Gospel Story Finder

As if being a kid isn’t bad enough. I had to grow up next door to the girl with the All-American teeth. Allison (“two ls”) Adamson had the straightest, whitest teeth in the history of orthodontistry. Adults always commented on this. You could count on them to say, “Doesn’t the Adamson girl have lovely teeth?” every time they got together.
As for me, I was more interested in the fact that Allison took tap, tumbling, ballet, baton, and hula lessons after school. She also played the piano and collected dolls from different countries. Best of all, she had her own dog—a white poodle named Hercules. Me, I just had a goldfish named Ralph. You can probably see already how things were for me growing up next door to someone like Allison Adamson.
Because we were neighbors who happened to be LDS, Allison and I ended up doing things together all the time. During the summer we went to the pool with Allison’s mom, and during the winter we watched cartoons after school together. This made everyone think, of course, that we were best friends, and we were. Sort of.
The problem was that underneath all my smiles I was jealous of Allison. I wanted all the pretty girl things she had that my parents couldn’t buy for me so badly that my chest literally hurt at times. I wanted her dolls, her canopy bed with the foamy pink bedspread, her play makeup case with the play makeup. I can remember sitting in her white wicker rocker one day and telling her I’d trade my shoebox of Bazooka bubble gum wrappers for one of her bendable Barbies. She wasn’t interested, of course.
Our eighth birthdays were coming up in April, and one day on the way home from school Allison asked who was going to baptize me.
I hadn’t thought about it much. “I don’t know,” I confessed. “Who’s going to baptize you?”
“My dad,” she said proudly.
“Well I guess my dad will baptize me, too, then,” I told her. I’d never seen anyone baptized—I’m the oldest in my family—but I figured my dad could probably do it if someone showed him how.
Allison looked at me with wide disbelieving blue eyes. “But he can’t!” she exclaimed.
This was news to me. “Why?” I wanted to know.
“Because my mom says he can’t. My mom says he isn’t worthy.”
I didn’t know what the word worthy meant, but I didn’t like Allison’s tone.
“Yes he is too worthy,” I said.
“No he’s not.”
“Yes he is.”
Allison stopped and stared at me the way our third-grade teacher always stared at stupid Stewart Lufgren. “Your dad is not worthy, Brenda, because he doesn’t go to church and he smokes. I know he smokes because I can smell it when I go to your house.” She wrinkled her little button nose in distaste. “Don’t you know anything?”
My throat suddenly felt very tight. Blood was pounding in my ears. “I hate you, Allison Adamson,” I said finally. Then I turned and ran home.
Our house is so busy with people that no one noticed how miserable I was at first. At dinner, though, Mom squinted her eyes at me and said across the table, “Are you okay, Brenda honey?”
I nodded yes.
She came into my bedroom that night before I fell asleep. “Did something happen to you at school today, Brenda? You can tell me about it if you want to.”
“No, nothing happened,” I answered, as tonelessly as a telephone operator.
Mom just sat there on the foot of my bed for a minute. Then she said, “Do you want to talk to Daddy?” Sometimes I told him things I wouldn’t tell anybody else. But this time I shook my head. Hard.
“No!”
I lay awake in bed for a long time that night watching shadows skip across my wall. Yessir, Allison had it all—extra money for Weekly Reader paperbacks, a locket with pictures inside, a father who could baptize her.
That was the first time I realized that my dad was different. I mean I always knew he didn’t go to church, but that hadn’t added up to anything—you think your father is just like everybody else’s dad when you’re a kid. But Allison had opened my eyes. The day we were baptized, Allison, looking like she had just stepped out of a fairy tale in her long white gown, was taken into the font by her smiling father. I was baptized by my Uncle Bill. Dad sat in the congregation looking uncomfortable in a suit. His rough brown worker’s hands were folded in his lap.
Things changed some between my father and me after that. Not that you could tell by looking at us—he still teased and tickled me and called me Sport and I still begged him to take me to baseball games. For sure we loved each other. But I didn’t tell him private things anymore. And then, too, I started noticing all the ways he wasn’t worthy. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help myself.
If things changed between my father and me then, they changed even more between Allison and me. By the time we were freshmen in high school, we had pretty much gone our separate ways. Allison went from honors class to honors class while I wore an Army jacket and hung around the library with this nice but weird group of kids who all wanted to be science fiction writers when they grew up. Although she thought my friends were bad enough, it was the Army jacket that really got to Allison. “Only our boys in the armed forces should wear khaki,” she used to say.
And now this year, the girl with the all-American teeth and I are taking early-morning seminary together. There are two teachers—Brother Marshall and Brother Phillips. Brother Marshall is Mormondom’s answer to Robert Redford. All jawbone and blond hair, Brother Marshall is gorgeous. He also lettered in about a million sports when he was in college, so you can see he’s athletic, too. Besides this he’s young, nice, smart, and very funny. All the kids love him. Brother Phillips, on the other hand, is old enough to have fought in World War II. He’s small and stooped, just like a little gnome, and when he talks he whispers.
Funny thing, though, I like Brother Phillips best. I like the way he listens carefully to your questions, then thinks for a while before he answers. And lots of times he’ll answer, “I don’t know.” This drives Allison crazy. “If he wants to teach seminary then he should know,” she says. Maybe he should. I can’t say. I just like the way he seems so thoughtful about things.
The reason I’m even telling you all this is that I have a problem. I’m not talking about your typical teenager problems—losing books, being ambushed by a gang of pimples the night before a dance, dropping lunch trays. No. This one is a red-alert problem. Next Tuesday morning, I have to check into the hospital for a series of tests. They say I’ve got a tumor of some sort.
Frankly, I’m scared.
I thought some sort of blessing might help. I don’t mean a blessing that promises I’ll get better or anything like that. Just one that makes me feel like I’m not going through this alone. I thought maybe I’d ask Brother Phillips if he’d give me one: there’s something fatherly about him.
I feel pretty silly, actually, standing here at Brother Phillips’s office door. This is not the sort of thing I usually do. But I want a blessing.
I knock.
“Come in, come in.” Brother Phillips opens his door and greets me. When he smiles, his cheeks turn into small apples.
“How are you, Brenda?” he says.
“Okay,” I reply, looking around his office. It’s the first time I’ve ever been inside. It’s filled with books and old family pictures of people who look like characters on Leave It to Beaver reruns. His children, I think, must be all grown up and gone away by now. Did they ever ask him for blessings?
“What can I do for you?” he asks after inviting me to sit down.
Now that I’m here, I feel really stupid. I don’t know how to ask him for what I want.
“Well,” I begin, “I’m going into the hospital Tuesday morning.”
Brother Phillips draws his bristle brush brows together in concern. Encouraged by his silent sympathy, I go on. “Anyway, I want to know if you would mind giving me a blessing or something. It doesn’t have to be long or fancy.”
Brother Phillips looks at me for a moment, then presses his fingertips together and leans back in his swivel chair.
“I could do that,” he says slowly.
I wait. He doesn’t move.
“Brenda,” he says finally, “have you asked your father to give you a blessing?”
This is certainly a ball of the curved variety. I’m taken totally by surprise. “Well, no,” I confess.
“I see.” Pause. “Do you think perhaps you ought to go to him before you come to me?”
I can’t believe this. Brother Phillips knows that my father isn’t active in the Church.
“I don’t know,” I begin to stammer. “I guess I just thought that—” The memory of Allison, her perfect little mouth forming the words not worthy, jumps up like a puppet before my eyes, and with it the same old feelings of shame and rage return for an encore. “My father can’t give me a blessing!” I blurt out.
Brother Phillips shrugs. “Well, maybe not a formal blessing. But every parent has a prayer for his child. Go home, Brenda. Ask your father to tell you what’s in his heart for you. I know your father. He’s a good man.”
I leave feeling embarrassed, even a little angry that I didn’t get what I came for. All the same, though, I feel oddly comforted. Brother Phillips’s words “I know your father” play reel-to-reel through my mind.
Yes. And I know my father, too. I’ve lived with him for 16 years. I’ve seen him talk silly to the babies, play Candyland with my brothers without looking bored, scream at me to stay away from a live wire. I think he’s the kind of man who would have a prayer for his children.
Allison is standing at the bus stop looking perfect. I’ll say this for all those baton lessons—they sure gave Allison good posture.
“Hi, Allison,” I say, joining her.
“Hi, Brenda.”
We don’t say anything for a minute. Then she says, “I’m really sorry that you have to go to the hospital.” I can tell by looking at her face that she does feel bad. I smile at her.
“Me too.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
I think about this for a minute. Then I shake my head.
She drops her voice so none of the other kids will hear. “I’ll say a prayer for you, at least.”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “A prayer would be nice.”

