Gospel Story Finder

Taking a stand wasn’t easy for Sarah Koyle, a Laurel who lives in Rancho Cucamonga, California, but she knew it was the right thing to do. When a teacher at her school showed a movie that Sarah felt was inappropriate, she made her opinion known.
After Sarah’s bold move, there was little room for doubt by her peers as to what Sarah believed was right. Then a local newspaper interviewed Sarah about her stand on R-rated movies. Again, Sarah was able to voice her opinions without reservation.
Was all the attention worth it, especially when Sarah seemed to be the only one who felt that the movies were wrong?
“If I were given the chance, I would definitely do this again,” says Sarah. “Standing for the prophet’s words is something I can’t do enough of. It wasn’t easy, but it was right.”

You will remember a tender story told by President James E. Faust. “As a small boy on the farm … , I remember my grandmother … cooking our delicious meals on a hot woodstove. When the wood box next to the stove became empty, Grandmother would silently pick up the box, go out to refill it from the pile of cedar wood outside, and bring the heavily laden box back into the house.”
President Faust’s voice then filled with emotion as he continued: “I was so insensitive … I sat there and let my beloved grandmother refill the kitchen wood box. I feel ashamed of myself and have regretted my [sin of] omission for all of my life. I hope someday to ask for her forgiveness.”25
More than 65 years had passed. If President Faust still remembered and regretted not helping his grandmother after all those years, should we be surprised with some of the things we still remember and regret?

Elder Jairo Mazzagardi knows what it means to make sacrifices in the service of the Lord. In 1990, Elder Mazzagardi received a phone call from President Thomas S. Monson, then a counselor in the First Presidency, who called him to preside over the Salvador Brazil Mission.
“I never dreamed that I would be a mission president,” Elder Mazzagardi says. “I had been a stake president less than five years. Things were busy—and good—with our business. Accepting this call would mean leaving everything behind.”
At the end of the phone call, President Monson offered Elder Mazzagardi time to consider the calling. But Elder Mazzagardi and his wife had decided years earlier that their lives would be consecrated to the Lord, so he accepted the call on the spot. “Whatever the Lord needs of us, we’re ready to go,” he says.

As a boy Elder Hales loved baseball. In high school he became the pitcher for the school’s baseball team. Once he lost three games in a row, one to nothing. One of the games was a no-hitter. The school newspaper had an article called “Hard-Luck Hales Loses Again.”
Robert told his coach he was going to quit. His coach told him that he just needed to stop wearing out his arm. He was pitching fastballs before the games to show off. Robert listened. The next game he pitched so well that the other team never scored a single run. Because he listened to his coach, he was able to play better. Robert learned that listening to Heavenly Father is like that too. When we listen to Heavenly Father, we can do well.

This is a question that my father taught me to carefully consider years ago. As I was growing up, my parents assigned me chores around the house and paid me an allowance for that work. I often used that money, a little over 50 cents a week, to go to the movies. Back then a movie ticket cost 25 cents for an 11-year-old. This left me with 25 cents to spend on candy bars, which cost 5 cents apiece. A movie with five candy bars! It couldn’t get much better than that.
All was well until I turned 12. Standing in line one afternoon, I realized that the ticket price for a 12-year-old was 35 cents, and that meant two less candy bars. Not quite prepared to make that sacrifice, I reasoned to myself, “You look the same as you did a week ago.” I then stepped up and asked for the 25-cent ticket. The cashier did not blink, and I bought my regular five candy bars instead of three.
Elated by my accomplishment, I later rushed home to tell my dad about my big coup. As I poured out the details, he said nothing. When I finished, he simply looked at me and said, “Son, would you sell your soul for a nickel?” His words pierced my 12-year-old heart. It is a lesson I have never forgotten.

Eleven-year-old Beth Burroughs pulled the reins gently but firmly to the right and guided her horse, Ebony, down the side of a rocky dry wash. The homemade wreath of flowers she had slung over the saddle horn bounced as she maneuvered her animal down the little zigzagging ravine. By taking this route, Beth would save herself a good mile and a half of riding time on the road. She had to get to Heaven’s Gate Cemetery and back home so that she could help her mother with the wash.

The predawn light had turned the mist that hung over Hampton Lake into silver lace as Beth galloped along its south shore. Her horse was starting to show signs of strain, so she decided to pull up and let him rest.

Looping the reins about a large dead limb that protruded from other woody shore rubble, Beth knelt at the water’s edge and gazed at her rippled, distorted reflection. If it had been someone’s first view of her, she thought, she would have been as badly misrepresented as Rebecca had been.

