Gospel Story Finder

I remember receiving a report from a sister in Georgia assigned to survey the damage done to homes in her stake after severe flooding in their area. She went into the kitchen of one home sloshing through mud above her ankles, and opened a cupboard. Inside was coiled a water moccasin snake. She quickly shut the door and tried another cupboard where she was eye-to-eye with yet another snake. In consternation she ran up the stairs to the second floor where she met up with an alligator. I’d class that as heroic charity.

Photographs of the ward courtesy of Nolfo Zambrano
If someone offered you a piece of delicious banana bread, how would you react? For the young men in a ward in Ecuador, that’s one way they start conversations about the gospel.
Every two months they have a missionary day with open houses in a different area of their ward. They split into several teams, each made up of a young man, a full-time or recently returned missionary, and an elder or high priest. Some of the groups work at a tent, some go to contact people in the park, and some go door to door.
When they meet someone, they offer the person a piece of banana bread. When the person accepts, he or she is told that although the bread is delicious and good for the body, the missionaries have a message that will be nourishing to the person’s soul. The young men and their companions then invite the person to meet with the missionaries. In this way, they’ve been able to get 40 to 50 referrals for the missionaries in a couple of hours.
The young men also fellowship the members of their own quorums. On Saturdays they meet for a Young Men activity and to work on Duty to God. Then they visit the less-active members of their quorum. They encourage them to attend church and then invite them to come back to play sports or participate in another activity.
In this way and many others, these young men are preparing to be lifelong missionaries. Two of them (at right) share how they feel strengthened and inspired by their experiences.
I have been a member of the Church for five years. My parents are not members, but my uncle Jorge is the Young Men president, and he has been a great support. I am also grateful to my bishop for his constant support and encouragement.
I decided to get closer to the Church after one of the missionary days they had in the ward. It was one of my first experiences that motivated me to join the Church. As a deacon, teacher, and now a priest, my leaders have always supported and encouraged me to participate in all of the missionary work activities. I like the open houses, where I have the opportunity to share with others the blessing of being a member of Christ’s Church. What inspires me most are the service activities, where I have the opportunity to serve my neighbor as Jesus taught us to do.
A year ago, my younger brothers, Luis, age 15, and Israel, age 12, joined the Church. Together we have been working on the projects in Duty to God, and since their baptisms we have shared wonderful experiences working together. All of the young men in the ward are very close, and we support each other.
I know that baptism is the gate to enter the kingdom of heaven. When we are in the service of our fellow beings, we are in the service of God (see Mosiah 2:17). Missionary work blesses families, and I know that my life has changed because of the gospel.
Alvaro T., 17
As a deacon I learned my responsibilities thanks to the support of my parents and leaders and working with the goals in the Duty to God booklet. As a teacher I learned more by going to do visits as a home teacher, participating in the open houses on the missionary days, sharing banana bread, attending Mutual, and participating in ward and stake activities.
Now as a priest I get to focus more on missionary work. Working with the Young Men president and as an assistant to the bishop, I have learned much more about my responsibilities as a priesthood holder.
Our leaders constantly invite us to come with them and the full-time missionaries so that we can become familiar with missionary work. They also exhort us to read the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon. All of these experiences motivate and prepare me to receive the higher priesthood and to serve a full-time mission.
Isaac G., 17

