Gospel Story Finder

I realized that our special communication had vanished, but I was still shocked one day to open my mail and find a wedding announcement from Emily. Even more surprising was the absence of the word temple in the announcement.
I rushed home that weekend and headed straight for Emily’s. There we talked—talked in the almost forgotten way we had that eternal year ago. She had only known Ted two months, but he was the most handsome, intelligent, popular guy on campus. They would both finish college, and then Ted would go on to dental school. His folks had already agreed to help them with expenses, so that would be no problem. After he graduated, Emily joked, all they would have to do is sit around and rake up the money.
Once again I had begun to feel close to Emily, when suddenly, I heard myself wondering out loud why there had been no mention of the temple on her announcement. “Well, we can’t,” she said, her flippant attitude not quite covering the concern I sensed. “Ted’s a Baptist in the first place, and besides, we want to be married in his parents’ ski lodge and write our own ceremony. A wedding should be really personal and meaningful, not just the same words for everyone. Ted will join the Church someday. But even if he doesn’t, my dad’s not a member and it hasn’t stopped my mother from being active. It won’t stop me either.”
By the time Emily was through with her well-practiced little spiel, her defiance had built a wall between us once again. What could I say? After a few moments of fumbling chatter to try to ease the discomfort, I said goodbye.
Three weeks later I attended Ted and Emily’s ski lodge wedding. Contrary to my expectations, it was a very striking event—though not religious in any way. They both read poetry to each other for the ceremony, while a flute played lightly in the background. After there was dancing, with punch for us Mormons and champagne for the others. Ted’s parents were super rich, I could tell, and they had just about planned the whole wedding. They were deliriously happy with their new daughter-in-law (and probably a little from the champagne, too). But I noticed Emily’s mom had really red and swollen eyes—like she’d been crying a lot. Mothers are that way—especially when it’s their only child.
Surprisingly enough, Emily did stay active in the Church. With all her school work and married duties, she attended her meetings faithfully and also served as the assistant librarian. She and Ted lived in an apartment in our ward and I saw her quite often. She always gave me glowing reports of marriage and told how great Ted was to her. “What a life,” I thought.
Six months later Karen married a returned missionary who was just completing his master’s degree in education. They were married in the Logan Temple, so I couldn’t go, of course. But I did attend the reception in our cultural hall, and it was really beautiful. After the wedding Karen and David honeymooned on their way to California, where he would teach in a junior college. Not exactly raking in the money, but they seemed very happy, and I had a sense of well-being just talking to them.
Well, that left me—21 and the old maid of the gleesome threesome. I had never dated quite as much as blonde, beauty-queen Emily or smart, vivacious Karen, but I never thought it would come to this. I sometimes felt that Karen and Emily had married rather young and was sure I wasn’t of old maid vintage yet. But then, a lot of my other friends were getting married too, and I began wondering, “Am I right and the rest of the world wrong?” Relatively speaking, I was panicked.
Just after Karen’s wedding I started going with Allen Johnson. He was great! Really everything I’d ever wanted—kind, intelligent, a great conversationalist—and he liked to do really fun things for dates, like candlelight dinners in the canyon and roller skating downtown after the stores were closed. Only one problem—Allen was not a member of the Church. I had never really intended to start dating him, but he kept insisting and was so cute about it, I couldn’t resist.
We’d been dating off and on for nearly a year when, out of the blue, he popped the big question. “I love you,” he said. “I want you to be my wife.” I gave him a flat no at first and explained, as I had many times before, about my religious beliefs. He told me to think about it.
Believe me, when you’re twenty-two and haven’t even had another offer, and you’ve never enjoyed being with anyone so much in your life, and your two best friends have been married over a year and are both expecting babies, and one of them is married to a nonmember and couldn’t be happier, I tell you, you think about it. And I thought about it some more.
I kept seeing Emily now, coming to church radiant and excited about everything she was doing. “No problems at all,” she would say. “He’s really very liberal. ‘You go to your church and I’ll go to mine.’ Only he doesn’t even go to his.” But in the back of my mind I could also see Emily when we were younger: praying her nonmember dad would baptize her, wondering if her dad would take her to the Primary daddy-daughter party, trying to pretend it didn’t matter when he went golfing instead of coming to her seminary graduation. But then childhood is such a small part of life. What difference does it really make in the long run? And so I continued to think about Allen.
Karen and Emily, still doing things together, had baby girls within a week of each other. I took a pink dress to Emily’s little Julie and absolutely fell in love with her. Karen’s mother told me in church one day that Karen, David, and their little Melissa would be coming in March to show off the baby and get her blessed where Grandpa and all three of Karen’s adoring older brothers could stand in the circle.
Then came the first Sunday in March. I’ll never forget that day. Just after Sunday School Bishop Edwards asked me if I could come to his office an hour before fast meeting for a little talk. Well, I know the bishop doesn’t just call people in for a little talk for no reason. I wondered what I had done—or what I was going to do. But I did tell him I would be there.
At three o’clock I found myself stepping on the rich blue carpeting of the bishop’s office and then staring into the eyes of a man who, it seemed, instantly knew everything about me. I had known Bishop Edwards for a long time. He had been my Sunday School teacher when I was in junior high school and had been bishop now for a couple of years. I hadn’t known him as a bishop too well since I spent many Sundays in my student branch at school. But now, as I looked at him, I knew what a wonderful man he was and the great power he represented.
After a few minutes of small talk about school, family, and whatever, he got to the point of this meeting. “Today as I looked over the congregation, my eyes rested on you,” he said intensely, “and as clearly as we have been speaking to each other, a voice said to me, ‘That girl needs to go on a mission.’” I was stunned! That was the last thing I expected him to say. Me? On a mission? His voice interrupted my thoughts.
“I can see by your expression that you didn’t receive the same inspiration. It must come as quite a surprise. But it’s something you don’t have to decide right now. You think about it and be sure to include your parents and the Lord in your decision. Just let me know when you’ve found your answer.”
A few moments later I walked out of the door, and the fluorescent lighting of the hall hit me with the reality of the situation. I figured in two years I’d really be an old maid. But two years might give Allen time to join the Church on his own. It would give me a chance to find myself. And most important, it would be a chance to get closer to the Lord and serve his children more than I had ever done, I found an empty room and knelt in prayer, asking my Heavenly Father to help me make the right decision. When I stood, I felt a certain calm, even though I still didn’t feel that I had a positive answer.
As I made my way down the stairs and into the chapel, I met Emily and her baby in the foyer. It was her first time back to church since Julie’s birth. We talked for a minute and then entered the chapel. Emily and her mother sat in the row in front of me, and just before the meeting, Emily leaned back guiltily and whispered to me, “I forgot this was fast Sunday until I looked at the program. We just finished eating a turkey dinner at Ted’s, so I guess I’ll have to fast twice next month.” I smiled and just then my stomach growled uncomfortably, testifying to the fact that I had remembered.
Through the rows of heads and shoulders that I saw from my position on the fourth row from the back, I caught a glimpse of Karen and the rest of her family taking up an entire center bench. I was glad that she had made it but sorry I’d missed her before the meeting. I’d have to hurry to the front after the closing prayer to talk to her.
After the songs and announcements were over and after we had taken the sacrament, Bishop Edwards stood behind the pulpit and said, “This afternoon we have a special treat. I know many of you have known Karen Evans since she was a little girl.” Emily looked back at me and winked knowingly, but then turned her head sharply forward as the bishop went on. “Well, this afternoon Karen, now Karen Sanders, has brought her own little girl to receive a name and a blessing from her husband. Assisting in the circle will be her father and brothers.”
As I watched David take his little girl from Karen and carry her almost reverently to the front, I could see a side view of Emily. Tears were rapidly filling her deep blue eyes and streaming down her face onto Julie’s downy head. Her shoulders shook violently as she buried her head in her baby’s neck. Emily’s mother tenderly put her arm around her daughter’s throbbing shoulders, and I could see that she, too, was crying. Emily looked up, and I heard her gasp in a desperate whisper, “Oh Mama! Who is going to bless my baby?”
“I bless you, Melissa, with a sound mind and body,” I heard David Sanders say at the front of the room, “and that you will live a righteous life, that when the time comes, you will meet a choice son of our Father in heaven, one who honors his priesthood and who will take you to the temple of the Lord to be sealed to him for eternity.” Through the entire blessing and for the rest of the meeting, Julie’s baby shawl absorbed her tears.
And now, even though a year has passed, and even though the dark-haired women in this once strange country contrast vividly with blonde Emily, whenever my companion and I are out tracting, or we go to a branch meeting and I see a mother and baby alone, something grabs at my heart. For I keep seeing Emily.

