Gospel Story Finder

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.

My little brother, David, is a real scaredy-cat. Mom said he was named after the David in the Bible. She told us that that David was brave and had a lot of faith in God. But I can’t imagine my brother slaying a giant warrior like Goliath.
Every Tuesday when we walk to Sister Johnson’s house for piano lessons, David insists that we go all the way around the block to avoid a big, barking dog, even though she is behind a strong fence. He’s such a chicken sometimes.
Maybe Mom and Dad thought that being named after the Bible’s David would help their son become a great hero. Maybe they were right. My brother sure isn’t brave near barking dogs or giant Goliaths, but one day I learned that he is a different kind of brave. …
All the kids in our neighborhood went sledding during Christmas vacation. The school had the greatest sledding hill around, and zillions of kids were there that day. It had snowed the night before, so the hill was perfect for trying out our new sleds.
We trudged up the hill, and I was the first one to jump on my sled and slide down. I found a great path that had a bump halfway down the hill and sent you flying through the air. What a ride! Everyone else followed me on that path—everyone else, that is, except David. He went over to the kiddie hill, where all the moms and dads were clapping and saying “Wheeee!” every time a little one slid to the bottom.
Some of our friends laughed at David and called him “chicken” and “baby.” But mostly they left him alone because they were used to him being afraid. I felt kind of bad for David, but he didn’t seem to care what other kids were saying about him.
Sledding was great fun, but after a couple of hours, we were cold and hungry. One of our friends suggested that we go into the drug store to look around and warm up. So we went inside and checked out the comic books and clearance toys. After five or ten minutes, we decided to head home. That’s when something really horrible happened.
On the way out of the store, someone—I think it was the new boy—dared everyone to take a candy bar from a big bin near the door. I couldn’t believe what was happening! Before I knew it, the other kids were stuffing candy bars into their hats or pockets.
I just froze. I didn’t want to steal anything. Then someone said I was scared, “just like your baby brother.” Fortunately David saved me before I had to decide whether to grab a candy bar or not.
“He’s not scared,” David blurted out. “He’s just smarter and cooler than you are. He turned and locked his arm through mine and said, “Let’s go.”
My heart was still pounding hard as David and I walked home. We didn’t say much to each other, and I thought a lot about what had just happened back at the store.
I think that what David did that day took a lot of courage and faith. It was just like in the Bible story when David slew Goliath because it was the right thing to do. I was pretty proud of my brother for choosing to do the right thing. And I’m especially glad he helped me do the same.
I don’t think of David as a scaredy-cat anymore. In fact, he’s pretty brave. I told him so, too.

