Gospel Story Finder

As a mission leader in Brazil, I spent a week near the end of 2023 interviewing 60 of our 160 missionaries. One of them, a zone leader, asked to speak to me privately. When we met, he handed me a shoebox and told me his parents had bought an extra pair of shoes for someone in the mission who might need them.
Touched, I thanked him for his parents’ generosity and thoughtfulness. I silently wished, however, that the small shoes, size 8.5, had been a larger, common size worn by most of our missionaries. I was grateful nonetheless and put the shoes in my car.
Two days later, I was interviewing more missionaries, when I invited a smiling missionary into my office. He had arrived just four weeks earlier from Guatemala. When I asked him how he was doing, his smile turned into sobs.
He tearfully spoke of his embarrassment when another missionary had innocently teased him for not buttoning the top button of his shirt. He was a recent convert and had grown up in a single-parent home. His mother barely made enough money to support him and his two siblings. His donated shirts were too small, so he used the knot of his well-worn tie to hide the unbuttoned top button.
I gave him some money a Church member had donated for missionaries who needed clothing and told him to buy new shirts. Then I noticed that his shoes were falling apart. Suddenly, I remembered the shoes in my car! I asked him what size shoe he wore, realizing he had small feet.
“I wear a size 8.5,” he replied.
Tears filled my eyes as I explained that another missionary’s parents had just donated a pair of shoes in his size. We took a picture together and sent it to the zone leader. His father, who coincidentally was also Guatemalan, felt touched that he had helped a missionary from his native country.

Sisters, we must prepare if we wish to serve, and we must serve if we wish to prepare. When I was 16 I was called to teach the three-year-olds in what was then called Junior Sunday School. (You know there was such a thing in the olden days.) I taught some busy children. They climbed on and under the chairs and table and never seemed to stop moving. I was dreadfully inexperienced, and during the first few weeks I wondered if I had done the right thing in accepting the call.
But I persisted, and what I learned—quickly—was that I couldn’t just pray for help. I had to be prepared. That meant planning activities, stories, and lessons, and it meant having plan B ready, along with C through Z. Many years later, when I was called to lead a Junior Sunday School, I knew how to assist new teachers. I knew how to enjoy the children, and I knew the importance of being faithful in my calling.

One son bought a small home in a distant state. He showed me bricks on a corner of the foundation that were eroding away. He asked what should he do.
I did not know, but I asked, “Is there an older couple that lives close to you?”
“Yes,” he said, “across the street and down a few houses is a retired couple.”
“Why don’t you ask him to come over and look at that. He knows your climate.”
That was done, and he got the advice of an older man who had seen problems like that and many others. That is what adopted grandpas can do.

When my son married a young woman who belonged to another religion, our family hoped that someday she would become a Latter-day Saint. To my surprise, as I was getting ready for church one Sunday, she said to me, “I will go to your church with you.”
The missionaries started teaching her the discussions, and in 1997 she was baptized. On 10 September 1998 my son and his wife, Katya, were sealed in the temple for time and all eternity, and on 12 October 1998 their beautiful baby boy was born.