by Kim R. Burningham
When the teenagers of the Bountiful 29th Ward speak of their grandparents, the listener could get confused. True, they might be referring to their mother’s parents or their father’s parents, but they might also be talking about their “adopted” grandparents.
The bishopric youth committee of the ward decided to embark on what has turned out to be an exciting service project. Near the ward are two care centers where a large number of aging patients reside. Some of the patients have no family, or if they do, the family lives some distance away from the care center and is unable to visit often. It was decided that if every young person in the ward were to adopt one of the patients as a “grandparent,” the young people could provide some much-needed companionship for the lonely patients.
Youth in the ward try to visit their “grandparents” at least once a week. Sometimes they play chess with them or read to them. Often they just talk. The grandparents love to reminisce, and they are happy for the new friends. When Kim Bailey and Julie Bradford were visiting with Billy, a semiretarded patient at the care center, he looked up at them and said simply, “Do you mind if I like you?” Julie and Kim found that it was easy to be friends.
Members of the Beehive class and several of the other girls have quilted lap blankets for their grandparents. Shelley Moss took the quilt to her grandmother for a Christmas present. “When she received it we all cried, and it made the whole adopt-a-grandparent program worthwhile. Now every time I go to Della, my quilt is folded nicely on the edge of the bed.”
Kathleen Kirkham, president of the Mia Maid class, explained that “many of our class members are at the point where they don’t have to go to visit their grandparents, but they want to go.”
Tuevo Jones, a priest, said that “although it may seem a bit of a bother, I always walk out of the care center with a better feeling than when I went in.”

“I believe my first experience in having the courage of my convictions took place when I served in the United States Navy near the end of World War II.
“Navy boot camp was not an easy experience for me, nor for anyone who endured it. For the first three weeks I was convinced my life was in jeopardy. The navy wasn’t trying to train me; it was trying to kill me.
“I shall ever remember when Sunday rolled around after the first week. We received welcome news from the chief petty officer. Standing at attention on the drill ground in a brisk California breeze, we heard his command: ‘Today everybody goes to church—everybody, that is, except for me. I am going to relax!’ Then he shouted, ‘All of you Catholics, you meet in Camp Decatur—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!’ A rather sizeable contingent moved out. Then he barked out his next command, ‘Those of you who are Jewish, you meet in Camp Henry—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!’ A somewhat smaller contingent marched out. Then he said, ‘The rest of you Protestants, you meet in the theaters at Camp Farragut—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!’
“Instantly there flashed through my mind the thought, ‘Monson, you are not a Catholic; you are not a Jew; you are not a Protestant. You are a Mormon, so you just stand here!’ I can assure you that I felt completely alone. Courageous and determined, yes—but alone.
“And then I heard the sweetest words I ever heard that chief petty officer utter. He looked in my direction and asked, ‘And just what do you guys call yourselves?’ Until that very moment I had not realized that anyone was standing beside me or behind me on the drill ground. Almost in unison, each of us replied, ‘Mormons!’ It is difficult to describe the joy that filled my heart as I turned around and saw a handful of other sailors.
“The chief petty officer scratched his head in an expression of puzzlement but finally said, ‘Well, go find somewhere to meet. And don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!’
“As we marched away, I thought of the words of a rhyme I had learned in Primary years before:
Dare to be a Mormon;
Dare to stand alone.
Dare to have a purpose firm;
Dare to make it known.
“Since that day there have been times when there was no one standing behind me and so I did stand alone. How grateful I am that I made the decision long ago to remain strong and true, always prepared and ready to defend my religion, should the need arise.”

