Gospel Story Finder

I grew up in a very loving family, and my whole life was centered around the gospel of Jesus Christ. I was first assistant in the priests quorum, and I served a mission. Shortly after returning home from my mission, I was arrested for a very serious crime. I was sentenced to 15 years in prison and excommunicated from the Church. As I sit here thinking of the many mistakes I made in life, I am now getting my life back together. Each month I receive the New Era, and I learn from each article I read. I use them in my daily walk in life, and they help me and lift me in times of despair.
Name Withheld

My mother still speaks fondly of “the wonderful time” she and my father had on their senior mission at the Church’s Deseret Ranches in central Florida, USA—a mission that almost didn’t happen.
After decades of working as an engineer for several companies, Dad finally started his own construction business. Things went well until his financial officer embezzled the company into bankruptcy. With the loss of their business, my parents also lost the comfortable retirement they had anticipated.
I thought a mission was out of the question for them until the day they excitedly phoned to say they had been called to serve. Soon, they found themselves on the Church’s sprawling 300,000-acre (121,405 ha) ranch in Deer Park, Florida.
The ranch is primarily a cow-calf operation, but it also dedicates hundreds of acres to citrus production and other products and projects. My parents and six other senior couples spent most of their time cleaning, repairing, and maintaining dozens of homes for cowboys, ranch workers, and their families. They also served in the Orlando Florida Temple and in their ward in nearby Deer Park. As soon as they arrived, they went to work.
While Jerry Morris cleans a refrigerator (above), Ivan Morris (below, left) and Albert Liston replace a window.
Photographs courtesy of the author
“Little did we know about the needs for upkeep and all that is required to maintain the housing units here,” my father wrote to us. He said they worked Monday through Wednesday and served in the temple on Thursdays.
“Then, Friday, back to work, which includes all phases of housing work and cleanup: door, window, carpet, and wall repair; pulling nails, spackling, priming, and painting. Two other elders do the plumbing and electrical. The list goes on and on.”
My mother and the other sisters cleaned the homes—“from floor to ceiling.” My mother also painted. The sisters took a break on Tuesdays to do family history work at the Cocoa Florida Family History Center.
“I just can’t believe all of this is happening for Grandpa and me,” my mother wrote. “We really feel that this is where we are supposed to be, doing more and more each day. We really are blessed. Having all of you saying prayers for us is making our time here very special.”
My parents served while they were in their 70s. I wondered if they were working too hard, but they seemed to thrive despite the workload.
“We miss not seeing you, but what a blessing it is being here,” my mother said. “Grandpa and I love what we are doing here helping in the Lord’s work. Our testimonies are growing each day.”
During their 18-month mission, my parents missed their family, especially the grandchildren. But they loved serving alongside other senior couples and the members of their Florida ward.
“The other sweet senior missionaries are great,” my mother wrote. “Dad and I feel at home with all of them. Some have health problems and family problems. We all help each other in many ways.”
My parents loved their ward callings, and they felt right at home in their ward.
“The members here in the Ellsworth Ward are as close as any family could be. They take care of each other,” my mother told us. “They are such special Saints. They show their love to us missionaries every day. It’s nice being a small part of their life.”
My parents’ temple service on Thursdays was another highlight of each week.
“While we are there, the cares of the world are locked outside,” my father wrote. “It is a real joy to be serving in the Lord’s house.”
Photograph of Orlando Florida Temple by David Bowen Newton
As outdoor enthusiasts, my parents felt blessed to serve in an area teeming with wildlife and picturesque landscapes.
“Our mission is full of great surprises. What a wonderland,” my father wrote. “We see lots of animals. Deer abound. We can look out our dining room window and see sandhill cranes. We have even seen a few alligators. In summation, this is a very beautiful place.”
“Our mission is full of great surprises,” my father wrote.
Photograph courtesy of the author
In one letter, my mother wrote, “Dad and I watched a cattle roundup a few weeks ago. What a sight!” In another, she said: “The sunsets are spectacular. If I could paint one, I would. The sky is so high here, and the stars are so bright that it seems you could almost touch them. But we don’t like being on these roads after dark. You don’t know what kinds of critters are going to jump out!”
In my mother’s words, their mission was “a humbling and faith-growing time.” Like missionaries everywhere, they found joy and spiritual growth as they lost themselves in service. They shared those blessings in counsel to their grandchildren.
“Grandma and I feel that service to others and living a gospel-based life is so important,” my father wrote. “So, set your personal goals higher than what is standard for average society.” In another letter, he said, “Stay close to the Lord. Don’t let the world get to you.”
My mother added, “Be happy, full of love and service always.”
As their mission came to a close, my mother wrote: “It’s going to be hard to leave. Many blessings have come our way. We have made good friends. But we are so excited to be home and see you all again.”
My parents had been home more than 10 years before I learned how much they had sacrificed in order to serve. But, after much discussion and many prayers, they mustered their faith and accepted a call. They never regretted it, and they often reflected on how their mission blessed them during and after their service.
“This mission has been so much more than we could have hoped for,” my mother wrote toward the end of their mission. “We have never felt so close to the Lord as we have here. He is helping us in everything we are doing. We are at our best here and loving it all.”

