Gospel Story Finder

Even over the loud cheers, Jacob could hear Coach Vance’s directions.
“Stop! Look! Go left … score!” Coach Vance yelled, guiding Jacob to score the winning shot of their final soccer game.
Jacob’s team had won the championship, and that meant only one thing: pizza party!
The whole team headed over to Coach Vance’s condo for the big celebration. Many of the boys congratulated Jacob on his winning goal. Jacob felt like the guest of honor! He didn’t have many friends in this new town, and he was eager to feel accepted.
As they waited for the pizza to arrive, some of Jacob’s teammates began looking through Coach Vance’s magazines. The boys started snickering. They called Jacob over to look too, but Jacob immediately felt uncomfortable with the pictures they showed him.
He saw pictures of adults drinking bad drinks and smoking and women dressed immodestly. Jacob was confused and disappointed. He thought Coach Vance was perfect!
Jacob knew that looking at bad pictures was wrong. He didn’t want to look, but he didn’t want the other boys to tease him. He pretended to be interested, but he felt sick inside.
Suddenly, Jacob had a strong feeling he shouldn’t look at the pictures. It was as though someone was telling him to stop.
“Stop now,” Jacob felt again.
“Stop now, Jacob!”
Suddenly Jacob recognized the feeling: it was the Holy Ghost.
As the boys continued to look through the magazines, Jacob felt the Holy Ghost tell him even more clearly to leave. The more he listened, the better he could hear the voice.
Jacob said to his teammates, “Guys, I don’t think we should be looking at these.” Then he left Coach Vance’s home.
As Jacob walked home carrying his heavy trophy in his backpack, he thought about how heavy and uncomfortable it must be to carry sins around. He decided it was definitely easier and lighter to live a clean life. He decided right then to never look at bad pictures again. Jacob knew that the Holy Ghost was the best coach he could have to help him choose the right.

“Hola, cómo estás? Hola, cómo estás?” I sounded like a broken record. Or even better, a bright, colorfully feathered parrot thrown into a Mexican restaurant where customers would shout the same phrase at it day and night, trying to get the English bird to talk back.
Last year my father was called to serve as president in the Barranquilla Colombia Mission, and for the first few weeks I really felt like that parrot. Coming to a Latin country where beautiful brown skin and short people are common, I could easily admit that my red hair, pale skin, and height of five feet, nine inches definitely made me appear out of the ordinary.
But sticking out was the least of my problems. My main concern was the language. If you hear, “Hi, how are you?” a million times in Spanish, you’re bound to catch onto the phrase sooner or later. But you can only get so far with knowing that phrase, and then what do you do?
Our family’s first Sunday in our new country soon arrived. Being filled with excitement and anticipation for the experience that awaited us, we all piled into our little Colombian station wagon and made our way toward the chapel.
We found the right building in no time. The chapel was small and simple. Wooden benches had been lined up along the cement floor, facing the pulpit. Four fans hung overhead, trying to circulate what little air was making its way around the room.
As we walked in to sit down, I looked around the chapel and counted only 20 people in the congregation. This appeared very unusual to my family, considering that in our ward in California the overflow area frequently had to be opened.
It was fast and testimony meeting, so most of the members bore their testimonies. My brothers and sisters and I just sat in the congregation in a small state of bewilderment. As each person got up to speak, I tried to listen for familiar words or phrases, but everyone seemed to talk so fast that I couldn’t make out a thing. I was quickly losing confidence of ever learning to understand.
When sacrament meeting came to an end, my sister and I went to Young Women. We both felt extremely awkward and out of place as we sat down next to the other girls. The Young Women president then came into the room and began the class.
This was going to be impossible, I thought. How would I ever be a part of something I could not understand? At that moment the young women began to sing. The words made no sense to me, and I was completely lost and frustrated.
Then something made me stop and ponder for a moment. I listened harder. Wait! The tune sounded very familiar. I looked at my sister, and she recognized it too. Together we were joined in song with the other girls.
I remember the mixture of the Spanish and English words clashing together in a most unflattering way. But we all sang our hearts out with one purpose in mind. The words were unmistakably different, but the meaning was clearly the same. Heavenly Father understood our voices perfectly. Every word. To him we sang in perfect harmony.
As I closed my ears to the words and opened my heart to the meaning, I felt the beautiful spirit that encompassed the room and I began to understand. The Spirit was our translator. We couldn’t communicate to each other through words, but we could hear the peaceful whisperings of the Spirit through the music we sang there together.
I don’t even remember what the name of that hymn was. It doesn’t really matter. What’s important is the love and acceptance we felt for each other at that very moment.
As we sang the final words of the hymn, there was complete silence. We just sat there looking at one another, hanging on to that wonderful feeling in the room.
Then the young women turned to my sister and me and they smiled.
Hey! I recognized that. So I responded with a smile of my own, and they understood. I knew right then everything was going to be fine.