Melissa got her first credit card when she went away to college. Her parents, who helped her apply for the card, told her it was for emergency use only. At first, Melissa followed that advice closely, usually consulting her parents before she made any purchases on the card.
“At first, I didn’t use my card all that much,” she says. “The problem was, my parents didn’t really explain how credit worked. In fact, I saw my mom use her credit card all the time to buy things at the store. She never thought to tell me that she only bought things she knew she could pay for in full every month when the bill came.”
Married while she was still in college, Melissa and her husband soon longed for the comfortable lifestyle they had enjoyed at home with their parents.
“We felt that we deserved most of the things we purchased with our credit card. We never stopped to consider if we could afford it.”
Soon Melissa and her husband were charging necessities like groceries and gas for the car on credit cards because all their available cash was used up paying the minimum balance on several credit cards. Finally things were so bad that Melissa sought help from her parents.
“It was really embarrassing to have to go to my dad and tell him what we had done. We were really lucky that my dad was in a position to help us.”
But even with help and new knowledge about how credit works, it hasn’t been an easy road, says Melissa. In addition to having to check in with her dad for several months after he bailed them out, paying the loan back to her father has meant several years of a very restrictive budget. But Melissa says the sacrifice has been worth it.
“I felt like I was in prison before. Now, even though I don’t have as much money to spend, I feel a real sense of freedom. Getting out of debt is worth whatever it takes.”

Late in the day on June 7, 1990, mission companions Manuel Navarro and Guillermo Chuquimango were walking back to their house. They enjoyed being missionaries—working hard, visiting different regions of Peru, and bringing people to Jesus Christ.
Their current area, Huaraz, could be dangerous at night though. A revolutionary group called Sendero Luminoso, or the Shining Path, had been warring with the Peruvian government for more than a decade. Lately, their attacks had become more aggressive as rising inflation and economic strife beset the country.
To help keep the missionaries safe, the five missions in Peru set curfews and restricted missionary work to the daytime. But this evening, Elder Navarro and Elder Chuquimango were feeling happy and talkative. They had just taught a gospel lesson and had about 15 minutes to get home.
As they walked and chatted, Elder Navarro spotted two young men a block or so ahead of them. They were pushing a yellow car. Manuel thought about lending a hand, but the men soon started the car and drove off.
A short time later, the missionaries approached a park near their home. The yellow car was parked about five feet from where they walked. Nearby was a military base.
“It looks like a car bomb,” Elder Chuquimango said. Elder Navarro saw some people running away, and in that instant the car exploded.
The blast slammed into Elder Navarro, throwing him into the air as shrapnel whizzed around him. When he hit the ground, he was terrified. He thought of his companion. Had he taken the brunt of the explosion?
Just then he felt Elder Chuquimango pick him up off the ground. The park looked like a war zone as soldiers from the base—the bomb’s apparent target—fired their guns past the smoldering remains of the car. Leaning on his companion, Elder Navarro managed to walk the rest of the way home.
When they arrived, he went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His face was bloody, but he could not find a wound on his head. He simply felt faint.
“Give me a blessing,” he told his companion. Elder Chuquimango, who had received only minor injuries, placed his trembling hands on Elder Navarro’s head and blessed him.
Not long after, at the hospital, Elder Navarro fainted from loss of blood. He urgently needed a transfusion. Saints from Huaraz came to the hospital, hoping to donate blood, but none of them had the right type. Doctors then tested Elder Chuquimango’s blood and found him to be a perfect match.
For a second time that night, Elder Chuquimango saved his companion’s life.

Remember Abinadi and Alma? Abinadi infuriated wicked King Noah with his courageous testimony of the Lord Jesus Christ. Eventually this great missionary offered the ultimate sacrifice for his witness and faith but not before his pure testimony touched one believing heart. Alma, one of King Noah's priests, "repented of his sins", [accepted Jesus as the Christ,] and went about privately among the people, and began to teach the words of Abinadi" (Mosiah 18:1). Many were converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ as a direct result of Abinadi's powerfully borne testimony of the Savior, believed by one soul Alma. This also serves to illustrate that we do this without regard to numbers for every souls is precious to the Lord.

I recall that not too long ago I became acquainted with a precious young woman named Sharon living in Brisbane, Australia. She had cystic fibrosis and had in the last few years spent nearly as much time in the hospital as she had in her home. She was downcast and desperate, feeling that God had forgotten her and that there was no chance for her. But a priesthood blessing told her to trust in the Lord with all of her heart and lean not to her own understanding and promised that He would guide and direct her. And then came the words that somewhat frightened him who was pronouncing the blessing: “Sharon, there will come in your lifetime medical advances which will correct the problem and alleviate the challenges that you are facing.”
Within thirty days, in Melbourne, Australia, there came a medical announcement of a new drug, experimental in nature, that showed promise in combating cystic fibrosis. Sharon applied for treatment, and it has been successful. Today, she spends very little time in the hospital; the rest of her time is spent preparing for a career.

I attended with my family the branch of the Church in Frankfurt, Germany. We were blessed with many wonderful people in our little branch. One was our branch president, Brother Landschulz. …
One Sunday, President Landschulz asked if he could speak with me. …
[He] invited me into a small classroom—our chapel did not have an office for the branch president—and there he extended a call to me to serve as deacons quorum president.
“This is an important position,” he said, and then he took his time and described why. He explained what he and the Lord expected of me and how I could receive help.
I don’t remember much of what he said, but I do remember how I felt. A sacred, divine Spirit filled my heart as he spoke. I could feel that this was the Savior’s Church. And I felt that the calling he had extended was inspired by the Holy Ghost. I remember walking out of that tiny classroom feeling quite a bit taller than before. …
… I felt honored, and I wanted to serve to the best of my ability and not disappoint either my branch president or the Lord.
I realize now that the branch president could have merely gone through the motions when he called me to this position. He could have simply told me in the hallway or during a priesthood meeting that I was the new deacons quorum president.
Instead, he spent time with me and helped me understand not only the what of my assignment but, much more important, the why. …
… It is an example to me of the motivating power of priesthood leadership that awakens the spirit and inspires action.
President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, “The Why of Priesthood Service,” Liahona and Ensign, May 2012, 58.

A similar scenario is played out in Cebu, in the southern part of the Philippines. Sister Hilda Bactin could not make it through the makeshift walkways that lead to people’s homes without the help of her companion, Sister Amy Andersen. Sister Bactin has polio, yet she carries on.

“My feeling is that I want to share the gospel of Jesus Christ. I love people, and my mission is everything I thought it would be,” says Sister Bactin.