Ebony lifted his dark head, shook his mane, and went back to drinking. Beth gazed fondly at him a moment, then her eyes returned to the rippling water. She remembered her father talking about the worth of the individual soul, about how each person that ever was, is, or ever would be is a child of God and therefore special in his or her own way. He said that no one should judge anybody else by appearance because his character, like his soul, is inside and can only really be seen by Heavenly Father.

But somehow, Beth painfully recalled, her father’s teachings had been hard to put into practice whenever Rebecca was around—until the day of the field mouse. …

Ebony lifted his head again, his thirst now satisfied. Beth lingered a minute or two, watching her reflection clear and sharpen in the settling water. Then she remounted Ebony and continued down the road.

Mr. Flannagan chugged by in his Model T, waving and honking as he traveled in the opposite direction. Such a noisy, happy machine, Beth thought, then decided she was wrong. Machines might be noisy, all right, but they didn’t have feelings. People could feel happy. She had been happy, very happy in the time she had spent with Rebecca after the day of the mouse’s burial. Beth had made more and more visits to the yellow house on Banberry Road. She and Rebecca had helped Sister Johnson bake cookies, walked the fence in the big grassy field just down from Tucker’s Mill, and lain on their backs, watching the clouds sail wildly by in the yellow sky.
Rebecca had a smile for everyone, a smile, Beth was sure, that could light up the world. She was like a little child. But had not the Savior Himself taught that “of such is the kingdom of heaven”? Beth hadn’t minded the funny looks some of her old friends gave her every now and again after she became friends with Rebecca. Her real friends respected her for her feelings. Besides, she knew Heavenly Father approved, and He was her most valued friend.

As Beth’s horse clip-clopped past the bright red covered bridge a half mile from Heaven’s Gate Cemetery, she couldn’t help but think about Rebecca’s death a year ago. Rebecca had disappeared into a neighbor’s burning house and lowered a small child out a window into someone’s waiting arms just before a section of roof collapsed on her, burying her beneath the fiery timbers.

Beth laid the homemade wreath of flowers on Rebecca’s grave. A couple of minutes later she again climbed onto Ebony’s back and rode out of Heaven’s Gate.

The sun seemed to perch on top of the mesa as horse and rider turned up the little treelined path toward home.

“Did you have a good ride, honey?” Beth’s father asked as he stepped from the barn, leading a plow horse.
“Sure did,” Beth replied, walking her horse toward him. “There’s a lot to see when the sun comes up. First you see a little of this, then a little of that. Pretty soon everything is all lit up as pretty as can be. As pretty as a good memory. As pretty as Rebecca Johnson.”

A BYU security officer called Thursday evening, August 31, with news that I know I will periodically receive as president of BYU, but which I will always dread—the news of the death of one of our students. As the officer began to give me some of the details, my mind flashed back to my student days. I remembered how President Wilkinson used to agonize over such tragedies—how he and his successors had implored students to drive carefully as they went home for Christmas or for other reasons. And now it was happening to me—the death of a student on my watch. I tried to imagine how some family—father and mother, brothers and sisters—might be feeling at that moment. Where does the family live, I wondered: Roanoke, Virginia; Youngstown, Ohio; Spokane, Washington; Fillmore, Utah; where? As the security officer finished her report, I rather perfunctorily asked the student’s name. I was not prepared for the answer: Chris Felsted.

At that moment my agony turned from general to specific. I no longer had to think about hypothetical parents. I know them: Peter and Karen Felsted—caring, loving parents—devoted Latter-day Saints who have been friends of Janet’s and mine for fourteen years. Three hours earlier their oldest son was alive, seemingly robust, and starting BYU with a big head start on a lifetime of future happiness with twenty-four hours of AP credit and $8,000 saved for his mission. But now no more. In a brief, terrible moment all of that was snuffed out. The middle phase of Christian Daniel Felsted’s eternal existence had lasted just slightly less than eighteen years.

For many years, I worked in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. I saw many families come there to be sealed. Many of them had to make great sacrifices to do so. I remember one family who had traveled for three days to get to the temple. They had six children, and only one of the children had shoes. The father was embarrassed that some of the children had only sandals to wear. But he knew that coming to the temple was more important than having shoes. It was a wonderful experience to see this beautiful family sealed together in the temple.

