Gospel Story Finder

We learn of the dedication which was given to the seminary program in its very beginning by reading from a diary of John M. Whitaker, one of the early instructors of the seminary program. In April of 1915 he was employed as an instructor in the Granite Seminary with a salary of $1,500 per year. He found little to work with as he assumed his new position. His diary records:
“I had to start without the least scratch, or outline, and I thought out many approaches to the new problem before me. I had taught several years at the University of Deseret. But there I knew my course well, but to commence a course now, where here-to-fore the Bible alone had been the guide, and to meet the need of the hour when students of the age coming into high school and junior work, with strict outlines and supervision, with everything before them and now coming from the discipline of high school requirements, into religion class work where they could come if they desired or remain away, … but to take religion which was frowned down upon during the week days, only for Sundays, was a task too great to undertake alone. So I did as I have always done when presented with a task, went in humility and prayer to my Father in Heaven and in my simplicity told him my problem and asked for inspiration, guidance, wisdom and courage for the task before me. … I was unknown to most of the Faculty and students of the Granite High and so during the summer I thought out how best to make a beginning.”
He became enthusiastic about the beginning of the year in teaching at Granite High School and looked forward to registration day, on September 3, 1915. A crowd of students was on hand, and his journal entry describes the event: “Commenced a very important period of my life and one that will, I am sure affect the destiny of thousands of the youth of Zion, if the plans maturing in my mind blossom into fruition” (quoted in Lyman Clarence Pedersen Jr., “John Mills Whitaker: Diarist, Educator, Churchman” [master’s thesis, University of Utah, 1960], 167).
His diary records events step-by-step which led to the tremendous success he had in carrying forward this program over the years. Significant is the statement of the late S. Dilworth Young, one of the Seventy, who was one of Brother Whitaker’s earliest seminary students: “Had Elder A. Theodore Tuttle been clairvoyant, he would have seen in the year 1914 a fourteen-and-a-half-year-old stripling entering the first seminary instituted by the Church. Across the street from Granite High School a building had been constructed—one room in size—a teacher employed, and the school opened to students. I was that stripling. There died yesterday the third teacher of that particular seminary. The teacher was John M. Whitaker.
“I should like to make a short tribute to Brother Whitaker. He likely did not know the profound influence he had upon me as a boy, as I studied minutely under him and Guy C. Wilson before him, the detail of the Bible, the Book of Mormon, and the Doctrine and Covenants. I look back upon it now, realizing that there was where I got my first detailed knowledge of these standard works. Could I have enough influence I would see to it that every boy and every girl in the Church had a like experience under a man of faith” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1960, 80).
The service of John M. Whitaker is an example of thousands of instructors who over the years have devoted their lives to building testimonies in hundreds of thousands of young people who have availed themselves of the opportunity of taking advantage of seminary classes.

Anne and Kara were both new in their ward when Anne was assigned to minister to Kara and her young family. A friendship quickly developed between the two of them. Anne, a newlywed, enjoyed helping Kara with her four young daughters, who ranged in age from newborn to seven years old. One day, Kara’s baby sustained a skull fracture that required surgery.
Anne jumped in and watched the other children until their grandmother could arrive to take care of them. Once their grandmother arrived, Anne checked with her to see what help she might need, then brought dinner to the family that night. She also arranged for neighbors to bring meals for a few days.
The next day when she checked in on Kara’s family, Anne noticed that one of Kara’s daughters was worried about her baby sister, so Anne invited her to come make cookies to give her some personal attention. Anne also texted the ward council to let them know what had happened and told them she would keep them updated about the situation. During the next week, while the baby received treatment, Anne kept the ward council up to date and saw to the family’s needs. Anne’s help allowed Kara time and peace of mind as a parent in a difficult, scary situation.

When the alarm went off at 5:00 a.m., 17-year-old Yee Mun Lim got out of bed and got ready for the day. She left the house at 5:20 for seminary. At 6:30 a.m. she hurried to school, where she stayed until 7:00 p.m. for classes and co-curricular activities. Then she rushed to the stake center by public transport to practice for the stake musical production.
This was the standard routine of most youth in the Singapore Stake every Friday for five months. Sometimes exhaustion and fatigue set in, but throughout the entire preparation for the musical production, When a Prophet Speaks, there were no complaints or regrets, because the youth felt that the sacrifices they made were worthwhile. “This is the most amazing, awesome, spiritually uplifting, fun-filled, and heart-warming event I ever took part in,” said Yee Mun, of the Singapore Second Ward.
“Our initial purpose was to unite the youth,” said Kate Loreto, the stake Young Women president. “We have youth in eight different wards and from various cultural backgrounds. It’s hard for them to interact with each other. So we thought, why not do a musical to bring them together?”
The leaders chose music inspired by the list of B’s from President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008).1 This music was chosen “so the youth could internalize the lyrics of the songs, feel the Spirit, and live the standards,” said Connie Woo, the general director of the production. “We wanted to involve as many youth as possible,” said Sister Woo. In all, 78 youth performed.
Perhaps not all of the youth came with the same motive at the beginning, but almost all of them kept coming to rehearsals because they enjoyed the friendship, the singing, and, most of all, the Spirit.
After the theme was chosen and practices organized, the youth were assigned to different parts in the production and to different committees that suited their talents.
Ally Chan, age 18, of the Singapore Second Ward volunteered to help on the costume committee. “We needed to choose something that was modest, which was very important, and it had to be economical, youthful, and at the same time look good on the stage,” she said. Not only did she learn how to make decisions based on gospel standards and working with others, but she was also happy about how the youth looked.
Canden Petersen, age 15, of the Singapore First Ward was appointed choir president to help make sure that every practice ran smoothly. His responsibilities included assigning prayers, rallying and herding the youth for practices and games, and announcing seating on the stage. “I was also asked to have some young men help set up and take down the set and oversee the youth in fulfilling their assignments,” he said. “I felt that this responsibility was good for the youth. Hopefully it helped them understand that the Lord calls leaders now, not just from among the adults. They can and should sustain their leaders whatever their age or experience level.”
Kandace Lim, age 18, of the Woodlands Ward helped by taking multiple roles, including being a member of the costume committee, the choreography committee, the photography committee, and also by singing a solo. About her many responsibilities, she said, “It was my mum who inspired me to take on these assignments. She taught me that if there’s a chance to serve, just go for it. If you accept the task and put in your best effort, the Lord will definitely help you get through any difficulties you might face.”
Besides these administrative responsibilities, performers were also needed. John Lee, age 17, of the Clementi Ward was one of the brave souls to volunteer for a solo part. His reason was simple: “I just like to sing! And it makes me feel special.”
Ezra Tadina, age 17, of the Woodlands Ward didn’t feel like he could sing, so he found another way to contribute. “I chose to be involved,” he said, “and I am actually the one who narrated the part about being involved. I feel the message because I know it’s true.”
The practices extended from November 2009 until March 2010. During this time, the youth gathered at the stake center to rehearse every Friday night, except on holidays. The amount of time and commitment required of the youth was no small sacrifice, considering the strenuous schedule of a typical Singaporean youth.
First-year junior college student Olivia Hoe of the Bedok Ward chose to participate because “no matter how life throws mud at me, at the end of the day, it’s the gospel that’s going to keep me standing and pull me through the rubble. Knowing that there’s One who’s looking out for me and loving me completely gives me plenty of comfort, and I think that’s more than enough to get me going every day.”
Many of the youth had other commitments, but they knew that the Lord had laid a path for them. Such was the case of 16-year-old Amanda Ho of the Singapore Second Ward. “I had dance practice, which clashed with some of the rehearsals for this musical, but miraculously the school changed the practice schedule, which enabled me to turn up for the musical rehearsals,” she explained.
After months of practice, the show was finally ready to be performed. Thanks to the teens’ enthusiastic promotion, more than 700 people showed up to watch them at three performances. As the youth shared their message through songs, dance, instrumental music, and their own testimonies, many in the audience were touched.
The group was also challenged to invite nonmember friends to see their performance and to make it a missionary opportunity. Michael Lee, age 18, took this challenge seriously. “I invited six friends to come, and three of my schoolmates and a schoolteacher came,” he said. Their performances especially left an impression on his teacher. “He said that it was a great experience. He even requested a copy of the For the Strength of Youth booklet. He said that he felt the energy through the many hopeful hearts of the youth.”
The leaders’ initial purpose of bringing the youth together was certainly fulfilled. “As I sat there and looked up at each of them during the performance, my heart was filled with joy,” Sister Woo said. “It was not about how good they looked, how well they sang and played, or how well they delivered the narrations. It was not about which school or country they came from. They were one.”
The musical helped many gain a stronger testimony. Some say they hum the tunes and sing the lyrics of the songs wherever they might be, and the message in the songs helps them get through their daily challenges. Many of them became not just good friends but spiritual supports who can lift each other up when the going gets tough. They can help each other stay on the narrow path and grow spiritually.