We can also access His healing power through prayer. I’ll never forget an experience that Sister Nelson and I had about three decades ago with President Spencer W. Kimball and his beloved Camilla. We were in Hamilton, New Zealand, for a large conference with the Saints. I was not a General Authority at that time. I had been invited to participate in this and similar meetings in other Pacific Islands while serving as general president of the Sunday School. And as a doctor of medicine, I had attended President and Sister Kimball for many years. I knew each of them very well—inside and out.
A Saturday evening cultural program had been prepared for this conference by local youth of the Church. Unfortunately, President and Sister Kimball both became very ill, each with a high fever. After receiving priesthood blessings, they rested at the nearby home of the president of the New Zealand Temple. President Kimball asked his counselor, President N. Eldon Tanner, to preside at the cultural event and to excuse President and Sister Kimball.
Sister Nelson went with President and Sister Tanner and other leaders to the event while President Kimball’s secretary, Brother D. Arthur Haycock, and I watched over our feverish friends.
While President Kimball was sleeping, I was quietly reading in his room. Suddenly President Kimball was awakened. He asked, “Brother Nelson, what time was this evening’s program to begin?”
“At seven o’clock, President Kimball.”
“What time is it now?”
“It’s almost seven,” I replied.
President Kimball quickly said, “Tell Sister Kimball we are going!”
I checked President Kimball’s temperature. It was normal! I took Sister Kimball’s temperature. It was also normal!
They quickly dressed and got into an automobile. We were driven to the stadium of the Church College of New Zealand. As the car entered the arena, there was a very loud shout that erupted spontaneously. It was most unusual! After we took our seats, I asked Sister Nelson about that sudden sound. She said that when President Tanner began the meeting, he dutifully excused President and Sister Kimball because of illness. Then one of the young New Zealanders was called upon to pray.
With great faith, he gave what Sister Nelson described as a rather lengthy but powerful prayer. He so prayed: “We are 3,000 New Zealand youth. We are assembled here, having prepared for six months to sing and dance for Thy prophet. Wilt Thou heal him and deliver him here!” After the “amen” was pronounced, the car carrying President and Sister Kimball entered the stadium. They were identified immediately, and instantly everyone shouted for joy!
I had witnessed the healing power of the Lord! I had also witnessed revelation as received and responded to by His living prophet!

Annelise Nielsen is a third-generation member of the Church. Her grandma and grandpa converted, her dad grew up in the Church and married a member, and they had Annelise. They’re all now members of the Frederiksberg Ward, and Annelise, a Beehive, is, along with Pia, one of the few young women in the ward.
And the ward currently meets in a rented building. There is an elevator in the building, but it’s pretty slow so Annelise takes the stairs. Up three flights gets her to the top floor of the building, where she enters the chapel. The building is clean and nice, but Annelise says there is a temporary feeling about where the Frederiksberg Ward meets. She looks out the window of the chapel and points.
“That’s our old chapel right there,” she says. She’s looking at a beautiful brick building one block away, the first the Church built in this country. And it sits empty—for good reason.
“That is where our temple is going to be,” Annelise says.
The Frederiksberg Ward chapel is in the process of being converted into a temple that will serve the members in Denmark and other parts of Scandinavia. So to get a temple 10 minutes from her house opposed to the 12 hours it takes by car to get to the Stockholm Sweden Temple is a real blessing and worth the sacrifice.
But there’s still the issue of the Church building a new chapel. The lease on the temporary chapel will expire soon. So on this Sunday, the members of the Frederiksberg Ward are holding a fast, praying that the Danish government will approve building a chapel on property the Church has purchased.* Annelise joined other ward members in fasting and prayer for this special purpose.
This morning, Annelise admits she’s hungry. “But when I fast I feel close to God and I feel more humble,” she says. “I don’t feel like fasting is that much of a sacrifice, and I believe if everybody in this ward prays for the same thing then our Heavenly Father will help us.”
After sacrament meeting, with her fast almost complete, Annelise doesn’t make a mad dash home to get some food. Instead, she walks out the door holding the arm of Kristel Pedersen, a 96-year-old member of her ward. Sister Pedersen joined the Church in 1958 and taught Annelise’s father in Sunday School. Each month, Annelise gets to know her better by taking time to visit with her.
“Sister Pedersen is nice to talk with. I think she’s a strong woman because she’s the only member of the Church in her family. Her husband never joined, and her children were already grown up when she was baptized,” Annelise says. “She’s 96 years old, and she still comes to church each Sunday.
“I admire people like Sister Pedersen,” Annelise adds, “who are close to Heavenly Father. And when I do things like fasting, it brings me closer to Him too.”

“All seven of my cousins are going to be at my grandmother’s house for Mother’s Day,” Sarah said as she watered Mrs. Martin’s seedlings. “We always have a picnic lunch in the backyard.”
“That sounds like a lot of fun,” Mrs. Martin replied, pulling a tiny weed from a pot.
Every spring Sarah and Mrs. Martin, who lived next door, planted pumpkin, watermelon, and squash seeds in clay pots on Mrs. Martin’s sun porch. Later they would move the little sprouts to the garden in the backyard.
“What are you doing for Mother’s Day?” Sarah asked.
“I’m not sure. When is it, anyway?”
Sarah couldn’t believe that a grown-up didn’t know the date of Mother’s Day. At lunch she told Mom what Mrs. Martin had said.
“Well, Sarah, Mrs. Martin no longer has a mother or grandmother who’s alive,” Mom explained. “And since she has no children or grandchildren, it’s not surprising that she wouldn’t think about Mother’s Day.”
Sarah chewed her tomato sandwich thoughtfully. She understood what her mother had said, but something still seemed wrong.
She looked out the window and saw Mrs. Martin feeding dog biscuits to Mr. Anderson’s cocker spaniels. Mrs. Martin didn’t even have a dog, but she always kept a jar of dog treats for any neighborhood dogs who might stop by. And for the dog owners, Mrs. Martin always had a big basket filled with apples or pears.
“It just isn’t right,” Sarah said. “Somebody that nice should celebrate Mother’s Day.”
“I think you’re right,” Mom agreed.
Sarah went up to her room. Her desk was covered with art supplies for the cards she was making for her mom and grandma. She had already sprinkled green and pink glitter on the edges of two cards. She picked up a fresh sheet of paper and started writing.
Mothers and grandmothers are nice.
They give us help when we need help.
They talk to us about important things.
They find fun things for us to do.
They make good things for us to eat.
They give us hugs.
You do all these things, so I am saying Happy Mother’s Day to you!
Love, Sarah
Sarah worked on the card most of the afternoon, drawing vegetables all around its edges. Mrs. Martin always said that she would rather grow vegetables than flowers. She thought pumpkins and watermelons were “gorgeous.”
Then Sarah decorated an envelope to match and carefully printed “To Mrs. Martin” on the outside.
“It’s almost ready,” she said to Scooter, the tabby cat who had been watching from his perch on the windowsill.
“Mom,” Sarah called downstairs. “I need to call Grandma.”
“OK.”
After Sarah made her call, she turned over the card for Mrs. Martin and wrote on the back. Then she put it in the envelope and bounced down the stairs and out the back door.
Mrs. Martin was putting seeds into the bird feeder. “Hello, Sarah,” she called.
“Hi,” Sarah said. “This is for you.” She handed the card to Mrs. Martin.
“Should I open it now?”
“Yes. It’s a Mother’s Day card.”
“For me?” Mrs. Martin asked with surprise. “But today isn’t Mother’s Day!”
“No, but this card has to be opened early.”
Mrs. Martin opened the card and read it slowly. Then she turned it over to read what Sarah had carefully written on the back:
You are invited to be
an Honorary Mother
at a picnic at Grandma’s house
on Mother’s Day—
which is next Sunday.
Please come.
Mrs. Martin smiled. “Thank you, Sarah. Now we both know what I’ll be doing for Mother’s Day!”