I remember being excited to receive my endowment when I was getting ready to leave for my mission. I also remember having that excitement turn to worry and confusion after some family members gave me veiled warnings about attending for the first time.
I knew their intentions were genuine in trying to help me have a good experience. But I wish that instead of focusing on warning me that the temple was unfamiliar, people had helped prepare me for the temple in uplifting and correct ways.
With that in mind, here are four things to consider as you talk to those preparing to go to the temple for the first time:
When someone we love is attending the temple for the first time, we naturally want to share our own experiences with him or her. But we need to make sure what we’re sharing is focused on gospel truths rather than our own opinions.
Correct information allows our loved ones to focus on the Savior and not be swayed into feeling a certain way about their temple experiences. President Russell M. Nelson said, “Good inspiration is based upon good information.”
You can share correct information (and even pictures!) about the temple from the temple preparation course, the scriptures, and temples.ChurchofJesusChrist.org. Sometimes we might get nervous about what to share, but by turning to resources rather than our opinions, we don’t have to worry about oversharing.
By giving correct information about the temple, we offer a more enlightened view about the temple. Opinions are often focused on feelings and experiences we’ve had, while gospel information is focused on allowing your loved one to have their own experience in the temple.
What descriptions of the temple have stuck with you? For example, President Nelson said, “Your service and worship in the temple will help you to think celestial.” And President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) said, “Each [temple] stands as a beacon to the world.”
We can choose words that will offer hope and enlightenment to those we love who are preparing for their temple experience. We can avoid negative descriptors of the temple (like “weird” or “strange”), and we can choose to use positive, Christ-centered descriptions (like “peace” and “hope”).
I find it helpful to think about the many beautiful pictures I’ve seen of the inside of the temple, and often I will share those pictures with friends or family members who are preparing to go. What feelings and emotions and words come to mind when you see those images? Try to be uplifting in how you speak about the temple.
Out of our love and deep respect for the temple, it can be easy to feel afraid of talking about it. We can get flustered and wonder what is OK to say. I know I got caught up in the culture of telling curious friends and family members that we can’t talk about what happens in the temple.
However, as I served in and studied more about the temple, I came to see that we can share more than I realized!
For example, we can share that “an endowment is literally a ‘gift.’” The temple endowment is a gift of sacred blessings from God to each of us, and some of those blessings include:
“Greater knowledge of the Lord’s purposes and teachings.
“Power to do all that God wants us to do.
“Divine guidance and protection as we serve the Lord, our families, and others.
“Increased hope, comfort, and peace.
“Promised blessings now and forever.”
We can also talk about the covenants we make in the temple. The beautiful thing about the temple is that it allows us to draw closer to God and strengthen our relationship with Him by making additional promises with Him. These covenants are:
“Law of Obedience, which includes striving to keep God’s commandments.
“Law of Sacrifice, which means doing all we can to support the Lord’s work and repenting with a broken heart and contrite spirit.
“Law of the Gospel, which is the higher law that He taught while He was on the earth.
“Law of Chastity, which means that we have sexual relations only with the person to whom we are legally and lawfully wedded according to God’s law.
“Law of Consecration, which means dedicating our time, talents, and everything with which the Lord has blessed us to building up Jesus Christ’s Church on the earth.”
As we share positive messages about the temple, we help our loved ones feel more welcome and ready to attend for the first time. We can help them look forward to deepening their relationship with Jesus Christ through temple covenants.
What I learned most about the temple is that with correct information, it’s not strange at all. In fact, most—if not all—of the information and blessings we receive in the temple are familiar to what we are taught every day in the gospel.
Through my experiences, I’ve learned that fear is not of the Lord. When we avoid talking about the temple or try talking about it with veiled warnings or worries, it gives the adversary greater power to skew the beauty of the temple. Instead of cutting our conversations short by saying, “Just keep going back and it will get better eventually,” we can share the positive experiences we have from attending the temple.
When we find ourselves fearful of answering questions about the temple, that may be an invitation from the Lord to study more about the temple. This will bless not only us but also those around us. The Lord intended for the temple to bless us, not scare us.
Remember President Nelson’s words: “Making covenants and receiving essential ordinances in the temple, as well as seeking to draw closer to Him there, will bless your life in ways no other kind of worship can.” And the more we speak positively about the Lord’s house, the more we will keep guiding each other to return and invite those blessings into our lives.