On a bright, crisp winter afternoon we pointed our van toward the mission home in Bordeaux, France. It was December 24, 1990, and we were on our way home for Christmas.
My wife, Kathy, and I, along with our four children—Camey, age 14, Brandt, 13, Kristen, 10, and Derek, 8—had just experienced a week to remember. Because of the distances involved in our mission, we had not brought the missionaries together for a Christmas celebration. Rather, we had traveled as a family to every city in the mission, bringing a feeling of family togetherness, involving the children in sharing a special Christmas program. Our family had rejoiced with each of the missionaries in the great privilege of sharing the restored gospel of Christ at this glorious time of year.
On our final day we had been joined by four wonderful missionaries. The large blue van, now full, was filled as well with the Christmas spirit, and Christmas carols and favorite stories made the travel time pass quickly. Kristen and Derek were becoming more excited with each hour as they anticipated the surprises Christmas morning would bring. We could almost smell the turkey dinner being prepared at the mission home by a wonderful missionary couple awaiting our return. The feeling of Christmas was in the air.
It was not until late in the afternoon that we realized there might be a problem. For much of the morning we had experienced some difficulty in shifting our van from one gear to another. We had stopped to check the level of the transmission fluid, but all seemed to be in order. Now, with darkness setting in and our van still two hours from Bordeaux, third, fourth, and fifth gears stopped functioning altogether.
We limped along the tree-lined country road in second gear. It would be impossible to drive to Bordeaux in this condition, and we looked for possible help. Our first hope was a convenience store just preparing to close. I asked about possible rental-car locations or train stations nearby. We were far from any city of any size, however, and my questions brought little response.
I returned to the van. The concern and disappointment showed on the faces of our younger children. Would they not be home for Christmas Eve? Would they spend this most special night of the year in a crowded mission van? After they had brought happiness and cheer to missionaries far from home, would their Christmas come alongside a forgotten French country road far from their own home?
Kristen knew to whom we could appeal, and she immediately suggested a prayer. Many times as a family we had prayed for those in need—for the missionaries, the investigators, the Church members, our leaders, the French people, our own family. We bowed in prayer and humbly asked for help.
By now it was dark. The van crept forward, moving at a jogger’s pace through the pine forest. We were hoping to reach a little town just three miles (5 km) ahead. Soon our lights caught a small sign with an arrow directing us to Villeneuve-de-Marsan.
We had driven the two-lane road from Pau to Bordeaux many times, but never had we journeyed off the highway to the little town of Villeneuve-de-Marsan. As we hobbled into the town, the scene was like many small French villages. Homes and small shops were attached one to another, crowding the narrow road leading into town. People had closed their window shutters early, and the streets were dark and deserted. The lights in the ancient Catholic church in the center of town showed the one sign of life as they glowed in preparation for the traditional midnight mass. We rolled past the church, and the van hesitated and then stopped. Fortunately, we found ourselves in front of a lovely country inn. The lights were on, and we determined that this was our last chance for help.
To avoid overwhelming those in the inn, Kathy, Camey, and the missionaries stayed in the van while I took the three younger children inside. I explained our situation to the young woman at the front desk. She could see the beleaguered faces of my children, and she kindly asked us to wait while she called the innkeeper, Mr. Francis Darroze.
Camey came in to see how we were doing. As we waited for Mr. Darroze to arrive, I silently said a prayer of thanksgiving. We might not make it back to Bordeaux for the night, but how good of our Father in Heaven to lead us to a clean hotel! I shuddered as I realized how easily we could have spent the night in the van in a remote area of France. I could see a restaurant in the next room, and I was amazed to see it open on Christmas Eve. We would have a good meal, a hot shower, and a comfortable sleep.
Mr. Darroze arrived in the clothing of a traditional French chef, with his double-breasted chef’s coat buttoned all the way up to his chin. He was the owner of the hotel, a man of importance in the community. His warm eyes and quick smile communicated that he was a gentleman as well.
I told him of our dilemma, of the 10 of us in the van, and of our destination in Bordeaux. As he noticed my accent, I added that we were Americans and in one sentence told him why we were in France.
He instantly sought to help us. About 10 miles (16 km) away was a medium-sized city with an active train schedule. He called to ask about the next train to Bordeaux but found that it would not leave until 10:15 Christmas morning. All rental-car companies in that larger city were closed.
The disappointment was evident in the faces of my young children. I asked Mr. Darroze if he would have room in the inn for our family and the four missionaries to spend the night. Although we wouldn’t make it home, at least it was a great blessing to have found such suitable accommodations.
Mr. Darroze looked at the children. He had known us only a few minutes, but his heart was touched with the brotherhood that crosses all oceans and makes us one family. The spirit of Christmas giving filled his soul. “Mr. Andersen,” he said, “of course I have rooms here that you can rent. But you do not want to spend Christmas Eve here in the inn. Children should be home as they await the excitement of Christmas morning. I will lend you my car, and you can go to Bordeaux tonight.”
I was amazed at his thoughtfulness. Most people would view strangers, especially foreigners like us, with caution. I thanked him but explained that there were 10 of us and a small French car would never be sufficient.
He hesitated momentarily, but his hesitation was not to diminish the gift but to expand it.
“At my farm about 10 miles from here I have an old van. It is used for farming and has only the two seats in front. It will travel at only about 45 miles per hour (70 kph), and I am not certain the heater works well. But if you want it, I will drive you the 10 miles to my farm to get it.”
The children jumped for joy. I reached into my pocket for my cash or credit cards. He quickly shook his head and his finger in disapproval.
“No,” he said, “I will take nothing. You can bring my van back to me when you get time after Christmas. It is Christmas Eve. Take your family home.”
Sometime shortly after midnight the lights of Bordeaux came into view. The children and the missionaries had fallen asleep in the back of the innkeeper’s van. As we drove the familiar streets leading to our home, Kathy and I thanked our kind Heavenly Father for our own Christmas miracle. At a time when only He could bring us home, He had heard our prayers.
We were home on Christmas Eve, even though in Villeneuve-de-Marsan there was room in the inn.

