Gospel Story Finder

By the time the motor coach passed Big Ben, Jamison knew what he was going to do. “Peter,” he whispered to his friend, “I’m not staying with the class. I want to explore the Tower of London alone.”
“Are you daft? Miss Wellington will really be upset.”
Before Jamison could reply, the teacher announced: “Get your lunches, and when we get off the coach, we’ll queue up (form a line) by the ticket booth.”
Later Jamison clutched his lunch bag nervously as he waited his turn to be searched by the Tower guard.
“Scotch eggs and biscuits (cookies) today, is it?” joked the guard as he quickly glanced into each sack. “You don’t have a bomb in there, do you?”
“N-No, sir,” stammered Jamison. Everyone was checked before entering the Tower because a bomb had recently been planted there.
Miss Wellington led the class down the stone causeway into the Tower of London. Jamison marched beside Peter.
“I’ve got to drop back, or someone will tell on me when I slip away,” said Jamison.
“I’m going with you,” replied Peter.
“You might get in trouble.”
“When Miss Wellington asks for partners to hold up arms and I don’t have a partner, she’ll know you’re gone. If both of us leave, nobody will miss us.” Peter looked to see if anyone was listening. “How do you plan to get away?”
“Simple—when we stop at the scaffold site on the Tower Green, we’ll slip away.”
Jamison had been on field trips to the Tower before and knew that at each important site a guide was stationed to explain its history.
When they reached the place where many famous people had been beheaded, a large crowd stood listening to the guide. Different school groups could be recognized by their uniforms. Miss Wellington stopped her class on the edge of the crowd.
Jamison jerked at his friend’s sleeve. Carefully the two boys inched from one group of tourists to the next. “Where are we going?” asked Peter as he dashed after his friend.
“To the White Tower. I want to see the armor. We never stop long enough there for me to really examine everything.”
The boys entered the White Tower and climbed the narrow, winding stone steps to the Chapel of St. John. Behind the Chapel they reached the room where swords from the early Middle Ages were displayed on the walls and in cabinets.
“Oh, look at this sword!” cried Peter, pointing to a long-bladed weapon with a jeweled handle.
“Now isn’t this better than trailing along with the class and looking at all those crown jewels and silver goblets?” asked Jamison with a grin.
The boys walked from display to display, exclaiming in whispers. Finally Jamison said, “I’m hungry. Let’s go up to the top floor and eat our lunch.”
“They won’t let us eat up there,” said Peter.
“I’ll show you a place where we can eat and they won’t see us.” Jamison wiggled his way through the people standing beside a counter of Middle Ages armor and headed for some stairs. He motioned for Peter to follow.
The top floor opened into a large hall where suits of armor stood like silent guards. A few tourists were moving slowly from display to display.
Jamison marched with confidence past a horse carrying a rider. Both man and beast were completely outfitted in mail and armor, ready for battle.
One cabinet housed fourteenth-century breastplates and gauntlets. Others displayed shields of various sizes and with different designs.
Quickly Jamison glanced around the room. Satisfied that no one had noticed them, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled behind a display of crossbows. Peter followed.
It was dark in the corner, but the boys were completely secluded from view. When Jamison was satisfied that they were safe in their hiding place, he sat on the floor and crossed his legs. “Let’s eat. But don’t drop any crumbs,” he warned. He pulled his scotch egg from the sack and took a bite. (A scotch egg is made by taking a hard-cooked egg, rolling it in sausage, and frying it in deep fat.) Each boy ate his egg with delight.
“What kind of biscuits do you have?” asked Peter. “I’ve a chocolate chip and two shortbread. Have you anything to swap?”
“I’ve two oatmeal and a ginger with white icing. I wish the school had packed those marshmallow biscuits with chocolate on top,” whispered Jamison.
When the boys finished eating, they carefully folded their paper sacks and stuffed them into their pockets. Jamison peeked out of their hiding place to see if all was clear.
Everyone had gone while they ate. “We have the place to ourselves. Isn’t it great?” whooped Jamison as he dashed around the room.
“Jamison, don’t you think it’s a bit odd that nobody’s up here besides us?”
“Someone will be along in a minute.” Jamison walked over to a display and lifted a knight’s faceplate. “Hello in there,” he called.
Soon Jamison also began to feel uneasy. No one had entered the room, and he knew they had been alone for at least fifteen minutes. “Maybe we’d better go find the class,” he said. “I’ve seen enough, haven’t you, Peter?”
As they dashed down the narrow stone steps, their footsteps echoed against the walls. Jamison grew more nervous. No one had come up as they descended. At the foot of the stairs Jamison reached for the heavy iron latch on the door and tugged. Nothing happened.
“Peter, the door is locked! We’re trapped in here.”
“What? Let me try. We can’t be. Miss Wellington will have the headmaster punish us if we aren’t back when the class boards the coach.” Peter yanked at the door, but it didn’t budge.
“Let’s go to a window and call for help,” said Jamison. “Someone will hear us.”
They hurried into the nearest room.
“There’s a window!” shouted Jamison. He ran to it and looked out. “Peter!” he gasped. “They’ve roped off this area. Look!”
“What does it mean?”
“The guards must have received a bomb threat or something. They’ve closed this building and evacuated the area,” replied Jamison, unable to keep the tremble from his voice.
“What if the building blows up?” Peter asked, swallowing hard. “We could get hurt or maybe even die.”
“If we’d stayed with the class, we wouldn’t be here now. I know I’m supposed to follow rules. Mum and Dad taught me that. And now you’re trapped too! I’m sorry, Peter. It’s all my fault!”
“It’s my fault, too—I chose to come with you. I thought it would be a lark … We could have come back another time. Our parents would have brought us.”
Just then a police siren wailed and an armored demolition lorry (truck) wheeled around the corner. The tower guards rushed over to the bobbies (policemen) jumping from the lorry and began explaining the situation.
Jamison stuck his head out the window and waved his arms. “Hello! We’re up here! We’re locked in!”
The guards and the bobbies looked relieved to see the boys. One shouted, “We’ll have you down in a few minutes!”
Jamison and Peter were at the door when they heard the key turn.
“You’d better dash over to your coach,” one bobby growled. “Your teacher’s been giving the guards fits because they’ve had other people to look out for—some blind students and a group of foreign tourists—before they could make an all-out search for you. I’m glad you’re found, though. Go along now—leg it!”
Jamison and Peter did not stop running until they reached the motor coach. “When we get back to the school, we’ll decide what to do about your leaving the group,” Miss Wellington told them. She sounded more scared than angry. But the two boys were quick to sit where she pointed. “Take those seats where I can keep an eye on you. I don’t want you straying again!”
Jamison looked at Peter. “She doesn’t have to worry about us ever straying again, does she?”

