well-l-l-l, I can’t just let him hit me for no reason, can I?”
“So you got into a fight in Primary?” Mom asked.
I knew she was disappointed in me. I hung my head and said, “Yes.”
“Did it make you feel better to fight with Jimmy?” she asked me.
“I thought it did then, but now I’m not so sure. You make me feel like I did something bad.”
“Are you sure it’s me that’s making you feel that way?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know. What am I supposed to do when he starts poking and hitting me? I don’t want the other kids to think I’m a wimp. Besides, he hits hard, and it hurts.”
Just then, Dad got in the car. I was thankful that Mom didn’t say anything about my fighting in Primary as Dad started the car and drove home.
Later in the afternoon, though, Dad came to my room. “Alan, Mom tells me that you had some problems in Primary today. I’d like you to tell me what happened.”
I felt hopeful because he didn’t seem angry. When I finished explaining, he said, “That sounds like a pretty difficult situation, all right. Do you think hitting Jimmy back will stop him from hitting you any more?”
“Well, I hope so,” I answered. “At least he knows I can hit just as hard as he can.”
“Yes, I suppose he knows that,” Dad agreed. “Do you think he likes you any better now?”
“Dad, you must be kidding! He hates me now.”
“Do you like him any better than you did before the fight?”
“How can I like him better after he made me get into trouble with everyone?”
“Alan,” Dad began, “one of the reasons we go to church is to learn to be more like Jesus Christ, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” I answered, “and Jesus would never have hit Jimmy. But, Dad, what would He have done?”
“That’s a good question. Let’s see if we can find an answer.” He opened my Bible to Matthew 18:21–22 [Matt. 18:21–22] and asked me to read it out loud.
“‘Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times?
“‘Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven.’”
I felt very discouraged. “There is no way I can stand to have Jimmy hit and poke me a zillion times before I can hit him back.”
Dad smiled. “The idea isn’t to wait until you can hit him back.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Let’s look in Matthew 5:43–44 [Matt. 5:43–44]. What does this say that we should do?”
I began reading out loud: “‘Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy.
“‘But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.’”
“Do you understand what Christ is teaching us here?” Dad asked.
“It sounds too hard for me to do.”
“Well, let’s make sure we understand what He is saying. First, He tells us to love our enemies.”
“Maybe I’m bad,” I said looking up at Dad, “but I don’t love Jimmy, not after what he did today.”
“But that’s just it, Alan!” Dad said. “Don’t you think the Savior knew how hard it would be to love our enemies? That’s why He told us how. He said to bless, do good to, and pray for those who do harm to us. He knew that it is very difficult to hate someone you are praying for and doing nice things for. Those kinds of actions change feelings of hate and anger into love and concern.”
I had a hard time believing that and it must have shown on my face. Dad said that he wanted me to try an experiment. He said that it wouldn’t be easy but that I should pray for Jimmy and do good things for him. He said that while I prayed for Jimmy, I should also pray that my feelings toward him would be softened.
That night as I knelt to say my prayers, I prayed that Jimmy would be happy. I also asked Heavenly Father to help me like Jimmy. I did that all week long. This part wasn’t too hard. It was the doing-good-things part that I was worried about.
I saw Jimmy only on Sundays because he didn’t go to my school. I didn’t feel ready to sit by him in Primary yet, but I didn’t want him to think I hated him, either. As I thought about it, I really didn’t hate him. I almost felt sorry for him. Maybe Heavenly Father was softening my heart.
All week I tried to think of something I could do for Jimmy. I figured he’d throw anything I gave him back at me, or make fun of me if I tried to do something nice. It was Saturday before I decided what I could do for him—something secret!
I asked Mom for three cookies to give him. I put them into a bag and typed a note on our computer: “To Jimmy, from someone who likes you.”
On Sunday, I asked Sister Lamb, my Primary teacher, if she would give the cookies to Jimmy without telling him whom they were from. She smiled at me and said she’d give them to him at the end of class.
During opening exercises and class, Jimmy made it obvious to everyone that he didn’t want to sit by me. He made several remarks that were pretty rude, but I just bit my tongue and waited. Before the closing prayer, Sister Lamb told Jimmy to stay a minute after the prayer.
I walked out of the room, but I didn’t go far. I wanted to hear what Jimmy said when he got the cookies. “Why are you giving me these?” he asked.
“Oh, they aren’t from me,” Sister Lamb said.
“They must be from you—no one else likes me.”
“No,” Sister Lamb said again.
“Well, who are they from?”
“I promised not to tell,” Sister Lamb said. I heard her closing her books, so I hurried away. I must have been smiling, because when I got in the car, Mom said, “Things must have gone much better in Primary today.”
“Yeah,” I said casually, “everything was OK.” Everything was more than OK. I felt happier than I had in a long time.
For three more weeks, I gave something to Sister Lamb to give to Jimmy. He began telling our class that someone must really like him. I could tell that he liked what was happening. It even seemed to me that he wasn’t as mean and rude as he used to be.
Then Dad asked me how I was doing with my experiment. I told him what had been happening, and he smiled. “That’s great, Alan! It sounds like you’re ready to make him your friend now.”
I looked up at Dad in surprise. “I thought that’s what I was doing.”
“You can’t go on giving him treats forever, Alan. At some point, you know, you have to give yourself.”
“Huh?”
“It sounds to me like Jimmy needs a friend. Maybe you could invite him over to play.”
“But, Dad,” I answered, “Jimmy lives a long way from us. He doesn’t even go to my school.”
“Well, why don’t you see if he can come over next Saturday. I’ll pick him up and take him home.”
“I’m not sure he’d come. And what would we do? I don’t even know what he likes.”
The call was easier than I had thought it would be. Jimmy sounded surprised, but he accepted.
Saturday came. I rode with Dad to Jimmy’s house. I was a little bit nervous when I knocked on his door. He opened it and called to his mother that he was leaving.
On the way home, I asked Jimmy what he liked to do. We soon discovered that we both liked soccer and roller-blading. When we got to my house, I discovered that he was a computer whiz. We spent most the afternoon playing games, drawing pictures, and making up stories on the computer.
When it was time to go, we walked through the kitchen to the car. Mom was baking chocolate chip cookies, and she gave us some as we went out the back door. As he bit into one, Jimmy looked at me suspiciously. “Hey, these are just like the cookies my secret friend gave me at church.”
I laughed. “Maybe you’ll have to come here to get treats from your secret friend from now on.”
“It’s a deal! And you can get treats at my house.”

