Gospel Story Finder

I have always enjoyed sports. When I was growing up, my home in Tremonton, Utah, was a gathering place for the boys in the neighborhood, and we loved to play softball and football in the pasture and basketball in the yard.
As a young man, I was invited to be on a semiprofessional baseball team. I was thrilled! But I soon found out that the games would be on Sunday. I talked with my father, probably trying to persuade him that it would be OK because I would still be able to go to my Church meetings, then play baseball in the evening. My father listened carefully and then asked me to think about how my decision might affect my friends and others who might be watching.
I thought about that advice, and I knew what I should do. I turned down the offer to play on the team. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was one I have never regretted. Ever since, I have tried to remember that the way I choose to live my life can affect others.

We talked long into the night. “Should we or shouldn’t we?” The bishop had announced in priesthood meeting that they needed a full-time custodian for the stake center. My husband Ace had inquired about it after the meeting and had been told to talk it over with his wife and then meet with the three bishops the next evening.
Would he like such a job? It was a large church house that served three wards and a stake. With all the activities, there would be plenty of work. I would undoubtedly help, dusting the organ and piano and washing a few windows. Since we lived close by, he could come home for lunch and also reduce transportation expenses. There would be no more long hours working in the sun, rain, wind, and snow that his present job with a plumbing supply company demanded, and no more need to work a second job at night as a warehouse custodian. But at age fifty-nine it’s hard for a man to change jobs. Suppose the new job didn’t turn out well?
Monday the big decision was made. We would take it! Ace gave his employer notice that he was quitting Sunday; we went to church and for the first time really looked at the building. There was a lot to do.
The first task we undertook was to clean the stairways on each end of the hall. One was four feet wide, the other six feet wide, each with seventeen steps. It had been some time since they had been cleaned and they were a dull gray, covered with black marks from shoes, spills, etc. For two hours we worked with suds, cleanser, and steel wool. How pleased we were, though, to discover they were a light, cream-colored vinyl with dark streaks that resembled marble.
Ace found there was always something that had to be repaired or replaced. He changed all the locks on the outside doors and replaced the latches on the rest room doors and cultural hall doors. He fixed the showers in the girls dressing room and this does not mean “bolted them shut” but “bolt (anchor) them to the floor” the lockers (which were in the middle of the floor for some unknown reason) back into place. He mended several broken classroom tables that had been stacked in the furnace room.
We hadn’t been working long when construction was started on a new stake president’s office and high council room in a cemented area that had been used as a patio. The laborers worked just a short time each day, drilling and crushing cement and creating dust that permeated the building. We would just get the building cleaned when they would start working again. The ward members didn’t understand the situation, so there was a lot of criticism. This went on for about three months.
One day we were told they were going to have a youth conference in the Junior Sunday School room. The leaders asked if it could be fixed up a little special, so we really went to work. We washed all the windows and woodwork, scrubbed and polished the floor, and even sent the curtains out to be cleaned. Everything just sparkled. After the meeting was over I asked Ace if they were pleased. He said, “Well, one of the counselors in the bishopric asked if we couldn’t be a little more careful about dusting the chairs.” They had needed extra chairs for the large crowd, so someone had brought them from the construction area! We had a good laugh, realizing for the first time that it was not the things we did that were noticed but the things we didn’t do.
It took some time to get all the plastered walls throughout the building washed. We started with the rest rooms, then did the foyers and halls, the Relief Society room, the high council room, and the classrooms. We painted all the heat convectors, door frames, stair railings, entrances, and various other places. The carpets in the foyers and the Relief Society room were worn and soiled with several orange punch stains that were impossible to remove. Ace asked the bishops if someone could be hired to shampoo the carpets but was told not to bother since they planned on replacing them right away. After waiting a few weeks, Ace rented a shampooer and cleaned the carpets himself. This made an immense improvement. Little by little the building began to shape up.
After two years of custodial work, another ward was added to our building, making a total of four. On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday we had Relief Society, with the officers arriving as early as 8:30 A.M. The Relief Society room, foyer, kitchen, south steps, nursery, and rest rooms had to be ready. While Relief Society was in session, we cleaned the rest of the classrooms, the chapel and the cultural hall.
Then at 3:00 the Primary officers began to arrive. The relief society room, nurseries, kitchen and rest rooms had to be checked and cleaned if needed. When Primary was over we picked up, swept, straightened chairs, and cleaned backboards to get ready for activity night. This went for about a year; then two wards moved out of the building. It seemed like we were on vacation!
One beautiful morning a salesman sold us a can of chemical cleaner to be used on stainless steel sinks, drinking fountains, and other types of metal. I decided to try it out on the brass light switch plates, which were covered with film and grime. After polishing a half dozen with good results, I went into the boys rest room where there was a larger plate with three switches on it. I wiped it off with the chemical, and was reaching for my damp sponge, when I heard a crackling sound. I turned to see flames shooting out of the plate clear to the ceiling! I raced down the hall shrieking. “Fire! Fire! I’ve set the church on fire!” Ace came bounding down the hall into the rest room. The fire was out and it was pitch dark. The switch box had completely burned out. I learned that chemicals and electricity don’t mix.
Last summer we began our two-week vacation on a Monday morning. Ace insisted on coming home both of the following Saturdays in order to clean the building before Sunday. I was feeling rebellious at having to come back before our vacation was over. As I cleaned, I said to myself, “This is absolutely stupid. Nobody cares whether this place is clean or not. If they did care they wouldn’t throw trash around. Nobody will even notice that the work was done.”
All at once I felt as if someone was there with me. It seemed as though someone spoke to me and said, “I care. It is my house and I care! Suppose we had visitors tomorrow and the house was dirty? What would investigators think? I would be embarrassed.” I was really shaken. It was such a strong impression. Never again have I begrudged the time I have spent cleaning His house.
During our first few months as custodians we were either ignored by the members or treated with what we felt was condescending sweetness. Gradually as we became acquainted, their attitudes began to change. Ace was always there, ready to set up tables or help in any way. He made friends with the children and young adults, letting them in the building to play basketball or volleyball whenever he was there. They reciprocated by trying not to track up the foyers, especially on Saturday when he had it all cleaned for Sunday.
After the first year or so people began treating us more warmly. Some of the Primary teachers and classes brought us goodies and baskets of fruit for Christmas. One year a group of boys made a nativity scene for us out of cardboard and molded sugar. They also brought a wreath made of pine cones and nuts. Another Primary made a lovely poster with all their names on it telling us how they loved us and appreciated the way we kept the building clean.
The Relief Societies invited Ace to eat lunch on work day. Once we were even invited by the stake presidency to have dinner with them and the high council while they entertained the visiting General Authority at conference time.
We retired last spring after six years of keeping house for the Lord. We have worked hard; we have laughed; we have cried. We have made hundreds of friends and hope we have made no enemies.
The tears and troubles have been many, but just the same, this has been a wonderful experience in our lives!