She doesn’t want to talk about her disability. To her, it’s not really an issue. Sister Bactin was going to serve a mission. That much was certain. “When I was baptized I told myself I would become a missionary,” she recalls. Less than two years later, the goal was being fulfilled.

“Seeing [Sister Bactin] struggle to get to different places we go, and seeing her desire humbles me a lot,” says her companion.

Another member, many miles away, shared the gospel in correspondence to a friend in Richmond, Virginia. A wonderful experience followed. Two missionaries were tracting one day in Richmond. One had been ill; the other felt uneasy as they walked the streets, knowing that his companion was not at his best. Both desired to persevere, however.

After two hours of having little success, they knocked on a door and introduced themselves as missionaries with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “Oh, yes,” the woman replied, “Ann Smith sent you.” The elders looked at each other, shook their heads, then told her they were just knocking at the doors in the neighborhood and that no person in particular had sent them to her. She invited them in; the husband and other family members were present in the room.

She then told the missionaries something that caused them to marvel. She said, “Just an hour or two ago I finished reading a letter that I had received today from my dearest friend who lives in California. A year ago her husband and she were converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and were recently married in the temple. When we last heard, their marriage was falling apart, and she confided in me the sad situation. But today I received this ten-page letter telling me all about your church and the marvelous change it has made in their lives.”

She allowed the missionaries to read the contents of that letter, which covered Relief Society, Primary, Sunday School, MIA, and much, much more. Then they read a short note at the bottom, which said, “I will be sending two missionaries to your house to teach you more about the Church.”

After hearing the elders’ message, she said, with tears streaming down her face, “I believe the Lord sent you to us.”

When members and missionaries work faithfully together, they become as one and the Lord can use them to achieve his purposes among his children. The Lord had united as one the efforts of this faithful member and these diligent missionaries, to bring this family instruction which, if followed, will bring them joy and peace beyond measure and lead them back into the presence of our Heavenly Father.

Next came a test of faith. Paula’s mother, who is a member of the Catholic faith, accepted an invitation to listen to the missionary discussions. Paula and her younger sister, Patricia, became enthusiastic investigators. They listened, read, and prayed. They attended meetings and developed a fervent conviction that the gospel was true. Peace came with their new beliefs. They told their mother they wanted to be baptized.
“It was hard for me to give my permission,” says Paula’s mother. “It meant they were leaving the ways of our family. I thought about it for a couple of months. Then I was filled with a warm feeling that this faith would bring them happiness, that I should let them follow their hearts.”

After graduating from college and breaking away from these friends, I moved to Cambridge, Massachusetts, to work and live. I also began taking part-time graduate classes to determine what I wanted to study in graduate school and which school I might want to attend. As part of this process, I met with one of my professors to discuss graduate school options, and he suggested that I consider schools in Utah. I was not sure why my professor suggested Utah, but I did look at schools there and eventually decided to attend Utah State University. I can still remember landing at the Salt Lake City airport and driving to Logan for graduate school interviews. It felt good to be in Utah. After meeting with faculty and students there, I knew I wanted to move to Utah to attend graduate school. I did not realize it at the time, but I was again feeling the call of the Lord, this time to move to Utah and to begin my new life as a graduate student.

Marcus and Sara threw open the door to their apartment building.
“Beat you up the stairs!” Marcus yelled to his friend as he started running up the first flight. Sara bounded right behind him, laughing and running as fast as she could.
As they reached the third floor, old Mr. Sharp stuck out his bald head and shouted at them—as usual. “I’ve told you kids a hundred times to quiet down. The whole building shakes when you two get home from school! Now, learn how to walk!”
Marcus heard the door slam hard as he reached his own apartment door on the fourth floor. Sara was still right behind him. “That old grump,” she complained as they entered the apartment, “I bet he never was a little kid.”
“Mom! Mom! I’m home!” shouted Marcus.
“I’m in here, Marcus,” came Mom’s muffled voice from his bedroom. “In your closet. I’ve been trying to clean out this disaster area,” she explained when they reached the room. “It looks like a trash heap. You’ll have to quit just throwing things in here.”
The closet was one of Marcus’s favorite places because it was one of the newer parts of the old building.
“Sorry, Mom,” said Marcus. “Let me finish cleaning it,” he offered halfheartedly.
Mom crawled out of the closet, and he took her place amid the jumble.
“You have only an hour or so before dinner,” Mom said as she left the room, “so you’ll have to hurry.”
“Sorry, Sara. I guess I won’t be able to play today,” Marcus apologized.
“Oh, that’s OK. We have one of those big closets, too, but ours is in the living room. It hides a radiator, just like yours does. My sister and I throw all our junk in it, and our mom gets sore too.”
Marcus was puzzled. “You have an old radiator too?”
“Yes. Every apartment in the building has one someplace. When they remodeled and put in electric heat, they didn’t bother pulling out the old radiators. They just built these closets around them. Well, see you later.”
Marcus turned to the task before him. He really didn’t mind all that much, because it was like being alone in another world. He began stacking his books in one corner. On the very top of the pile, he noticed a book about codes that he had used for a school project. He opened it up and saw one of his favorites—the International Morse Code. A click followed by a short space is the signal for a dot. A click followed by a long space is the signal for a dash. A series of dots and dashes are translated into letters, words, and numbers. It had taken a lot of practice, but Marcus had gotten pretty good at understanding the code.
Picking up a spoon, Marcus started banging around to practice. He hit the pipe that came out of the side of the radiator and ran down through the floor. It made a lovely clanking sound that echoed through the pipe. Perfect, Marcus thought. He started practicing: A, B, C, D. It took him a while, as he was a bit rusty at it, but he was soon able to tap out the letters of the alphabet and numbers one through nine and zero.
Suddenly Marcus heard someone else’s tapping coming through the pipe. What could it be? he wondered. He listened again, grabbed a crayon off the floor, and began to write as the message came very slowly: “H E L L O.” He couldn’t believe it. “Who could it be?” he murmured.
It came again: “H E L L O.”
Marcus still couldn’t believe it. He tapped back a very slow “H E L L O.”
“Time for dinner, Marcus,” Mom called, so Marcus tapped out a quick “B Y E.”
The next day he could hardly wait to get home from school. He ran upstairs, automatically hollered hello to Mr. Sharp, and heard the old gentleman’s door slam just as he reached his own front door. He ran straight to his closet, picked up his spoon, and started tapping out the message he had worked on at school:
“A R E Y O U T H E R E?” He tapped the message several times. And then an answer came: “Y E S.” Marcus next tapped: “ W H O A R E Y O U?”
The answer came slowly: “A F R I E N D.”
Every day Marcus planned a message to send to his new friend. Sometimes his mom helped, and sometimes Sara had a good suggestion. He learned that his Morse-code friend’s favorite color was blue, that his favorite sport was baseball, that his friend liked cats, and that his favorite food was spaghetti. Marcus also learned that his friend didn’t like to watch much television but preferred to listen to his record player and radio.
One Friday afternoon Marcus and Sara were late getting home from school. Running pell-mell up the stairs, they hoped that Marcus’s Morse-code friend would be sending a message. As they ran into his room, they could already hear tapping sounds coming from the pipes. Marcus was pleased, and he quickly picked up a pencil to record the message. It was a strange message, just three letters repeated over and over: “S O S. S O S. S O S. ”
“That’s a distress signal,” Sara told him. “Your friend must be in trouble!”
Marcus yelled, “Mom, come quick! It’s my friend. He needs help!”
Mom came running into the room, and Marcus showed the message to his mother.
Calmly she said, “Marcus, signal your friend. Ask him where he is.”
Marcus tapped: “W H E R E?” The answer came back slowly: “3 3. 3 3.”
“Thirty-three—what does he mean, Mom?”
Suddenly they all realized what it meant: apartment 33!
They ran down the stairs to Mr. Sharp’s apartment. Finding the door unlocked, they all pushed inside. There was Mr. Sharp, lying on the floor and still feebly tapping out his message with his cane on the radiator pipe.
It was a long time before Marcus and Sara saw Mr. Sharp again. After he went away in the ambulance, things just weren’t the same. Even Sara said that she missed him. Then one day Mr. Sharp’s son called to say that Mr. Sharp was home from the hospital and wanted to see Marcus. Mom explained that Mr. Sharp had had a stroke. He could still think, but he could not yet talk.
Marcus went downstairs and knocked on the door of apartment 33. After a moment a friendly man opened the door. “You must be Marcus,” he said, shaking the boy’s hand. “I’m Michael, Mr. Sharp’s son.”
“Oh, hi,” said Marcus. “Where’s Mr. Sharp? He’ll be OK, won’t he?”
“Marcus, my dad is very, very sick. He can’t do a lot of the things that he used to do, so I’m going to live here with him for a while. But he’s been looking forward to seeing you. Come on, let’s go to his bedroom and see him.”
Marcus walked over to Mr. Sharp’s bed and squeezed his friend’s hand. Mr. Sharp smiled back. Picking up a spoon from his lunch tray, he tapped a message on his water glass:
— •••• •— —• —•— •••“__ __ __ __ __ __••—• •—• •• • —• —•• __ __ __ __ __ __.”
(Can you decipher the message?)
A •—
J •— — —
S •••
2 ••— — —
B —•••
K •—•
T —
3 •••— —
C —•—•
L •—••
U ••—
4 •••• —
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Answer:

“You’re too holy.”
Twelve-year-old Ian Caloobanan was astounded at his friend’s words. He didn’t consider himself holy.
His friend continued, “Ever since you joined the Mormons, you’ve become a killjoy. You don’t drink with us anymore. You don’t have fun with us on Sunday. You’re too holy.”
The words hurt, and yet … what else could he do? He had been baptized and now held the Aaronic Priesthood. He had changed, and as far as Ian was concerned, he had changed for the better. But holy? Well, maybe not yet.
Ian’s joy at finding the gospel is hard to contain. He has given one of his teachers a copy of the Book of Mormon and invited him to meet with the missionaries. Some of his schoolmates respect him for his new standards and have asked him questions about the gospel. Others ridicule him.
Ian just keeps on keeping the commandments the best he can.

I was in the Pago Pago Stake in American Samoa. President Peters, the stake president, invited me to accompany him to one of the ward sacrament meetings. We arrived unannounced, so there were no special arrangements made.
It was a hot, humid day. As we approached the humble, one-room chapel with no air-conditioning, I suggested it might be appropriate to leave our jackets off. President Peters was quick to tell me that they wore jackets in sacrament meeting in their stake—no matter what the temperature—as a means of showing the Lord that they not only worshiped him but they also honored and respected him by being dressed in their very best.
As I took my place on the stand, there sat the priests and deacons at the sacrament table. Each had on a shirt, tie, and jacket. It was so hot and humid.
The normal dress of the islands is very casual, as you know, but in the eyes of these wonderful Samoan leaders and their Aaronic Priesthood boys, participating in the sacred sacrament service was not a casual experience. It was a sacred duty. They felt that their appearance helped show the respect and reverence they had for the Lord. I shall never forget their influence of reverence in that meeting. Surely their understanding of their relationship with Heavenly Father is an important step in magnifying their priesthood.