My wife, Brittney, and I began purchasing food storage early in our marriage. In the first months after our wedding, we bought a few storable items each time we went grocery shopping. By adding a little bit at a time, we accumulated a useful store of food. We didn’t know when we would need to use it, but we knew it was important.
A year into our marriage, we moved across the country for graduate school, and we brought our food storage with us. Financially, things were difficult. We had used all of our savings to secure housing, and Brittney received no income as a student teacher. We relied on my graduate school assistantship to pay the bills, but it didn’t go far.
Our finances took another turn for the worse the second night in our new home. Brittney woke up with severe stomach pain, and when it didn’t subside after several hours, we went to the hospital. She had her appendix removed later that day.
After she recovered, we sat down to budget our money. As we calculated the next four months’ bills—which included the emergency surgery—we discovered we could still get by without going into debt. In order to do so, however, we could spend no more than $25 each month on groceries. That was about one-fourth of what we were used to spending.
The food storage we had accumulated over the past year became invaluable. It was enough to cover our basic needs for four months, and we used the budgeted $25 to buy milk and other perishables. We didn’t eat fancy food, but we didn’t go hungry.
As we lived frugally and served others willingly, we received added blessings. One of my fellow students finished his degree and asked us to help his family move. While we were helping, he asked if we would like to take the food left in their freezer. Because of his kindness, we now had meat to supplement our food storage.
The Lord blessed us as we prepared food storage, paid our tithing, and showed willingness to serve. We made it through those months without borrowing any money. After that semester, my wife found a full-time job, and we could afford to spend more money on groceries. We built up our food storage again, and we continue to be blessed as we obey the Lord’s commandments.

Mary and I left Utah so I could attend law school in Palo Alto, California. We were planning to return to Utah after graduation, but the Spirit directed that we stay in California. We lived in California for 33 years and raised our family there. We both had many opportunities to serve. We loved the diversity of the members and their commitment to the gospel of Jesus Christ. I will be eternally grateful for the wonderful Latter-day Saints in California who have been such a positive influence in my life.

President David O. McKay used to tell a story about a railroad engineer. Let me share it with you as recorded by President Harold B. Lee:
“The engineer pulled his train into a station one dark night, and a timid passenger inquired of the engineer if he wasn’t frightened to pull his train out in the dark with 400 or 500 passengers’ lives at stake. The engineer said, pointing up to the bright headlight, ‘I want to tell you one thing: when I pull out of this station I won’t be running in darkness one foot of the way. You see that light a thousand yards ahead? I run my engine just to the edge of the light, and when I get there it will still be on a thousand yards ahead.’ Having said that, President McKay added: ‘I want to tell you something. Through all this dark night of uncertainty, I want to tell you that this Welfare Program will not be running in the dark one foot of the way. You remember it. We can only see the next October as the first circle of light. We have told you what to do six months from now. By the time we get there the light will be on ahead of us, but every step of the way that light will be there. You teach your people to follow the light and they will be safe on Zion’s hill when the destructive forces come in the world.’” (Welfare Agricultural Meeting, 5 Apr. 1969.)

When I was a child, the very best part of Christmas was the arrival of my mother’s brother, who would drive once a year from his home in Tennessee to visit our home in Georgia, usually arriving the night before Christmas Eve.
As I counted down the months, weeks, and days before my uncle’s visit, the time seemed to pass so slowly that I could hardly bear the anticipation. Each year on the night he was scheduled to arrive at our house, I would press my face against the living room window, waiting to catch the first glimpse of his car. I never had to wait long before he arrived.
I never realized until I was older how much waiting for my uncle’s arrival increased the happiness I felt when his car finally pulled into our driveway laden with Christmas gifts. In a small way, I was reminded of how faithful, righteous people in the Book of Mormon and the Bible must have felt when the Savior finally arrived on earth. Not only had His birth been anticipated for centuries rather than months or weeks, but He brought to the world the most precious gifts imaginable—eternal life and the opportunity to be exalted with our families forever. I imagined the joy and excitement these people would have experienced when they recognized the signs of Christ’s birth and knew that the prophecies they had read about were finally being fulfilled.
Though I wasn’t on the earth when the Savior was born, I am so grateful for His gifts of the Atonement and Resurrection, which make it possible for me to be forgiven of my sins and live with my family forever. Just as I looked forward to the arrival of my uncle, and as people looked forward to the birth of Christ, today we can look forward to the Second Coming, when Christ will bring even greater blessings and opportunities to the righteous. I know that as we plan and prepare for Christ’s coming, our joy will be full.

In 1938, during the middle of the Great Depression in the United States, my mother had just turned nineteen years old. She was the oldest of six children, with her youngest sibling having recently turned five. Her father, Leslie, was a sheepherder in the deserts of eastern Utah. The weather was hot and dry. One summer day in June, while Leslie was out tending the sheep, he became dehydrated and suffered from heat stroke. At age 41, he died suddenly, leaving his wife and six children with no husband and father and very little financial means. My mother did not understand why God would take her father when she felt the family needed him so desperately. She prayed and asked God why her father would die at that particular time.
My mother sought to learn from God why her father died when he was young and had a family that needed him so much during a time of great economic difficulty. The answer she received did not come quickly, but it did come. After studying the scriptures and praying for many days, her answer came in a dream. The answer was clear and brought peace and understanding to her soul.
I witness that Jesus Christ lives. He is the all-powerful Son of God. He knows us personally. He can guide and comfort us during times of uncertainty, pain, or fear if we listen to His words and seek to hearken and to heed what He tells us to do. I also witness that Jesus Christ directs His ordained servants and speaks through them. I have personally felt His clear direction in preparing messages for general conference.
As we listen to the messages during general conference—and seek to hearken and heed the words of Jesus Christ—He will speak to our hearts. He can and will help us to deal with temptation, struggles, and weakness. We can experience miracles in our marriages, family relationships, and daily work. Jesus Christ seeks to help us feel increased joy even if turbulence surrounds us. May we turn to Him and hearken and heed His words.