When I went outside that Saturday morning, I didn’t say to myself, “I hope a bug flies into my mouth today.” But as I was jogging, it happened. A bug flew right into my mouth! It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I didn’t even see it coming.
What do you think I did when that insect zipped between my teeth? Well, I didn’t swish it around and savor it. I didn’t leave it there just to see what would happen. I didn’t swallow it. I didn’t even take time to think about it. I just spit it out and kept running, sputtering along the way.
Have you ever had a “bug” fly into your mouth? Have you ever innocently come across an inappropriate picture or song or word or idea? You probably have. Evil influences are all around us, and while we can do much to avoid them, we will probably be exposed to them through no fault of our own. These spiritual bugs are deadly—much more harmful to our spirits than that little insect was to my body.
What should you do if a spiritual bug flies into your mouth? You should give it the same treatment I gave the bug that flew into mine: Spit it out! Don’t hesitate. Walk away. Run away if you have to. Turn off the TV. Turn off the radio. Turn off the computer. Throw that book or magazine in the garbage can where it belongs.
Exercise what President Brigham Young (1801–77) called “the mental force of faith.” He said: “By and by the world will be overturned according to the words of the prophet, and we will see the reign of righteousness enter in, and sin and iniquity will have to walk off. But the power and principles of evil, if they can be called principles, will never yield one particle to the righteous march of the Savior, [unless] they are beaten back inch by inch, and we have got to take the ground by force. Yes, by the mental force of faith, and by good works, the march forth of the Gospel will increase, spread, grow and prosper.”
President Young was speaking about our efforts to fill the world with the gospel, but his words also apply to our efforts to fill our lives with goodness. Force that evil thought or image out of your mind by singing a hymn, reciting a scripture, saying a prayer. “Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:21).
Remember what President Gordon B. Hinckley has taught us over and over again about pornography:
“Of course you are tempted. It seems as if the whole world has become obsessed with sex. In a very beguiling and alluring way, it is thrown at you constantly. You are exposed to it on television, in magazines and books, in videos, even in music. Turn your back on it. Shun it. I know that is easy to say, and difficult to do. But each time that you do so, it will be so much the easier the next time. What a wonderful thing it will be if someday you can stand before the Lord and say, ‘I am clean.’
“The Lord has given a commandment in our time that applies to each of us. He has said, ‘Let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly.’ And with this He has given a promise, ‘Then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God’ (D&C 121:45). I believe He is saying that if we are clean in mind and body, the time will come when we can stand confidently before the Lord. … There will be a feeling of confidence and there will also be smiles of approval.”
Remember: if a bug flies into your mouth, spit it out!