Also, when you listen to children’s questions and comments, you can give feedback to clarify their understanding. A child visited a dairy farm with his school class and observed the cows being milked with the use of machinery. As the group was leaving, he tugged at the farmer’s arm and asked, “How can you tell when the cow is full?” The wise farmer turned around and took the machinery off one of the cows; then he milked the cow by hand so the children could see that milk was coming from the cow.

No matter what age children are, when parents or other adults really listen to them and then talk with them, offering insights to their questions and comments, children will grow in their understanding and desire to learn and seek answers.

Kelly tossed her book bag on the floor. She just had to talk to someone, and that someone had to be Grandma because Mom wasn’t home. “Grandma, Julie was so mean today—I’m never speaking to her again. She told Ryan that I like him.”
Grandma set down the music she was practicing and smiled at her. “I can see that you’re angry.”
“Of course I’m angry,” Kelly fumed. “You would be too.”
Grandma chuckled softly.
Kelly couldn’t believe her ears—her life was ruined and Grandma thought it was funny!
All of a sudden Grandma began to laugh out loud. “Oh, Kelly,” she said finally when her laughter stopped. “You sailed in here just like a soprano I once knew. Everything made her mad, and she flounced theatrically here, there, everywhere, all around the opera house.”
Kelly was mortified. “I don’t flounce, and not everything makes me mad.”
Grandma chuckled some more. “Of course not, I know that. Come on, child, see some humor. If you don’t laugh about your troubles in life, you’ll grow old before your time. Being angry takes energy.”
“I want to be angry,” Kelly mumbled.
“I know,” Grandma nodded wisely. “Anger is such a strong feeling that you think you like it. But actually you don’t feel good inside right now, do you?”
Kelly stubbornly refused to agree with Grandma. She had a right to be angry. Julie had been mean to her, and she hadn’t done anything to Julie—at least not at first. “I feel just fine,” she said grimly.
Grandma chuckled again. “Remember, voices are my business. I can tell by your voice that you’re feeling bad inside. I think I’ll sing you a song. It’s helped me many times when I’ve felt all bad inside.”
Kelly wanted to sigh out loud. Grandma’s opera songs were usually hard to understand, and most of the time they were in another language. She was in no mood for opera.
Grandma began to sing softly:
“‘Help me, dear Father, to freely forgive
“‘All who may seem unkind to me
“‘Help me each day, Father, I pray;
“‘Help me live nearer, nearer to thee.’”*
Kelly looked up in astonishment. The song was simple, it had a sweet melody, and it wasn’t opera. She listened quietly as Grandmother sang it again. She felt her anger melt away. “Where did you learn that? I’ve never heard you sing a churchy kind of song before.”
Grandma smiled. “I never was much of one for church in the past, but since I was here last, I joined one.”
“Which church?” Kelly asked.
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That’s where I learned the song—in Primary.”
“What’s Primary?”
“It’s kind of like Sunday School for children your age. They have classes, Sharing Time, and singing time. I lead the singing in Primary.”
Kelly was astonished. Grandma was one of the country’s best operatic sopranos. She got paid a lot of money to sing in operas, and now she was leading music for little kids! “How much do they pay you?” she blurted out.
A satisfied look came to Grandma’s face. “Not one single penny.”
Grandma teaching music for free? She took a good look at Grandma. Grandma had been happy ever since she’d arrived. She sang and danced; she helped around the house. She got along well with everyone. “You’re truly happy,” Kelly said thoughtfully.
Grandma nodded. “Yes, very happy. Learning about Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and the gospel has brought me peace and happiness. I’d like to share it with you, especially—” Grandma winked at her—“the peace part right now.”
“I suppose you think I should forgive Julie,” Kelly said grudgingly. “Like it said in that song.”
Instead of answering, Grandma began to sing again:
“‘Help me, dear Father, to truly repent,
“‘Making things right, and changing my ways.
“‘Help me each day, Father, I pray;
“‘Help me live nearer, nearer to thee.’”
Kelly stared at Grandma, “You don’t think I need to repent, do you? Is that why you sang the rest of the song?”
“Was Julie the only one that did something wrong?”
Kelly had yelled at Julie. But Julie deserved it, Kelly told herself defiantly. Aloud, she answered, “Yes, she was.” She refused to look Grandma in the eye. It was all Julie’s fault. It was!
The rest of the evening the song whirled around in her head. She could hear it when she did her homework. She heard it when she brushed her teeth. She woke up the next morning with it ringing in her ears, so she put on the headphones to her radio to make her brain switch tracks. The new music worked—she walked to school, forgetting the song and all that Grandma had told her.
As she turned the corner, she caught sight of Julie talking to Jamie on the playground. Julie saw Kelly and started to wave, then stopped and turned her back. Why is Julie mad at me? She’s the one in the wrong. Kelly hesitated, remembering the name she’d shouted at her best friend. It wasn’t a nice word. Maybe Grandma was right—maybe she should be sorry. When Jamie ran off to claim her turn at tetherball, leaving Julie alone, Kelly hurried over to her. “Julie, I’m sorry I called you that name.”
“You’re apologizing to me?” She looked embarrassed. “I’m the one who should say she’s sorry.”
Kelly grinned at her. “Yes, you should, too—now Ryan will bug me for the rest of the year.” They both laughed.
Julie smiled again. “I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. I was mad because you were playing with Jenny and not me.”
After school, Kelly hurried home. “Grandma,” she called, “guess what.”
Grandma was making cookies.“Julie and you are friends again.”
“How did you know?”
“Well forgiving and being forgiven make people happy. You look happy, and you sound happy.”
“Grandma, do you think Mom would let me go to church with you this Sunday?”
“There’s only one way to find out—we’ll just have to ask her.”
Grandma began to sing a familiar song from an opera. Kelly felt so good that she joined right in.