“In the morning I went in secret before the Lord, and asked Him what was His will concerning me. The answer I received was that I should go to the south; for the Lord had a great work for me to perform there, as many souls were waiting for His word. On the 3rd of March, 1840, in fulfillment of the directions given me, I took coach and rode to Wolverhampton, twenty-six miles [away].
“I presented myself to [Mr. Benbow, a wealthy farmer, living in Ledbury, Herefordshire] as a missionary from America … He and his wife received me with glad hearts and thanksgiving, [and] rejoiced greatly at the glad tidings which I brought them.
“I also rejoiced greatly at the news Mr. Benbow gave me, that there was a company of men and women—over six hundred in number—who had broken off from the Wesleyan Methodists, and taken the name of United Brethren. They had forty-five preachers among them, and for religious services had chapels and many houses that were licensed according to the law of the land. This body of United Brethren were searching for light and truth. …
“I arose on the morning of the 5th, took breakfast, and told Mr. Benbow I would like to commence my Master’s business by preaching the gospel to the people. He had in his mansion a large hall which was licensed for preaching, and he sent word through the neighborhood that an American missionary would preach at his house that evening. As the neighbors came in … I preached my first gospel sermon in the house. The following evening [I] baptized six persons, including Mr. John Benbow, his wife, and four preachers of the United Brethren. I spent most of the following day in clearing out a pool of water and preparing it for baptizing … [and] afterwards baptized six hundred persons in that pool of water. …
“When I arose to speak [to a congregation of about a thousand] at Brother Benbow’s house, a man entered the door and informed me that he was a constable, and had been sent … with a warrant to arrest me … for preaching to the people. I told him that I had a license and that if he would take a chair I would wait upon him after meeting. He took my chair and sat beside me. For an hour and a quarter I preached the first principles of the everlasting gospel. The power of God rested upon me, the spirit filled the house, and the people were convinced. At the close of the meeting I opened the door for baptism, and seven offered themselves. Among the number were four preachers and the constable. …
“… The first thirty days after my arrival in Herefordshire, I had baptized forty-five preachers and one hundred and sixty members of the United Brethren, who put into my hands one chapel and forty-five houses, which were licensed according to law to preach in. This opened a wide field for labor, and enabled me to bring into the Church, through the blessings of God, over eighteen hundred souls, during eight months, including all of the six hundred United Brethren except one person. In this number there were also some two hundred preachers of various denominations.”—From the journals of Wilford Woodruff

Once, I fell off my bunk bed and hit my head very hard. I was scared because I couldn’t see. My daddy gave me a blessing. He said that I would be able to see very soon. When the ambulance men came, they shined a flashlight in my eyes. I looked around and I could see again! I didn’t feel afraid anymore. I am grateful for the priesthood in my home. I am glad that whenever I am scared or need help, my daddy is there to give me a blessing.