But that was all before I began using my famous one-liner: “I intend to go on a mission for the Mormon church, sir.” This was not an original phrase for me. I just happened to pick it up one day in World Studies II, Advanced Review of the Emerging Third-World Nations. In this class we spent a lot of time memorizing the African states, capitals, and leaders. A Mr. Cranberg from Trenton, New Jersey, taught the course very methodically. Most days I quickly memorized my three countries and went on to my geometry. I never noticed that everyone else around me did the same until one day I suddenly detected a slight change in Mr. Cranberg’s drone.
“Anderson, stand!”
“Sir?” replied Anderson, standing in the formal Eaton manner.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading, sir.”
“World Problems?”
“No, sir.”
“How then, explain, do you expect to succeed in this class? And if you do not succeed in this class, how do you expect to understand this complex world in which you live?”
“I live in the dorms, sir. It’s very educational.”
Even I snickered at this.
“Don’t be funny, Anderson. You do not seem to understand the necessity of succeeding in this world. What may I ask do you intend to do after your graduation?”
Looking straight ahead and without a smile, Anderson replied, “I intend, sir, to go on a mission for the Mormon church.”
“A what?”
“A mission, sir.”
“To where? Africa?”
“My brother, sir, went to New Jersey.”
The class broke into an uproar. Mr. Cranberg, furious at this apparent slight toward his home state, assigned us all 18 extra pages of reading, with outline. All of us except Anderson who got 36. No one complained much because of the great joke. And also because of who Anderson was.
He was fairly good-looking and a pretty good athlete, but most of all he was just the sort of fellow who was friends with everyone. Never crude or wild or conceited like some of the boys I watched, he was always so friendly, as though his world were an excellent place into which he wished to draw all his fellows. Even me, it seemed, which puzzled me. I had never had a close friend with whom I confided my problems, my hopes, my dreams. I believe that is why his warmth fascinated me. And also that is why I took as my own his famous line.
It was not that I intended to go anywhere for the Mormon church. In my mind the Mormons were still out in the Rocky Mountains trudging around the hills in their covered wagons. I didn’t connect Scott Anderson with them; I just admired him so much that I stole his line. Besides, I was tired of being “we” and needed a conversation stopper.
But soon after I began using it, I became Anderson’s close friend.
It happened in gym through a bizarre accident. We were on the field playing soccer, when suddenly a ball came sailing from nowhere.
“Save it, Jack, save it,” I heard, and the next thing I felt was a terrible blow to my head. Some primitive instinct told me to fight back, so I kicked with all my strength and heard a crunch before I fell into blackness.
When I awoke, I saw the white curtains of the infirmary and knew I was going to be sick.
“Want me to call Ol’ Collins?”
I rolled over and in my misery saw Anderson’s grin with a slightly fat lip and missing one tooth.
“Anything you want,” I groaned.
Collins came bustling in, murmured about “concussion” and “our mother” and bustled out.
“I didn’t know you could kick so hard.” Again I saw the snaggly grin.
“It must have been the blow to my head. It gave me strength.”
“Your head is only half your problem. We also have two months in the clink together for fighting.”
“Fighting? Who was fighting? And what’s the clink? Where am I, Africa?”
“You and I, sir, have two months in detention hall.”
And that’s how I met Scott Anderson.
For a first friend there could have been no better. He showed me how to play soccer, and I showed him geometry and sentence diagraming. He explained to me the caste system of Eaton from the lowliest freshman to the headmaster. His parents had been assigned to a post overseas, so he was at Eaton finishing up his junior year. His comprehension of human systems astonished me just as my understanding of split participles fascinated him. I felt as though that day of our soccer crash had been for me a grand awakening to a world that had always been but I had never seen. I was a blind man granted sight.
It was four weeks into our detention that I mentioned to Anderson his famous quote from World Problems.
“That was some line,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s no joke, you know. I really am going on a mission.”
“A mission, a mission, what is a mission, Dr. Livingstone?”
“I’m going out into the world to teach people about the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
“Why?”
“Because the Church is true.”
“Are you really Mormon?”
“Sure thing, died in the wool, true blue.”
“No kidding. I never thought they got out of Utah.”
“Yeah, they did. Got out all over the world.”
So not only did I meet Scott Anderson, but also the Mormon church.
Too soon the term came to an end. When I came back from vacation, Scott Anderson was gone. “Moved,” somebody told me, “back to Utah.” I clung even more to his famous one line in memory of our friendship.
It was a fresh April day at the Apothecary Outdoor Restaurant when I had a final chance to use Anderson’s line. We had just finished our salad and were beginning our soup when an acquaintance of my mother stopped to greet us. He added the usual, “And what are you going to be doing next year, Jack?”
“I will be going on a mission for the Mormon church, sir,” I replied.
“You will?” He seemed more than astonished. “Why I didn’t know you were Mormons!”
“We’re not,” my mother smiled her let’s-get-on-to-other-things smile.
“But I am,” the man went on. “As a matter of fact, I’m bishop of the Manhattan Third Ward.”
“A bishop? I’ve heard of bishops,” I said. “You see, I had this friend at school …”
And so I met Bishop Beesely. And now I am going on a mission for the Mormon church. My father thinks that I am tomorrow’s Dr. Livingstone because I am going to South Africa.
My mother, though, is her same plural self. Just yesterday she said, “We’ll be needing some white shirts and dark suits now, won’t we, Jack?”

