Gospel Story Finder

I conclude by reading from a letter I received from a convert to the Church who, after the required waiting period, took his family to the holy temple of God for a sealing ordinance. He wrote:
“We love this church and we love the Lord and our Heavenly Father. We were on the verge of a total family failure when some of our LDS friends here began to work with us.
“Even now as I sit here and think back to Saturday, I have to be amazed at the way the Church has changed our lives, from almost total family loss to an eternal family! …
“Nothing can compare to seeing my wife and child dressed in white, with a radiant glow around them, and feeling the very Spirit of God whisper in my ear, ‘John, they’re yours for all time and all eternity.’”

When I hugged Ashley good-bye a day before graduation, I thought I would see her again before she set off on a yearlong journey across the nation to help children. But less than a month after graduation, Ashley died in a car accident.
At 17, I’d never experienced the loss of a loved one, and I didn’t know how to handle this tragedy. I had never met Ashley’s family, so I didn’t feel that I could share my grief with them. My other friends hadn’t been as close to her as I had.
So I mourned alone in my room at night, with tears trickling into my ears as I lay on my bed. “Okay,” I thought, “this is natural. I’ll have my cry and then go to sleep.” But to my surprise, the pain didn’t end. I was frightened to feel a great hole growing inside of me, and it felt bottomless.
In desperation, I pulled out my scriptures and read blindly until a measure of calm stopped the aching, and I slept. But the sadness continued. For about a week it was hard to sleep, and the tears kept falling.
I started to get angry. I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I knew that death was not the end and that Ashley was in a better and happier place. I was aware that I would see her again. I didn’t understand why I was having such a hard time getting over her death while knowing these things were true. I’d always heard that members of the Church weren’t as sad at funerals because they know about our life after death, and I felt ashamed of my sorrow.
As time passed, so did the ache, but occasionally something would remind me of my friend, and I would have a hard time controlling my emotions.
It’s now been over three years since Ashley’s death, and I’ve finally come to a better understanding of my grief. Jesus Christ blesses those who mourn and commands us to “live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die” (D&C 42:45).
My tears for the loss of my friend were not wrong. These tears did not indicate a lack of faith in God’s plan. Comfort can reach us. It will sit beside the grief, and while not replacing sorrow, will at least keep it from overpowering one’s heart entirely.
I still think of Ashley occasionally. I picture her in her favorite striped sweater and with the hundreds of friends she had from all areas of the high school. Many times I have thanked my Heavenly Father for not answering my prayer that first day of choir class to be seated by someone I knew. If He had, I never would have experienced the joy of knowing such an inspiring person before she left this earth.

Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a small truck with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he expressed the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor told this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he left the room he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was filled with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.

One Saturday afternoon I decided to study the Sunday School lesson for the next day’s class. It was on miracles. “If ever we needed a miracle, it is now,” I thought. My mother was a widow, and our family was going through a difficult time financially.
Ever since my sisters and I were little girls, we had devoted ourselves to the art of horsehair weaving. We would wash the horsehair, color it with dyes, and then weave it hair by hair into shapes such as butterflies, mice, and copihues (the national flower of Chile). It is very fine work and unique to our country. All winter long we would weave, and in the summer we would sell our work at art fairs.
The national economy was depressed that year and greatly affected our business. In the past a major source of our income had been an art fair in Temuco, a tourist town in southern Chile. But that year we had not been invited. We had even called the fair’s organizers, but they refused to give us a booth. We worried about how this loss of income would affect us.
But as I studied the Sunday School lesson that afternoon, my attitude changed completely. First I read Mormon 9:19: “[God] ceaseth not to be God, and is a God of miracles.” This promise lifted my spirits. Then as I read verse 21, I felt even better: “I say unto you that whoso believeth in Christ, doubting nothing, whatsoever he shall ask the Father in the name of Christ it shall be granted him.”
I thought about the miracle my family needed, and I decided to travel the four hours to Temuco to plead our case.
When I arrived at the office of culture, I was discouraged to see many other people there to make the same request and to learn that all these people had been told no. Still I felt the Lord was with me.
When my turn came to speak to the man in charge, he bluntly told me there was only a remote possibility we could have a booth but that a final decision could not be made yet. I explained that a booth would mean bread for my mother during the winter months, but I felt as if I were talking to a wall. Then without thinking, I told him I believed in miracles and left his office.
I called my husband and asked him to fast with me. My mind constantly reverted to the words of the Sunday School lesson: “[God] is a God of miracles.” I needed a miracle—now.
I waited for six hours at the office of culture, feeling greater anguish with each passing minute. Finally I saw craftspeople arriving from every corner of Chile and also from other countries. The fair was starting. With a lump in my throat, I prayed, “Thy will be done.” Suddenly a feeling of peace overcame me, and I decided to talk one more time to the man in charge.
When I entered his office, I could see his attitude had changed. He courteously told me I could have a booth. Once again I told him I believed in miracles.
We made the money we needed at the fair, and I learned for myself that God continues to work miracles today. My faith grows each day because of all He gives me.

Many times, teachers and friends told Spencer that he would not get very far drawing, but he knew that his talent was a gift from God and that he should not hide it. He continued drawing with the support of his family. Spencer said, “When I draw, I really like listening to music. I am a rock fan and a donut fan too. My favorite superhero is Spiderman, and when I saw him on television, I wanted to draw him. That’s how I began to develop my talent.”

Mikako Akiyama, 18, and Satomi Miyashita, 17, both from the Kawasaki Ward, were eager to talk about the baptisms for the dead they had participated in that same morning.
“This is the first visit to the temple for me,” said Satomi. “I had to have an interview with the bishop and get a recommend. But what a wonderful thing to come early in the morning to a beautiful white building and be baptized to help others.”
“I think it is a wonderful thing for our ancestors to have the opportunity to be happily united in heaven,” Mikako added. “If I had not had the opportunity to accept the gospel in this life, I would want someone to be baptized for me. I wanted very much to come this morning. It has made me think of my own baptism over over again.”