From the time I was old enough to grip the handle of a broom, my dad gave me the weekend chore of sweeping the driveway in front of our house. Though it was a fair-sized driveway, the sweeping only took a half hour, and it wasn’t difficult. But once the driveway was cleaned, well, like any other kid who is anxious to complete a chore, I hoped it would stay that way. Forever.
Only one thing could ruin my handiwork with the broom: squirrels. With a beautiful eucalyptus tree hanging over most of the driveway, squirrels were often a problem.
A eucalyptus tree bears much fruit: woody, cup-shaped receptacles filled with hundreds of small seeds. For lack of a better name, we used to call them acorns. As a kid who was trying to sweep the driveway once and for all, it seemed as if there were millions of those acorns. And the squirrels loved to eat them. Now squirrels eating acorns aren’t, in and of themselves, a problem. It’s the way they eat them that’s the problem. You see, squirrels are real connoisseurs. They don’t eat the entire acorn, just a bite here and a bite there of the insides. The outside shavings and the rest of the insides that the squirrel doesn’t eat simply fall to the ground.
I could do a wonderful job sweeping up every acorn, leaf, and twig, and the driveway would look great. Then, after a squirrel munch-out, the driveway would look terrible.
The squirrels were having a field day at my expense.
I can remember looking up into the branches at what seemed like the entire family tree of the two original squirrels that accompanied Noah. I also remember giving them dirty looks, but they only looked down at me, unconcerned and very content with the distance between us.
This is where the bright green tennis balls enter into the story. Dad always had a large bucket of tennis balls that had seen better days on the courts months before.
How could I remedy the dirty driveway dilemma? Right, throw bright green tennis balls at the little rascals in hopes of scaring them away to another tree. I just thought that if I could scare them away I might never have to sweep the driveway again. I confess, I used to worry about what our neighbor next door, Mrs. McDonald, might think. She loved animals. In fact, every year for four years I would go around the neighborhood selling Little League Baseball raffle tickets. Mrs. McDonald would always buy one, but she would always sign the name of one of her cats or dogs on the tickets. Last year it was “Elsa” the German shepherd.
Swoosh!
I easily followed the path of the bright green tennis ball. It missed its mark but came close enough to scare the squirrel away.
“Check, check, check, check, check, check,” it cried.
If you wanted to look on the bright side, you could say that throughout my teenage years, my baseball throwing arm became stronger and more accurate.
On the not so bright side, the squirrels quickly became accustomed to watching those mysterious green projectiles fly past them. I never did succeed in scaring the squirrels away on a permanent basis. Every Saturday morning, the driveway had to be swept. Every Saturday morning I would be out there with the squirrels. And no amount of tennis balls would make it easier, regardless of how accurately I threw. I always ended up sweeping.
Eventually I learned an important lesson, one I have reflected on again and again. For many kinds of work, there aren’t any shortcuts. Even when a job is done right the first time, sometimes it needs to be done right again and again. That’s why it’s called a chore—not because it’s burdensome, but because it’s a duty.
Today, when I visit my parents, the eucalyptus tree still towers over the driveway. The squirrels are still there, and they’re still dropping the acorns. Sometimes, just for fun, I’ll hurl a green tennis ball in their direction.
Then I’ll go get the broom.

Our second young man was finishing college last year, though I doubt any of you know who Neil Caudle is. Neil graduated from Spain Park High School in Hoover, Alabama, rated the seventh-best quarterback in America. Besieged with scholarship offers, he signed to play at Auburn University.

With high hopes and expectations of playing quarterback in the SEC, Caudle’s career was marked instead by coaching changes, injuries, limited playing time, and a talented depth chart at Auburn. Just when he thought it was his year to be the starting quarterback, along came someone you have heard of: Cam Newton. This finally caused Neil and his family to wonder if he even wanted to play football at Auburn.

Well, Neil Caudle persevered, even though he threw only a few passes in his four years there. He suited up for his final game as an Auburn Tiger one year ago in Arizona for the national championship against Oregon. Our daughter was a senior at Auburn, so we went out for the big game.

I didn’t know or notice anything about Caudle until a week or so later when our pastor, who had spoken at a chapel service for the team the night before, told of a picture Neil’s mom had captured of the final play of that thrilling game.

Her photo showed the giant scoreboard and video screen with the score tied 19-19, the play clock showing 19 seconds, and the game-winning 19-yard field goal soaring through the hold of number 19. Teresa Caudle’s son, the promising quarterback coming out of high school, was now the holder—number 19. It was his hands, and not those of the Heisman winner, that would be the last to touch the ball as Auburn put the final three points on their national championship season.

In an email to friends after the game, Neil Caudle’s mother wrote, “Neil always felt like he was in God’s will, even when things didn’t go like he wanted them to. You can do the math and see it is no coincidence. I believe God orchestrated Neil’s last college football game to show His power and to affirm to Neil (and to us) that number 19 was right where he was supposed to be all along.”

As a former kicker, I love this story. But what I love most are the stories I have read and heard since about Neil Caudle’s role as the spiritual leader on that Auburn team. You see, after the pregame evening chapel service for players and coaches, and after the players’ meetings with their position coaches, there was one final meeting before going to bed. Number 19 convened a players-only meeting—a prayer meeting. And the players came to Neil’s meeting week after week after week.

The sports world will remember the 2011 college football champions for Cam Newton, his undefeated season, his Heisman Trophy, and his team’s last-second victory over a talented and fast Oregon team.

But years from now, a hundred players and coaches will remember a humble, unselfish young man who touched the ball only a few seconds each game but held high his faith in Christ and clearly had the answer to the question “now what?”