Young Thad, Orderville’s rope maker, decides to make a strong and beautiful horsehair rope for the town fair. He obtains the raw materials by secretly cutting the manes and tails off Orderville’s horses. The young men of nearby towns are blamed for the act, and there is talk of revenge.
“People sure are upset about the horses’ manes and tails being clipped,” Theo, my twin brother, said one night. “The other towns laugh at us already for our Order clothes that are all alike. Now they’ll probably call our horses broomtails (an untrained horse of inferior quality) because we grow broom straw, and our horses got clipped. We’ll have to get even.”
The next day Brother Spencer asked me, “Was your Uncle Claude over from Kanab last Saturday when the horses got clipped?”
“No,” I told him truthfully. “He was out on Buckskin Mountain moving cattle.” But I could see that innocent people would suffer for my actions unless I did something soon.
That night I asked father, “When does the bishop hold his weekly council meeting?”
“Every Thursday night about seven o’clock,” Dad replied.
Thursday night after dinner, I walked slowly over to the bishop’s home. Extra horses, all with clipped manes and tails, were out front.
I walked quietly up onto the porch. I could hear voices inside but couldn’t understand what they were saying. Fear came over me, and I turned to leave. But I knew that I couldn’t. I had to clear up the wrong I had done in cutting the hair without asking. I knocked on the door. As I waited for someone to answer my knock, the little speech I had practiced for the last two days went through my mind. The bishop’s clerk opened the door. “Come in, Thad.”
The bishop and his counselors and several priesthood leaders and clerks were all sitting around the table in the dining room. The bishop got up and came over to me. “Come in,” he said, shaking my hand. “What can we do for you?”
Without waiting, I gave my prepared explanation. “Brothers, I am the one who cut the manes and tails of the horses at the Saturday dance. I needed the hair to make a special rope to show in the town fair. Since the horses belong to the Order, so does the rope. I didn’t know that everyone would get so upset. I should have asked. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, Thad, for coming and telling us,” the bishop said. “Is the rope finished?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I finished it tonight.”
“Brother Thad,” the bishop said, “please wait on the porch while we discuss this.”
They talked for a long time. At first I wished I could hear what they were saying. Then I was glad I couldn’t. I was praying silently when they opened the door and asked me to come back in.
I stood first on one foot and then on the other as they seemed to look right through me. Then the bishop spoke. “Thad, what do you think you should do to make amends?”
I had thought about that a lot. “I should confess to the people I wronged and then groom their horses and clean their stables.”
The bishop nodded. “Thad, please bring the rope to sacrament meeting on Sunday and put it on display by the door on a small table so that all the people can see it as they come in. During the business part of the meeting, I will call on you to explain what took place and tell everyone that you are sorry you didn’t ask permission to cut the hair. Then you can ask them to forgive you, Will you do that?”
My heart started beating again. I took a big breath and answered in a squeaky voice, “Yes, bishop.”
“Good night, Thad,” the bishop said. “See you Sunday.”
I felt better about the rope as I walked home. I told my parents what I had done and what the bishop had required. They said, “We will support you, Thad, and we’re proud of you for owning up about this. It shows that you’re growing up.”
On Sunday evening I followed the bishop’s instructions and got to church early. I got a small table and placed it beside the big front doors and put the rope on it. Everyone would see it as they came in.
I was glad when my family came and I could sit between Mom and Dad. Mom held my hand, and Dad put his arm around me. Oh, how I needed their support and love!
People started filling up the rows. There was going to be a big crowd today. I didn’t dare turn to see how people reacted to my rope, but I could hear them talking about it. “Why, it looks just like twisted taffy, except that it changes color!” someone exclaimed.
“Look how neatly the ends are finished,” someone else said. My hard work had paid off. If they only knew how many times I had walked up and down that plank, twisting each strand of hair into twine, and how long it had taken to fill the spools! Now if they would only forgive me.
I watched Sister Chamberlain working hard at the pump organ as she played the prelude music. The bishop and his counselors came to the stand. With them were two men I didn’t know. They looked very official.
As they sat down, they had a whispered discussion with the bishop, who then passed some message on to his counselors. The counselor conducting got up, welcomed everyone, then announced, “Brothers and Sisters, we are honored to have with us Brother Miles Romney, general superintendent for the building of the St. George Temple, and Brother Robert Gardner, who is in charge of obtaining lumber for the temple. They have been sent here on assignment by President Brigham Young. We will hear from them later.”
After the opening song and prayer, the bishop got up to conduct business. I felt sure that I would now be asked to come to the stand, but he only announced the sacrament song and sat down. I looked at the hymnbook but could not sing because of the huge lump in my throat. I wondered if I was worthy to take the sacrament, since I had not yet made my confession. But I had been willing to, so I did take it when it was passed to me.
The counselor then announced that our regular program would be postponed and the meeting turned over to Brother Romney. Brother Romney got up and said, “Dear Saints of the United Order of Orderville. The work on the temple goes forward. The walls have been finished, and the end of our long labors is in sight. Now we ask you to commit men, teams, and wagons to help us transport timber from the mountains so that the interior can be completed.”
I forgot my problem as he went on to tell of the wonderful things they were doing to build the temple. I was glad to be at church to hear them.
Then he said, “Throughout the construction of the temple we have had trouble finding enough strong rope. Now, more than ever, we need it to lift timber and bind heavy logs to the wagons that will carry them from the mountains to the sawmill. We have been praying for a way to make better rope. Today, as we came into the building, our prayers were answered. Would the person responsible for the rope on the table by the door please get it and bring it up here?”
Father helped me up, and Mother gave my hand a squeeze. As I slipped past my brother, his mouth was open and his eyes were big. I got the rope and took it to Brother Romney. He put his arm around me and continued, “I have never seen such a big, smooth, uniform horsehair rope. I understand your name is Thad. Tell me—how long is this rope?”
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. They liked my rope! They needed my rope! I swallowed hard. “One hundred and eight feet,” I replied.
Brother Romney smiled. “That is exactly the length we need. Thad, will you please come over to the bishop’s house early in the morning before we leave and cut the manes and tails off our horses and start on the second rope. We will send out a request to all the communities of southern Utah to collect their horses’ hair and send it to you. This first rope will be sent to Mr. Trumball so that the work of transporting lumber can be hastened. Now, bishop, would you ask the people if they can support the donation of the rope to the building of the temple.”
The bishop stood up and said, “All in favor, please raise your right hand.”
Everyone raised his right arm to the square. I joined them. The bishop said, “The voting is unanimous. The rope is for the temple.” Putting his arm around me, he added, “And now I believe Thad has something to tell you.”
It wasn’t hard at all, because I could see nothing but smiling faces. I explained what I had done and asked for their forgiveness, adding that I would be coming around to groom their horses and clean their stables. The bishop called for a vote on my request, and again every hand went up. With a light heart, I walked back down to sit between Mom and Dad. Tomorrow I’d start on the second rope, and it would be even better. A rope for the town fair could wait till next year. Meanwhile, I’d do my very best to make rope for the temple.