Ouch! Have you ever been attacked by a jumping cactus? Cholla cactus segments “jump” off to stick to clothes, skin, or whatever else they can hook their spines into.
The Latter-day Saint youth of New Mexico know how difficult it is to detach themselves from a prickly cactus. They got some extra practice, though, as they cleaned the site where the Albuquerque New Mexico Temple will be built. Armed with shovels, rakes, and gloves, youth from four stakes assembled on a hot Saturday morning to rid the property of sagebrush, garbage, and cholla, so the weeds could be mowed and the ground made safe to walk on for those attending the temple’s groundbreaking ceremony.
“It was hard work, but it will be totally worth it for the temple to come,” says Robyn Sampson, age 15.
Before the city of Albuquerque approved the plans for the temple, the youth fasted and prayed for a solution to the problems the temple’s project manager faced when he presented the plans to city officials. Now they say they are fasting and praying for the temple builders. But the prayers and the cleanup are only part of the work the young people of Albuquerque are doing to prepare for the temple. They are also working to make certain their own lives are clean.
Despite the burrs on their socks and an occasional scare from a snake or lizard, the Albuquerque youth succeeded in clearing the future temple site of every spiny cactus and broken bottle they could find. It might seem strange, but the youth actually enjoyed pulling cactuses and loading trucks with sagebrush.
“We’re so happy we will have a temple here. We thought it would never happen,” says Rosalie Campbell, age 12.
Amber Chee, age 17, looks forward to doing baptisms for the dead and someday getting married in the Albuquerque temple. “It was really fun coming here. I felt the Spirit,” she says.
Both Rosalie and Amber have done baptisms for the dead before, but opportunities for temple trips come only once a year for the Albuquerque youth, who have had to travel at least eight hours to get to a temple.
“Temples were always a faraway thing,” says Neil Peterson. As 16-year-old Neil wipes his brow, he says he enjoys helping out with something so important, even if it is hard work.
Besides concentrating on the cactus plants, Michelle Williams is thinking about what it will mean to have a temple in her area and about why she is cleaning up the temple site. “It’s very symbolic,” she says. “You have to be clean yourself to go to the temple.”
Logan King is waiting for his call as a full-time missionary. He won’t be able to go to the Albuquerque temple before his mission, but he realizes the importance of being worthy to attend the temple. “We need to clean all the cactuses out of our lives before we can go to the temple,” he says.
Researching family history is another way the Albuquerque youth are preparing for the temple. Many of them have become excited about doing family history, knowing they will soon have a temple in their area. Albuquerque’s family history center missionaries, Sister Wilcox and Sister Hatfield, say the temple will strengthen the youth. Among the large number of young people in the area, they have seen a “big push for genealogy.”
Sarah Sego, age 17, loves doing baptisms for the dead and can’t wait for the temple to be built so she can do baptisms more often. “I know it’s the right thing to do, because all those people are waiting,” she says.
Sarah is eager to tell others why she loves going to the temple. She talks to her friends about the temple and even tactfully shared her testimony of temple work with her high school class.
Sarah is not alone in her missionary efforts. Many Church members are enjoying the opportunity to explain the gospel to others because of the temple.
“I think the temple will make people notice us more,” says Lisa Willis, age 14. She’s also been telling her friends about the temple. “The best part of building a temple is having people ask about it,” she says.
Albuquerque’s full-time missionaries were also working hard at the cleanup. They say members in the area feel that the temple will bring many blessings to all the people of Albuquerque.
“While tracting, we stopped by a house and a woman opened the door and said, ‘Hey, I heard you are building one of those temples.’ That allowed us to get in the door and talk to her about the Church,” says Elder Moyer from California. Many missionaries have similar stories.
The temple will be built in a valley where it can be seen from far away. In fact, it’s the same valley the Mormon Battalion came through on its famous march from the Missouri River to California.
At the groundbreaking ceremony, many young people who had been at the cleanup also sang in the youth chorus. The strains of “High on the Mountain Top” (Hymns, number 5) rang out over the crowd of thousands that had gathered to see the temple ground dedicated.
“We all joined together to celebrate our temple,” says Tyler Lindsey, age 16. “I knew that it was right and the ground was holy. I don’t know how we sounded, but the Spirit was there.”
The Spirit is there. The spirit of service, of missionary work, and of love can be felt strongly in Albuquerque. Whether pulling cactuses or doing baptisms for the dead, the youth of Albuquerque are carrying out the Lord’s work with His Spirit to help them. The youth don’t know yet all the ways the temple will change their lives, but they are grateful to have been able to take a small part in the temple-building project. They are looking forward to the temple’s dedication in the year 2000 and to even greater blessings and opportunities to come.

As the Bible declares, the true Church of Jesus Christ is “built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner stone” (Ephesians 2:20). I experienced an application of that fundamental principle of the restored gospel many years ago.
A member of the Church brought her neighbor to my office. The neighbor’s husband was a Protestant minister with a large congregation. For many years, this couple had served the Lord with great diligence in their Christian ministry. He had baptized many people into that church.
Now, through the influence of his Latter-day Saint neighbors, he had read the Book of Mormon and was converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He was ready to resign his ministry and join the restored Church. But first, he and his wife needed an answer to their question regarding priesthood authority. Reminding me that her husband had baptized many people, his wife asked, “Are you telling me that my husband didn’t have any authority to baptize all the people that he baptized?”
The Spirit prompted my answer, as it will in these situations.
“No,” I said. “I’m sure your husband had authority to baptize all the people that he baptized. He had all the authority that his church could give him. He could perform marriages. He could make people members of the congregation. He could hire a contractor to put a new roof on your church. But that isn’t the kind of authority we’re discussing. The authority in your question is the authority that Jesus gave to Peter, that whatsoever he did on earth would be honored in heaven (see Matthew 16:19). And because that divine authority must be traceable to Apostles, it exists only in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

Watch out for Apii’s feet!
With one well-placed kick, she could knock you over.

But Apii’s feet are only dangerous when she’s competing. In everyday life, Tereapii Rota, 16, of Tokorua, New Zealand, is a bright girl who serves her school as the representative to the board of trustees. But in her free time, she and her brother are trained by their father in the fine art of defense. She is so good at it that she won the junior women’s national championship in Tae Kwon Do. She was surprised by her success since it was the first time she had seriously competed.

Apii is the oldest of six children, and she and her ten-year-old brother are the most serious about training with their father. They belong to a sports club, but Apii often trains with the boys because there aren’t many women good enough to challenge her.
Although Apii is good at a rather unusual sport, her best friends are the other Laurels in her ward. “The four of us Laurels are very close. We do everything together. It’s good to have great friends,” says Apii. “We have heaps of laughs. We don’t see everything as real serious.”
Laughing a little at life has made it easier for Apii and her friends to resist the temptations that come to 16-year-olds. “I suppose the hardest thing about being 16,” says Apii, “is saying no to other people. Someone asks you to a birthday party or on a trip. Mom and Dad know what’s likely to happen. So you just have to say no. Then these people try to talk you into it. You still have to say no.” But Apii and her friends have so much fun without doing anything against the standards of the Church that it is easier for them to resist being talked into going to parties they know they shouldn’t go to.
The fact that Apii is alive is part of the reason her family joined the Church. When she was eight, she was desperately ill with asthma. Missionaries gave her a blessing, and she was healed literally moments later. “I was really weak,” says Apii. “I hadn’t been able to eat or drink. As soon as the missionaries said amen I was all right. I opened my eyes and asked for something to drink. Everybody sort of laughed they were so relieved.”
Apii has plans to go to university and study business.
In the meantime, watch out for Apii’s flying feet.