Vasily is a child who spends much of his time in the streets and is not supported by his parents in his search for truth. He found a small branch of the Church in his town, and he came to every event held at the church. He also brought his three younger brothers to church, and other friends joined him in Primary. In fact, at one time, the largest Primary in that area was made up of these little boys who are not members of the Church. They were drawn to the truth, and the light of the gospel began to be reflected in their faces. They were welcomed, protected, taught, and loved by all the members of that little branch, including youth, young adults, missionaries, teachers, and priesthood leaders. Think of the children in your neighborhood or Primary class. Who are the children in your branch or ward? Is there one, like Vasily, who needs you?

Two examples will illustrate what I mean. On a 1997 flight across the Atlantic to attend a scientific conference in Aberdeen, Scotland, I sat immediately behind two women. At some point during the long flight they began conversing in good English, tinged with some sort of European accent I couldn’t quite place. Their conversation was rather loud because of the jet engines, and although I should have done my best not to listen in, I confess that they caught my attention, and what they said still does. They spoke critically of Americans for lack of depth in their relationships with people.

One said, “The first thing that an American wants to know about a person who has just been introduced is what the person does for a living.”

“Yes,” concurred the other, “that seems to form their basis for personal judgments. They aren’t interested in who a person really is beyond his occupation.”

As I pondered their evaluation, I found myself realizing, uncomfortably, that they might be more right than I wanted to admit. For much of the remainder of the flight I pondered these two questions: (1) Beyond those aspects of my life that are connected with my work at BYU, who am I? and (2) Isn’t what I am more than merely what I do? The intellectual answers to those questions are easy. The operational answers can be challenging.

Eleven-year-old Jennifer stared out the window of her Primary classroom. Marshmallow clouds drifted across a blue March sky. Sometimes she saw imaginary faces in the clouds.
“Jennifer,” the teacher said impatiently, “what do you think of the idea?”
“I’m sorry, Sister Sparks. I guess I wasn’t listening.”
“I know,” Sister Sparks said dryly, at which the other students giggled. “We’ve been discussing a service project, and it’s been decided that we will visit the Golden Years Rest Home once a week for the next two months.”
“What will we do there?” Jennifer asked.
“We can sing, put on skits, play checkers and other games, and just visit with the folks who live there.”
Jennifer didn’t think that sounded like very much fun. She was apprehensive about being with people she didn’t know, especially older people.
The first visit to the home was not very successful. The children felt awkward and uncomfortable. The second visit was better. They felt a bit more relaxed, and the residents seemed to enjoy their company.
By the third visit the children felt at home, and they hurried to pick out their favorite partners to visit and play games with.
During one visit Jennifer noticed an elderly lady for the first time. She sat alone, looking out the window. Her fine, wispy white hair framed a face with deep wrinkles. Jennifer went over and stood silently beside the lady for a moment. Finally she said, “Hi, I’m Jennifer Wheeler. Would you like me to read to you?”
The old lady looked up with watery blue eyes. Her pale lips spread in a slow, sweet smile. “That would be very nice, dear, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather just talk.”
Jennifer drew up a chair and sat down. “What’s your name?” she asked.
The old lady laughed softly. “It might be one you’ve never heard. It’s Clementine. Clementine Dodd. But everyone here calls me Clemmie. Tell me about yourself.”
Jennifer told her about school and her family and friends. Her eyes sparkled as she added, “Oh, you should see my cat! Her name is Bounce. Don’t you think that’s a nice name?”
Clemmie agreed, and they sat in silence for a while. Then Jennifer said, “Tell me about when you were a little girl. Did you like school?”
Clemmie’s eyes misted over as her memory went back to those long-ago days. She was quiet for so long that Jennifer thought she hadn’t heard the question.
At last she said, “Yes, Jennifer, I liked school, but I had to quit in the sixth grade. We were very poor. Oh, the chores we had to do! There was wood to chop and carry in, buckets of water to bring in from the well, oil lamps to clean and fill. We didn’t have much time for school or for play.”
Jennifer found it hard to imagine Clemmie as a young girl, harder still to think of anyone’s working so hard just to survive. She thought of her own warm, bright home and the simple chores she had to do. “But didn’t you ever get to do anything you wanted to do?” she asked.
Clemmie chuckled. “I remember one time when I was about sixteen. I had a beau, one of the hired hands from a neighboring farm, who had invited me to a barn dance. Shortly before the dance my father noticed that the chicken coop hadn’t been cleaned and reminded me that it was my turn to clean it. I had completely forgotten! He said I couldn’t go out that night until the job was done.”
“What did you do, Clemmie? Did you have to stay home?”
Clemmie smiled as she continued: “No, I talked my brother into doing it for me. I had to promise to take his turn the next three times. If you knew what a hated job it was, you’d know how much I wanted to go to that dance!”
Jennifer went back home, thinking that things were sure a lot different now than they were in Clemmie’s day.
Over the next few weeks, Jennifer and Clemmie became great friends. Clemmie had new stories of her childhood to tell every visit, and Jennifer came to appreciate what it was like to live in those bygone days.
As they were going to the nursing home one week toward the end of April, Jennifer was thinking about how much she would miss Clemmie and her stories at the end of the month. When they entered the home, Jennifer noticed right away that Clemmie was not in her usual spot by the window. “Where do you suppose Clemmie is?” she asked her teacher.
“I’ll find out,” Sister Sparks replied and went to talk to the head nurse.
When she came back, Jennifer could tell by her expression that something was wrong. “What is it, Sister Sparks? Is Clemmie sick?”
“No, dear. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Clemmie died a few days ago. The nurse said she went peacefully in her sleep.”
Jennifer felt the hot tears burn her eyes, and she turned away so the others wouldn’t see her crying.
Sister Sparks put an arm around her shoulders and said, “You brought a lot of pleasure and happiness into the last weeks of her life.”
As the class left the nursing home, Sister Sparks drew Jennifer aside. She handed her a small leather-bound book. The cover was cracked and worn at the edges, and Jennifer could just make out the faded gilt lettering, Daily Journal.
“The nurse gave me this to give to you,” Sister Sparks said. “It was Clemmie’s journal when she was a young girl. Clemmie wanted you to have it.”
Jennifer almost cried again as she looked at the writing on the worn pages. She knew the journal was something she would treasure always.