There it is on the youth conference program. On Friday from 9:00–12:00 and again from 1:00–4:00 “Dooleyalawalagus”! What does it mean? No one seems to know, but everyone is looking forward to finding out. And at the same time they’re feeling just a little apprehensive about the whole thing.
For many of the youth in the Bountiful Utah Stone Creek Stake, this is the first youth conference they’ve been to. And although there is a theme, professional-looking programs, and a level of organization that any leader would envy, no one seems to know what’s going on.
Well, maybe not everyone is in the dark. As the crowd prepares to leave for Park City, a resort not far from home where the conference is being held, there are some knowing smiles on a few of the faces.
Leila Whiting, a Mia Maid in the Bountiful 43rd Ward knows, and she’s not telling. “It’s going to be a lot of fun,” she says, but that’s all you’ll get out of her. In conjunction with the stake youth committee and their leaders, she has helped plan a youth conference that carries a mysterious air of secrecy and yet promises to be a great time.
Some of the other youth are still a little wary. Mitch Gwilliam, a teacher in the Bountiful 12th Ward, admits to being a little nervous, and Jeff Lund, president of the teachers quorum in the West Bountiful 8th Ward, says it makes him wonder what’s going to happen to them. But overall, the feeling is one of excitement.
John Shafter, 14, of the Bountiful 12th Ward, stands by his golf clubs and waits to go. “They said we could golf, play tennis or racquetball, and go swimming,” he says, and he’s definitely looking forward to the next three days.
The first day goes as expected. The hills and mountains surrounding Park City crackle with the fiery reds and yellows of fall, and the air is crisp. Some of the youth head for the tennis courts, others prefer the warmth of the indoor pool, and some use the time to laugh and talk with friends. Almost everyone is up late that night.
However, the next morning, early, their rooms are empty. But no one is playing on the tennis courts and no one is splashing in the pool. Instead, the youth are found up on a dark stage in the local theater, heads bent intently over whitewashed sheets of cardboard where the word Dooleyalawalagus is being painted.
Dooleyalawalagus?
The secret is out. Dooleyalawalagus has been revealed, and contrary to what some might think, it is much more than just silly mumbo jumbo.
Dooleyalawalagus is a town. More specifically, it is a town in a play that has been written especially for this youth conference.
Within the course of the afternoon, parts will be assigned, scenery will be painted, dances will be learned, and everyone will take part in rehearsals.
Why all the hurry?
Because the next day the youth will perform the play at the Utah State Training School for mentally handicapped youth and adults. Although it seems impossible to pull everything together so quickly, everyone dives in and preparation is soon underway.
While soon-to-be stars of the stage memorize their lines, paintbrushes and plenty of paint transform plain cardboard into the small community of Dooleyalawalagus. A parking lot outside the theater becomes a dance floor for members of the cast practicing their routines, and the sound and effects crew can be heard enthusiastically going over their lines.
Charice Smith, 15, of the Bountiful 12th Ward, says she’s going to be a dancer in the play. Is Dooleyalawalagus what she expected it to be? “Well, I thought it was going to be dumb when I first heard,” she says, but that was before getting involved. She practices the dance steps with a friend and laughs, “It’s been a lot of fun.”
There was no mystery surrounding Dooleyalawalagus for Doug Leavitt, a priest in the Bountiful Fifth Ward. Doug is one of the youth assigned to direct the play, and he’s been in on the planning stages of the conference. “I think it’s a really good idea,” he says. “I’ve been to the Utah State Training School a couple of times and it’s definitely something to remember. The kids there are great.”
And even though his cast and crew are short on practice time, Doug is confident that everything will work if everyone “just thinks and remembers their parts.”
Just as scheduled in the program, Dooleyalawalagus takes up two blocks of time during the day. Not much, when you consider that the play will be performed the next day. “I’m excited about it,” says Michael Fernelius, a teacher in the West Bountiful Seventh Ward, “but I didn’t think we could do it that fast.”
As the day of the performance arrives, the youth pile into cars to head for the training school. They leave behind the beauty of Park City and opportunities for more golf, tennis and swimming, yet they are looking forward to doing the play.
Once at the school, the scenery is quickly arranged on stage, costumes are donned, and the sound and special effects crew takes its place. The remaining youth line themselves against the walls of the auditorium to welcome the residents from the school. As the residents arrive, they are greeted with smiles and given special badges to wear. The auditorium fills slowly, the lights dim, and it’s time for the show to go on.
As the sound and effects crew imitate the sound of a train, part of the cast arrive on stage aboard the imaginary locomotive. Their destination? Dooleyalawalagus, of course. Upon arrival the travelers are shocked to find that Dooleyalawalagus is not the same as it was when they left several years earlier.
The plot thickens and the characters learn that Vernon Vile has taken over their once clean, happy hometown and turned it into a dirty, unproductive place. However, with the help of Vernon’s kind sister and a little ingenuity, these characters are able to restore happiness to Dooleyalawalagus and the townspeople. And in the process Vernon Vile, himself, is transformed.
The final performance may not be a polished Broadway production, but it is very effective and carries a small piece of everyone who has worked on it out to an audience that sincerely appreciates and needs this kind of love.
And although what they’re doing could be termed a service project, Kevin Jensen, a priest in the Bountiful 12th Ward, says it really doesn’t feel like one. “It’s been great,” he says. “We’re getting a lot more out of it than out of other service projects we’ve done.”
Heidi Judd, a secretary in her Mia Maid class in the West Bountiful Eighth Ward agrees. “At first it’s a little scary to come here,” she says. “But when you talk with the residents and help them, you see that they’re people too, and they’re so excited to have visitors.”
After the performance the residents shake hands with members of the play’s cast and crew and begin returning to their rooms. One young resident smiles broadly as he leaves the auditorium wearing, not one but two badges on his jacket. He will remember this visit.
The cardboard backdrops that represent Dooleyalawalagus are quickly taken down and loaded onto a truck as everyone prepares to go home.
Many of the youth conference programs have been thrown away or lost by now, but it doesn’t really matter. The questioning looks and curious faces caused by seeing the word Dooleyalawalagus a few days ago are gone. Instead of just a few knowing smiles in the crowd, there are many now.
Everyone that worked with Dooleyalawalagus knows that it is more than just a small town built of props and whitewashed cardboard, and much more than a silly name or a quickly prepared play.
Dooleyalawalagus is the sum of a lot of things. It is working hard and working together; it is a little bit of worry and a lot of fun; it is giving without expecting anything in return, and learning that service has its own kind of reward.
The excitement and air of mystery that once surrounded Dooleyalawalagus may be gone, but no one seems to mind. The real fun, they will tell you, has been discovering what such a word is all about.