My mother says we came from Dublin, Ireland, with a bundle of clothes, a well-read Bible, and each other. And in our hearts we brought love and hope.
When I was barely ten, we moved to a small cottage with a plot of land near the junction of the Susquehanna and Juniata canals. Father, who was tall and muscular, pulled our plow. And Mother, small but determined, guided the prong as it turned the soil. They sang as they worked, and I was happy to follow behind and shove potato eyes into the rich black earth. Sometimes we gathered berries by the river in pails.
“I watched the canal boats today, Father,” I said, smiling. “They were full of all manner of goods.”
“Aye, it’s a wondrous land we’ve come to, Michael,” Father agreed.
Although we sold the potatoes and berries in town, we never seemed to have enough money. When I was nearly twelve Father left for a time to look for work. Before he went, he kissed Mother and, smiling at me, led me to my cot where he raised the mattress and pinned a dollar to the ticking. “There,” he said quietly. “I’m off to find work. I don’t want to go, but a man must feed his family. Take care of your mother while I’m gone, and if there’s ever a need, remember the dollar.” Father patted the mattress and asked, “Do you understand what I mean, Michael?”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “I understand, Father.”
Mother and I stood near the fence and waved until father disappeared along Old Post Road. Then she wiped her eyes and turned back to the house. “While your father’s gone, Michael, we’ll plant potatoes and pick berries just as before.”
I nodded and went to the head of the plow, determined to do my part. But no matter how hard I tugged and pulled, the furrows never looked deep enough.
Time passed—mules pulled the canal boats, potatoes sprouted, I picked berries and chopped wood. But Mother no longer sang.
Then one afternoon I saw a canal boat loaded to the brim being slowly pulled along. The mule driver cursed and beat the lead mule, but the mule balked and brayed.
“You lazy mule!” the driver shouted, and he whipped the poor animal till it struggled forward. When they neared a bend, I saw the mule drop to its knees and move its head wearily from side to side. I thought of myself behind the plow and ran to where the driver was unfastening the mule’s harness.
“Lazy, no-good mule! You’ll be sold for glue now! That’s a fact!” the driver roared.
“Oh, no!” I pleaded. “Please don’t sell him for glue. He tried the best he could.”
“Go home, boy!” the driver growled. “I can’t leave a dead mule to block the path!”
“He’s not dead yet!” I cried, “Only tired.”
“He’ll be dead soon!” the driver barked as he reached for his gun.
“Please!” I begged, raising my hands.
“Out of my way, boy!”
“I’ll buy him,” I stammered quickly.
The driver threw back his head and laughed.
“I—I have a dollar.”
The driver stopped laughing and rubbed his chin. “A dollar, huh? I suppose that’s all I’d get from the glue factory. All right,” he nodded. “Done!”
I ran home and lifted my mattress, wondering if Father would think it a foolish waste. I glanced toward the canal and thought of the mule. Surely any life is worth a dollar! I decided.
The driver laughed as he grabbed the dollar, then waved me away as he guided the mule train along the path. “Mind,” he shouted over his shoulder, “he’s your problem now! It’s up to you to get him off the path!”
I watched the canal boat disappear around the bend, then knelt and coaxed, “Come on, boy, you’ve got to come home.”
The mule rolled its big brown eyes up at me and my own eyes clouded as he stood and tried to walk, then fell into the high grass. After dinner I put a few carrots in a gunnysack and hurried back to the weak animal. Looking at me sadly, he ate but one carrot.
“It’s all right,” I sobbed. “Rest, old mule; I’ll not beat you.” I tried to cover his bony back with the sack and hurried home.
A week passed and I tended the mule in secret, praying he wouldn’t die. Then one day as I turned to go home, the mule stood on wobbly legs and brayed. I turned in surprise. “Come on, boy,” I urged. “Come on home.”
The old mule pointed its ears, took a step forward, then stopped. I hugged its neck and whispered, “It’s all right, boy. Rest.”
I hurried home to plow a plot of land, and as I slipped my arms into the traces, Mother stood between the handles. Suddenly I heard the mule braying and looked up to see it coming straight across the field toward me! Gently it shoved me aside with its nose and took my place in front of the plow.
“Well, I never!” Mother said, taken aback. “Whose mule is that, Michael?”
“He’s ours, Mother!” I laughed. “I bought him for a dollar!”
The mule plowed all morning—one straight, deep furrow after another—and never got tired. Mother smiled from the cottage window as she baked bread while the mule and I plowed.
Then one evening as we sat down to supper, we heard a knock at the door. Mother opened it, and the mule driver stood scowling. “You have my mule!” he shouted, wagging a finger at me. “I’ve come to fetch him back!”
“I bought him for a dollar!”
“That’s when he was dying!” the driver growled. “Someone saw him well and plowing! Here’s your dollar!”
“Mother,” I pleaded through my tears.
“My son does not want his dollar back,” Mother declared. “A bargain made is a bargain kept!”
The driver’s face turned purple and he threw the dollar on the porch. “I’m takin’ my mule!” he shouted.
I raced to the shed and latched the door, but the driver shoved me aside and flung it open. He grabbed the mule’s halter and raised his whip, but the mule braced its feet and balked. Then from out of nowhere, I saw a tall shadow come round the house and a powerful hand twisted the whip from the driver’s grasp.
“Who threatens my family and home?” my father’s voice boomed angrily.
The driver looked at my father, then released the harness. “Ah,” the driver mumbled, “that ol’ mule never would work anyhow!”
Father stood with his arm about Mother’s waist as the driver stumbled toward the canal. “Is it a useless mule, Michael?” Father asked.
“No. He’ll work for me,” I explained.
“Then you’ve used the dollar well,” Father assured me. “I worked and have only two weeks’ pay in my pocket, but I sorely missed my little family. I’m home to stay. We’ll make it somehow,” he said, smiling hopefully.
“We’ll make it just fine,” Mother agreed, beaming happily. “The mule does most of the hard work, and the garden’s bigger so there will be more potatoes to sell. I can bake pies with the berries, and you can build a cart for the mule to carry our goods to town.”
“Hold on,” Father laughed. “First I want a hug from my family.”
There was still barely enough money, but we were together again. I knew for sure that all riches aren’t to be laid upon a table for counting, or carted to town for selling and trading. Some riches, like the love and honest work of my parents and the loyal, faithful work of my mule, are not for hire. They are precious gifts, freely given when earned. And if the riches of the heart could be counted, then all the world would know how very prosperous we were as my mother and father sang and as I grew to be a man.