Jimmie Nicholson wears a skirt to work, and nobody seems to mind. In fact he’s following in the steps, dance steps that is, of many of his ancestors who were Highland dancers.
Jimmie, from the Scottish seaport of Dundee, learned to Highland dance when he was four years old and began learning to play the bagpipe when he was about eight. He has been dancing for the past 16 years and now performs semiprofessionally with his younger brother Gary. Their variety show includes singing, Gary playing the bagpipe and Jimmie on the drums, and both brothers dancing.
Jimmie says his interest in Highland bands and dancing was there right from the start. “My mother was a drummer in a pipe band, and I thought she was wonderful. She won many awards, including being named the Winnipeg Band championship drummer.”
Sharing their talents and rich Scottish heritage has brought warm responses, not only in their homeland but also in Canada, where Jimmie and Gary have toured twice.
When he was eight or nine, Jimmie started playing the chanter, a reed pipe with finger holes. “When you are learning,” he says, “you can’t go straight onto the bagpipe. You have to learn to play the chanter first, so you can get all your fingering correct.”
Other skills must also be mastered before finally beginning to play the pipes themselves. The Scottish bagpipe consists of a leather bag that is filled by blowing air through a mouthpiece or tube. The air is pressed from this bag into several tubes. The melody is played on the chanter, which has a double reed as an oboe does. There are three pipes that extend upward, called drones. Each has a single reed like that of a clarinet and produces a single note. When learning to play the pipes, the three drones are added one at a time until you work up to playing with a full set.
Jimmie got his first set of bagpipes when he was 16, and he joined two bands, one in Dundee and another in Armancourt.
“The bagpipe’s an instrument that demands a lot of practice because it’s so difficult and temperamental,” Jimmie says. “Starting right in the beginning, an hour a day is adequate. But if you want to be really good, you’ve got to put in more practice.”
Jimmie has participated in many pipe band competitions and Highland games, which are held not only in Scotland but all over the world. Most Highland games take place in the summer and consist of many different competitions ranging from pipe band contests, Highland dancing, and Gaelic singing to a tug-of-war contest, caber tossing (tossing a young tree trunk), high jumping, and hurdle races.
“During the winter season, the pipe bands practice their competition sets for the summer,” Jimmie says. “Highland dancing competition carries on throughout the year. During the summer months it’s held at the Highland games and during the winter months in halls, theaters—everywhere. Every place big enough to hold a competition, you’ll find dancing.”
Jimmie has stuck with Highland dancing even though it took a back seat to soccer for a while. Now he’s working on qualifying as a dance instructor. He could have qualified four years ago, but changing teachers twice slowed him down. Of course, he has learned a wide variety of styles by having three different teachers.
Entering dance competitions takes a lot of stamina. “It’s a game that’s very demanding,” Jimmie admits. “In the competitions there are so many dances. You usually compete in them all. You’re talking about possibly ten dances. You’ve got to have strength in the legs and be quite fit. You achieve that by dancing.” The standard dances are the reel, fling, and sword dances.
Jimmie still competes with his band, which has won most of the competitions around, but he has given up dance competitions for a while. “My main aim is to become a qualified dancing teacher,” he says.
Four years ago Jimmie discovered a new heritage. Through entertaining, he met a member of the Church. They became friends, and she invited him to go to church with her. He enjoyed the meetings and soon he began talking with the missionaries.
“I found out all about the Church. I was more active than some members,” he says. Finally after two years Jimmie decided he was going to get baptized.
“I had the object one week to pray about it. I did pray, and sincerely. I think that was the big difference. I prayed sincerely because I did want to know if the Church was true. An answer came. I mean it was really strong—very, very strong.
“Before, I was expecting an answer straight away when I was praying. This time I waited. I didn’t have to wait very long. Once I had the feeling, I knew there was no way I could deny it. Just no way at all.
“My parents weren’t too keen on my decision at first. I had been brought up in the Church of Scotland. My mother was slightly hurt, but my father was just concerned I was doing the right thing. I asked them to come to my baptism, and they were there on the front row seats.
“My brother disowned me. He just didn’t want to know me at all. But now he’s great about it. If he hears anyone saying anything bad about the Church or my being a Mormon, he’ll jump to my defense. It’s heartwarming. It’s good to see him stand by me as my parents do.”
Jimmie shares with his family the things that happen at church each weekend. “If I have a calling they seem quite pleased. They know the Church is quite a big part of my life.”
He was attracted to the Church because he had many of the same values it teaches. “I’m a firm believer in doing unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
When he started studying with the missionaries, he was already living the Word of Wisdom. “As a teenager I drank, but only because all my friends were drinking. I realized that to be one of the boys you didn’t have to drink. They respected me eventually because of it.”
Jimmie is proud of his new-found heritage as a Latter-day Saint and strives to share it with others by his example. He blends his new beliefs with the Highland traditions of his homeland to show others what it means to be a Scottish Latter-day Saint.