Photograph by Leslie Nilsson
We were all excited for Agatha’s birth in 2015. She would be my parents’ first grandchild. Everything went well until the day she was born. She was a large baby, I suffered complications, and the doctor was late getting to the hospital. When he finally arrived, he had to use forceps to remove her. By then, she had suffered neonatal asphyxia.
When they put Agatha on my chest for a moment, I thought it was so I could say goodbye. Nurses then whisked her away for neonatal intensive care. I found out later that her Apgar score, used to assess a newborn’s overall condition, was only 2. A score of 7 to 10 is considered normal.
Scans showed a large white spot on Agatha’s brain, revealing significant damage from lack of oxygen. Doctors told us that if she lived, she would suffer serious cognitive and physical disabilities and likely have epilepsy.
When my family learned how gravely ill Agatha was, my parents and in-laws were given permission to enter the neonatal intensive care unit at different times to see Agatha and say goodbye. My father and father-in-law, unbeknownst to one another, each gave her a blessing. My husband also gave her a blessing. That Sunday we organized a family fast for her.
Agatha spent 11 days in the hospital before we could take her home. For several months, she underwent tests and procedures. She couldn’t swallow, she lacked reflexes, and she suffered convulsions. They told me she would never move her head, never walk, and never speak.
Over the next year, we continued to pray and fast for Agatha, and we took her to a physical therapist to help her learn to move. The left side of her body had been especially affected by her asphyxia. She could move her right hand but not her left hand. Doctors told us that progress would be slow. But after only a few sessions, she could move both sides of her body equally. The therapist said it was a miracle. Because she learned so quickly, he wondered why we had brought her in the first place.
Every small improvement brought us happiness. Soon Agatha began to move her head. Then she began to sit up. When she started to smile, we knew that our faith and prayers were being answered. And when she said “Mama” for the first time, I felt great joy.
We received our biggest miracle at her annual checkup. A magnetic resonance image (MRI) showed no white spot on her brain. Her doctor couldn’t believe it.
“This scan looks like it came from a different child,” he said, comparing the new image with the original image taken after she was born. He requested a second scan, asking, “What is going on here?”
Today, Agatha has no cognitive or physical disabilities, and she no longer takes medication for epilepsy. Her school knows her as an intellectually advanced child.
We attribute Agatha’s healing to what my father calls “a perfect triangle”: faith, fasting and prayer, and priesthood blessings from righteous men. We know that the Lord loves us, we know He has power, and we know He gives us His power to exercise here on earth. We are grateful that He healed Agatha.

In the Central Valley of California, there are 44 teenagers who will never forget the city of St. George, Utah, with its hospitable people and its beautiful white temple.
The youths’ 18-hour stay there was the culmination of six months of planning, hard work, and cooperation between the youth and adults of the Tulare Ward (Visalia California Stake) and those of the St. George Second Ward.
The moment the weary travelers arrived at the Second Ward chapel after their 500-mile journey, they were met by an enthusiastic crowd of St. George youth who immediately sought out, tagged, and friendshiped each California teenager. Together these new friends shared the experiences of that day and the next. The anticipation of their meeting and their bond of common beliefs seemed to create an instant, comfortable friendship on both sides.
After an official welcome by Bishop Ross Taylor, the young people toured the tabernacle built during the same period in which the temple was constructed. Everywhere there was evidence of pioneer skill, artistry, and devotion.
Following the tabernacle visit, the group toured the Brigham Young Winter Home and caught a glimpse of the life of that great prophet and the times in which he lived.
After dinner in the homes of their hosts, the youth met at the templegrounds for the long-awaited tour. A lovely scene met their eyes. To one teenage girl, Shawna Brown, “the temple stood out like a gleaming jewel, shining forth with the Spirit of the Lord.” In this small, quiet town was the most magnificent building most of them had ever seen, a great sparkling building surrounded by deep-green lawns, a building normally brilliant white, bathed now in the golden glow of a setting sun. As the young people joined the long lines of those waiting to enter, they huddled for warmth in the unfamiliar chill of the southern Utah evening.
Inside there was peace and calm and cheerfully whispered “hello’s” between the white-clothed temple workers and the awed young visitors.
“What impressed me most,” said Julie Peterson, a convert of one year, “was that the workers in the temple were so at peace and so nice. I want to work there when I become older. Most of all, I know that I’ll marry in the temple, no matter what!” Liz Myers, a young investigator, commented, “It was beautiful, just walking through. It made me feel so clean inside. It was a great feeling!” Michelle Meadows said that being in the temple felt to her “like a little bit of heaven on earth—it was so peaceful and so beautiful.” As the group was passing through the last sealing room, one of the workers whispered to Claire Forman, “This is where you’re going to be married.” She answered, “Oh, yes!” Now, recalling that experience, Claire says, “There is no way I would even consider marrying outside the temple.”
The tour was over too soon. Too soon they stood once more outside the great building looking up at its inscription, “Holiness to the Lord.” But the influence of those few minutes may never end. To David Anderson, it brought greater meaning to going on a mission, coming back to get married for time and all eternity, and living a righteous life.
“We realized,” said Ruben Ruiz, “that the temple is the house of the Lord and that it was built for a purpose. We realized that the work done in the temple is sacred and that you need to be worthy to enter.”
Following the temple visit, the combined fireside in the Second Ward cultural hall concluded the evening. Three young St. George couples related the strength and meaning that temple marriage had brought into their lives.
The final event of the trip occurred the following morning among the red sandstone cliffs of Snow’s Canyon. Never had pancakes—complete with juice, bacon, and eggs—tasted so good. Following breakfast, the youth—lured by the cliffs around the little tree-and-sagebrush-covered valley—clambered up the sloping walls, which seemed almost stair-stepped for their benefit. Campers who chanced to be in the canyon that morning must have been startled as the hills literally burst forth into song. The final rendition was “I Am a Child of God,” sung by the Tulare teenagers from their mountaintop loft to their bishop, who stood looking up from the sands below. It was an impromptu, heartfelt expression of their love for him that neither he nor they will ever forget.
As the two groups exchanged addresses and goodbyes—the St. George youth to return to what was left of their late October Saturday, and the California young people to their journey home—no one doubted that all were spiritually richer than before. Bishop Taylor said that because of the enthusiasm of the California youth in their desire to visit the house of the Lord, the hearts of those in St. George had been reawakened to a remembrance of the great blessing of the temple and the particular privilege of living within its very shadow.
The feelings of all might be best summed up by the statement of Tulare’s Laurel class president, Karen McPherson, as she bore her testimony in sacrament meeting the day after the trip: “Bishop Dredge has been pounding into us for years, ‘Get married in the temple! Get married in the temple!’ And now I know why!”