Young Joan of Arc, one of the greatest heroines in history, became the unlikely standard-bearer for the French army in the Dark Ages, long before the gospel was restored. Joan had the Light of Christ and also the courage to follow its promptings and make a difference. Joan was a peasant girl who could neither read nor write. Long years of war had impoverished and divided her country. At 17, sensing her life had a purpose, she left home, determined to help liberate her oppressed country. People scoffed at her ideas and thought she was a little crazy, but in the end she persuaded them to let her have a horse and an escort to go and see the king.
Young King Charles VII had heard about Joan and decided to test her. He slipped into the ranks of the army and let one of his trusted associates occupy the throne. When Joan came into the room, she barely acknowledged the man on the throne, but promptly walked up to Charles and curtsied to him. This so impressed the king that he gave her command over his 12,000 troops. At first the French soldiers did not want to obey her, but when they saw that all who followed her succeeded and all who disregarded her failed, they came to look upon her as their leader.
Clad in a suit of white armor and flying her own standard, Joan of Arc liberated the besieged city of Orleans in 1429 and defeated the English in four other battles. Twice she was wounded, but each time she recovered and went on fighting. Her orders seemed to be those of a military genius.
She was captured by English allies and burned at the stake in 1431. Although this is a sad ending, it does not take away from Joan’s greatness. She was courageous enough to follow the personal inspiration to which all of us are entitled.

It was a sunny spring afternoon, a week after my eighth birthday—a perfect day for a bike ride. My sister Marla, our friend Lisa, and I headed out on a backcountry road that was part of my family’s cattle ranch in British Columbia, Canada. The mountaintops glowed as the sun reflected off their snowcapped peaks. Excitement filled my chest as I pedaled.
I had been riding a two-wheeler for only about a week, so I was still a little shaky. The first part of the road was smooth dirt, flattened by regular tractor and hay-wagon trips. As the road wound past the thick green alfalfa fields, we began to pedal faster. I felt strong and free, coasting through the fresh mountain breeze.
Then we came to a division in the road. We could keep going straight along the edge of the field, or we could turn and take the road that went along the creek at the base of the mountain. We decided to take the more adventurous route.
Marla and I had been on this road several times before with our family, but this was my first time riding a bike here. I was a little nervous as my bike jiggled across a cattle guard, a ditch covered with evenly spaced bars to keep cows from crossing. I pedaled hard to stay with Marla and Lisa. The sunlight pierced through the majestic pine trees, creating a cheerful, bright pattern on the bumpy path.
As the road became rockier, I became more nervous. I was having a hard time keeping my balance. I wondered if the rocks would puncture my tires.
“I think maybe we should go back,” I said.
“Why?” Marla asked. “Are you scared?”
I would never admit to my older sister that I was afraid. “No. I just don’t want to get a flat tire.”
“Well, you can go back if you want, but we are going to keep going,” she said.
“Bye,” I called as I turned my bike around.
“We’ll see you at home,” Marla said. “We probably won’t go too much farther.”
I started toward home, all alone. The patterns on the road did not seem so cheerful now. I was suddenly aware of the strange sounds coming from the dark forest. But knowing that the comfort of home was near, I pedaled on. I was almost to the cattle guard when I sensed someone behind me. “Marla and Lisa must have decided to come home too,” I realized with relief. “Now I won’t have to ride home alone.” Swinging my leg over my bike, I stopped and turned around to see where they were. Marla and Lisa were nowhere in sight, but walking straight toward me was a black bear!
I froze. My bike clanked to the ground. All the advice I had ever heard about bears rushed through my mind. Don’t run or it will chase you. You can never outrun a bear. I started to walk slowly backwards.
Make noise to scare the bear away. Yell and bang two rocks together. I scanned the ground near my feet—no rocks, just dirt. I clapped my hands as hard as I could. But I could not yell. My throat felt tight. The bear kept walking toward me.
Pray. Throughout my life I had been taught to pray. My Sunday School teacher had even asked us what we should do if we saw a bear, and she had emphasized prayer. I had been taught to pray with my head bowed and eyes closed, but that was impossible now. I kept my eyes on the bear and silently prayed: “Heavenly Father, please help me! Please save me from this bear! Please help me know what to do.”
Praying and clapping, I walked slowly backward toward the cattle guard. Maybe if a cow couldn’t cross it, a bear would have trouble too. Maybe it would trip, giving me a chance to run home! I stepped carefully across the widely spaced beams.
The bear snorted and drooled. I watched as it followed me easily across the cattle guard. It rose onto its hind legs. I stood horrified as the grunting bear came toward me with outstretched paws. It towered over me, and I could see its sharp, wet teeth. Suddenly, the bear swiped for my head! I screamed as its large, curled claws got tangled in my hair and jerked me to the ground. I jumped back up. The bear, on all fours again, bit my inner thigh and pulled me down. It started dragging me across the road.
By then, Marla and Lisa had found me. Marla tried to distract the bear, but nothing worked. In seconds, the bear had dragged me across the dirt road to the base of the mountain. It surely would have pulled me into the thick bushes, but suddenly my pants ripped. They tore into two pieces, from front to back, even through the elastic waistband. Miraculously, its teeth had not punctured my skin. I leaped up. “Run!” a voice said to my mind.
I ran toward Marla and Lisa, leaving the bear with my pant leg in its mouth. Pantless and wearing only one shoe, I ran as fast as an Olympic track star. I overtook Marla and Lisa, who were also running. We lunged into the bushes and raced toward the creek. The thorny brambles scratched my legs, but I didn’t slow down.
Without pausing or looking back, I crossed a barbed-wire fence and sloshed into the creek. I lost my other shoe when it got wedged under a log. Almost home, I plunged through the water and ran across the wet cow corral. I squeezed through a fence and sprinted up the porch steps and through the front door.
My parents bombarded me with questions when they saw me without shoes or pants and covered with scratches.
“What happened?” Mom cried.
“Where are your pants?” Dad asked. “How did you get all those scratches?”
Still afraid, I couldn’t catch my breath. Stuttering, gasping, and crying, I finally managed, “I … ah … buh … buh … bear!”
Marla and Lisa ran onto the porch, and Marla told Mom and Dad what she had seen. Trying to calm me, Mom helped me into a warm bath.
Later that evening, clean and safe, we discussed the terrifying event. My palms were blue with bruises from clapping so hard, and my legs were covered in scratches from the bushes, but I had no marks from the bear. Its claws had brushed my head, and its teeth had gripped my leg, but my skin had not been broken. If the bear’s claws had been any closer to my head or if its teeth had bitten into my thigh, I could have been seriously hurt and would not have been able to run away.
I know Heavenly Father heard my prayers that day, and I know I heard the voice of the Holy Ghost telling me to run. Heavenly Father blessed me with a miracle.

