Gospel Story Finder

A patriarch received a call one afternoon from a concerned mother of a young daughter who was physically challenged from birth. This dear mother asked if her daughter could possibly receive a patriarchal blessing. The patriarch informed her that if her daughter could obtain a recommend from the bishop, he was sure the Lord had a blessing for her. A short time later the patriarch was informed that the bishop had given this sweet young girl a recommend to receive a patriarchal blessing.

An appointment was made. The blessing was given and gratefully received. Her lineage was given. She received a blessing suited to her needs and unique situation. Lives, focus, and attitudes were changed. She was told that through her cheerful acceptance of the efforts and sacrifices of those who loved and cared for her, she would be blessing their lives, and to accept their offerings graciously and willingly.

One evening when young Wilford was feeding pumpkins to his father’s horned cattle, a surly bull left his own pumpkin and greedily snatched up one given to the boy’s favorite cow. Irritated by such selfishness Wilford grabbed up the pumpkin the bull had left to give it to the cow. But this action aroused the bull’s fury, and the enraged animal charged.
Wilford’s father noticed his terror-filled son, running with the pumpkin still in his arms and the thundering beast close on his heels. He called to Wilford to drop the pumpkin. “But (forgetting to be obedient),” wrote Wilford in his journal, “I held on, and as the bull was approaching me with the fierceness of a tiger, I made a misstep and fell flat upon the ground. The pumpkin rolled out of my arms, the bull leaped over me, ran his horns into the pumpkin and tore it to shreds. … This escape, like all others, I attributed to the mercy and goodness of God.”

Watermelon - Who likes watermelon? I love watermelon.
I had other goals that would require even more money and the help of the Lord. I wanted to marry Mahana, and I wanted to return to Tonga after the labor mission and then come back to school at CCH in Laie. The Lord provided a way for me to accomplish my goals because I did not have the means as a labor missionary.
In the summer of 1963 I went to an old Hawaiian man who grew watermelons next door to the labor missionaries, and asked him if he could help me plant some watermelons. He said yes. So I took a machine to a piece of land that used to be planted with sugar cane next to the PCC site. I cleared the land and prepared the ground and the man helped me plant the watermelon seeds there. That year there was a big flood in Laie and it washed away my watermelon field that had just started to grow. After the flooding cleared, I went back to the old man for help, I got the machine again and plowed the land and planted more watermelon. This time it grew nicely and bore a lot of melons. When the melon crop was ready, the old man told me to pick the melon and go and sell it at the village. I used a jeep that I used at work and loaded it with watermelon after work. I drove it to the village and sold it for 10 cents a pound.
By the end of the season I earned a little over $700 for selling watermelon on the side. So I took the money to the old man and told him this is the money I got from selling melon. He said, you keep the money and at the end of the picking for the field you grew, I will see if there is more money to give you. I said, “No” this is enough for me. I took some of the money and bought an engagement ring for my wife-to-be. I took her out on her birthday, October 19, 1963, this was during the week of the PCC dedication, and proposed to her and gave her the ring. With the remaining money I bought a return trip ticket from Tonga so I could return back to school. This was the reason why I wanted to plant the watermelon, so I could get money to buy my return ticket so I could come back to school at CCH. I went home after being released from my mission in December 1963. I gave the rest of the money to my mom and then returned to attend CCH in February 1964. We were married in June 1964 and have now been married 53 years.
These two stories, the $10 and the watermelon, show that with God, a penniless young man from Tonga can gather enough money to help do His will in sending his parents to the temple and finding eternal marriage.

William’s heart beat a little faster. He knew it was wrong to tease the old blind shoemaker, but at the same time, it was exciting being out after dark with his friends. Even the fear of getting caught was not enough to make him turn back. William watched as the kerosene lamps were turned low inside the houses that lined the main street of their small town. The lights flickered and went out, but in one house a lamp continued to burn.
Wilhelm Dithmer sat on his front porch playing his clarinet.
William reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of pebbles. His bare feet padded quietly through the dirt along the side of the road, and he and his friends approached the house that was Wilhelm Dithmer’s home and shoe shop.
William let his small stones fly and watched as the man jumped at the sound of the rocks raining above his head onto the tin roof.
“Stop! Come back!” Wilhelm stood and waved his fist into the air.
The boys laughed and darted away. “See you tomorrow,” William called to his friends as he headed for home.
In the light of early morning, William lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. The thrill seeking of the night before was haunting in daylight. What was it his father had said about the shoemaker—something about him going blind because he had the measles when he was a boy? And had he really been an orphan in Denmark?
The day seemed longer to William than usual. What was this uncomfortable feeling? Still, after school he agreed to meet with his friends again that night.
As he crept up the street watching for the lights to dim, William heard the sounds of Wilhelm’s clarinet. The melody was high and mournful. William stopped a moment to listen. Every night, Wilhelm closed up the shoe shop and then sat on his porch to play his music. It had become almost a ritual, but tonight the notes ended abruptly. William listened, but the only noise was the croaking of the bullfrogs.
William drew back his arm to throw the stones in his hand, but suddenly someone grabbed his arm.
“Help!” William cried, but the other boys ran away. “Let me go!” William struggled to loose himself from Wilhelm’s grasp.
“I only want to show you something,” Wilhelm said.
William stopped squirming, curious why the man did not scold him or call out for the authorities. “What?” William asked.
“I want to play a song for you on my clarinet,” Wilhelm said. “But first, promise me that you will not run away.”
William didn’t know what to say. “I guess,” he said at last.
“No,” Wilhelm said. “Promise.”
“All right,” William said. “I promise.”
Wilhelm relaxed his hold. He led William to his front porch and sat down in his chair. William watched as Wilhelm took a deep breath and began to play his clarinet. The melody lifted soft and sweet into the night air.
William sat still and listened. What must it have been like to grow up alone in Copenhagen? How hard would it be to lose both a father and a mother? He couldn’t imagine leaving his home and traveling across the ocean by himself to a strange land where no one understood the language he spoke. All the heartache of Wilhelm’s life seemed to be played out in the notes that came from the clarinet.
Wilhelm finished. He placed the clarinet across his knees and waited for William to respond, but the boy was silent.
“What is your name?” Wilhelm asked.
William hesitated. He wanted to reach out and touch the clarinet, but if he told the man his name, he would surely get into trouble. Still, there were not many musical instruments in the town.
“My name is William,” he said. “Almost like yours.”
“Well then, William,” Wilhelm said with his strong Danish accent. “Would you like me to teach you how to play my clarinet?”
“You would teach me how to play?” William asked.
“I will teach you to play my clarinet. If you practice very hard and learn to play well, I may even help you buy one of these for yourself. Maybe we could start a band.”
“A real band?” William asked. “Like the ones that play at dances?” This wasn’t at all what he had expected.
Wilhelm nodded. “But you must stop raining pebbles on my roof. And you must come every day after school to practice.”
William did learn to play, and so did his friends. They played for high school dances. They played when the town put on their Christmas plays. They played in the outdoor pavilion on warm summer nights. Long after their school days ended, the band stayed together.
For years, Wilhelm gave free music lessons in the evening after working all day in his shop. When Wilhelm died, many of his students played music at his funeral. William, now a grown man, was one of them.

Hannah sat on the train seat between her father and her sister, Bessie. Papa had let Bessie sit next to the window, but Hannah didn’t mind because that meant she could sit next to Papa. She snuggled up next to him, and he reached out to squeeze her hand.
“Today we’ll go inside the house of the Lord,” Papa said, his voice trembling a little.
“Yes, Papa,” Hannah said.
“Do you know why?”
Hannah nodded. “The Salt Lake Temple will be dedicated today. Then it will be a real temple.”
“Yes,” said Papa. “And why else do you want to go?”
“To see how beautiful it is inside,” Hannah answered.
Papa smiled. “Is that why we go to the temple?”
Hannah looked down at the pink ticket she was holding on her lap. It had President Wilford Woodruff’s own signature on it. She would show it at the door so she could go inside to see the temple dedication.
“To see President Woodruff?”
“We do love our prophet, but why else do you want to go?” Papa tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.
Hannah leaned back in her seat. What answer was Papa after?
“You think about that.” Papa patted her knee. “On the way home, you can answer again.”
The train ride went by quickly, and soon Hannah found herself staring at the Salt Lake Temple. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. Looking up at the spires made her delightfully dizzy. The angel Moroni sparkled in the morning sun. “Holiness to the Lord,” Hannah read from the inscription on the wall. She felt a powerful joy in her heart. She promised herself that someday she would be married right here in the temple.
Hannah whispered to her father, “I know why I want to go to the temple. It’s because of Charley and Grandfather Bird and the rest of our family. It’s for Holiness to the Lord and for me too.”
Papa nodded, tears pooling in his eyes. “That’s why I want to go too.”