A true story from the USA.
Kaci smiled as she took her seat in Primary. Today had been the children’s sacrament meeting presentation. It had been scary to say her part, but she did it!
Sister Dench, the Primary president, stood up front. “Good job in sacrament meeting today!” she said. “I know you each worked hard to learn your parts.”
“Except for Kaci,” one of the older boys said. “No one could tell what she said.”
Sister Dench frowned at the boy, then turned to smile at Kaci. “You did a wonderful job.”
Kaci tried not to cry. She’d done her best to learn her part. But sometimes her words didn’t come out right.
On the way home, Kaci couldn’t stop the tears any longer.
“What’s wrong?” Mommy asked.
“One of the boys made fun of me. He said I didn’t say my part right.” She started crying harder.
“You did a good job. Daddy and I are proud of you,” Mommy said. “Do you know who else is proud of you?”
Kaci shook her head.
“Heavenly Father,” Mommy said. “He knows you did your best.”
Kaci felt a lot better. She wanted to use her words to help other people feel happy too.
At school, Kaci told her teacher that she was doing a good job teaching.
At home, Daddy was fixing a shelf. Kaci told him he was doing a good job making their house nice.
Outside, Kaci and her brother played ball together. Kaci told him that he was doing a good job throwing.
Telling people they were doing a good job made Kaci feel good inside. When she saw others smile, she knew that her simple words made a big difference!
Watch a video of this story at friend.ChurchofJesusChrist.org.
Illustrations by Greg Paprocki

The conflict of Identity vs. Role Confusion during our teenage years is difficult for many. During this time we incorporate our personal beliefs with those of society and begin to make decisions about the future. When I was a teen, I would occasionally defy my parents’ suggestions regarding my performance in life. I remember very distinctly being frustrated with my mother one day as she proposed recommendations for my future. As my mother was advising me, I angrily turned and began to walk away—and then I heard her quietly comment, “I only want you to be a better person than I am.” My heart immediately softened, and I wondered how anyone could possibly be better than my own dear mother. I have since apologized for my behavior, but her comment (or rather her challenge to me to be a better person) has stayed with me throughout my life. As a teen, and even now, that challenge has motivated me to be a better person—it taught me the importance of applying my learning.

Some years ago I was invited to speak at Johns Hopkins Medical Center in Baltimore, Maryland. I was asked to give a talk at noon to the professional staff, the doctors, the nurses, and the social workers and a public lecture in the evening.