When his mother invited him to visit a Christian church in 1995, O. Odgerel did not know she was already a member. Working at a public library, she was in charge of renting out its assembly room. Drawn by singing she heard from that room one day, she was invited to join the meeting. Later, she listened to the missionary discussions and was baptized and confirmed.

Odgerel had been born in Russia while his parents were students there and had been educated in Soviet socialism; it was almost his religion. But when the Soviet Union fell apart, what he had believed in was gone. He turned to drinking and partying, thinking the only purpose in life was to enjoy oneself before dying. He soon realized, however, that this lifestyle was a dead end and he ought to abstain from things that he could see were harming him.

Like many other Mongolians, he found it easy to accept the Book of Mormon when he read it. “Mongolian people may receive the gospel really quickly because they can see the good things in it easily,” Odgerel says. They “open their hearts to it very sincerely.” So it was with him. He had felt there was a Supreme Being. Through the gospel, he found a God and a way of life he could believe in. “That was my happiest moment,” he says.

Mongolian society could benefit from the reshaping that the gospel brings to people’s lives, he says. Drinking is a problem; so too is immorality. In Mongolia, there is only the worldly model, now strongly reinforced via television, to shape behavior. There is no strong religious tradition in the country to work against it. But through the gospel of Jesus Christ, Odgerel says, people find a righteous way to direct their lives.

Odgerel is president of the Ulaanbaatar Mongolia District, which has 11 branches and some 3,700 members. About 70 percent of the members are single.

The youth of the Poway California Stake weren’t exactly thrilled when they heard their youth conference would consist mainly of painting and planting, but by the time the testimony meeting at the end rolled around, it was obvious that it turned out to be one of the best conferences ever.
About 220 young people descended on Julian, a small town within their stake, to plant 100 seven-foot liquidambar trees and paint the exterior of the United Methodist Church, where the LDS branch leases space for its services. They knew that by planting the trees, they were helping clean the southern California air. A tree can consume as much as 50 pounds of smog per year.
Inspirational speakers, a spiritual slide and music presentation, and a dance were part of the conference as well. And it all cost one-tenth of the previous year’s conference.

I recently met a sister in Mexico who understands what it means to magnify her calling with faith. Marffissa Maldonado was called to teach a youth Sunday School class three years ago. She had 7 students attending when she was called, but she now has 20 who attend regularly. I asked her, in amazement, what she had done to bring about such an increase in numbers. She modestly said, “Oh, it wasn’t just me. All the class members helped.” Together, they saw the names of the less-actives on the roll and began to go out together and invite them to come back to church. They have also had a baptism because of their efforts.

Sister Maldonado set up a social media site just for her class members called “I Am a Child of God,” and she posts inspirational thoughts and scriptures several times a week. She regularly texts her students with assignments and encouragement. She feels it is important to communicate in the ways they best relate to, and it is working. She told me simply, “I love my students.” I could feel that love as she told me of their efforts, and her example reminded me of what one person of faith and action can accomplish in this work with the help of the Lord.

During the Great Depression, the homeless, the downtrodden, the unemployed “rode the rails” that passed not far from our home. On numerous occasions, there would be a soft knock on the back door. When I opened the door, there I would see a man, sometimes two, ill-clothed, ill-fed, ill-schooled. Generally, such a visitor held in his hand the familiar cap. His hair would be tousled, his face unshaven. The question was always the same: “Could you spare some food?” My dear mother invariably responded with a pleasant, “Come in and sit down at the table.” She would then prepare a ham sandwich, cut a piece of cake, and pour a glass of milk. Mother would ask the visitor about his home, his family, his life. She provided hope and words of encouragement. Before leaving, the visitor would pause to express a gracious thank-you. I would note that a smile of content had replaced a look of despair. Eyes that were dull now shone with new purpose. Love, that noblest attribute of the human soul, can work wonders.

As young missionaries in the missionary training center in Brazil, we had a day assigned to go, as companionships, into the streets of São Paulo to invite people to hear the missionary lessons. After a few hours we came back to the MTC and held a testimony meeting.
Many spoke of promptings they received to go to a specific street or approach a certain person. These experiences sounded marvelous to me. However, because I had no similar experience, I felt that perhaps I was not good enough, or prepared enough, to be a missionary.
Feeling discouraged, I sought help from MTC leadership. They helped me understand that God is willing to give us instructions through the Holy Ghost, and while my experience may not be the same as those of others, I still needed to qualify for the Spirit’s direction. Just like a radio that needs to be tuned to a specific station, or a smartphone that needs to be connected to the internet, we must be both in tune and connected in order to receive what the Holy Ghost communicates to us.
At the MTC, I learned that I needed to be ready to receive whatever the Lord wanted to send me, in His time and His way. I learned that interference can cause us to be so distracted that we will not be able to identify when the Lord is talking to us or to listen carefully to the message He would have us hear.

When I think about obtaining confidence in the presence of God, I think of an experience that occurred in the summer of 2006. I was called to serve as a mission president. As I anticipated this demanding role, I began to make a list of questions I could not answer. This list represented my anxieties.

We flew to Provo to attend the MTC for mission presidents. The last speaker was Elder Eyring. He was assigned a topic; "Teaching by the Spirit."  He was instructed not to prepare a written talk. He began by telling of his extended and agonizing preparation. He then told us of experiences with the love of God. I felt power fill the room. By the end, many of the people were weeping. Afterwards, I remained in my chair. I knew that we had just spent time in the presence of God. It was then that I noticed something astounding.