A true story from the USA.
“Can I have the last cookie?” Jack asked.
“Let’s save it for tomorrow,” Mom said. “It’s time for bed.”
Jack’s shoulders slumped. He brushed his teeth. He put on his pajamas. And he kept thinking about the cookie.
He went to the kitchen for a drink of water. The cookie was in a bag by the sink. No one was looking.
Jack snatched it and dashed to his room. He pulled the cookie from the bag and took a bite. Yummy.
Then he heard footsteps. It was his brother! Jack dove under his blanket.
“What are you doing?” Trevor asked.
Jack found a book under the blanket. “Um … reading.”
Trevor pulled the blanket off Jack. “With a cookie?”
“I … I’m using it as a bookmark,” Jack said.
Mom walked in too. “A cookie for a bookmark?”
Jack pulled the blanket back over himself. He hoped Mom and Trevor would go away. They didn’t.
Jack’s face felt hot. He peeked out from the blanket. “I took the cookie so I could eat it.”
“Thanks for being honest,” Mom said.
Jack frowned. “But I don’t feel better.”
Mom sat on the bed. “Praying for forgiveness can help. Jesus Christ can help you feel peace again.”
Mom and Trevor knelt and prayed with Jack. He said sorry for taking the cookie and lying.
When he finished, Jack smiled. “Hey, I do feel better!” He handed the cookie to Mom. “And I bet this will taste even better tomorrow!”
Watch a video of this story at friend.ChurchofJesusChrist.org.

Ever since I was a little girl, I loved sports, especially football. I played whenever I could, and I dreamed of competing someday for Argentina in the Olympics or the World Games.
My dreams were shattered one day when I was 15 years old. I had just visited my sick seminary teacher and was riding my bicycle home when two gangs in my neighborhood started shooting at each other. A stray bullet hit me in the back.
When I woke up in the hospital the next day, I learned that I was paralyzed from the waist down.
While I was healing, family and friends would ask me how I was doing. I could see that they all felt bad for me, so I would console them by saying I was OK. Comforting others helped me, but I knew I wouldn’t walk again and had to learn how to live with being paralyzed.
At the time, I had started going to seminary and was becoming active again in the Church. Seminary was the pillar that supported me in coming back and in not getting mad at Heavenly Father over what had happened to me.
In seminary our teacher taught us that when bad things happen, we shouldn’t ask, “Why did this happen to me?” She said the question we should ask is, “What can I learn from this?”
It was hard to keep going and to always be positive, but my seminary teacher’s question gave me a lot of strength. When I lost hope and when doubts filled my mind, I always returned to that question: “What can I learn?” That helped me get up every day, and it carried me when I felt like giving up.

This seminary year of home study in the Cambridge Ward in England was going to be different, I thought to myself. The weekly lessons on Tuesday nights were fun because of the close friendships the class had. The previous year my friend Helena and I tried to make the work easier on ourselves. I took the odd-numbered sections of the manual, and Helena took the evens. We each completed the work for those sections and then swapped answers. I have to confess: this was a step up from the year before when I had spent a day at her house copying all her work.
I resolved that this year was going to be different. I was going to take the initiative to learn all my scripture mastery scriptures (not just crumple and smooth out every page in my triple combination with a scripture mastery item to make it easier to turn to) and keep up to date with the home-study manual, if not get ahead. I imagined myself as the shining example to all my classmates. I went to the first class of the new term with my manual, pencil, and newly sharpened red scripture marker in hand and smugly told Helena that I would no longer be needing her help. I would, for a change, be doing the work myself. Or at least that was the plan.
A month later I knew I was already over my head and would need to slog it out for a whole weekend to catch up. A few weeks later I still hadn’t done as much as open the manual, and I tentatively asked Helena how she was doing in her home-study manual, in the hope we could come to an arrangement.
“Oh, when you said you were going to get ahead in the manual, I followed your example and I’m now a whole month-and-a-half ahead in the book. Thanks. You were right,” Helena said smugly, knowing I had reverted to my old ways. I was stuck and had lost my partner in crime.
I decided that I needed a daily reminder to read my scriptures and fill out my manual. It would be hard, and wading through at least three sections of the manual in a short amount of time did not sound appealing. I tried several techniques to remind me to do at least an hour of seminary work every day.
I tried reasoning that after my favorite TV show I would do an hour every evening, but favorite shows were followed by favorite shows, and even when the evening news came on, I was still not motivated. The prayer rock placed on my pillow or where I would tread on it to remind me soon ended up in the back garden after countless bruises on my forehead and stubbed toes. Willpower was not working, and I needed a way to be a bit more diligent in my seminary study.
I decided to pray to Heavenly Father to forgive me of my laziness and asked if He would help me to get down to work. I started putting up bright yellow sticky notes on my bunk bed and desk where I would see them and be reminded to read and study. For the most part they worked. I just had to back them up with constant prayer so that I wouldn’t become complacent.
A week before we had to have all our work turned in, I still had a few sections left to complete. I ended up at Helena’s home again, but this time we completed the remaining work together, reading through the scriptures and answering the questions. Even though I had left a lot of the work till late and had struggled to catch up, seminary turned out to be enjoyable and rewarding as I learned and retained more knowledge than any previous year of seminary. All thanks to Heavenly Father and a few well-placed sticky notes.

When he was twenty-eight, Jacob married Magdelena Roschi, a lovely, cultured girl from his own village. Life was now a joyful experience for the young man, who was the principal of the high school he had attended. He was also honored by holding all of his late father’s offices, including auditor, assessor, and treasurer of Canton Bern, the second largest county in Switzerland.
In the late 1870’s, however, Jacob’s life took a drastic change. He heard the gospel, accepted it, and immediately faced persecution. He was forced to resign his position as principal, and was relieved of his county offices. But the worst shock came when Jacob’s father-in-law took Jacob’s wife and four small children from him.
Jacob felt that he should go to Zion, and in 1879 he emigrated to Logan, Utah. He led a lonely but diversified life for the next five years. He studied English and Church history, worked in sawmills, and laid track for the railroad. His sister in Switzerland, Anna Clara, forwarded his letters so he could keep in touch with his wife and children.
Those first years in America were difficult for Jacob. His daughter, Elizabeth Stowell, tells that he had a hard time adjusting to his new life and was often discouraged. But he never regretted having accepted the gospel.
In 1884 Elder Spori was called on a mission to Turkey. He arrived in Istanbul just a few days after Christmas and immediately began to proselyte. At first he needed an interpreter, but he had a unique talent with languages and in only three months had a good command of Turkish. He taught the gospel with strength and vigor. Using various methods to get his message into the homes of Turkish families, he taught French and English without charge and blessed the lives of many by teaching them the gospel. His students learned new languages, but they learned about the restored Church at the same time. Jacob also taught German but charged for this service to obtain funds for food and clothing.
In the summer of 1886 Elder Spori was called to go to Palestine. He was the first called specifically as a missionary to that country in this dispensation. Orson Hyde dedicated the land in 1841, but did not proselyte there. Elder Spori performed Palestine’s first baptism when he baptized Johan George Grau on 29 August 1886.
Elder Spori’s labors extended as far as Joppa, Damascus, and Jerusalem. It was here in the land of Palestine that he discovered how miracles can come about through small means.
By local law all Christians had to be out of the city of Haifa before the gates were locked at dusk. But Elder Spori was working in that city with an investigator who was ill at the time. The young Mormon elder hated to leave until he was sure his friend was better. That evening, with the investigator getting better, Jacob made plans to leave the city. He knew the gates were locked and that getting caught meant going to jail. As he walked along the city’s shore, pondering what to do, he watched the fishing boats coming into port. He noticed some men preparing the nets for the next day’s work and had the feeling he should help them. He stepped up and began working; no one seemed to notice him. When the work was finally done the men rolled up the nets, got into the small boat and prepared to set sail. Without a word Elder Spori also got into the boat. Before long they were on the sea. The next day the boat landed at Cairo, and Elder Spori jumped from the boat, went into the city, and resumed preaching the gospel.
After a mission of three and a half years, Elder Spori was released, and he returned to Switzerland. There he fulfilled an assignment from President Wilford Woodruff to help organize a company of Saints for their journey to Zion. It took him nearly a year to accomplish this.
Before his mission had ended, Elder Spori had received word from an almost inconsolable wife, still in Switzerland, that their eldest daughter, Katherine, had died from injuries received in a fall from a swing. Jacob, knowing well of the gospel’s ability to heal spiritual wounds, wrote his wife of the doctrines of the Church. She was touched by these new truths and became convinced the gospel was true.
Mrs. Spori applied for baptism and was reunited with her husband when he arrived in Switzerland following his missionary labors. She later bore fervent testimony and gave thanks for the eternal truths the gospel brought into her life.
Before leaving for Zion, Elder Spori translated several Church tracts into French. He was assisted by his youngest sister, Anna Clara Spori, a talented and well-educated young woman.
Finally, Jacob Spori and his wife and three children, Jacob, Magdalena, and Louise, and his sister Anna Clara left Bern for America. It was June, 1888. Their destination was Rexburg, Idaho. Jacob had been called to be the first principal of Ricks College, and the new school was getting ready to open.
Homes in Rexburg were scarce so the Spori family moved into an empty tithing granary. Their fifth child, Elizabeth, was born there 6 July 1888.
For the four years Jacob Spori was principal, he not only taught school, but was a friend of the families of the students. He would visit the homes of the Saints, especially when there was sickness there.
“At the time of the diphtheria epidemic in 1891,” his daughter recalls, “he went fearlessly to administer to the sick and comfort the bereaved.” Two of his daughters caught this dreaded disease, but he administered to them, believing they would be spared by the power of God. And they were.
After four years as academy principal Elder Spori asked for and received an honorable release from his work. He then turned to farming and began a project that was in later years a boon to agriculture in the area—he helped in the development of the canal on the Egin Bench, known as the Spori Canal.
Jacob Spori died in 1903—he was back teaching again, still doing the things he felt had to be done. His doctor had warned him that he suffered from diabetes and that he should stop working and rest more. Jacob’s reply was that he would rather “die working than die resting.”
Versatility and unwavering faith are two traits that characterize Jacob Spori’s life. He was a great educator, a student of languages, a missionary. He liked geology and mining, receiving his final degree in metallurgy when he was fifty years old. He became interested in medicine in Istanbul. Music was his great escape. He learned to play several different instruments. Science and agriculture were also parts of his life.
His life is well summarized in the words of his daughter: “He had such a burning testimony that he bore it whenever the opportunity presented itself. He used to tell us that nothing men can do will ever change the truthfulness of the gospel. All the seeming sacrifices he made seemed nothing to him compared with the peace and joy that came into his life when he joined the Church.”

