Gospel Story Finder

She thought back to the first time she had seen them—two young men, “boys” to her, who were about the same age as some of her grandsons. She had been trimming the hedge when she saw them come out of the alley and turn toward her, two well-groomed young men in suits. The sight made her lift her eyebrows in mild surprise and curiosity. It seemed different to see decent kids again, she had thought, picturing her own grandsons who had that awful long hair and were doing things that kids just shouldn’t do. “But,” she said, addressing the hedge, “they are still the best grandkids around.”

She wondered what these two young men did in their suits and on bikes at 9:45 in the morning. She wasn’t left to wonder too long. When they got to where she was working, they stopped. One called out, “Howdy, ma’am.” She stopped snipping and tilted her head way back so as to get a better view of them through her glasses, which always dangled precariously on the tip of her nose.

“Good morning,” she replied.

“Ma’am, my name is Elder Blackburn and this is my companion Elder Lyon.

“We are representatives of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, more commonly known as the Mormon church.” (With the mentioning of the word Mormon, her mind reeled with the many things she had heard. Pictures of wild-eyed religious fanatics with long, flowing beards and thousands of wives raced through her head.)

“Have you ever heard of the Mormon church?” the one called Lyon asked.

“Wha-what was that?” she stammered, as her thoughts popped like an over-occupied toy balloon.

“Have you ever heard of the Mormon church?”

“Well,” she began slowly, trying to think of a way to get out of the situation, “yes, I have, but I’ve got my own church.”

“That’s wonderful,” the one called Blackburn said, cutting her off before she had the chance to say she wasn’t interested. “We are new in the area of Rosmont, and today we are going around talking to our new neighbors. We live over on Richardson Street, behind Mrs. Garrett. Do you know Mrs. Garrett?”

“I know her quite well. I’ve lived here for 48 years.”

Lyon began again: “We are also talking with our neighbors about a visit that the Sav—” This time it was her turn to interrupt.

“Boys, I hate to be rude, but I’ve got a lot to do, and I’m really not too interested right now, but thank you for saying hello. That is very sweet. More young people need to be as nice as you. Good-day.”

“Well, it has been nice talking with you, ma’am.” It was Blackburn again, and with that they were gone to the next house.

So then she knew who they were and what they were doing. As the days went by, she would see them leave between 9:30 and 9:45. They always waved as they passed and said hello. They even stopped every once in a while to chat. In a few months a new face took Elder Blackburn’s place. He was introduced as Elder Daringjer. (Same first name again, she thought.) The one called Daringjer had been a horticulture major before coming on his “mission” as they called it. They became instantly talkative, and she showed him all of her little plants and beauties.

One Monday morning she was surprised to find them in ordinary clothes, waiting in the garden for her. Elder Daringjer explained that they would like to work with her and help if they could. Elder Lyon mowed the lawns and trimmed the walks and hedges, while she and the other cared for her little fragile babies. While they worked, she found out many things about who these boys were and why they came out on missions. She also found out that they didn’t really all have the same first names; it was only a title.

By noon what would have taken her days to finish had been completed. They had wanted to come over and show her a film-strip on something or other, but she had politely refused. The fact that they didn’t push things at her seemed to make her think of them with more curiosity than before. She was thinking of them almost daily.

“Why do I bother with fanatics,” she asked a row of carrots one morning after several weeks of letting the elders come and weed, trim, and talk to her. She was very amazed when they told her that both of their families had vegetable gardens back home, and that their prophet had counseled the people to raise gardens, fix yards, repair homes, and care for their farms.

As the days went by, instead of holding her breath when they turned out of the alley toward her like she had during the first few weeks she had known them, she found herself holding her breath hoping they wouldn’t turn away.

“I wonder what makes young men spend two years visiting with people about a religion that doesn’t even have a professional clergy to give sermons? It sounds rather hastily set up. Some day I’ll just have to ask them inside to talk a little more.”

By 9:00 her morning work was done, and she was kneeling in her chrysanthemums, acting very busy with weeding, looking for any evil little bug that would bring harm to her small, delicate beings. Her thoughts kept wandering to the events that had happened just last week.

Her morning had started as usual, but at 7:30 her phone rang and it was bad news from her daughter. Her grandson, one of those with the long hair and bad habits, had been involved in what started as a stay-out-of-Africa rally and ended in a blood bath between students with rocks, signs, and knives and a local garrison of guardsmen with their clubs, shields, and guns. The rally ended with one dead national guard member and five dead students, of which her grandson had been one.

The shock lingered long after the telephone call. She sat staring at the kitchen wall for an hour, and finally she had dragged herself down to her flowers. There she sat, trying to forget. It was then she looked up, and instead of seeing two young men in suitcoats and on bikes turn out of the alley, only one was coming. His white shirt was missing its usual tie, and his bike and coat were gone. With head down and hands jammed hard in his pockets, clenched in fists of frustration, he was kicking rocks and old cans as he stomped toward her. She could see that he was talking to himself, and as the distance narrowed, she caught snatches of the angry words he was saying.

She sat and listened as he began having a mental battle with himself. First he’d mumble a scripture on patience, or brotherly love, or humility, then a quick comeback on patience being gone, and brotherly love destroyed by this or that, and humility nonexistent. The more he talked, the more the scriptures began to win until he was murmuring only pieces of scriptures and phrases of hymns that she had never heard before.