I glanced at my list of questions. The words were still on the page but my problems no longer mattered. I felt no anxiety whatsoever. How could this be? Elder Eyring never talked about my specific issues.
How could they be gone?

In the presence of God, I was taught directly by the Holy Ghost. He ministered to my specific needs. I suddenly had confidence that I had previously lacked.

Youth in the Danville California Stake spent an entire summer getting to know more about the Restoration of the gospel when they performed Brother Joseph, a play about the life of Joseph Smith.
A few weeks prior to the performance, the youth took a three-part challenge to only say kind and positive things to others, to pray at least morning and night, and to keep the commandments and read their scriptures. This extra effort, in addition to their hours of rehearsals, made this a play to remember for both the audience and the cast.

My first experience as an institute teacher was a disaster. I had taken an entire week to prepare my lesson. But before class began, I forgot many of the things I wanted to say, and my one-hour lesson lasted only 30 minutes.
When the branch president called me to be an institute teacher in the Fatima Branch, Joinville Brazil Stake, I felt uncertain about my abilities. But I did not want to refuse the call to serve. So I prepared myself by studying the scriptures and praying to Heavenly Father for help with my new challenge. But after that first class I wondered if I was cut out to be an institute teacher.
However, despite the discouragement I felt, a voice within me insisted, “Don’t give up.” So I again immersed myself in the scriptures, fasted, and prayed for help to overcome my inadequacies.
When the hour of the second class arrived, my anxiety about teaching had not abated. I wondered why I didn’t feel the comforting influence of the Holy Ghost. I welcomed everyone, and the class sang an opening hymn. During the hymn, a battle raged within me. Would I be able to perform my duties as a teacher? Would the Lord magnify my abilities? Would the students be edified by the Spirit? At the peak of my insecurity, I cried out in my heart: O God, where art Thou? I need Thy help.
A class member offered the prayer, and I arose to begin the class. As I spoke, I felt the Spirit and immediately experienced a transformation within myself—I no longer felt nervous, my voice became calm, and the words flowed from my mouth. I was able to remember everything I had prepared.
When class ended, I felt happy with how the lesson had gone and grateful to Heavenly Father for His help. I could not stop thanking Him.
I have learned that by the Spirit all members of a class can be edified. When we accept callings and persevere in spite of difficulties, we are not alone in our efforts.

“Will you please forgive me? I want to be honest,” she whispered after handing me the familiar old wallet that had been missing for nine years.
With head bowed she briefly explained that she had never stolen anything before or since. As she turned to walk away, I heard a sigh, as of relief, escape her lips.
Occasionally in a lifetime, one experiences, even with a stranger, the reverent feeling of being in the presence of the truly pure in heart, and it was this feeling that was present as I fingered the old worn wallet with the broken zipper. The memories of years gone by returned to my mind with the clarity of only yesterday. The snapshots of the special friends during that time, along with an activity card and other identification cards, gave evidence that it was indeed my old wallet. With assurance I instinctively glanced into the pocket for paper bills and was not surprised to find what appeared to be the very same ten dollar bill that had been there the day I lost my wallet.
It had been nine years since as a student at BYU I had used the telephone in the Joseph Smith Building and had carelessly left my wallet in the booth.
After futilely returning to the lost and found department regularly for several days, I finally gave up my desperate hope of ever getting my wallet and the much-needed money back. The money was all I had, and I was in the habit of measuring my expenditures with great care. The loss of $10 without an understanding landlady could have caused some real problems. But that incident, like many others, faded into the background as more important events crowded in.
Years had passed, and on a snowy afternoon the mailman delivered a rather fat letter, and no wonder, since there were two letters enclosed. The expected one from Mom included a few questions about the other letter which began, “To whom it may concern: Anyone knowing the whereabouts of Ardeth Greene please forward this letter. It is very important that contact be made as soon as possible to settle some unfinished business at BYU.” A name and address were given.
My first reaction was a bit indignant since I knew of no unfinished business for which I was responsible. And then my mind flashed back to my first experience with a bank account when I had written a check for groceries on the wrong bank. Then I became a little less indignant and wondered what unfinished business I needed to set in order.
With some anxiousness I found in the Salt Lake telephone directory the name of the person who had signed the letter. I quickly dialed the number and asked for the person by name. A very pleasant voice responded, “This is she.” I identified myself and began with some apologies for any unfinished business only to be interrupted by a clear and intense voice speaking rapidly as if to spill out all the words at once. She continued unloading her story until finally there was evidence of a heart burdened for a long time now relieved from foreign and contaminating elements too long contained.
As the words spilled out, I learned that this young woman, now a wife and mother, had been in nurses training at BYU. She had worked to put herself through school, but she needed an additional ten dollars for tuition, so she had turned to her boyfriend for help. She had promised to return the loan by the following Friday. When Friday arrived, in spite of her earnest prayers, she was still short ten dollars.
Seemingly without reason, she had walked into the telephone booth and found an old worn wallet. She explained how her heart started to pound since she’d never been tempted like this before. She held her breath as she opened it to find a single ten dollar bill. Then the question: Was this indeed an answer to her prayer?
She interrupted her steady flow of words to explain that since then she had learned that Satan knows when we are being tested and when under pressure we might weaken. We can be sure, she explained, that he will be there if there is a chance we might fall.
And then picking up the story again, she told of paying her boyfriend, whom she later married, graduating in nursing, and now raising a beautiful family and rejoicing in the blessings of the gospel.
Her voice choked with emotion as she painfully related the details about the old wallet. She emphasized how she had been taught right from wrong and how she was well acquainted with the principle of honesty. Her conscience had prompted her, but she listened to the wrong voice and acted contrary to that which she knew was right. She explained how taking the money had seemed justified at the time and hardly seemed like a sin at all. But for nine years her faithful conscience had never been at peace in that particular matter.
“A wrong sum can be put right: but only by going back till you find the error and working it afresh from that point, never by simply going on.” (C. S. Lewis, The Great Divorce, p. 6.)
She poured out her heart as she told of the suffering for what she acknowledged as sin—sin because she had known better.
“Sin is the transgression of divine law, as made known through the conscience or by revelation. A man sins when he violates his conscience, going contrary to light and knowledge—not the light and knowledge that has come to his neighbor, but that which has come to himself. He sins when he does the opposite of what he knows to be right.” (Orson F. Whitney, quoted by Bruce R. McConkie in Mormon Doctrine, Bookcraft, 1966, p. 735.)
For nine years, through many moves, the old burden had lain deeply tucked away in her top dresser drawer. It seemed impossible for her to throw away the wallet, though she’d considered it many times. There is no way you can throw away a wrong, and yet, there was no way, as far as she knew, to return the wallet.
One day while she was straightening the drawer, the old wallet surfaced again. This time she felt she must get rid of it, but only the right way. She had learned many valuable lessons over the years, and she had a quiet assurance that even this had served a purpose.
She thoughtfully opened the old wallet once again, and while examining it this time her fingers uncovered a small, orange card tucked away in a tiny compartment not previously noticed. This orange card would prove to be the key to unloading her burden. The card gave the address of the Calgary Clinic in Alberta, Canada, where the medical exam for a student’s visa had been given. She became excited with the thought that this time she might clean her top drawer in every detail.
With a prayer in her heart she took a chance and sent a letter “to whom it may concern” to the Calgary Clinic to be forwarded if possible. It was forwarded first to my parents in Canada, and then back to Utah where it finally reached its intended destination. Contact had been made, but the wallet was yet to be returned. During the telephone conversation she indicated the wallet would be mailed that very day.
When one sees in another a keen sense of right and wrong and a great virtue carefully tuned by the Spirit through struggle and final victory, there is a reaching out for association with that person, a desire to meet one so honest in heart, so I asked her if she would consider delivering the wallet in person. She seemed a little embarrassed at the thought, until I assured her it would be an honor and a privilege to meet a person possessing such honesty of character. She agreed that she would that afternoon bring the object of our common interest to the office where I was working.
At the appointed hour as I returned from lunch, I saw a young woman with her back toward me seated by my desk. Her shoulders were narrow but straight, and she sat erect on the edge of the chair with both feet squarely on the floor directly in front of her.
As I approached, she shifted nervously and then stood up.
As though she had rehearsed this experience in her mind a hundred times, she reached out her steady hand, looked me squarely in the eye, and handed me the wallet. Her steady gaze reflected the radiance of a good and honest life.
Then her eyes dropped as she whispered, “Will you please forgive me? I want to be honest.” Words would not come. I could only reach for her hand and nod affirmatively. From my office, I watched her walk away from my desk and out the front door.
“Behold, he who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more.” (D&C 58:42.)
I went to the window to watch her with her shoulders square, head erect, and with a lilt in her step as she turned the corner out of sight. Returning to my desk I again heard her words, “Will you please forgive me? I want to be honest.”