Dear Reed or Elder May,
I miss you. I miss you very much! I miss you, very, very much! Do I have to call you Elder May, or can I still call you Reed? I’m glad that you got out of the empty sea. I was worried about you drowning or something. When I asked her, Mom laughed and said that you were fine there, but I was still worried.
I have something that I want to tell you. But maybe I’d better not tell you.
Please write a letter just to me.
Love,Brad
Dear Buddy,
I miss you, too—very much! When I think of how much you will grow and change in two years, sometimes it makes me a little sad that I can’t be there with you. But I know that I’m doing the right thing by going on a mission. Besides, the elders here who are almost ready to go home all say that two years zoom by so fast that you can hardly believe it.
To answer your question, yes, you can still call me Reed instead of Elder May. But do I have to start calling you Brad now, or can I still call you Buddy?
Buddy, I have to admit that I was puzzled for a long time about what you meant by the “empty sea.” Then yesterday I told Elder Watts, my companion, that you were worried about me in the empty sea, and all of a sudden it came to me! Where I was, was not the empty sea, but the MTC. That stands for Missionary Training Center. That’s where I learned about being a missionary and how to teach people the gospel.
The MTC was a good experience, but I’m glad to be in the mission field now. The members here are friendly, and some of them help us a lot. We are teaching some great families. Elder Watts is a hard worker, and we spend a lot of hours trying to find people who want to learn about the restoration of the gospel and the Church.
Write to me again soon. I want to keep in touch and know everything that happens to you, kind of like our talks in the dark across the bedroom as we were going to sleep. Only now we will have our talks by writing letters.
And remember, you can tell me anything, just like always.
Love,Reed
Dear Reed,
It was awesome to get my very own letter from you. I’ll keep writing to you, if you’ll keep writing to me. But I still miss you very, very much! Nobody else calls me Buddy, but you can because I will always be your buddy.
Last night was our second grade Spring Sing. Everyone was there but you. Even Grandpa Richards was there, and your girlfriend Kelly. She says that she misses you very much, but I know that she doesn’t miss you as much as I do.
After the Sing we went to get ice-cream cones, and we talked about you. Mom and Dad said that you seem grown-up now. Natalie and Rachel said that they’re proud to be the sisters of a missionary. Scooter didn’t say anything because he’s too young.
I ate two scoops on my cone, one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of your favorite, pralines-and-cream. I did it for you.
I still have something I need to tell you, but I’m still afraid to tell you.
Love,Buddy
Dear Reed,
I know that I just wrote to you yesterday, but I have to write to you again today. If you were home, we could talk about it, but you’re not here.
Last night Melissa came to our house. She brought chocolate chip cookies that she made. She gave me a big hug and said that I look just like a little Reed, like somebody took you and let some of the air out. She’s pretty! Anyway, she says that she misses you very much.
Tell me, Reed, does Melissa know about Kelly? Does Kelly know about Melissa? What am I supposed to do with all your girlfriends? What if they both come over at the same time?
I told Melissa that she should send some chocolate chip cookies to you. I can’t tell you what she said because she wants it to be a surprise. If I can figure out a way to do it, I’ll send you some pralines-and-cream ice cream too.
Maybe next time I’ll tell you my secret problem.
Love,Buddy
(To be continued)