As a teenager in Matsumoto, Japan, I was very interested in learning English. At age 17 I joined the English club at my high school. At the start of the school year, the club decided to find a native English speaker to teach us English conversation. We searched and searched, but the English instructors we spoke to charged a fee, and the club couldn’t afford to pay. Discouraged, we almost gave up.
Then one day, as I rode my bicycle to school, I saw some young American men in suits handing out flyers. I took one and put it in my pocket. After school I examined the paper and found that it was an invitation to attend a free English conversation class. On the flyer was the name “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” I had never heard of such a church, but I was excited; I had solved the English club’s problem!
On the day of the next class, about 30 club members attended with me. The missionaries taught the class, which we all enjoyed very much. From the very first day of class, I noticed that there was something different about the missionaries. Their warmth, love, positive attitudes, and cheerfulness deeply impressed me. There seemed to be a light around them—I had never before met anyone quite like them.
After several weeks I began asking the missionaries about their church, and they invited me to learn more. I accepted, and they taught me the missionary lessons. At the time I did not fully understand or appreciate the importance of what I was learning, but I felt the Spirit, and I understood that the principles the missionaries were teaching me were good. When they invited me to be baptized, I accepted.
Before I could join the Church, however, I had to receive my parents’ consent. At first they were very much against it—the teachings of Christianity were foreign and strange to them. But I was not yet ready to give up. I asked the missionaries to come to my home and explain to my parents about the Church, what they had been teaching me, and what would be expected of me. The Spirit softened my parents’ hearts, and this time they gave me permission to be baptized.
After I was baptized and confirmed, I attended the little Matsumoto Branch of 12 to 15 active members. I made friends, and it was fun to attend every week. About a year later I graduated from high school and moved to Yokohama to attend the university. The nearest branch was the Tokyo Central Branch, which had more than 150 active members. When I attended this new branch, I felt like a country boy in the big city. I had a hard time making friends. One Sunday I stayed home from church. Soon I stopped attending altogether. I began making friends with my nonmember classmates, and the Church drifted further and further from my mind.
This continued for several months. Then one day I received a letter from a sister in the Matsumoto Branch. “I heard you have stopped attending church,” she said. I was surprised. Apparently someone from my new branch had told her I was not attending church anymore! The sister continued her letter by quoting Doctrine and Covenants 121:34: “Behold, there are many called, but few are chosen.” Then she wrote, “Koichi, you have been baptized a member of the Church. You have been called, but you are no longer among the chosen.”
As I read these words, I was filled with regret. I knew I needed to change somehow. I realized that I did not have a strong testimony. I wasn’t sure if God lived, and I didn’t know if Jesus Christ was my Savior. For several days I grew anxious as I thought about the message in the letter. I didn’t know what to do. Then one morning I remembered something the missionaries had taught me. They had asked me to read Moroni 10:3–5, promising that I could know the truth for myself. I decided that I must pray. If I felt nothing, I could completely forget about the Church and the commandments, and I would never go again. However, if I did receive an answer, as Moroni promised, I would have to repent, embrace the gospel with all my heart, go back to church, and do all I could to follow the commandments.
As I knelt and prayed that morning, I pleaded with Heavenly Father to answer me. “If Thou live—if Thou are real,” I prayed, “please let me know.” I prayed to know if Jesus Christ was my Savior and if the Church was true. As I finished, I suddenly felt something. I was surrounded by a warm feeling, and my heart was filled with joy. I understood the truth: God does live, and Jesus is my Savior. The Lord’s Church was truly restored by the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the Book of Mormon is the word of God.
Needless to say, I prayed for forgiveness that very day and resolved to follow the commandments. I returned to church and promised the Lord that I would do whatever it took to remain faithful.
A short time later the Church began making plans to build a chapel in Yokohama. At that time members of the branch were expected to contribute money and provide labor for the building’s construction. When the mission president challenged the branch members to contribute all they could, I remembered my commitment to do whatever the Lord asked of me. So every day for nearly a year, I helped with the construction after my university classes were over.
About this same time, Elder Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985), then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, visited Japan and encouraged the youth of the Church to achieve four goals: (1) receive as much higher education as possible, (2) serve a full-time mission, especially the young men, (3) marry in the temple, and (4) gain skills to support a family. Until that point I had never planned to accomplish these four things. But I later knelt and prayed: “Heavenly Father, I want to accomplish those four goals. Please help me.”
I knew that in order to stay on the path of the chosen, I needed to follow the counsel of the Lord’s servants. I committed to do all I could to follow Elder Kimball’s advice and to work hard to build up the Church.
For the next several years I continued to work toward my four goals. I served as a construction missionary for two years, helping build two chapels in my home country. Then I was called to serve a full-time proselytizing mission. Soon after returning home, I married in the temple the woman from the Matsumoto Branch who wrote me the letter. Later I landed my dream job in a foreign trading company. As I followed the word of the Lord and the counsel of the prophets, I felt that again I was on the path of the chosen. And I am striving to stay on that path today.
My young brothers and sisters, the Savior calls continually to all of us, bidding us to follow Him. The Lord taught, “My sheep hear my voice, … and they follow me” (John 10:27). You have heard the Lord’s voice; you have followed Him by being baptized into His Church. Indeed, you have been called. However, to be chosen is a very different matter.
Decide now that you will do whatever it takes to remain faithful. Decide to endure to the end by following all of God’s commandments. Set righteous and worthy goals for yourself. Gain an education, serve a mission, marry in the temple, and support your family both spiritually and temporally. If you have not yet gained a testimony, please get on your knees and ask Heavenly Father to help you gain a knowledge of the truth. Then, when the answer comes, commit yourself wholeheartedly to the work of the Lord. Do whatever it takes to get on the path of the chosen.