The youth of the Rootstown Ward, Akron Ohio Stake, devoted a year of service to handicapped children in their area. On a regular basis, 21 youth and their adult leaders traveled to a foundation facility where 126 handicapped children live. They learned from the staff of the facility that the children gained great benefit from the time spent with visitors.

When asked about the service they gave, Brian Kleckner said, “It’s kind of neat. These kids don’t get out every day. It’s fun, and in church we learn to care about people.”

Amanda Moss said, “I enjoy the kids. I feel I’m doing something special.”

Noticing the improvement some children made, Gretchen Brockett said, “I think it’s neat to work with these children and watch them progress over the months that we’ve been coming. It makes me feel good, and it touches my spirit.”

One important teacher was my neighbor, Mrs. Carey. I was a young boy when World War II was raging, and every day after school she taught me about the war and the countries that were involved in it.
Mrs. Carey took me through the war day by day—in Europe, city by city; in the Pacific, island by island—explaining what was happening. In the process, I learned about history and geography. My interest in other countries was sparked during the hours I spent in her home.

The story of Sukiman Abraham, who serves as Clementi Branch mission leader, gives us an idea of the challenges unique to Singapore. Sukiman belonged to a non-Christian religion. His parents, who were born in Indonesia, moved to Singapore before World War II. When young, Sukiman attended religious services with his parents and studied his religion.
Although his parents were devout, they allowed Sukiman to attend a school taught by Latter-day Saints. One Saturday, he was playing basketball with some Latter-day Saint players, who invited him to church. He attended the next day. He says, “I learned a little about the restored gospel and received a copy of the Book of Mormon. I started to read it on the way home. I began to take several lessons a week. My father scolded me and threw away my copies of the scriptures. My mother asked me to take some time. After one month, I decided to be baptized.”
Sukiman’s parents asked him to leave. For two months he had no home, until he joined the armed forces. After a while, his parents reconsidered, and his mother asked him to come home. He completed his military service, then worked in shipping. In 1982, his father died. “On his death bed,” Sukiman remembers, “he asked me to take care of my mother, though I was Christian. I became the main support for her and the rest of the family. I wanted to serve a mission, but in my parents’ faith, leaving one’s mother is unfilial. One night in 1985, the answer came to my prayer: ‘Just go, and I will take care of her.’ So I went. The Lord did provide for my family. They were all right when I got back.”
“My mother and I are at peace, and she visits me often. She knows that the gospel has made me a better man and a more obedient son.”