“What’s wrong?” Carol’s mother asked as they cleared away the dinner dishes. “Your birthday is just a week away and I thought you’d be happy and excited. It’s always been such fun to have your birthday in December. Your father and I named you Carol because having you for a daughter makes it seem like Christmas all year round.”
“I’ve always been excited before, but this year is different,” Carol answered.
Her mother looked puzzled. “What’s different about this year?”
“Well,” Carol began, “today at school Julie, Kay, and Krista decided to have a birthday party for me and they want it to be a caroling birthday party.”
“That sounds fun!” her mother exclaimed. “And I’ll make some hot chocolate for everyone. But why aren’t you happy about the party?”
“Mom, you don’t understand. You know I can’t sing. All that comes out when I try is a squeaky and embarrassing sound, especially when compared to the beautiful sounds Julie and Krista make when they sing. I love to hear them,” Carol explained.
“Everyone can sing,” declared her mother. “And I’ve always enjoyed listening to your singing.”
“That’s just because you’re my mother and so it doesn’t count,” Carol said. “You love me anyway, no matter how I sound.”
“Indeed I do,” Carol’s mother answered as she finished washing the last dish. “And I hope you won’t let the party plans spoil your birthday.”
For the next two days Carol thought about her problem. How could she go on a caroling party and not let everyone hear her squeaky voice?
She suggested that the party be changed to a sleigh ride, but the girls said they’d rather go caroling.
I wonder if I could learn to sing before the party, she thought, trying to be a better sport.
Every time she was alone she would practice “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful,” and “Joy to the World,” but the songs didn’t sound at all the way Julie or Krista sang them. Her voice squeaked and cracked and she couldn’t reach the high notes.
“Why does my birthday have to be in December?” she grumbled. “But the party’s for me so I have to go.”
John, her little brother, poked his head into her room and teased, “If I were you, I’d just mouth the words!” Then he laughed and hurried to shut the door before she could answer.
“Very funny,” Carol called after him and threw a pillow toward the closed door.
Sitting glumly on the edge of the bed, Carol suddenly beamed, “That’s just what I’ll do,” she said. “I’ll mouth the words. No one will even hear my squeaking.”
That night as she and her mother were doing the dishes, she confided. “I’ve figured out how to have fun at my party.”
“I’m glad,” her mother answered. “I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”
The night of the party, Carol bundled up in her warmest clothes and left with a big smile on her face.
“Happy birthday,” Julie and Krista greeted.
“We’ve never been caroling before. We can hardly wait,” several other girls said.
“We’re all here,” Kay shouted. “Let’s go.”
The group stopped first at Mrs. Caulder’s house where strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” floated onto the crisp night air. Carol moved her mouth with each word but didn’t make a sound.
This is great, Carol thought, as they walked on. I’m going to have a good birthday party after all.
“Do you have a cold or something?” Kay asked Carol. “You haven’t been singing.”
Carol was embarrassed. “I didn’t think anyone would notice.”
“What do you mean?” Kay persisted.
Carol tried to laugh. “I wasn’t singing because I can’t.”
“Neither can I,” Kay admitted.
“But you were singing!” Carol said.
“Sure! Anybody can sing Christmas carols. They’re so beautiful they make you forget everything else!”
“Not if you have a squeaky voice like mine!” Carol argued.
“Mine’s funny too. But I just think about the words,” Kay explained. “I could never sing a solo, but in a group like this it’s great.”
Think about the words, Carol reminded herself as the girls began singing “Silent Night” at the Langstons.
Carol listened carefully to Kay—“Round yon virgin mother and Child, Holy Infant, so tender and mild.”
Kay’s voice strained at the notes and squeaked almost as much as Carol’s, but the words came out loud and clear and full of meaning.
Carol joined in the third verse, but the squeaks and high notes were still there. She strained and tried harder, but nothing helped. She was sure Krista was staring at her out of the corner of her eye.
“I can’t do it,” Carol said to Kay as they walked on.
“You’re still worrying about the notes,” Kay said. “Think about the words instead.”
“I’ll try,” Carol promised.
The crisp winter air became colder as the girls moved on to the next house and started singing.
Carol took a deep breath and joined in, “Hark! the herald angels sing.” At first the words came softly and reluctantly, but as she thought about their meaning, Carol sang with enthusiasm. “With th’ angelic host proclaim Christ is born in Bethlehem!” Her heart suddenly took over and she felt as if she just had to let the whole world hear those beautiful words.
“Wow,” Krista whispered to Carol as they walked on. “You really sing with feeling. Everyone is sure to get the Christmas spirit when you’re around.”
“But I don’t have a beautiful voice like yours,” Carol protested.
“That doesn’t matter,” Krista said. “It’s the enthusiasm that counts.”
“That’s right,” Kay agreed, and winked at Carol.
“Let’s sing ‘Carol’s carol’ again,” Julie called as the group stopped before the next house. “That sounded great.”
Carol’s heart was filled with happiness as she thought of the meaning of the words and then sang out with the other girls, “Glory to the newborn King!”