Meghan flopped down in the big chair and put her scriptures on the table in front of her. Five-year-old Tommy came and stood next to Meghan’s chair. Then he picked up her scriptures.
“Meg, tell me a story,” he begged.
“I will later, Tommy,” she said.
“I want to hear about Abinadi.”
“OK, Tommy, I will tell you the story about Abinadi after dinner.”
Tommy looked disappointed about having to wait. The doorbell rang, and Dad went to answer it.
“It’s for you, Meghan,” Dad said.
She loved how Dad always called her Meghan, never Meg. It made her feel grown up. She stood up and walked to the door. Her best friend, Sara, was there, smiling.
“Hi, Sara. Come in,” Meghan said.
“I can’t, Meg. My dad has free tickets to the amusement park! Can you come?” Sara was bursting with excitement.
“I don’t know,” Meghan said. “It’s Sunday.”
“So what? These are free tickets. Come on, you have to go,” Sara begged. “You’re my best friend!”
“Well, I have to ask my parents.”
“Hurry up and ask, then change your clothes. You can’t go in a skirt,” Sara said impatiently. “My dad wants to leave in 15 minutes. I’ll wait for you in the car.”
Meghan nearly ran into the kitchen. Dad was setting the table for dinner.
“Sara’s dad has free tickets to the amusement park, and she asked me to go with her!” she said.
“That sounds like fun,” Dad said. “When is the big day?”
Meghan hesitated. “Well, the tickets are for today.”
“Meghan, you know what Mom and I think about those kinds of activities on Sunday,” Dad said. “But I think you are old enough to make your own decisions. After all, you are 10 now.”
Meghan looked at her father. He looked serious.
“You mean it, Dad?” she asked.
“Sure, I mean it. What do you think you should do, Meghan?” he said.
“Well, I know we should keep the Sabbath day holy and all that, but these are free tickets and you know how much it costs to go to the amusement park. I will be saving a lot of allowance money if I go with Sara.”
“That is true,” Dad said. “You would save money.”
“Is it OK if I go?”
“You can make your own decision, Meghan,” Dad said.
“Yahoo!” Meghan yelled. She ran to her bedroom and began to pull out clothes to wear. Then she looked up and saw Tommy standing in the doorway. He was holding her scriptures.
“Are you going with Sara?” Tommy asked.
Suddenly Meghan got a funny feeling inside. She knew what she needed to do. She smiled at Tommy and then she dropped the shirt back into her drawer.
“No, Tommy, it’s Sunday. I have to go tell Sara I can’t go with her today. Then I will be back to read you that story.”
Tommy grinned. “The one about Abinadi?” he asked.
“Yes, the story about Abinadi.” Meghan smiled at her younger brother and hurried outside to tell Sara.