After my noon talk, the chief of chaplains at Johns Hopkins Medical Center came over to see me. He said, “Rabbi Kushner, we’ve got a patient here who would love to meet you. He read your book. It was very important to him. He wants to know if you could spend ten minutes talking to him. I want to make this very clear: you are under no obligation to do this. If you would rather not, I’ll tell him you were tired and very busy. He’ll understand. He’s a thirty-two-year-old Episcopal minister, and he’s dying of AIDS.”

I thought for a moment. I said, “Sure, I’ll go talk to him.”

I followed the chaplain down the corridor feeling terribly noble and virtuous—you know, I am the Jewish Mother Teresa.

He led me to this room. I saw this frail, emaciated figure in bed hooked up to these tubes. I introduced myself. We chatted for a while. He said some nice things about my books.

And then, because I know this is an issue for religious people who have AIDS, I said to him, “Do you ever fear that you’re dying without God, that in some way your disease is a punishment for something you did?”

He said to me, “No, just the opposite. It’s the only good thing that has come out of this sickness: I found that something I always wanted to believe is true, is really true. No matter how much you’ve messed up your life, you have not lost the love of God.”

He said to me, “When I was a child, I thought I had to be perfect so that people would love me. I mean, if you’re perfect, people have to love you. What’s not to love? And I always tried to be perfect. Then, if I made a mistake I tried to cover up for it and persuade people I was perfect so they would love me. I probably went into the clergy so people would think I was perfect and love me for it. And every time I did something that I knew was wrong and every time I told a lie to cover up for myself, I was sure that God was as contemptuous of me as I was of myself. But lying here in the hospital with an illness I cannot recover from, I have learned that whatever I think of myself, God thinks better of me. He has not discarded me. He has not given up on me. He is present in this hospital room when I am feeling all alone and scared and terrified.”

He said to me, “I am going to be getting out of the hospital next week, not because I’m getting better but because there’s nothing else they can do for me and they need the bed for somebody else. I don’t know if my congregation will take me back now that they’ve found out I’m gay and I have AIDS and I’m dying. I hope they will. There’s one last sermon I have to preach to them. I have to tell them what I’ve learned here—that no matter how much you’ve messed up your life, God still cares about you. That God loves us despite all our failings. That we have to go out and love ourselves and love our families and love our children despite their failings, the way God loves us. There is a sense of cleansing. There is a message that you don’t have to be perfect. There is the insight that God knows just who we are and loves us anyway. You can’t get it from psychiatrists, from therapists. Their grace comes too cheaply. You can’t get it from your family. It’s very nice that they love you, but you expect them to love you. You need to know that somebody really knows you in all your depravity, in all of your imperfection, in all of your deceitfulness and selfishness—knows who you really are and loves you anyway.”

I recall an evening when the family was all at home and we received a request from the missionaries for a visit, but I told them that we weren’t home. Then the elders informed me that they were in front of our home with the mission president. I hung up and immediately opened the door. They taught us about the blessings that await us, how we can face the difficulties in our lives, and that families can be eternal.

The link also created new twists. Two of Christine’s cousins, Sharon and Shailani Realigue, noticed the special kind of friendship between their cousin and her two friends. Christine introduced the Church to them, they were baptized, and the two cousins started to help reactivate less-active young women. They visited with Margie Paragoso, and that led the way for the baptism of Margie’s mother, sister-in-law, and cousin. “I really think this wouldn’t be possible were it not for my cousin’s example,” Sharon says.

Once upon a time there was a boy named Jack, who lived with his mother in a small village. They were very poor, and the mother earned their living by spinning. But Jack was so lazy that he would do nothing but bask in the sun in hot weather and sit by the hearth in cold weather. The townspeople called him Lazy Jack.
One day Jack’s mother came to the end of her patience. She told Jack that if he did not begin to work for his porridge, she would turn him out on his own.
Jack bestirred himself and hired out the next day to a neighboring farmer. However, when the day’s work was done and he was on his way home, he dropped his day’s pay while passing over a brook.
“You stupid boy,” said his mother, “you should have put it in your pocket.”
“I’ll do so next time,” replied Jack.
On Wednesday Jack hired out to a cowkeeper, who gave him a jar of milk for his day’s work. Jack took the jar and put it into the large pocket of his jacket. But the milk was spilled long before he got home.
“Dear me!” said his mother, “you should have carried it on your head.”
“I’ll do so next time,” said Jack.
On Thursday Jack hired out to another farmer, who agreed to give him a cream cheese for his services. In the evening Jack took the cheese and went home with it on his head. By the time he got there it had melted and become matted in his hair.
“You really are a numbskull!” his mother scolded. “You should have carried it very carefully in your hands.”
“I’ll do so next time,” replied Jack.
On Friday Lazy Jack went to town and hired out to a baker, who gave him nothing for his work but a large tomcat. Jack took the cat and began carrying it very carefully in his hands. But in a short time the animal scratched and fought so much that the simpleton had to let it go.
When he got home, his mother cried, “You silly fellow, you should have tied it with a string and walked it along after you.”
“I’ll do so next time,” Jack promised.
On Saturday Jack hired out to a butcher, who rewarded him for his work with a shoulder of mutton. Jack took the mutton, tied it to a string, and trailed it along after him in the dirt. By the time he arrived home, the meat was completely ruined.
Quite out of patience Jack’s mother exclaimed, “You ninnyhammer! You should have carried it on your shoulder.”
“I’ll do so next time,” replied Jack.
“Now we’ll have to have cabbage for Sunday dinner again,” she complained.
The following Monday Lazy Jack hired out to a cattleman, who gave him an old donkey as his wages. Jack found that it wasn’t easy to hoist the donkey onto his shoulders, but at last he was able to do so, and began walking slowly home with his prize.
Now it happened that in the course of his journey home each evening Jack passed the house of a certain rich man and his daughter. The girl had been unable to speak from birth and had never laughed aloud. The doctors said she would never speak until somebody made her laugh. However, when she saw Jack with the donkey on his back and its legs sticking up in the air, the sight was so comical that she burst into a great fit of laughter. Her father was overjoyed and promised her to Lazy Jack in marriage.
Lazy Jack became a rich gentleman, living in a large house with his new wife. And his mother lived with them in great comfort and happiness.