I was young and inexperienced, so the impressions made by this unusual incident were especially deep. I was assigned as a missionary to a little-known island in the South Pacific in 1955. Coming from America, my first impressions were two—the natural beauty of these islands and the apparent poverty of the people.
Slowly I began to learn the native language, adjust to the native food, and fit into the unhurried pace of living. The heat seemed at times unbearable and the mosquitoes vicious, as though they preferred the taste of hinehina (white) blood.
As I became more acquainted with the islanders and their language, food, and customs, I became more fully aware of the real poverty (in relative terms) in which they lived. It seemed irreconcilable. Why should we have so much in America and they have so little here? I could not at that time perceive the great spiritual blessings they had.
One day gave way to another with little change in the village routine. It would rain fiercely and then the sun would shine just as intensely. The diet of fish and breadfruit was almost unchanged from day to day. The oneness and the unity of the sun and the sea, the lagoon, and the soft laughter of those beautiful brown-skinned people seemed to melt into a covering of quiet and peace.
Then one day excitement and change arrived! A strange boat was working its way into the harbor. Hurrah for something different! The whole island was soon down on the seashore looking at one of the most beautiful sailing yachts I have ever seen.
Quietly, as if in slow motion, a crewman threw an anchor into the waiting lagoon. It did not appear even to make a splash, as though to refrain from disturbing the beauty of the setting. It was nearly dusk. The light from the setting sun silhouetted that sleek shape, its sails furled against the backdrop of deep blue waters and emerald green islands. Golden shafts of color painted all around in unbelievably vivid hues, as though framing the whole picture for eternity.
Silently the crew rolled out deep red carpets on the freshly scrubbed deck, and then the master emerged in his crisp white “tropics” to survey the situation. By now there were canoes all around as curious islanders naturally wanted to be a part of this experience, this change.
My assignment was to a little flock of about 50 Church members, most of whom were caught up in the excitement. They soon brought back reports, and even though I was young and inexperienced, it did not take very long to realize what was happening.
The man was a millionaire from overseas, cruising the world. He wanted to trade for food and water, and he wanted girls. There was liquor on board and a real swinging time for those who would accept his invitation.
I counseled my little flock to stay away. Most did, but some did not. The wealthy adventurer stayed for a few days until he filled his wants. Then he announced he would leave before noon the following day. Some of the faithful members pleaded, “Could we not go out just before he leaves, just to see the boat?” I agreed that at 10:00 the next morning we would briefly look at the yacht.
When we got there, it was even more magnificent than I had pictured. Evidence of the previous night’s activities was still being cleared away, and preparations were being made to raise anchor and take sail. We spent a few moments in wonder and awe, astonished at the beauty of the deep mahogany paneling, the rich bronze fittings, the lustre of the freshly painted surfaces, and the gleaming white of the hull as it lapped quietly at the deep blue lagoon.
The owner, nearly sober, waved good-bye, and we returned to shore. As we pulled the dugout canoe onto the sandy beach, I turned again to see the white form move toward the horizon. I thought of the millionaire in his white “tropics,” having had his fill, comfortable with his well-stocked cupboards and expert crew, with his money and his power. He seemed to have everything he wanted.
Then I looked at the men who had brought me to shore: no shoes, shirts of rags, tattered valas tied with coconut sennit around their waists. I looked past them to the village. I saw the smoke from the morning’s cooking twisting lazily into the air, heard the monotonous sound of tapa being beaten, and felt the heaviness of the overhead sun as it filtered through the palm trees. I watched the men slowly walk to their gardens and heard the laughter of naked children as they chased the scrawny dogs.
Suddenly the oppressiveness of island life with so little opportunity for change struck me as being grossly unfair. I turned again to gaze at the yacht, now receding into the distance. The contrast was so great as to be almost unbelievable. My heart cried out, “Unfair! Unfair! These poor people—look at them—and you—look at you!”
I returned to the group, and we trudged up the shore to the village. Then one of the older men turned to me and said softly in his native tongue, “I am very sad. I feel very sorry.”
“Well,” I interrupted, “I am very sad, and I feel very sorry too. It just isn’t fair, is it?”
“No,” he continued, “it really isn’t fair. I feel so sorry for him, for he will never be happy.”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
“You, you feel sorry for him? He won’t be happy? What are you talking about?”
My mind was groping to come to a sense of reality of what was being said. This man with nothing saying he was sorry for that man with everything! My immature mind was spinning, trying to interpret words, feelings, and relationships.
But he continued: “I feel so sorry for him. He will never be happy for he seeks only for his own pleasure, not to help others. Yet we know that happiness comes from helping others. All he will do is sail around the world seeking happiness, hoping others will bring happiness to him. But they cannot. He will never find it for he has not learned to help others. He has too much money, too many luxuries. Oh, I feel so sorry for him.”
I looked at the wrinkled brown body of the old man. His teeth were gone, his hair was white, and his skin was leather; but his eyes were soft, his voice quiet, and his countenance immaculate.
I can never forget his powerful words: “I feel sorry for him. He will never be happy. He hasn’t learned to help others.”
Years have passed, but occasionally, as I see proud people closed up in their sleek new cars or sense my own temporary unwillingness to help others, I close my eyes and see a beautiful yacht moving toward the horizon and turn and see an old man with a wrinkled brown body, white hair, and skin of leather and listen as his soft eyes penetrate mine and his toothless mouth moves and his spirit explains: “I feel very sorry. He will never be happy. He hasn’t learned to help others.”

A short time ago I attended the funeral of a friend’s son. Earlier in the week, the young man was traveling home late at night with friends when the driver of another car fell asleep. The second car crossed the median and smashed head-on into the first. The accident occurred with such swiftness that few, if any, brake marks showed on the highway and both cars were demolished. The accident took three lives, including my friend’s 17-year-old son.
Death teaches that we do not experience a fulness of joy in mortality and that everlasting joy can be achieved only with the assistance of the Master (see D&C 33–34). Just as the lame man at the Pool of Bethesda needed someone stronger than himself to be healed (see John 5:1–9), so we are dependent on the miracles of Christ’s atonement if our souls are to be made whole from grief, sorrow, and sin. If grieving parents and loved ones have faith in the Savior and his plan, death’s sting is softened as Jesus bears the believers’ grief and comforts them through the Holy Spirit. Through Christ, broken hearts are mended and peace replaces anxiety and sorrow. I received a letter from the boy’s parents telling me the peace they have found through their faith in Christ. They know that they will see their son again and be with him in the eternities.

When I was in grade school or Jr. High I had a Snoopy poster in my bedroom that depicted Snoopy and Woodstock beating on drums. Snoopy was in the lead and the caption read, "I march to the beat of a different drummer". That phrase seemed a rather accurate depiction of how I felt as a young adolescent. I struggled, like many do at that age. I grew up in Helena, Montana and while there was a good sized group of strong LDS youth, I struggled to fit the mold. Or perhaps, I fought against fitting the mold. This led me to act out in ways that was quickly noticed by my dear parents.
My father approached his concerns to me through a handwritten letter. I honestly don't recall much of the letter now except for one specific piece of counsel that has dwelled in my heart and mind ever since. My dad wrote, "Sara, don't ever let the beat of the drums drown out the still small voice of the Holy Ghost." As you know, the voice of the Lord is not in the thunder, or in lighting, or in any spectacular display, it comes as it did to Elijah, in a "still small voice."[20][21] My father could see what I could not see, likely because I lost my moxie. I lost my capacity to believe in myself and above all, I lost sight of my potential.