Earl was sitting with Mom in the front room. From the corner of his eye, he saw something move outside the window. Earl peeked through the curtains and couldn’t believe what he saw. A woman was picking vegetables out of their garden!
Earl and Mom loved their garden. Two years ago, Earl’s dad had died. One thing that helped Earl and Mom feel better was working in their vegetable garden together. It reminded them of how much Dad liked working in the garden, and how much he loved them. And now someone was taking the vegetables they’d worked so hard to grow!
“Mom! A lady is stealing our vegetables!” Earl shouted. “I’m going to stop her!”
He jumped up and ran for the door. He was going to chase that woman right out of the garden!
“Earl, wait!” Mom said. “I’ll go talk to her.”
Earl looked out the window as Mom and the woman talked. The woman had a sad look on her face. She put her head in her hands, and it looked like she was crying. Mom gave the woman a hug.
What’s going on? Earl wondered.
A few minutes later, Mom walked back into the house.
“What happened?” Earl asked.
“That woman needs our help,” Mom said. “Please go get a box and fill it up with the prettiest vegetables from our garden. Then load it in her car.”
“What?” Earl said. “But she’s stealing!”
“She needs our help, and we have enough vegetables to share. Do you remember what charity is?” Mom asked.
Earl remembered learning about charity in church. “It’s the pure love of Christ,” he said.
“That’s right. Do you think Jesus would share from His garden?”
Earl knew the answer, but he still felt upset as he got a box and walked outside. The woman looked surprised and then a little embarrassed to see Earl. He didn’t say anything. He just looked for the best vegetables he could find. He filled the box full of cucumbers, carrots, and tomatoes, then carried it to the woman’s car. When he turned to walk back inside, Earl saw that the woman’s eyes were filled with tears.
“Thank you,” she said. “I know I shouldn’t have gone into your garden without asking, but my family is hungry, and we don’t have food. Thank you for helping us.”
“You’re welcome,” Earl said. A small smile crossed his face.
Earl didn’t feel angry anymore. He was sad the lady’s family was hungry. And he was glad he could share his vegetables. He could feel the Holy Ghost tell him that Heavenly Father was happy Earl had been kind.

During the next week and a half, our team worked hard to get ready for the regional games. If we won all our games there, we’d be playing three games Friday and two Saturday.
Friday I woke up to a gray, overcast sky. “You don’t think it will rain, do you?” I asked Dad as we drove the hour and a half to Bakersville, where the games were to be played.
“The clouds will just make it nice and cool,” Dad said optimistically.
But Dad was wrong. It rained off and on all Friday and Saturday. Games were delayed and schedules were changed. By late Saturday evening, we were just finishing the semifinal game. At the end of regulation time, our team was tied with the Tunis Tigers. We didn’t give up, though. We hung in there two more innings, neither team able to get the advantage over the other one. Then, with two outs and Bobby Simms on second, I hit a single to right field. The right fielder overthrew the third baseman, and Bobby raced into home to score.
After all the celebrating, the coach gathered us around him. “Well, guys, one more game and we’re regional champs!”
“When do we play?” Chad asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon. The weather’s supposed to be good all day.”
“Tomorrow?” I asked. “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
Coach Decker shrugged. “It’s too late to play tonight, so it was decided to play Sunday afternoon.”
I felt sick. Nobody else seemed to care that we were going to be playing on Sunday.
“The game starts at 2:00 P.M.” Coach said. “I’d like you here no later than noon. That will give us some time to warm up and get ready for the game. Any questions?” He looked around. I just stood there, feeling sick inside.
As the group broke up, Coach Decker slapped me on the back. “Don’t look so glum, Marcus. We’re one game from the championship! You’re not nervous, are you? You’re going to pitch us to the championship.”
“Do we have to play on a Sunday?”
Coach Decker laughed. “No, Marcus, we get to play on Sunday.”
“I have church tomorrow,” I said quietly.
“Church?” Coach’s smile began to fade. “Marcus, this is the championship. You can go to church any Sunday. But this is the only time you’re ever going to play this game. Now you head home and get a good night’s sleep.”
Slowly I turned and headed to where Mom and Dad were waiting for me on the bleachers. Looking at their faces, I knew that they had heard about the Sunday game. They waited for me to speak. I was quiet until we got to the car.
“Church starts at 8:30,” I remarked. “It’ll be over at 11:30.” I wet my lips. “I’d be a little late getting here for the warm-ups and all, but we could still go to church. I’d be able to give my talk in Primary.”
Mom and Dad were quiet for a moment. Then Dad said, “Do you feel good about that?”
“Dad, I didn’t plan for this game to be on Sunday. That’s just the way things turned out. If it only hadn’t rained these last two days, we’d have played the championship game tonight. I have to pitch in that game. The team’s depending on me. We’ll lose if I don’t. Tony’s the backup pitcher, and he just can’t do the job. I just have to play.”
“It’s a tough decision,” Mom commented, looking out the car window as we headed for home. “You have to make sure you do the right thing.”
“I’ll be going to church,” I argued. “Isn’t that what Sundays are for?”
“Is that the only thing Sundays are for?” Dad questioned gently.
“That’s the main thing.”
Dad took a deep breath. “The Lord has asked us to keep His day holy. We’re to worship Him. Not just when we’re at church, but all day. It’s a day of rest from our labors.”
“Playing this game isn’t work. It’s play.”
“Marcus, as a family we’ve always been careful about what we do on the Sabbath, haven’t we?”
I nodded slowly.
“Sunday has always been a special day for us. That’s the way the Lord intended it to be. That’s why we don’t go to movies or shop on Sundays. We’re careful to not do some of the things that we do on other days of the week.”
“But I can’t play this game any other day of the week. I would if I could, but I can’t. Do you think it’s fair that I let Coach Decker and the other guys on the team down? I owe them something.”
“Do you owe the Lord anything? You made a commitment when you were baptized to obey His commandments. That was long before you ever agreed to pitch for the Chiefs.”
“But, Dad—”
“Marcus,” Dad cut me off, holding up his hand. “I’m not going to tell you that you can’t play tomorrow. This will be a decision that you make. But you need to think about what you’re doing.”
“It’s just going to be one time, Dad. One time can’t hurt. Besides, the Lord has helped me get as far as I have this season. That’s what I was going to say in my Primary talk. Did He help me all this time just so I could sit home and not play in the biggest game of the season?”
“Marcus,” Dad spoke again, “do you know what a covenant is?”
“Isn’t it like a promise?”
“That’s right. But it’s a special promise between you and the Lord. Did you know that keeping the Sabbath holy is part of the covenant you made at baptism? The Lord has asked us to keep the Sabbath holy. How well we do it shows how faithful we are at keeping His commandments. And He has covenanted that He will bless us if we keep His Sabbath holy.”
“But I’ve kept the Sabbath holy,” I argued again. “This is just one time.”
“Maybe this is the time the Lord is testing you to see how faithful you will be. Was it easy to keep the Sabbath holy last week?”
“Yes. It was just like any other Sunday.”
“So if the Lord really wanted to know how obedient you are, which Sunday would show Him that, last week or tomorrow?”
We didn’t say anything the rest of the way home. I did a lot of thinking, though. I thought about the other guys. I thought about Coach. I thought about the championship trophy.
Then I started thinking about the Lord, my family, Bishop Peterson, and everyone else who was depending on me to make the right decision. I thought of the things the Lord had given me. He hadn’t ever asked for much in return. Now it was my turn to give something back. I thought of what I could offer Him. Deep inside I knew He wouldn’t care much about my giving Him a championship trophy. The only thing I could really give the Lord was the way I lived my life—show Him that He could count on me, no matter what.
I offered a silent prayer, asking the Lord to help me know what to do and to have the courage to do it. It was funny, but after that prayer, there was no question in my mind.
“I’ll need to call Coach Decker,” I said quietly as we pulled into the driveway at home.
“Do you want me to talk to him?” Dad asked.
In a way I did, yet I knew that that wouldn’t be right. “No,” I answered softly, “I want him to know that this is my decision.” Looking at Mom, I added, “And I think I’m going to change my talk for Primary tomorrow. I think I’d like to talk about keeping the Sabbath holy.”