Some weeks ago a man holding a high office in the Church asked a special favor of me. “Would you be good enough to take the time to listen while a mother, father, and their teenage daughter, special friends of mine, try to talk to each other?”
As the four of us sat together, it immediately became obvious that all channels of communication were jammed with prejudice, threats, accusations, and resentment. As the verbal storms developed with bitter intensity, I found myself the only listener. Even though they had individually and collectively agreed I would be the counselor, judge, arbiter, or referee, if you please, I found myself waiting patiently for an opportunity to be heard. During the heated and emotional confrontation, the teenager repeatedly expressed her resentment with, “You can’t talk to me like that. I am an adult now. You can’t treat me like that. I am an adult now. You can’t dominate my life anymore. I am an adult now.”
Each time she said “I am an adult now,” I cringed. By definition, an adult is a person who has attained the age of maturity—full grown. While it is true a person may be legally classified as an adult when he or she reaches a certain age, for our purposes today the kind of adult status we are talking about must be earned by actions and attitude.
I am not quite sure who has the right or responsibility to declare someone an adult, but I am quite certain that often the least qualified to make the declaration would be the individual himself. If a person is mature, he or she will not need to announce it. Personal conduct is the only true measurement of maturity. Adult classification, when it pertains to behavior, does not come with age, wrinkles, or gray hair. Perhaps it is not too far off the mark to say adult conduct is a process. Mature conduct is generally developed through self-discipline, resilience, and continuing effort.
In fairness to the teenager, even though her declaration of “I am an adult now” didn’t impress me favorably, there were times during the visit when I thought she showed more maturity than others in the room. When we who are more senior use an expression like “I am older than you” to clinch a point, I am not too sure it is very effective. How much better it is to gain respect and love through worthy parental conduct than to seek it through the means of the age differential.
Young men and young women worldwide, you, as well as your parents, need not announce or proclaim your maturity. By your faith and works you will be known for what you are. By your fruits you will be known and classified. Those among us who use abusive arguments, temper tantrums, demeaning and painful criticism, fruitless counter-complaints, and disrespect will benefit no one. Let us put away petty malice, resentment, and retaliatory practices that are self-destructive and return to a path of safety well marked by the Good Shepherd.
It takes courage to flee from verbal contention. When maturity begins to set in, adult lives set in. “Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice:
“And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you” (Eph. 4:31–32). It is alarming how many older people go through life without ever becoming real adults.
For many years I have had a very vivid picture in my mind of Jesus Christ standing before Pilate. While Jesus stood in front of an angry mob, who sneered and condemned, Pilate tried to get Him to respond and retaliate. He tried to get Him to declare himself a king. Jesus was silent. His life was his sermon. He was perfect in character, a worthy son, the Only Begotten of the Father. His maturity, if you please, would speak for itself.
“And Jesus stood before the governor: and the governor asked him, saying, Art thou the King of the Jews? And Jesus said unto him, Thou sayest.
“And when he was accused of the chief priests and elders, he answered nothing.
“Then said Pilate unto him, Hearest thou not how many things they witness against thee?
“And he answered him to never a word; insomuch that the governor marvelled greatly” (Matt. 27:11–14).
There are many opportunities to acquire mature behavior in the organizations in the Church. The other day a charming teenager paid a deserving tribute to her Young Women’s teacher. She said, “From her example and good lessons, we learned the importance of good grooming. We learned that though each of us is different, each is equally important. She taught us to solve our differences by discussion, not by shouting.”
The success of the Scouting program is that it teaches boys to stay on the trail. Boulders and hills don’t stop the hike to the top of the mountain. Top awards are not given unless the difficult merit badges are earned as well as the easier ones. The boys’ tenacity to continue on the Scouting path, not the honors awarded, is the maturing element of the program.
“A certain man had two sons:
“And the younger … said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me [I am an adult now]. And he divided unto them his living” (Luke 15:11–12).
The prodigal son parable is well known to all of us. He left and wasted his substance with riotous living. “When he came to himself, he said, …
“I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee,
“And am no more worthy to be called thy son: [but I am more of an adult now] …
“And he arose, and came to his father. … His father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him” (vs. 17–20).
I believe it appropriate to say the father, too, had become more mature during the separation. Think, too, of the maturing and the becoming of more of an adult on the part of the elder son when he witnessed and participated in the Christ-like example of his father (see vs. 25–32).
There is no doubt in my mind that one of the primary reasons Laman and Lemuel murmured and spoke harsh words to their brother Nephi and did smite him with a rod was because they were older and more adult than Nephi, so they supposed. Can’t you just hear Laman saying, “Nephi, you can’t treat me like that. I am an adult now.”
Nephi displayed real maturity when he declared, “I, Nephi, said unto my father: I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.
“And it came to pass that when my father had heard these words he was exceedingly glad, for he knew that I had been blessed of the Lord” (1 Ne. 3:7–8). Lehi was adult enough to know which son was the most mature and who would be blessed of the Lord accordingly.
Too many of us fail to realize adult conduct is a process, not a status. To become a disciple of Jesus Christ, we must continue in righteousness and in His word. When someone shares with enthusiasm his joy in now being an active member of the Church, the thought crosses my mind, “Wonderful, but for how long will you stay that way?” Incidentally, some years ago I was contacted by an insurance agent. When he started his sales approach with “I am an active member of the Church,” the first thought that crossed my mind was, “Who said so?”
When someone overcomes the drug habit, and thankfully many have, less time should be spent on announcing the present status and more on staying away from bad habits. Those who are morally clean will conduct themselves in a more adult fashion if they will spend less time declaring it and more time living and teaching others the blessings of chastity. Full tithe payers will receive more joy and reward from being obedient to the principle of tithing than from being so classified or recommended.
Some will chide and belittle leaders and students of higher education for participating in code of conduct guidelines, but those appropriately involved in the wholesome process of mature behavioral discipline welcome the environment. Responsible student conduct on any campus is applauded. A pledge of “on my honor I will do my best,” either in writing or when self-enforced, can make the difference in character development. Making and keeping commitments may seem restrictive and outdated in a today world where “play it loose” is the pattern, but the benefits are clear to the mature.
Those who are immature resent counseling or having to report in. They may feel that such interviews are juvenile. Those who strive for continual growth realize that counselors can help one analyze himself and find solutions to personal problems. In our church, counselors are a source of great strength for the prophet as well as for all of us.
Beware of those seeking excuses for conduct with “I am an adult now. You can’t treat me like that.” Moral maturity and scholastic maturity must be blended to produce a truly adult person. A commitment to improve on a daily basis should be a high priority in the lives of those who would move in the right direction.
There is real purpose and power in the First Presidency’s continuing invitation to all Church members to come back. Strength, growth, and happiness result from analyzing the direction our lives are taking. Those who have been lost, misunderstood, or offended and those totally involved in the Church are invited to come and fellowship together within the framework of the gospel of Jesus Christ. To be a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is not enough. Participation in priesthood, Relief Society, Young Women, Young Men, Primary, and Sunday School opportunities is necessary if we are to move forward anxiously in personal development that is adult, real, and eternal. Perhaps all of us would do well to realize that as we promote personal activity and involvement in the Church, it might be much better to be classified a member of “good coming” instead of a member in good standing. It is our responsibility and privilege to encourage the immature and give them opportunities for growth and development.
Joseph Smith declared to the world he was like a rough stone shaped and polished by the stream of life. Bumps, disappointments, and the unexpected helped him gain the status of being wise beyond his years. Oftentimes maturity can best be measured by our endurance. “If the heavens gather blackness, and all the elements combine to hedge up the way; and above all, if the very jaws of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.
“The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?” (D&C 122:7–8).
My young friends, in a spirit of love I make the suggestion that we avoid the placing of self-labels. For you to classify yourself as all-state, all-American, or even all-world doesn’t mean anything if you alone determine the winner and present the trophy to yourself. By the same token, who among us has the right to label himself as a loser, no good, a dropout, or a failure? Self-judgment in any direction is a hazardous pastime. It is a fact of life that the direction in which we are moving is more important than where we are. I have never heard the best-educated ever declare, “I am educated now.” Some of the most potentially wise people in the world forfeit that classification when they spend their time advertising their abilities and knowledge rather than using their wisdom to improve themselves and help those with whom they associate.
Mothers, fathers, and family members, maturity does not necessarily come with age. Let us communicate in words and deeds our concern and love for each other. Threats, ears that do not hear, eyes that do not see, and hearts that do not feel will never bring joy, unity, and growth. Patience with others, self, and God brings eternal maturity. Let God and our daily actions determine the authenticity of the statement “I am an adult now.”
God is our Father. Jesus is the Christ. May our knowledge of them on a continuing basis give us Christ-centered adult conduct, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Dr. Kenneth MacFarland, a great, nonpartisan, national patriot, gave a speech entitled “Selling America to Americans.” He told about a young soldier who returned from Vietnam. In a very serious talk with his parents, the young soldier asked if they loved America. He asked how they felt about this great and glorious nation. Both mother and father got a little teary-eyed and said that they loved this country dearly, that it was more precious to them than their own life. “Why didn’t you tell me that when I was growing up?” he said. “I never heard you once say that you loved America. You never taught me to love it. I can’t tell you what an ungrateful pup I have been. I had to go to Vietnam to find out what the United States of America is all about. I would gladly lay down my life for it. I would have given anything to know how you felt about it when I was growing up.”