Illustration by Jim Madsen
In October 2011, my bishop heard a talk by Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles about the Spirit of Elijah and the responsibility the youth have to serve through family history. My bishop was inspired by this talk and decided to have the bishopric youth committee watch it in their meeting. He asked the youth what they wanted to do to follow Elder Bednar’s instruction, and they told him they wanted to set up a summer indexing project. Together with the bishop, they set a goal of 50,000 names and invited my whole ward to help with the project.
I was asked by Brother Watts, a member of our bishopric, to serve as an indexing specialist. I accepted, but I had no idea what indexing was or how to do it. I was very confused and just a little bit nervous.
Brother Watts showed me how to use the indexing program on FamilySearch.org. He told me that he was absolutely confident we were going to reach our goal. Even though it was my first official assignment as a young woman, I was determined to learn how to do what I was asked to do by my priesthood leaders, no matter how hard it was.
I soon learned that indexing is part of family history—typing people’s names from records into a database so their family members can find them. I knew this effort was important, and so did my whole ward, especially my bishop.
To serve in this project, I showed many different people how to index and contribute names. By the end of the summer, the youth alone had finished 25,000 names! Before we knew it, we met our goal 100 percent.
I know that every one of my leaders is called of God to serve and direct the Church, and that when I listen to them, I’m not only doing what they ask me to do but also what God asks me to do. When I listen to and follow my leaders, I’m serving too—participating in the work of the priesthood, the work of salvation.

It was that kind of sharing that brought the gospel to the Butty family. Sisters Sandhya and Sudha Butty and their mother and father can hardly stop smiling—they are so eager to tell about how they were introduced to the Church.
“We joined the Church as a family,” Sandhya explains. “We had been looking for the right church for a long time. We knew we needed to be baptized. Then one day our father saw two elders. Their name tags said, ‘The Church of Jesus Christ,’ and he knew he had to speak with them.”
Discussions began in earnest. “We learned that, to do the will of the Father, Jesus Christ suffered for us, accomplished the Atonement, and made it possible for us to return to Heavenly Father by following Him,” Sudha says. With that testimony solidly in place, joining the Church seemed like sailing home through friendly seas, and the Buttys have rejoiced in their decision ever since.

Over the next several years, members of the branch, including my grandma and my mother (now in her teens), were sometimes taken in by the secret police for questioning about their religious practices. One time my grandmother was questioned aggressively for five hours. Her questioners told her they would put her in prison for five years if they learned she was teaching religion to her children.
She recorded, “I stayed peaceful and said, ‘If you think that I do something wrong teaching my children religion, then you can lock me up.’ They didn’t answer. From that time on they called me in repeatedly. They talked against the Church, and they tried to get us off our faith. The more they tried the more I clung to the Church, [for] the true Church was always persecuted.”
My mother wrote in her journal, “In these most difficult years, members met on Sunday in our branch president’s apartment. We couldn’t sing loud so we whispered. We didn’t want our branch president in jail. For 18 years we were gathering like that and we were dreaming of the time when we all would be able to go to the Rocky Mountains and settle in [Salt Lake City].” They had hope even though at the time families were seldom granted paperwork that would allow them to leave the country.

When I was eight years old, Papa died. It wasn’t easy without Papa there anymore. Even with my older brothers and sisters, who helped out a lot, there were still eight children to feed and take care of. Mama worked long hours with us in the cornfield. Sometimes when the rest of us were eating supper, Mama went outside and shucked corn. We didn’t know it, but she was using that time to pray and fast. She didn’t want my older brothers to see her fast, because sometimes they made fun of her religious beliefs.
One day while Mama was outside meditating and shucking corn, she was prompted to go and visit an elderly widower who lived down the street. She found two missionaries there, and they taught her the gospel. She received answers to her concerns about the death of my father and about what happens after death. She came home very excited.
When my brothers found out about it, they were upset and began to laugh at her. And when Papa’s folks found out about it, they, too, were bitterly opposed. I couldn’t understand why they caused so much trouble about it.
Mama decided to give up the new religion. It was causing too much friction in our home. The beautiful truths just were not worth it.
Mama was never the same. She could not deny the things she had heard. She tried hard to convince my brothers, but they just wouldn’t listen. I did. And I had a warm feeling inside me when I went into the waters of baptism the same day Mama was baptized.