Let me share with you a modern-day miracle which occurred a year or so ago at Murray High School near Salt Lake City, where every person was a winner, and not a loser was to be found.
A newspaper article highlighted the event. It was entitled “Tears, Cheers and True Spirit: Students Elect 2 Disabled Girls to Murray Royalty.” The article began:
“Ted and Ruth Eyre did what any parents would do.
“When their daughter, Shellie, became a finalist for Murray High School homecoming queen, they counseled her to be a good sport in case she didn’t win. They explained only one girl among the 10 … would be selected queen. …
“As student body officers crowned the school’s homecoming [royalty] in the school gym Thursday night, Shellie Eyre experienced, instead, inclusion. The 17-year-old senior, born with Down syndrome, was selected by fellow students as homecoming queen. …
“… As Ted Eyre escorted his daughter onto the gym floor as the candidates were introduced, the gym erupted into deafening cheers and applause. They were greeted with a standing ovation.”
Similar standing ovations were extended to Shellie’s attendants, one of whom, April Perschon, has physical and mental disabilities resulting from a brain hemorrhage suffered when she was just 10 years old.
When the ovations had ceased, the school vice principal Glo Merrill said, “‘Tonight … the students voted on inner beauty.’ …
“Obviously moved, parents, school administrators and students wept openly.” Said one student, “‘I’m so happy. I cried when they came out. I think Murray High is so awesome to do this.’”