A faithful young woman decided not to compromise her standards when she was asked to dress immodestly to fit into the business division of the fashion company where she worked. Understanding that her body is a sacred gift from our Heavenly Father and a place where the Spirit can dwell, she was moved to live by a standard higher than the world’s. She not only gained the confidence of those who saw her living by the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ but also preserved her job, which for a moment was in jeopardy. Her willingness to do what was pleasing in the sight of the Lord, rather than what worked for the world, gave her covenant confidence amidst difficult choices.

Transportation was either difficult to obtain or nonexistent. Brother Krause reported that it was common to walk twelve or thirteen hours, for distances of up to fifty kilometers, to visit various branches of the Church. But many members, like Sister Elli Polzin, still had to be found and cared for.
“I came from Stettin [now in Poland] with our children and my mother in 1946. … One day two missionaries, one of them was Brother Walter Bohme from Groitzsch, came by to help us make contact with the Church once again. They encouraged us to move into Schwerin where there was a branch of the Church. I got a job there … and after much difficulty I was able to bring my family to Schwerin. … For years we lived in one room until we got an apartment. And then in December of 1949, one day before Christmas Eve, my husband came home from prison” (Schutze, page 18).

One night I was sitting at home thinking about what I was going to do about a specific friend. She was getting involved with the wrong kind of people. I didn’t want to get the reputation she was getting, but I still wanted her good friendship.
That’s when I picked up the January issue of the New Era. I read the Questions and Answers section that talked about having rowdy friends. It said that I should be an example to her.
I really needed that article. It came at the perfect time. Now I know that with the help of that article, and the help of my Heavenly Father, I can better help my friend. Thank you so much.
UnsignedFruit Heights, Utah