I was 15 years old, and that summer I wished I could stay 15 forever. I had two close girl friends, I was old enough to earn babysitting money so I could buy pizza and ice cream, and I could do the 600-yard run faster than anyone else in the school. What more could a girl ask for?
That last day of school I had worn my favorite broken-in jeans and had walked around proudly with my award for the 600-yard run tucked under my arm with my yearbook.
"Hey, Morgan!" I called when I saw Eric Morgan in the middle of a bunch of girls as usual. "Sign my yearbook!" I elbowed through the crowd.
"Hey, creep!" he said, with his usual punch to my arm. "You’ll have to wait in line," referring to his group of female followers.
"Aw, I’ll catch you later." Eric was the "boy next door" in my life. I’d known him just about forever, I guess.
Oh, it was a great feeling leaving the school that day. Everything was shiny and warm. I rarely wore shoes in the summer when I was outside, and the grass was warm and tickley under my feet. I felt free. I was ready for anything. Or so I thought.
Later that afternoon I ran out the front door of my house, jumped off the porch, yearbook in hand, on my way next door to Eric’s house. But I stopped in the middle of my yard, hair blowing in my face, bare feet suddenly immobile. Eric was sitting on his porch. Beside him sat a girl. I mean, not a girl like me, but a girl with long, rippling hair, shorts, and long smooth legs. They seemed to be engaged in something very confidential. And for the first time in my life, I felt that I did not belong.
I finally dragged my feet back to my front door. Who was that? I hadn’t seen her around. And where did she get that tan?
"Mary Jane!" I jumped at my mother’s voice. She carried a basket full of dirty clothes under one arm and my wriggly baby brother under the other.
"I need your help," she said.
Ugh. She always needs my help.
"Don’t pull a face. Go clean that room of yours."
"Oh, mom! Please! Have you seen that room?"
"Of course. That’s why I’m telling you to clean it."
"But, mom!"
"No buts. Just go."
No buts, no buts. Mothers can say things like that. I could see me saying that to her! I don’t think my mother was ever a teenager.
Friday night Jill and I slept over at Barbara’s house. We brought our yearbooks so we could all compare the fantastically dull things that perfectly intelligent people had written. "See you next year!" "Have fun this summer." "Algebra was fun."
Unbelievable.
I had at least tried to write things I really meant to people. Like, "Hey, funny face! Call me this summer and we can go water skiing together." Or "Hey, biology was a drag, but you’re the funnest person I know to dissect cats with."
"Listen to this!" Barbara said. "I love your foxy hair and captivating voice. Maybe I’ll come over this summer and swim in your swimming pool. Can’t wait to see you!" Barbara burst into giggles.
"Good grief!" I said. "Who wrote that?"
"Eric Morgan!"
Eric! I was stunned. And I saw a long-legged girl with rippling hair, and I saw Barbara with fantastic, shiny brown hair, and I saw Eric, and I saw me, and I saw something happening that I couldn’t understand. Yet Barbara and Jill sat munching potato chips and laughing as if nothing were happening at all.
"Eric is crazy," Jill laughed. "Look what he said to me."
She thumbed furiously through blue and white autographed pages, a grin crinkling her freckles, while Barbara’s eyes sparkled in anticipation.
I felt like I was sitting back in an easy chair watching a movie. I could see it, but I was not part of it. And the producer had done some awfully tricky things, and it didn’t seem fair.
"Here it is," Jill said. "I love your cute little nose and the way it wrinkles up your face when you laugh. And those dimples! I’ll see you this summer for sure!"
I sat cross-legged, hugging my yearbook up close against me. Barbara and Jill were very far away, their laughter distant. And they didn’t even realize that I was gone. They sat there in their lacy nighties, laughing like crazy. I, in my cut-offs and football T-shirt, crawled into my sleeping bag and slept.
Of course, Saturday morning Barbara and Jill had to rib me all through pancakes and bacon about being the first one to fall asleep. It was the usual thing, so I just ribbed them back, but they were strangers. I didn’t know them anymore.
I helped mom clean the house like we always did on Saturdays, but it wasn’t as painful as usual because my mind was somewhere else. I had plans for that afternoon. I was going to wash my hair and put some of that lemon creme rinse on it. Then, instead of just blowing it dry, I might try to do something with the curling iron mom had given me last Christmas. If it turned out okay, I’d go over to Eric’s. He still hadn’t signed my yearbook.
When I was ready, I went slowly around the bushes in the front yard to make sure that there wasn’t a girl on the porch with him. There wasn’t. He was washing his dad’s car in the driveway with a bucket of sudsy water and the hose. I took a breath, felt my hair to make sure it was still behaving, and strolled across his front yard.
"Eric," I said in his ear.
"Aaa," he yelped, jumping forward, drenching himself with the hose.
"Hey, you shouldn’t sneak up on a guy like that!"
I didn’t know what to say, but I felt my hair again, and it still felt good. I stood there waiting for something, I wasn’t sure what. Neither was he.
"Well?" he said.
"Oh." I cleared my throat. "Um … I wanted you to sign my yearbook."
"Oh, okay." He dropped the hose on the ground. "I’ll go get mine," he said, running to the front door. He was back in a moment. I sat on the shaded porch. I could feel the cool cement through my shorts. I stretched my legs out leisurely before me.
"Good grief," Eric exclaimed. "What happened to your legs?"
I looked at my stubby white legs, covered with nicks and scrapes, with a couple of bandaids hiding the two worst spots.
"Just forget it," I said.
Eric began to hoot and howl with laughter. I stood up and stalked across his front lawn.
"Hey, come back here." He swaggered after me. I briefly looked at him but kept walking. "Hey, come on," he said. He grabbed my arm.
"Don’t touch me, Eric Morgan!"
"Hey, I was just teasing. Come on, you don’t really look all that bad." I stood firm. "Come on, Mary Jane," he said softly. And something happened to me. A tingling in my arms and legs. A light-headedness. A temporary paralysis. Then I looked at him, and I couldn’t keep the smile from my lips.
"Okay?" he said gently. "Come on." I had to give in. I walked back to the porch. I had spent the whole day figuring out what I would write in Eric’s yearbook. I had repeated the words over and over again to myself at least a hundred times.
"Dear Eric," I began. "You know you’re not just the boy next door anymore. You’ve been a part of my life for almost 16 years." I hesitated before writing the last sentence. Between making beds and vacuuming and scrubbing floors, I hadn’t decided whether I was brave enough or not. What if he laughed? I looked at him. He was still busy writing in my book. His thick black hair was a little mussed up, windblown. His cheeks were sunburned. Just think, I told myself, I probably know more things about him than any other girl. Or anyone at all in fact. We spent our childhoods together. I kept his secrets; he kept mine. I’ve seen him cry. Other girls look at him and see a big husky guy. I look at him and see a vulnerable little boy.
He signed his name with a flourish. Looking up at me he caught me staring. For just a moment our eyes met in silence.
"Well," he said, "you done?"
My eyes lingered just an infinitesimal second longer. "No," I answered and scribbled, "Just remember, Eric, that you’re a boy and I’m a girl and that can lead somewhere." Blushing so hard I could feel it, I quickly signed my name and shoved his book into his hand, taking mine from him.
I hopped off the porch and thumbed through my yearbook as I walked. I couldn’t wait to see what he’d said to me. Wow, all those fantastic things he’d said to Barbara and Jill, and he’s known me longer than he’s known them. I finally found the page and I stood still to read it. "Hey, creep!" it said. "You’re not a bad kid. We’ll have to have some more of those great water fights this summer. See you around, Eric." That was it. All of it. Oh no, I thought as I felt the pressure building in my nose, in my eyes. I thought, I’m going to cry; I’m going to stand right here in his yard and cry. Yet I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run to the safety of my front door, to the privacy of my bedroom.
Suddenly an ice cold avalanche hit the back of my head and cascaded over my shoulders, freezing my back and my legs all at once. My breath seemed sucked into my stomach and held there. I screamed, tossing my yearbook aside, and charged at Eric and the water hose, 45 minutes worth of messing around with the curling iron down the drain. This was the last straw.
"Eric Morgan, you awful …" my words became lost in a torrent of hurt and anger. All I could see was cold, spraying water and a laughing sunburnt face. I screamed, I pushed, I knocked him down. "Hey!" he yelled. "Cut it out! What are you?" he panted. "Crazy?"
It suddenly occurred to me that I must be. I grabbed my yearbook and ran.
"Mary Jane!" Mom yelled as I ran through the kitchen. "Look what you’re doing. You’re getting water all over! I just did this floor. Do you hear me?"
"Leave me alone, mom!"
"What did you say?"
"I said leave me alone!" I slammed my bedroom door. I didn’t come out for the rest of the day. Even when mom knocked on the door and said we were having pizza for supper.
"What’s wrong, dear?" she kept asking. I just wanted to scream at her. She wouldn’t understand. She had never been a teenager.
I spent the next few weeks pretty quietly. Pretty alone. I sat in my backyard a lot and listened to my stereo; I mowed the lawn sometimes and drank lemonade. Jill and Barbara called me a lot at first. They asked me to go horseback riding or water skiing. But I usually said no, and after a while they quit asking me. Mom still kept asking me "What’s wrong?" and dad kept trying to tickle me and tease me or challenge me to a game of chess. Mom would ask me if I was sick, and I would say I didn’t know, because I didn’t.