On the first Saturday after Brad Rawlins returned home from his sophomore year of college, he woke up at 5:00 A.M. After his morning prayer, he put on what he used for playing tennis—a pair of gray gym shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt. The shirt was a remnant of his mission that wasn’t good enough to wear to church but also not worn enough to throw away.
After lacing up his tennis shoes, he walked quietly to his parents’ room.
“Dad,” he whispered from the doorway. There was no answer; he walked over to the bed. “Dad?” he said loudly.
“What’s wrong?” his dad asked, sitting quickly up in bed.
“Nothing, dad. It’s just me.”
“What time is it?”
“Five thirteen. I just wanted to tell you that I’m going over to play tennis, or at least hit the ball against the practice wall.”
“You woke me up at 5:00 on a Saturday morning to tell me that?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“What’s there to worry about?”
“I don’t know, dad. Parents are supposed to worry.”
“I never worry about you. You’re the most dependable person I know. How many boys when they are 15 plan their retirement?”
“I like to plan ahead. Did I tell you how my mutual funds did last quarter?”
“Brad, please leave me sleep,” his father groaned, lying back in bed.
Brad turned and padded silently toward the hall. At the door he paused to turn back to his father. “Let.”
“What?” his father snapped.
“Let me sleep, not leave me sleep,” Brad explained.
“What are you saying?”
“Poor grammar, dad. You should watch that.”
After Brad had left the house, his father lay in bed staring at the ceiling. After 15 minutes he woke up his wife.
“What’s wrong?” she asked sleepily.
“I’m worried about Brad.”
“Why? He’s a dependable boy.”
“I know.”
“He works hard. He’s faithful in the Church. How many other boys his age are ward clerks?” she asked.
“But he’s no fun. We’ve raised a 22-year-old, middle-aged son. How on earth is he ever going to talk a girl into marrying him?”
They both lay there staring at the ceiling.
It was a bleak summer morning. The clouds hung in ominous clusters. Brad pulled up to the curb in his small compact car. He heard the steady thump of a ball being hit against the only practice wall on the court. He got out to see who it was.
She wore a blue warm-up suit. Her long, dark hair was tied in a ponytail that swung to the rhythm of her moves as she repeatedly hit the ball against the wall.
He stood behind and to the left of her, fascinated more by the grace she exhibited in her fluid movements than by her tennis skill. Finally the ball hit a metal post on the fence and bounced crazily away from her toward Brad, who picked it up and threw it back to her.
“Are you waiting to use this?” she asked, wiping her brow.
“Yes, but that’s okay,” he said.
“I was waiting for a friend,” she explained, “but I guess he isn’t coming. I’ll let you use this, and I’ll jog home.”
“I play tennis, if you want to practice.”
“That’s called mixed singles, isn’t it?” she asked with a smile.
“I can give references if you’re worried about what kind of person I am. In high school I won a dictionary for a speech contest on good citizenship. I’m a returned Mormon missionary. That’s why I’m wearing this white shirt. In another year it will be worn out.”
“I’m LDS too,” she said. “Third Ward.”
“Really? I’m Second Ward.”
“Can you play tennis?” she asked.
“I’m sure I can beat you,” he replied confidently.
He was not prepared for her serve, which rifled along the line and out before he could get to it.
“Fifteen-love,” she announced dryly.
“That was a nice serve.”
“I know.”
For the first time in his life, he found it hard to concentrate on the game. He found himself entranced by her movements. She tossed the ball vertically upward with her left hand, her right arm moving the racket initially behind her, and then rapidly toward the descending ball, the two meeting in air like some rendezvous. He absorbed everything about her motion—the gliding of her ponytail, the concentration on her tanned face. He was watching her follow-through when he noticed a ball landing near his feet and bouncing away.
“Thirty-love,” she called.
“I’m really better than this,” he tried to explain.
In the next few minutes he managed to bring the game to deuce. In the process he gained a respect for her skill.
The clouds, which had been gathering in the valley, finally spilled over.
“Deuce,” she announced, preparing to serve.
“It’s raining.”
“This will only take a minute,” she said.
“What will?”
“To beat you.”
“I don’t want to get wet.”
“Do you want to concede?” she asked cooly.
“No.”
“Let me serve then.”
By this time the rain was falling heavily. They ran to his car and waited for it to quit.
Away from the court her face lost the cool front reserved for competitors and took on the ability to convey emotion. On this morning the emotion was that of sadness.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
“Jenny Thomson,” she answered, gazing forlornly out the window at the sheets of rain dancing on the courts.
“You’re really sad about not winning?” he asked.
“No, it’s not that. The guy who was supposed to meet me didn’t come. We’ve been going together for a year. We used to come here every morning and practice. Last night we got into a big argument. I thought he might come this morning and we could work out our problems. But he didn’t come.”
They talked about school, the Church, her interests, his summer job as a computer programmer in a bank.
From out of the rain, a soaked figure of a young man running appeared. He stopped beneath an enclosed picnic area and looked around.
“Craig, over here!” Jenny yelled, suddenly happy.
He ran over to her side of the car. He was obviously an athlete; he wore a red warm-up suit for the university track team.
“Get in or you’ll drown!” Jenny laughed, reaching up to tousle his dripping hair.
Craig climbed into the back seat of the car with difficulty, joking with her about the cramped leg room.
“Hey, kitten, I brought you some breakfast,” he said, bringing a small bag of donuts from a sewn-in pouch of his sweat shirt.
“I don’t usually eat in the car,” Brad said politely.
They were so happy to be together that they didn’t hear Brad. Brad observed the look in Jenny’s eyes when she talked to Craig and suddenly felt very lonely.
Craig reached up and touched her hair and grinned. “Kitten, you look like a witch. Stringy hair. Look at that.”
“I don’t think she looks like a witch,” Brad said.
Jenny turned around to face Craig. “How about you? You look like a fuzzy teddy bear that was left out in the rain!”
She turned back to the front. The car was so small that it was difficult for them to face each other when they talked.
“If you want to give me the donut sack, I have a place for litter,” Brad remarked, knowing that they probably wouldn’t hear.
“I was hoping you’d come and that we could talk,” Jenny said.
“Kitten, I need to see your face when we talk.”
Brad got out of the driver’s seat and jumped in the back, while Craig ran around to the driver’s seat.
Brad picked up the empty bag in the back and put some of the crumbs on the floor into it. He found that one of the chocolate iced donuts had spotted the upholstery.
Craig reached out and grabbed both her hands. “What we’ve got is too good to just throw away.”
“If we’re going to marry, it will be in the temple. If it’s in the temple, you’ll need a recommend. If you want a recommend, you’ve got to attend church.”
“I know, and I will.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’ve got a tournament.”
“Next Sunday?”
“I promised my brother I’d take him waterskiing.”
“When?”
“During the summer it’s hard to work everything in.”
“Say, Jenny,” Brad asked, “I’ve got a spray can of cleaner and a cloth in the glove compartment. Could you get it for me?”
Jenny released Craig’s hands and retrieved the cleaner and rag for Brad.
“Craig,” she said, “it’s always going to be that way. In the fall it’s football, and during the winter it’s skiing. When are you going to take things seriously?”
“Kitten, don’t you love me?”
“Sometimes it takes more than love,” she replied.
“What else is there?” Craig asked, putting his arms around Jenny.
Meanwhile, Brad sprayed the foam on the chocolate spot.
“There’s nothing more than love, kitten. Look, a man has got to live his life the way he sees best. Sitting for three hours on a hard bench is not my idea of excitement.”
“I don’t think it’s going to work out, Craig. Maybe we should call it quits now.”
He pursed his lips and looked at her. He leaned over and kissed her lightly. “Okay, kitten. It’s your decision. Good luck. I’ll see you on the courts.”
Then he was gone, running out into the rain.
She sat very still and watched him go, the red of his jogging suit fading into the dreary morning.
After a few minutes, the tears came.
“I keep tissues in the glove compartment,” Brad said. He got out of the back seat and slipped into the front. He sat and awkwardly studied the steering wheel while she sobbed. There were a hundred thoughts running through his mind, but nothing seemed appropriate.
As time passed silently, he determined he must say something. “Breaking up is so hard to do,” he said, recalling the lyrics of a song.
He continued. “Life is full of troubles. But just as the rain today will go away, leaving the sun to shine, subsequently the flowers to grow, giving happiness to children who view the flowers but forget the rain that begat them, so also is life.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, a smile forming.
“I have no idea. I heard it on TV once. I hoped it would apply to this situation.”
She quit crying and entered the silent brooding stage. Finally she said, “I think I got some chocolate on your seat covers. I’m sorry.”
Brad came to life, overjoyed at something to talk about. “Don’t worry!” he said, reaching back to get the cleaner and rag. He found the spot in the middle of the front seat. “Watch this. You’re really going to get a kick out of this.” He sprayed a white, thick foam on the spot. “Watch those tiny bubbles go. Look, bend down and listen. Do you hear them?” She bent down, her head next to his as they intently watched the foaming action. When it quit foaming, he wiped it up and the spot was gone.
“How about that! It does that every time!” Brad announced triumphantly.
He gave her a ride home. Jenny invited him into her house to meet her mother. She explained that her father had died over a year ago.
It was a small, white frame house with picket fence in front and a large backyard with a garden and fruit trees.
Her mother came out from the kitchen to meet him. She was a short, rounding woman with a dab of flour on her cheek.
“Do I smell bread baking?” he asked.
“Saturday is my day to bake. Would you like a piece? I just took some out of the oven.”
Brad and Jenny sat around the kitchen table and had a thick slice of hot wheat bread dripping with butter and honey.
“This is very good,” Brad said enthusiastically. “I bet this wheat was ground today, right? I could tell. It’s very moist, too. What’s your secret?”
Jenny excused herself so she could change clothes.
“I take a cup of raisins, put it in the blender, and then add it to my recipe. You can’t really taste it but it does make the bread moist.”
“It’s very good. One thing I’ve always said is that my wife is going to learn how to bake bread.”
“Jenny said she’s going to learn this summer.”
They both stopped at the same time, aware of their hidden thoughts.
Brad stayed there the whole day, helping Jenny and her mother with the garden, mowing the lawn for them. At supper time the three of them had a picnic in the backyard.
When he left, she walked him to the car.
“My mother likes you,” she said.
“I am greatly appreciated by the mothers of the girls I date. What are you doing next Saturday?”
“I’ve got a tennis tournament. Why don’t you enter?”
The tournament was an all-day affair. When it was over, Jenny had won the women’s singles and Craig the men’s singles. That night Brad took her out.