When asked if his friends invite him to parties, David just laughs and says, “They know not to invite me. They know I’m not going to come.” He wouldn’t even consider going and just not drinking. “I wouldn’t want to be in a situation where I could be tempted,” he says. “I’d just rather not be there at all.”
During David’s last couple of years at school, his classmates went to a lot of parties and pubs, and it was hard for him to feel left out. Once, he was really tempted to attend a certain party. But then he had a lesson in his priests quorum about staying away from bad situations. He felt it was an answer to prayer and decided not to go to the party.

Port Erin, Isle of Man—
I work out a little bit, but I don’t believe the strength I had that night on the cliff was my own. I feel the promise that has been made to everyone who keeps the Word of Wisdom was kept to me.
I was coming aback from a local disco (club) in Bradda Glen, where they play oldies like ’60s and ’70s music, when I saw some friends. Some of them had been drinking, and they weren’t their normal selves. Two of them decided to take a different way home.
There are two ways back. You can go the normal way, by road, which is much safer. Or you can go along the coast path, which is windy but has a good view. That’s the one my friends decided on. Normally, I would have just walked along the road, but I decided my friends weren’t in a fit state to look after themselves, so I walked along with them.
One of them started staggering and suddenly plopped down, off the side of the cliff. The other guy went to try to help him, but he went over too. It wasn’t completely sheer, but it was very steep, and they were hanging on with one arm. They could have easily slid right down, and I don’t know if they would have made it back up.
I remember clearly actually grabbing hold of their arms, one at a time, and hoisting them. I not only pulled them up; I actually pulled them off the ground, over the top, and back onto the path. The words from the promise of the Word of Wisdom, in section 89 of the Doctrine and Covenants, came to me, “And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint” (D&C 89:20).
They were amazed. I was amazed. They said, “Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t drink tonight.” And I said, “Well that’s really my religion for you.”
For my entire life I’ve strived to keep the Word of Wisdom. I find it easy to keep, even though smoking, drinking, and drugs seem to be an increasing problem here on the Isle. But when I was young, I heard President Spencer W. Kimball say that if I decided to keep standards then, when I was young, it would be much easier for me when the temptation came up, because I would have already made the decision to abstain.
I’ve really tried to apply that in my life, and that night on the coast path, I was glad I did. By following the Word of Wisdom, I believe I was given extra strength for that moment in time.

I am filled with emotion when I see my wife read the Book of Mormon every day. As she does so, I can feel her testimony just by seeing the joy in her countenance as she reads over the passages that testify of the mission of the Savior.
How wise are the words of our Savior: “Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me.”
Inspired by this, I asked my grandchild Raquel, who had recently learned how to read, “What would you say about setting a goal to read the Book of Mormon?”
Her answer was “But, Grandpa, it’s so hard. It’s a big book.”
Then I asked her to read me a page. I took out a stopwatch and timed her. I said, “You took only three minutes, and the Spanish version of the Book of Mormon has 642 pages, so you need 1,926 minutes.”
This could have scared her even more, so I divided that number by 60 minutes and told her she would need only 32 hours to read it—less than a day and a half!
Then she said to me, “That’s so easy, Grandpa.”
In the end, Raquel, her brother, Esteban, and our other grandchildren took more time than this because this is a book which needs to be read with a spirit of prayer and meditation.