This glimpse in summary. It was in a school of instruction, the School of Prophets, that the Prophet asked that each in turn speak, that as the revelation says, all might not speak at once but “that every man may have an equal privilege” (D&C 88:122). The subject was faith. Scriptures were quoted. The last man to speak, as it happened, was Brother Kimball, who in effect said it’s all been said but I can say one thing, tell you a story. My daughter, Helen Mar, was standing near the table and her mother left her saying, “Don’t touch those dishes. Don’t break one of those or I will whip you.” Vilate left, and Helen Mar did what little children do when they are told not to do it. Not just a dish was broken. The whole table leaf collapsed. Now she went out, as she had watched her parents do, near a tree. We don’t know what she said, but it would have been simple enough. “Bless my mother that she won’t whip me.” Vilate returned. She saw the situation. She flared. She took Helen by the hand into the bedroom. She assumed the angle. And then she couldn’t go through with it. And the arms of Helen Mar came around her neck and she said, “Oh mother, I prayed that you wouldn’t. I’m sorry, sorry.” When Brother Kimball had finished, every man in the room, including Joseph, was in tears. And Joseph said, “Brethren [these are grown-up, strong, independent, willful, intelligent men], that is the kind of faith we need, the faith of a little child going in humility to its parent” (see Whitney, pp. 69–70). That sums it up.

Brother John A. Widtsoe (1872–1952, former member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles) traveled to England during the First World War, and the English immigration official who interviewed him said, “No, we are not going to let you land. We have been letting your missionaries in, but we do not want any of your leaders.” He said, “Go and sit down.” So Brother Widtsoe went and sat down.
In a few minutes the official called him back and said, “If I let you land in my country, what will you teach my people?” And Dr. Widtsoe said, “I will teach them where they came from, why they are here, and where they are going.” The officer looked up at him and asked, “Does your church teach that?” And Brother Widtsoe said, “It does.”
“Well, mine doesn’t,” he said, and he came down with his stamp on the passport, signed it, and said, “You may enter.”