My best friend lived in the apartment next door. Two years ago the missionaries came to her house and taught her the gospel. Mom and I sat with Lillie while she had the lessons. I soon turned eight, and Dad baptized both of us on the same day. I went to Lillie’s house every day after school. We always had doughnuts and played dress-ups, and we never had fights. Lillie had bright red hair, and she called me Judy even though I told her my name was Jody. She’d forget—I guess that happens sometimes when you’re almost 100 years old.
“Judy,” she’d say, “I’m so-o-o-o hungry. Let’s have a doughnut.” We’d sit down at her kitchen table. Lillie always took one bite of her doughnut and said, “This doughnut is pretty good, but it isn’t quite as good as my husband Marty’s. Did I ever tell you Marty was a baker?
“We had the nicest bakery shop. Marty got up before daybreak and baked the doughnuts; then while he slept, I waited on the customers. But he had a heart attack and died.” Lillie’s eyes filled with tears. “Did I ever show you our wedding picture?” she would ask, wiping away the tears and trying hard to smile.
I nodded my head because she showed it to me all the time. But Lillie would get out her photo album, anyway, and we would look at her pictures.
Every day Lillie asked, “How was school? You must study hard, Judy. I only got to go to the fifth grade. We didn’t have enough money. I needed to work. You are very lucky to get to go to school. Promise me you’ll study hard.”
I’d promise, and then we’d have a doughnut. Sometimes after I finished eating my doughnut and Lillie had told me about the bakery, she’d ask, “Would you like to play my piano?”
“Sure,” I always answered. I would play “I Am a Child of God” or “Book of Mormon Stories.”
“Oh, that’s just beautiful, Judy. This is my brother’s piano, you know. Mama sacrificed so that George could take lessons. He loved to play jazz. He bought this piano before he went to the war. But he died in the war. First George died, then Mama went, and then Marty. …”
I’d hug Lillie.
“I met Marty when I was seventeen. I was wearing a big satin ribbon in the back of my hair. He took me to the World’s Fair. It was in St. Louis, you know. We had to cross the Mississippi River on a ferry. I thought Marty was so handsome! Did I ever tell you that he was a baker?”
Lillie often showed me her certificate for sewing. “So many people liked my sewing that I finally put a sign in my window: Lillie’s Sewing and Alterations. Would you like to see the dresses I designed?”
Soon I’d be prancing around in a velvet evening gown with a pair of white lace gloves and gold glittery shoes. “Now for a hat. You can always tell a lady by her hat,” Lillie would tell me.
I’d add a feathery hat and twirl around.
“You look like a princess,” Lillie would say, clapping her hands.
It was at the end of fifth grade for me when Lillie moved to a nursing home. It was too hard for her to go to church anymore, but sometimes Mom took me to visit her. Lillie would be sitting in a wheelchair. “Oh, Judy, it’s so good to see you! Are you studying hard?” she always asked.
“I brought you some doughnuts, Lillie.” I’d put them on her lap and give her a hug.
“Oh, goody! I’m so-o-o-o hungry! You know, my husband was a baker, and he made the best doughnuts.” After she took a bite, she’d say, “Will you play the piano for me, Judy? George’s piano is in the dining hall.”
So I’d push Lillie to the cafeteria and play Primary songs.
One day she said, “You’ll be as good as George if you keep practicing. I don’t know where George is now, do you? George hasn’t come to see me, and neither has Marty. Where is my Marty?”
I was going to tell her they’d died long ago. Instead, I asked, “Lillie, do you like it here?”
Lillie had fallen asleep.
Every time I saw her after that, she was thinner and paler. “Judy, I’m so glad that you’re still in school. I only went to fifth grade. Judy, where is Marty?”
One day Mom got a phone call from the nursing home. She told me, “Jody, Lillie’s very sick. She wants to see you. It may be hard to see her … ?”
My stomach was in knots as I walked toward Lillie’s room. She looked tiny and frail lying in her bed, and her breathing was raspy. Her hair was white now. She was too sick to get it dyed. Mom and I went over to her bedside. I swallowed hard, then said, “Hello, Lillie—it’s me, Jody.”
“Ju-u-u-u-d-y,” she said, her voice scratchy and quiet. “Hug me,” she whispered.
I leaned over and hugged Lillie. Then I looked around her room. I saw her old dresser that held her dress-up lace gloves. On her nightstand were two books—the Book of Mormon the Elders had given her when she joined the Church and her photo album. Taped to the album cover was a picture of me. I smiled and hugged her again.
Suddenly her breathing was quiet. The nurse listened to Lillie’s heart, then turned to Mom and me and asked us to wait in the hall. Mom put her arms around me. I cried and cried. Finally the nurse came out. “Lillie is gone,” she said. She patted my shoulder and added, “Lillie loved you very much, Jody.”
That evening our bishop came to our house. “Hello, Jody,” he said to me. He shook my hand and then Mom’s and Dad’s. Then he took my hand again and patted it. “I am so sorry about Lillie, Jody. I understand that you were her good friend. I’m wondering if I could ask you a favor?”
Tears fell from my eyes as the bishop continued, “I have been asked to conduct Lillie’s funeral service, and since I’m new to the ward, I don’t know much about her. Would you mind telling me about her, Jody?”
I wiped away my tears and began to smile a little smile as I thought of all the stories I knew about Lillie. I began, “Did you know that Lillie’s husband was a baker?”

Soon after, Bengt Erlandsson, interior designer for the Palmyra New York Temple, asked Tom for a sketch of the First Vision. Again, Tom turned to the Lord.
“I was overwhelmed about doing this window for the Lord’s temple right there on the land where the First Vision actually happened,” says Tom. “I went to the Mount Timpanogos Utah Temple for inspiration, and while praying, my mind was flooded with a vision of all 108 windows. I wanted to portray that wonderful light the Prophet Joseph felt in the Sacred Grove.”
Tom sketched the artwork and remembers going to the Church Office Building thinking, What am I doing? I’m just a young man with all these ideas for windows they didn’t even ask for. I must be crazy. But he felt the Spirit prompting him.
Miraculously, Tom’s sketches were approved. With tears in their eyes, Tom and his wife, Gayle, knelt and thanked the Lord for allowing them such a privilege.
With less than four months to complete the 17,000-piece project, Tom worked feverishly, involving youth from his area. “I hired 16- to 19-year-olds who had an open mind and would ask for God’s help,” he says.
On April 6, 2000, Tom and Gayle entered the celestial room for the Palmyra temple dedication. “Everyone was telling me how beautiful the windows were, but the Spirit whispering, ‘I am pleased with the work,’ was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life,” he says.