“Mom!” Desiree cried. “I’m scared!”
Mom appeared in Desiree’s doorway and turned on the bedroom light. Desiree squinted into the corner where the scary shadows had been. Nothing was there.
“I thought I saw a wolf in that corner,” Desiree said.
Mom wrapped her arms around Desiree, making her feel snug and safe. “When the light is on, we can see that there’s really nothing there,” Mom said.
When Desiree felt better, Mom turned out the light and went back to bed. Desiree closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Then she opened one eye and looked at the wall. The shadows were still there.
“Mom!” she cried again.
This time Mom didn’t smile when she turned on the light. She looked tired. She asked, “Desiree, do you remember what you were watching on television earlier?”
Desiree nodded. She had watched a program about wolves.
Mom sat on Desiree’s bed. “What we watch can really influence us—our thoughts, our actions, and even our feelings.”
“But the show I watched about wolves wasn’t bad,” Desiree said.
“What we watch on television can affect our thoughts, even if it isn’t a bad program. I think that what you watched tonight played a part in how you are feeling,” Mom explained.
Desiree thought about what Mom said. She had never noticed being affected by what she watched before.
“Wow,” Desiree said. “I’ll have to be more careful in deciding what to watch.”
Mom smiled. “That’s a good idea, Desiree.”
“But what about tonight? I still feel scared.”
“I have an idea,” Mom said. She took a picture of Jesus Christ off Desiree’s desk and pulled it out of its wooden frame. Then she neatly taped it to the wall where Desiree had seen the scary shadows. “He will always be there for you, Desiree. Remember that when you are afraid.”
As Mom turned off the light, a warm feeling filled Desiree’s heart. She knew what Mom had said was true. Jesus would always watch over her, help her, and quiet her fears.

When President Soares asked Luan what he would like to do when he left the hospital, Luan said he would like to perform vicarious baptisms in the Recife Brazil Temple. After Luan left the hospital, President Soares and Bishop Farias helped him fulfill this desire. Luan performed as many baptisms as his strength would allow. At the end of his day at the temple, he was beaming with happiness that he could do something for others, even though he was in great pain himself.

Not long ago Sister Dunn and I attended a stake conference in Marilia, Brazil. Marilia is a beautiful city of 100,000 in the southeast interior of the country. The Sunday session had just concluded. The theme was the atonement of Christ and how he is the Savior of the whole world.

Some had traveled by bus for more than three hours to be at this meeting. As we were shaking hands, a young lady came up. She first stopped in front of the mission president and asked how to say “I love you” in English. She then stood in front of Sister Dunn and me and with a broad smile and great sincerity said “I love you.” It seemed a little thing, but it touched our hearts. It was the effort of a humble follower of Christ to express herself. The message could have been said in any language and been understood.

The spirit of love reaches across language barriers. There is a purity about it that lifts the soul and causes us all to realize that we are the children of the same God.