There had been a disagreement of some sorts; that was obvious. By the time he had reached the spot where she sat staring in the chrysanthemums, he had slowed and stopped. He stood looking at his scuffed shoes, totally unaware of her presence, his mind frantically searching for what to do. Pride said go, but love said stop. The hardness of his brow softened, the firmness around his mouth that had kept his gritted teeth solidly in place weakened, and she could see his eyes fill with tears. She became very conscious of her position and wished she were one of her beautiful little flowers blowing in the breeze.

Then from the alley a voice boomed: “Elder, wait! I—I’m sorry!” The young man near her slowly turned and looked where his partner was standing in his stocking feet.

For what seemed enough time to plant and harvest a section of wheat, the air remained empty of human sounds or movement. Then Elder Scuffed Shoes looked at her and, in a rather husky voice, asked if he could please have a flower. “A flower of forgiveness,” he had muttered. Mutely she clipped one for him and watched as he retraced his steps until he stood in front of the other. They were too far off for her to hear what was said, but she saw the flower exchange hands and watched as they walked back to their apartment in the alley, each with an arm around the other’s shoulder.

She had sat there in the flowers trying to figure out how one young man could know so much about love and have such an abundance of it, while another lay lifeless on a mortician’s table because of his gross lack of it. Both had been searching for what life really was. One had found it; the other hadn’t. Why? She couldn’t answer her own question. Finally she got up and left to prepare for a funeral many miles away. Even as she left, she knew she had to find the answer to “Why?” when she returned.

She was kneeling in the chrysanthemums when she saw them coming.

“Turn up!” she whispered. “Turn up!” They looked right and left, they both saw her and waved, and then together they turned away. Her heart sank like a rock in a lake. She felt as if a building was falling on her, making her hands and mind feel heavy. She watched silently as they rode a little way and then stopped. They were talking to one another. She just sat in the flowers thinking that they were gone and she’d have to try again tomorrow. She considered just going to their small apartment to talk with them.

“I could bring something nice like fresh cookies,” she whispered to her small spade, knowing that she would never find the strength to do it.

The elders sat on their bikes looking back at their neighbor.

“What makes you think she wants to talk to us, Elder? The only things she talks about are her flowers.”

“I know, but did you see the way she was watching us? Did you see her eyes? I have a little sister who used to wait by the big window every day when I came home from work, and I could see in her eyes that she wanted to tell me what had happened to her in kindergarten that day.”

“So?”

“Well, Elder, look at her eyes, and besides that, she didn’t even wave at us. She always waves.”

“Maybe she’s mad.”

“I don’t really think so. Let’s just ask her if we can help her in some way. Look, she’s still watching us.”

“Okay, let’s go chat.”

They turned their bikes around and came back. When they stopped, Elder Lyon said, “Ah, ma’am? Could we help you?”

She just looked at them, and her eyes filled with tears. “Yes, Elder,” she said, through a slightly cracking voice. “Let’s go in the house, and you … well … I’ve got some questions I need some answers to.”

They walked up the stairs and onto the front porch. Before they went in, a thought came to her, and she said, “I hope this won’t take all morning, because there is an old man I must see today, an old man who suffered a stroke in the early spring. He must be awfully depressed watching his beautiful lawn go unattended. I think I’ll take him some flowers, flowers of forgiveness.”

A story might be interjected here. I have a brother sitting here before me who has served you for many years as a doctor in the McDonald Student Health Center. He has been a very, very liberal brother in the benefactions he has given to the family. For years he sent us Christmas gifts the like of which we could not reciprocate. One year when Sister Edmunds and I felt that we had a few extra dollars, we decided to make a present to him and his wife, a Christmas present that would be somewhat commensurate with what they had been doing for us. We went to one of the large stores in the Chicago Loop, one of the very prominent stores in the Midwest, and selected a beautiful set of china plates that were to cost us quite a sum of money. As I took out the check and began to fill it in, I said to the clerk, “I don’t want this sent out now.” It was then the middle of November, and I didn’t want the gift to appear as an invitation to my brother to go the extra mile and outdo me. So I said to the clerk, “I want you to hold this until the middle of December and then ship it.”

She said, “It is against the policy of the store to do that. If you pay for merchandise fully, we must send it out within a reasonable time. But you can do this: you can make a small payment on account and then, when you want the merchandise sent out, you can come into the store, pay the balance, and we’ll be glad to ship it.” We made a small payment and left.

About the middle of December I said to Sister Edmunds, “Don’t you think it’s about time we had that gift sent to Paul and Ella?” She agreed that it was and said she would go in and make the payment and order its shipment. During the afternoon, a few minutes after she had entered the store, I received a distress call at my office from my wife. She said, “Something terrible has happened. I came into this store and I spoke to one of the clerks and told her that I had come to make the balance payment on a gift we had ordered and to have it shipped to Utah. The clerk left me for a few minutes, came back, and then told me that the gift had been sent. I told her I didn’t see how it could have been because we hadn’t paid for it. She said, ‘Well, it was sent COD.’” What followed that in the telephone conversation is best described by my wife. She said, “When I told you that, there was a dead silence. I know that you are not a swearing man.” (This is her story; I am not admitting to anything.) “But you broke the silence of the telephone by saying, ‘Did you ever hear of anything so damned dumb?’” After saying that, embarrassment crowded in upon my mind, and I immediately wrote a letter of apology to my brother and sent him the money that he had had to pay to take the gift out of the mail.