Mike is truly a special person, but it took me 18 years to realize it. Mike is my older brother, and for years we struggled to get along. We are very different. Mike, the family athlete, played basketball while I practiced the piano. I excelled in English and literature. Mike’s forte is science. But instead of our differences forming a complementary relationship between us, we let them turn into feelings of anger and contention.
Consequently, those negative feelings began to concern our parents. “Jeff, we are an eternal family. If you and Mike can’t get along now, you’re not going to be happy with him in the eternities,” my father said one day. “Of all the relationships in your life, this is one of the most important. You must put forth all your effort to build it up. It will take a lot of work; everything worthwhile does.”
That night I thought a lot about what Dad had said, and I knew he was right. I promised myself that I would try my best to build a better relationship with my brother.
With the hopes of building a friendship between Mike and me, our parents planned a long family vacation in Alaska where we could spend a lot of time together fishing, hiking, and camping. Mom and Dad’s plan caught a snag, though. Both Mike and I wanted to stay home to work and earn money for college. Disappointed but supportive of our decision, our family left us in Houston to work for the two months they would be in Alaska.
After they left, we both searched for good jobs with little success until Mike finally found one. The catch was he needed me too. A real estate manager had several houses that needed exterior paint jobs, and he was looking for a couple of guys to paint. At the time, the thought of working several hours every day with Mike was not appealing. But the money was too good to refuse.
On our first day of painting the change in us began. At 5:30 A.M., Mike yelled into my room, “Come on, get up! It’s only going to get hotter!” With a groan, I got dressed. We both knew once the sun was up, the temperature would rise quickly, making outside work even more miserable. Mike loaded the van with our equipment, while I made juice and packed fruit that we hoped would give us periodic reprieves from the beating sun.
As we began to paint, we realized our painting strategies were quite different. While I spent a lot of time on each area, moving on only when the area was well-coated and no spots showed, Mike would paint an entire wall quickly and messily and then return for a second coat to cover any missed spots. The different strategies were equally efficient and caused no problems until we both had to work in the same area. We then compromised. Mike began with his first coat and I followed behind, catching every spot and finishing details. We finished much faster than expected.
Another potential conflict arose in choosing a radio station to listen to. While Mike preferred the “light” station, I complained it was more monotonous than the painting. I didn’t want to argue, though, so I was preparing to give him the choice. But it was Mike who acquiesced. During the course of that day, Mike listened to more alternative rock than ever before. I even caught him singing along several times.
Though we painted through some periods without talking, we also maintained long periods of conversation, perhaps longer than we had ever talked before. Conversation made the job go faster, and as we talked it became clear that we had some things in common. In that one afternoon, we talked about school, the Church, music, and art. I told about a bizarre dream I’d had. He told me about his most embarrassing date. We found ourselves laughing as we realized we had repainted an entire wall in the midst of our conversation.
It was beginning to get dark when we finally finished the house. We cleaned our equipment, loaded the van, and then surveyed the house with satisfaction. As I drove home, I thought about something I’d learned in a physics class. Physicists define work in terms of force (effort) and displacement (movement). Thus, work becomes a term of progress, dependent on effort and movement. I thought about our first day of painting that same way. It had required a lot of effort, and we could see our progress on the house. But there was other work we had done that day too. Our relationship had become stronger. It wasn’t without effort, though. The words of my father echoed in my mind: “It will take work; everything worthwhile does.”
Later, I talked on the phone to my parents about the first day of painting. I told them despite the Texas heat, we were able to finish the first house. “Working with Mike wasn’t too bad. In fact, it was kind of fun,” I told my mom. “I’m excited to start the next house.”
Indeed, I couldn’t wait to continue what would turn out to be my real summer work—appreciating my brother.

In our home we have what is now called the parable of the bicycle. It dates back to when my daughter Sarah, who was seven years old at the time, came in and said, “Dad, can I have a bike? I’m the only kid on the block who doesn’t have one.”

Well, I didn’t have the money then for a bike, so I stalled her. I said, “Sure, Sarah.”

She said, “How? When?”

I said, “You save all your pennies, and soon you’ll have enough for a bike.” And she went away.

A couple of weeks later I heard a “clink, clink” in Sarah’s bedroom. I asked, “Sarah, what are you doing?”

She came to me with a little jar, a slit cut in the lid, and a bunch of pennies in the bottom. She said, “You promised me that if I saved all my pennies, pretty soon I’d have enough for a bike. And, Daddy, I’ve saved every single one of them.”

My heart melted. My daughter was doing everything in her power to follow my instructions. I hadn’t actually lied to her. If she saved all of her pennies, she would eventually have enough for a bike, but by then she would want a car. I said, “Let’s go look at bikes.”

We went to every store in town. Finally we found it—the perfect bicycle. She was thrilled. Then she saw the price tag, and her face fell. She started to cry. “Oh, Dad, I’ll never have enough for a bicycle!”

So I said, “Sarah, how much do you have?”

She answered, “Sixty-one cents.”

“I’ll tell you what. You give me everything you’ve got and a hug and a kiss, and the bike is yours.” Then I drove home very slowly because she insisted on riding the bike home.

William’s first contact with the Latter-day Saints evidently came when he was about age 13. While doing an errand for his father, he stopped at a window where some curious boys were peering in; a gentleman suddenly ushered him inside where a Mormon meeting was beginning.
“I took my seat in one corner of the room,” he recalled, and “thought it was a very funny place, and not suitable for administering the holy sacrament.” But the sacrament was passed, hymns were sung, and speakers preached. The last speaker was British convert Charles Penrose, who later served in the First Presidency. His discussion of the Godhead “upset all my confused ideas of God,” William noted. “If ever a sermon touched the heart, this did mine.”