I sat in my motel room on a snowy January night, deeply discouraged. I had recently finished serving more than 34 years in prison for some serious crimes and injuries, and I was contemplating doing something that would have sent me straight back to where I had just been. My plans since my release had fallen apart—and as I had few resources and my prayers seemed to be going unanswered, my options felt limited.
A sound outside caught my attention. Looking out my window, I spotted the motel owner shoveling snow in the parking lot by himself. “Oh, that’s not right,” I thought, so I joined him. I didn’t think much of my act of service that night. But to my surprise, the next day the owner reduced the cost of my room. And while I stayed there over the following five weeks, he never asked me to pay full price.
His generosity was more than a financial blessing that I deeply needed. His kindness was also an answer to my prayer when I was losing hope. Through him, I understood that God was aware of me—and that I needed to take some steps to return to Him.

Ron, 16, sat in his early morning seminary class wondering what to do with feelings of discomfort that were welling up inside him. He had attended this class for about two months. His dislike seemed to grow day by day.
Ron took seminary because he knew that his parents wanted him there. He didn’t want to disappoint them. His bishop had also encouraged him to be actively involved in the program. Even so, he was unhappy and uncomfortable in class.
As Brother Jones talked about the gospel of love, Ron didn’t really listen. He could only think of the times he felt Brother Jones had put him down in class because Ron’s ideas had not seemed to agree with his. Ron also knew that some of the other class members felt this same way, but no one seemed to know what to do about it.
On the other hand, some of the members of the class seemed to be perfectly at ease and quite comfortable. Ron often wondered if something might be wrong with himself. He knew he shouldn’t judge others, but little by little his dislike for Brother Jones grew. In moments like these he felt guilty for his feelings toward his seminary teacher.
Being out of tune is usually associated with the field of music and refers to discord or the clashing of musical sounds and lack of agreement between notes in a chord. One can also be out of tune with life. In these instances it may be defined as a clashing of beliefs and attitudes. You can feel out of tune with yourself if you believe one way and behave another. Your behavior and your beliefs will lack agreement, and you will experience discomfort. In some instances we find ourselves faced with ideas, behavior, and attitudes from important people that clash with our own. Ron, the seminary student, is experiencing being out of tune. He senses discord and lack of agreement between himself and Brother Jones.
Every person attempts to put himself in situations that are in agreement with the way he feels about himself and the way others feel toward him. This reduces the uncomfortable feeling. When a person finds himself in a situation where there is disagreement between his own feelings and the feelings of others, he will often want to escape from it. Ron does not see any possible escape from the seminary class, and so he sits, feeling more and more uncomfortable. The more frustrated and confused Ron feels, the more distance he feels between himself and Brother Jones, and the more uncomfortable he is. What should he do and what are some of the possible consequences?
In life there are very few situations where an individual has only two choices. Usually if we take the time and do some thinking, we can come up with several. Some of the choices may be better than others. Ron’s is such a case. There are several ways he can move to rid himself of the discomfort he is experiencing.
He may simply drop the class or refuse to attend. By so doing he would not have to face Brother Jones and feel the discomfort every day. A social scientist would refer to this way of handling discomfort as “flight.” There are some disadvantages to this choice. Should Ron choose to drop the seminary class, he may hurt his parents by disappointing them. He may also cause some concern for the bishop, to the point that the bishop might call Ron in to find out why the change was made, thus putting another kind of pressure on him. Yet Ron can choose to drop out in spite of these consequences.
Another choice open to Ron is to rebel against Brother Jones and to act out his frustrations and feelings right in class. This method of solving problems might be referred to as a “fight” process. This choice may tend to relieve Ron of some of his discomfort, or he may have even more discomfort as a result. Such a choice might cause Brother Jones to resort to the use of power, and he might dismiss Ron from the class. Should he do this, Ron would face the same disadvantages and consequences as he did with choice number one.
As a third choice he can simply attempt to ignore the feelings he is having and to stick it out. The disadvantage here is that Ron hasn’t been able to ignore his feelings, and they are, in fact, becoming worse from day to day. If Ron chooses to do nothing, we can predict with a good deal of confidence that his attitudes toward other teachers and Church programs will become more negative. (This very real danger is illustrated in a recent study that examined some general attitudes of a group of early-morning seminary students toward the Church programs and teachers. The study indicated that if a student had some feelings of dissatisfaction in one area of the Church, these feelings tended to carry over into other areas.)
A fourth alternative to Ron’s dilemma is for him to work out a way of dealing directly with the problem so that his uncomfortable feelings will be reduced. There are several possible ways of doing this, but before discussing some of these, let’s examine some other ideas for working out problems.