Chandra’s little brother, Kendall, was a wiggle worm. He couldn’t sit still in church for five seconds. He crawled under the benches, and he dropped the hymnbook on the floor to listen to it thud. One Sunday he even escaped and went running down the aisle, laughing and giggling. That made Chandra want to crawl under the bench herself. “I don’t want to go to church next week,” she told her mother as they drove home in the car. “It’s too embarrassing when Kendall is such a wiggle worm.”
“It is embarrassing,” admitted mother, “but remember that it’s hard for a three-year-old to sit quietly for a long time. What could we do to help him?”
“I don’t know,” Chandra said crossly. “He’s just impossible.” When she got home, she changed her Sunday dress and went to the kitchen to set the table. There was Kendall doing puzzles. He was very quiet and seemed to be thinking intently. Chandra watched him for a minute. He can be quiet when he has something quiet to do, she thought. All of a sudden a great idea hit her. “I know how to de-wiggle this worm!” she exclaimed.
That afternoon while Kendall was napping, Chandra began. Her mother gave her some old magazines and Church manuals, and Chandra found pictures of things that Kendall liked—trucks, animals, and food. There were pictures of Jesus and of reverent children too. She glued them all to stiff paper, then cut them into puzzle pieces—but not very many, because she knew that three-year-olds need easy puzzles. She got some envelopes and carefully put each puzzle’s pieces into a separate envelope. She smiled as she looked at the puzzle of Captain Moroni. Kendall loved soldiers.
Now what? Chandra thought for a minute. Then she got out old coloring books, cut out pictures of animals, and glued light-colored flannel on the back of them. She made two of each animal by gluing plain paper to flannel and using the first animals as a pattern, then using a black marker for their outlines and simple details like eyes. She found some dark-colored flannel and cut out a large ark-looking boat. Putting all the pieces in a large manila envelope, she mused, Maybe Noah will help Kendall be quiet.
By this time Chandra was getting tired, but she had one more idea. She found an old sock that didn’t have a mate. She cut two eyes, a nose, and a mouth out of leftover bits of flannel and glued them onto the sock to make a puppet. She didn’t know how to put yarn on for hair, so she decided it could be bald. A bald bishop! That sounded good. She put her hand into the sock. The bald bishop looked very wise. “Thank you for your reverence during the sacrament,” he said.
After she put all the finished projects inside a book bag, she couldn’t wait any longer. “Mom!” she called. “Come see my Wiggle Worm Kit! It’s going to help Kendall be reverent in church.”
When Mother saw all the things Chandra had made, she was impressed. “I think this will really help,” she said. “Could I also put in a Bible storybook and some stickers? Maybe some drawing paper and a pencil would be good too.”
When everything was in the bag, Chandra heaved a sigh of relief. She was proud of her work. Thanks to the Wiggle Worm Kit, Kendall would be able to sit still longer and make less noise. “I wish Sunday was tomorrow!” she declared happily.

Holiness to the Lord in everyday life includes tender moments when loved ones pass. Earlier this year, my dear mother, Jean Gong, slipped into the next life days before her 98th birthday.
If you asked my mother, “Would you like rocky road, white chocolate ginger, or strawberry ice cream?” Mom would say, “Yes, please, may I taste each one?” Who could say no to your mother, especially when she loved all of life’s flavors?
I once asked Mom which decisions had most shaped her life.
She said, “Being baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and moving from Hawaii to the mainland, where I met your father.”
Baptized as a 15-year-old, the only member of her large family to join our Church, my mother had covenant faith and trust in the Lord that blessed her life and all our family generations. I miss my mother, as you miss members in your family. But I know my mother is not gone. She is just not here now. I honor her and all who pass as valiant examples of everyday holiness to the Lord.

Like most boys from Whitney, “T” had a desire to share the gospel himself. As a child, he had sat in Sunday School listening to returned missionaries tell about the “happiest two years” of their lives. Even when they reported persecutions it only fed the missionary flame within his young heart. Later, he went to the stake patriarch for a blessing. “Brother Dalley very slowly pronounced a blessing upon my head, which included an answer to a boy’s prayer. I was promised, if faithful of course, that I would go on a mission to the nations of the earth and would raise my voice in testimony and that many would rise up and bless my name because of my influence in helping to bring them into the Church.

“I went home walking on air, I was so happy. I had no doubt but what I would someday go on a mission.”

“Why can’t Grandma be like Caroline’s grandmother?” complained Gina as she folded the towels. “Yesterday Caroline’s grandmother sent her a new skateboard. It’s really neat! She gives her presents all the time. Grandma never gives me anything.”
Mother stopped in the middle of changing the baby’s diaper. “Gina! I’m surprised at you. Grandma Ross loves you and has always been very good to you. You’re nine years old now and that’s old enough to understand love doesn’t need a price tag. Grandma Ross doesn’t have money to spend on fancy toys. She started working when Grandpa became ill, and most of her money pays for his hospital bills.”
Gina could feel her face getting hot. She knew that what Mother said about Grandma Ross was true, but knowing didn’t make her feel any better. She carried the towels into the hall closet and stacked them neatly on the shelves. “I’m through,” she announced. “Now may I go with Caroline? She said I could try out her skateboard.”
Mother put little David down to crawl on the floor. She sighed and looked at Gina. “You may go after you set the table. And remember to put on an extra plate. It’s Thursday and Grandma Ross will be here for supper.”
Gina pretended she was skateboarding around the dining room as she put the plates on the table. Then she grabbed the knives, forks, and spoons. Mmm, mmm. Her arms were outstretched to balance her skateboard pose as she sailed behind the chairs and placed the silverware beside each plate. “I’m finished, Mom,” she called to the next room. “Now may I go?”
“Yes,” her mother answered, “but be home in time for dinner.”
With only thoughts of skateboarding in her mind, Gina ran up the hill and around the corner to the familiar brown house. Caroline answered the bell. “Hi,” she greeted her friend. “I thought you’d never come!”
“Well, I’m here!” Gina said breathlessly. “Where is it?”
Caroline opened the screen door and pushed the slender skateboard out for Gina to admire. It was bright red with glistening flecks of many different colors. She spun the wheels and they made an even, purring sound.
“Wow! What a neat skateboard!” exclaimed Gina. “How did your grandmother know what kind to buy?”
“Well,” confided Caroline, “last time she called I hinted around a lot …” Her voice trailed off and she looked at Gina. The two girls giggled. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Gina watched enviously as Caroline balanced herself on the board and then breezed past her down the sloping sidewalk. She could hardly wait for her own turn. Finally Caroline handed her the shiny skateboard, but Gina promptly fell off. After a few more tries she managed to stay on, and soon she was feeling like an old pro. Gliding down the hill made her heart pound, but she loved it. Finally Gina noticed that the sun had gone down. “I’ve got to go home,” she said quickly. “My grandmother’s coming for dinner—Thursday night, you know.”
Caroline reached down for the skateboard and tucked it under her arm. “You sure are lucky, Gina,” she said. “All my grandparents live so far away I hardly ever get to see them. Well, sometimes I see them on Christmas and sometimes in the summer, but they don’t just come over for dinner like your grandmother does.”
Gina looked at her friend in amazement. “But your grandmother sends you presents all the time,” she said. “All that furniture for your dollhouse, new games and clothes, and now a skateboard. I wouldn’t mind all that.”
“Sure, that stuff’s OK, but it’s not like having a real person who can be with you. Well, see you tomorrow at school.” Caroline’s voice seemed a bit sad to Gina.
“Bye, Caroline,” Gina said softly, staring after her friend. Suddenly many thoughts went racing through her head. Maybe Caroline did have a lot of things sent to her, but she didn’t have a grandmother who played checkers with her, guessed at her riddles, and always came to school for open house. She didn’t have a smiling grandmother to give her a warm hug every Thursday night.
Gina smiled as she ran down the hill toward home, thinking gratefully of a loving grandmother who would be waiting there to greet her.