All seven of us were crammed into our Primary teacher’s old van. The heater was going full blast, but my toes were still cold. I could see wisps of snow in front of the headlights.
“Mrs. Tillman lives right down the road. Maybe we could visit her for a minute before we go milk Betsy,” suggested Sister Allred.
“At six o’clock in the morning?” burst out Tony.
“Mrs. Tillman used to go to work at four in the morning,” replied Sister Allred. “She still likes getting up early. Besides, I want to drop her off some homemade breakfast rolls. And … well … I’d like to give her a Book of Mormon, too, and maybe share my testimony of it with her.”
“A Book of Mormon?” screeched Tony.
“She’s the last person I’d give a Book of Mormon to,” I said.
“She’s the meanest lady in town!” exclaimed Jimmy.
Sister Allred smiled. “Is that so? Well, I’m sure she would love to meet you.”
All five of us boys gave each other worried looks. Even “Sweet” Emily Clawson looked troubled.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Sister Allred. “This time I’ll drop you off to milk Betsy. You’ve milked her enough now that you don’t need my help. Today’s kind of a special day for me, and I really do want to give Mrs. Tillman this Book of Mormon.”
I didn’t have time to wonder why today was Sister Allred’s special day. She’d already come to a stop in front of the Millers’ snowy mailbox. We piled out—all except redheaded Brian. He wanted to meet the meanest lady in town.
Pulling my parka hood closer around my face, I trudged through the snow. In my mind, I pictured Mr. and Mrs. Miller strolling down a warm beach in Hawaii. I was beginning to wish our Primary class had never volunteered to milk their cow while they were on vacation.
Suddenly, an icy hand stole inside my hood and smashed a snowball against my neck.
“How about a snowball fight, Phillip?” Tony proposed mischievously.
“We have to milk Betsy,” I retorted, trying to brush the dripping snow from my neck.
“Aw, it’s too cold for cow milking,” said Tony. “Why don’t you and Emily take care of it.” He grinned at the other boys.
The snowball fight was soon in full swing. Tony and his gang didn’t care where they aimed—or maybe they did. Most of the snowballs sailed at us. When one splattered on Betsy’s nose, she jerked up her head and trotted away.
“That’s not fair,” shouted Emily. “We can fight back, but Betsy can’t.”
I was surprised to hear her talk so sharply. I was even more surprised to see Emily let loose with a snowball that landed smack on Tony’s head.
Tony only laughed.
I grimaced. Tony had calmed down since Sister Allred had become our Primary teacher. But now and then he forgot that he was no longer the terror of the Primary. Today I wanted no part of his pranks. For one thing, I was in a hurry to get Betsy milked. Mom had promised me waffles, bacon, and hot chocolate when I got home.
With all the snowballs flying around us, it was all Emily and I could do to get poor Betsy into the barn. Even then, she kept stamping her feet and eyeing us uneasily.
“You give her some grain,” I told Emily. “I’ll start milking.”
“Don’t you think you’d better let her eat a little and give her time to settle down?” suggested Emily.
“No time today,” I snapped, still thinking about the breakfast my mother had waiting for me, and wishing my feet were not so numb.
I put a bucket under Betsy and pulled up a stool. I purposely “forgot” to wash and dry her udder first. I began to milk, but hardly a trickle fell into the bucket. I sat there for a long time, squeezing and squeezing. There was still only a dribble. Exasperated, I stood up. “Well, you’ve had your chance. If that’s all the milk you’re giving today, I’m done with you.”
Betsy rolled her eyes toward me, but I didn’t pay any attention. Yanking up the bucket, I marched around behind her—smack into Sister Allred! The bucket slipped from my cold fingers, and milk spilled over Sister Allred’s boots.
My Primary teacher looked at the bucket. “Well, it doesn’t look like you had much milk to spill. Are you having problems this morning?”
“Oh,” I answered, “Betsy just didn’t have much milk to give this morning.”
Sister Allred smiled. “Maybe we should give Betsy another chance.” Stroking Betsy gently, she spoke to the cow. “What’s the matter, old girl? Don’t you want to give your milk this morning?”
Soon Sister Allred was sitting beside Betsy. Still talking soothingly, she carefully washed Betsy’s udder in warm water. Milk started streaming thick and warm into the bucket. By then Tony and the other boys had crept in from their snowball fight.
Sister Allred was smiling wistfully when I looked at her again.
“What are you thinking about, Sister Allred?” I asked.
“Oh, I was just thinking about my son, Todd. When we had our farm, he was the best milker of all. I always told him that he’d grow up to be a great missionary.”
“What’s milking got to do with missionary work?” I asked.
“Milking a cow is pretty impossible unless she’s ready to let down her milk. Usually a cow will let down her milk when she’s contented and calm—maybe after a little grain feeding or someone washing her udder or when there’s a little soft music in the barn. Todd was gentle and patient not only with the cows but with everybody. I knew that he would be such a gentle, loving missionary that people would naturally let down their barriers against believing the gospel. Todd was gaining a strong testimony of the gospel too.”
“So where did Todd go on his mission?” I asked.
Sister Allred replied quietly. “One day when Todd was just about your age, he and his dad were delivering a load of cattle to a farmer. On a steep grade, the cattle suddenly shifted to one side, and the truck veered on the icy road and rolled into a ravine. Todd and my husband both died.”
“Oh!” we said together. Then we were silent, listening to the soft sounds of the last of Betsy’s milk filling the bucket.
“When I started teaching you,” Sister Allred continued, “I thought that maybe I’d be helping prepare some missionaries, after all.”
No one said a word until I asked, “Sister Allred, why did you say today was a special day for you?”
She smiled. “Today is Todd’s birthday. He would have been nineteen.”
“So that’s why you wanted to be a good missionary to that mean old lady?” asked Tony.
Brian burst out, “Mrs. Tillman isn’t mean. She sat and talked to us and gave me hot biscuits and honey.”
My stomach growled.
“Best of all,” he added, “she’s going to church with us this Sunday.”
“She is?” we chorused.
Sister Allred chuckled. “I tried to give her the Book of Mormon, but I was too late. She read it a long time ago. She’s thought about going to church but has never wanted to go by herself.”
“So how did she get a Book of Mormon?” I said.
Sister Allred got a strange misty look in her eyes. “All these years, I didn’t know—Todd gave her one when he was only nine years old.”
My breath caught in my throat. I patted Betsy and looked down at her fresh, warm milk brimming in the bucket. I wondered if I could learn to milk as well as Todd. Most of all, I wanted to gain a strong testimony of the Church so that I could be a good missionary too.

In a previous general conference, Elder Benjamín De Hoyos spoke of such an event. He said:
“Some years ago while serving in the office of public affairs of the Church in Mexico, [a companion and I] were invited to participate in a radio talk show. … [One of the program directors] asked [us], ‘Why does the Church have such a long name? …’
“My companion and I smiled at such a magnificent question and then proceeded to explain that the name of the Church was not chosen by man. It was given by the Savior. … The program director immediately and respectfully responded, ‘We will thus repeat it with great pleasure.’”13

This pattern can be seen in the life of Jasmine B. of Washington, USA, who received help in coping with a disease. Before contracting the disease, she was a healthy young woman who excelled on her high school track team and loved getting up early for seminary.
Then she started feeling ill. She lost 15 pounds very quickly, and no matter how much sleep she got, it became harder and harder to get up for seminary. She couldn’t run as well as she used to and was hungry, thirsty, and weak all the time.
Over a month went by before she started to pray for help. “I held off so long,” she says, “because the thought of praying for help was an act of submission, admitting that something was indeed wrong with me. It scared me.”
But because she humbled herself to seek the Lord’s help, answers started to come. She went to see a doctor, who discovered she had developed type 1 diabetes, which meant her body could not produce insulin to process sugar. Diabetes has lifelong consequences and must be carefully monitored. Even as the doctors developed a plan to help her manage her condition, she began to worry that she would not be able to continue running track.
“I never ceased to pray as I struggled to understand my new life and to control my disease,” she says. “I prayed for strength and understanding and that I would be able to accept this trial. I would not have made it through those hard days and weeks without prayer.”
Jasmine made incredible strides. Within two weeks of being diagnosed, she was back practicing on the track, and later that year she did well in state competitions. “I believe Heavenly Father has blessed me with a strong, healthy body,” she says. “Having diabetes was not the end of the world. With His help, I knew I could get through this.”
By the grace of God and through her dependence on Him, Jasmine is able to cope with her disease and have wonderful successes in her life.