“And what have you planned for humble, unobtrusive, feminine me tonight?” she asked as they walked to the car.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My mother figures I’m challenging your masculinity by doing better than you today. She doesn’t want you to get away. What are we going to do to celebrate my victory?”
“We could go to the movies?” he replied.
“That’s not the most original idea I’ve ever heard.”
“You don’t want to go to the movies?”
“Whither thou goest, I will go. On my mother’s orders.”
“I’m willing to listen to your suggestions,” Brad said, opening the door for her. “If you don’t want to go to the movies, what do you want to do?”
She mimicked a movie star. “Take me to a nice quiet place. I want to be alone with you.”
“You’re not serious?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your faith in me is underwhelming. I’ll show you where I want you to take me.”
He followed her directions. When he pulled up the drive where she had directed him, he said, “It’s a cemetery.”
She grabbed her neck with both hands as if choking herself. “Aaargh! There’s something moving in the bushes.”
He parked the car, and she led him hand in hand past the rows of marble markers to her father’s grave. “Dad,” she said as if introducing someone, “this is my friend, Brad. He’s good with computers, fair in tennis, a returned missionary, and probably the most decent guy I’ve ever met. Say something to dad, Brad.”
“Jenny, he’s not here.”
“I know, but I come here sometimes to remember. You’re the first person I’ve ever brought here.”
Brad looked down at the marble slab. “Sir, your daughter is taking good care of your roses.”
They sat down on the lawn. She talked to him about her father—all the little girl stories of a daughter who loved her daddy. Then they walked back to the car.
It was a warm night, and the smell of flowers was rich. He reached out and said simply, “I forgot to tell him that I love his daughter.”
“Brad, I’m not ready for this.”
“I want to marry you—in the temple.”
“No, it’s too soon.”
“When you broke up with Craig, you told him you wanted someone who was faithful in the Church. That’s me.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense. I’m not completely over Craig I guess. Craig was like fireworks. You’re more like a comfortable fire on a snowy evening. A relationship needs some excitement, some brass bands. I’m still hung up on the dream of Prince Charming who will come and take me away to his castle.”
“Jenny, life isn’t that way. If the prince takes you away forever, then he’s got to arrange for your luggage. So he trades his white charger for a work horse and a cart. And if he’s been in a suit of armor all day in the summer, you’ll have some shirts to wash.”
“I guess it boils down to the fact that I’m not in love with you. I should be, Brad, but I’m not.”
“Please try. Okay?”
“Okay. My mother is going to kill me if I mess this up.”
They spent much of their summer together. Brad took a new interest in after-shave lotions, certain brands of toothpaste, but nothing seemed to change between them.
It finally happened on a hot August day. Brad had worked during the morning, but he met Jenny for lunch downtown. After lunch they went to a jewelry store to look for a gift for a friend of Jenny’s who was getting married.
“What would you suggest I get her?” she asked Brad as they browsed among the expensive items.
“Some bread pans.”
“For a wedding gift?” she asked.
“Why not?”
“You’re really hung up on homemade bread.”
“I just think it’s important for families to learn to live sensibly.”
“Well, you’re very sensible,” she replied cooly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“A marriage has got to be more than two people grinding wheat together. Don’t you ever do anything for fun? Have you ever taken a bunch of pitted olives, put one on every finger, and then sucked them off one by one?”
“No.”
“Not in your entire life? I think that’s incredible.”
“Is it too much to ask a wife to learn to bake bread?” he asked, his voice taking on an edge to it.
“It wouldn’t stop there with you! You’d want me to learn to make pickles, too! Well, aren’t I right?”
“Homemade pickles are nice,” he reflected.
“I knew it.”
“Jenny, you’re not going to get me to argue. I’m not going down to your level. I’m above that. I can control my temper!”
“Then quit shouting,” she said.
“I’m not shouting. We’ll just ask an impartial observer a simple question. I’ll go ask that man over there.”
He walked over to a distinguished man looking at some diamond bracelets. “Excuse me. Could you answer a simple question we have? Do you think it’s too much to ask a wife to learn to bake bread?”
Jenny stood on the man’s other side. “No,” she snapped, “that’s not the question we want to ask. The real question is, do you want me to be something I am not?”
The man stared at Brad on one side, at Jenny on his other side, and then quickly turned, bumping into Brad as he fled from the store.
“It’s all your fault,” Brad said self-righteously. “You offended him.”
Jenny ran out of the store. Brad followed her as she hurried along the sidewalk filled with the busy lunch-hour crowd.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going home.”
“You can’t walk home. It’s five miles. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“No you won’t. And quit following me!”
“I’m not following you. I’m walking beside you.”
They continued this way for a block.
“Don’t you ever sweat?” she asked sharply. “It’s 97 degrees out, and you’re wearing a suit.”
“It’s a summer suit. Besides, I perspire as much as anyone.”
“Not you. You’re perfect.”
He yanked off his suit coat. “Look,” he said, pointing to a damp part of his shirt, “do you know what that is? It’s perspiration!”
“You can’t even say the word sweat,” she accused.
“That’s gross.”
“See what I mean?”
“Okay, Jenny, you asked for this!” Brad shouted. “SWEAT!” Curious shoppers looked up from the store windows as Brad and Jenny rushed by.
“It doesn’t matter to me now,” Jenny said curtly.
“Does that mean you won’t marry me?”
“Of course that’s what it means. I’ve got to be me. That’s all I can be. We’ve both tried to fit into each other’s mold, and it won’t work.”
They walked silently for the next three blocks.
Finally Brad broke the terrible silence. “Do you want a mint? I saved them when I went to my cousin’s reception last week. They’re still good.”
When Brad reached into his suit coat, he found a diamond bracelet.
“Jenny, why did you do this to me?” he asked with a pained expression.
“I didn’t eat any of your precious mints.”
“There’s a bracelet in my suit coat.”
“I didn’t put it there.”
“Do you know what they’re going to do to me if they catch me with this?” he asked.
“I think it’s ten to twenty years. Maybe less for a first offense. Brad, I’m going to ask you a question, and you must answer me truthfully.”
“What’s the question?”
“How did this urge to steal develop? Maybe it started with candy when you were a kid. But now it’s out of control, isn’t it?”
“Jenny, I’m an Eagle Scout. What’ll I do? I can’t think, Jenny. You’ve got to help me.”
“Turn yourself in. It’ll go easier for you. At least that’s what they always say on TV.”
“When this hits the papers, they’ll release me as ward clerk, won’t they? Just when I got the membership records up-to-date.”
“Wait a minute!” Jenny said sharply. “That guy we were talking to! When he bumped into you, he must have slipped the bracelet into your pocket. He’s the thief. He must have been worried about the cops. This way, if the cops nab him, he’s clean. But if, on the other hand, he gets out okay, then he comes looking for us. If I turn around, he’ll probably be following us. He might even kill us for the bracelet.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Brad said.
“I’m going to drop a mint when you hand it to me. When I pick it up, I’ll turn backwards to see.”
When she stood up again, and they began walking, she was strangely silent.
“What’s wrong?”
“There are two men following us,” she gasped. “Please, let me scream.”
“No, if you scream, they will know that we know about the bracelet. We’ve got to work out a plan.”
“Brad, if we don’t get out of this, I want you to know that suddenly I realize that I’m in love with you. You’re so brave, so cool, so dependable in a crisis. You won’t let them kill me, will you?”
“I’ll try not to.”
“That’s all I get, just a college try?”
“I’m sorry. Of course I won’t let them kill you.”
They continued walking, Brad thinking and Jenny holding tightly to his arm.
“They think the bracelet is in my suit coat, right? Suppose we act like we’re very hot, and I put my suit coat on the ground while we get a drink at the park. They’ll go for the suit coat, and we’ll make a dash for it.”
“That’s brilliant,” she said. “Great thinking, Brad.”
They entered the walkway into a neighborhood park. “No, it won’t work,” she said.
“Why not?”
“If the cops come, we’re accomplices. You’ve got to slip the bracelet out of the suit and take it back with us to the jewelry store.”
Brad took out the bracelet with the next mint and gave it to Jenny. They sat down on a park bench. Taking off their shoes and leaving the coat on the bench, they entered a children’s wading pool where four children were playing in the water.
She splashed him.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, his shirt dripping.
“Just for effect,” she said. “We’re supposed to be very hot; we’re cooling off here.”
“Oh, right.” He reached down and scooped up an armful of water, soaking her face and hair.
They edged over to the opposite end of the circular pool where two boys were folding newspapers on the lawn.
“Hey,” Brad whispered, “we need to borrow your bikes.”
“You’re crazy,” one of the boys answered.
“It’s no use,” Brad said to Jenny.
Jenny looked at the oldest boy. “Please, if you don’t help us, we’re going to be killed. Trust me, won’t you?”
“Okay,” the boy said.
They jumped out of the pool, grabbed the bikes, and began peddling barefoot along the lawn toward the street. The two burly men who had been following them raced to the suit coat. Finding nothing in the pockets except a mint, they ran after the two.
“We’re going to make it, Jenny,” Brad said, looking back at the two men gasping after them a half block back.
“Brad, I’ll learn to make wheat bread.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t want to change you. Not really. I need you just the way you are, Jenny.”
They reached the jewelry store two blocks ahead of the men. Parking their bikes, they ran inside.
A lady clerk came over quickly. “You don’t have any shoes on, and you’re both soaked. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Simon, I’ll talk to them.” A large, bald man came out of the back room.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“We were here a while ago,” Brad explained. “We got in an argument about baking bread and Jenny said I was trying to change her, which I don’t really want to do at all, and we asked a man, but he was a crook, and then he left, and then Jenny left because she was mad and …”
“What he’s trying to say,” Jenny interrupted, “is that this bracelet is hot.” She took the bracelet from her pocket and placed it on the counter.
The man picked it up and felt it. “It certainly is. How hot is it out there today anyway?”
“No, what she means,” Brad began—
“I know what she means,” the man said. “You see, I’m a plainclothesman.”
“Maybe so, but I like your tie,” Brad said.
“No, Brad,” Jenny said. “What he means is that he’s a cop.”
“You mean a policeman?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Compton.”
“Don’t throw us in jail. We can explain,” Brad said.
“I know,” the detective said. “When we caught our thief, he didn’t have the bracelet on him. We figured you were either accomplices or being innocently used. I sent two men to follow you.”
“Well, lieutenant, I guess this about wraps it up,” Brad said, with a sudden bravado.
“Not quite,” Jenny said.
“What else?” the detective asked.
“An engagement ring.”
“There was no engagement ring, just a bracelet,” Brad said.
“For me, Brad, for me.”