In due course, I received a response from him which was very interesting. He said, “We could hardly believe, John, that you were sending us a Christmas gift COD. But we entered into the spirit of the thing and we took it out. We called in our friends and showed them this beautiful gift and told them how we had received it. Our friends and neighbors have come to the conclusion that it was a very smart idea. They’re all for bigger and better Christmas gifts. And we’re already planning on what we will send you for Christmas next year.”

As I contemplated what I might receive the next year, I thought to myself, “Well, I have to be a good sport. I’ll have to take it—whether it’s a wheelchair or an elephant.” Then I thought to myself, “There are some gifts he could send me that I wouldn’t mind paying for COD.” Then the thought came to me, “Why, aren’t all of our blessings sent to us in that same manner? Does not God give us our blessings COD?”

As life supplies its store of tribulation we need the consolation that comes with knowing that God is good and that he is near, that he understands, and that he loves us and will help us and strengthen us for the realities of a world where sin and affliction exist. And while I’m talking about principles this morning, I am not really thinking in the abstract, but I’m thinking of many noble souls who have met difficulties with courage, like my mother and many others who had little to rely upon—who had little but ingenuity and will and courage and faith. I’m thinking too of a more recent scene—a beautiful young face whiter than the hospital sheet upon which she lay, her sorrowing parents nearby grieving, as a relentless disease consumed her life. Comfort came to them in the quiet knowledge of the nearness of a Savior who himself had not been spared the most keen and intense suffering, who himself had drunk of the bitter cup.
From this source—from God and Christ—wisdom and strength can be found that will make endurance possible, and relationships generous and helpful, that will lead to abundancy of life and to everlasting life. God will “temper the wind to the shorn lamb,” and help us to endure all things and to continue to maintain integrity in the face of the siren song of invitation to “curse God and die”—die spiritually, die as to things pertaining to righteousness, die to hope and holiness and faith in a future where there is no corruption and no pain.
Christ came that men might have life abundant and life eternal, and he declared that “this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.” (John 17:3.)
And that knowledge, I testify, is the most important treasure one can possess or seek. From Hosea comes the word of the Lord:
“The Lord hath a controversy with the inhabitants of the land, because there is no truth, nor mercy, nor knowledge of God in the land. …
“For I desired mercy, and not sacrifice; and the knowledge of God more than burnt offerings.” (Hosea 4:1; 6:6.)
Soon thereafter the Lord said through Jeremiah:
“Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might, let not the rich man glory in his riches:
“But let him that glorieth glory in this, that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise loving kindness, judgement, and righteousness, in the earth: for in these things I delight, saith the Lord.” (Jer. 9:23–24.)
All the prophets taught this truth about God, and their prime purpose was not to argue or try to prove the existence of God but to be his witnesses, to testify that he lives and to make his will known among men. Christ revealed the Father in his life and teachings and parables. Through his Son the Father was not only bringing salvation and making eternal life possible for all men, but was offering the ultimate opportunity for men to know God himself.
This, we declare and testify, is a supreme blessing, for to “know the love of Christ which passeth knowledge” and thus to “be filled with all the fulness of God” (Eph. 3:19) is the source of the greatest comfort and consolation in this world, and the greatest motivating power for good. How do we gain this indispensable knowledge? The “works of the Lord, and the mysteries of his kingdom” can only “be understood by the power of the Holy Spirit, which God bestows on those who love him, and purify themselves before him; To whom he grants this privilege of seeing and knowing for themselves.” (D&C 76:114, 117.)
As a guest in the home of a choice young family only a few days ago, I was invited to offer prayer as we knelt together at the day’s beginning. Loving parents, who knew of my experience with little girls’ prayers, suggested that their three-year-old would like to pray first, as she regularly insists on doing. The tenderness of the moment increased as a six-year-old brother undertook to help her when she faltered.
The purity and openness of little children in their relationship with the Lord points the way for all of us. If we would seek the Lord, we must put off the “natural man” and become “as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon [us], even as a child doth submit to his father.” (Mosiah 3:19.)
It is written:
“None shall be found blameless before God, except it be little children, only through repentance and faith on the name of the Lord God Omnipotent.” (Mosiah 3:21.) What, then, is our course?
“Verily, thus saith the Lord: It shall come to pass that every soul who forsaketh his sins and cometh unto me, and calleth on my name, and obeyeth my voice, and keepeth my commandments, shall see my face and know that I am.” (D&C 93:1.)
“They did fast and pray oft, and did wax stronger and stronger in their humility, and firmer and firmer in the faith of Christ, unto the filling their souls with joy and consolation, yea, even to the purifying and the sanctification of their hearts, which sanctification cometh because of their yielding their hearts unto God.” (Hel. 3:35.)
By the revelations of his mind and will through the Holy Spirit, the Lord will give us understanding and knowledge. But we must qualify for the blessing. As we learn to love him, to purify ourselves before him, to yield our hearts to him, and to walk in the light of his Spirit, we can become again like a child and know him. He “waits,” Isaiah wrote, “that he may be gracious” unto us, and is “exalted, that he may have mercy” upon us. The Lord delights to bless us with his love.
We know that the Lord needs instruments of his love. He needs a Simon Peter to teach Cornelius, an Ananias to bless Paul, a humble bishop to counsel his people, a home teacher to go into the homes of the Saints, a father and mother to be parents to their children.
But it is also the privilege of every child of God to seek and know for himself the comforting personal assurance that comes with confidence in the wisdom and character of a beloved Heavenly Father.
There is an example that expresses my meaning well. Some years ago a young lady missionary shared with me some of the circumstances of her call. Her humble father, a farmer, had willingly sacrificed much for the Lord and his kingdom. He was already sustaining two sons on missions when he talked with his daughter one day about her unexpressed desires to be a missionary and explained to her how the Lord had helped him to prepare to help her. He had gone to the fields to talk with the Lord, to tell him that he had no more material possessions to sell or sacrifice or to use as collateral for borrowing. He needed to know how he could help his daughter go on a mission. The Lord, he said, told him to plant onions. He thought he had misunderstood. Onions would not likely grow in this climate, others were not growing onions, he had no experience growing onions. After wrestling with the Lord for a time, he was again told to plant onions. So he borrowed money, purchased seeds, planted and nurtured and prayed. The elements were tempered, the onion crop prospered. He sold the crop, paid his debts to the bank and the government and the Lord, and put the remainder in an account under her name—enough to supply her wants on a mission.
I will not forget the story or the moment or the tears in her eyes or the sound of her voice or the feeling in me as she said, “Brother Hanks, I don’t have any trouble believing in a loving Heavenly Father who knows my needs and will help me according to his wisdom if I am humble enough. I have a father just like that.”
There is, of course, much more to be said. The solutions that we wish and pray for do not always come about. The power that remade Paul, that poured in love and washed out hostility and hate, did not save him from the great travails, from Nero’s dungeon or a martyr’s death. Christ lived in him, he said, he had found the peace of God that passed all comprehension. Nothing, not tribulation, distress, persecution, famine, nakedness, peril, sword, death, life, angels, principalities, powers, things present, things to come, height, depth, nor any other creature, could separate him from the love of Christ—the love of God which is in Christ Jesus, our Lord. Christ died on a cross, and won his victory; his disciples and followers also have been subject to the brute forces and foibles of this world, yet through enduring faith they have shared and will share in that victory.
Like Habakkuk of old, we may in our anguish feel that we could bear anything if we could only understand the divine purpose in what is happening. The ancient prophet learned that the righteous live by faith and that faith is not an easy solution to life’s problems. Faith is confidence and trust in the character and purposes of God.
Habakkuk declared:
“Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vine; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls.
“Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation.
“The Lord God is my strength, and he will make my feet … to walk upon mine high places.” (Hab. 3:17–19.)
Our religion is “not weight, it is wings.” It can carry us through the dark times, the bitter cup. It will be with us in the fiery furnace and the deep pit. It will accompany us to the hospital room and to the place of bereavement. It can guarantee us the presence of a Captain on the rough voyage. It is, in short, not the path to easy disposition of problems, but the comforting assurance of the eternal light, by which we may see, and the eternal warmth, which we may feel. “The Lord is good: Blessed is the man that trusteth in him.” (Ps. 34:8.) In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