Paddy loved to collect string. Whenever he found even a short piece, he rolled it onto his ball of string. This ball was as big as an orange, and each day it grew bigger and bigger.
One Saturday morning Paddy found a long piece of red string. He sat down on the front steps to wind it onto his ball. But just as he picked it up, he heard his mother calling him.
“I’ll leave my string here on the step,” he said to himself. “Then I’ll come right back and finish.”
Paddy ran into the house and found his mother in the kitchen.
“Paddy,” she said, “would you please take out the garbage for me.”
Quickly Paddy picked up the paper sack of garbage, ran out the back door, and tossed the sack into the garbage can.
He was gone only a few moments, but when he went back to the front steps, the new piece of red string was gone.
Paddy looked all over the porch. The big ball of string was right where he had left it, but he couldn’t find the new red piece of string anywhere. He looked up and down the sidewalk. He looked all around the steps.
“Mike,” Paddy asked when his best friend walked by, “did you see a piece of red string anywhere?”
“No,” Mike said. “I haven’t seen any red string. I’d help you look for it, but I’m on my way to the store for my grandma.”
Tabby the cat was lying nearby under a rosebush. Paddy walked over and looked under the cat and all around the bush. But there was no red string there either!
“Well, I guess someone must have taken it,” Paddy decided sadly.
A few days later Paddy’s father asked, “Did I hear you say something about a missing red string?”
“Oh, yes!” Paddy replied. “Did you find it?”
“I think so,” his father said. “Come with me.”
They went out in the backyard together, and Father put a ladder up to the top of the willow tree.
“Climb up the ladder,” he said, “and look around to see if you can find your string.”
Paddy climbed up the ladder. When he reached the top, he saw his red string! It was making a beautiful lining for a robin’s nest.
As Paddy climbed down the ladder, his father said, “If you still want your string, you better take it now before the robin lays her eggs.”
“Oh, no!” Paddy cried. “I wouldn’t want to spoil Mrs. Robin’s nest. She needs the string more than I do.”
His father smiled. “Good!” he said. “I was hoping you’d feel that way.”
While his father was putting the ladder away, Paddy thought about his ball of string. It’s fun to find pieces of string and watch my ball get bigger all the time, he decided, but it’s even more fun to share with someone who needs it.

Only a week had passed since Heather’s baptism, and she felt miserable. She could still remember the fresh, clean feeling that had warmed her as her father helped her back up the steps of the baptismal font. I want to feel this good forever, she had thought at the time. Now she wondered if that happiness would ever return.
Earlier today, with her best friend, Susan, running after her, Heather had raced up the three front steps, into the house, and straight to the family room. Even snacks couldn’t have pulled them away from their plans for the afternoon. Dad had brought home a new space video game the night before, and Heather had been anxious to show Susan how she’d mastered it already. As they had burst into the family room, Heather’s redheaded brother, Sean, was sprawled sideways in a chair, watching TV. He’d just finished gluing together a model airplane, which now rested on the small table in front of him.
“Susan and I want to play the video game now,” Heather had announced. “Will you please turn the TV off?”
“Just let me finish watching this program,” Sean had answered.
“But we can’t,” Heather had wailed. “Susan has to be home in just a few minutes.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I was here first,” Sean had said testily, “and I want to see the end of this show.”
Stiffening, Heather had said, “You always get here first; it’s not fair!” She had headed for the TV to turn it off. But before she’d gotten there, she had seen the newly completed model airplane. And before she’d thought twice about it, Heather had snatched the plane and thrown it to the floor. Bits of broken wood had flown in every direction. She hadn’t waited for Sean’s response but had grabbed Susan’s hand and said, “C’mon, let’s go.”
Now shame clutched at Heather. She longed to tell Sean that she was sorry that she had destroyed his model airplane. Apologizing wouldn’t restore it, though.
Heather couldn’t even manage her welcome smile and hug for Dad when he strolled in the front door from the office. The most she could muster was a quiet “Hi.”
Dad gave her a squeeze anyway and asked, “What’s wrong with my girl?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” he asked.
Before any words could struggle out, tears spilled from Heather’s eyes. Her sobs changed to sniffles as she told the whole story. It surprised her that telling Dad helped ease some of the misery.
Dad listened until she finished. “Well,” he said calmly, “you must feel ashamed.”
Heather looked down at her knees and nodded.
“I’m disappointed in the way you’ve acted,” Dad went on, “but your feelings of shame are an important part of repentance. We can never really repent until we are sorry for what we’ve done. I can see that you really are sorry about the way that you acted. Now, what do you think you should do next?”
“I guess first I should tell Sean that I’m sorry,” Heather answered.
“I think that that is good idea. There is someone else whom you need to apologize to as well, Heather. Do you know who He is?”
“Heavenly Father. And I’ve already done that, Dad. I prayed just a little while ago and asked Him to forgive me.”
“That’s good,” Dad said. “I can see that you know a lot about repentance already. Now there’s one more important thing that you need to do.” He explained to her that she needed to make restitution by replacing Sean’s model airplane.
After apologizing to Sean, Heather went to check the contents of her bank. Three one-dollar bills were rolled and stuffed into the plastic money jar. Dad had said that it would probably cost at least five dollars to buy a new model kit, and just to make sure that she would have enough, Heather planned to earn at least three more dollars.
The next week was a busy one for Heather. She tended her younger brother whenever Mom needed her to. Mom also paid her to clean out some kitchen drawers and cupboards and to sweep the garage. Her neighbor, Mrs. Briggs, was glad to have Heather walk her dog during the week, which added to her earnings. She helped Dad, too, by raking the lawn and weeding the flower bed.
After supper on Friday she eagerly counted her money, “One, two, three, four, five, six.” She fingered the wrinkled bills carefully before returning them to the plastic jar. “… twenty, thirty, thirty-five—six dollars and thirty-five cents!” she cried triumphantly, pushing the last nickel back into the bank. With the bank held tightly in her hand, Heather ran to find her dad. He had promised to take her to buy the new airplane kit as soon as she was ready.
When they returned from the store, Heather could hardly wait to find Sean. She pulled a sack from behind her back and held it out to him. Slowly he took it from her and asked, “What’s this?”
“Just open it. You’ll see,” Heather replied.
Sean pulled the new model kit from the sack. As he reached in and pulled out a candy bar, too, Heather glowed with almost the same sensation she’d had when she’d been baptized. She felt almost like a balloon ready to pop as she watched the smile on Sean’s face widen into a grin.
“Thanks,” he said. “Want to help me make it?”