When I was baptized in 2018, I felt great joy; I had been looking for a church where I would feel calm and peaceful. I visited many churches, including some very good ones, but I never felt at home. Months after I was baptized, I finally understood that to feel at home is to feel the love of my Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and the companionship of the Holy Ghost. That is my true peace amid the storms that plague day-to-day life.

The companies decided that to survive they must keep moving. They started West again. On November 1 another snowstorm mixed with rain slowed them down. One night after dark, whoops and yells awoke the Whites and terrified the shivering campers. “Indians!” someone shouted. But, once awake, the camp discovered that their noisy invaders were a relief party from Utah, sent by President Brigham Young, with wagonloads of food. New shouts of happiness muffled across the night-covered, snow-covered plains. “They were loaded with all kinds of provisions,” Elizabeth said of the wagons, “flour, bread, butter, meat of all kinds, but frozen very hard. Everything was so good. The bread was like cake, so sweet and nice.” They had to cut everything with hatchets to cook or eat it. “Oh, how thankful we were that the Lord had answered our prayers and saved us from starvation,” she said. Baking fires burned through the night.

Tom was also a good student in high school. He won prizes in state and regional science fairs. He attended Utah State University and included some challenging courses along with his basic classes. After serving a mission, Tom transferred to the University of Utah as a pre-med major. Then came the national medical aptitude exam.
He did well, but was not accepted by any of the schools to which he had applied. He was devastated. The future, once so bright, now seemed bleak. But rather than giving up, he planned a course of action. Even though he didn’t speak Spanish, he decided to attend a Mexican school of medicine, hoping he could later transfer back to the United States. After two years of distinguished study at the University of Guadalajara, he was offered his choice of several fine universities in the United States. Today, he is a practicing physician.

When I was a student at BYU, I was required to spend two weeks observing a seventh-grade class at a local junior high. There was one young man in the class who was the embodiment of a teacher’s nightmare. He swore, he cut class, he smoked at lunch, he refused to work, and he was unruly. In short, his reputation as the school troublemaker was well deserved.
During my two-week tour of duty he turned in only one assignment, a short essay titled, “What I Want to Be in Ten Years.” When I picked up the wrinkled, stained, illegible paper, I expected ro read about his dream of leading a motorcycle gang or becoming a gangster. Instead he planned, as far as I could decipher, to be an orthopedic surgeon. How ironic, I thought, that a kid who’s rejected everything needed to meet his goal, would dream of becoming a surgeon. His ignorance prevented him from seeing that he was already choosing a path that would lead to a life very different from that of an orthopedic surgeon.
Successful people are knowledgeable, and although schooling doesn’t equal knowledge, it can be a useful prerequisite. Knowledge can be gained through schooling, experience, study, or a combination of all three. Some people ignore that and fall short of their goals because they are unwilling to learn how to be successful. Ignorance breeds failure.
Another stumbling block to success is lack of discipline. As a coach and as an athlete I’ve watched many young men who were blessed with superior talent fail to become great because they were undisciplined.
A BYU teammate of mine was a running back with tremendous ability. When we were freshmen he was moved up to the varsity team for several games. As a sophomore he became a starter and was named national back of the week for an outstanding performance in an early season game. Unfortunately, as the season continued, he started to get into trouble because he could not follow the team’s training rules.
Eventually he withdrew from the university and, as far as I know, never played another down of football. It was a tragic waste of talent, but undisciplined talent is largely useless.
More subtle than lack of discipline is lack of courage—not courage to face danger but courage to meet challenges. Great people became that way because they accepted challenges and worked to overcome them.
Many students fail to excel because they deprive themselves of academic challenges by enrolling in easy classes. I’m ashamed to admit that for two years I fell into that trap. During my freshman and sophomore years at BYU I was more concerned with finding easy classes than with learning anything. Prior to registration each semester I checked out my prospective professors with the “academic grapevine” to find out who was the easiest. I cheated myself out of many worthwhile experiences by dodging academic challenges.
Don’t you be lulled into the same trap. When everyone else is seeking the easy path, be brave enough to take on the challenging one. You’ll be glad you did.
Once you’ve overcome the blocks to success, you’re ready to develop a systematic approach for success.
First, decide what you want to do, to be, or to have. Examine your goal and make sure it is a realistic and practical one for you. Write it down and remember it.
Next, rank your goal with your priorities. Nothing will be accomplished if it’s not important to you. One reason I’m not an Olympic veteran today is that shot-putting never ranked high enough on my list of priorities. Other things—family, church, career—superseded my Olympic hopes. Before you start your road to success, decide how important the destination is.
Third, consider what the trade-offs are. Tradeoffs are things that must be given up in order to have something else. The adage, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” is an application of a trade-off. My Olympic goal wasn’t reached because I wasn’t willing to make the sacrifices required to become a world-class shot-putter. Likewise, if you decide to become a concert pianist, you should realize that you will exchange thousands of leisure hours for hours of practice at the keyboard. Is it worth it?
The fourth step is to plan your progress. Ask yourself, “What will it take to accomplish my goal?” If you want to become an orthopedic surgeon, you must plan now to do what’s necessary to accomplish your ambition. “Fail to plan,” the saying warns, “and plan to fail.”
Finally, when you’ve prepared yourself in every way, you must work, work, and work some more. Success does not generally come as a gift or a blessing; it’s a direct result of preparation and intense, continuous, patient work. There is no way around it.
You were born to succeed. When you do all you can do, the Lord will help you realize your righteous ambitions. Who knows, maybe someday you’ll be a concert pianist, an orthopedic surgeon, or even an Olympic shot-putter.