One morning a good many years ago, a member of the Council of the Twelve came to my office and told me of a beautiful, touching experience that had happened to him that day. He had gone to the old Deseret Gym to enjoy the steam bath for a while. As he sat there in the heavy steam, he heard the door open and looked upward toward the door to see who was entering. He could not see anyone, but he had a feeling someone else was there in the room with him. After a few minutes he saw a young Primary-age boy about eight or nine years old who had seated himself two or three feet away. The boy gradually slid closer to the Apostle, and they finally said “hello” to each other. Then the boy moved even closer until he could look up into the face of the Church leader. The little boy said, “Mister, I think I know who you are.” The Apostle said, “Who am I?” The boy said, “I think you are one of the Apostles of the Church. I think you are the one who travels all over the ocean on big boats and little boats and all kinds of airplanes—and you are the one who never gets sick or hurt in any wrecks.” The Apostle acknowledged that he was the one who was having those great experiences. The boy then said to him, “Do you know why it is you don’t ever get killed or get hurt?” The Apostle said, “No, why is that?” The little Primary boy said, “That’s because I pray for you.”
What a touching, lovely expression of faith in a simple, wonderful way! This experience happened forty years ago, but I think of it frequently. There is far more power in simple prayer than many of us think possible.

I stared out the car window, watching for a hotel. We had started looking for one when the sun was still up. Now it was getting dark, and we still hadn’t found a place to stay. They were all full!
Just then my sister Katie poked me and pointed out the window. “Look, Eliza. I see one!”
I sat up straighter. My eyes fell on the big, bold letters lit up on the sign: NO VACANCY.
Dad frowned. “That one doesn’t have any empty rooms. We’ll have to try the next town.”
I was starting to worry that we’d never find a place to stay. So I said a quiet little prayer. When I was done, I didn’t feel quite so worried. Somehow things would work out.
Soon Mom spotted another hotel. I looked around at the full parking lot. Would there be room for us here?
“I don’t see a No Vacancy sign. Let’s try it,” Dad said.
“Can I come in with you, Dad?” Katie asked.
Annie and Sarah peeked their heads over the back seat. “Us too?”
“Sure,” said Dad. “How about you, Eliza?” I nodded, and we all piled out and followed Dad across the dark parking lot.
“Aw, no pool,” Annie said, looking around.
When we got to the office, Sarah stretched her hand up to the counter and rang the bell. A lady came to the front desk. She was nice, but she told us that all the rooms were full.
I dragged my feet as we trooped back out to the car. When would Heavenly Father answer my prayer?
“No room again, huh?” Mom asked.
“Nope. But I got to ring the bell!” said Sarah.
“This is starting to feel like Mary and Joseph trying to find somewhere to stay in Bethlehem,” said Mom. “There just isn’t room for us!”
“Don’t worry,” Dad said. “Something will work out. We should say a prayer.”
“I already did,” I said. “Heavenly Father helped Mary and Joseph. He can help us find a place to sleep too.”
“And maybe the next one will have a pool,” Annie added hopefully as Dad started the car.
Soon Dad found another hotel and pulled into the parking lot. My heart jumped. This one might be the answer to my prayer.
“It has a No Vacancy sign,” Dad said. “But I’ll go ask just in case.”
Dad was gone for a long time. By the time he got back, I was nearly asleep. I thought I must be dreaming when I heard him say, “We’ll stay here.”
“Really?” I asked. “What about the No Vacancy sign?”
“The manager said his family owns a nice little camper that’s behind the hotel. He said we could sleep there.”
The camper was old but clean. There wasn’t a lot of room, but everyone had a place to sleep. Mom and Dad shared the bed with Sarah. The table folded down to make another bed for Katie. Annie and I slept on the floor. It was just right. Like the stable was just right for Mary and Joseph and the manger was just right for the new baby Jesus.
Before I fell asleep, I said a little prayer. Thank you, Heavenly Father. Thank you for helping us find a room. It’s perfect.

Clarissa Smith had two best friends. Both of them were daughters of Brigham Young. One day when the girls were together, shortly after Salt Lake Valley was settled in 1847, Josephine and Maimie Young were called from their play and told to meet their father. Clarissa was given permission to go with them. This was an exciting experience for Clarissa, because the meeting place was ZCMI, the biggest store in the little pioneer city. She could hardly wait to look at the beautiful piece goods she had heard about. She had often dreamed of a new dress or coat she might someday be able to have.
Brigham Young warmly greeted his two daughters and their friend. He ushered them through the store until they reached the counter where fabrics were sold.
“Let me see that brown velvet, please,” he asked the storekeeper. The bolt of cloth was lifted down from the shelf and the material was spread out on the counter.
“Please measure off a piece long enough to make cloaks for Maimie and Josephine,” their father directed the storekeeper. Then he looked down at the other little girl, whose eyes reflected her longing to at least touch the beautiful cloth.
“And cut off another length for Clarissa,” he said. Brigham Young smiled down at the girl, whose face shone with surprise and delight. “And please make it a very generous one,” he added.

When I think of accumulating things and the difference it makes, I think of the experience I had in Bacolod, on the Negros Island in the Philippines.

We were being driven to stake conference by President Ruiz. He had borrowed a car so we would have transportation. When we drove up to the little chapel there in Bacolod, there was no one around. I said, “President, maybe the conference is at another time.” He replied, “No, they’re all inside.” We drove into the parking lot—ours was the only car there. We got out of the car and walked into the chapel. It was packed to capacity and people were standing on the sides. The meeting commenced and the great stake president, President Villerette, stood. He looked at his people and tears began to stream down his face. He said, “I’m hungry. My wife and my children are hungry. All we have to eat is a little bowl of rice each day.” Then he said, “But you, my brothers and sisters, are hungry, too. And I promise you that if you will live and keep the commandments of the Lord that this will pass, and one day again we will have our stomachs full and be able to enjoy the blessings of our country.”

Dear Reed,
Sam and I need your help. We need it soon. You see, our family had Sam’s family come for family home evening last night. Dad taught a lesson about being a family forever. Sam and I sang “I Am a Child of God.” Then we made fruit sundaes with frozen yogurt and watched family movies.
Sam’s mom and dad said that they want to start having family home evenings at their house, and Sam asked if we could come to their house for one next week. His dad said that he has to be out of town next week and that he needed to practice giving lessons first. So Sam asked if we could come the Monday after that and said that he and I would give the lesson—and his parents said OK!
Now Sam and I have to get a lesson ready. We went through the Family Home Evening Resource Book, but we can’t decide what to do. What would be a good lesson for Sam and me to give? Please write soon!
Love,Buddy