Francine and I had both joined the Church years before we knew each other. None of our parents had, however. After we met, and after we decided to be married in the temple, we faced the difficult task of telling our families that they could not attend our wedding. Only worthy members of the Church were allowed to enter the temple, we explained.
Our families and friends were hurt—even upset. Their attitude was, “This is the most important day in your lives. How could you refuse to let us share it with you?” We knew they considered us inconsiderate and ungrateful.
Loving our families very much, we felt the weight of this quandary. We also wanted the other nonmembers who had influenced our lives—friends we loved and respected—to know that we cared about them and their feelings. We wanted them all to feel appreciated.
But we also wanted to be married in the temple.
After considerable prayer, we finally arrived at an answer: Rather than have a reception honoring us, the newlyweds, we would have a reception honoring our guests.
We specified on the invitations that the reception would include a program at the beginning. We were careful to have all the posed photographs taken before our guests arrived. Then, at the specified hour, we met the guests in a receiving line for about twenty minutes. We then asked everyone to be seated.
Our bishop conducted the program, starting with a prayer. We didn’t want to offend our many nonmember guests, and so we were glad to learn later that many had appreciated the prayer. Our program consisted of two musical numbers and three talks. First, the bishop explained eternal marriage so clearly and beautifully that, according to our guests, many felt feelings of joy and enlightenment that they had never felt before.
Then Francine and I spoke. We told briefly and simply of our feelings for each other, our families, and our friends. We publicly expressed our love and appreciation. Then we shared our understanding and testimony of eternal marriage.
The program closed with a prayer and blessing on the refreshments. While we ate we mingled with our guests. Many asked questions about temple marriage and expressed appreciation for our testimonies. My father-in-law repeatedly thanked me for the program.
“Now I don’t even miss walking Francine down the aisle,” he said. After the refreshments came a “money dance,” a tradition from my parents’ European background. In a money dance, the bride and groom start dancing together, but someone who wants to cut in can do so by pinning a dollar bill on the bride or groom. With our money dance, many of our guests had a chance to chat with either Francine or me. They told us they loved us; they even told us they were glad we were Mormons.
Afterward, many guests said it was the best reception they’d ever attended. Our parents seemed proud and happy.
By making our reception a gift to our guests, we were able to give them the greater gift; insight into eternal marriage and the Lord’s great plan of eternal progression.

The greatest challenge came in 1983, when we moved. We lived outside of a city, and I commuted an hour each way to work. This meant that I had to leave home every morning before the children woke up.
We solved the problem by switching our scripture reading to evenings, just before bedtime. Reading then required much more discipline. Busy schedules, homework, television, and even Church activities competed for our time. But after a few weeks the routine was established, and we continued on our way.

Carl shivered as he pushed his bike against the wind. I can’t wait to get home and get warm, he thought. And I can’t wait to open Christmas presents!
He had gotten up extra early that morning to deliver newspapers. As he pushed his bike up the steep hill on his way home, he thought about Mom’s homemade Christmas cinnamon rolls. They were going to taste so good. He could almost taste the sweet creamy frosting.
Cream! Carl’s shoulders slumped. He had forgotten about milking the cow and the other chores he needed to do. Even on Christmas.
Carl parked his bike in front of the house. He and his brother liked racing to see who could get their paper routes done first. He didn’t see his brother’s bike, so Carl had won!
The only problem with winning was that now he had to wait for his brother before they could open their presents. Then they’d have to go back outside and do chores. Carl wished he could just stay inside and enjoy Christmas.
I could just get my chores done now, Carl thought. Then I won’t have to come back out in the cold. He hurried to the barn.
As he grabbed a pail and sat down to milk the cow, Carl looked around. All the other chores still needed to be done. Then he had an idea. If he did all the chores himself, he could surprise his family and they could spend the rest of Christmas morning together. It would be the best Christmas present ever!
Carl hurried and milked the cows. Then he cleaned the barn, fed the chickens, and collected the eggs. He smiled as he thought of how surprised his family would be.
Carl went back to the house. He peeked in the door to see if anyone was there. Then he sneaked into the kitchen. He had just finished putting the milk and eggs in the refrigerator when Mom walked in.
“Oh good, you’re home,” Mom said, giving him a hug. “We were beginning to worry about you.”
Mom helped him take off his coat. When Carl’s siblings saw him they shouted, “Carl’s home! Let’s open our presents!” Everyone crowded around the Christmas tree and waited for Dad to hand out gifts. Carl loved watching as everyone opened their treasures.
“All right!” Dad said. “Now it’s time to do the chores. But first, I think we need some juice and cinnamon rolls.”
Dad walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He stopped and stared.
“Well, look at that!” Dad said. “The milk jug is already full, and here are the eggs already gathered! Who could have done that?”
Dad came back into the living room. Carl tried his best to hide his smile.
“Do you know anything about this, Carl?” Dad said with a smile of his own. “It seems our chores are already done.”
“Merry Christmas!” Carl shouted.
Dad put his arm around Carl. “Thank you, son. That was very thoughtful. This might be our best Christmas yet!”
Carl grinned. He already knew this was his best Christmas ever.