As a teen, I remember looking at my family tree and wondering how we would ever get my father’s side of the family tree populated. My father, Joseph Terribilini, is a first-generation American. His father, Giuseppe, emigrated from a small village in the Swiss Alps that we didn’t know much about. I had always wanted to make progress in my family history, so I often prayed for help in knowing how to overcome the roadblocks we faced.
But Heavenly Father was aware of these roadblocks. And beginning with my mission call, I felt Him guide me as a series of six miracles from Italy to Alabama helped us fill in the gaps on my father’s family tree.
I had always had a feeling that I’d serve my mission in Switzerland where my ancestors once lived. So when I got my call to Italy in 1970, I was surprised but excited. In the language training mission (now called the missionary training center), I found out that southern Switzerland, where my ancestors came from, was actually part of my mission. I knew Heavenly Father called me to that specific place for a reason.
Partway through my mission, my companion and I were assigned to be zone leaders over an area that included southern Switzerland—and we had a car.
We went to my family’s village, Vergeletto, and looked up one of my cousins. He showed us around and introduced us to the parish priest, who, upon request, showed us the books of vital records for the area. We then returned home, but a seed had been planted in me that would grow throughout my mission.
With just a month left on my mission, I felt like I needed to take action and find my family’s records before I returned home. I prayed to know if there was something more I could do, and I felt a distinct prompting from the Spirit telling me that I needed to get a copy of those vital records that I had seen months ago. I told my mission president that I felt like I needed to return to my family’s village in Switzerland and explained why. The village was 87 miles (140 km) away, but my mission president gave me permission to go anyway.
It was dusk when the narrow winding road took us up the mountain into the hamlet of Vergeletto. We stopped at the focal point of town, the Catholic church. My companion and I were then drawn to the cemetery across the street from the church that was all lit up with candles.
As we entered the cemetery, I clearly and strongly felt the Spirit guide me like I never had before. That feeling and the fresh alpine air created a sensation I will never forget. In the cemetery, it seemed that every other tombstone had my last name on it. We even saw my great-grandfather’s tomb; it said people went to him to repair their broken bones.
We returned to the church to see if we could find the priest. There we met an old man, who told us it was Il Giorno dei Morti, or a holiday known as the Day of the Dead (which would explain all the candles in the cemetery). The man told us that the priest had services in neighboring villages and would be back in two hours.
My companion and I waited, and when the priest returned, I reminded him of our encounter a few months earlier and then asked if I could see the vital records of the parish again.
He agreed.
The priest brought out a box of books that were hundreds of years old. I told the priest that our Church was microfilming parish records in Parma, Italy, 170 miles (274 km) away. I asked if he would allow us to take the records for a few weeks and have them copied.
He again agreed. I was shocked.
As we left town, I marveled at what had just happened and even checked the rearview mirror to see if the priest was running after us with a change of heart. Two weeks later, we returned the records to him, as promised.
Due to the penmanship, the use of Latin, and the deterioration, the records were hard to read. But then, just a few years ago, I noticed hundreds of records from Vergeletto had been linked to my ancestors in FamilySearch. Family lines that used to only go out three to four generations now extended seven to nine generations!
It turns out a professional genealogist in Alabama, USA, who is not a member of the Church shares a branch of the global family tree with me. He had accessed and read the records from the books I had copied in Italy and attached them in FamilySearch. This man is amazing; we have since collaborated several times. He explained that uploading those names and sources is his way of paying back the Church for all their work in making records available in FamilySearch.
Now my dad’s side of my genealogy fan chart is full of names. And I’ve been blessed to do their temple work.
I’ve often looked back wondering why a Catholic priest would allow a young American—who was also a missionary for another faith—to take his collection of vital records out of the country for copying. Were my ancestors praying for me? Were they praying for the priest’s heart to be softened?
I don’t know—it could have been both those things. But I do know that Heavenly Father can help bring about miracles when we seek His help. And as Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has promised, family history work holds so many blessings for those on both sides of the veil: “God will strengthen, help, and uphold us; and He will sanctify to us our deepest distress. When we gather our family histories and go to the temple on behalf of our ancestors, God fulfills many of these promised blessings simultaneously on both sides of the veil.” 1 The Lord directs this work, and when you trust Him, He can work miracles for you and your family as you strive to gather Israel.