My name is Tanoh Ahoukou Mariette, I am a member of the Abobo East Côte d’Ivoire Stake. I would like to share my testimony about believing in God even in the middle of the storms of life.
Due to financial difficulties from my parents, I had to drop out of primary school at the age of eight in a rural area in the east of the country. At the age of 18, I married a young man from my village whom I loved very much and with whom I had four children.
As a young couple, life was difficult, but I had small gainful side jobs to support my husband. Subsequently, he was recruited into the national army with the corollary of a better and more stable life for my children and me.
Once, a young man came to our house and wanted to be a tutor at home for my children. Oddly enough, I had sympathy for him, but my husband didn’t want it. I had to undertake to pay the young man myself with my meagre means. I later learned that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. This would prove to be precious for later.
After several years of marriage, my husband ended up leaving our home, leaving me alone with six young children. My whole world turned upside down. I had no sufficient source of income to take care of my children and me.
Depressed and seeing no prospect in front of me, I decided one morning to end my life. My last-born son was five years old at the time came to me unexpectedly (probably sent by God) and said, “No mom, don’t do that. What do you want us to become without you?” I hugged my son Martin and we cried together. I felt a sense of guilt and shame. But I had decided to live.
Life was still difficult, so much so that I left home for a brief time to give myself moments of reflection. I went to a friend’s house outside of Abidjan. One day around 6 am, a voice said to me: “Get up quickly and join your children in Abidjan”.
When I arrived, my children taught me that they should be baptized at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, whose missionaries had previously taught my children, but to whom I paid little attention because I was not attracted to religions. I was therefore invited to attend the baptism of my children at the Quatre Etages Ward.
Bishop Etian’s speech had a positive impact on me. It was the story of the “King with the Severed Finger” told by Muslim folk wisdom. A king had a finger cut off during the hunt and imprisoned his advisor who told him to let Allah (God) prevail in all things. Sometime later the king and his retinue were captured in the bush by cannibals who did not want him because of his disability. He was therefore the only one released and his life spared. He ran to deliver his servant, apologizing profusely. The latter replied that God is never wrong and that everything works together for our good. He said, “If you hadn’t put me in jail, I would be with you, captured, devoured by the cannibals, and probably dead today.”
From that moment on, I made a firm resolution to take my life and that of my children totally into my own hands by being baptized. From then on, I decided to forgive my husband for the wrongs I had suffered. My husband is still not in our home, but I have a more brotherly and kinder relationship with him through the power of forgiveness. I undertook income-generating activities that have allowed me to provide for my family and especially to ensure the schooling of my children for more than 15 years. Today, two of my daughters are starting careers as teachers in public schools. My last son has just been admitted to the university for which I am looking for ways to finance the courses. They make me proud. I have been able to go to the Accra Ghana Temple where I was endowed and sealed to my deceased parents.
I hope one day to be able to remarry in the temple to have an eternal marriage. The lessons I draw from my life is that everything works together for the good of one who believes in God.
As told to Sadia Zouzou, Côte d’Ivoire communication director