When we come into contact with an idea that agrees with the way we feel, we can easily accept it. If, however, we come into contact with an idea that does not agree with the way we feel, someone needs to make some changes. We either have to change something about the idea itself or change our attitude toward it. If neither changes, we begin to feel quite uncomfortable. Ron is in this situation right now. He is very uncomfortable. If he fails to accept the situation with Brother Jones, he will remain in this uncomfortable state, and things will likely get worse. He must do something, but from what we have discussed, he is not able to drop out of the class because such an action will not solve the problem nor really relieve the source of the negative and uncomfortable feelings.
Ron’s feelings are real. His problem is real. He wants to do the right thing, but he just doesn’t know what that right thing is. He wants to be in seminary, but he finds that he is very uncomfortable there. Something has to change. In Ron’s case he can change his attitude or change the seminary teacher, or change both, but Ron should realize that it is difficult to change another person very much. Even in the face of the difficulty of changing self or another, Ron must realize his best course of action is to act.
We cannot give Ron specific solutions to his problems. We can, however, offer some suggestions. It is up to each individual to determine the direction of his personal efforts. In this case prayer would be a good first action. Ron should do as the scriptures suggest and “ask of God.”
Another suggestion that might help Ron find the comfort he is seeking is for him to express his feelings. He needs to go to the other person and there seek to solve his problem. The Savior suggested this process in his Sermon on the Mount when he told us to go to the person with whom we are having problems and to make things right with him before attempting to do other things, even though these other things need and ought to be done.
For Ron this means that perhaps he should find the opportunity to approach Brother Jones and discuss with him the feelings that are there. If this is too threatening, perhaps Ron can go to his parents and share his feelings. On the basis of their acceptance and understanding, he can then approach Brother Jones. If Ron wishes to seek further counsel, he may seek the help and understanding from his bishop or priesthood leader.
Another solution might be for Ron to take a good look at himself and see where he might possibly change his attitude and behavior. Again, the scriptures give us evidence of this type of approach. The situation is not the same, but the process can be applied in both instances. When Christ was questioned as to whether or not he was preaching his own gospel, he responded with these words: “If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself.” (John 7:17.) If we apply this to Ron’s situation, we are suggesting that Ron should examine his basic attitudes toward Brother Jones long enough to really attempt to gain something out of the class. He should attempt to find out what Brother Jones’s will is with respect to him as a class member. Next, Ron should attempt to do Brother Jones’s will and see if his negative feelings leave. He may well determine that the problem is due to his own attitudes and not just to the behavior of the teacher.
Another positive approach open to Ron is to attempt to determine in his own mind what is wrong with the class in general, rather than with himself or Brother Jones. Once this determination is made, he may be able to approach Brother Jones with some suggestions on how the class might be made more enjoyable for more of the students. If this choice is followed, Ron may find that he can be a real asset to the class and improve the relationship between himself and Brother Jones at the same time. If Ron were to accept this challenge, he might learn for himself the great truth found in the Savior’s words that a person can find his life by losing it in the service of others.
One thing is for certain: Ron must do something. The longer this situation is allowed to go on, the more complicated it becomes and the greater the danger that this negative attitude will carry over into other areas of his life. Ron must make a decision of some kind. Suggestions have been made for positive and constructive choices. He should make his choice(s) on the basis of his own feelings and thoughts. Once the decision is made, he should then take it to the Lord for confirmation. Such were the directions given to Oliver Cowdery in section 9 of the Doctrine and Covenants, and they can be just as applicable for us today. If this process is followed, Ron can be assured he has made the right decision, and the “I’m uncomfortable” feeling will vanish.

I very much enjoyed your story titled “Opposite Reaction” (October 1991) about being honest. It reminded me of when I took some baseballs from the ballpark that didn’t belong to me. My best friend found out and encouraged me to return them, which I did. From that day on I never did it again. Thank you for helping me remember the great example my friend set.
Elder Homer John Howard IIPhilippines Quezon City Mission

One of the most wonderful chapters in the history of the Church occurred when Wilford Woodruff, an Apostle of the Lord, was teaching the restored gospel of Jesus Christ throughout Great Britain in 1840—just 10 years after the establishment of the Church.

Wilford Woodruff and other Apostles had focused their work in the Liverpool and Preston areas of England, with considerable success. Elder Woodruff, who later became President of the Church, was constantly praying to God to guide him in this very important work. His prayers led to the inspiration to go to a different place to teach the gospel.

President Monson has taught us that when we get the inspiration from heaven to do something, we do it now—we don’t procrastinate. That is exactly what Wilford Woodruff did. With clear direction from the Spirit to “go … south,” Elder Woodruff left almost immediately and traveled to a part of England called Herefordshire—farming country in the southwest of England. Here he met a prosperous farmer named John Benbow, where he was welcomed “with glad hearts and thanksgiving” (Wilford Woodruff, in Matthias F. Cowley, Wilford Woodruff: History of His Life and Labors as Recorded in His Daily Journals [1909], 117).

A group of over 600 people, who called themselves the United Brethren, had been “praying for light and truth” (Wilford Woodruff, in Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Wilford Woodruff [2004], 91). The Lord sent Wilford Woodruff as an answer to their prayers.