When Elder Quentin L. Cook was 15 years old, he had a talk with his big brother, Joe. Joe was trying to decide if he should go to medical school instead of going on a mission. They talked long into the night. They talked about the gospel. They talked about testimonies. They talked about serving a mission.
Joe knew that going to medical school and becoming a doctor was a good way to help people. But he also knew that Jesus Christ truly lived, that Joseph Smith was really a prophet, and that the Book of Mormon was really true. So he knew that going on a mission first would be a better choice. Quentin learned that night that his brother Joe had a strong testimony.

Illustration by Paul Mann
For a while I was a student assistant in the library at my high school. At a certain hour I would usually see the special education class come in. One of the girls in that class, Stephanie, often went to a certain area to read books. She seemed very sweet and friendly.
One day some other students were in the lounge area of the library, and Stephanie tried to talk to them. These students started making fun of her, calling her names and making rude comments to her face about her disability.
As I watched from the library desk, I thought, “Oh, dear. That’s just wrong.” Not seeing an adult around at the moment, I walked over to them and said, “Hey, cut it out.” Then they turned their ridicule to me, so I took Stephanie to the other side of the library, where we sat and talked together for a while.
After that, I didn’t have another chance to talk to Stephanie again. The end of the school year came, and life moved on.
A year later, the sister missionaries invited me to go with them to an appointment. When the day came, I went to the address at the scheduled time, but the sister missionaries weren’t there yet. I called them to make sure I was at the right place, and they told me they were running late from their last appointment but would be there in a few minutes, so I might as well just go to the house and introduce myself. I stepped up to the door and rang the doorbell. A woman answered. She was very nice and courteous.
Then I saw a young woman come around the corner. When she saw me, she ran up to me and hugged me. At first I thought, “She looks so familiar.” She asked, “How are you doing?!” As she went on saying kind and friendly things to me, I just looked at her, trying to figure out who she was. And then it clicked—she was the girl from a year ago in the library. It was Stephanie.
At that moment I thought, “What if I hadn’t helped her that day and then showed up here at her door to try to teach her the gospel? If I had looked on while they were making fun of her, if I hadn’t stepped in and been kind to her, why would she listen to me trying to teach her the gospel?”
Her sweet reaction meant a lot to me. I thanked Heavenly Father for giving me the strength to do the right thing.
When the sister missionaries came, the lesson went very well. We visited Stephanie twice a week after that. She loved learning about the gospel and was baptized within a short time. She really enjoys being active in the Church. I often pick her up to take her to church and to firesides or other activities. Though her mother isn’t interested in the Church, she’s very supportive of Stephanie’s activity.
Through this experience I realized that it’s so important to know that people are always watching. You never know when you’ll have a chance to make an impression on someone and plant a seed. It’s so important to stick up for what you know to be true at all times, even when it may not necessarily seem like the easiest thing to do.

Bishop Mariteragi invited me to an interview to issue a calling. During that interview, he asked if I was paying my tithing. I said, “No.” I told him that I was earning $2.00 every two weeks. That $2.00 paid for bath soap and toothpaste, and if I was lucky, to take a girl on a date. He listened attentively and said, “Desmond, you have just returned from your mission. If your investigator were to tell you a similar story after teaching them about tithing, what would you say?” That was the end of the interview. I began with my next paycheck to pay my tithing. I paid the entire $2.00. The windows of heaven were opened and were opened wide. Since that interview I have continued to pay tithing. I have continued to see the windows of heaven opened.