July was my birthday. But not till the end of July. I told myself at the beginning of July that I had a whole month to get used to the idea of being 16.
July was also the Young Artists’ Festival. That’s a program that my stake had been holding annually for some time. It wasn’t really a competition, or wasn’t supposed to be, but each entry was graded on a scale from one to ten, with one being the best you could get. It was an opportunity to "do your thing" in front of an audience and get some recognition for it.
Two years ago Barbara and Jill and I had asked another girl, Sandy, to enter the quartet division with us. We practiced hard and had a lot of fun. We even made costumes. We couldn’t believe that we were only given a rating of four. After all that practice! The next year we had taken a realistic look at it and had just about found the nerve to ask Jill not to sing with us, when she dropped out on her own. She wasn’t dumb. We asked a girl named Lori to take her place. That year we earned a two.
So when Brother Wood, who had been in charge of the festival for years, called up to ask if we’d be performing this year, well, it was the first thing since the day of "The Great Water Fight" that gave me a good reason to get up each morning. If there was one thing that I wasn’t confused about that summer, it was my love of singing. I’d been born with it, I guess.
So I quit sitting around, and we started having practices two or three times a week, with Jill watching to tell us what to do differently, or what to do more of. Another girl, Karen, played the piano for us.
It was after one of these practices that Barbara invited us all over to swim in her pool.
"Mary Jane," she said, "you haven’t been in my pool once this summer."
"I know," I said uncomfortably. "I’ve … been busy."
"Well, you’ll come today, won’t you?"
"Sure," I shrugged. After all the singing we’d been doing, I was feeling a little more human and it had been a hot summer.
"Good," she said. "Eric will be glad."
"What?"
"Eric. He’s been swimming at my house all summer. He’s always telling me to get you over there."
"He is?"
"Yes." Suddenly her voice was very soft. "He says he’s missed you."
"We have too," Jill added quietly.
I looked from Barbara to Jill then down at my hands. I didn’t know if I wanted to go swimming or not if Eric was going to be there. He’d probably make cracks about my one-piece swimming suit or about my legs. But they were really tan now, after sitting in my backyard all summer.
"Did he really say that?" I asked.
Barbara nodded solemnly.
"Okay, I’ll come," I said. But, I thought to myself, I sure won’t curl my hair for him.
The sun was extra hot that day. It seemed to bounce off the pavement and get caught in my eyes. The water was cold and delicious to my body. Under the water all was quiet, perfectly silent, perfectly solitary. That is, until I suddenly felt a tight clutch on my foot and I looked down to see Eric’s body moving gracefully up alongside mine. We both soared to the surface and our heads popped through, making bubbles and waves. Laughter from the other girls filled the air. I swam to the side and pulled myself out, then sat on the edge. I had already decided how to treat Eric the next time I was forced to be with him. Aloof. Very aloof. So when he pulled himself out and sat beside me I just kind of looked the other way.
"Race you across the pool," he said.
"Not now."
"Why not?"
"I don’t feel like it."
He didn’t say anything. I kept looking the other way. I wondered what he was thinking.
"Mary Jane," he said quietly. That soft voice again. It made me nervous. I looked at my legs. "Why do you hate me now?"
I stopped breathing and looked at him, my mouth hanging open. There were those blue eyes again. Then suddenly we were surrounded by the other girls.
"Mary Jane," Barbara said as they all sat down around us, "we’ve got it all figured out."
"What?"
"White formals."
"Huh?"
"For the festival. We’ll wear white formals."
"Formals?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"I don’t know," I said. "I mean last year we wore checked gingham with pinafores."
"Well, Mary Jane," she said, "last year we were little girls."
Later that evening Eric walked home with me. We walked in silence most of the way, but I was troubled because I felt that I had to say something to him. I didn’t hate him, and I wanted him to know it. As we neared my house, I finally stopped walking and turned to face him.
"Eric."
"Mary Jane," he said at the same time. We both laughed just a little. Then we were quiet again.
"Go ahead," he said.
"I can’t."
"Why not?"
"Because I don’t know what to say."
Laughter. Silence.
"You were right you know."
"About what?" I asked.
"What you wrote in my yearbook."
"Oh that." I blushed.
"Really," he said. "I’m a boy and you’re a girl. A good-looking one too."
I grinned and stared at my terribly interesting toes.
"Well," he said. "I’ve got to go." I looked up at him, and once again our gaze was locked in time and space.
"Good-bye," he said suddenly and ran home. I stared after him. With him went something. A part of me. A part that I wasn’t sure I was ready to give up just yet. Did I want to grow up? Was I ready?
Oh, I thought as I slowly walked into my house, this whole crazy summer is too much. I decided to take a nap.
Something was shaking me, and my head slowly cleared as I opened my eyes. It was mom.
"It’s almost time for supper," she said.
I just lay there.
"Honey," she said, feeling my forehead, "are you sure you’re all right?"
I still just lay there. She looked completely frustrated. She began to leave the room.
"Mama," I said. She stopped and turned to look at me. I hadn’t called her mama for years, but I suddenly felt so little. "Do you remember when you turned 16?"
For a moment mom just looked at me, as if she didn’t understand. But slowly a dreamy look came over her face. Her eyes sparkled, and she gazed across the room as if I weren’t even in it.
"Yes," she said slowly, walking to the window. There she rested her elbows on the window sill, her chin on closed fists. "I do remember something like that." She smiled wistfully. I had never seen her like this. Maybe she had been a teenager. I was suddenly speechless. But she finally came back to the present and looked at me.
"It’s hard, isn’t it?" She was very quiet. That was all it took to bring on the tears that had been stored up inside me for weeks. I was quickly in my mother’s arms, small and vulnerable, warm and protected.
"Oh, mama," I sobbed, "I don’t know what I want or who I am or what I’m good for. What am I doing here? I want to live in summertime forever. I want to go barefoot and be happy. I want to care about someone. I want someone to care about me. But I’m scared." I looked at my mother. "Do you know what I mean?"
Again she spoke slowly, distantly.
"Words don’t come easy to me as they do to you. But I remember feeling … well, as if someone had placed me in the wrong world. And it did no good to cry."
"Why does it have to be this way, mom?"
"Oh, don’t get me wrong," she said, smiling. "I mean, it’s for sure we’ll never be 15 again. But I have you, don’t I? And I have your father, and your baby brother. And a lot of other wonderful things that I can’t even describe. You’ll know someday."
Will I? I wondered. Will I really? But mom did look happy. For the time being, I would just trust her.
The Young Artists’ Festival was the night before my birthday. We had worked hard for this one. We wore our white formals. I spent all day doing my hair and getting ready. I arrived in time for the last-minute flurries that always go on before these productions can begin. Brother Wood was running around trying to get everything organized. Barbara, Sandy, Lori, and I were almost jumping up and down with excitement. The audience began to arrive, things began to settle down, and with the opening prayer, the program started.
Everyone was good. They always were. In fact, the four we earned two years ago was probably the lowest score that had ever been given in the history of the Young Artists’ Festival. So that everyone could fit into some category, pluses and minuses were also given.
As the judges began to read the scores, everyone was silent. Brother Wood gave his usual speech about how everyone had been so good. Then the scores were read. A two. A one. A three +. And on and on. Squeals and sighs.
"Quartet." He read our names. Tension. Heart pounding in my ears. Hands gripping my chair.
"One +."
Shock for a moment. Then shrieks!
At the reception afterward we were all standing around drinking punch and talking and laughing. The feeling of knowing a job has been well done was still lingering in my chest and bursting out of my eyes and out of my mouth, making me sound like someone else. It came out so smoothly, so … well, almost sophisticated. But easy. My arms were warm and brown next to the white of my dress. My hair felt clean and swingy. I almost didn’t recognize myself. I felt as if I had, in my hurry, left myself at home.
I was casually looking from one side of the room to the other to feel my hair swish across my neck when I saw Brother Wood coming toward me.
"Excuse me," he said, breaking into our little group. Something about him wanted to make me nervous, but my new self refused to cooperate, and I looked at him steadily.
"Yes?" I said, since he seemed to be addressing me.
"I hope I don’t embarrass you, but there’s something I’ve got to tell you."
I looked quickly around at Jill, at Barbara, and an assortment of curious faces. I felt my face flush slightly, but still I refused to flounder. I turned cool eyes to Brother Wood and smiled.
"What is it? I hope my slip isn’t showing."
"No, no. It’s just that I hope you know that you are a beautiful young lady."
What happened after that is not completely clear in my mind. I vaguely remember a circle of softly smiling faces. And I barely remember the still serious face of Brother Wood. But I very clearly remember the sincerity in his eyes.
At 11:00 that night I stood in front of my dresser mirror, still in my white dress, gazing into a thousand faces of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
That night at the stroke of midnight, while I was sound asleep, I turned 16. And I’ll never be 15 again.