I recall that when I was a missionary in London, England, more than fifty years ago, we held our meetings in the Battersea town hall, which we rented. The floors were hard, and we sat on chairs. Every time a chair moved there was a noise. But this was not the worst aspect of the situation. Far worse was the noisy socializing of the members of the branch.

On one occasion we invited a family whom we had met while tracting. With great expectation we as missionaries stood by the door to welcome them. There was the usual convivial spirit in the hall, with the members talking noisily one with another. When this family came into the room, they quietly moved toward some chairs, knelt for a moment, and closed their eyes in a word of prayer. They then sat in an attitude of reverence amidst all the commotion.

Frankly, I was embarrassed. They had come to what they regarded as a worship service, and they behaved themselves accordingly.

At the close of the meeting they left quietly, and when we next met they spoke of their disappointment in what they had experienced. I have never forgotten that.

On the eve of our journey, the whole group met for a special family home evening at the meetinghouse. Afterwards, those who lived far away remained there all night to be on time for the bus, which came at 5:30 the following morning. Leaving early would give us enough time to get through Chilean customs.
As we traveled, everyone was filled with the spirit of love and brotherhood. Food and juice were divided generously. Each family had stories and testimonies to share, and there were many sessions of hymn singing. We looked out the windows often to admire the magnificent Andes mountains. We passed picturesque towns as our winding road traversed snowy peaks, ravines, and streams. Who could doubt that a divine hand had created this beautiful world?
We crossed the border into Chile, and before long we were making our approach to the temple. How our hearts leaped with joy when we saw the angel Moroni on the temple’s spire! We could almost hear the call of his trumpet. The temple workers were there to welcome us. They had arranged places for us to stay in homes of Chilean Saints, and we immediately went to the homes, bathed, and made ready for the special temple session that had been prepared.
Next came the sublime moment when we actually entered the house of the Lord. It was truly indescribable. Mere words can never express the spirit of that holy place. One must experience it—and that can happen only when a temple recommend is presented with a humble and contrite heart. Only then can the initiatory ordinances, endowments, marriages, family sealings, and baptisms for the dead be performed with the proper spirit.
Now we understood those who had gone before us. They had been right when they said that once we were inside the temple, we would never want to leave. Nevertheless, that wonderful day eventually came to an end. We went to the homes of our Chilean hosts, eager to return in the morning.

My father was an educated man and had many talents. He also had positive feelings about our Lord Jesus Christ. But from the time of my childhood, my father drank so much it seemed to me he was never sober. I remember that he had lost his regular job and would only work at temporary jobs a few days at a time, just enough to earn money for his liquor. His drinking affected me deeply, and I often prayed he would find the strength to quit.
And one day, four months before his death, he did. He stopped drinking completely and tried to start a new life. He was even going to get his job back. One night, several months after his death, I dreamed that my father was sitting on some kind of platform. He looked at me and smiled; his countenance shone, and he seemed to be very happy. With him were several others dressed in white whom I did not recognize. The dream impressed me, and I asked myself how my father could be in a state of peace and happiness when he had lived so irresponsibly on earth. He had left my mother with six small children and had done nothing to provide for us. When people would ask me about him, I would reply that he had been a bad father.
Then one night I had another dream in which I saw myself on the doorstep of our home talking to my father. He was drunk, seemed very pale, and was dressed in filthy clothes. I was screaming at him, asking him why he drank so much. I yelled at him to go away and leave us alone. All of a sudden I saw another man coming toward me. This man was also my father, but this time he was neatly dressed, his face was shining, and the look in his eyes was one of peace. Pointing to the other man he said, “That’s the man I once was; this is the way I am now.”
My joy at that moment was indescribable, for I knew this dream was the answer to my first dream—my father really had changed his ways before he died. He had won the battle he had been fighting with alcohol. He had repented
Since then, I have often rejoiced in the knowledge that my father is at peace and that he is progressing. I have also rejoiced in the knowledge that the way to true happiness for each of us is through faith and repentance. No matter how mired in sin and unhappiness, we truly can change our lives. The Savior’s atonement made that possible.