Last year my schoolteacher had “class dollars” that we could earn when we did well in class. I kept buying things instead of saving them like my classmates did. The last auction of the school year was nearing, and I had 80 dollars. My teacher was going to sell root-beer floats for 100 dollars each. So I decided to copy the class money I had on the printer at home so I’d have enough for a float.
When I got to school, I showed off my copied money. Five students ran up to the teacher’s desk and told him about my evil mastermind doings. My teacher told me I wasn’t allowed to buy a single item at the auction. I felt bad and guilty, but the worst was yet to come.
My teacher emailed my mom. When I got home, my mom asked about my actions. I was dishonest again and told her that someone else in my class copied the money. My mom was going to email the teacher what I told her. When she was about to send the message, I told her the truth. She was shocked, disappointed, and sad. I knew my Heavenly Father was also saddened by my disobedience.
I had just turned 12 and was looking forward to doing baptisms at the temple. But I knew I shouldn’t enter into the temple unless I was clean, so I repented. After telling the truth, I prayed and asked for forgiveness.
A little while later I walked up the steps to the Sacramento temple. I was excited to do baptisms and amazed by the beauty of the temple. I felt great peace and happiness. My mom was really happy, and I knew that my Heavenly Father was happy as well.
Now I know that wickedness never, ever will bring happiness. I am grateful for all that Christ has done for me. I know that if we keep the commandments, we will live in happiness.

I have seen that promise fulfilled in my own life and in the lives of others. A friend of mine served as a mission president. He told me that at the end of every day while he was serving, he could barely make it upstairs to bed at night wondering if he would have the strength to face another day. Then in the morning, he would find his strength and his courage restored. You have seen it in the lives of aged prophets who seemed to be renewed each time they stood to testify of the Lord Jesus Christ and the restored gospel. That is a promise for those who go forward in faith in their priesthood service.

Well, it was that kind of a relationship that we shared with each other, and about a semester later he came to me and asked, “Could I ask you a favor?”

I said, “Please do.”

He said, “You know, in addition to being a teacher here on the faculty, I am a part-time minister of the First Methodist Church in Glendale, California.” (I grew up in Hollywood, California, and that’s where I was living at the time.) He said, “You know, Paul, in our young married group, of which I am a sponsor, we are studying other religions, and we have never had a Mormon come and talk to our group. Would you come and be a guest speaker?”

Well, I could see a chance to raise my grade, so I said, “Why, I’d be honored to.”

So on the appointed day I drove over to the First Methodist Church in Glendale. And you know how many Protestant churches align themselves on existing corners, often competing at the same hour, and the traffic was horrendous this particular morning, so I made a pass around the building and came by once more trying to find a place to park. There was a gentleman standing just off the curb, and he was waving me down. So I pulled over and he said, “Are you Mr. Dunn?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Dr. Davis described your car. If you’ll get out, this gentleman will park it for you.”

(Now just a little editorial note: Have you ever noticed how many firesides we have invited special speakers where they had to park a long way off? Think of a LeGrand Richards when somebody wasn’t thoughtful enough to be out there. I just testify from my General Authority’s vantage point: It happens, even in the true Church. Spiritual courtesy and consideration are so vital to receiving the Lord’s spirit.)

Well, I was escorted in, and we went down some stairs through a long corridor. And I stopped in my tracks. The refrain from the song “Come, Come, Ye Saints” was being played on an organ. I thought I was having a revelation. I said, “What’s that?”

They said, “We’re trying to set the stage for a Mormon talk.”

I said, “Thank you.” I walked through the door, and seated before me were two hundred young adults—in kind of an oversized Relief Society room, beautiful in appointment, with a large fireplace. On the mantle over the hearth were two large candelabras with many candles casting a soft light on a picture. Do you know what the picture was? The Salt Lake Temple and the Tabernacle, framed. And I said, “Oh, thank you.” There wasn’t a peep in the audience, reverently listening to a strange hymn. I was escorted to the front of the room. I took my place; they had an appropriate devotional. Then Dr. Davis said some very nice things about me, as guest speaker, and turned the time to me. I tried as hard as I could to represent you properly, to teach some Methodists about the difference between Mormons and Protestants, Catholics, and Jews. When I had finished, there were about twenty minutes of inquiry, questions from the group that were thoughtful and courteous. I was then escorted to the back of the room, a benediction was offered, and one by one the couples filed out, saying such things as “Thank you, thank you. We haven’t understood you people. You have helped us today. Thank you, thank you.” Three days later I got one of the nicest notes I have ever received. It’s still in my Book of Remembrance. Every time I hear the word Methodist, I feel warm and good.

