Gospel Story Finder

On a Sunday in August 2014, as I sat in the compound of our residence reading a book, I noticed a group of people of my age group being led by someone older in white shirt and ties approaching me. There were about seven of them, and I felt uneasy. The men who stood in front of me were the young men of my ward being led by the president of the quorum.
All I wondered was what they were doing there. They were very happy to see me. They told me they had missed me and that the Lord needed me in His fellowship. They spoke to me about passing the sacrament and other youth activities. They then encouraged me to come to church.
I had not been active in the Church for about two years since my baptism in 2011, and I felt I had lost my path in the things of the Lord. Throughout all those times I felt like there was nowhere to look for help, that there was no one to come to my aid and that there was no turning back for me. I always had the desire to return to the Lord but often felt it was too late. When I arrived at church for sacrament meeting the following Sunday, I felt both shy and ashamed, but everyone greeted me lovingly with smiles. It was then I realized that the Lord had just used the selfless hearts of my fellow young men in a reactivation effort, as a wake-­up call to return one of His lost sheep to His fold.
I am filled with gratitude for the noble and selfless men out there, like the young men quorum members who visited me on that day, who are also putting in all their efforts to call upon other members who have fallen away from the faith. Indeed, Heavenly Father remembers His children, wherever they may be. Today I am at the point of completing my mission, having been used as an instrument in the Lord’s hands to bring many to the light of the gospel. It has been such a wonderful experience for me.

Several years ago, I received a phone call from an elderly couple who had a desire to make a philanthropic contribution to BYU-Idaho. He in his 90s and she in her 80s, were a little leery of making the two-hour drive into Rexburg and asked if someone from our office could come visit them. I agreed to meet them at their home the following week. On the day that I drove to their home, I thought about what this visit would be like. We receive various kinds of gifts for BYU-Idaho, and we deal with people in all different situations in life. We even encourage faculty, staff and students to participate at whatever level they feel comfortable.

The key is just to participate. (By the way, you can all consider yourselves solicited now, so when our callers call you can say, well, Chris has already asked.) Sometimes it's as simple as a personal check. Often it's more complicated. Would today's visit with this couple bring a gift of cash, or perhaps a piece of their farm in the way of land, equipment, or livestock? Maybe they wanted to discuss various ways they could include BYU-Idaho in their will. Whatever it was, as you know, I was ready.

After a long drive and a few wrong turns, I finally found my way to their home. I pulled into the driveway, parked my car, and made my way to the door. The man of the house met me at the door. In his outreached hand was an old, worn-out, over-sized coat. His greeting to me was simple, "Here, put this on." Then with a smile and a slap on the back, he continued, "We don't want you to get dirty, now do we? Follow me."

Now, I'm no stranger to hard work or dirt. But I was a little curious to see where he was taking me. Over the next several hours, we moved his washer and dryer. We moved the refrigerator. We worked in his garage and in his garden. We pulled weeds and pruned trees. We spend time in his living room, where he showed me books he had written, pictures of vegetables that he had entered in the county fair and won blue ribbons. He even showed me a couple of rugs hanging on his wall, that also were county fair, blue ribbon winners.

During that time we talked about his life. I learned about a humble job, supplemented by a simple farm. I learned that he and his wife never had the opportunity to have children of their own, but welcomed into their home 26 foster children, several of which they would eventually adopt. No stranger to heartache or hard times, he talked about missions and his love for the gospel. The only time I saw the slightest bit of disappointment was when he talked about being recently released from a calling that he loved--that of Assistant Scout Master. In his words, "I just couldn't do the over-nighters anymore."

Finally, after I'm sure he thought I had worked hard enough, we sat down with his wife at the kitchen table. He pulled out his checkbook and wrote what I would consider to be a very substantial check to the University. That alone would have been a great story to tell you. However, that is not the story I'm supposed to tell. As he was writing this check, all I could think about were the trials that this man and his wife had faced over the years, yet they seemed so happy, so willing to serve. In the end, I couldn't help but to ask him how he stayed so positive throughout his life. He gave me a priceless grin, looked at his wife, looked back at me and simply said, "Brother Chris, I choose joy."

About two years ago, I received another call from that same elderly couple I mentioned earlier. They had moved to Idaho Falls to a nursing home. For the first time, the Brother seems a little anxious. There was a concern in his voice. He wanted to meet as soon as possible. When we arrived at their home, we quickly sat down and he quizzed us thoroughly. Would we promise them that his wife would be protected? Had he done enough to take care of her? Would we help oversee their funds to make sure that she would have enough? We assured him that he had been frugal and smart, that she would be fine. We promised that we would come and sit and talk, that we would always be there. When we were done, he didn't have to say it. But I'm sure I heard it. I'm certain he whispered, "Chris, my joy is full."

Two days later, he passed away. He fought his fight, and he chose joy.

Self-reliance, as we know, is a blessing to us as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter- Day Saints. Self-reliance, I have been taught, “is the ability, commitment, and effort to provide the spiritual and temporal necessities of life for self and family.”1
As I returned from mission, I attended the returned missionary orientation that was organized by the Welfare and Self-Reliance Center in Benin City in 2019. We were taught by the manager that we must plan for our future and what we want to become to be successful and I thereafter reflected upon those things as I sought the Lord’s direction for my temporal self-reliance.
I decided to go into solar installation. I identified a training institution and started the training and always had faith that the Lord was going to bless my efforts if I worked hard. I have finished my training today and I am happy that I have started on my path to self-reliance.
It has been a wonderful experience for me, even as I train my hands and mind to be able to provide for myself and family. I know indeed that self-reliance is such a great blessing from our Heavenly Father to us, His sons and daughters. It has not been easy thus far, but with the help of the Lord, I know greater success will be achieved.