“Billy! Time to get up, or you’ll be late for school,” called Mother.
Billy Burke snuggled farther down under the warm quilt and wished that he didn’t have to get up. It was raining, and rainy days are nice times to burrow down in bed and sleep.
“Billy, do you hear me? I don’t want to have to come up there and get you. Hurry now, or you’ll be late for school.”
“Yes, Mother, I’m coming.”
Billy knew his mother didn’t want him to be late for school, but his horse, Brownie, could be depended on to get him there before the bell rang.
Living seven miles out in the country was fun most of the time. However, it meant that he had to get up earlier in the morning than the other kids and that he didn’t have as much time to play after school. He had his own horse to ride, though, and Billy thought he was about the luckiest ten-year-old boy in the county.
While Mrs. Burke piled hotcakes onto Billy’s plate, she said, “I want you to start early this morning because of the rain.”
Billy couldn’t understand why his mother never liked the rain when there was so little of it in this dry land. Nevertheless, he ate his breakfast quickly and went outside to the barn. Brownie stood in his stall, hunched against the chilly dampness. When Billy tried to put the saddle on Brownie, the horse shied away. “Stand still, Brownie. Do you want us to be late for school?”
Brownie usually liked the walk to school and the attention he got from the other children. Sometimes someone would bring him an apple or some carrots. But Brownie was behaving in a most peculiar way this morning.
“I know what’s the matter with you—you’re afraid the rain’ll make you rust, aren’t you? Well, it won’t,” Billy said as he tightened the cinch. As Billy rode out of the yard, he gave a quick wave to his mother.
The road followed the river up a narrow, steep canyon for the first two of the seven miles to town. There was no place to go in case of trouble except up the canyon walls—and that was where Brownie was going now!
“Brownie! Have you gone loco? Stay on the road.”
The usually obedient horse had a mind of his own this morning. Laying back his ears, he kept trying to climb the steep canyon wall, slipping and sliding on the loose stones. Billy did something that he had seldom done before—he smacked the little horse on the rump with the ends of the reins.
Ignoring Billy’s irritation, Brownie continued to scramble up the steep slope. The rain had seeped into the ground enough so that it was very difficult for the horse to keep his footing. Gooey mud tugged at his hooves, and the rocks were bruising his legs, but he kept struggling upward.
“Brownie! Please! I have to get to school. You know Mrs. Thompson gets cross if anyone is late. Now, come on. Please!”
Brownie slipped and went to his knees, then regained his footing and climbed frantically toward the top of the canyon walls.
Billy was getting scared. Brownie had never acted this way before. Realizing that he could not make the horse go back down to the road, Billy let the horse have his way. Once on the brow of the hill, Brownie headed straight home.
“Why aren’t you in school?” Mother asked.
“Brownie had other ideas, Mother. I couldn’t make him stay on the road.”
“Something must be wrong. Brownie never behaved that way before, and he’s trembling,” Mother said as she stroked Brownie’s neck. “Billy, why don’t you go inside, put some dry clothes on, and have a cup of cocoa. I’ll take care of Brownie.”
Suddenly, with a roar that shook the earth, a torrent of water surged down the river and through the canyon. It moved boulders as if they were pebbles, and great fingers of water reached out and grabbed trees and brush, devouring them in huge, gluttonous bites.
Billy turned and shouted above the roar, “Mother, what’s happening?”
“The river is flooding. There must have been a cloudburst in the mountains, and it’s just now reaching here. The farther it goes, the faster and more furiously it rages. You’d never have made it to school if Brownie had stayed in the canyon!” Mother declared.
Later, after Billy and his mother had thanked Heavenly Father for their safety, Billy helped her peel apples in the warm, cheerful kitchen.
“Well, now, apple pie sounds good on a cold, wet day like this, doesn’t it?” Mother asked.
“It sure does,” Billy answered as he went out the kitchen door with a bowlful of apple peelings. “And this ‘apple pie’ is for the smartest and bravest horse that ever set foot on this earth!”