“Mom, hey, Mom!” Devin’s voice floated in through the open kitchen window as she finished crimping the pie crust. A little breeze followed his voice, ruffling the white curtains and carrying a sharp smell, like rain. Instinctively she glanced toward the mountains, and yes, there were gray clouds gathering.
The screen on the back door banged shut, and she heard hesitating footsteps. “In the kitchen, dear,” she called, wiping her hands on a towel. The clump of boots sounded nearer, and she glanced up to see him framed in the doorway, temporarily blocking out most of the light.
“My goodness,” she said, with just enough tease in her voice, “if those shoulders grow any more you’ll have to go through sideways!” and then saved him the embarrassment of having to reply to such a typically motherly statement by handing him the mixing bowl and spoon. She waited with cocked head and inquiring eyebrows while he sampled the filling.
“ ’Sall right,” he said casually, but she knew from the glint in his eye that it was really good.
“It’s for the Jeffersons,” she explained, “for this afternoon, after the funeral. But I made one for us, too.”
“You’d better take ’em both over,” he said wryly. “They’ve got a regular army of relatives swarming around the house.”
“They have?”
“Yeah. I was over that way just now.” His voice was slightly muffled, coming from behind the refrigerator door. She heard the clink of milk bottles. “On my way back from Jess Willard’s.”
Jess Willard’s. She was alert now but cautious. Don’t say anything, she told herself. Just wait.
“Y’know, Mom, he’s willing to knock off another two hundred on that Chevy.”
Here we go again, she thought. But not this morning. I’m not up to this on a busy Saturday morning.
“That car is really a bargain now.” His words came in a rush, tumbling together in his eagerness to win her over. “Just a little time and effort and it’d be worth twice what he’s asking. I can do the transmission work myself and …”
“Devin!”
There was silence in the kitchen. I don’t want to sound like this, she thought, forcing back the irritation clutching at her stomach. Make it light: joke! she told herself.
“This is the Voice of Doom speaking,” she said, imitating a telephone recording. “You can’t afford Jess Willard’s fancy motorcar. There’s no way you can put together that much money—and your folks can’t give it to you, either.”
He rinsed the glass and slid it into the dish drainer.
“I told him I’d take it.” His voice was so quiet—and so final.
“What?!” There wasn’t time to control the astonishment.
“Bill Whipple was there this morning. He said he was going to buy the car as soon as he could sell his pickup. Oh, Mom, what would Bill Whipple do with a car like that?”
“And how would Devin Edwards pay for a car like that?” she demanded.
“With the fund,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.
“Your missionary fund?”
Unreal, went her brain, unreal, unreal. He didn’t really say that—not Devin, not the boy who picked strawberries all summer when he turned 12 and put every penny, minus tithing, into the fund.
“It would just be a loan, Mom. I’d pay it back.”
“Wait a minute.” She fluttered her hands in front of her closed eyes, trying to think, reaching for control. “You’ll be 19 in less than a year. You couldn’t …”
“Who says I have to leave the exact minute I turn 19?” he retorted, a hard, angry edge to his voice.
She could say nothing. The silence stretched as she stood at the wooden chopping block, stunned and still. Gradually her hands swam into focus. She was looking down and felt faint surprise to see flour and little bits of dough clinging to her fingers. Then she became aware of the receding footsteps and the slam of the back door.
“Bobby … Lisa! It’s time to leave!” she called. Then she stood, somewhat nervous, studying her reflection in the glass panes of the ponderous grandfather clock which had always stood in the entryway. Ten forty-five according to the filigree hands: the funeral was to begin at eleven. Bad enough that Bob is out of town, she thought, and now to appear without Devin either! But there had been no sign of him since he had slammed through the back door an hour ago.
“Here I am, Mom.” Lisa’s face appeared suddenly in the glittering glass, and her mother turned to give her a quick hug.
“You look lovely, dear,” she said softly. “Thanks,” replied Lisa, patting her hair into place and smoothing down the full skirt of her new blue dress. “I’ll wait out in front.”
“Bobby … please come now!” she called, putting a little more insistence into her voice. It was going to be all right. She had felt it so strongly at the conclusion of her prayer half an hour earlier. Somehow Devin would see—would get his values straight again. The funeral. She had decided the funeral would do it. Devin would be sitting hunched forward on the bench, and one of the speakers would look him right in the eye and say just the perfect thing. And now Devin might not be there to hear it.
Bobby appeared at the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, Mom,” he puffed as he came down toward her, taking the steps two at a time, “couldn’t find my tie. Where’s Devin?”
“I don’t know,” she said simply, trying to keep it even, trying not to let the distress show through. But Bobby sensed it anyway.
“Maybe he’s already gone over to the church,” he suggested.
“In his boots and levis?”
“I guess not. Wanna wait for him?”
“No,” she sighed. “I left him a note.” She plucked two umbrellas from the stand near the clock. “Here, you’d better take this,” she said, offering him one. “It looks like a storm.”
The downpour had eased to a steady drench by the time Devin vaulted over the hedge and made a dash for the back door. When he strode into the kitchen, his wet T-shirt was plastered against his back. He walked over to the fridge and removed the note from the two flat magnets holding it against the door. It read: “10:40 A.M. Dear Devin: We are leaving for the Jepperson funeral, which starts at 11:00. Please change quickly and meet us at the church. We’ll sit at the back and save you a seat. Love, Mom.”
He glanced at the clock in the middle of the stove: 12:30. He crumpled the note and tossed it into the wastebasket. A few quick strides to his room, and he was back in the kitchen again in a dry T-shirt, rifling the fridge. He arrived at the table with an armload of milk, bread, mayonnaise, ham and cheese, and became aware of the two pies sitting in plastic-wrapped silence in the center of the table, waiting to be delivered. His gaze kept returning to them as he ate a quick lunch. When he had finished and cleared away the clutter, he fished the keys to his dad’s truck out of his pocket, picked up a pie in each hand, and headed through the kitchen door into what was now a mere drizzle.