“It was a good message, boy,” Bill called to me as I climbed out of his ancient, army-green Plymouth and pulled my coat more tightly around me to protect me from the icy night. Bill stared down the street into the darkness, his cracked, calloused, grease-stained hands clasping the steering wheel. It was always hard for me to know what Bill was thinking. All his secrets were locked behind the wide, leathery face topped by his graying, short-cropped hair.
“I’d sure like to know the scriptures like you, boy,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But,” he added with resignation, “I figure I’m too old for all that now.” He cleared his throat, and a hoarse chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I could tell you plenty about diesel engines—I’ve worked on them for over fifty years—but I never had much time for the Bible and that sort of thing. Yeah,” he added with a sigh, “it was a mighty fine message, boy.”
I coughed nervously into my fist and muttered a short good night. I didn’t ever know what to say around Bill. I had known him all my life—at least I had lived down the street from him—and yet, I still felt uncomfortable when he was around.
Slamming the car door, I started up the front walk. I glanced about me. The porch light was encased in a misty haze of snow. I ducked my head further into my collar and leaned against the white wintery onslaught.
“Well, Daniel, you’re back early,” Dad greeted me. I pulled my coat off and shook the melting snow from it. “How did it go?” Dad asked.
I shrugged. “Same as usual,” I grumbled, dropping down on the sofa and closing my eyes.
“How’s Sister Rencher?”
“She says she feels a lot better. At least she can get up and around with her walker.” For a while both of us were quiet, and then I said, as much to myself as to Dad, “Well, there’s one advantage of home teaching with Bill. When he’s not in a talkative mood, which is most of the time, we can visit all three widows in about thirty minutes. That must be some kind of record.”
There was a rustle of paper and I opened my eyes. Dad had dropped the newspaper he had been reading into his lap and was staring at me. “What’s wrong with Bill?” he asked.
I heaved a sigh. “Nothing. I guess. That is if you don’t mind doing everything yourself,” I added sarcastically. “All he ever does is show up and beep his horn. The second Wednesday of every month. There are some things that never change: Bill’s beeping horn is one of them. No appointment. We’re just supposed to know that he’s coming. But all the rest is my job. I do the talking, give the lesson, everything.
“Why does Bill home teach anyway?” I asked, suddenly curious.
“What’s that?” Dad asked.
I shrugged and shifted my weight. “Well, ever since the bishop assigned me to Bill three months ago, I’ve wondered why he even goes. Has Bill ever gone to church?”
Dad dropped his paper on the floor. “He used to go some. Before his wife, Tillie, had her stroke. But even then he always seemed more at home in his garage dressed in a pair of dirty coveralls with grease to his elbows.”
“I can believe it,” I grinned. “He always smells like an old engine. He’s never able to get all the grease off his hands.” I hesitated. “Bill smokes, doesn’t he?”
Dad looked over at me and shrugged. “I’ve never seen him.”
“You don’t have to see him. All you have to do is look at his yellow-stained fingers. And he sucks those awful green lozenges to kill the tobacco smell. That’s why I can’t understand Bishop Clark letting him be a home teacher.”
“Those three widows never complain,” Dad said.
“But a home teacher is supposed to set an example. And don’t tell me this is my chance to get Bill to come to church. You and I both know that’s not ever going to happen.”
“I suppose the Lord knows that home teaching is one place where Bill can do some good,” Dad answered somberly.
“Do some good?” I gasped. “But he’s totally inactive!”
“You can learn something from Bill.”
“I don’t want to be a diesel mechanic.”
“Maybe you can learn something about the gospel.”
“From Bill?” I asked incredulously. “I’ll bet he has never read a scripture in his life!”
“I don’t think you know Bill. When he stands before the Lord, I doubt the Lord will be looking at his greasy hands and tobacco-stained fingers.” Dad cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Can you deliver newspapers for your brother again in the morning? He still has that bad sore throat and cough.”
The next morning I was up a little before five o’clock, tossing bundles of the Herald onto the back seat of the car. During the night the snow had stopped, and the world was buried under its wet cottony mass. I glanced down the driveway and wondered if I should take a few minutes to push some of the snow away before pulling out. Blowing on my numb fingertips and stomping the snow from my feet, I shook my head. I didn’t have time, I reasoned. And I was sure I could get out without getting stuck.
The first stop I made was at Sister Rencher’s. With most people, I didn’t make the effort to set the newspaper inside the front door. I just tossed it in the general direction of the porch. But with Sister Rencher I made an exception because it was so hard for her to get around. I snatched a paper off the back seat, stepped from the car, and sprinted for the front steps. I stopped at the end of the walk and stared in disbelief. The front walk and steps were shoveled completely clean of snow. I glanced at my watch—5:15 A.M. “Boy, somebody’s sure been up early this morning,” I muttered, hurrying up the clean walk and setting the paper inside the storm door. “Maybe Sister Rencher can get around with that walker better than I thought,” I grinned.
“That was quick,” Dad called to me as I burst in from the cold ninety minutes later. He was just putting on his coat and stuffing papers into his briefcase before heading out the door for work.
“There’s a ton of snow out there,” I remarked. “It must have snowed another four inches after we went to bed.”
“I guess you cleaned off our walks and driveway,” Dad joked.
“What did you want me to do, get up at three o’clock?” I grinned back. “I was lucky to get the papers delivered. But somebody was sure up early. Sister Rencher’s walks were completely clean.”
Dad smiled. “What about Sister Hatch’s and Sister Ballard’s?”
“Dad, I was delivering papers, not home teaching. I don’t go over that way.”
The following Tuesday, a week before Christmas, I was in my room getting ready for a Young Adult Christmas party. We were going caroling and then to Tracie Heath’s for food and fun. As I pulled on my heaviest socks and stomped my feet into my boots, a car horn began beeping out on the street. I ignored it until Mom called down the hall, “Daniel, were you going home teaching tonight?”
“Tonight? No, I’ve got a Young Adult caroling party.”
“Looks like Bill’s out front waiting for you.”
“Bill?” I gasped, coming down the hall. “We’ve already done our home teaching this month! You sure it’s him?”
“That’s his black Ford truck, isn’t it?”
I rubbed the steam from the kitchen window and peered out. It was Bill’s truck all right. I thought his ‘63 green Plymouth was ancient, but his black Ford truck was an antique, something from the early ‘50s. “If anybody thinks I’m going with him tonight—” I glared out the window again. “What does he think I do, just sit around waiting for him to pick me up to …”
“Daniel,” Mom cut me short, “you don’t even know what he wants.”
“Mom, I’m almost late!”
“Just tell him,” she said. “Surely he’ll understand that you had other plans.”
Grumbling to myself, I stepped out into the icy evening in my shirt sleeves and trotted out to the black Ford. Bill opened the door and leaned across the seat to talk to me.
“Did we have an appointment tonight?” I asked before he could speak. I flapped my arms and shuffled my feet against the biting cold.
“Christmas is next week,” was Bill’s simple explanation as he rubbed the bristle on his chin. “I had a couple of things for the ladies,” he added. “Would you like to come?”
“I have a Young Adult party. I didn’t know we had planned anything.”
“It should take only a minute,” Bill said. “You’d better grab a coat, though.” He chuckled. “This old truck ain’t got much of a heater. But I had to bring it instead of the Plymouth.” He nodded his head toward the back. “Got a little something extra for Vivian Rencher.”
I glanced in the back of the truck. A bulky object lay under a ragged canvas tarp.
“I’ll get you back for your party,” Bill went on when he saw my hesitation.
“Did you have an appointment?” Mom asked as I banged the front door and went to get my coat.
“No,” I sighed, “but that doesn’t make much difference to Bill. And I’m going to freeze in that black heap of his. No heater and the door on my side doesn’t close. Dang! Of all nights!”
Bill and I didn’t speak as we drove to Sister Ballard’s place. And as I expected, I almost froze.
When we stopped in front of Sister Ballard’s place, Bill grabbed a brown paper sack from under the seat, and the two of us started up the walk to the front door. I knocked once and, almost immediately, Sister Ballard pulled the door open and peered out at us. It was a moment before she focused, and then a huge smile burst upon her face and she pushed the storm door open and greeted us cheerfully. “I wondered if you would come tonight. Well, come in.”
We took our usual places on the worn couch with the afghan draped over it. Before Sister Ballard could drop into her chair in front of us, Bill held out the brown paper sack and announced gruffly, “Some walnuts. Off my tree.”
“Why, thank you, Bill. I used your last ones at Thanksgiving. I guard them all year. I keep them in the freezer to keep them fresh.”