Peter had always heard in Primary and read in the scriptures that prophets feel a great love for Heavenly Father’s children. One hot summer day, he discovered for himself that it was true.
Peter and his family, who lived in Iowa, were spending the summer of 1999 in Salt Lake City, Utah, at the condominium of their grandparents, who were away serving a mission. On the afternoon of August 11, Peter and his sister, Robbin, stood on the balcony, looking across at the Church Office Building and the valley beyond.
As they watched, a huge windstorm engulfed the Delta Center (a downtown sports arena) in a towering gray-black cloud. They could hear angry pops as power transformers exploded and hail rattled down. Electrical wires snapped, sparking and wriggling like brilliant glowing snakes.
“Mom!” Peter called. “Come quickly! The Delta Center is coming apart!”
His mother appeared at the window, and they all watched as giant pieces of the Delta Center roof spiraled into the air. The day had turned nearly as dark as night as the swirling storm sucked up dirt and debris, growing ever larger. Something felt familiar about the spinning, funnel-shaped cloud that came churning straight toward them.
“That’s a tornado!” Peter’s mother exclaimed. “Quick, come inside away from those windows!”
Peter grabbed his sister’s hand, and they rushed inside. The condominium was on the corner of the building’s top floor, and the room where they stood had two walls of glass. Peter knew from tornado drills at school that flying glass could be deadly. They had to get out of there, but where could they go?
A deep rumbling shook the building, growing louder every second. The wind howled. Dirt, rocks, bits of cement and wood, and who-knew-what-else pelted the windows like fierce rain.
Could they make it to the hallway? What if the glass shattered first? “The bathroom!” Mother and Peter shouted at the same moment.
Grabbing each other’s hands, the three rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door. They clung together near the bathtub, waiting and listening. The wind’s shrieking grew so loud that it hurt their ears. There was a loud bang, and the electricity went out. The walls and floors trembled. It sounded as if a jet plane was trying to land on their heads. Peter wondered if the roof might be sucked off. He closed his eyes and prayed silently. In the darkness, noise filled the room, their ears, and their minds.
Suddenly it was gone. The winds died. The banging stopped. Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief and tried to stop trembling. They were safe.
Together they walked back out onto the balcony. Miraculously, none of their windows were broken. But across the street, huge trees lay on the ground as if toppled by a massive hand. Cars had been smashed. A gigantic yellow crane had fallen against the unfinished Conference Center. Some windows of the Church Office Building had been broken.
Robbin glanced at a nearby apartment building. “Look! Look!” she cried, pointing. “There’s President Hinckley!”
Peter turned and looked. There stood President Hinckley on his own balcony, gazing out over the damage. Peter forgot the chaos below and stood watching the prophet for a long moment. At last, rather slowly, President Hinckley turned away and went back inside.
Peter smiled and leaned against his mother. “Wow,” he said softly.
Mother nodded. “That was some storm. I mean, how often does Salt Lake City have a tornado?”
“No.” Peter quickly shook his head. “Not that. I mean President Hinckley. He came to see what had happened. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I could feel his love and concern from here.”
Mother slipped her arm around his shoulder. “Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”
Peter gave her a quick hug. “I think he loves us just as much as we love him.”
Mother smiled. “I’m sure he does.”
Fire engines, police sirens, and helicopters drew Peter’s attention back to the destruction. But he felt only peace. He would never forget the day he saw a prophet watching over his flock.

In the 1960s during the Vietnam War, Church member Jay Hess, an airman, was shot down over North Vietnam. For two years his family had no idea whether he was dead or alive. His captors in Hanoi eventually allowed him to write home but limited his message to less than 25 words. What would you and I say to our families if we were in the same situation—not having seen them for over two years and not knowing if we would ever see them again? Wanting to provide something his family could recognize as having come from him and also wanting to give them valuable counsel, Brother Hess wrote—and I quote: “These things are important: temple marriage, mission, college. Press on, set goals, write history, take pictures twice a year.”

Because I studied Come, Follow Me, I think Heavenly Father helped me with school. At first I made lots of mistakes in my homework. Then my dad asked me to start by saying a prayer. After the prayer, I understood better. Soon I was no longer making as many mistakes. When my teachers received my homework, they would say, “Congratulations, Sarah! Keep doing what you are doing!”
I successfully completed my school year. And school at home went well, because we always started with a prayer, just like we do when we study Come, Follow Me.

I love everything about Christmas: the lights, carols, time with family—everything we do to celebrate the birth of Jesus. Oh, and I especially love getting presents. I start making my Christmas wish list in September.
One year my list was about as long as my arm. And I kept thinking of things to add to it. I was excited to show it to my dad. “Well, David, I see what you want to get for Christmas,” he said as he looked it over. “But what are you going to give?”
“I’m making gifts for you and Mom at school. On Friday Mom is taking me shopping for Shannon’s and Jon’s gifts. So I’ve got it all planned out.”
“Hmmm,” was all Dad said. For some reason he didn’t like my answer. I didn’t like the sound of “hmmm.”
The next family home evening, my parents discussed the idea of giving and getting and the true meaning of Christmas. I could see my wish list getting shorter by the minute. They asked us if we had any ideas to help us remember to be more giving. Shannon waved her hand excitedly. My older brother, Jon, and I groaned. With Shannon, ideas usually involved doing things for other people, like weeding our neighbors’ gardens.
“Let’s choose some people who are lonely or in need and anonymously leave presents on their doorsteps,” Shannon said with excitement.
“Not a bad idea,” Jon said. “It would be top secret.”
“This might actually be fun,” I thought.
We all agreed that it would be a great plan. We chose two families. One was the Swenson family in our ward. Since Brother Swenson had gone back to school, they never seemed to have enough money. They had lots of kids too, who would love getting Christmas surprises. The other family was Mr. and Mrs. Perez, an older couple who lived down the street. They always seemed a little lonely.
We all went shopping for the gifts. We agreed to buy them using some of the money we would have used for our own presents. That was fine with me. I was having way too much fun choosings toys for the younger Swenson boys. Somehow my stuff wasn’t that important anymore.
We decided to give one gift a night to each family starting 12 days before Christmas. When the first night came, I dressed in black from head to toe, and Jon drove me over to the Swensons’ house. I quietly put the first gift on the porch, rang the doorbell, and ran away as fast as I could. I jumped behind a fence just as one of the kids opened the door. I could hear their surprised voices as they discovered the present. I felt like I would explode with excitement and joy. My life as a Secret Giver had begun.
Things only got better—and harder. We had to go at different times every night and sometimes even in the morning because the Swenson kids started looking out the window to try to catch us. And every time I crept up to the Perez’s doorstep, I imagined Mrs. Perez waiting there, ready to fling the door open, give me a hug, and tell me how wonderful I was. I definitely had to avoid that. Keeping a secret was half the fun.
Well, that year was only the beginning. The Christmas after that, we chose a family whose daughter had been in the hospital 11 times that year and another family whose mom had cancer. Wow—I didn’t realize that some people had it so tough. Now that Christmas is here again, we’ve decided to help three families. The hardest part is choosing them. There seem to be so many people who could use a little Christmas cheer.
As for my own list? Each year it has gotten a little shorter. I’m so busy making my Secret Giver plans that I don’t have much time to think about myself. There are gifts to choose and strategies to plan.
One thing is certain—it’s great doing things for others. Nothing beats the feeling I get when I see the surprise and excitement on the faces of the people we help. Giving has become one of my favorite things about Christmas.