I squinted against the huge snowflakes falling around me as I replaced my gas cap. Even the auto parts store across the street was a mere shadow in the incessant snow. Ducking my head, I tromped through the slush to the door of the Last Stop Gas and Grub.
“Eighteen-fifty on pump six,” I announced, setting a $20 bill on the counter.
“Where you headed?” the cashier, a man in his mid-50s with thinning gray hair, asked.
I pocketed the change. “St. Mary’s Cross.”
“Over the mountain?” He shook his head and chuckled. “The snowplow left 10 minutes ago. He was going up to close the road.”
“Close the road?” I’ve got to get to St. Mary’s Cross tonight. It’s Christmas tomorrow.”
“You got family in St. Mary’s?”
I hesitated. “I don’t have any family,” I grumbled bitterly. “I’m seeing a friend.”
“You’re pretty young not to have family,” the man commented.
I shrugged. I had no desire to explain that I’d left home a year and a half ago, two weeks after graduating from high school. I recalled my words as I stormed out the door while Mom and Dad begged me to reconsider: “Stop treating me like a kid!”
It hadn’t been a new conflict, just a continuation of the old one over too many chores, staying out late, reminders about church and seminary, and other festering irritations I had magnified.
Stubborn pride squelched every shadow of regret and made my resolve strong. I had traveled to Phoenix with my best friend, Kevan Powers, and landed a construction job with his Uncle Ray. We had both been fiercely determined to make it on our own. But a year ago November, Kevan had gone soft and crawled home. Now he was in South Korea on a mission. He had even written to me, suggesting that I talk to the bishop and reconsider a mission.
As long as Kevan had been with me, I received letters from home because Mom got my address from Sister Powers. Mom assured me in each letter that every night and morning when everyone knelt for family prayer, I was mentioned. At first I was irritated by her comment, but then I derived a strange comfort from it. I wanted to forget them, but I did not want them to erase me.
When Kevan left, I moved and the letters stopped because Mom didn’t have my address. Oh, I’d started a few letters, but I always ended up tossing them, determined to prove my point. But there were times on Sunday afternoons or Monday evenings when I was alone and couldn’t force my thoughts away from those quiet memories of home.
“Who knows when the road will open,” the cashier said. “My name’s Burt. Both our motels are already full, but you can stay here as long as you want. I don’t have anyplace to go. It’s just me and the wife, and she’s visiting family in Denver.”
I looked around. Across the aisle from the register was a long snack bar. The back wall was a series of glass doors opening to the beverage coolers. There were a couple of aisles with chips, candies, and emergency items.
“I wish there was a better selection of sandwiches and eats,” Burt remarked, “but folks cleaned me out earlier.”
I peered out the window as a white car trailing a gray haze from the exhaust chugged up to one of the pumps. “That car needs a good doctor,” Burt commented. “Or maybe a mortician.”
A woman I guessed to be in her late 20s stepped from the car and started pumping gas. She was joined by a seven-year-old boy in short sleeves who sloshed casually through the snow toward the store. The woman hung up the hose, snatched a little girl from the back seat, and charged toward the store. The three burst inside at the same time.
“Five dollars,” she gasped, pushing a wrinkled bill across the counter as the boy and girl wandered toward the candy. “Mark, we don’t have money for treats. We have to get to St. Mary’s.”
“Nothing’s going over that mountain, ma’am,” Burt announced. “Road’s closed.”
“Closed?” she moaned. “It can’t be. Not tonight.”
“You can stay here,” Burt added sympathetically. “This young fellow is.” He nodded toward me, but I looked away. “I’m Burt. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Melanie Parkes,” the lady muttered. Although she looked a bit haggard, she was pretty. But there was also a shade of hardness about her eyes and mouth.
“I’ve got to make it to St. Mary’s Cross,” she said. “I have a job starting the day after Christmas. I have to move into my apartment before then.”
“Are you having car trouble?” Burt asked.
“It just has to get me to St. Mary’s. After that I don’t care.”
For the next 20 minutes Burt puttered about his store and Melanie, her two kids, and I browsed up and down the aisles and watched the snow bury the world outside.
Retreating to the couch in the waiting area, I slumped down and closed my eyes. I was haunted by the memory of my Christmas a year ago. I’d spent it alone, suffocating on solitude while everyone else was with family.
I’d been determined to avoid another Christmas alone, so when Jace Peters called me and invited me to spend Christmas in St. Mary’s, I jumped at the chance. I had just finished a job in Colorado and was going to start another one in Las Vegas the Monday after New Year’s, so I had some free time.
Someone sat on the couch next to me. “It’s Christmas tomorrow,” a boy’s voice spoke.
“Mark, shhhhhh. The man’s resting.”
My eyes opened a crack. Melanie sat in the nearest booth with her little girl, peeling the plastic wrap from a hoagie sandwich. Mark didn’t move. “He’s not bothering anything,” I murmured.