“They’re shelled and cleaned and everything,” Bill added, looking down at his rough, cracked hands. He rubbed them together, and I could hear the dry chaffing sound. I studied them for a moment, remembering the message I had given last month on the Word of Wisdom. Though the Word of Wisdom had been only a small part of the First Presidency Message that month, I had emphasized it pretty heavily. I really hadn’t needed to, not for the sisters. I suppose it had been a cruel attempt on my part to dig at Bill’s bad habit.
“Why, Bill,” Sister Ballard exclaimed, bringing me back to the present, “there must be five pounds of shelled nuts here.”
Bill shrugged self-consciously and pulled on his nose.
“It must have taken hours to do all this work,” she said. “Thank you so very much.”
Bill wasn’t one to accept praise or compliments very well. Any fuss over him seemed to make him nervous, self-conscious, and tight-lipped. His only escape was to turn the focus to someone else. He jerked out his red handkerchief, blew his nose, and then to my surprise announced, “The boy’s got a Christmas message for you.”
Startled, I glanced over at Bill, who began rubbing his hands on his pants and tapping his right foot. I wanted to protest, but any protest at this stage would have been futile. With no further notice or preparation, the only thing that seemed appropriate was the Christmas story.
When I finished my choppy Christmas account, having forgotten some parts and mixed up others, I ducked my head, my ears and neck bright red with embarrassment. Bill pushed himself to his feet and said, “That was a mighty fine Christmas message, boy.” He coughed and added, “The boy can say a prayer before we go.”
Sister Ballard nodded her consent and I prayed. As we were leaving, Bill stopped by Sister Ballard’s woodburning stove as though remembering something. Turning back to Sister Ballard, he asked, “Them deacons did bring you your load of wood, didn’t they?” She smiled and nodded. “And it’s split, ain’t it?” he asked.
Sister Ballard hesitated. “Oh, I can take care of that fine.”
“You mean they didn’t split it?” Bill burst out, almost angry.
“Don’t worry about it, Bill. I can manage fine. I don’t use the stove that much anyway. Bishop Clark keeps telling me I shouldn’t fuss with my stove, that I should just turn on the furnace. I do most of the time, but on cold nights I surely do enjoy putting my feet up next to that warmth. …”
“But they didn’t split the wood?” Bill broke in.
“Oh, the neighbor boy comes over sometimes and …”
“Me and the boy will split the wood,” Bill cut in. “I’ve got my ax in the truck if the boy can borrow yours.”
I couldn’t believe that Bill was really offering to split wood! Tonight! I had my good clothes on. And if we split wood, I would never make it over to Tracie’s place before everyone left to go caroling. But Bill was already halfway to the truck.
A few minutes later the two of us were in Sister Ballard’s backyard splitting wood in the dim yellow light from a weak bulb on the back porch.
“What good’s a bag of nuts?” Bill muttered as he swung his ax furiously. “She can’t get warm with a bag of nuts, can she? I shouldn’t have forgotten. I usually don’t forget, boy. I usually check up better. I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t know what. Then I saw that cold stove. She usually has a little fire going in it. That ain’t much to ask for. These widows need to be taken care of. A sack of nuts and all the talk about angels and shepherds and mangers is fine, but on cold nights Martha Ballard likes wood to burn.”
I stopped chopping and stared over at Bill. I forgot my good clothes, my cold hands, my wet feet. I studied Bill for a moment, this time looking past his chapped, cracked, stained hands. When I resumed chopping, the caroling party seemed so insignificant.
Thirty minutes later, all the wood was split and piled next to the back door. As we were leaving, Bill warned Sister Ballard, “Now don’t you go splitting no more wood. There’s them that can do it for you, that should do it for you.”
Then we drove to Sister Hatch’s home. She seemed to be waiting for us and opened the door after the first ring, her face lighted up with a smile. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. “I just knew this was the night,” she laughed, pumping Bill’s hand and leading us both into her living room. “I even have hot chocolate and fruit cake.”
“These are for you,” Bill said, holding out another sack of walnuts.
“Oh, Bill,” she gasped as she took the sack, opened it tenderly, and peered inside. “You never forget, do you, Bill?”
Bill’s nervous agitation started again, and he jabbed a thumb in my direction and said hoarsely, “The boy’s got a Christmas message, and then we’ve got to be on our way. The boy’s got a party.”
Our last stop was Sister Rencher’s. The door opened before I even had a chance to knock, and Sister Rencher, grinning and hobbling along with her metal walker in front of her, welcomed us inside. Once more, Bill went through his ritual with the walnuts. He and Sister Rencher chatted about the weather, her new great-grandson, and the horrible condition of the city’s streets. I was rapidly reviewing the Christmas story in my mind, getting ready for the moment when Bill would turn the time to me.
Suddenly Bill stood and said, looking at the floor, “I’ve got a little something else for you.” Turning to me he asked, “Want to help, boy? You can hold the door for me.”
Bill went to the truck, tore the canvas tarp off some kind of chair, dragged the chair from the truck bed, and brought it up the walk. He staggered into the house, lugging a huge oak rocking chair, crafted and polished to near perfection. He set it down gently in the middle of the room, stepped back, and smiled proudly. Sister Rencher just stared, unable to speak. She looked first at the chair, then at Bill, and finally back at the chair.
“When your other one broke last spring,” Bill explained shyly, “I figured I’d make you another one. I used to make them all the time, you know, my daddy being a carpenter and all. I don’t figure this one will break on you. It’s not like them store-bought things.”
Bill was finished. The smile disappeared, his words dried up, and he dropped down on the couch beside me.
Slowly Sister Rencher pulled herself to her feet and crept over to the rocking chair. She touched its smooth, hard, glossy finish with the tips of her fingers. She pushed on its high back, and it began to rock rhythmically. Slowly she eased her frail body into it and leaned her gray head against its solid back. For a moment, she sat very still. Then she began to rock, ever so slowly. And as she rocked, a smile came to her lips and huge crystal tears welled up in her eyes. “Thank you, Bill,” she whispered. “Oh, how I’ve missed my other one. But this,” she added, touching the curved arms, “would put my old one to shame.”
Bill coughed and announced suddenly, “The boy’s got a bit of a Christmas message for you.”
“Let’s have a prayer first,” Sister Rencher suggested.
“The boy can pray, too,” said Bill.
“I’ll pray tonight, Bill,” Sister Rencher said softly.
The three of us bowed our heads. As Sister Rencher prayed, I understood why Bill Hayward had never been released as a home teacher.
“And, Father in Heaven,” Sister Rencher prayed, “I thank thee so very, very much for Bill and his kindness. I thank thee for the many times he has pushed the snow, raked the leaves, tilled and weeded the garden, and cared for my every need. He has truly been an instrument in thine hands. Oh, Father in Heaven, please bless and keep this great man.”
As soon as the amens were said, Bill nervously turned and stammered, “The boy’s got a mighty fine message for you.”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. I had a lump as big as my fist in my throat, but it wasn’t the lump that stopped me. My mind went blank. I, who had thought I knew the scriptures so well, especially compared to someone like Bill Hayward, couldn’t seem to remember anything, not even the Christmas story—at least not well enough to give it right then. The thing that did come to mind was a strange, strange parable. And it wasn’t even one that had anything to do with Christmas—or so I thought.
I wet my lips and rubbed my hands on my pant legs. “I guess I’d like to explain what Christmas means to me,” I stammered hesitantly. “At least what it means tonight.” I looked down at my hands.
They were clean. The nails were clipped, the palms devoid of callouses. “There were two men that went to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a publican,” I began. “The Pharisee was clean and educated and thought himself so very wise. The publican was a laborer, with dirty, calloused hands. Both men went to the temple to pray, and the Pharisee …” (See Luke 18:10–14.)
When we reached my home, Bill clasped the steering wheel and stared down into the blackness beyond the piercing glare of the headlights. “It was a mighty fine message, boy,” he said. “But I don’t recall ever hearing the part of the Christmas story you gave at Vivian Rencher’s—you know, about the two fellows going to the temple.”
He paused. “I’m not even sure I figured out the meaning. I guess that’s what happens when a fellow studies diesel engines more than the scriptures.”
“Oh, but I think you do know the scriptures, Bill,” I answered quietly. I turned to him and held out my hand. I had shaken hands with Bill before but never unless he had offered his first. “Thanks, Bill,” I said huskily. “Thanks for your message,” I continued, shaking his rough hand. “It was a mighty fine message.”