He just didn’t look like my grandpa anymore. Or act like him, either. It was like Grandpa was gone and had left an old man who sat in the recliner and stared out the window.
“I don’t know if I want to go to his birthday party tomorrow, after all,” I told Mom. “Maybe this whole thing isn’t such a great idea.” When she didn’t say anything, I added, “He used to be so much fun.”
Mom raised her eyes from the knitting in her lap. Her eyes were sad. “Well, you know why, Cari. Right?”
I nodded. Of course I did. Grandpa was sick. He couldn’t swim or play Ping-Pong or do much of anything anymore. Before I went to bed that night, I picked up the framed picture that sat on my bookshelf. It was a photograph of Grandpa turning a cartwheel. His big sneakers waved wildly in the air. Those stupid cartwheels!
Oh, when I was a little kid, I thought it was cool. But as I got older, I realized how ridiculous it was to have your grandfather doing stunts like that. What was he thinking—that he was an acrobat or something? I wondered. Talk about embarrassing!
After a while, I started staying away from Grandpa. For as long as I could remember, I’d been going over to his house after school. Grandpa taught me to snorkel and to bake bread. But when I refused to turn cartwheels with him these past couple of years, he never understood why. Somehow I don’t think he realized that I might be humiliated by something he did.
“Why should I?” I’d say.
Grandpa would chuckle. He’d take off, bounce on his toes, then spring sideways. “For the pure joy of it!” he’d call as his feet whizzed over his head. Once upright, he’d grin and say, “‘This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.’”*
Whatever, I’d think. But I wouldn’t be caught dead turning a cartwheel. It was bad enough watching him act like that.
Later I’d actually avoided Grandpa whenever I could. Oh, I dropped by after school—but only because Mom asked me to check on him. I’d stand by the front door and ask, “Anything I can do for you?”
Grandpa’s eyes looked duller every day. “I’m fine, Cari. Thanks.”
I’d put my hand on the doorknob. “Well, then …”
He’d nod. “Go find something fun to do.”
But looking at that picture made my eyes burn. I gulped at the piano-sized lump in my throat, but it didn’t go away. I slapped the picture facedown on my bookshelf and crawled under the covers. After a while, I actually went to sleep.
I was watching TV the next afternoon, the day of Grandpa’s party, when the electricity went out.
I wandered around the house. The clock on the mantel said four o’clock. Great. Mom wouldn’t be home for about an hour and a half. I could only hope that the power would be back on tonight while Mom was at Grandpa’s birthday party. In the meantime, … what? Idly, I picked up the picture of Grandpa from my bookshelf. The look on his face caught me, held me. That smile! Even upside down, anyone could see it came straight from his heart.
My chest ached. I got up and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like someone who had lost her best friend. My mouth turned down; my eyes, hazel like Grandpa’s, were dull. The thought struck me—I looked the way Grandpa had looked this afternoon after school as I’d stood with my hand on his doorknob, waiting to get away from him. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Grandpa must feel like he’s lost his best friend too. And wasn’t it true about both of us? But did it have to be this way?
I heard Grandpa’s voice saying, “‘This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.’”
Wasn’t it about time I started rejoicing? The girl in the mirror straightened her shoulders. The reflected eyes brightened. Suddenly I had a mission—and not much time!
“You’re coming to the party?” Mom had an ear-to-ear smile as she put the final touches on the cake. “That’s great, Cari. It will make Grandpa so happy.”
I nodded, opened my mouth to say something, but couldn’t figure out what to say or how to say it, so closed my mouth.
Mom squeezed my shoulder. “I know,” she said softly.
And that’s how it happened that while Mom was cooking lasagna in Grandpa’s kitchen, I was turning cartwheels in Grandpa’s living room. With my aunts and uncles and cousins and cousins’ boyfriends and girlfriends there, I was playing to a full house. Let’s face it, I was hardly poetry in motion. Even with the afternoon of practicing, I was pretty rusty.
I heard one cousin mutter to another, “It takes all kinds.” The other one said, “Yeah, what a show-off, huh?” And, I have to admit, I felt like a clown! Maybe this had been an absolutely ridiculous idea after all.
But then I saw the grin on Grandpa’s face, the old sparkle in his eyes. He had the exact same look on his face that he used to have when he was doing this stunt for me. And he laughed. A laugh that seemed to come from his toes.
I had to stop and just watch him for a while. I guess it was the first time I ever saw a heart cartwheel!