As with the Rexburg temple, I know from personal experience that this university's being on this hill is a miracle granted directly by God through a living prophet. One day in early 2000 President Hinckley asked me to follow him to his office after a Board of Education meeting. I was the Commissioner of Education at the time. I wondered why he had invited me there. After I sat down in his office, his first words were, "Hal, don't you think it's about time that Ricks College became a four-year school?"

After hearing my brief reply, which was one of support but some wonder, I got a great surprise. I saw as I gave him the advantages and the disadvantages which he asked for, it was clear that he had already decided that Ricks College would become BYU-Idaho. He said that I was the first person he told of his decision. He had never asked me or my staff for any information to help him consider such a decision. He simply knew.

And so I know that the decision to place on this hill a university next to a temple was made by the Lord directly through his prophet. In such matters of importance it is the Lord's way. Through the miracle of revelation the Lord conveys His will to His living prophet. And that is a miracle for which we must be forever grateful.

In 1992, time was a precious and limited commodity for Elder S. Mark Palmer and his wife, Jacqueline.
Elder Palmer was serving on the stake high council at the time. He was also working hard to build his professional career. Sister Palmer’s time was stretched just as thin. The Palmers were raising six children in their Austin, Texas, USA, home—including a six-month-old baby boy.
When their stake president invited them to serve as workers at the Dallas Texas Temple, they didn’t know how they could handle one more duty. But they accepted the call—and then prayerfully asked for the Lord’s help.
Making a monthly bus trip to serve all day in the temple required sacrifice and careful planning. “But it blessed our lives enormously,” says Elder Palmer.
Serving in the temple, he adds, prepared him spiritually for future priesthood callings. It also made him a better husband and father—and he found balance in his busy life.
“Going to the temple often helps you reset your priorities and be reminded of the covenants you have made,” he says.