I remember on one occasion a frustrated and angry ward member speaking quite sharply and unkindly to a bishop, criticizing his leadership. As I listened I found my anger rising, feeling this criticism was unfair and inappropriate, for I had such great respect for this bishop and knew of his great sacrifices and able leadership. After the ward member concluded his comments, I was ready to provide a strong defense for the bishop and tell the ward member how I felt about his behavior.

But before I could speak, this great bishop, with his eyes moist from the stinging rebuke, replied with such genuine love to the member. “Thank you for sharing your comments,” he said. “I know that I have shortcomings, and you have shown me where I can improve. I commit to do better. Now, what can I do to make things better for you?”

A spirit came into that room and a change came over the ward member—a visible softening—and he apologized. The bishop then expressed his genuine love for this man and the meeting came to a close. I remained in the room until the ward member had left and I was alone with the bishop. I couldn’t speak; I was so moved by what I had just witnessed. It was charity, pure and sweet.

The bishop looked over at me, and he could tell that I was emotional. He asked if I was all right.

I couldn’t answer for a moment. I then told him that I had just witnessed one of the most beautiful, Christlike experiences of my life and thanked him for it.

Five years later I met some full-time missionaries serving in Delhi and knew immediately that I wanted to serve a mission. In August 1993 I received a call to serve in the India Bangalore Mission, but I was deeply concerned as I entered the mission field against my father’s wishes.
Halfway through my mission, I spoke with my mission president, Gurcharan Singh Gill, about my parents. Although by that time missionaries had been assigned to work in my hometown, my parents speak a native dialect and could not be taught by the English-speaking missionaries. My greatest desire was to have my parents united with me and my brother and sisters in the gospel.
Soon after my conversation with President Gill, he assigned me to go to Rajahmundry to assist with translation and to give me an opportunity to teach my parents. I had spent many years pleading with Father in Heaven to soften my parents’ hearts so they could recognize the truth. When I arrived after a 20-hour train ride, I could see that my prayers had been answered. My father had changed his mind and was supportive of me as a missionary.
A week later I taught my parents the first discussion. It was wonderful to watch my father, who had converted to Christianity when he married my mother, express his love and gratitude to Father in Heaven and Jesus Christ. My parents accepted the Book of Mormon and agreed to hear the other discussions. I was overjoyed.
Then my father began building a house and seldom had time to listen to anything more about the Church. Knowing the power of fasting and prayer, I decided to fast and pray that my father would be able to set aside time to hear the rest of the discussions. Soon after, we were able to continue with the discussions.
My parents accepted the challenge to be baptized. The zone leader interviewed them, and afterward I asked anxiously, “How did it go?”
“They’re ready!” he said.
I was very happy. During the baptismal service, I felt the Spirit so strongly that I cried for joy. Kommu Appo Rao and Kommu Mani were baptized in June 1994 on a very hot day in Rajahmundry. Finally my family was united in the true Church!
I am grateful to our Father in Heaven and to my mission president for sending me to be a missionary to my own parents.