But the strongest spiritual feelings came for many at the Garden Tomb.
“The choir was placed in an area in front of the Garden Tomb to do the filming,” says choir member Fay Mason. “I was standing directly in front of the empty tomb. The music had been prerecorded, but on the last run-through, Jerold Ottley allowed us to sing `When I Survey the Wondrous Cross’ in full voice. During this song, I felt the Spirit of the Lord very near. For a moment I felt that if I reached out, he would put his hand in mine.”
“I have gained a much greater understanding of and love for my Savior,” says choir member Tom Porter. “He lives! For, as another song tells, ‘I walked today where Jesus walked, and felt his presence there.’ We were all overwhelmed by the last few lines of the song [ “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross”] as we faced the empty tomb. ‘Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all!’ My hope is that I can continue with this change in my life, for I am truly a different person for coming to this land.”

When I was a deacon, I loved baseball. In fact, I still do. I had a fielder’s glove inscribed with the name Mel Ott. He was the premier player of my day. My friends and I would play ball in a small alleyway behind the houses where we lived. Our playing field was cramped, but all right, provided you hit straightaway to center field. However, if you hit the ball to the right of center, disaster was at the door. Here lived Mrs. Shinas, who, from her kitchen window, would watch us play; and as soon as the ball rolled to her porch, her large dog would retrieve the ball and present it to her as she opened the door. Into her house Mrs. Shinas would return and add the ball to the many she had previously confiscated. She was our nemesis, the destroyer of our fun—even the bane of our existence. None of us had a good word for Mrs. Shinas, but we had plenty of bad words for her. None of us would speak to her, and she never spoke to us. She was hampered by a stiff leg which impaired her walking and must have caused her great pain. She and her husband had no children, lived secluded lives, and rarely came out of their house.
This private war continued for some time—perhaps two years—and then an inspired thaw melted the ice of winter and brought a springtime of good feelings to the stalemate.
One evening as I performed my daily task of watering our front lawn, holding the nozzle of the hose in the hand as was the style at that time, I noticed that Mrs. Shinas’s lawn was dry and beginning to turn brown. I honestly don’t know, brethren, what came over me, but I took a few more minutes and, with our hose, watered her lawn. I continued to do this throughout the summer, and then when autumn came I hosed her lawn free of leaves as I did ours and stacked the leaves in piles at the street’s edge to be gathered. During the entire summer I had not seen Mrs. Shinas. We boys had long since given up playing ball in the alleyway. We had run out of baseballs and had no money to buy more.
Early one evening, Mrs. Shinas’s front door opened, and she beckoned for me to jump the small fence and come to her front porch. This I did. As I approached her, she invited me into her living room, where I was asked to sit in a comfortable chair. She treated me to cookies and milk. Then she went to the kitchen and returned with a large box filled with baseballs and softballs, representing several seasons of her confiscation efforts. The filled box was presented to me. The treasure, however, was not to be found in the gift but rather in her words. I saw for the first time a smile come across the face of Mrs. Shinas, and she said, “Tommy, I want you to have these baseballs, and I want to thank you for being kind to me.” I expressed my own gratitude to her and walked from her home a better boy than when I entered. No longer were we enemies. Now we were friends. The Golden Rule had again succeeded.