Later he served in the Ecuador Guayaquil Mission. Just three months into his mission, while serving as branch president in the town of Jipijapa, he mourned with branch members and others after an 11-year-old boy drowned while participating in a Church activity.
As he pleaded with Heavenly Father in the weeks and months that followed, he gained an unshakable testimony of the plan of salvation. He also witnessed the Lord’s compassion as others in the community embraced the gospel. Together they came to understand the sacred nature of life and the power of the Lord’s grace.

I discovered file-sharing software as a college freshman, and, however innocently, I quickly got caught up in the world of free downloads. I thought that since it was so easy, and seemingly without penalties, it was harmless. Before long, my hard drive was jammed with almost 1,000 of my favorite songs.

Then I started to wonder about the collection of songs on my computer. Every time I listened to them, I felt guilty for enjoying something I hadn’t paid for. As much as I loved my music, I just couldn’t feel right about keeping it. I finally deleted the software.

A few months later, I heard rumors that the record labels were filing lawsuits against people who used the same file-sharing software I had just removed. Some people were being fined more than $100,000! I couldn’t believe it.

After the shock wore off, I realized just how serious music pirating is. Fortunately, I had removed all my files before the legal battles began, so I didn’t have to worry about paying monetary damages. But I realized that I hadn’t gotten away without damaging my spirit. I had known stealing was wrong since I was a child, and yet I had convinced myself that somehow this was different.

There’s an 89-year-old lady in my ward. She’s like the granny of the ward, you could say. So everybody calls her Granny.
One day she told me that the monkeys were coming into her garden and eating all her good fruit because her net had fallen down. In our area of South Africa there are monkeys everywhere, and they make a really big impact on the community.
I said, “Oh, Granny, I would love to come and help you. I’m free this Saturday. I have nothing to do anyway, so I’ll come over and help you build a net.”
Granny and Neo
When I arrived on Saturday, she was sitting patiently on her chair waiting for me. We went out to the garden, and I helped her build the net. I don’t know how I did it, because they’re so complicated, but to this day it still stands up right.
Neo with Granny’s monkey net
For me, it didn’t seem like a big deal to help Granny—I wasn’t doing anything that day. But it was a big deal for her. It taught me that service might be the smallest thing for me, but to the other person, it can be the biggest thing.

Sharing the gospel is about people, not numbers. So what happened in Immokalee, Florida, began just as it should have, when Junior Reyes invited one of his friends to come to church.
Little did he know what he was starting.
At the time, there were only two Aaronic Priesthood bearers in the Immokalee Branch: Junior and another young man named Jorge Caceres. Jorge was born in the Church but had become discouraged because for a long time he had been the only Aaronic Priesthood bearer in the branch. So Junior, a convert, was the only one who went to stake firesides.
“Every time I’d go, I’d see the other branches and all the youth in the stake, but from our branch, it would just be me,” Junior says. “Finally, I said, ‘Why am I the only one here from Immokalee? I’ve got to open my mouth.’
“The way I was raised, I was taught not to be scared,” he continues. “When I talk to my friends about Jesus Christ and the restored gospel, I’m not afraid; I’m happy. I know what I’m telling them can help them make their lives better.”
So Junior invited his friend Wedner Daly to come to church. “I said, ‘You learn a lot of things and you get a lot of blessings, and it’s worth it.’”
Wedner accepted.
“I didn’t think anything special about it at first,” Wedner says. “I thought it would be like other churches. But when I got there, it was the day that everybody shared their testimonies, so I got to feel the Spirit when I first came. That was different for me. I had never been to a church where people shared their testimonies and felt great about their church. That’s one of the reasons that I liked it.”
So Wedner invited his friend, Milsont Pierre. Milsont started coming to weeknight activities and then to Sunday meetings, and then the missionaries started teaching his family. He remembers vividly, “I felt the Spirit, over and over again, especially during the sacrament prayers. I knew this was the true Church.” Milsont and his three brothers were baptized and confirmed, as well as a cousin, a nephew, and four of Milsont’s friends.