It was 1973. Struggling with some challenges, I deeply desired to know God, so I decided to read the Bible. One day I read about Solomon’s temple in 2 Chronicles 2–5, and I felt that such a holy place could be on the earth. So I fasted and prayed that I might be guided by the Holy Ghost to find it. I felt that if I found a temple, I would be able to tell one of the Lord’s servants about my problems, and he would help me solve them.
So I set out to find a temple. At the time I lived in Fontenay-sous-Bois, a suburb of Paris, so I started driving toward the city to find a temple. I saw many buildings, including churches and synagogues, but I did not find a temple. Upon returning home, I prayed and wondered why I couldn’t find a temple. Wasn’t I pure enough? Or was I simply unprepared?
I forgot all about my failed search until sister missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to my home in February 1980. They taught me that the closest temple was in Zollikofen, Switzerland—the Bern Switzerland Temple.
I was baptized on April 12, 1980, and I went to the temple for the first time just over a year later, on May 5, 1981. There I was able to do the temple work for several women in my family, including my grandmothers, aunts, and cousins.
Of these women, the only one I had known was my cousin Olga.
Olga, who was from Italy, married at a very young age, but sadly, her husband was violent and unfaithful to her. With the help of her father and her brother, Olga decided to escape when she was expecting her fifth child.
She went to live with her parents and brother. After the birth of her child, Olga passed away. Olga’s parents never recovered from the shock of her sudden death.
While I was performing the ordinances for Olga in the temple, one word kept coming to my mind: mission. But I was puzzled—I was busy raising three children by myself, and I couldn’t possibly go on a mission.
The answer came several months later. One day my cousin Renzo told me that Olga’s mother, my aunt Anita, had passed away. Suddenly I recalled that I had completed the temple work for Olga on a Tuesday, and her mother had passed away the following Friday. With great emotion, I felt impressed that Olga had been eager to receive her temple ordinances so she could welcome and teach her mother in the spirit world. Perhaps that was Olga’s mission.
But I had a mission to help my own parents as well. I had tried to talk to them about the Church on several occasions, but they hadn’t been interested. So after my mother and father died, I did the temple work for them as soon as I could.
When my parents were sealed, my heart was pounding, and my eyes filled with tears of love. I was then sealed to my parents. I could not stop thinking about my mother, and I wanted to embrace the sister who had been proxy for her. I thanked her for representing my mother. The sister too had tears in her eyes, and she thanked me for the experience. Even though I didn’t know her, we felt like members of the same family.
My parents were then sealed to their parents, and Olga, whom I represented in the ordinance, was sealed to her parents, my uncle Marino and aunt Anita.
Every time I recall those experiences, I am overcome with emotion. I think about Olga, and I hope she is fulfilling her mission on the other side of the veil. Because of temple ordinances, I am no longer the only member of the Church in my family. I believe that my parents accepted the ordinances performed for them. I am filled with joy and thank the Lord for making it possible for me to establish an eternal family through the blessings of His holy temple.

Get tough with yourself. President Spencer W. Kimball gave us a powerful example in a talk to the youth of Stockholm, Sweden. Describing his own boyhood, he said:

“As I was out alone, milking the cows, or putting up the hay, I had time to think. I mulled it over in my mind and made this decision: ‘I, Spencer Kimball, will never taste any form of liquor. I, Spencer Kimball, will never touch tobacco. I will never drink coffee, nor will I ever touch tea—not because I can explain why I shouldn’t, except that the Lord said not to.’ He said those things were an abomination. There are many other things that are, too, that are not in the Word of Wisdom. But I made up my mind.