He drove in silence, letting the slip-slap of the windshield wipers keep time with his thoughts, which were so deep he almost missed the Jepperson turnoff. He parked the truck in the side yard and, carefully balancing the pies, made his way up the wooden stairs to the old screen porch, where he expertly flipped open the screen door with the toe of his boot. It was just a few steps to the back kitchen door, which was slightly ajar. Devin nudged it open with his shoulder, stepped into the dimly lit room, and deftly deposited the pies on the counter near the sink. Then, with his hand on the doorknob, he was just in the act of stepping back out when a low, growling voice came from the interior of the darkened house: “Who’s there?!”
Startled, he swallowed hard and called, “Devin Edwards. Just leaving some pies for after the funeral.”
“Devin Edwards, is it?” came the voice. “Come on in here a minute, Devin Edwards.”
He made his way through the gray rooms with the ease of someone who’d been through them a hundred times or more, and as he came through the archway into the front room, a light flickered on. Carl Jepperson was sitting in his shirt-sleeves and suspenders in the big leather chair by the window.
“Why aren’t you at the funeral?” blurted Devin, the surprise evident in his voice.
“Don’t believe in ’em, son,” said Mr. Jepperson slowly, his deep voice rumbling through the room. “I can mourn my father better sitting here, in his chair, in his house, than I can over at the church with all those fancy flowers and crowds of people.”
“Uh … I was planning to go to the funeral,” explained Devin quickly, “but I was over at the Willard’s, and by the time …”
“Oh yes,” Carl Jepperson interrupted, with an impatient wave of his hand, “I hear you’re going to buy Jesse’s red Chevy. My boy’d sure like to have it.” He turned to look through the window as lightning flashed briefly across the sky and then continued, almost to himself. “There’s a mighty high price on that car. ’Course, if some people’d pay their bills …” He shifted his weight in the chair suddenly and looked straight at Devin.
“Your dad doesn’t have the money for that last load of lumber he took from me on credit. But he’s got plenty for hot rods, eh?”
Devin slid damp palms across his jeans and cleared his throat. “You know my dad’s short on cash right now. I’ve … uh … sort of decided to borrow the money from my missionary fund.”
“Borrow?” repeated Mr. Jepperson, and then barked a short, ironic laugh. “That’s the whole fund, boy, the whole thing. Spend is the word you’re looking for.” And then, before Devin could reply, a crafty look came into his eyes and he inquired, “What did your father say about all this?”
“Dad’s up at the construction site in Twin Lakes. He won’t be back until Tuesday.”
“So your Dad’s gonna have quite a little surprise,” mused Carl Jepperson, a bitter smile curling his lips. “I sure would like to see his face.”
Wheels crunched on the gravel driveway in front of the house, and headlights suddenly illuminated the rain-streaked windows. Devin’s feet took him to the front door almost of their own accord.
“Looks like somebody’s back from the funeral,” he commented, opening the door and peering through the rain. “I’ve got to be going now, anyway.”
He stepped out quickly, not looking back, but the growly voice followed him onto the porch: “Tell your dad I’ll be over to see him next Tuesday.”
He took the three steps leading down from the porch in a single jump, wincing slightly as the cold rain hit his shoulders, and then dodged quickly around to the side of the house where the old truck stood with rainwater streaming across its battered hood.
Wrenching the door open, he climbed up into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and backed down the driveway at a faster speed than was really safe. Soon he heard the steady hum of pavement under the tires as the road smoothed out, and then his fingers absently kept time with the steady pulse of the wipers as his thoughts went deeper and deeper.
“Lisa,” she called, “it’s your turn to set the table.” There was no response. The house was quiet for a change, and even the soft drippings from the rainspouts had gradually faded as the storm had passed. “Lisa!” she called again, and heard a faint rustling from the front room. A moment later Lisa appeared, book in hand, rubbing her eyes and stumbling slightly.
“Were you asleep, dear?” she asked.
“I was reading by the fire,” explained Lisa, “and it was so warm and comfortable …” She yawned and stretched languidly, her arms reaching high, and then abruptly dropped the book on the table with a loud slap that seemed to shatter the air. “Do you want the lace cloth or the gold one?” Lisa inquired over her shoulder, already heading into the dining room.
“The gold one, please,” she called as the door swung shut. Saturday dinner was the big meal of the week in the Edwards household. A tradition, she thought, handed down from my own childhood. I’m glad Mother refused to cook on Sundays, her mind continued. There were always such wonderful leftovers from the Saturday night dinners.
“Flowers,” she said softly under her breath, “for a special centerpiece.” And then an idea blossomed suddenly in her mind. Suppose I get the gold jeweler’s scale from the front room and put one of Bobby’s matchbox cars in one side and a picture of Jesus in the other. She paused to visualize the effect: fantastic for her Relief Society lesson; disastrous for Devin. The feeling of sad futility began to settle slowly into her soul again, but she shook it off and headed resolutely out into the backyard to see what flowers could still be gleaned for the dinner table.
The air was wonderful outside. The rain had stopped, but its fresh fragrance lingered. Leaves and branches were jeweled in liquid crystal. How beautiful! she marveled, lifting her head and drawing the quiet twilight scene into her soul.
She moved gracefully among the trees and hedges, choosing daisies and lilac branches. Her hands were nearly full when the pickup’s noisy rattle cut through the air. She turned to watch, screened by the shrubbery, as the old truck pulled up in the driveway and Devin swung out almost immediately. By the time she had walked over to the truck, he had lowered the tailgate and was struggling to lift an old but unfamiliar dirt bike to the ground.
“Whose is that?” she asked in surprise.
“Mine,” he grinned, enjoying her amazement. “But it used to be Bill Whipple’s. ’Course, he won’t be needing it, now that he’s gonna be driving Jess Willard’s ‘fancy motorcar.’”
“But …”
“So he sold it to me for 250 dollars.”
“But Devin, you don’t have …”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars worth of work on his new car, that is,” he added. His head was down as he moved around the bike, wiping off drops of water which had beaded up on the tarnished chrome. “The transmission’s got to be completely redone, and it needs new points, and Bill wants me to …”
“Oh, Devin,” she said, relief washing over her in a tremendous wave.
He looked up at her and, for a brief moment, comprehended her emotion. She felt the old, familiar closeness there, stronger than ever. Then he ducked his head again, taking hold of the handlebars and pushing the bike slowly toward the garage.
“Hey, Mom,” he said casually, “did you notice that the storm’s over?”