Several years ago just before Christmas, my niece, Shelly, grabbed her mom’s hand and, without explanation, led her into the privacy of the laundry room. “Mom,” she asked in a serious whisper, “is it okay if I believe just one more year?”
Since that memorable happening, our family has established a family tradition. Each Christmas Eve, we gather together around the tree. With the lights low and the fire burning in the fireplace, we ask the question once again, the most important question of the year, “Is it okay if we believe one more year?”—not only believe in the traditions of childhood with Santa Claus and reindeer, but more importantly in the message of the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, whose birthday we are celebrating. Do we believe in his mission, his atonement, his resurrection? Do we believe in his invitation to come and follow him?
Of course we are not really committing ourselves for only a year. We are pledged to follow the Savior forever. But we live life a day, a week, a month, a year at a time, and Christmas is a season to focus on the year ahead and reconfirm our discipleship.
After a declaration of belief by one and all, the following question is sometimes harder: When we believe, how will that affect how we live, how we feel, what we will do and what we will not do? We then commit to strive to live as we believe and to help each other all year long.
Following the story, we each receive a small new bell on a red satin ribbon to wear around our necks during the holidays. We listen for its clear sound as a testimony and commitment that we truly believe and will strive to live as we believe. While the fire burns low, we then read the glorious account of the Christmas story recorded by Luke, “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:11). And we believe.

Jason Johnson had a peculiar talent. In fact, it was so peculiar that many people, including Jason’s mother, weren’t at all sure it really was a talent. Jason could hop-leap exactly like a frog. He practiced in the hall, up and down the stairs, and he spent hours dreaming of becoming the greatest frog-hop-leaper in the world.
“Jason, the magnificent frog-hop-leaper!” he’d shout as he flew across the room.
“Do you have to do that?” Mrs. Johnson sighed.
“When a person has a talent, he should use it,” Jason answered. “It isn’t everyone who can hop-leap like a frog. Someday someone will need my special talent.”
Mrs. Johnson shook her head and went back to folding the clothes. “But you also have a musical talent. There are more people who like to listen to music than there are who like to see a human frog.”
Jason went on hop-leaping and dreaming.
The very next week an amazing thing happened. Jason ran home from school, threw open the door, and shouted, “Mother, Mother! I’m going to be in our school play!” He panted hard to catch his breath.
“That’s very good,” Mrs. Johnson replied. “And now you can do something besides hop-leap around the house.”
“But you don’t understand,” Jason answered. “They need that special talent. Miss Kimper said I was exactly what they needed for the star of the play.”
Mrs. Johnson smiled. “What part is it?”
“I’m going to be the frog that turns into a prince. I’m going to hop-leap all over the stage so I must keep in practice,” and Jason hop-leaped into the next room to put his books away.
For three weeks Jason hop-leaped everywhere! His friends laughed at him when he practiced; his brothers and sisters were embarrassed to be seen with him, and strangers stared as they tried to figure out what he was doing. It made Jason sad, but he kept on practicing. I hope they’ll change their minds when they see the play. And maybe they will not think it is so silly when people all over the world are asking for me to perform, he thought as he went on practicing.
The night arrived for the play. Jason walked onto the stage and crouched down behind a cardboard tree. His green costume was tight, and he could barely see through the tiny holes in the mask, but he knew his part perfectly. All he had to do was hop-leap around the cardboard scenery until it was time for him to turn into a prince.
Slowly the curtains opened and the play began. The narrator began to talk and Jason began to hop-leap. But with every leap his costume seemed tighter and his mask fell down a little more. Hop-leap, hop-leap! He went around the huge paper flowers and over the tiny bridge. Hop-leap, hop-leap, gracefully and perfectly he performed. Twice around the tree. Hop-leap, hop-leap! Once more he circled the flowers and then he jumped onto the bridge for his one final hop-leap. By now the mask had slipped down so far he could not see at all and his costume felt like a giant elastic that was squeezing him.
This is a special talent, he thought. I’ve practiced and practiced. I can jump even with my eyes closed!
He crouched down and with all his strength he pushed off from the bridge and flew skillfully through the air. But he flew too far! Thump, thump, THUMP! He bounced down the few stairs at the front of the stage and into the audience.
Jason still could not see, but he could tell his tight frog costume had ripped all the way up the back.
“Are you all right?” he heard his mother whisper.
“Sure.” Jason tried to smile as he pulled his mask off, but he hurt.
Miss Kimper announced an intermission and the room grew noisy as Jason’s mother tried to pin the frog costume back together.
“I’ve been thinking,” Jason said as he rubbed his sore legs. “Maybe my jumping isn’t important enough to have my friends laugh at me. Besides, there really isn’t much of a future for a talented frog-hop-leaper. I think I’d like to take piano lessons and start to practice music.”
Jason’s mother only smiled as she fastened the last safety pin in his frog costume. “There,” she said, “that will do for the rest of the play.”
Jason walked back onto the stage and finished the play, but all the while he was dreaming of what it would be like to be a great piano player. After all, it isn’t everyone who can play the piano, he thought.

“Father and Mother went to great lengths to make Christmas a happy time for us. One Christmas a piece of string led from our filled stockings to our major presents hidden somewhere in the house. Hours had been spent making these preparations. We boys arose before we were supposed to, and in the dark we accidentally broke the strings. Father and Mother had to spend the remainder of the night repairing the damage.”