One day, I was playing a good, fun game on the Internet. Then I noticed that the website I was on was advertising games with blood and gore. I had an uncomfortable feeling, so I exited the website. Later I found the same game on a different website that did not advertise bad games. I felt way better after I turned off the website advertising bad games. I am glad I have the gift of the Holy Ghost so I can be protected and comforted. I am glad the Holy Ghost helps me make good choices.
Renton O., age 10, Utah

But Te Oranoa M., age 17, from New Zealand has a different take on things. "What inspires me about this scripture," she says, "is that it doesn't say they are lost forever."

What an incredible insight! And it's one that comes from personal experience. "I, myself, fell away from the Church," she says, "but I have been able to come back."

Te Oranoa grew up in the Church and talks about gaining her own testimony and even setting spiritual goals. "But that testimony grew cold," she says.

In some ways, she found common ground with Amulek, particularly in the way he described himself to the people of Ammonihah: "I did harden my heart, for I was called many times and I would not hear; therefore I knew concerning these things, yet I would not know" (Alma 10:6).

For Te Oranoa, that scripture hits close to home. "Just like Amulek, I knew all these spiritual things, and the Spirit was telling me to do certain things, but because I was being a bit stubborn and a bit prideful, I wouldn't do them. Afterward, my testimony kind of faded away."

In the end, Amulek's story would become more than merely familiar to Te Oranoa. It would also become a turning point on the road back.

Even during the time when her faith had grown cold, she could still remember sweet experiences from before. Te Oranoa never forgot how she'd felt when attending the temple with her youth group or going to a youth conference.

"There was a pattern," she says. "I'd feel really good when I came to church, but I didn't feel good when I missed church."

There finally came a day when Te Oranoa decided to see if she could connect with those good feelings again. The first thing she did was to read through recent general conference addresses.

An October 2016 general conference address, "Learn from Alma and Amulek," by President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, woke something in Te Oranoa's soul. She recognized a lot of her own life and feelings as President Uchtdorf described how Amulek's faith had faded. She also remembered more strongly than ever the happiness she had enjoyed when her faith was stronger. Instantly, she wanted to make some changes.

"I was hoping to find something to reignite that fire of my testimony," she explains, "so I read President Uchtdorf's talk, and yes, I felt on fire!"

Te Oranoa's path back to faith hasn't always been easy, but there is a particular light at the end of the tunnel that keeps her going: the hope of an eternal family.

"Families can be together forever," she says. "That's my biggest dream, my biggest hope in life. Whenever I want to learn about something, or I find a doctrine hard to understand, I try and relate it back to eternal families. For example, why is Jesus Christ's Atonement important to me? For one thing, I need His Atonement in my life so I can be worthy to enter the temple and be sealed to my family for all eternity."

It's perhaps worth remembering that the people in Lehi's vision who fell away after tasting the fruit did, in fact, still taste it. They must have known of its goodness, even if only briefly. And they can discover it again. That's the hope Te Oranoa clings to, for herself and for others.

"You don't have to keep going down those forbidden paths for the rest of your life," she says. "You can turn back to the Lord whenever you want."

When Kazue Horikami moved from her native Japan to Hawaii as a young adult, she had little need to learn English. She spoke Japanese at home, did her shopping in areas where there was a high concentration of Japanese speakers, and later worked as a guide for Japanese tourists. The only place she sometimes encountered a language barrier was at church—a scenario common to many Latter-day Saints. But even at church she got along by building friendships with the three or four other sisters who spoke her native tongue.
Then, after more than 25 years of living in Hawaii, Sister Horikami was called to be the Relief Society president in her ward, a prospect that overwhelmed her. “Most of the sisters spoke only English, and others spoke only Samoan or Tagalog,” she remembers. “By that point I could understand other languages fairly well, but I was not confident in speaking them. Even though I comprehended most of what my sisters said, I wondered how I could possibly serve them when I couldn’t even talk to them.”
Sister Horikami knew taking language classes wasn’t an option—she simply didn’t have the time. She expressed her concerns to her stake president during a temple-recommend interview. “I told him that I was afraid—not only of the responsibility but also of creating misunderstandings,” she says. The stake president paused thoughtfully and then told Sister Horikami not to worry about the language, at least not right away. “Just do your work the best you can,” he said. She promised she would.
Days later, when Sister Horikami was in the temple, the story of Peter walking on water came into her mind (see Matthew 14:22–33). “I realized that as long as I clung to my fear, I would sink,” she says. “But if I put my faith in the Savior, He would help me do the impossible.”
“The impossible” began with simple, though powerful, efforts. Sister Horikami recalls spending long periods of time looking over the Relief Society roll. “As I studied the name of an individual sister, I would recognize thoughts coming into my mind about that sister, and I would feel promptings about ways I could serve her. As I followed those promptings, I was amazed to discover how specific and personal they were.
“That’s how I started,” she continues. “Over several months those small acts turned into relationships of care and concern, not only of my caring for them but of their caring for me.”
Sister Horikami did eventually learn English, but she’s quick to assert that it was the Spirit—not proficiency in any language—that helped her serve. “I learned that the Spirit isn’t limited by language,” Sister Horikami notes. “He speaks to all of us in ways we can understand.”

Praying for Missy
One day after a big storm, my friend’s cat, Missy, was missing. We looked all over, but we couldn’t find her. I said that we could pray. My friends weren’t sure how, so I showed them. We all knelt down and each said our own prayer. Then we got up and started looking again. A girl ran over to us and said she found Missy! I was happy that I shared part of the gospel with my friends.