Elder Woodruff’s teaching bore fruit immediately, and many were baptized. Brigham Young and Willard Richards joined him in Herefordshire, and the three Apostles had remarkable success.

In only a few months, they organized 33 branches for the 541 members who had joined the Church. Their remarkable work continued, and ultimately almost every one of the members of the United Brethren were baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

When he looked for a milk jar, there wasn’t one, so he looked in the refrigerator. All three jars were there with milk in them. What do I do now? he wondered. He leaned on the edge of the open refrigerator door and thought awhile. Finally he straightened, told himself out loud, “You think for yourself,” and took out the oldest jar.
He found a cream jar and the skimming ladle, carefully skimmed the cream off the milk, and set the jar of yellow cream in the refrigerator. Then he poured the milk into an old bucket to take to the pigs and chickens and washed the milk jar.
He set the strainer in the milk jar, picked up the milk pail and bucket of skimmed milk, and headed out into the clear evening air.
It looks like I’m going to be doing a lot of thinking for myself the rest of the summer, he reflected. After irrigating, it will be time to cut hay. Then there’ll be more irrigating. Sometime we’re—correction, I’m—probably going to have to move the other cows again.
Right now I mustn’t forget to gather the eggs and close the chicken coop door. And I should look at Ginger’s legs again while the horses are eating.
Boy! Will I have a story to tell when the teacher asks for essays on “What I Did This Summer.” I’ll call mine “The Summer I Grew Up.”
And I thought that all the challenges ended with the pioneers’ trek across the plains!

In the marvelous experience of Brigham Young in February of 1847, when the Prophet Joseph appeared to him in a dream or vision, Brigham pleaded to be reunited with the Prophet. Brigham Young asked the Prophet if he had a message for the Brethren. The Prophet said:
“Tell the people to be humble and faithful, and to be sure to keep the spirit of the Lord and it will lead them right. Be careful and not turn away the still small voice; it will teach them what to do and where to go; it will yield the fruits of the kingdom. Tell the Brethren to keep their hearts open to conviction, so that when the Holy Ghost comes to them, their hearts will be ready to receive it.”
The Prophet further directed Brigham Young as follows: “They can tell the Spirit of the Lord from all other spirits; it will whisper peace and joy to their souls; it will take malice, hatred, strife and all evil from their hearts; and their whole desire will be to do good, bring forth righteousness and build up the kingdom of God.” (Manuscript History of Brigham Young: 1846–47, Historical Dept., The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, pp. 528–31.)

Diana Vasquez didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to her father. She didn’t know she needed to. When she and her two brothers went to school on June 9, 2007, he seemed fine. But before she got home, he lay down to rest and didn’t wake up.
“It was so unexpected,” says Diana, who was 16 at the time. “At first I couldn’t accept it.”
But when tragedy strikes without warning, as it did in Diana’s family, suddenly things that really matter—like family—become more important.
Fortunately for Diana’s family, being united here and hereafter was something they were already working on. Pulling together when hard times could have pulled them apart has brought peace and happiness in this life and hope that they can be together in the next.
Less than a week before Diana’s father died, he taught a family home evening lesson on being united in keeping their covenants so they could be together forever. “Nobody has tomorrow guaranteed,” he said. “We need to be prepared so that if any one of us dies, we can still be together.”
Diana has learned how working together to keep gospel covenants can bring a family together, and she is grateful she learned before it was too late.
The last thing Diana’s father said to her as she left for school on the day he died was, “Te quiero mucho, Dianita.” (I love you very much, little Diana.)
Diana has confidence in the Lord’s promise that her family can be together again if they will continue to keep their covenants.
“I have seen how Heavenly Father has brought us closer together for following the Savior,” she says. “I have to believe He will also keep His promise that we can be together forever if we keep the commandments.
“I know our families can truly be eternal thanks to the divine plan.
“I know we can realize the eternal glory our Heavenly Father promises. Only by enduring to the end, putting our hearts into the things of God, and helping each other can we achieve our objective to be an eternal family.”

Thank you for publishing the New Era. Every story has a special message in it that helps me always feel the Spirit. One day I decided to read the Message. I used to only read the short articles, the Mormonad, and the Mormonisms. When I read the Message, I could feel the Spirit. I now read every article in every magazine. I even told one of my nonmember friends about the magazine, and the next day she told me she had read a lot of it. Thank you for this inspirational magazine.
Loni HawkinsKingsville, Texas