Remembering some of her experiences in Primary and Sunday School, Sister Smith said, “One time after I had given a two-and-a-half minute talk, I thought I had done quite well. But a certain brother said, ‘I was really disappointed in you.’ I felt crushed and asked, “What didn’t I do?’

“He said, ‘You didn’t smile.’

“I think that made me realize that you need to smile often if you want people to feel comfortable with you. Now that I’ve learned how to genuinely smile at people, it has made a big difference in my life. Smiling is a signal of friendship. Heavenly Father has told us that one of our purposes here is to experience joy. I think that smiling is one way to reach that goal.”

While visiting with a young man a few years ago, he told me that when he was twelve, his father, the ward bishop, upon finishing his Aaronic Priesthood interview, said, “Son, I have talked with you as your bishop. Now I want to visit with you as your father. I can honestly tell you that I have never smoked or drunk or touched tea or coffee. And I want you to know how good it makes me feel to be able to say that to you. Now I would like you to covenant with me that when your own son or daughter is twelve years old, you will be able to tell him or her the same thing.” The covenant was made. Just one year after this, this same man, still the bishop, still a prominent dentist, was just finishing his dissertation prior to receiving another doctors degree, this time in education; he went to his medical doctor for a physical and was told he was in perfect health. Yet that night he cancelled all of his appointments for the next day and arranged to take his wife to the temple. On the way he discussed with her many family financial matters. Upon returning home he went into my friend’s bedroom, reminded him of the covenant they had made a year earlier and then told him that if anything should happen to him that he (my friend) was the man of the house and that he should take care of his mother. Concluding, he bore his testimony that he knew Jesus was the Christ and that the Church was led by prophets, and then he left the room. A little later, hearing a scream, my friend rushed to his parents’ room, and finding his father lying on the floor, he administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He heard his dad pronounced dead when the ambulance arrived. As he told me of this experience, tears came to his eyes, and as he looked at his own three-month-old son, whom he held in his arms, he said, “When he is twelve years old, I will be able to tell him that I have never tasted tea or coffee, liquor or tobacco, and how good that makes me feel.”

Weeks had passed since my adult daughter had moved to a new city, and each Sunday that she missed church brought me the same concerns. Would she ever return to church? I tried everything I could think of to get her there: encouragement, logic, pleading, acting as her personal alarm clock, prayer, fasting, even calling her bishop. Since we lived 2,000 miles (3,220 km) apart, it was difficult for me to attend with her, but I even tried that!
I continually imagined that if I could just tweak the situation a little, my daughter would reestablish her spiritual trajectory. I felt I just needed the right person—her visiting teacher, her bishop, a friend or family member—to be placed in her path to say or do just the thing that would steer her back. But nothing was working. My head spun with worry, and my heart filled with guilt and anguish that I had failed her as a parent.
My daughter has not yet returned to church. But our goals are clear; we are both working to stay close. We talk frequently, and I know her LDS upbringing has helped her to become kind, disciplined, and thoughtful. While I would never have chosen for her to take the path she is currently traveling, I am grateful for the lessons we are learning along the way. And I have found peace as I embrace our unique positions in our journeys back home.

“It’s not like we were on a date, Bishop,” said Paul. “We were just hanging out.” Fifteen-year-old Paul was trying to explain why he was having moral problems with a young lady whom he had never “dated.” When the bishop spoke with the young lady, she, like Paul, failed to grasp the seriousness of what they had done because, after all, they weren’t “dating.”

After Paul and his “girlfriend” spoke with their bishop, they realized that they could get themselves into negative and undesirable situations even when it wasn’t a formal dating situation. Everyone will be happier if we worry less about what does or doesn’t qualify as a “date” and more about keeping our covenants. Perhaps some of the suggestions from the young people in my ward can help others hang in as they hang out.

Many years ago, I moved from the small market town of my birth in Yorkshire to London to become a student. It was a great cultural shock, even in Church terms; I was catapulted from a small branch into a thriving multinational ward. There was a particular sister I remember for all the very best reasons; she loved the Lord. The Lord has commanded us to attend church on the sabbath, and she was always there. When the bishop needed any help, this sister always volunteered, and when he announced that the ward choir needed more members, she joined.
This kind sister had a unique voice; it was loud and shrill and always a fraction off key. She sang with enthusiasm, despite her rather obvious lack of natural talent, and went to every practice. She also paid to have singing lessons.
I’ve never forgotten her because she taught me several important lessons. The choir leader was a professional opera singer and I marvelled at her patience and understanding, and how she didn’t let an obviously difficult situation dampen her enthusiasm. But most of all, I marvelled at the sister who couldn’t sing. She obviously loved the Lord with all her heart. Anything that was asked of her she willingly did. She did not use any excuse for not accomplishing what was asked. The choir needed members and she was going to do her bit. She worshipped God in song, though it was not one of her talents. She sang the same way that she loved the Lord—with all her heart.
She taught me to live the gospel as she did, happily doing whatever was asked. I may not do it as well as someone else could do it, I may not get through each day perfectly in tune with the Spirit, but I should keep trying and refuse to make excuses for not giving my best—even when my best falls short of perfection.
This sister has probably passed away by now, and joined the heavenly choir, and been gifted with the voice of an angel. To my mind, she has earned it.

A seminary class of seniors in Clovis, California, know quite a bit about the value of true manhood and womanhood, as exemplified by the gospel. That’s because their teacher, Elaine Soldani, sets aside one week each for the boys to honor the girls, then for the girls to honor the boys.
During the week, they’re given five minutes at the beginning of class to do something for the honorees. The deeds include giving out homemade cookies, reading original poems, sharing scriptures on the importance of women and men and on the value of the priesthood, cooking breakfast, singing, treasure hunts, and other gestures made to help everyone feel appreciated. Class members say the support and love they feel for each other is amazing after these weeks.
“Seminary is a source of strength in many different areas in a young person’s life,” says Sister Soldani. “These special times have brought our youth closer in friendship and respect for themselves.”