“Mom, Jimmy took my crayons again and broke one.” Janie bolted into the kitchen, where Mom was loading the dishwasher, and angrily stamped her foot. “I wish I didn’t have a little brother!”
“Now, honey, I know you’re upset. But is that the way to talk? I’m sure that Jimmy didn’t mean to break your crayon.”
“But I told him to leave my things alone, and he took them, anyway. I already warned him, Mom. Now I’m going to break one of his toys!”
Janie’s mom pulled out a chair for her daughter. “Let’s talk about this first. What do you think the Savior would do?”
Last week in Primary, Janie had learned that Jesus Christ told people to forgive one another and to be kind to those who hurt you. She sat down and folded her arms defiantly. “Well, He said to forgive someone who does something mean to you. I already did that. I forgave Jimmy for getting into my stuff and told him to keep out of my room forever. He didn’t Mom. He’s wrecking all my stuff, and now he has to learn a lesson.”
“Let’s get out the scriptures and see exactly what Jesus said about forgiveness.” Mom left the kitchen a moment and returned with a Bible. She thumbed through the pages, then handed the Bible to Janie, indicating a verse highlighted in yellow. “Here it is.”
Quietly Janie read the scripture, then said aloud, “It says to forgive seventy times seven. That’s way too many times. It isn’t fair at all.” Janie handed the Bible back to her mom.
“Wouldn’t you want the Savior to forgive you more than once? Think about it.” Mom put the Bible down. “Maybe you could try teaching Jimmy how to take care of things. Jesus Christ said to do good to those who offend you—even your enemies.”
Slowly Janie stood. OK, she thought. I’ll forgive him seventy times seven. But then he’s really going to get it! She went to her bedroom and sat down at her desk. On a piece of scratch paper, she multiplied seventy times seven. “Four hundred and ninety times!” she exclaimed, dismayed. She opened a notebook and wrote “Number of times I’ve forgiven Jimmy” on the top of the first page. Underneath, she made two slashes. “That’s two,” she said aloud. “Only four hundred and eighty-eight to go.”
Later that evening she found Jimmy looking at one of her favorite books. He wasn’t being very careful and had ripped a page while turning it. Angry, Janie grabbed the book and glared at him. Jimmy scuttled backward, fear in his eyes. “Don’t hit me, Janie,” he pleaded.
Remembering her resolve to forgive Jimmy, she gritted her teeth and said, “I’m not going to hit you, even though you took my book without asking.” Then, remembering she was supposed to do something nice, she added, “Do you want me to read it to you?”
Jimmy was astonished, but he smiled happily. “Oh, yes!”
After reading the book to Jimmy, Janie didn’t feel so angry. In fact, she decided to read it to him again because he seemed to enjoy it so much. Before she went to bed that night, she got out the notebook and made another slash. “That’s three,” she said.
The next day Jimmy was an even bigger pest than usual. But instead of acting in anger, Janie always did something nice for her brother and tried to teach him the right way to do things. When she got out her notebook that night before bed, she made eight more slashes. “That’s eleven,” she sighed. “Only four hundred and seventy-nine to go.”
“Jimmy! Get off my bike!” Janie shrieked the next morning. Jimmy was so startled that he toppled over onto the driveway. He was just learning how to ride a two-wheeler and wasn’t very good yet.
“You’re supposed to be riding my old bike,” Janie said, helping him up. “Why are you using my new birthday bike?”
“I can’t go very fast on that old squeaky bike,” Jimmy whined. “Please don’t be mad at me. I was trying not to hurt it.”
Janie sighed and dusted her brother off. “Well, my new bike won’t do you much good. It’s so big that you can’t reach the pedals if you sit on the seat. Let’s see if Dad can oil the other one.”
The old bike was soon oiled, and Janie and Jimmy rode together around the neighborhood.
After dinner, Janie told Jimmy, “I’m drawing a picture for Grandma. Do you want to draw one with me?” Jimmy nodded enthusiastically. I might as well ask him, Janie thought. He’d just get into my crayons, anyway.
It was Friday night, so Janie was allowed to stay up later. Her friend Kacey came over, and they played with dolls for a while. Then they decided to play a board game. Jimmy asked if he could play with them. Before Janie could answer, Mom said, “It’s time for bed, Jimmy.”
“Aw, Mom,” Jimmy complained. “It isn’t fair. I want to play too.” Frustrated, he jumped to his feet, accidentally knocking the game over.
“Jimmy,” Mom told him, “you need to apologize to your sister.”
“It’s OK, Mom,” Janie said. “He didn’t mean to.” Turning to Jimmy, she asked, “How about if Kacey and I read you a story before you go to bed?”
Happily Jimmy agreed. He listened to the story, then hugged his sister, waved good night to Kacey, and went to bed without a fuss.
Saturday was cleaning day. While organizing her desk, Janie picked up her notebook and stared at it thoughtfully. Finally she opened it and ripped out a page.
Later, as Mom picked up the trash from the bedrooms, the word Jimmy caught her eye. Curious, she took the paper from the wastepaper basket and smoothed it out. “Number of times I’ve forgiven Jimmy,” it said. A couple dozen slashes were underneath.
Just then, Janie walked into the room and saw Mom looking at the wrinkled page. Smiling sheepishly at her mother, she said, “I guess I don’t need that anymore. It’s funny, but Jimmy doesn’t seem as annoying as he used to.”

We stopped at a pizza parlor on the way home from the priesthood session of general conference when I was fifteen years old, and as a result I learned a lesson about tithing that I will never forget.
My father, my two brothers, and I were hungry. As we waited for our order, I saw one of my friends working cleaning off the tables. I asked him how he got the job, and he told me they still needed extra help. A few minutes later he came back and told me that the manager would interview me immediately. Perhaps it was because I was wearing a nice shirt and a tie, but the employer seemed impressed. The interview went well. I expressed my wish not to work on Sundays, and he said there would be no problem—plenty of people would work for me. I was hired to begin work as soon as I could.
During the next two years, I gradually worked my way up to the position of pizza cook. Then one evening as I began my shift, I noticed one of my scheduled days had been taken off the calendar. My boss told me that if I wanted to work the regular number of hours, Sunday was open. I worked one Sunday and felt terrible about it, so I declined to work on the Sabbath from then on. My relations with my employer started to deteriorate, and I began to look for another job.
It was interesting that although I was fairly adamant about keeping the Sabbath day holy, I was lax in obeying another commandment—the law of tithing. I didn’t pay tithing at all, unless my parents prompted me. Then I’d say, “Yes, yes,” and put something in the envelope the next week. I just couldn’t understand the sense in giving away one-tenth of my hard-earned money.
I kept searching for a job but with no results. I prayed to my Father in Heaven sincerely, confident that he would help me find employment. One evening while praying, a thought came to me. Why should the Lord help me find another job if I wasn’t paying tithing on the income from my current job?
I studied a couple of scriptures:
“And prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.” (Mal. 3:10.)
I decided to obey the commandment. I went to the bank and secured a large sum of money from my savings account to pay the tithing I had missed. I took it over to the bishop’s house that very evening.
In my pursuit of better employment, I had applied for work in a shop that installed car mufflers. This was in January, and they said they wouldn’t need any additional help until the following December. Two days after I paid my tithing, someone from the shop telephoned with an offer for me to start work the next day. By the time I left on my mission, I was earning three times as much money as I had earned cooking pizza, plus a good commission. I was able to finance half of the expense of my mission by myself. Furthermore, after I had been in the mission field about a year, my employer from the muffler shop called my parents and asked if he could help pay the rest of my mission expenses.
Some might say that all these things happened coincidentally. I would be inclined to say that I was blessed because I finally started living a gospel principle. Tithing opens a door to blessings from the Lord.