My parents established a family tradition in our home which was fun for me in my early years and has become even more meaningful as I reflect back on it as the years have passed. On the first birthday of each child, the family would gather in the living room. In the center of the living room floor, our parents would place articles for the one-year-old child to select. The selection to be made might indicate an interest the child would pursue in life. The articles were the Bible, a child’s bottle filled with milk, a toy, and a savings bank filled with coins. The child was placed on one side of the room and the family on the other side. Family members would encourage the child to crawl toward the objects and make a selection. This was all in fun, of course.
I was told that I selected the bank and went into finance as my profession. I watched my brother Ted select the scriptures, and he pursued law as his chosen profession. Over the years he has relied on the scriptures as a basis for his judgments. My youngest brother, Bob, was the well-rounded member of the family. He crawled over, sat down on the Bible, put the bottle of milk in his mouth, and then held the toy in one hand and the bank in the other.

“You are each to write a poem,” the teacher said. The girls in the third-grade class smiled at each other and quickly started writing. But the boys looked uncomfortable and wondered what they could write, especially Roberto.
The teacher told them that the one who wrote the best poem about mother would have a gold star pasted by his or her name on the blackboard. Roberto half closed his eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like to see his name with a big, shining golden star beside it. But his dream lasted only a moment for he was sure that no poem he wrote would ever be judged as the best one.
Roberto looked at the blank sheet his teacher had given him. He bounced his pencil on its eraser end and then started to make some marks on the paper. I could easily draw a star, he decided, lots of them; but that wouldn’t mean very much, not nearly as much as if a big, gold one were placed beside my name on the blackboard!
Debbie waved her hand. “I’m through,” she announced when the teacher called on her. “May I read my poem now?”
“All the poems will be read at three o’clock this afternoon and you may read yours first,” the teacher promised.
Promptly at three, the teacher called on Debbie who stood up proudly and read:
Mothers buy dresses and shoes and things.
They give us parties and rings.
We wish them a Happy Mother’s Day.
We hope mothers are here to stay.
Bobby was next:
Mothers make clown suits and lemonades
And fix sore toes with keen band-aids;
But there’s one thing she can’t do, and I wish she could—
That’s learn to like bugs, like mothers should.
Eagerly the children read the poems they had written for their mothers, all except Roberto. “I can’t make a poem,” he explained. “The words don’t rhyme.” The children exchanged amused smiles. “But I’ve written what I feel,” he continued, and then Roberto read:
Mothers … mothers make …
Well, mothers make you hurt inside …
When you haven’t got one.
He looked around at the boys and girls, expecting them to laugh because he couldn’t write a poem. They looked back at him. There was no laughter in their eyes.
And everyone in the third grade was glad when their teacher put a big, gold star on the blackboard next to the name of Roberto José Martinez.

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf shared a story in general conference about a challenge from his own life that became a massive blessing for him. During the challenge, however, it was hard for President Uchtdorf to see much value in the struggle. He was 11 years old at the time and had to pedal a heavy bicycle and cart to deliver laundry for his family’s laundry business.
“Most of the time, I was not overly excited about the bike, the cart, or my job,” he said. “Sometimes the cart seemed so heavy and the work so tiring that I thought my lungs would burst, and I often had to stop to catch my breath.”
There was a reason the work was so hard for him. He was battling a lung disease he didn’t even know he had. But here’s the miracle: all that strenuous exercise proved to be exactly what he needed to heal his lungs. Not until many years later, when he took a physical exam to enter the military, did President Uchtdorf learn there had ever been anything wrong.
“It became clear to me that my regular exercise in fresh air as a laundry boy had been a key factor in my healing from this illness,” he said. “Without the extra effort of pedaling that heavy bicycle day in and day out, pulling the laundry cart up and down the streets of our town, I might never have become a jet fighter pilot and later a 747 airline captain.”1

Eight Varsity Scouts from the Greeley Colorado Stake served as volunteers for two days at the Colorado Special Olympics Winter Games. The group cheerfully performed the many tasks assigned to them by the Olympic Committee. They helped decorate the “Olympic Town” and manned booths for competitions. Several of their group were also assigned as escorts to athletes on the ski slopes. They were to stay with their athlete during practice runs and during races.
They returned home tired but with a new appreciation and understanding of the special people they had been privileged to serve.