Billy was sad—almost sad enough to cry.
“What’s the matter, Billy?” asked Grandma. “Why are you so sad?”
“Because tomorrow is Mother’s Day and I don’t have a present to give Mommy,” Billy replied.
“Don’t be sad,” said Grandma. “Here’s a lovely card. It says Happy Mother’s Day and it has a picture of a beautiful bouquet of violets. Print your name inside, and that will make Mommy happy.”
Billy printed his name in his very best printing. But he still felt sad. He loved Mommy so much that he wanted to give her a very special present.
Grandma could see Billy was still unhappy. She thought and thought, but she couldn’t think of a single thing that Billy could give his mother.
While Grandma was thinking, Billy had an idea. “I know what I can give her!” he cried.
“What?” asked Grandma.
“A bouquet of violets!” Billy said. “Just like the one that’s on the card!”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Grandma agreed. “I’ll help you pick some violets.”
“Thank you, Grandma,” said Billy, “but I’d like to pick the violets all by myself.”
“All right, Billy,” said Grandma. “But if you decide you need help, just call me.”
Skippity-skop went Billy’s happy feet out the door, down the steps, and right to the spot in the garden where the violets grew. He stooped down and began to pick.
He picked and picked.
He picked violets from here,
Violets from there—
From here,
From there,
From everywhere!
Billy began to get a little tired. I’ve picked enough, he thought.
But when he looked at his bouquet, he decided, This is only a little bouquet. I want a big bouquet for Mommy!
So Billy began to pick violets again.
He picked and picked.
He picked violets from here,
Violets from there—
From here,
From there,
From everywhere!
Billy’s back began to ache and his knees began to hurt. “I’ve picked enough,” he said to himself.
But then Billy looked at his bouquet of violets. This is only a middle-sized bouquet, he thought. I want a big bouquet of violets for Mommy!
So Billy began to pick again.
He picked and picked.
He picked violets from here,
Violets from there—
From here,
From there,
From everywhere!
Oh, thought Billy, I’m really tired and my back hurts. I think I’ve picked enough!
When Billy looked at his bouquet of violets, he was very happy. “Now I have a big bouquet!” he exclaimed. “A beautiful big bouquet of violets for Mommy!”
Billy forgot he was tired. Skippity-skop went his happy feet up the path, up the steps, and right into the house.
“See my big bouquet,” Billy said to Grandma. “Will you please tie it with a big ribbon, just like the bouquet on the card?”
“Of course!” Grandma answered.
As Grandma tied a pretty ribbon around the violet stems, she said, “This is a beautiful big bouquet, Billy. Mommy will like it very much!”
And Mommy did! When Billy gave his big bouquet of violets to Mommy, she gave him a hug and a squeeze and a kiss. She said it was the most beautiful bouquet of violets she had ever seen!

Our family enjoys nature. We spend almost every Saturday outside—hiking, camping, bike riding, or sightseeing in the summer; and sledding, skiing, or taking walks in the snow in the winter. These are wonderful family times that give my husband and me opportunities to converse with our three children.
One summer day we hiked around a lake in a nearby forest. It was perfect weather: sunny and warm with a refreshing, cool breeze from the lake. As we made our way down the trail, we pointed out the wildflowers and trees. We discussed how much Heavenly Father must love us to create such beauty for our enjoyment. We tried to decide which was the most beautiful place we had seen. One child suggested nearby Yellowstone National Park. Someone else suggested a favorite camping spot. We thought about our trip to the ocean and the beauty of a cross-country ski trail with trees covered in glistening snow.
Our youngest child, Jacob, age 7, who had been quietly listening to our discussion, said, “I think the most beautiful place in the world is where all the things about Jesus are.” Things about Jesus? My mind searched for a connection, and then I realized that Jacob meant Temple Square in Salt Lake City. With the magnificent temple, trees, fountains, and flower gardens, Temple Square is indeed a beautiful place. But to Jacob, Temple Square means more than the outward beauty of nature alone.
Born with a complex congenital heart defect, Jacob is the veteran of three heart surgeries and numerous medical tests, with many more surgeries anticipated. His doctor frequently comes to Idaho, but for Jacob’s surgeries and some tests, we must travel to Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City. These trips are often filled with anxiety and worry about Jacob’s health, and we have found that a trip to Temple Square helps calm our nerves and reminds us of Heavenly Father’s plan and of our need to trust in Him.
The night before Jacob’s most recent and most complicated surgery, we took him to the Temple Square visitors’ center, where we sat together looking at that glorious statue of the Savior—the Christus. Peaceful, warm, and safe in a parent’s lap and not wanting to leave, Jacob sat uncharacteristically still and kept asking to stay for “just five more minutes,” until our time there stretched past an hour. When at long last we needed to leave, we all felt at peace and ready to cope with whatever the surgery would bring.
I believe that Temple Square is beautiful to Jacob not because of what he sees there but because of what he feels there. Heavenly Father’s gifts of peace, hope, and comfort are more beautiful than anything Jacob can remember seeing with his physical eyes.
Understanding Heavenly Father’s plan and accepting and trusting in His will can bring indescribable peace and joy. When we become discouraged, upset, or afraid, there is somewhere to turn—not to a specific beautiful place but to our Savior Jesus Christ. And I think Jacob is right: nothing is more beautiful than that.