Once you learn to spell the name of your home town, “Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysyliogogogoch,” you’d think the rest would be easy. Still, it was a major accomplishment for 13-year-old James Roberts, a member of the Reading Stake and resident of the long-named village on the island of Anglesey, North Wales, to be accepted into the Indefatigable School.
The Duke of Edinburgh is the patron of the Indefatigable School, which trains young men for leadership careers, especially within the armed forces. Although James learns all the normal school subjects there, he also has lessons in navigation, canoeing, seamanship, mountaineering, orienteering, archery, and as many other sports as he can manage.
“In our spare time we have to do our own laundry, clean the school, and prepare and serve the food,” says James. “It’s a good training for my mission.”

My father was a professional pilot and also served in the armed forces in World War II instructing pilots. He was well respected for his ability to fly the many different types of planes that were being used at the time. He had many close friends in the aviation field who also respected his flying ability.
On one occasion, a friend of his from California asked him if he would fly his newly built plane back from the East for him. On this particular trip he asked me to accompany him as his copilot. To me, a boy of 12, my father was a hero. I was so elated that he had asked me to be his copilot. I felt that he trusted and had confidence in me.
It was on the second day of our flight that my father, having done all of the flying so far, started to feel the fatigue of the trip. My dad had been giving me flying lessons for quite a while. He decided that I could navigate the plane while he slept for a few minutes. As a wise parent, and one knowing the dangers involved, he gave me some instructions which were plain and easy to understand. He pointed the way along a straight path in which I should fly the plane. He said that I should never vary from that path. Off in the horizon was my goal, a big rugged yet majestic mountain. In addition, he showed me compass and map bearings and even pointed out Omni beacons which aided pilots when they flew at night or in stormy weather. Then before going to sleep, he reassured me that if anything should happen he would be nearby so I wasn’t to hesitate to wake him. As he began to drift asleep, the excitement of being able to navigate the plane equaled the great responsibility that was placed in my hands. I took comfort in the fact that my father wasn’t too far away if I needed his help.
I wanted to do a good job so that he would be proud of me and let me fly again. My eyes were constantly scanning the horizon for other planes and evaluating the many instruments that decorated the front panel of the cockpit. About 30 minutes had gone by, and my father still slept. I felt so sure of my ability to navigate the plane that I decided not to wake him. The mountain that he gave me as a goal had long since passed. I then discovered a roadway some 10,000 feet below. The cars resembled my little brother’s matchbox cars. The road appeared to be going in the same direction so I decided to follow it.
This was fine for a little while, but then I became bored with following the road and decided to do some experimenting. I began by turning the plane from side to side, then moving the rudder back and forth causing the tail of the plane to go from side to side. I was completely engrossed in my experimenting when I began to realize that I did not know where I was or in which direction I should be going. I was anxious to get back on the proper course and feared being caught in my mistake. I tried to use the map and compass but could not find my bearings because of my lack of knowledge of that area. I tried to recollect my father’s instructions, but I couldn’t remember.
While in the dilemma, I was confronted with another problem. Seemingly out of nowhere two United States Air Force jet fighters flew up and positioned themselves on either side of me. The predicament I was in now was so desperate it caused me to lay aside my guilt and embarrassment. I quickly woke my father up to this awful situation feeling a great need for his help. He took immediate control of the plane, quickly got our bearings and guided the plane back to the proper course. He chastised me for not obeying his instructions and told me that I had been flying over a restricted zone, the site of an underground test launch area for missiles. The jets had been sent up to check us and escort us out of the area.

It was early on Sunday when Dad called the family together.
“Where’s Mom?” six-year-old Katie said.
“I took Mom to the airport this morning,” Dad answered. “Grandpa called to tell us Grandma is very sick. Mom has gone to help them.”
“Is Grandma going to die?” Melanie worried.
“Mom will call us after she talks to the doctor,” Dad explained. “Meanwhile, there is something we can do.”
“We can pray for Grandma,” Katie said.
“Exactly right,” Dad said. “And we can fast for Grandma today, too. Let’s begin our fast with a prayer.”
The family knelt together, and Katie prayed, “Heavenly Father, please bless Grandma. Bless Grandpa, too, so he won’t worry too much. And help Mama to come home soon. We are fasting for them.”
Everyone felt peaceful as they prepared for church.
At home later, the family looked at photo albums and talked about Grandma. When it was time to end their fast, they knelt and prayed again.
Mom phoned as the children were getting ready for bed. “Grandma is going to be fine,” she said. “I’ll stay to help Grandpa for a few days while Grandma rests.”
After talking to Mom, the family gathered for family prayer. Dad said, “Tell me what you learned today.”
“Heavenly Father answered our prayers,” Rachel said.
“That’s true,” Dad agreed. “He always answers our prayers. Sometimes the answer is yes, as it was today.”
“Sometimes it’s no,” Melanie added, “like when I prayed for my team to win and we lost.”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “And sometimes the answer is not yet—just wait and be patient. But He always answers our prayers in the way that is best for us. Did you learn anything else?”
Katie said, “I felt close to Heavenly Father.”
Natalie added, “Fasting wasn’t as hard as usual. I didn’t feel hungry!”
“Fasting helps us learn to control our bodies and to develop faith,” Dad said. “When we are baptized, we promise Heavenly Father we will bear one another’s burdens. We kept that covenant as we fasted and prayed for Grandma.”
Family prayer was a prayer of gratitude—for Grandma feeling better, for Mom coming home, and for their baptismal covenant.