Inviting friends to church can sometimes be scary. But not to Russell! This nine-year-old from New Zealand loves sharing the gospel with his friends and showing them how great the Church is.
Russell W. has a mild form of autism, which can make it hard for him to communicate. But that doesn’t stop him from making friends. When a new family moved into his neighborhood, Russell quickly befriended their son, a boy his age named Connor. Connor has a condition that makes it hard for him to sit still and focus on one thing.
Russell’s family welcomed Connor into their home, and Connor liked being there. Russell often invited Connor to go to church with him. As he went to church, Connor found that he was able to focus more and it was easier for him to sit still and be reverent. Connor’s parents saw the positive effect that the Church had on their son. They invited the missionaries to their home to learn more about the gospel. One day, Connor’s family decided they were ready to be baptized!
Russell’s and Connor’s birthdays are close together, and they were baptized on the same day. Russell was excited that he could share that special day with his friend.
Russell continues to be a missionary. He has invited several friends to church since he and Connor were baptized. One of these friends is considering being baptized too! As Russell’s dad says, “The Church is part of Russell’s life. He enjoys it, so why not invite a friend to make it even more fun?”

When I turned 21, I wanted to serve a mission. My great-grandmother, Margarita Sippo de Lallana, supported my decision even though that meant she would be alone. She had reared me since I was small, and I was concerned about who would care for her while I served.
We had been baptized in 1978, when I was 11 and my great-grandmother was 73. We soon quit attending our meetings, but concerned brothers and sisters from the Church came looking for us.
I became active again, and ward members looked forward to my ordination. “We’re going to have a deacon!” they would say excitedly. At that time our ward had no Aaronic Priesthood holders. I became the president of the deacons quorum because there weren’t any other deacons. I wondered why they would give me such a calling, but I came to understand that ward leaders were training me in priesthood responsibilities. As a result, I tried to be faithful.
My grandmother, however, remained less active, attending meetings only occasionally. But she supported my decision to serve because she knew in her heart the gospel is true.
When I turned in my missionary papers in 1990, most full-time missionaries called from Córdoba served in the Argentina Buenos Aires North or South Missions. I was sure I would be called to one of those two missions and not be too far away from my great-grandmother.
Later, when my stake president called, he told me that I needed a passport because I was going to Colombia instead! Despite my ongoing concerns, my great-grandmother encouraged me to go. Just before I left, she promised that she would return to church the very next Sunday and go to the temple before I returned. This was difficult to believe but made it easier for me to leave her.
While I was on my mission, she did exactly what she had promised. Although in her 80s, she not only attended all of her meetings but also arrived on time. And she prepared for and went to the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple.
After a 12-hour, all-night bus ride returning from that first trip to the temple, my great-grandmother arrived at our ward meetinghouse on Sunday morning at 8:30, shortly before Church meetings began. Our stake president, Rúben Spitale, told her, “Let me take you home so you can rest.”
“No,” she replied. “I’m going to church.” And she did.
After I returned from my mission, we attended the temple together three times before she passed away in 2000. Because of my mission, we were both blessed. Had I stayed home, I’m confident none of these blessings would have occurred.

President Harold B. Lee told of calling a patriarch. He and the stake president had gone to the man’s home. He had been out with his sons on the welfare farm all day and was tired and weary and covered with grime.
President Lee said, “I made him more weary when I told him what it was I had come for—that he was to be called as the patriarch to that stake.”
After the morning session of conference, where the man had borne a remarkable testimony, they went to a basement office.
The stake president’s wife was present and wrote to President Lee: “As you walked over to put your hands on [his] head, I thought to myself, He is a man with whom we socialize. We have gone on trips with him, to dances. … Now part of his responsibility is to declare the lineage from which each one has come in these blessings. He hasn’t been a student of ancient languages—how is he going to know?
“… You walked over and put your hands on his head, and a light came from behind you and went right through you and into him. And I thought to myself, Isn’t that a strange coincidence that the sunlight has come in just at that moment. And then I realized that there was [no window,] no sunlight. I was witnessing the answer to my question. … That light came from somewhere beyond Brother Lee and went through Brother Lee into this patriarch. Then I knew where he was going to get that information—by the revelations of Almighty God.”

And frankly, for a while we were a little confused about how to have faith in a miracle that wasn’t coming. How could we really have faith we’d get pregnant if miracles come according to the Lord’s will? If it wasn’t His will, then what difference would our faith really make?
I didn’t realize I was understanding faith and miracles all wrong.
As I struggled to understand what faith really meant in my situation, I was preparing for our last round of a fertility treatment. Three rounds had already failed, and my doctor didn’t recommend attempting more than four. I didn’t have much hope that this time would be different.
That night, I laid in bed pondering miracles. As I did, I internalized something important: I wasn’t supposed to have faith in a miracle itself. I was supposed to have faith in Jesus Christ. And I did (and still do) have faith in Him.
The next day I listened to the Primary song, “The Miracle.” The chorus says:
“Jesus is a God of miracles;
Nothing is at all impossible to Him,
But I know this:
Of all His miracles, the most incredible must be
The miracle that rescues me.”1
I suddenly felt like the answers to my questions were coming to my mind:
First, I had already learned that I needed to focus my faith on Christ, not the miracle I was seeking. I believed in Him and knew that Heavenly Father and the Savior had the power to answer our prayers.
Second, our faith in the Savior does make a difference. President Russell M. Nelson said: “The mountains in our lives do not always move how or when we would like. But our faith will always propel us forward. Faith always increases our access to godly power.”2
Third, I felt strongly that if having a baby as soon as we wanted wasn’t the Lord’s will, we would be blessed with other miracles, like peace, spiritual guidance, and joy.
And finally, I realized that the most important miracle in my life had already happened—the Savior suffered and died for me. He took upon Himself my sorrows, weaknesses, sicknesses, and even all my complicated emotions surrounding infertility. He is the ultimate miracle that makes everything else OK. And as President Nelson said, “The Savior is never closer to you than when you are facing or climbing a mountain with faith.”3