Fireworks and firecrackers, brightly colored nativity scenes, and feasts featuring stuffed tamales—that’s Christmas in Guatemala. As a full-time missionary I found the traditions very different from my own traditions in the United States. I was homesick and thought my Christmas would be miserable.
My companion, Sister Anaya, said we would find joy on Christmas by serving others. She suggested that we spend the morning singing at the hospital, and we invited other missionaries to join us.
As we approached the entrance, I watched the people waiting in line to see their loved ones. Their faces were sad, their sandal-clad feet dusty, their clothes faded. We waited with them. When we were finally allowed to enter the building, we walked down narrow halls with flaking green paint and cement floors. The smells of medicines and sickness overwhelmed me.
In the dim light I could see sick patients on beds in a large room with little ventilation or privacy. They lay there, some with bandages, some with IVs, some hooked up to machines to help them breathe. Some moaned quietly. Others slept. I wondered why we had come. Most in our small group of missionaries stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do.
But not Sister Anaya. She went to each bed, greeting those who were sick, asking them how they felt, and wishing them a merry Christmas. Her boldness reminded the rest of us why we had come, and we started to sing Christmas carols, softly at first but more confidently as we continued. Some of the patients smiled, some just lay there and didn’t seem to notice, and some hummed along.
Sister Anaya, singing with a hymnbook in her hand, approached a woman who was wrapped in bandages. The woman began to cry quietly, and my companion lovingly stroked her hair. Through her tears the woman spoke, “You are angels. You are angels.”
I will never forget Sister Anaya’s response. “No, you are not hearing angels,” she replied. “You are hearing Latter-day Saints.”
But I also think of Sister Anaya. I remember her encouraging us to sing at the hospital and how we found joy by spreading joy. I remember her stroking the hair of that sick woman. And I remember that I don’t need to be an angel to serve others. I can serve them as a Latter-day Saint.

In a highway accident many years ago, I sustained multiple injuries, the worst of which left me in a coma for three months. Priesthood blessings, along with the support of my family, enabled me to have what one of my doctors called “a remarkable recovery.”
But my head injuries weakened my short-term memory, and I can no longer remember my dreams. Often I awake and think, “Oh, I was dreaming,” but at that moment, the dream slips from my mind forever.

Latter-day Saints also have a presence at West Point, the U.S. Army’s academy in upstate New York, and at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. Consider this story about Midshipman Blake G. Jacobson:
One night while he was on watch, his upperclassman asked why the ring he wore bore the initials CTR instead of BGJ. Jacobson explained that the ring is often worn by members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and that CTR stands for Choose the Right. The upperclassman already knew Jacobson doesn’t smoke, drink, or swear.
A few days later, during a company inspection, the upperclassman suddenly yelled out, “Mr. Jacobson, what does it say on that ring you’re wearing?”
Jacobson was surprised, but barked out, “CTR, sir!”
“And what do those letters stand for, Mr. Jacobson?”
“Choose the Right, sir!”
“Correct. Men, from now on those letters are our company motto!”
From then on, the company chanted, “Choose the Right, left, Choose the Right, left,” as they marched around academy grounds. (Story submitted by Joe and Glo Jensen.)