At 4:30 A.M. my alarm went off as usual. I reached over and shut it off as I do every morning. I sat up in the dark and asked myself why I do this to myself every morning. After I was done complaining about how stupid early-morning seminary was, I got up and got ready to go.
Just like every day, I arrived five minutes late and sat in a seat in the back row farthest from the teacher. It seemed that lately my testimony had been going down the tubes. Things had not been going right. My grades had been suffering. I thought that if I were living right then everything else in my life should be good too.
As I sat in the back, not listening to the lesson, I began to wonder if the Church was really true. The thought scared me. I was worried that the things I had been taught all my life were wrong. It made me afraid. Right there in class, I started praying mentally to my Father in Heaven for help. I was asking him for help in finding out if the Church was true or not.
By this time, I had totally tuned out of the lesson being taught. Finally seminary was over. My brother and I were getting in my car when I noticed a piece of paper on the windshield. I took it and saw that it was from another church down the street. At first I thought it was an advertisement. I opened the paper and in big bold letters at the top it said, “In Which Shall We Believe?” I began reading it. It was a list of scriptures and quotations from the Book of Mormon and other Church books and leaders that seemed to contradict each other.
We took the paper home to my parents. We went straight to them and told them we got this anti-Mormon flier on our windshield. They read through it. We talked for a few minutes about one of the statements, which Mom helped answer for me. Then my parents put the paper on the desk. We had to leave for school.
A couple of days later, I took the other church’s flier and started reading through it. I started looking up each quotation in the scriptures and in other books. The paper was wrong. I found that the statements did not contradict each other. The people who had prepared the flier had only taken part of the scripture or part of a quotation. This made me remember what one of my Primary teachers had told me. She said, “Read the scriptures as a whole and not a part.”
I knelt down beside my bed and prayed. I asked Heavenly Father if the Church was true and if what I was reading in the Book of Mormon was correct. I said amen and stayed on my knees for a few minutes and listened. When I got up, I was totally energetic. I felt so good and so happy. I knew by how I felt that it was true. That was my answer.
Since that time I have studied the scriptures more. In a funny way I was grateful to those people who had been trying to tear down the Church. I even wrote a letter to the other church thanking them for the flier. I told them they had really helped me a lot with my testimony. Because of them, I was motivated to find out for myself. I found out it was true.

In the village where my wife grew up, her parents, who were good churchgoing people, embraced the gospel as a young married couple with my wife as their two-year-old daughter and only child at that time. Their decision to become members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had a great impact on their lives as they were shunned by the villagers and by their family. It took many years, loving notes to family members, and service to the community before they were finally accepted.
On one occasion when my wife’s father was serving as a bishop, he was falsely accused of something and was immediately released. My mother-in-law was so hurt that she asked her husband if they should continue to go to church. He answered that they of course would continue to go to church since this is not the church of men, but this is the Church of Jesus Christ.
It took some time before the truth came to light and apologies were made. What could have been their breaking point just added to their strength and conviction.

Joe and Zella Wendel went on a mission. Her legs were bothering her, and they got worse in the mission field instead of better. She wrote home, “I thought we were just to work in the office, but now we find we are to proselyte also. But my knees are so bad we just can’t go out looking for people, so we are praying very hard to find someone right here in our apartment building.” In three months they had three baptisms—new move-ins from their apartment building! Those missionaries were my parents.

Thomas Giles, a Welsh convert who joined the Church in 1844, suffered much in his lifetime. He was a miner, and while he was digging coal in the mine, a large piece of coal hit him on the head and made a wound nine inches (23 cm) long. The doctor who examined him said the injured man would not live longer than 24 hours. But then the elders came and blessed him. He was promised that he would get well and that “even if he would never see again, he would live to do much good in the Church.” Brother Giles did indeed live but was blind the rest of his life.