“I just don’t understand how you can believe in what you’ve never seen. I don’t know how to have that kind of faith.”
I was struck by my brother’s statement. We have a great relationship, and he was confiding in me about some challenges he was facing. He hadn’t been active in the Church for years, so I shared my desires for him to believe in something—anything, really—regarding a loving Heavenly Father and a higher purpose for mortality.
But his words caused me to reflect: Why do I believe in Christ and everything about the gospel when so much is intangible?
Going back to the conversation with my brother, I didn’t know if anything I could say would convince him of the truths I hold dear to my heart. But suddenly, I was reminded of the story of the Apostle Thomas. So I shared it with him.
Thomas was faithful to the Savior during His ministry but would not believe his Master had risen again until he saw Him face to face. When he felt the prints of the nails in His hands, he finally believed, and the Savior told him, “Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed” (John 20:29; emphasis added).
And then I bore my testimony: “I’ve overcome too many challenges in my life to not believe in a Heavenly Father who loves me and a Savior who has helped me find joy and peace through it all. I may not see Them personally, but I see Them through so many instances of goodness in the world. Life is hard, but faith in Them reminds me of who I am and what my purpose is, and I remember the blessings They have promised me. Every time I choose to have faith, I feel in my heart that They are with me, and that the gospel is true.”
We ended our conversation on a good note. I don’t know if he will choose to come back to the gospel any time soon, but I invited him to simply begin with a desire to believe.

Growing up, I was always inclined to perfectionism. So when I received my patriarchal blessing, one admonition in particular seemed natural: to complete the tasks I was given “to the best of [my] ability, to perfection.” Only later would I start to realize how little I understood perfection—or the role of grace.
In 1998 I returned home early from a mission due to health problems. I felt a tremendous amount of guilt because I felt I had not completed my mission “to perfection.” Added to this sense of failure was uncertainty about my illness. So far, doctors had been unable to diagnose it.
In spite of my health challenges, I knew I needed to move forward, so I enrolled in a university to continue my education. After only two quarters, however, I returned home again, in pain, for urgent surgery. It was at this point that doctors discovered I had an autoimmune disease.
While I was recovering from surgery, I began working part-time at the chocolate store where I had been employed as a teenager. Even though I was doing what I could, I didn’t feel that I was pursuing anything worthwhile, much less completing it “to perfection.” I began to compare myself to others, especially to my friends who were completing their college degrees, serving missions, or starting families. I felt left behind.
Then I met Stephanie. She came into the candy store one day wearing a black scarf around her head. As I pointed out to her my favorite chocolate, I felt impressed to inquire about her situation. She smiled, removed her scarf, and, pointing to her bald head, told me she was going through chemotherapy. That exchange was the start of a special and candid friendship.
Stephanie came by the store regularly to enjoy a treat and talk about life. I learned that she was a member of the Church and that she had struggled spiritually as well as physically. She told me about some rebellious choices she had made and about her efforts to repent. She was working toward being sealed to her husband in the temple.
One day I shared some of my own challenges. I confided in her how discouraged I was by my circumstances. “I am scooping the same ice cream I scooped in high school,” I explained. “I didn’t complete my mission or college, and I don’t know what to do now.”
Stephanie responded, “Why do you have to finish the race of life in a set time? Why not just run the race?”
For the first time, I realized that the efforts I was making were my best, and my best was enough. The Savior loved me, and His grace, through His Atonement, was sufficient for me, for my deficiencies. Although I felt I had been looking to Him all along, until Stephanie shared her insight with me, I had somehow missed an important lesson about His role in my life.
Ether 12:27 says, “My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.” As I have been able to humble myself and have faith in the Lord, I have seen over and over again that He does indeed make weak things become strong. My increased testimony of this truth has helped me face my challenges with greater faith and hope.
A few months after that conversation, I left my hometown to start a new job and lost contact with my friend. One day my mom called to tell me that she had seen Stephanie’s obituary in the newspaper. I came home to attend her funeral and learned she had been sealed to her husband just three weeks before her death.
My heart sighed with gratitude for having had Stephanie in my life and for what she taught me about running a perfect race. I don’t always need to sprint. Occasionally, it will be all I can do to simply face the finish line. Doing our best to move forward—no matter what speed “our best” is—is OK. Our efforts can be made perfect because the Lord’s grace is sufficient for us all (see Moroni 10:32).