Ethan was very brave. He valiantly defended his home and family against any bad guys that threatened it. But sometimes Ethan got tired. It seemed like every day there were new bad guys to fight. Yesterday there had been a ferocious dinosaur, the day before there were growling pirates, and today he faced man-eating sharks. Ethan could imagine the sharks swimming across the carpet in his bedroom.
“Come on, Kate, grab my hand,” Ethan called out to his little sister. “I will save you.”
Kate giggled and put her small hand into his.
“Sharks have long, sharp teeth,” Ethan said as he led her in a zigzag path across the room. “And they can bite. Look out!” He pulled Kate away from the bed, where he pretended a very large shark was hiding.
When they reached the bedroom door, Ethan peeked out and saw his mother sitting at the kitchen table folding laundry. She was listening to Primary music and softly singing along.
“Run to Mom, Kate,” Ethan urged. “She’ll protect you.”
Laughing, Kate ran to their mother, who scooped her up in a hug.
Later that day Ethan discovered some army men lurking behind the family room couch.
“Bang!” Ethan said, pointing his finger. “Bang! I got you.”
Mother frowned. “No shooting people, Ethan,” she said.
“But Mom,” Ethan protested, “he was a bad guy. I’m only shooting bad army men, not the good ones.”
“I don’t want any killing in our house,” Mom said.
Ethan was puzzled. How could he protect his family without killing all the bad guys?
After dinner, Ethan’s family had scripture study. Ethan liked to read the scriptures. Right now they were reading the Book of Mormon, and there were lots of bad guys and lots of good guys in it. There were good kings, good soldiers, and good missionaries.
They had finished the part in the Book of Mormon where Nephi’s family had crossed the ocean in their ship. The ship went through a big storm before arriving safely in the promised land. Now they were reading the part where Lehi was talking to his family about how the Lord had watched over them on their journey.
Ethan was listening very carefully as his dad read. He knew that soon Dad would stop reading and ask, “What is happening now? What does it mean?”
Ethan’s dad read, “‘And if it so be that they shall keep his commandments they shall be blessed upon the face of this land, and there shall be none to molest them, nor to take away the land of their inheritance; and they shall dwell safely forever’” (2 Ne. 1:9).
“Does that mean,” Ethan blurted out, not waiting for Dad to ask, “that if we keep the commandments we will be safe, too?”
“Yes.” Dad smiled. “It certainly does.”
“How?” Ethan asked. He wondered how keeping Heavenly Father’s commandments would keep away ferocious dinosaurs, growling pirates, and other bad guys.
“Well,” Dad said, “I think you were too young to remember, but when we first moved into this house, we had a special prayer and dedicated our home to Heavenly Father. We prayed that it would be a safe place where the Spirit can dwell. So now we try to do all the things the prophets tell us to keep a good spirit in our home.”
“Like having family home evening,” Mom said.
“And watching only good things on TV and on the computer,” Dad said.
“And reading good books and listening to good music,” Mom added.
“And being kind to each other,” Dad said. “All these things keep our home safe from evil.”
“Scripture study, too?” Ethan asked.
Mom nodded. “Especially scripture study.”
Ethan felt relieved. He was happy to know he wasn’t the only one working hard to keep his home safe.
The next week, Ethan was still very brave. He had to scare off a T. rex hiding behind the trees in the backyard. He pulled the plug on a giant octopus in the bathtub. He even discovered a monster troll hiding in the coat closet and had to tell it, in a very loud voice, to “leave now, and never come back.”
But now Ethan knew he wasn’t working alone. He knew that whenever Mom listened to his prayers, or Dad gave a priesthood blessing, or Kate shared her toys with him, they were all bravely working together to keep their home a safe and loving place to live.

For McKinzie Mower, going to the temple helped her testimony develop at a time when it could have easily wavered. She remembers attending church and praying regularly, but “I was just going through the motions.”
“Then one day, Brother Hatch told me they were going to the temple and said I would be welcome if I could come,” she continues. “I didn’t really want to do it, but then I thought about it and decided to go. After that first time, I just started going as often as I could, and as I did, spiritual things became more important in my life.”
McKinzie says the best part of going to the temple is the good feelings she gets from serving others. “I love doing something for people that they can’t do for themselves,” she explains. “Temple work is the ultimate example of that.”

In 1994 a horrific genocide occurred in Rwanda. Between 600,000 and 900,000 people were killed in a matter of 60 to 90 days.
Eventually, the Church established a branch in the capital city of Kigali. The branch was doing well—without full-time missionaries. In 2011 we were serving in the Africa Southeast Area when we learned, sadly, that our registration as a church with the country of Rwanda was invalid, which meant that we were functioning illegally as a church. We also learned that our meetinghouse, a converted two-story home, was not appropriately zoned to hold Church meetings. The Area Presidency, in consultation with our first contact in the Quorum of the Twelve, made the agonizing decision to close the branch. Our members were no longer able to meet for Church meetings.
Lawyers in Kigali, Salt Lake City, and Johannesburg, South Africa, began working fervently to resolve the problems. All the while, the Saints kept asking when they could meet together again. Months went by without resolution or progress.
After about 10 months, we flew to Kigali to visit those Saints and try to buoy up their spirits. Before we did, we asked that the matter be placed on the temple prayer roll of the weekly meeting of the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve.
The Tuesday before our scheduled trip from Johannesburg to Kigali, we were notified that, in a surprising move, the government had granted the Church provisional registration in Kigali. Then on Thursday of the same week, the zoning commission granted an exemption from the zoning ordinance. The Kigali Saints could once again meet in our building without violating the law.
This was miraculous! Members were quickly notified that the branch would be meeting on Sunday. We arrived on Friday and invited members to come to church. When Sunday came, all the members—all of them—and many of their friends came to church. They arrived early, eager to be together again. As the sacrament was blessed and passed, we all experienced an extraordinary renewing, refreshing, and cleansing spirit.
We remember, in the meeting, wondering why we did not feel this same spirit every week as we partook of the sacrament. We looked around at the Saints and realized that they had come hungering and thirsting for the sacrament. Their faith, diligence, and patience brought all of us blessings. We pledged that whenever we again partook of the sacrament, we would remember this experience with the Kigali Saints. We committed that we too would hunger for the blessings of partaking of the sacrament.