On February 16, 1832, a group of men, 12 or more, were gathered together upstairs in the home of John Johnson in Hiram, Ohio. Among them were Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon. As they were working on the translation of the Bible, they came to John 5:29, which refers to the resurrection of the dead. At that time a glorious vision burst into their minds, and they reported:
While we meditated upon these things, the Lord touched the eyes of our understandings and they were opened, and the glory of the Lord shone round about.
And we beheld the glory of the Son, on the right hand of the Father, and received of his fulness;
And saw the holy angels, and them who are sanctified before his throne, worshiping God, and the Lamb, who worship him forever and ever. [D&C 76:19–21]

Of course the vision was one of the most glorious and wonderful ever given to man. Now known as Doctrine and Covenants 76, it refers to the three degrees of glory.

One of those present was Philo Dibble, a devout convert to the Church, a friend to the Prophet Joseph, and a faithful follower of Jesus Christ. Later in his life as he described the remarkable experience of being in the room when the vision was received, he was asked if he had seen the vision. He replied, “I saw the glory and felt the power, but did not see the vision” (“Recollections of the Prophet Joseph Smith,” Instructor 27, no. 10 [15 May 1892]: 303). Just imagine, there he was in the very room where this grand event occurred, and he did not see it. Oh, he saw something and felt something, but he did not see the miracle of the vision.

Let me give you two or three vignettes.
The first is that of a young man who served in the Bolivia Cochabamba Mission. He lives with his faithful mother and nieces in a poor neighborhood. Their little home has a concrete floor, one lightbulb, the roof leaks, and the window is broken. He was a successful missionary. He says:
“My mission was the best thing that I have been able to do in my life. I learned to be obedient to the commandments and to be patient in my afflictions. I also learned some English and to manage my money, my time, and my skills better.
“Then, when I finished my mission, going home was difficult. My American companions went back to a university. But there is a lot of poverty in our country. It is very difficult to get an education. My mother does her best, but she can’t help us. She has suffered so much, and I am her hope.
“When I learned of the Perpetual Education Fund, I felt so happy. The prophet recognized our efforts. I was filled with joy. … There was a possibility I could study, become self-reliant, have a family, help my mother.
“I will study accounting at a local school where I can study and work. It is a short course, just three years long. I have to keep working as a janitor, but that is OK. Once I graduate and get a job in accounting, I will work toward higher education in international business.
“This is our opportunity, and we cannot fail. The Lord trusts us. I have read many times in the Book of Mormon the words the Lord told the prophets, that as we keep the commandments, we would prosper in the land. This is being fulfilled. I am so grateful to God for this great opportunity to receive what my brothers and sisters did not have, to help my family, to accomplish my goals. And I am excited to repay the loan to see others be so blessed. I know the Lord will bless me as I do it.”

Photograph courtesy of the author
After general conference a few years ago, my wife, Yenifer, and I felt that we needed to make some changes in our discipleship. We felt prompted to do more than we were doing. We didn’t just need oil in our lamps—we needed more oil.
One of the related goals I set for myself was to do more service. I decided to do family history work, including indexing.
When I started, I quickly learned that the oldest records, which are the most difficult to read and understand, are the hardest to index. But I like challenges, so I decided to start with old records.
It didn’t take long, however, before I was wondering why I was indexing difficult records when I could index more batches of names if I indexed more recent, easier-to-read records. While I was trying to read and understand some difficult marriage records, I got a headache.
“Why am I doing the hardest records?” I asked myself.
Almost immediately, I felt a soft voice say, “Thank you.”
A few seconds later, Yenifer called me on my cell phone to see how my indexing was going.
“What are you indexing now?” she asked.
“I’m doing the oldest records,” I replied.
“You know those are the most difficult ones,” she said. “Why are you doing those?”
At that moment, I again experienced a feeling of gratitude. The people whose names I was indexing had waited over a thousand years for their temple work to be done. Just as I am happy because I have received my saving ordinances in the temple, they also want to be happy by receiving theirs. Indexing names makes that possible because it helps people to search for their ancestors online. Indexing is a first step in preparing names for the temple.
I began to weep as I came to understand the eternal importance of the work I was doing. Many people have waited a long time for their temple blessings. I know that we need to help them no matter how difficult the work is.