In 1856 Brother Giles and his family moved to Utah, but before he left his homeland, the Welsh Saints presented him with a harp, which he learned to play well. At Council Bluffs, Iowa, he joined a handcart company and headed west. “Though blind he pulled a handcart from Council Bluffs to Salt Lake City.” While crossing the plains his wife and two children died. “His sorrow was great and his heart almost broken, but his faith did not fail him.” When Brother Giles arrived in Salt Lake City, President Brigham Young, who had heard his story, loaned Brother Giles a valuable harp until his own arrived from Wales. Brother Giles “traveled from settlement to settlement in Utah, … gladdening the hearts of the people with his sweet music.”

“Let’s go! They’re waiting for us,” I said anxiously. I was nervous, the crowd was waiting, and I was ready to perform.
My friends Carson, Mark, Tyson, Bryce, and I had formed a dance group called Saturday Knights. After performing well in a competition, our group had become well known in the community. Tonight we were dancing during the intermission of a scholarship pageant.
As we were about to go on stage, Mark suggested we say a prayer. We always have a prayer before and after each performance.
“No, let’s just go,” I said. “They’re waiting for us. We don’t have time.”
Mark looked at me intently and said firmly, “There is never enough time to thank the Lord for all He has given us. We have time to pray.”
I was struck dumb. I stood there feeling terrible. Correcting myself, I knelt with my friends, said a prayer of thanksgiving, and then went on stage.
Mark’s comment gave me a new perspective on gratitude. He was right. There really isn’t enough time to thank Heavenly Father for all of His countless blessings. Because of Mark’s example, my testimony was strengthened. I have never forgotten his words, and my life has been greatly blessed because of them.

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.”

Some years ago, a client seeking my professional advice described to me the nature of his business, which involved selling secondhand furniture and household goods in partnership with his father. They acquired their stock by attending auctions and market sales and by clearing unwanted items from homes. They were always careful to ensure that they could realize more money in reselling than they had expended in the purchase.
On one occasion, the son had contracted to clear the contents of a home following the death of an elderly occupant. Hanging in one of the rooms was a painting. Pausing to examine it, he considered the possibility that one day he would discover an antique or painting of far greater value than the previous owner had realized. But concluding that this painting was not in that category, he removed it from where it was displayed, carried it to his vehicle, and put it among the other items.
Later, as he and his father were unloading the vehicle, the father picked up the artwork, examined it carefully, and said, “I wish I knew more about paintings and how to tell if they are valuable.” The son responded that he was sure this one would not be classified as such. Nevertheless, the father felt it would be worth having the painting checked by a friend who managed an art gallery.
Several days later, the father’s friend informed him that the painting probably had a value of at least £12,000 (almost U.S. $29,000 in the early 1970s). Excited by the news, the father and son set out for the art gallery to collect the painting. This time they took a blanket in which they carefully wrapped the work of art. The son held it securely in his arms as they returned to the shop. The painting sold at auction for £12,500.
In telling this story, my client concluded by saying, “I can’t imagine why anyone would be prepared to pay so much for such an ordinary painting.”

The girls decided to use this experience as a Personal Progress project. Each girl sewed her own bonnet as part of the authentic pioneer costume for the festival. They practiced for hours to memorize the story they had chosen—the story of Fanny Fry, who traveled with the George Rowley handcart company in 1859.
Fanny was separated from her family and endured hardships while crossing the plains. One day she fainted and was run over by her handcart. Thinking she was dead, the sisters began preparing her for burial. The Iowa Beehives love to tell how surprised those good sisters were when Fanny opened her eyes. Despite her injuries, Fanny pressed on and was later reunited with her sister.

When it came time for Micah to be baptized several years ago, his mom asked who he wanted to invite to his baptism. Micah invited seven friends, and they all came! “I was happy that I was supported by everyone,” he says.
During the next few days, Micah’s friends asked him about his baptism and the Church. “I brought scriptures and talked with them about what the Church is about,” Micah said. “It was really cool to tell them what the Church means to me and my family.”