For a long time Mark sat next to me without speaking. I pretended to sleep to discourage conversation. Finally I sat up and glared toward the window.
“This year I don’t think I’m getting anything for Christmas,” Mark whispered so his mom and Tracie couldn’t hear. “Ever since Dad left us last summer, it’s been pretty tough. Mom says things will get better, but she doesn’t want me to plan on anything. She says Santa won’t know where we are since we’re moving around a lot.” He thought a moment and added, “But I don’t believe in Santa. My friend Brandon explained all that Santa stuff to me last summer.”
Mark had big brown eyes that peeked out from under his thick, ruffled mop of long hair. I looked away because he reminded me too much of my youngest brother, Tanner. I wondered what Tanner was doing tonight. I wasn’t in the habit of feeling sorry for anybody, but I felt a twinge of pain for this little guy, who was bracing himself for Christmas morning instead of being wild with anticipation.
“A guy can be wrong about something like Santa,” I remarked.
“You don’t have to try to make me feel good,” he said, sounding older than his years. “Mom talked to me. But I’m okay. Where’s your family?”
“I don’t have a family.” The words were out before I even had a chance to think about them. I’d grown accustomed to telling people that lie, but I felt bad about repeating it to Mark. “Let’s just say I don’t have a family anymore,” I muttered.
A worm of guilt twisted inside me as a picture of the family flashed in my mind. They would be kneeling around the kitchen table about now. It wouldn’t matter who prayed. Whoever did would make the plea: “And, Heavenly Father, please bless C. J. wherever he is and help him to know we care.”
“You’re not getting anything for Christmas either?” Mark asked. The question took me off guard. I thought of my self-purchased Christmas out in the truck. I’d bought a top-of-the-line radio, CD, and tape player. I had picked out a new jacket, a pair of binoculars, a new watch, and several other smaller items as though things could purchase peace and ward off loneliness. Suddenly I was irritated for wasting my money.
I stood up and began thinking of home, only 180 miles away. But I couldn’t go back there, not without turning soft like Kevan. Besides, what would I say to them if I walked through the door? I shook my head, knowing I wouldn’t have to say anything. Mom, Dad, Tanner, and all the others would say everything. There would be no criticism—just open arms and welcome. But I couldn’t do that.
It was the waiting that was driving me crazy. I glanced outside again and my gaze went to Melanie’s car. I turned back to her where she sat in the booth with Tracie dozing in her arms. “You want me to take a look at your car?” I offered. “I’m a pretty good mechanic.”
Melanie smiled. “Thanks, but I don’t think anybody can do much with it. It’s been choking and jerking for days now. And I don’t have any money to fix it.”
“Maybe it doesn’t need much,” I grinned. “And I work cheap. Give me your keys and I’ll have a look.”
Mark followed me outside. Five minutes was enough to confirm Melanie’s suspicions. “It needs a new air filter. The fuel filter and pump need changing. The carburetor could use some work. I’ve got a tool chest in my truck but no parts. I could do something if that store across the street were open and …”
“The guy that owns that parts store is my neighbor,” Burt spoke up. “He owes me a favor or two.” He reached for the phone.
“No,” Melanie called out, “I don’t have any money.”
I smiled and shrugged. “It’ll only cost a few bucks. I’ll cover you. It’ll be my Christmas present to you.”
Melanie protested, but Burt ignored her and called his friend. I ended up buying the filters and pump, four quarts of oil, solution to clean the carburetor, and new spark plugs. I worked for the next two hours. When I was finished, I was surprised by the way the car sounded, even though my hands were numb and I was wet clear through. But there was a strange warmth too, reminding me of another time and place.
“Christmas is the Savior’s season,” Dad used to say. “It’s not so much about bright lights and tinsel as it is about helping folks out. That’s what the Savior would do. It’s the service that softens men’s hearts and opens their eyes to Christ.”
“It doesn’t sound like the same car,” Burt commented, grinning at Melanie. “You might make it to St. Mary’s after all.”
Melanie had tears in her eyes. “How can I ever thank you?” she choked. “I’ll pay you every penny as soon as I get a few things squared away.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Shoot, I’d have gone crazy sitting around in here with nothing to do. Forget it.”
“I guess you’re our Santa,” she said.
It was midnight and the road was still closed. Mark and his sister were sacked out on the sofa, and Melanie had rigged a makeshift bed in the booth.
I couldn’t rid my mind of Melanie’s forlorn remark that I was the only Santa they’d have this Christmas. I puzzled over their predicament.
Soon the coat, the CD player, the binoculars, and the watch were arranged neatly on the table with all the other items and a scrawled note: “To Melanie, Mark, and Tracie.”
As I stared at the small collection of gifts, I thought of home. “There ought to be a tree,” I commented softly to Burt.