While our family was in Argentina on assignment from the Church, our son and I often visited sites of interest in our free time. Among them was a zoo unlike any zoo we had seen before.
Rather than wander past cages of sleepy animals, visitors were invited to enter the pens and pet the animals. Following the trainer, we made our way into the enclosure prepared for the large lions and petted them while they seemed to ignore us.
I asked the trainers how they had convinced those giant beasts to not eat us. They called my attention to several little dogs that likewise inhabited the pens. When the lions were small, those yappy dogs chased the lions mercilessly and nipped at their heels. The lion cubs became accustomed to cowering in the corner, afraid of the dogs.
When the lions grew, they continued to cower in fear. With the flick of a paw, they could easily have sent those dogs flying, but the lions didn’t see themselves as they really were. They were unaware of their regal identity and potential.
We all face pesky little dogs that steal our confidence and keep us cowering in figurative corners. I name three.
Many of us characterize our performance more by our failures than by our successes. If we get 80 questions right out of 100, we sadly admit that we missed 20 questions rather than proudly note that we got 80 correct. Lack of confidence in our potential and in ourselves can blind us to our true worth and capacity.
Nephi saw a vision of the mother of the Savior, but when asked if he understood the condescension of God, he admitted he didn’t know the meaning of all things. But first he asserted what he did know: “[God] loveth his children” (see 1 Nephi 11:12–17). That’s the most essential thing to know. It keeps us from allowing pesky dogs of incomplete knowledge to compromise our certainty of the truthfulness of the Church and of our relationship with God and His unfailing and empowering love for us.
Bad choices or the neglect of good ones cloud our vision of reality. There was a symbolic reason the children of Israel needed to gather manna daily (see Exodus 16:4). The daily obligation to gather food helped them to remember God. Today, scripture reading, praying, attending church, and serving each other are our daily manna as children of God to help us remember the Lord.
We have God’s spiritual DNA coursing through our veins. We are His sons and daughters and His heirs. Swat away any deceiving messages, beliefs, or habits that cause you to cower in the corners of your life. Don’t let them nip at your heels and make you feel fearful or hurt. Rise to the level of your eternal stature. You are royalty.

A convert in England tells his story. Bitter over the death of an infant who had died without baptism and was therefore denied burial in the church cemetery, he was ready for the missionaries his wife had invited to his home. His first question was about the Church’s teaching on infant baptism.
The elders cited a passage from the Book of Mormon which teaches that infants are incapable of sin and that they have no need of baptism because they are saved.
Then he made this comment: “It was the kind of doctrine Christ would teach. I simply couldn’t see how a loving God could feel any other way about children. Then the elders gave me a lesson in obtaining a witness to gain a testimony. I put it to the test, prayed, and received a witness. I felt the burning in my bosom just as the scriptures described. I knew it was true.”
He made this further comment: “One of the most joyous principles to me is celestial marriage. I feel that if people could understand this and really love their husband or wife, they would join the Church on this alone. It’s a wonderful principle.”

At a school party in Melbourne a few years ago, Emily Denning walked up to Lisa Bignell and said something shocking.

Why was Lisa shocked? Well, the two girls had never been more than just acquaintances, classmates. So you could have knocked Lisa over with a feather when Emily walked up to her and said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about this for a while. I want to know more about your church. I want to become a Mormon.”

Lisa says, “I sort of jumped because it was really unexpected. I guess I never thought she’d be interested.”

It turns out that Emily had known for several years that Lisa was LDS. It also happened that Emily had been searching for the right church for about six years. “I was trying to find the truth, something that sounded right to me, not what other people thought I should believe. I wanted to find out for myself,” she says.

Emily visited a number of different churches, but none of them “clicked” as she puts it. In the meantime, Lisa’s family was participating in their ward’s “set-a-date” program (where members are encouraged to set a target date for having someone prepared to receive the missionaries). “We had been praying for a couple of weeks, when Emily came up to me. Because we never really hung around at school together, we didn’t know each other a whole lot. I was shocked, but then I thought immediately, This is an opportunity. I’d better take it.”

So Lisa invited Emily to a fireside where they were showing the film “How Rare a Possession.” Emily says, “I figured, well, there’s only one way to find out if this is right or not. I felt even before I came to church that I was going to join. It was just a feeling I had. When I walked into the chapel, everything just fell into place. I had this really good feeling.”