Clare couldn’t stand the quiet at dinner. Why wasn’t anyone talking about him? Did they think about him every minute, as she did? Clare got a terrible feeling she was going to cry and there was nothing she could do about it. It seemed impossible to fill up the hole someone left when they died.
“Clare, why don’t you go upstairs until you feel better,” her mother suggested.
“Yeah, Clare,” her brother said. “You’re not the only one who feels bad.”
“Well, you don’t act like you even care.”
“Oh, Clare,” Aunt Nettie sighed. Her eyes looked sad, twisted by wrinkles that tried to close them up.
Clare was glad to get away from the table. She lay down on her bed and tried to picture herself walking with her grandpa, the way they had every summer night after dinner. He would walk fast, talking all the time. And then he’d sing, loud schmaltzy songs that embarrassed Clare but gave her a secret pleasure. They’d pass a neighbor’s house here and there, and watch the lights come on as darkness came down through the trees. By the time they’d get home, stars would be out and crickets would be singing all over.
“In the city, a light in the window gets lost,” Grandpa would say. “But in the country, it really means something. Every light looks important, like a bright star that dropped down to rest among the trees.”
Aunt Nettie opened the door a crack. “Clare,” she said, “I’ve got a job I want you to help me with.”
“What is it?” Clare sat up, realizing she had been asleep.
“I want you to help me cut up your grandpa’s shirts.” Nettie turned on the light. “For a quilt I’ve been wanting to make.”
“I don’t want to cut up his shirts.” Clare grabbed for the box under Nettie’s arm. “Why can’t we just leave them? Put them away somewhere?”
Nettie was silent for a moment. “I’d like you to help me make a quilt,” she said, sitting down on the bed. “That’s something you and I could do together this summer.”
“I don’t think so. Thanks anyway, Aunt Nettie.”
The next day Clare was drawn to the guest room by the quiet, methodical slice of scissors. Seeing Nettie there made it seem like Grandpa might walk in at any moment. They had always come to visit together. Nettie was cutting up a blue striped shirt. Clare had to smile, remembering Grandpa in that shirt, sneaking her a piece of candy after Nettie had said, “Absolutely not!”
“Sit down,” Nettie invited. The floor on either side of her was piled with long strips of fabric, light colors on one side, dark colors on the other.
“All those shirts,” Clare sighed, seating herself on the floor by one of the piles. She tried to picture Grandpa in every one of them at once. A blue work shirt seemed alive with his long, tanned hands as they searched the shadows of his garden, his whole face smiling when he brought up the first carrots and tossed them to Clare.
On a moleskin shirt, she could imagine flecks of sawdust as Grandpa bent to his workbench, sanding a birdhouse and testing the finish with his palm, over and over. Clare sniffed the limp sleeve, delighted to find a trace of that fresh wood smell. But she mostly felt sad watching those shirts come away from the scissors in long ribbons of blue, white, brown.
“A quilt is a wonderful thing, Clare.” Nettie stopped cutting. Then her head bent to work again. “There’s a story in every one. Somebody put in every stitch, and they thought a thought for every one of those stitches—sometimes humming, sometimes laughing or crying, sometimes just dreaming. There,” she said, the last shirt slipping through her fingers. “Tomorrow we set to piecing.”
Clare found Nettie at work early the next morning. “What are those for?” Clare asked, noticing a new pile of small yellow squares.
“They go in the center of each block. That’s how the pattern goes.” Nettie picked up a yellow square and stitched it to a blue strip. Then another strip went on, and another. The block grew. Nettie rocked and stitched. Her old alarm clock ticked.
Grandpa would never have chosen yellow, Clare thought. It would get dirty too fast. Grandpa had worked hard. He was the only man Clare knew who could wear down a shovel.
As the days went by, the piles of strips became a little smaller. First there were five blocks, then ten.
“Set them together and see how they look,” Nettie said one morning, handing the finished blocks to Clare.
Clare played with the blocks. They were kind of like a puzzle. As the colored strips came together, they raced across the blocks like railroad tracks. Clare and Grandpa had walked along the tracks a lot, collecting things. He collected anything he came across—rocks, songs, lighted windows, even people. Grandpa had a friend wherever he went.
Nettie held up a strip for Clare to examine. “Now that was your grandpa’s favorite shirt,” she said, laughing. “He always thought he looked so fine in that shirt. ‘Nettie,’ he’d say, ‘it’s a crime for anyone to look as handsome as I do.’”
Clare laughed. “Some of these work shirts are pretty faded,” she said, fingering the fabric. “They might not look very good.”
“Won’t matter,” Nettie said flatly. “That’s one reason I chose this pattern. Every little piece doesn’t matter. It’s how they all work together that makes the quilt come alive.”
Aunt Nettie was always wanting to teach you a lesson. Grandpa had just talked for fun, about everything.
“What pattern is it?” Clare asked. She knew Nettie was waiting with the answer.
“Log cabin,” Nettie said. “There’s a name for every pattern and a reason for the name. Look at the way those strips go round and round. Don’t they remind you of a log cabin? It’s had that name for a long, long time. The men built the cabins, but it must’ve been the women who made them warm inside. With their quilts,” Nettie added. She smiled at Clare’s arrangement of blocks. “There, that’s not so hard, is it?”
“I guess not,” Clare said. She tried to picture the finished quilt. “But I’ll leave the stitching to you, Aunt Nettie.”
One day when the strips were nearly gone, Nettie called Clare.
“Ninety-nine blocks and one to go,” she announced. “That one’s for you to do.”
“Oh, Aunt Nettie,” Clare complained. “It will look so much better if you do it.”
“Nonsense,” Nettie said, handing Clare a spool of thread. “You’re going to put in one block of this quilt, Clare, if it kills us both. Your grandpa would’ve been proud of you.”
Clare tried to follow Nettie’s instructions. Her stitches looked big and wobbly, but the block did grow. It took her most of the afternoon to finish, with Nettie rocking patiently all the time.
Clare’s brother poked his head in. “The little homemaker,” he said. “What a sweet picture.”
“You look out, buster,” Nettie said, shaking her scissors, “or I’ll set you to piecing with her. You wouldn’t be the first man to make a quilt. Your grandpa put in a stitch or two in his day!”
“He did?” Clare laughed with her brother. “Imagine Grandpa quilting!”
“You bet he did,” Nettie went on. “He’d sit and work with me at night sometimes. But you should have seen how fast he could get it put away if he heard someone coming up the drive!”
They all laughed.
“Finished,” Clare said. “Block one hundred. It’s a good thing I didn’t do them all. I’d have been a hundred before they got finished!”
“Look at all those yellow squares,” Nettie said, laying out the blocks. “Do you like it?”
“I guess so, sure,” Clare said. “But why did you choose yellow?”
“I told you there’s a reason and a name for every quilt,” Nettie said slowly. “Well, in the log cabin quilt, a red square in the middle of each block stands for the hearth.”
“I think Grandpa would have liked red better,” Clare said.
“Maybe,” Nettie nodded. “But this isn’t his quilt; it’s yours. And a yellow square stands for the light in the window.” She smiled. “I loved him for a long time too, Clare. He was always saying things like that.”
Clare felt warm and somehow lighter. It was as if the sadness had been pushed back a little. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to finish that quilt. She wanted to wrap up in it, to smell it and feel it all around her. She wanted to keep it forever, with its hundred lights and Grandpa smiling through the window of every one. “Aunt Nettie,” she said, “if I practice, could I help you join the blocks?”