Church leaders were assigned by the First Presidency of the Church to reorganise the stake presidency. They had prayed and received impressions to their hearts and minds (See Doctrine and Covenants 8:2) that Kumaitotoya, who was then serving as a bishop, was the man the Lord had chosen.
Kaumaititoya received authority to lead the stake as Church leaders placed their hands on his head and blessed him in the same manner as the disciples were in the Biblical account found in John 15.
Elder David A. Bednar, of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, taught that the priesthood is the authority to act in the name of Jesus Christ. He said, “Because Christ is not here with us, His priesthood is needed to teach His doctrine and to perform the ordinances of salvation. Priesthood authority is given to worthy male members of the Church and is received ‘by the laying on of hands by those who are in authority, to preach the Gospel and administer in the ordinances thereof’ (Articles of Faith 1:5). Theological training or reading the Bible does not convey priesthood authority; rather, it comes from God according to the pattern He has established.”1
The call in 2013 came as a surprise to 45-year-old Solomone Kaumaititoya. It was not something for which he sought or to which he aspired. In fact, it caused him deep introspection and feelings of inadequacy. He would continue in his full-time career as an airline purser to financially support his family.
Kaumaititoya prayed fervently, asking, “Lord, what do you want me to do? What do you want me to say?” He also wondered, “How can I still do my job and be a stake president?”
The answers came to Kaumaitotoya in the form of scriptures and dreams that penetrated his heart deeply.
The words found in Moses 1:39, “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man,” left an impression upon Kaumaititoya. He said, “This was a call to do the Lord’s work. It wasn’t about me.”
Dreams came to President Kaumaititoya every few days when he was first called. He was shown some of the events that would happen in the stake. He said, “I knew what to do because I had seen it in a dream.”
He found that his life experiences had also prepared him in ways he couldn’t foresee. President Kaumaititoya had a very difficult childhood. As a young teenager, he climbed a hill one day to pray and to ask God why he had to go through such hard things.
He recalled, “I was really angry with God. I couldn’t understand why the Lord would let me go through such hard things. I was asking Him why?”
Kaumaititoya didn’t understand, at first, the answer that came on the hill that day: “For your experience.”
As he served, he made sense of what “for your experience” meant, when a teary congregant walked into his office to seek his ecclesiastical counsel about a similar family situation. Afterwards, it dawned on Kaumaititoya what the answer to his boyhood prayer meant. His path and his challenges had prepared him to minister to and serve people with understanding and love.
Lavinia Kaumaitotoya voiced her gratitude for her husband’s opportunity to serve. She said, “I have seen my husband grow and change to become a more spiritual, loving father and husband. I have seen him coming to know the Saviour.”
Latter-day Saints believe that callings or invitations to accept responsibilities or offices in the Church, are opportunities for growth and refinement. Serving the Lord and others in these volunteer roles increases love for God and for His children. It is a blessing to sacrifice time and energy for the Lord and to be called by Him to do His work.
Nine years ago, when Lavinia and Solomone Kaumaitotoya learned that it was time for a new stake president to be called, they fasted and prayed. They called upon the Lord to bless those seeking inspiration to know who the Lord wanted to lead their stake. They prayed that their stake would be blessed.
Almost as a bookend, the Kaumaitotoya’s again fasted and prayed the week before the stake conference when Solomone would be released as stake president, offering prayers of gratitude, and seeking blessings for the new stake president.
Solomone Kaumaitotoya declared, “President Adrian Yee has the authority to lead the stake now, and I sustain him. I’m ready to do whatever the Lord wants me to do.”

Soon my 12th birthday came. I was ordained a deacon. Around this time, my family moved to Madison, Wisconsin, USA. I missed my friends, but I was excited to make new ones. Madison was much bigger than Manti. My new school was large. There weren’t many members of the Church. One day some popular kids invited me to a party. But the party was on the same night as a Church activity. I had learned from my experience in Primary that good things happen when I am faithful in attending my Church meetings. I thanked them for inviting me, and I explained why I couldn’t come.
The day after the party, everyone at school was talking about it. They had been drinking alcohol at the party, and everyone who went got in a lot of trouble! I was so grateful that I had been where I needed to be.

Making the right choice was not always easy. My father and mother had a difficult time providing for their large family, so those of us who were old enough did our best to help out. When I was 18 years old, I needed to buy a pair of pants, but after sharing my salary with my family, all I had left was the exact amount I owed in tithing. I was tempted to spend that tithing money for those pants, but I paid my tithing, and during the next week I got an extra job that allowed me to buy the pants.

At stake conference I heard a General Authority speak about being committed to making the right decisions. Afterward, I remember getting on my knees and saying to Heavenly Father, “This is what I plan to do. Wouldst thou help me?” I vowed that I would keep the Word of Wisdom throughout my life, that some day I would tell my grandchildren truthfully that I had never touched tobacco, tea, coffee, or a drop of liquor. I decided then how I was going to act so that decision never had to be made again.