The sun was just touching the water of the Great Salt Lake on a warm Sunday evening one August, when the radio speaker nestled snugly between windshield and handlebar of my police motorcycle crackled into life. “Motors 38 and 40,” said a female voice, “report of a noisy motorcycle in the neighborhood. Vicinity of Glendale Circle and Navajo Street. Complainant does not wish contact.”
I wrestled the radio mike from its clip and acknowledged the call. “Motors 38 and 40, 10–4.” My partner and I were on motorcycle patrol for the Salt Lake City Police Department. The cooler evening air felt good against my face as we picked up our pace, riding straight and tall, side by side, to answer this complaint. It had been a quiet day so far, for which I was grateful.
We soon arrived in the vicinity of the complaint and rode around several streets looking for the offending motorcycle. No such vehicle was seen, and I was just reaching for my mike to report GOA (gone on arrival) to the dispatcher, when around the corner came a new Harley Sportster. It was ridden by a handsome young man wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He was well groomed and tan, just the kind of a fellow who would attract a 16-year-old girl like the one who was riding behind. She was very pretty and obviously enjoying the ride, her arms wrapped tightly around the boy’s waist and her hair blowing in the breeze. I cringed as I noticed her bare legs and shorts, knowing what injury she might receive if an accident were to occur.
My partner and I pulled up near this young couple and the cycle, and I listened to the pipes. It certainly wasn’t too loud, but perhaps they had been cutting up a little too much around the neighborhood. I was sure this was probably the culprit and decided to stop them to advise them to be a little more cautious. I moved up, nearly alongside the other cycle, and beeped my horn. The young man looked around, saw the police uniform, and suddenly, without warning, screwed the throttle handle full on, and away they went at a high rate of speed. I was surprised and shocked, not expecting such a response. I quickly kicked my motor into a lower gear, and the chase began.
Around and around several streets we went, siren wailing and lights flashing. My partner dropped back to use the radio and give locations as I continued the pursuit. Out of the subdivision and onto California Avenue we went. This was a major street, long and straight, and speeds increased. Soon we found ourselves sliding and scraping around the corner and heading north on Redwood Road. This main highway was heavy with traffic. The sun was gone now, and most cars had their lights on. My young man turned off his lights to try to lose me. My wailing siren was causing traffic to pull to the right and into his path. I slowed a little, giving him room because I feared an accident might occur. He was really desperate now. I could see him turning, looking back to see how close I was, and turning again, trying to turn the throttle tighter to get more speed. Still I stayed with him.
As we approached another major intersection at North Temple, I saw something that I will never forget. This young man, as he went around the corner, suddenly turned quickly on the cycle seat, bringing his elbow back and into the side of the young girl behind him. His blow knocked her off the bike, landing her in the middle of the busy intersection. His motorcycle fishtailed as he lost his burdensome load, but he regained control and sped away without so much as a backward glance as she went skidding and sliding along the gravel and asphalt.
Of course, I stopped my pursuit to give first aid and call for help, and the young man made good his escape—for a while. What a tragic way for a fun afternoon ride to end. How disillusioned this young girl was as her newfound “friend” had sacrificed her so willingly to save himself. I suppose if my partner and I had not come along that day, he could have pretended to be a friend to this girl for a long time, and perhaps she might have been hurt in even more significant ways. The young man was caught and arrested several hours later. It was determined that he was AWOL (absent without leave) from the Marine Corps, and he was returned to them under military guard.

One day in my fourth-grade religion class in Jamaica, my teacher asked all the students to tell about their religious beliefs. Since I was the only Mormon in my prep school, I was chosen as the Mormon representative.
By the time it was my turn, my heart was beating a hundred miles a minute. I was never much of a public speaker anyway, and I didn’t have a loud voice. When I stood up, I just stared at the sea of eyes before me and tried to speak about some of our beliefs. I first spoke about the Word of Wisdom, then talked about the sacrament, about how we used bread and water to represent the Saviour’s body and blood when he died for us.
Before I could say another word, everyone started laughing at me. Tears stung my eyes as I wondered what I had said to make them laugh. I quickly wiped my eyes and went to my seat amidst the chants of “Bread and water, bread and water.” By the end of the day I was still being teased, so when it was time to go home I was overjoyed. I still don’t know why they decided to make fun of what I was saying.
When I got home, I took my mother’s huge Bible off the shelf and began looking at some of the pictures. As I was flipping a page, I glimpsed a scripture and quickly turned back to it. It was Matthew 10:32: “Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven.” [Matt. 10:32] As I read the words over and over, a feeling of peace washed over me as I realised it didn’t matter who laughed at me as long as I was doing what was right.

One day I witnessed that great joy while casually sitting beside a friend. He had recently been called as a mission president, and I thought, “What could I share with him at this important time in his life? I endeavored to see in this friend what I thought the Lord might see in him. I desired to say something that would be of importance to him at this time. I had a wonderful feeling of love for my longtime friend and felt prompted to share the thoughts that came into my mind.
“I guess at a time like this,” I said to him, “one feels an increased urgency to be a pure vessel through which the Spirit can work unrestrained. Yet isn’t it a marvelous thing to know that you will have access to that great power, that inspiration, and even revelation every day while you and your missionaries are still striving for perfection?”
Almost immediately his eyes were moist. His chin quivered and he said, “You must have known I needed to hear that.”