Christopher’s heart was heavy as he walked slowly to his family’s car after Primary. Why does everyone but me hear the still, small voice? he wondered.
In fast and testimony meeting, Brother Johnson told an experience he had while driving across a lonely stretch of highway. The still, small voice told him to take a different route home, one that would add about 10 kilometers to his trip. Although he had been eager to get home from his business trip, he obeyed the prompting. On his detour, he came across a car accident. A young family had been traveling to visit relatives. When the father, who was driving, fell asleep, the car drifted too close to the side of the road and rolled down a steep hill. Brother Johnson was able to call for help and administer first aid.
Bishop Benson told how he was prompted by the Holy Ghost to check on Sister Henderson during the week. Sister Henderson was a widow who lived about two kilometers up a dirt road off the main highway into town. When the bishop went to see her, he found her furnace had broken down. She didn’t have a telephone and was no longer able to drive, so she had prayed to Heavenly Father for help. The still, small voice had told her all would be well.
Later, Christopher’s Primary teacher, Sister Woolett, gave a lesson about the Holy Ghost. She told about when the still, small voice warned her to check on her sleeping baby. When she did, everything seemed all right.
But as she turned to leave, the voice again told her to check on her little boy. This time she went over to the crib and looked closely at him. There, next to him, was a large, jagged piece of glass. A framed picture that had been hanging above the crib had fallen. Most of the glass and the frame were behind the crib, but the large, jagged piece had fallen next to her sleeping son.
Sister Woolett also related an incident from the lesson manual about one of the prophets being warned of danger by the still, small voice.
Why can everyone hear the still, small voice but me? Christopher wondered again. He knew that after his baptism almost two years ago, he was given the gift of the Holy Ghost when he was confirmed. So why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me?
“How was Primary?” Mom asked as Christopher and his two younger sisters climbed into the car. Jill and Michelle started telling about their lessons and the songs they learned in singing time. Christopher stared sadly at the floor.
“What was your lesson about, Christopher?” Dad asked.
A tear rolled down Christopher’s cheek. “The Holy Ghost,” he replied softly. Sensing that something was wrong, Jill and Michelle quit chattering.
“Maybe we could talk about this a little more when we get in the house,” Mom said as they turned into the driveway.
Later Mom and Dad invited Christopher to come to their room. “Christopher,” Mom said, “can you tell us what’s bothering you?”
Christopher looked down. He didn’t want his parents to know the Holy Ghost didn’t talk to him. They probably heard the still, small voice all the time.
“Listen,” Dad said, putting his arm around Christopher, “we can tell you’re upset, and we’d like to help.”
Christopher felt tears ready to spill from his eyes. “Mom, Dad,” he said in a shaky voice, “why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me? I’ve always tried to do what’s right. I know I make mistakes—like the time I spilled the red punch on the new carpet and said Jill did it so I wouldn’t get in trouble. But I did finally tell the truth. Do you have to be perfect like the bishop or Brother Johnson or Sister Woolett to have the Holy Ghost speak to you?”
Mom and Dad looked a little surprised. “Christopher,” Mom said, “the only perfect person to ever live on the earth is Jesus Christ. Everyone makes mistakes. Why don’t you think the Holy Ghost speaks to you?”
“I’ve never heard the still, small voice,” Christopher replied.
“Hearing a voice isn’t the only way the Holy Ghost can communicate with you,” Mom said. “Often it’s what you feel, not what you hear. Don’t you remember the good feeling you had after you prayed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive you for blaming your sister for the carpet stain? That feeling was from the Holy Ghost.”
“It was?”
“Or how about the time we were reading the scriptures,” Dad added, “and you suddenly understood what Jesus Christ was talking about in the parable of the wheat and the tares. That was the Holy Ghost teaching you.”
“I never thought about it that way before!” Christopher was starting to feel a lot better.
“And,” Mom said, “remember when you got lost last summer and you prayed for help? After you prayed, you felt calm and knew you should sit on the nearest bench and let us find you. That calm, reassuring feeling helping you know what to do was the Holy Ghost.”
Christopher smiled. Now he understood. The Holy Ghost had been talking to him—even if he didn’t hear the still, small voice with his ears! Now he said excitedly, “What about last week when I gave my talk in Primary? I’d studied it really hard, but when I got up, I had forgotten it. Then I said a silent prayer, and suddenly I could remember my talk. That was the Holy Ghost, too, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Helping you remember is also a part of the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“All those times the Holy Ghost really was talking to me!” The warm feeling in Christopher’s heart helped him know it was true.

In the early years of the Church, the Book of Mormon was printed only in English. President Brigham Young called two missionaries to preach the gospel in Mexico and translate the Book of Mormon into Spanish. But they needed more help to do it. Little did they know that across the ocean, God had prepared a man who could give them exactly the help they needed.
Meliton Gonzalez Trejo came from a wealthy family in Spain. He studied hard in school and became an officer in the Spanish Army. He was always interested in religion, but nothing he found felt quite right. One day he heard another officer talk about a group of people who called themselves “Saints.” They belonged to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and a prophet of God had led them to the Rocky Mountains in the United States. Meliton felt a strong desire to meet them. He joined a military expedition to the Philippines, hoping he could get to the United States later. But Meliton got so busy with his work that visiting the Saints started to feel less important.
Then Meliton became very sick. He remembered why he had come to the Philippines and prayed to God about what he should do. That night, Meliton had a special dream. He knew he was supposed to leave for the Rocky Mountains.
Once Meliton recovered from his illness, he continued his journey to the United States. He arrived in California on July 4, 1874, and headed toward Salt Lake City.
When Meliton arrived in Salt Lake, he ran into a problem. He could read English but had never spoken it. He couldn’t communicate with anyone! But he decided that if he couldn’t talk to people, he would get their attention another way. Meliton put on his Spanish Army uniform and marched up and down the city streets. Just as he hoped, many people noticed him! Finally he was spotted by a member of the Church named Brother Blanchard, a university professor who spoke Spanish. Brother Blanchard helped Meliton get settled in Salt Lake and taught him the gospel. Soon Meliton was baptized.
Brother Blanchard also introduced Meliton to President Brigham Young. Meliton told President Young that more than anything, he wanted to translate the Book of Mormon into Spanish.
President Young asked Meliton to help the missionaries who were going to Mexico translate parts of the Book of Mormon into Spanish. Meliton spent many weeks translating the English words into Spanish. Each night he reviewed his translation with the missionaries. They spoke some Spanish but felt this important translation needed a native Spanish speaker. They knew Meliton was an answer to their prayers.
In 1875 the translation was published. It was called Trozos Selectos del Libro de Mormon (Selected Passages from the Book of Mormon).
The missionaries were now ready to go to Mexico. They loaded 1,500 copies of the translated scripture onto horseback and started on their journey. For the first time, Spanish speakers were able to read the Book of Mormon in their own language! Even though Meliton had lived thousands of miles away in Spain, Heavenly Father led him to exactly where he needed to be. Because of Meliton’s courage and faith, he helped bring the word of God to countless people.
Meliton Gonzalez Trejo (1844–1917) served several missions in Mexico and baptized some of the first members of the Church there. In 1886 Meliton helped finish translating the entire Book of Mormon into Spanish.