“The store down the street has one. Maybe they’d let you borrow theirs,” Burt said.
I didn’t even wait to think about it. I just headed that way. When I entered the convenience store, there were a half-dozen truckers standing around complaining about the weather. I spotted a small, four-foot artificial tree in the corner. Next to it was a giant three-foot-tall white Christmas bear. I thought of Tracie.
“Um, what’s the chance of borrowing the Christmas tree for an hour?” I hesitated as I spoke to the cashier.
“The tree’s not for sale,” the man responded.
I wet my lips and glanced about self-consciously as several of the truckers stopped talking and listened. “I just want to take it down the street.” The cashier shook his head. In desperation I pressed, “It’s not for me. It’s for a lady and her little boy and girl. They’re stuck here until the road opens.” The man still shook his head. “I just want to give them a little Christmas,” I burst out. “I thought the tree …”
“It’s not for sale,” the man growled.
“He just wants to borrow it,” a big trucker snarled. “It’s Christmas, man.”
“It’s not for sale.”
“Maybe I’ll just take it,” the trucker threatened. “What would you do then?”
“Yeah, just take it,” another trucker called out, laughing.
“Take the bear too,” a third trucker said, chuckling. “The little girl will like it. I’ll even help pay for it.”
“I’ll sell the bear,” the cashier volunteered, attempting cooperation in the face of this sudden support for me.
“I’ll throw a few bucks in to buy a little girl the bear,” a trucker said.
I stood there in shock as these rough, grumpy men bought the bear and a couple of bags filled with soft drinks and treats. They then took up a collection of money. Soon they were laughing and goading each other into contributing more until I had a plastic bag with about a hundred dollars. Caught up in the Christmas euphoria, I put in another 50 of my own. Even the cashier pulled out a five and tossed it into the bag.
Two of the truckers helped me carry the bear, the tree, and the bags of treats back to Burt’s place. Melanie and her kids were still asleep when we crept in. Burt helped us set up the tree and arrange the gifts. “Everybody’s got to have a Christmas,” he whispered, winking.
I was almost too excited to sleep, anxiously anticipating Melanie and her kids’ surprise, but I eventually dozed off. The next thing I knew there were squeals of surprise and wonder. I jerked awake, and there was Mark staring at me through the binoculars.
“I don’t understand,” Melanie said. Tracie, clutching the bear, picked up the sack of money and flung it into Melanie’s lap. “But where? And how?”
I felt a lump in my throat. “And you said there wasn’t a Santa Claus,” I grumbled at Mark, unable to keep the smile from my lips. “Even in a blizzard he found you.”
“I guess a guy can be wrong,” he answered sincerely.
I stood and ruffled his hair and couldn’t prevent the mental picture of what was going to happen in a few hours with my own brothers and sisters. Suddenly more than anything I wanted to be there. I wanted to feel all of that again. “How are you going to get all this loot into that car? Your mom will have to leave you and your little sister behind.”
For the next 15 minutes the kids went crazy. Mark insisted that Melanie try on the jacket, Tracie hugged the giant bear, and everybody ate candy and drank soda. That’s when the snowplow pulled up. The driver stomped in for a drink and announced, “The road over the mountain is open. You have to take it slow, though. If anybody’s going, I’m heading that way.”
There was a mad scramble to get everything crammed into Melanie’s car. Burt assured me that he’d return the tree to the store. Melanie walked over to me as I started brushing the snow from my windshield. “It was you, wasn’t it?” she accused, her eyes brimmed with tears. “It was Christmas enough when you fixed the car. But then all this?”
I coughed. “You’re as bad as Mark,” I said. “You should believe in Santa. Sometimes good things just happen.”
“This wasn’t Santa Claus. This was better than Santa Claus. This is what Christmas is all about.” She reached up and put her arms around my neck and then kissed me once on the cheek. “That’s for your mom. She’d do it if she were here. You’re the greatest guy, and I don’t even know your name or where you’re from. All I know is that you’re God’s gift to me and my family on this very special Christmas.”
“Are you going to follow us?” Mark asked me. “We’ll see each other in St. Mary’s, won’t we?”
I studied Mark and then glanced at his mom. I looked toward the road leading to St. Mary’s Cross and then glanced back the other way. With the roads bad, it would be at least four hours, maybe more. It would mean saying I was sorry and turning soft, just like Kevan, but that didn’t matter any more. I had softened, and it felt good.
“I don’t think I’ll make it to St. Mary’s,” I answered. “I guess I’m going the other way.”
“The other way?” Mark questioned, surprised. “Why?”
“I’m going home. A guy ought to go home for Christmas.”
“But you said you didn’t have a home.”
I smiled. “And you said that sometimes a guy can be wrong.” I gave him a thumbs-up sign and added, “Take care of your mom and Tracie, Mark. And you have a merry Christmas.” And then I climbed into my truck and headed home.