“If I weren’t Mormon” seemed to be my favorite phrase this month. If I weren’t a Mormon I wouldn’t be getting up at 5:30 in the morning enduring 6° C. and less temperatures just to go to seminary. If I weren ’t a Mormon I’d be more accepted at school, and I’d have fun going to “all weekend” parties with friends, and I wouldn’t have to endure all those jokes about my religious beliefs. If I weren’t a Mormon life would be so much easier.
When I finally reached school that morning I was irritable, depressed, and tired. I wouldn’t be like this if I weren’t a Mormon, I thought. I missed the bus because Dad likes long family prayers. And Mom couldn’t drive me to school because she had to go to some Relief Society meeting.
I was late for class so I took a shortcut through the back of the library where I saw my old boyfriend with his beautiful new girlfriend. We had stopped seeing each other because I wasn’t willing to compromise my standards. Seeing those two together was more than I could handle. I ran into a nearby empty room and cried.
I finally arrived at my class just before I was marked absent. The daily notice sheet was read out loud reminding us of the upcoming long weekend and the camp planned at The Entrance, a coastal holiday town about five hours north of Sydney, Australia. That’s just what I needed. I wondered if Dad and Mom would let me go? No, they wouldn’t because I have to go to church Sunday and I have to go to family home evening Monday.
I was so bored in my mathematics class that I calculated how much more pocket money I’d have and all the things I could buy if I didn’t have to pay tithing.
The next morning the alarm went off at 5:30 as usual. Time to go to seminary again. Why should I have to go? Why get up at 5:30 every morning? Then I heard Mom’s happy voice telling me that if I didn’t get up I’d be late.
The topic that morning was, “What has Joseph Smith done for you?” I could answer that easily. If it weren’t for Joseph Smith I wouldn’t be a Mormon.
“Will you read Doctrine and Covenants, section 122, verses seven and eight, please?” my teacher asked.
Wearily, I took out my scriptures and started reading. At first I was not really listening, but then something made me start to pay attention to the words.
“And if thou shouldst be cast into the pit, or into the hands of murderers, and the sentence of death passed upon thee; if thou be cast into the deep; if the billowing surge conspire against thee; if fierce winds become thine enemy; if the heavens gather blackness, and all the elements combine to hedge up the way; and above all, if the very gates 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.” [D&C 122:7–8]
I choked out the last verse as my eyes filled with tears. “The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he?”
A few days later I was standing on the balcony of the Opera House, overlooking Sydney harbor. I couldn’t remember why I had felt so restricted because of my religion. My problems seemed pretty small and insignificant compared to those of Jesus Christ and Joseph Smith. I felt selfish as I asked myself, “Art thou greater than he?”
The lights of the city seemed to be almost as bright as the stars above. “I’m so proud of my country,” I said to myself. “It’s so full of unique beauty, people, and culture. I thank God for our beautiful plants, animals, and freedom. And I’in proud to be a part of the ever-growing and only true church in the world.”
My favorite phrase still is, “If I weren’t a Mormon,” but in a different way. If I weren’t a Mormon I wouldn’t have such a wonderful family, such great friends, and such a clear understanding of the purpose of life.
By the way, I calculated how much tithing I have paid, and when I look at how much God has given me, there’s no comparison.

After World War II, my mother and father settled for a time in South Africa. My father was a seaman and the shipping company he worked for was based in South Africa and sailed the world. My parents had two very young children at the time and while my father was a world away from home on one trip, their younger child, Gillian, fell ill. She was less than a year old and sadly passed away during emergency surgery.
My mother was devastated. She was not only without the support of her husband, but also, because they were still not well established in South Africa, she had no extended family or even close friends to turn to. Fortunately, around the same time, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had recently knocked on her door and had been teaching her the gospel of Jesus Christ. I am so grateful for those missionaries.
They taught my mother that “little children are alive in Christ, even from the foundation of the world” (Moroni 8:12).
Something we never knew until we read about it in her diary decades later, is that in the days after the loss of her child, the mission president sent his car with a driver to take my mother to all the places she needed to go and to attend to all the matters that arose, including arrangements for a funeral. I am so grateful for that mission president.
His act of kindness to someone whom the missionaries were merely teaching has had long lasting effects unknown to him.

I’m not sure just why my mom decided to show me the note that afternoon. I was a junior in high school living with my family in the lush green countryside of Michigan. The oldest of six children, I couldn’t wait to graduate and move out on my own. I was tired of having to be the example and baby-sit my siblings whenever my parents wanted to go out.
Perhaps my mother knew, somehow, that sharing the note from Michael was the best thing she could have done for me that day. I arrived home from school earlier than my three brothers and two sisters. I confess I rolled my eyes when the first thing my mom said to me was, “Come here, Camielle. I want to show you something.”
I followed her into my brother’s room, where she picked up a note from his pillow. In his 11-year-old scrawl, Michael had written, “I’m not coming home today. I’m not part of this family.”
I could feel the burning of tears from somewhere deep in my heart spill over onto my 17-year-old cheeks. Mom said, “Let’s go pick him up from school today.”
I was too choked up to say anything. My life had changed in a matter of seconds. I nodded to my mother and thought to myself, No one in our family will ever feel this way again.
We got to the elementary school just as the classes were being dismissed. Michael came out of his class and was a little surprised to see us, but happy we were there. He never said a word about his note. He never wrote another one.
I left home after graduating from high school, but Michael and I became the best of friends despite the sometimes thousands of miles between us. The day I saw the note from Michael was the day my spirituality and humanity came together. None other is more cherished than those we call “family.”

Later I found out.
The twenty-year-old emergency paramedic driving the ambulance had his hands full. What was he to do with a three-year-old girl who was frightened and crying? Her parents were both injured, her mother critically. What could he say or do to calm this child?
Maybe a song would help, he thought. But he couldn’t recall any children’s songs—except one. It was a Sunday School song he had just learned in the church he had only recently joined. There was no reason this little girl would recognize it or take comfort in it. But the impression that he should sing grew stronger, so he began: “I am a child of God, and he has sent me here …”
The little girl grew quiet and after a verse began to sing with him, “I am a child of God, and so my needs are great …”
At the end of the second verse he asked softly, “Are you a Latter-day Saint?”
She replied, “Yes.”
“Are your mommy and daddy?”
“Yes.”
He reached for the radio transmitter. “This is rescue calling base. Hi, Beth. Would you do me a favor? Look up the number of a Bishop Brower in the phone book and give him a call. We have a critically injured woman coming in who’s a member of his church and we need …”
So the bishop received the message, and priesthood holders were at the hospital within minutes.
A year later we attended the missionary farewell of the young paramedic who helped save Gaydra’s life.