Todd parted the barbed wire carefully and climbed through the fence. Then he held it up for King. The collie leaped through carefully and bounded into the field. He ran in wild circles, his nose to the ground, stopping occasionally to snap at bees. Todd watched him, laughing. The April sun glinted on the dog’s golden coat, thick and deep from the cold winter. Blackbirds perched on the fence posts and cried their shrill, musical notes into the warm air.
“Come here, King!” Todd called. He put his hand on King’s sun-warmed head. King was Todd’s best friend—his only nearby friend, except for Mr. Phillips. There were no boys Todd’s age in the small mountain town where he lived, and he had to ride the school bus ten miles to attend school in Dirkston.
Todd climbed through another fence into Mr. Phillips’ sheep enclosure. He could hear the old man moving around in the lambing shed. “Hi!” he called as he walked into the dimness of the shed. Then he saw Mr. Phillips watching a ewe lick her newborn lamb. His large frame was slightly stooped, and he ran his fingers through his thick white hair as he watched the lamb teeter on its legs.
“Look at this fine lamb, Todd.” A smile crinkled the old man’s weathered face, making his eyes disappear. The ewe nuzzled its lamb, and soon the newborn was sucking contentedly. Todd watched the lamb, smiling. He wanted to pick it up, to feel its woolly little body.
“You can hold it later,” the rancher said, picking up two shovels. “We have a less pleasant job to do now. Come on.”
Todd followed his friend into the bright sunlight where King waited patiently by the door. He spent most of his Saturdays with Mr. Phillips, helping him with the sheep. Todd liked being there, for Mr. Phillips was like a grandpa to him.
“What are we going to do?” Todd asked, running a little to catch up.
“Well, Todd, I’d just as soon you didn’t see this, but I guess it’s part of our job.”
As they approached the corner of the fields, several black and white magpies flapped noisily into the air. Todd saw two dead sheep on the ground. “What happened?” His stomach tightened as he looked at the sheep’s torn bodies.
Mr. Phillips started to dig in the moist ground, piling the muddy shovelfuls onto the grass. “Dogs,” he said, not looking up.
“Dogs?” Todd felt amazed and indignant. “Are you sure? Why would they do it?” Todd began digging too, widening the hole.
Mr. Phillips stooped and stopped beside the sheep. “That’s the question, Todd. They don’t even eat the sheep. They just chase and kill them.”
“Don’t you ever hear them bleating?” Todd asked.
“That’s kind of a funny thing about sheep. They don’t make a sound when they’re really frightened; they just run. I never hear a thing.”
Todd still couldn’t understand how this could happen. “When do the dogs come? Have you seen them?”
“I’ve seen four or five dogs running together ever since work started on the new dam and the men moved their trailers in up there. Everybody has a fierce watchdog because they keep so much equipment outside their trailers.”
Todd knew what he meant. He had seen a pack of large dogs too. “What can you do?” he said.
“I just don’t know.” Mr. Phillips reached out and touched the sheep’s woolly head. “These were last year’s lambs, such fine sheep. This has happened too often lately, but I haven’t told you. I’ve lost ten or twelve sheep this way.” Todd could see the tears standing in his friend’s dark eyes. He knew how much Mr. Phillips loved his sheep, how he called each one by name as he worked with them.
The boy felt a terrible anger and frustration inside him. “Can’t you go to the owners and tell them?”
“I’ve tried that. But each one claims his dog is tied at night or for some other reason couldn’t be the killer. And since I don’t actually see who does the killing, I don’t really know who’s responsible.”
“I’d put out some poison,” Todd said, angrily pushing his hair out of his face as he worked.
Mr. Phillips began digging again. “Well, Todd, I just couldn’t do that. It’s not legal. And you never know what animal might get the poison. Suppose good old King there ate it.”
Todd’s throat tightened at the thought of anything happening to King. He looked at the dog lying on the cool grass, eyes half closed against the sun. Then he had another idea. “Why don’t you get your gun and sit out here all night and watch. If you see a dog coming in here, just shoot it.”
“I’ve thought of something like that. Maybe if I clipped off one or two it would discourage the others. I don’t like the idea of shooting somebody’s dog, but I just can’t let this keep happening, and I’m within my legal right to shoot if a strange dog is on my property.”
Todd helped Mr. Phillips drag the sheep into the hole and cover them. Then they walked silently across the field to the sheds, King following sedately behind them.
Sunday morning Todd lay with his eyes closed a minute, eager to begin another beautiful spring day; but when he opened his eyes the room was gray and dim. A light rain was falling outside. He dressed quickly and quietly, wanting to see Mr. Phillips before Sunday School started and find out if anything had happened during the night.
Todd closed the back screen door quietly behind him and gave a low whistle for King. He was surprised when the animal didn’t bound out of his doghouse, but without waiting he walked quickly through the fields to Mr. Phillip’s sheds. As he crawled through the last fence, he saw Mr. Phillips leaning over something on the ground. He’s shot a dog, Todd thought. He ran forward quickly, but before he reached Mr. Phillips he stopped, fear and grief gripping his body. He walked forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the golden coat of the dog, now soggy with rain. Mr. Phillips looked up. He came toward Todd and put his hands on his shoulders.
“Todd,” he said, “it’s King. I’m so sorry.” Todd looked into Mr. Phillips’ face and saw tears mixed with raindrops, running into the deep wrinkles of his face. His dark eyes were full of suffering.
Todd felt numb. “How did it happen?” he asked.
“The night was so dark with the clouds and all—I’d fallen asleep waiting. When I woke up, I saw the dark form of a dog moving across the pastures, so I shot. I didn’t even look at the body until this morning. When I saw it was King I couldn’t believe it. He was probably headed for the house to see if we’d put out any scraps for him.” Mr. Phillips moved to put his arms around the boy.
Todd stiffened and pulled away. “How could you shoot King? You know him. You see him every day.” His voice rose with anger.
“It was dark. …” Mr. Phillips dropped his hands. Todd ran to King’s body, still hoping that it wasn’t really King, but it was. He lifted the dog’s head, thinking to carry him home. Mr. Phillips came behind him. “I’ll get the cart,” he said.
“No, I’ll take him myself!” Todd cried angrily.
Mr. Phillips went for a cart anyway as Todd struggled to lift the large wet dog. It was impossible. Together they lifted the dog into the cart and the old man pulled it down the road toward Todd’s house. The boy walked a few feet behind, grieving in silence.
Mr. Phillips wanted to dig the hole, but Todd wouldn’t let him. He dug it himself in the soft earth of his mother’s flower garden, where she would put her petunias and marigolds later on. Mr. Phillips stood silently a moment watching him and then turned and went home. Todd’s mother brought the old woolen blanket from the porch swing and wrapped it around King’s body. His father, wearing his Sunday suit, helped lower the dog into the hole.
Todd sat through Sunday School and sacrament meeting, hearing nothing, feeling only grief for his dog. He kept picturing King running through the field in the sunshine. Yesterday seemed months ago.
On Monday night Mr. Phillips came to the door with a little bummer lamb for Todd. Todd wouldn’t see him. He told his mother to tell Mr. Phillips he didn’t want the lamb. All week Todd stayed in his room after school, mostly just lying on his bed. After dinner and chores he went back to his room. On Friday night, Todd’s father followed him into his room. He sat down on the side of the bed, not saying anything.
Finally Todd spoke. “Dad, do you honestly believe in dog heaven, or is it just a story to make little kids feel better?”
“I don’t know about dog heaven, but I do believe firmly that all life is eternal, because everything was created spiritually before it was created physically.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s hard to understand, but to you it means that King still lives.”
“Will I see him again after I die?”
“I don’t know that for sure, but it may be possible.” Todd’s father looked at him closely. “You haven’t done any work at school all week, and you’ve just lain here every night. Aren’t you beginning to feel a little better?”
“No,” Todd answered, looking away.
“One thing bothers me,” his father said. “You had two great friends in this rather lonely place. You lost one by accident, something that couldn’t be helped. I don’t know why you chose to lose the second one. Have you thought any about how Mr. Phillips has been feeling this week?”
Todd had tried not to think of it. But he kept seeing Mr. Phillip’s face with tears and rain running down it. His conscience had also reminded him that shooting the prowling dogs was his idea. “Well, I don’t want that little bummer lamb. How could he think a lamb would ever replace King?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t think that, but he needs to do something to show how sorry he is. You’re hurting him far more than he hurt you, because you’re doing it intentionally.”
Todd hadn’t thought of it quite like that. He still didn’t look at his father, who suddenly leaned over and kissed his cheek.
Saturday morning, Todd woke up early, the same knot of pain forming in his stomach as it did every morning since King died. Sunshine streamed in the window. Todd dressed, went out quietly, and walked through the fields, the morning dew drenching his sneakers. As the sun warmed his face, Todd slowly began to feel a little more alive again. His heart still ached for King, but he felt some sense of comfort, a feeling of his heart softening just as he had prayed it would.
He saw Mr. Phillips in the shed gathering his shearing tools. “I guess I need that lamb if I’m ever going to have my own flock,” Todd called from the doorway. Mr. Phillips turned and came through the door into the sunlight, his eyes warm and shining.
“I’m sure glad to see you, Todd,” he said. “I’m going to need help with this shearing.”
And together they went into the shed.

I didn’t fully appreciate how great Tanya was and how much I depended on her until she was gone. But we had knelt at an altar in a holy temple, and someone having the sealing power had pronounced blessings upon us. I have clung to the promise of those blessings. I trust in those promised blessings.
Tanya’s death was a crisis of faith for me. I had to decide, “Do I really believe?” Faith is called a gift of God, but it’s also a choice we make—a choice to believe. I chose to believe, and I found out that Moroni was correct when he wrote that we receive no witness until after the trial of our faith (see Ether 12:6). After the trial, the witness did come. My faith was rewarded with a confirming peace of mind. That’s what has enabled me to go forward.
As my second wife, Becky, says: “We need faith the most when we face a crisis. Going to the Lord really is the only answer. It is the way to cope and hope.”