For some reason, the last month or so, my mind has turned to a colleague of many years ago at the University of Utah. Dr. Reed Merrill was a distinguished educational psychologist. He had, for instance, done pioneering work in establishing the process of licensure associated with clinical psychology, as well as important work in educational psychology. However, he had been inactive in the Church and inattentive to spiritual things, though a good person. Then, in the early 1980s he was stirred spiritually by the Lord. I could see it when he came to visit me twice. He wrote two powerful letters regarding the comparative emptiness of his secular discipline with the fullness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. These observations meant a lot because they came from a man of unquestioned intellect and integrity. Other catalytic things were happening, unbeknownst to me, including his daughter’s service on a mission, to say nothing of a wonderful wife.

Reed called me sometime before his daughter’s sealing, asking if I would perform her sealing. I said, “I would be delighted.” I think I had an intervening trip overseas, but asked, “Reed, will you be there?”

With his typical integrity, he said, “Neal, you know me well enough to know I won’t be there unless I am fully worthy to be there.” When the morning came for the sealing in the Salt Lake Temple, I waited with particular anticipation. Then Reed came down the corridor of the temple. We embraced, and he said, “Neal, I made it!” He had come home! Subsequently, he taught in his high priests group and in various classes. It was a spiritual renaissance in his life, a marvelous thing to see. How wonderful it is when anybody comes home!

Yesterday, when I reviewed my handwritten notes used ten years ago at Reed’s funeral, they included words of gratitude for what I called, even back then, “the intersections of our lives”—Reed’s and mine. The most important thing to be said about Reed Merrill when he departed from this life was that he exited “in spiritual crescendo.” Such things bring joy!

Some years ago Sister Packer and I were in Czechoslovakia, then behind the Iron Curtain. It was not easy to obtain visas, and we used great care so as not to jeopardize the safety and well-being of our members, who for generations had struggled to keep their faith alive under conditions of unspeakable oppression.
The most memorable meeting was held in an upper room. The blinds were drawn. Even at night, those attending came at different times, one from one direction and one from another, so as to not call attention to themselves.
There were in attendance 12 sisters. We sang the hymns of Zion from songbooks—words without music—printed more than 50 years before. The Spiritual Living lesson was reverently given from the pages of a handmade manual. The few pages of Church literature we could get to them were typed at night, 12 carbon copies at a time, so as to share a few precious pages as widely as possible among the members.
I told those sisters that they belonged to the largest and by all measure the greatest women’s organization on earth. I quoted the Prophet Joseph Smith when he and the Brethren organized the Relief Society: “I now turn the key in … behalf [of all women].”
This society is organized “according to your natures. … You are now placed in a situation in which you can act according to those sympathies [within you]. …
“If you live up to [these] privileges, the angels cannot be restrained from being your associates. …
“If this Society listen[s] to the counsel of the Almighty, through the heads of the Church, they shall have power to command queens in their midst.”
The Spirit was there. The lovely sister who had conducted with gentility and reverence wept openly.
I told them that upon our return I was assigned to speak at a Relief Society conference; could I deliver a message from them? Several of them made notes; each expression, every one, was in the spirit of giving—not of asking for anything. I shall never forget what one sister wrote: “A small circle of sisters send their own hearts and thoughts to all the sisters and beg the Lord to help us go forward.”
Those words, circle of sisters, inspired me. I could see them standing in a circle that reached beyond that room and circled the world. I caught the same vision the apostles and prophets before us have had. The Relief Society is more than a circle now; it is more like a fabric of lace spread across the continents.

On one occasion President Monson told me of an experience he had with a man he met many years earlier. It's an amazing story to me.

President Monson had occasion to meet and speak with him and learned of his circumstances. The man was not wealthy, or famous, nor did he occupy a high position in society, government, or church. He was just a good man and President Monson knew that. When President Monson learned that he had not taken his wife to the temple to be sealed, he offered to officiate as the sealer when that day came and told the man he would look forward to that opportunity.

That hasn't happened. President Monson told me: "I still keep in contact with him and I continue to remind him of my desire for him and his wife." As President Monson told me of this relationship he showed very little disappointment in the fact that his efforts have not born the fruit he hoped for. He wasn't discouraged or negative as he told me the story. He remains positive and hopeful and said something profound to me. He said: "I never give up on anybody. I will never give up trying to help them." What an example!

Now some might say, "The man has had his chance. He has had an Apostle reach out to him for decades and he hasn't responded. President Monson should now reach out to someone else." However, President Monson hasn't looked at it that way - rather - his attitude has been, and I quote: "I never give up on anyone. I'll reach out to him and encourage him as long as I'm able."

One summer while I was growing up in Arkansas, my neighbors invited me to join them for a couple days of camping, fishing, and swimming at a large reservoir near Sardis, Mississippi. We spent several days enjoying all sorts of outside activities.
On our last day we were getting our final swim in before heading home. As my friends and I were throwing a beach ball back and forth, the ball sailed over my head and landed a few feet beyond me. The wind immediately started blowing the ball away from me along the top of the water. I started after it, but the wind kept blowing the ball just beyond my reach. In a short time I had reached the markers that bordered the shallow swimming area. The ball had been blown beyond the markers toward the main body of the reservoir.
As I approached the markers, I gave little thought to swimming beyond them. The ball was not that far in front of me, and I was sure I could catch it. After all, I had completed a lifesaving course and proudly wore the course emblem on my swimming trunks. I felt comfortable in water and confident that I was strong enough to retrieve the ball.
The wind, however, continued to keep the ball outside my reach. Sometimes I would get so close to it that I could touch it with my fingertips, only to see it sail off again. Finally, a gust blew it far beyond my reach.
I was not aware of how far I had traveled until I stopped to rest. The water seemed much darker and colder than it was in the shallow swimming area. When I looked back toward the shore, I realized that I was close to the middle of the reservoir. I decided to abandon the beach ball and swim back to shore. I was tired and worn out, but I wasn’t worried. I was young and felt that I would be all right.
But as I tried to return to shore, the wind that had assisted the beach ball worked against me. It seemed that no matter how hard I swam, I made little progress. My arms and legs began to burn and ache. I stopped to dog paddle and float, trying to regain my strength.
Then I heard a familiar sound—the sound of a motorboat. I was happy and relieved to soon see a man in a small boat pull up beside me and offer me a ride to shore. My arms and legs were spent. I couldn’t even pull myself into the boat, so I put one arm over the side and hung on while the stranger slowly towed me back to the swimming area. I grabbed one of the markers, let go of the boat, waved a thank-you, and swam to shore.
Fifteen years later I once again found myself in trouble. For a long time I had been swimming in a reservoir of sin. Pursuing a worldly course and seeking after things of little or no value had left me floundering in deep water. My strength was spent, and my hope was failing. The things I had pursued remained just out of my reach, and darkness seemed about to engulf me.
In desperation I cried out to Heavenly Father. Like the man in the boat, the Savior came to my rescue when I needed Him most. Through a latter-day prophet of God, He led me to the Book of Mormon. He led me along the path of repentance and cleansed me of my sins in the waters of baptism. He then placed me on high ground, where I have attempted to stay ever since.

She was raised in a cultured Church of England home in South Molten, Devonshire, and she was confused when she was a teenager by the contrast of Bible’s teachings on baptism with those of her Church and she “could not enjoy attending church after that.” She married William Williams at age fifteen, and after their first daughter was born, she began hearing about the Mormons.

Initially, Elizabeth was not interested. Even though she was not satisfied with her old church, “it was very respectable, at least.” However, she was too polite to refuse a tract when it was offered, and on a rainy afternoon began reading it. Soon she was absorbed in the account of a debate between Elder John Taylor and some French ministers.

“When I had read it all, I said aloud ‘praise the Lord. I have found the right way at last.’” She attended a meeting where Joseph Smith’s mission was explained. “To say that I was thrilled with joy but feebly expresses my feelings at that time. I could see no other way but to repent of my sins and to be baptized. I knew my people would bitterly oppose it when they knew it, and that my former friends would treat me coldly but they were worse than I ever anticipated.”

That one sentence, “It was worse than I ever anticipated,” contains an agony of heartbreak. What it meant was that her mother forbade her to reenter her childhood home. Her husband told her she must choose between her family and her faith; weeping in anguish, she refused to deny her testimony, and he abandoned her and her four little girls. Elizabeth found work in a woolen mill, laboring with the baby in a basket by the loom, and managing to support them all. Seeing her undefeated, William returned and took all four children to London. Under the law, there was nothing she could do to stop him or reclaim them.