Trent sat high in the oak tree, dangling one leg over a thick branch. When Jared and Tom called to him from below, he didn’t even hear them. He was daydreaming about a book he had been reading. His Grandma Jessop had given him Pioneer Children for his birthday. After reading the book for a while, he had left it on his bed and climbed the tree to think about the pioneer children and their amazing experiences.
One boy in the book had saved his two little sisters when their house and fields caught fire. Another had found food for his family because his father was away fighting in a war.
The stories told about the many dangers that the pioneer children faced—bears, coyotes, starvation. Trent wished that he had lived then. He would have met the challenges! He could scare away coyotes and bears. He had learned in Scouts how to make a cave in learned in Scouts how to make a cave in the snow where he could keep himself and his little brother warm if they got lost, just like a girl had done in one of the stories. He would share a piece ot bread with a hungry child, even if it were all he had.
But it would never happen to Trent. His mother could buy him anything he wanted in the market—any type of bread, fresh fruits and vegetables throughout the year, even treats.
Finally, the voices below broke through Trent’s reverie.
“Trent! What’s the matter with you?” Jared called. “Have you gone deaf or something?”
“No. Why?”
“We’ve been shouting at you to come down,” Tom said.
“What for?”
“Who knows? We’ll just walk around till we find something to do.”
I’m sure you will, Trent thought. Jared and Tom were his best friends, but lately they were often into some kind of mischief. Trent climbed part of the way down the tree and then dropped to the ground.
“What were you doing up there, anyway?” Jared asked.
“I was thinking about this book I’ve been reading,” Trent answered. “It’s all about—”
“A book!” Jared sneered. “Don’t you have anything better to do than read books?”
Trent looked searchingly at Jared, trying to see beyond the dark eyes and freckles that he had come to know so well. Tom, too, was almost as familiar as a brother, although he had moved into the neighborhood only six months ago.
“What’s wrong with you, Jared?” asked Trent. “You used to like to read. You used to like the other things I like too.”
Jared just ignored Trent’s question.
“Hey, look,” Tom said, pointing. “Here comes Reggie. Let’s have some fun with him.”
Trent winced.
Reggie was working hard to pedal his bicycle up the hill, sweat gathering on his forehead, a paper sack held tightly in one hand. Reggie tried his best, but he just couldn’t do a lot of things very well, and he attended a special class for slow learners.
“Hey, you,” Tom said as Reggie neared them, “stupid kids like you aren’t allowed on this street. You’ll have to go back around the other way.”
Reggie stopped pedaling and put his feet to the ground. He looked around, confused.
“What’s the matter?” Tom went on, “Don’t you know the way?”
Jared giggled. Reggie was older than they were. He was bigger, too, but he looked afraid.
“What’s in the sack?” Tom asked.
“Candy.”
“Oh, let’s see,” Jared said, grabbing the sack away from Reggie. “Maybe you have my favorite kind of candy in there.”
Jared dumped out the candy, and he and Tom began dividing it between them.
Reggie blinked a few times, and Trent saw tears in his eyes. “My daddy gave me the money,” Reggie quavered. “I earned it.”
“Ha!” Tom jeered. “What did you have to do to earn it? Tie your own shoelaces?”
“Button your own shirt?” Jared added.
Trent felt tears starting in his own eyes. He didn’t want to go against his two best friends, but he knew what he had to do. “Stop it!” he shouted.
Tom and Jared looked at him, surprised. Even Reggie looked surprised. Trent grabbed the candy out of his friends’ hands.
“Come on,” Tom said. “We’re just having a little fun.”
“Well it’s not much fun for Reggie, is it?” Trent asked as he handed the sack with candy back to Reggie.
“No,” Reggie said, wiping the tears off his cheeks.
“Come on,” Trent said, his hand on Reggie’s shoulder. “I’ll walk with you.”
As they walked, balancing the bike between them, Trent and Reggie talked. They talked about bicycles, and Reggie told Trent about his new puppy.
When they waved good-bye, Trent felt good about what he’d done. He realized that although he hadn’t faced starvation or bears, as the pioneer children in his book had, by acting against his friends to help Reggie, he had acted with courage too. It was just another kind of courage.