Primary also played a big part in helping me develop a testimony of the gospel. Many of my teachers encouraged me and helped me understand what I needed to do to gain a testimony. It was a gradual process. I finally realized I could not live off Mother’s or Dad’s testimony forever. I took the advice my Primary teachers had given me and read the Book of Mormon, prayed about it, and found out for myself it is true.

May I share with you an example of Brother Clayton M. Christensen, a member of the Church who is a professor at Harvard University.
When he was 16 years old, Brother Christensen decided that he would not play sports on Sunday. Years later, when he attended Oxford University in England, he played center on the basketball team. That year they had an undefeated season and went to the championship tournament.
They won their games fairly easily in the tournament, making it to the finals. Then Brother Christensen looked at the schedule and saw that the final game was on a Sunday. He went to his coach with his dilemma. His coach told Brother Christensen he expected him to play in the game.
Brother Christensen went to his hotel room. He knelt down. He asked his Heavenly Father if it would be all right, just this once, if he played that game on Sunday. He said that before he had finished praying, he received the answer: “Clayton, what are you even asking me for? You know the answer.”
He went to his coach, telling him how sorry he was that he wouldn’t be playing in the final game. Then he went to his Sunday meetings.
Brother Christensen learned that it is easier to keep the commandments 100 percent of the time than it is 98 percent of the time.

I think I was most grateful when I left California to attend BYU. First of all, I was glad that I had earned the grades necessary to enter college. And although I told my roommates I wasn’t interested in getting married because I was going to be a famous journalist, I really was. And I didn’t want to marry a slouch either. I wanted a man who had lived a righteous life and kept himself clean. I did find Mr. Right, and it was sublime not to have any serious transgressions to hide or confess before we knelt at the altar of the temple.

One night when Zina started to get ready for bed, she found some unexpected “friends” underneath it. Joseph Smith had purchased four Egyptian mummies and some Egyptian papyri from which the Book of Abraham was translated. To keep these important relics safe from some of the enemies of the Church, the Prophet had asked the Huntingtons to hide them, which they did—underneath Zina’s bed! Unperturbed, Zina finished undressing and went to bed as usual.