That good feeling was just reinforced as Emily continued to attend church and firesides and took the missionary lessons. Her only regrets since her baptism? Emily looks at little children in church and sometimes envies them, “growing up in church, with Primary and seminary, Young Women and all the rest of it.” She wishes she had been a member all her life. She knows how she’ll raise her own children someday.

Actually, the missionary work never ends. Emily wants to be married in the temple and raise her children in the Church. Ben plans to go on a mission. At last report Sally was working to introduce a friend to the gospel. But first it has to begin. And it begins with friendship. It begins with letting your membership and your values be known. And it begins with faith that if you do your part, the Lord will do his.

I couldn’t help looking back. My feet were moving one way and my heart the other. Through my tears I could see Mama still standing on the porch. She was getting smaller with each step I took.
So many times I had asked her, “Must I be the one to go, Mama? I am only eleven years old. Are you sure I can do it all by myself?” And each time she reassured me. Yes, I was the one to go. And yes, this was Heavenly Father’s way for me to reach Zion. With Mama praying for me, I knew I shouldn’t doubt.
Mama wanted awfully bad to go west with the Saints. She had no money for such a great undertaking, but she was a woman of faith and knew that her prayers would be answered.
Then Mama found a way for me to go. An elderly blind lady needed a companion to help her walk across the many, many miles of hazardous terrain to the mountains of Utah. So that is how I came to leave my mother and my family and cross the plains without them.
When I left, tears were streaming down my face. With all the courage I could muster, I clasped hands with the blind lady and walked away.
My blurry eyes became her eyes. I guided her with my sight; she guided me with the wisdom of her years. Together we walked every step of the way through the dust and the dirt of the crude trails. After many long, tiring days, and weeks, and months, we made it!

Tamika nodded. “Tell me about when Grammy Rose escaped.” Tomorrow they were visiting a place where her great-grandma Rose might have stayed, and she wanted to hear the story again.
“Again?” Gram laughed. “All right. That’s one of my favorites too.” She leaned back and got comfortable.
“Your great-grandma Rose lived on a big farm called a plantation with her mama and daddy. They were slaves, and they wanted to be free,” Gram said. “One day, Rose’s mama died of a fever. Her daddy decided it was time to escape with Rose.”
Gram’s fingers traced lines along the quilt as she talked, like she was tracing a map of the journey.
“They left at night and followed the North Star. It’s part of a constellation called the Big Dipper,” Gram said. “Back then, slaves called it the Drinking Gourd.”
“What’s a gourd?” Tamika asked.
“It’s like a squash. Slaves would use hollowed-out gourds as spoons to scoop water from buckets to drink,” Gram said. “Rose and her daddy followed the Drinking Gourd north. People from the Underground Railroad helped them along the way.”
Tamika nodded. She knew that the Underground Railroad wasn’t really a railroad. It was a name for the people who helped slaves escape to safety. Tomorrow Tamika and her mom were going to a house called Slave Haven, where some of the slaves hid on their journey north.
“But we don’t know for sure if Grammy Rose stayed in Slave Haven,” Tamika said.
Gram looked thoughtful. “That’s right. Rose couldn’t write, so we don’t know the exact places she stayed,” Gram said. “But when I was a girl, Rose told me her story, and I wrote it in my journal.”
As Mama tucked the blankets around Tamika, Gram told her one more thing about Rose.
“Grammy Rose always said that miracles from God brought her safely north. That taught me to look for miracles every day,” Gram said. “Like warm sunshine.”

It is sometimes really tough to know how to deal with people who pick on you. I had long ago decided that the best way was just to ignore them. But sometimes this just didn’t seem to work. Earlier that school year, two girls in my science class had hurt me so much with their cruel words that I finally burst and fired similar cruel words right back at them. This landed me in detention, and I spent a miserable afternoon picking up trash. Worse than the actual punishment was how horrible I felt inside. I knew my actions weren’t Christlike, and that hurt me more than anyone’s awful words ever could. After that, I stuck like glue to my old policy of keeping silent and expressionless, hoping people would get bored with me. But Megan still hadn’t given up trying to have fun at my expense, and I had been wondering recently if there were something more I could do besides just turning the other cheek.

Looking down at the candy canes in my backpack, I realized that the Spirit had just given me a solution to my dilemma. I thought of Matthew 5:44, in the Sermon on the Mount, where Christ says, “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you.”