Finally! I’m at the end of this ordeal. I can get on with life! That’s exactly how I felt early the morning of my final day in the hospital. After four days of being tested, retested, poked, prodded, and squeezed, I was more than ready to “get outta here!”
I had been admitted to the hospital after suffering a collapsed lung. It happened while playing water football with a group of guys at the Austin Texas Fourth Ward picnic.
I’d have been just fine had I not tried to save the day for my team by attempting to tackle Kevin Horrocks. There I was, by far the skinniest guy in the ward, and big Kevin was on the fast track to score with only me left to stop him. The last thing I remember is being flattened and stuffed into the mud face first. Kevin was kind enough to assist me out of the ooze, but by then the damage had been done.
I had recuperated nicely and was to the point where the rest of my recovery could be handled at home. There was only one thing left to do—remove the chest tube which had been surgically implanted between two of my ribs.
It seemed a simple enough procedure. I was, however, a little curious as to why two doctors and three nurses had gathered in my room for the occasion.
“Are your ready?” the doctor asked.
“Doc,” I told him, “this thing has been in my chest for four days. I’m ready. Pull it!”
“Arrrggghhhrrrghhhggg!” It felt like my heart was being extracted instead of the tube. For a brief flash, I felt as if my body was being turned inside out. Though the experience was brief, I thought I was going to die.
The trauma having subsided somewhat, I asked, “Doc, why didn’t you tell me what that was going to feel like?”
He chuckled. “Because if I had, there is no way you would have let me take it out.” He was right.

It had been hard work cleaning up the yard, and it had taken me most of the morning to finish the job. After I put the rake away, Dad gave me the dollar that we had agreed on before I started to work.
I sat down in the shade of an apricot tree and looked at the finely etched lines that made up the face of George Washington on the dollar bill. I couldn’t imagine anybody drawing such a fine picture. The bill had that funny smell of money, and holding the dollar close to my face, I could see the colored threads in the paper.
A whole dollar! I thought. My dollar! One that I earned. I have a dollar to do with as I please. Then the thought came to me that I owed tithing on it. I felt a little bit ashamed of myself because I didn’t have a giving and happy feeling about paying my tithing. Instead, I tried to convince myself that the dollar was all mine because I had earned it.
If I paid my tithing, I would have only ninety cents left. Besides, Jesus wouldn’t miss ten cents. How could He? This is His world, and He can have anything He wants. That thought made me feel better.
As far as I was concerned, I had solved my problem about paying tithing, and I lay back on the grass to relax. The warm day seemed just right under the shade of the tree, and I watched the sun through the fluttering leaves.
The dollar was still on my mind. There were so many things I could buy. A chocolate candy bar with nuts would taste good. I could almost see the almonds making lumps in the smooth surface of the bar. Or I could get a butterfly yo-yo—they’re the best kind. Or maybe there was a movie in town I’d like to see. I’d have to look in the newspaper to see if anything looked good.
Then tithing popped into my head again. I knew that only ninety cents was really mine and that ten cents was the Lord’s, but I still wasn’t happy about it. Then I had a new thought: How does Jesus get the money?
This new thought stayed in my mind, and I mapped out a plan. I would pay tithing on my dollar and then watch the bishop to see how he gave it to Jesus. I could hardly wait for Sunday morning to come.
My father helped me fill out the receipt that went into the tithing envelope. He was so happy that I was paying tithing that it made me feel bad because I knew my reason for paying it was not the right one. But I was paying tithing.
Finally Sunday came. I decided I’d give my tithing to the bishop after Primary when he was in his office. I figured that that must be where he gave the money to the Lord.
The bishop was glad I was paying tithing and said that the Lord would bless me for it.
After the bishop thanked me, he turned and gave the envelope with my tithing in it to the ward clerk. I could hardly believe my eyes when the clerk opened my envelope. I just stood there. Is he going to give my money to the Lord? I wondered. I guess the bishop saw my look of dismay because he asked me if anything was wrong.
“How does Jesus get the money?” I asked. He must have thought that was a funny question because he laughed a little, then stopped. He said, “Jesus doesn’t come personally to get the money. It’s sent to Church headquarters to help with missionary work, with the building of temples and meetinghouses, with genealogy work, and with other necessary things. For instance, some tithing money is used to help pay for the operation of our meetinghouse.”
The bishop took me by the hand, and we walked through the building. At different places he stopped and asked me how much I thought certain things cost, such as chalkboards in the classrooms. He pointed out how much carpet there was in the building and how many chairs and tables and things. By the time we were through, I had a good idea that it takes a lot of money to run a meetinghouse. The bishop pointed out that repairs and upkeep are expensive too. Then he said, “You know, because I pay my tithing, I feel like I own a tiny part of our meetinghouse—and any other meetinghouse or temple I go to. It’s a good feeling.”
As I walked home from church I thought, Maybe tithing is a good thing. I felt proud that I was helping to do good with my tithing, even though I still felt a little disappointed that I had not seen the Lord.
But I didn’t think much more about it that day. Monday was coming, and I had ninety cents to spend.