She did not falter. Her last moment of hesitation had come on the very brink of her baptism when she looked down into the dark river water at midnight, 4 December 1851, and “felt as though I could not possibly go in it, But a Voice seemed to say ‘There is no other way.’” In faith, she took that step. “It seemed after that everything had changed. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and the gospel plan was glorious, and I covenanted with My Heavenly Father that however dark the clouds may be, if friends turned to be foes that by His help I would serve Him. And I have tried in my faltering way to do so. I have often made mistakes, and said and done things I have been sorry for, but I have never doubted the truthfulness of this gospel or hindered others.”

She spent the next six years in Bath, living with the family of a missionary, Thomas Yates, and spending her small earnings on a fruitless search for her children. “After years of fasting and prayers, and many tears, the Lord opened the way for me to come to Zion,” with the Yates family and their son Thomas, just back from his 6 1/2 year mission.

We do not know what it cost her to leave England. She only says, “I prayed earnestly to God to help me in the long tedious journey that was before me, that I might not murmur on the way, or complain if a lion should be in my path, and he answered my prayers, for I saw nothing to murmur at. My heart was filled with gratitude all the way.”

Her son tells us what she, in the patience of her faith, omitted. She nearly died of seasickness, which lasted the entire voyage. She and Thomas were married on the morning of July 22, 1863, in Florence, Nebraska, and began the trek westward that afternoon. When Elizabeth discovered that there was not room for both her and her trunk in the wagon, she thought of her carefully packed china, the loveliest things she owned, and walked every step of the way, “my heart filled with gratitude.”

“Many shed tears of joy,” she says, “on first beholding the City of the Saints.” She does not say if she was among them, but she must have been.

That same patience and gratitude deepened the love in her marriage. One daughter, Louise, who later became the seventh general president of the Relief Society, says that the only time she saw Elizabeth cry was when a cat knocked down the shelves in the cabin and broke that precious china. Thomas ordered the first set of Haviland that ZCMI shipped into the territory to replace it—a measure of love indeed, for they were struggling to make a living in Scipio, Utah, where he served as bishop and she as Relief Society president.

One of the tenderest moments of their marriage is a letter he wrote her when he was working on the railroad in Echo Canyon to pay off his loan with the Perpetual Emigration Fund. We do not know what fears she had shared in a letter to him, but we have his loving reassurance:

“Another thing my darling that I feel sorry about is that you should think I stay out here on account of something you might have said in the past in the way of complaint at not being provided for as well as you could wish, believe me my own darling that such is not the fact at all. I do not remember that at any time you have said anything that could be mistaken for complaint … My darling I love my dear humble home and you my darling wife and our dear little children. I love your society the best of all on earth, and never expect to meet with as much pleasure and happiness in this world as I get in your company.”

The love they had for each other and their five children could not, however, heal the ache in her heart. Her only son, Thomas, remembers hearing her sob in the night and, when he asked why, she said simply, “I was thinking of some little girls I left in England many years ago.”

But her children had not forgotten her, either. Susan, only seven at the time of the separation, ran away when she was eleven and sought refuge with a Mormon family, hoping to find a trace of her Mormon mother. The baby was already dead; another daughter would die a few years later. But about 1870, a missionary met Susie Williams and mentioned her to the Yates family in Scipio. With so fragile a clue, mother and daughter were reunited in Utah.

Susan did not stop searching for her sister. William, determined that the last daughter should never see her mother, took her away from England—ironically, to America, where Susan found her in Michigan through a newspaper advertisement. She joined them in Utah; all four daughters were sealed to Thomas and Elizabeth. “I have never,” Elizabeth seems to repeat, “seen the righteous forsaken.”

Sergei Leliukhin was such a person. Sergei’s wife, Irina, had been baptized into the predominant church while living briefly with her grandmother. When the couple’s daughter, Marina, asked to be baptized into that church in 1990, Sergei began to reflect on the importance of religion.
“I started reading many religious books. … The central point I came to understand was that for a believer, the church is the foundation of one’s life. When I knew I could find the strength within myself to lead a religious life, I decided to be baptized.”
Sergei and Marina were baptized into the Orthodox church in November 1990. But they continued to feel a spiritual hunger. While on a business trip in June 1992 to Donetsk, Ukraine, Sergei met some Latter-day Saints. He was curious about their beliefs but unable to accept an invitation to join them at a Sunday meeting. Four months later he received another chance.
“I was walking home from work along the main street of the city,” Sergei recalls. “Ahead of me I saw two young men wearing backpacks. Walking quickly, I passed them and approached a green traffic light. I could have quickly crossed the street, but an unfamiliar [feeling] prevented me from continuing.
“These two young men caught up with me and asked me how to get to one of the streets in the city. I said I could show them to the street. While we walked together for about 10 minutes, these missionaries told me about their church. At the end of our conversation, we agreed to meet at my apartment.”
A few days later the Leliukhins joined the missionaries at the first Church meeting held in Saratov, located 675 kilometers southeast of Moscow. “We very much liked the atmosphere at the meeting,” Sergei says. “After the service I had a desire to pray, which I did when the missionaries came over for the second discussion.”
After completing the discussions, the family members were baptized in November 1992. They learned the gospel quickly, served cheerfully, and fellowshipped others joyfully.
“The opportunity to serve the Lord in his Church has helped us in our spiritual development,” says President Leliukhin, who became the first branch president in Saratov. “We feel our own growth so much as we try to help other Saints grow.”
The family’s baptism left them confident and happy but caused concern among some of their relatives. “After our baptism we encountered misunderstandings and even some aggressiveness from our relatives,” President Leliukhin recalls. “But we were confident we would endure. Even though a total understanding is still far away, relations toward us have become more tolerant.”
The Leliukhins were sealed in the Stockholm Sweden Temple in March 1995. Today President Leliukhin serves as a district president in Saratov.

What the power of the Spirit can communicate beyond the meaning of words is clearly seen in an experience of Brother Peter Mourik, real estate director for the Church in Europe. He met with city officials, including the mayor, to negotiate the purchase of the former city hall. If it could be purchased, it was to be converted into a meetinghouse for the Church. The mayor of the neighboring German town was also present, inasmuch as a recent change in the boundaries involved both communities in the transaction.
The gentleman who introduced Brother Mourik to the mayors and officials did so in a spirit of levity. He said, “I want to introduce Mr. Mourik here, who represents this denomination … this sect … this group.” He finally got around to saying “This church.”
Then Brother Mourik raised his hand and said, “Mr. Mayor, I object.”
The mayor answered, “The meeting hasn’t even started. What are you objecting to?”
Brother Mourik replied, “Before we start, I’d like everybody to understand who and what it is I represent. I represent The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the only true church upon the face of the earth today!”
This statement incited laughter. Then the mayor said to the gentleman introducing Brother Mourik, “You’d better be careful what you say about this church!”
Brother Mourik thought that this had settled the preliminaries. But the mayor of the smaller town spoke up and said, “I would like to say something about this church. We have leased a schoolhouse to them for over two years. I have found them to be a very beautiful people. I go to the swimming pool on the school grounds quite often. One night I found a special gathering of their church members near the pool. They were holding a baptismal service. I sat quietly at the rear of the group and watched. They sang a hymn. I thought it was beautiful. Then someone prayed, and when he said ‘Amen,’ they all said ‘Amen.’ I was impressed with that. Then a teenage girl got up and spoke about what Christ and the Church meant to her. She was moved to tears. I, too, was deeply moved. I was further moved by the heartwarming sincerity, the oneness and spiritual unity of these people. When I went home, I said to my wife, ‘Let’s get more information about this church. We need to find out more about it.’”
When the mayor concluded, Brother Mourik said: “Mr. Mayor, you would make a good bishop in our church,” and they all laughed again.
But the feeling in the meeting had changed profoundly. The Spirit of the Lord was there and was speaking to the hearts of those present. So Brother Mourik was impressed to say, “Since the mayor has explained to you what our church is about, I’m sure now you understand why we need to purchase the building at the lowest possible price.”
The Church bought this choice piece of property at a very greatly reduced price. This was accomplished because Brother Mourik had the courage to bear his testimony. This testimony was accompanied by the power of the Spirit, which inspired the mayor to speak and which communicated a favorable conviction about the Church to the city officials. What the Spirit communicates to the hearts of men is beyond the power of words to portray!