At that conference, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley spoke of meeting a young naval officer from Asia. The officer had not been a Christian, but during training in the United States, he had learned about the Church and was baptized. He was now preparing to return to his native land.
President Hinckley asked the officer: “Your people are not Christians. … What will happen when you return home a Christian and, more particularly, a Mormon Christian?”
The officer’s face clouded, and he replied: “My family will be disappointed. … As for my future and my career, … all opportunity [may] be foreclosed against me.”
President Hinckley asked, “Are you willing to pay so great a price for the gospel?”
With his dark eyes moistened by tears, he answered with a question: “It’s true, isn’t it?”
President Hinckley responded, “Yes, it’s true.”
To which the officer replied, “Then what else matters?”

I am an ardent sports fan. Long will I remember a TV sportscaster as he lauded the marvelous performance of Y. A. Tittle, one of the all-time great professional football quarterbacks. He said: “This will be the key play of the game. Tittle has the snap from center; he fades to throw, but his line cannot hold. It appears the game is over.
“Wait! Tittle has eluded his tacklers; he has fallen deep behind the line. He cocks his arm to throw, and the pass is away and caught in the end zone for a touchdown.
“That was a great second effort by Y. A. Tittle!”

Over 100 young people and their advisers from the Ft. Collins Colorado Stake teamed up with the U. S. Forest Service to rehabilitate a large meadow in the Roosevelt National Forest.
The young people worked with their leaders and forest service personnel to improve trails, repair bridges, and reseed bare areas. The stake received a special certificate of appreciation from the U.S. Department of Agriculture, and all along the trail are several small signs describing the Forest Service projects and mentioning the LDS youth who initiated the work.

Then one December evening in 1997 our daughter, Pricilia, fell ill. She had a high fever, and blood started coming out of her mouth. My husband was not home, and I was confused and afraid. I could see the shadow of death on her face.
As I prayed for help, the Spirit prompted me to take her to our branch president, who lived far from us. Somehow I managed to get her down from our third-floor flat, carrying her on my back, and out to the main road. It was too late to catch a bus, so I desperately tried to get a taxi.
The first taxi driver who came by refused to take us, saying, “I don’t want to carry a dead person in my car.” However, a second taxi driver responded to my pleas and helped us even though I had no money. When we got to our branch president’s compound, the guard at the entrance refused to let us in. But he phoned the president, and the president came out and carried Pricilia up to his flat. He laid her on his couch, placed his hands on her head, and gave her a blessing. I heard him sigh and pause, then tell Pricilia that it was not yet time for her to go home and that she must fight to live.
Immediately after the blessing, Pricilia opened her eyes. We took her to the hospital, where we learned she had cerebral malaria. We also learned this disease could kill her. For the next eight days she remained unconscious in the hospital. The doctors did not believe she would survive.
The day Pricilia was discharged—healthy and normal—the doctor told me that few people survived who were as sick as she had been. Those who lived were left disabled. “Pricilia is a lucky girl,” he said. But I knew luck had nothing to do with her recovery. She had been saved by priesthood power.
Today, Pricilia is a healthy and happy girl. She has not been sick one day since leaving the hospital. She is everything a parent could want a daughter to be. Furthermore, the sicknesses that so beset our family have passed. We have outlasted these trials and have truly been blessed.

My name is Rachel. I live near the Paris France Temple.
The temple is really important to my family. Before the Paris Temple was built, we would go on family trips to the Frankfurt Germany Temple several times a year. It took 10 hours to drive there and back!
We loved watching the new temple be built. Every week after church, our parents drove by to let us see how the construction was going. First they tore down an old building and dug a big hole. Then they started building the temple higher and higher. Soon the house of the Lord was there!
My siblings and I are excited to go to the temple someday. My oldest sister, Esther, gets to do baptisms first. We are all waiting anxiously for our turn to go too. We love the temple and are happy to have one in our very own city!