“That’s the point I am trying to make. I made up my mind then, as a little boy: ‘I will never touch those things.’ And so, having made up my mind, it was easy to follow it, and I did not yield. There were many temptations that came along, but I did not even analyze it; I did not stop and measure it and say, ‘Well, shall I or shall I not?’ I always said to myself: ‘But I made up my mind I would not. Therefore, I do not.’

“I’m a little older than any of you here tonight, and I want to just say that I will soon go into another year and that I have never tasted tea, nor coffee, nor tobacco, nor liquor of any kind, nor drugs. Now that may sound very presumptuous and boasting to you, but I am only trying to make this point: that if every boy and girl—as he or she begins to grow a little more mature and becomes a little more independent of his friends and his family and all—if every boy and girl would make up his or her mind, ‘I will not yield,’ then no matter what the temptation is: ‘I made up my mind. That’s settled.’” (In Conference Report, Stockholm Sweden Area Conference, 1975, pp. 86–87.)

Other critics offered a different line of attack; namely, that Joseph Smith plagiarized the Book of Mormon (at least its historical content) from other existing books. One such theory alleged that Joseph Smith copied from the Solomon Spaulding manuscript—an unpublished manuscript written about 1812 by a man named Solomon Spaulding, who had once been a Protestant minister. It is a fictional account of ancient Romans who were sailing for England but were blown off course and landed in North America. When the critics were asked to produce the manuscript for comparison with the Book of Mormon, they conveniently claimed it was lost.12

However, with the passage of time, the manuscript was found in 1884 by a Mr. L. L. Rice. He found the alleged smoking gun in the personal historical papers of one of the very critics who had claimed the manuscript was lost. Knowing of its alleged connection to the Book of Mormon, Mr. Rice, Mr. James Fairchild, and others (none of whom were members of the LDS Church), reviewed it and concluded, “[We] compared it with the Book of Mormon and could detect no resemblance between the two, in general or in detail.13

Now, I would like to conclude by recounting a more tender experience of Joseph Smith’s ability to forgive and to befriend others.

It involves William W. Phelps, who joined the Church in Kirtland and became a faithful and loyal member. With the passage of time, however, and as the result of improprieties and pride, Brother Phelps fell away from the Church. He eventually became bitter and hostile toward Joseph Smith. The timing of his hostile feelings was unfortunate as it occurred at the point Joseph Smith was taken prisoner in Far West, Missouri, during the incredibly turbulent period of persecutions that took place there in 1838 and 1839.

Sadly, Brother Phelps fell to a lower point yet. He joined other disaffected members in giving false witness against Joseph Smith in the contrived court trials that eventually resulted in the Prophet and other leaders being unjustly sent to Liberty Jail. What possibly could have been the feelings of Joseph Smith in realizing that Brother Phelps, along with others who had once been his trusted friends, had so totally and so unjustly turned against him?

That becomes the backdrop against which we now consider two letters. The first was sent to Joseph Smith approximately two years after he had been freed to join with the Saints in Illinois. It was sent by William W. Phelps who was now feeling the magnitude and seriousness of what he had done. In his letter he willingly confessed his sins and fervently begged for forgiveness from Joseph Smith and the others that he had so deeply offended. Joseph Smith did not hesitate to write his reply. His letter to William W. Phelps will stand for generations to come as a pattern of how we should freely and fully forgive others. His response, in part reads as follows:

Dear Brother Phelps: …
You may in some measure realize what my feelings, as well as Elder Rigdon’s and Brother Hyrum’s were, when we read your letter—truly our hearts were melted into tenderness and compassion when we ascertained your resolves. …
It is true, that we have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough for mortals to drink, was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us. …
However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done, and we are yet alive, for which we thank the Lord. And having been delivered from the hands of wicked men by the mercy of our God, we say it is your privilege to be delivered from the powers of the adversary, be brought into the liberty of God’s dear children, and again take your stand among the Saints of the Most High, and by diligence, humility, and love unfeigned, commend yourself to our God, and your God, and to the Church of Jesus Christ.
Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal. …
“Come on, dear brother, since the war is past,
For friends at first, are friends again at last.”

Now brothers and sisters, please join with me in attempting to imagine three things. First, imagine how difficult it must have been for Joseph Smith to have so readily forgiven Brother Phelps. Second, and harder yet, imagine how inconceivable it would have been for Joseph Smith to have chosen not to have forgiven Brother Phelps. How the heavens must have rejoiced as he penned his letter of forgiveness. And last, try to imagine what might have become of William W. Phelps if Joseph Smith had declined to extend forgiveness. Many of you would not know what subsequently became of William W. Phelps and how Joseph Smith’s letter freed him from his burden and allowed him to return to serving the Church. As he returned, he did so with a fervency and with faithfulness that few can equal. It became his privilege and blessing to speak at Joseph Smith’s funeral service. Eventually, using the skills that in earlier years had allowed him to write the words to such beloved hymns as “The Spirit of God Like a Fire Is Burning” and “O’ God the Eternal Father,” he composed the words to “Praise To The Man.”

My mom taught us to question whether is it kind, necessary, or true before we say something. That has cut back on a lot of teasing that hurts. And if we still say it, our mom will make us sing the song “Kindness Begins With Me” (Children’s Songbook, 145). After singing that song about a half a dozen times, we got tired of singing and just quit saying those hurtful things.
Rebeka M., 16, Missouri, USA