The sound of a single violin is the opening of a perennial theater favorite, Fiddler on the Roof. The production staged by the Champaign Illinois Stake was not only a success as far as the audience was concerned, it was a life-changing experience for the first violinist, Michelle Davis. Because of the love that the cast members gave her and her subsequent study of gospel teachings, she asked to be baptized. Another nonmember, Aaron Wilhelm, asked to hear the discussions and was convinced of the gospel’s truth but must wait until he turns 18 to be baptized.
The stake president, Joseph R. Larsen, directing from a wheelchair, helped guide stake members and friends in the musical production. Often whole families became involved in acting, singing, dancing, or behind-the-scene activities. The cast put on four performances for large, appreciative audiences.

Four-year-old Tony stood at the front door with his nose pushed against the screen.
Finally he turned to Mother and said excitedly, “He’s coming, Mother! Scott’s coming home!”
Opening the door, Tony ran down the steps to meet his brother. “Hi, Scott!” he called. “I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been waiting all day long.”
“Well, here I am,” said Scott. But he didn’t sound nearly as excited as Tony.
“Can we play now, Scott?” Tony asked, running to keep up with his big brother. “I have the game all ready to start.”
“I can’t play today, Tony. I have other things to do. I’m going over to Joe’s house,” Scott answered as he hurried inside, leaving his little brother far behind.
By the time Tony reached Scott’s room, his big brother had almost finished changing into his play clothes.
“Can I go with you, Scott?” Tony asked eagerly. “I like to go to Joe’s house.”
“Of course not!” Scott snapped.
“But I’ll be good, and I’ll do exactly what you say,” Tony promised.
“Well, you still can’t go! We’re going to play ball, and you’re not big enough,” Scott explained. “You’re too little to be tagging along everywhere I go.”
“I just wanted you to play with me.”
Tony said in a quiet voice, blinking fast to keep the tears from spilling over.
Scott knew Tony was about to cry, but he just didn’t care right then. All he wanted to do was get away and play ball with the boys.
As Scott ran out the front door, he called, “I’ll play with you one day next week, Tony. You go play with your trucks now.”
Once again Tony was left alone. He stood at the front door and watched his brother run down the sidewalk and turn the corner to Joe’s house.
Scott knocked on Joe’s door. “Here I am,” he said when Joe answered the door. “Are you ready to play?”
Joe had a surprised look on his face. He stammered a little bit as he explained, “I didn’t know you were coming over today. I promised Beth I’d play with her.”
“Beth?” Scott echoed in disbelief. “You mean you’re playing with your little sister?”
“Sure. I promised this morning I’d play with her when I got home from school. But come on in. You can play too,” Joe suggested. “You ought to see what an imagination she has!”
Joe grinned as he led his friend to his sister’s room. Scott stopped in the doorway. He couldn’t believe his eyes. A small table and four chairs were set up in the middle of the room. Three dolls were propped up on three of the chairs and Joe sat down on the other. Beth was setting the table with her toy dishes and pretending she was the mother. Joe pretended right along with her.
Scott suddenly felt very strange. After all, Joe’s little sister was the same age as Tony, and Joe seemed to enjoy playing with her.
Scott remembered how Tony had been waiting at the door for him to come home and then almost begged him to play. He shifted his feet and cleared his throat. Finally he said, “Say, Joe, do you mind if I go home a minute and bring Tony back to play with us?”
“That would be great!” Joe answered. “I’m sure Beth would much rather feed real people than dolls.”
Scott ran back to his house and into his brother’s room. Tony was all alone in the middle of the floor with his fire truck. His face lighted up when he saw his brother. “Will you play with me now, Scott?” he asked. “Do you have time?”
“Yes, I do have time, Tony,” Scott answered. “Come on. Let’s ask Mother if you can go with me.”
Tony looked up eagerly into his big brother’s face. “Am I big enough now to go with you, Scott?”
Scott squeezed Tony’s hand and grinned. “You’re not too little and you’re not too big. You’re just right! Let’s go.”

Recently I reviewed an essay from an applicant from the United States before I made a call to interview her. With her permission and changing names and places, I want to share it with you:
"Everyone has setbacks. My setback isn't very original since it seems like many parents these days get divorced. It's sad to think that there are only a few people I know with parents that are still together. My parents divorced when I was about five years old. At the time, I thought my dad would be back in just a couple of days, but as I got older I realized my parents would never get back together. I grew up in Flagstaff my whole life, but when they separated my dad went to live in Denver, and never came back. Growing up I went back and forth from Flagstaff to Denver.
"On breaks I would visit my dad and meet him halfway in a little town called Fruita between Wendy's and McDonald's. In that parking lot, a lot of tears were shed knowing I would be leaving one parent to be with another. The older I got, the more responsibilities I gained and the harder it was to visit my dad. I feel like I missed out on precious moments that could have been spent with my dad."
I then called this young woman and we became acquainted. We talked about her sad essay. I wanted her to understand something about the spirit of BYU-Hawaii. She had visited the PCC before and remembered the beautiful temple on the hill. I said, "Did you know the temple is closed on Sundays? We don't hold church there."
"Then what is it for?" she asked.
"It's where we perform weddings." I responded. We had talked earlier about the Honor Code, the law of chastity and other important parts of LDS culture on our campus. I said, "Marriage is very important to members of our faith. Many students at BYU-Hawaii date and get married. And when they marry they do it in the temple." I explained that in the temple, "We do not marry for just this life, but also for eternity. There, we are promised by the authority of God, to be sweethearts forever and that our children will always be ours if we keep God's commandments. We believe that marriage for time and eternity is part of God's plan for happiness."
"That is beautiful," she said. I could tell she was touched.

I was shopping with my mom and I saw some money on the floor, so I told my mom. She picked up the bills, and it was $430! I did what Heavenly Father would want me to do and took the money to the service counter. They asked for our names and phone number. The employee called us about 10 minutes later and said the owner had claimed the money and had left $10 for me as a reward for being honest. It gave me a good feeling.