“Well,” I thought, “it’s worth a try.” Even though the thought of doing such an unusual thing scared me, I told myself it couldn’t make the situation any worse.

I almost chickened out. It was the very end of the class period before I had the guts to approach Megan. When I called her name, she turned and looked very surprised that I was speaking to her.

“Here, this is for you.” I held out the candy.

She looked at me very suspiciously. I could tell she was trying to figure out what the trick was. I knew she thought I was trying to do something mean because she knew she’d never done anything nice to me. So I smiled and said, “Merry Christmas,” hoping she would trust me just a little bit.

She took the candy. When I turned to walk away, and it was clear that there were no strings attached, she said, “Thank you.”

I wish I could say Megan and I became friends after that. We didn’t. But she left me alone the rest of the school year, and her eyes lost that hard, malicious glint when she looked at me.

I like to hope I gave her more than just candy that Christmas. I hope that’s what happened, but maybe it didn’t. Maybe she never thought about it again. But I was changed for life after that simple exchange. I was filled with the joy of having done what Jesus would have done. The gift I gave her paled in comparison to the gift I received—a taste of charity, the pure love of Christ, a feeling sweeter than all the Christmas candy in the school.

A great help for missionaries and for Spanish-speaking people everywhere is the translation of the Book of Mormon into Spanish. Meliton Gonzalez Trejo is the man who is most responsible for its first translation. The son of a nobleman, Meliton was born in Garganta la Olla, Spain, in 1843. Well educated as a boy and young man, he was always interested in religion. But nothing he read about various churches satisfied him.
One day, however, he heard a friend mention a group of people, called “saints,” who had been led over the Rocky Mountains in America by a prophet. These people, Meliton was told, were living in the Salt Lake Valley. He was so anxious to find out more about them that he asked for and was given permission by the queen to join a military expedition to the Philippine Islands, as he thought this would be a help toward his going to America.
During his stay in the Philippines, Meliton became seriously ill. While recovering, he had time to think more about religion and the “saints” in the Salt Lake Valley. One night after a fervent prayer for guidance, he was directed in a dream to leave the army and journey to Utah. This dream was so sacred to Meliton that he never told the details of it to anyone but President Brigham Young whom he met soon after arriving in Utah. In order to leave the Philippines the young soldier needed money. In time, he was able to secure two thousand dollars in bills that he sewed inside the lining of his vest before he left.
Arriving in Salt Lake, Meliton investigated the Church and soon became a member. He was one of the first missionaries to go to Mexico, and was asked by the General Authorities to translate the Book of Mormon into Spanish. With some help from another man, Meliton Trejo finished the translation in 1886.

Nearly one year ago, our daughter Alisa died. She had struggled with cancer for almost eight years, with several surgeries, many different treatments, exciting miracles, and deep disappointments. We watched her physical condition deteriorate as she came to the close of her mortal life. It was excruciating to see that happen to our precious daughter—that bright-eyed little baby who had grown up to be a talented, wonderful woman, wife, and mother. I thought my heart would break.
Last year at Easter time, a little over a month before she passed away, Alisa wrote: “Easter is a reminder of all that I hope for myself. That someday I will be healed and someday I will be whole. Someday I won’t have any metal or plastic inside of me. Someday my heart will be free of fear and my mind free of anxieties. I am not praying that this happens soon, but I am so glad I truly believe in a beautiful afterlife.”
Each of us has physical, mental, and emotional limitations and weaknesses. These challenges, some of which seem so intractable now, will eventually be resolved. None of these problems will plague us after we are resurrected. Alisa researched survival rates for persons with the type of cancer she had, and the numbers were not encouraging. She wrote: “But there is a cure, so I’m not scared. Jesus has already cured my cancer, and yours. … I will be better. I’m glad I know this.”
I long to see my mother again and feel her gentle touch and look into her loving eyes. I want to see my father’s smile and hear his laugh and see him as a resurrected, perfect being. With an eye of faith, I picture Alisa completely beyond the reach of any earthly troubles or any sting of death—a resurrected, perfected Alisa, victorious and with a fulness of joy.
A few Easters ago, she wrote simply: “Life through His name. So much hope. Always. Through everything. I love Easter to remind me.”