Carrie’s older brother tugged one of her thick blond braids. “Hey, Freckles, you ought to have the sheepshearers do you too.”
“Yeah,” chimed in her twin brother, “you have more wool than old Tim Buck.”
Nine-year-old Carrie made a face at her brothers. All three children were perched on top of the strawstack at the far end of the sheep shed. Sheep, waiting to be sheared, milled about below them, blatting nervously. The shearing clippers buzzed, and men shouted orders as they threw the fleeces up into the wool bag.
Tim Buck, the huge lead ram, seemed to be the only calm one amid the confusion. He was penned apart and was munching on hay. Whenever he shook off flies, the large bell around his neck jingled.
“Carrie Helen!” shouted her dad. “Carrie Helen Shultz, please come here.”
Always anxious to please her father, she hollered back, “Coming—on the double!” Scooting off the strawstack, she ran to meet her dad.
“Carrie, I need you to go with Tim Buck to lead the sheep we’ve already sheared over to the south pasture. There are about a hundred ewes or so, plus the lambs. We have to make room for the next ones.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, grinning up at her brothers and throwing her shoulders back proudly.
Dad fastened one end of a stout rope to the lead sheep’s collar and handed the other end to Carrie. “OK, Carrie, Tim Buck’s ready. Remember what his job is.”
Without hesitating, Tim Buck started out of the holding pen. Once an orphan lamb, he showed no fear of Carrie and looked up at her with soft brown eyes, eyes filled with warmth and wisdom.
Confident of her own importance and of Tim Buck’s love, Carrie stepped out in front of the old sheep. She walked through the noisy ewes, which responded immediately to the sound of the lead sheep’s bell. As they followed Carrie and Tim Buck out of the corral gate, she felt their excitement as they rushed forward. They seemed to know that they were free now to go to the south pasture. Sensing their anticipation, and sure of her responsibility, Carrie tugged at the rope fastened to the sheep’s collar, pulling him toward the narrow bridge and her favorite shortcut to the south pasture.
But Tim Buck resisted Carrie’s tugging and headed toward the hill and the longer, usual route. Again Carrie pulled at the rope, trying to head the old sheep toward the bridge. Again Tim Buck resisted.
“Oh, why can’t you do it my way!” Carrie stamped her foot impatiently as Tim Buck firmly planted his feet, refusing to move. Though she pulled hard, her sixty pounds were no match against the weight of the huge sheep. When her arms began to tire, Carrie glared at Tim Buck and grouched, “All right! I’ll do it your way this time. Come on. Let’s go up that long hill. At least we can cut across the hayfield and not have to take the long road around it.”
The ewes, confused at the delay, had begun to push forward, baaing worriedly. As Tim Buck moved forward, his bell started jingling, and the sheep quieted. When Carrie, walking a couple feet in front, quickened her step, Tim Buck quickened his. The hungry ewes also increased their pace. Out of breath, Carrie rushed to the top of the hill. “Now’s my chance,” she said, pulling tightly on Tim Buck’s rope, forcing his head toward the hayfield.
Tim Buck butted Carrie gently, loosening her grip. Then he moved toward the well-used road.
“Why, you ornery critter! Can’t you see how much easier it would be to cut across that field instead of going around it!” She yanked at the rope, trying to drag Tim Buck toward the hayfield. He looked at her questioningly, then shook his head forcefully. The bell jangled, and the ewes pressed forward as Tim Buck pulled away from the hayfield and moved quickly onto the familiar road. The rope started to slip through Carrie’s hands, but she held on tightly.
Half running, Carrie tried to get ahead of Tim Buck. But he only walked faster. The more she tried, the faster he went, and the faster he went, the faster came the ewes and lambs. Soon Carrie was sandwiched between Tim Buck and the rushing sheep, and the rope was slipping out of her grasp. She clutched it desperately, even though it was burning her fingers.
Familiar with the road and quickened by hunger, the sheep hurried toward the open gate to the south pasture, where Tim Buck saw his own shortcut! He swerved suddenly from the road and down a steep slope. The sudden movement sent Carrie sprawling, and the rope was jerked out of her hands. The sheep quickly moved away from her and down the slope, following Tim Buck through the open pasture gate.
Carrie lay bewildered, hurt, and defeated. Sobbing, she struggled to her feet. With skinned knees and stinging hands, she stumbled back toward the sheep shed. With each step, she imagined her brothers’ teasing and her father’s disappointment.
Her dad met her in his truck before Carrie reached the shed. Stopping his truck, he got out and hurried over to her. Then, tilting her tear-stained face up for him to see, and putting one hand on her shoulder, he said, “It looks like you’ve had some troubles, honey.” He looked at her intently, but his voice was gentle and matter-of-fact. Seeing Carrie’s ropeburned hands, he dampened his bandanna in some clean water and gently patted them while she blurted out her story.
“So you wanted the sheep to take the shorter path across the bridge?” her father said when she had finished.
“It would have been much faster.”
“Do you think that all those sheep could have safely crossed that narrow bridge together?”
“Well,” Carrie hesitated. “I—I guess not. But they would have had plenty of room to cross the hayfield.”
“But, Carrie, do you remember how sick the sheep get when they eat too much hay? Do you know that most sheep can’t stop eating fresh hay once they get started?”
“Oh, Dad, I’m sorry,” Carrie sobbed.
“You’re lucky, Carrie, that Tim Buck wouldn’t allow the sheep to take a dangerous path.”
“Yeah, he’s really stubborn,” Carrie said, starting to fume again.
“Perhaps he’s not as stubborn as he is committed to doing what he knows is right. Remember, Carrie, that he’s the lead sheep. He guides the others in the paths that will get them safely to where they want to go, just as Mom and I try to lead you along the right pathways so that you can return to live with Heavenly Father.
Dad and Carrie got into the truck and he looked at her hands again to make sure that they weren’t seriously hurt. Then he drove toward the south pasture and stopped. Carrie was surprised when he got out of the truck and lifted her out too.
“All right, Carrie Helen. Now that you know why Tim Buck behaves as he does, do you think that you can take him back to get another bunch of sheep?”
“Yes, Dad. And this time I’ll let him lead the way.”

A few years later my parents came for a visit. While they were visiting, my father brought up some subjects we disagreed on that I didn’t want to discuss with him. He persisted, however, until I was close to losing my temper. I excused myself for a moment and went to my bedroom, where I knelt and prayed to Heavenly Father and asked Him for help in dealing with my father. The answer came in the form of a thought: the account of Nephi and the broken bow.
I turned to the story in 1 Nephi chapter 16. I thought about Nephi being humble enough to go to his father, who had murmured against the Lord, to ask where he should go to obtain food (see verse 23). With that thought, I felt prompted to go to my father and ask for his guidance as well as for a priesthood blessing.
When I returned to the living room and asked Dad for a blessing, his heart was touched and he began to cry. “Let me think about it,” he said.
Over the next few days he fasted and prayed. Then, before Dad and Mom left, he gave me a beautiful blessing.
After that experience, Dad began to turn his life around. On their way home from Kansas, my parents visited Adam-ondi-Ahman, Missouri, USA, where my father had a powerful spiritual experience.
Before long, my parents became active and committed Latter-day Saints. Over the next several years, they served two missions together—one in Germany and one on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. Dad was serving as a stake patriarch when he died in 1987.
The Lord knew that Dad was a good man. It was through the Book of Mormon that I received my answer, and it was through my acting on that prompting that Dad came to know he needed to be a leader for our family. This experience changed everything for us.