“Christmas 2018 was my most beautiful Christmas. There was a feeling of togetherness and friendliness, and I got to participate in an event for refugees.
“I made red paper boots and taught those who were invited to the dinner to make them, to place one on each plate. Those invited to the evening brought backpacks filled with personal hygiene items so that they could be handed out on a Sunday.
“We watched a film about Christ with the refugees as part of the evening. It was a good Christmas to remember.”
Alexis L., Paris, France

I testify that I know victims of serious abuse who have successfully made the difficult journey to full healing through the power of the Atonement. After her own concerns were resolved by her faith in the healing power of the Atonement, one young woman who had been severely abused by her father requested another interview with me. She returned with an older couple. I could sense that she loved the two very deeply. Her face radiated happiness. She began, “Elder Scott, this is my father. I love him. He’s concerned about some things that happened in my early childhood. They are no longer a problem for me. Could you help him?” What a powerful confirmation of the Savior’s capacity to heal! She no longer suffered from the consequences of abuse, because she had adequate understanding of His Atonement, sufficient faith, and was obedient to His law. As you conscientiously study the Atonement and exercise your faith that Jesus Christ has the power to heal, you can receive the same blessed relief. During your journey of recovery, accept His invitation to let Him share your burden until you have sufficient time and strength to be healed.

The night Mom broke her leg, I slept through the whole thing. She fell down the stairs. Dad telephoned for help. The ambulance driver didn’t use his siren.
“Kenny, my boy, your mom and dad asked me to spend some time with you,” Granddad explained when I woke up the next morning. “They’ll be back when the doctor has your mom all fixed up.”
I stood by my bed in my pajamas with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.
“Don’t worry,” Granddad said, giving my shoulder a pat. “She’s going to be just fine. You and I are having a very special breakfast.”
“What are we having?”
“Toast from outer space,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
The lump in my throat disappeared as I followed Granddad to the kitchen. He took four slices of bread wrapped in foil from a packet inside his jacket.
“That looks like ordinary bread to me,” I said.
“Oh, no. This bread was baked fresh this morning by real live aliens from Pluto!”
We both laughed. I opened a cupboard to get the toaster.
“No way!” Granddad exclaimed. “You can’t make toast from outer space in a toaster. We have to zap it in the oven.”
Granddad turned the oven knob to broil. Next he used a fork to scoop some soft yellow stuff from a wooden bowl. “This is softened sunshine from a galaxy far, far away. It had to travel six million years at the speed of light to get here!” He used the fork to spread the sunshine over the bread.
“Why don’t you use a butter knife?” I giggled.
“There’s a right way and a wrong way to make toast from outer space,” Granddad said with a grin. He cut each piece of bread into two triangles. Then he arranged them in a circle on a cookie sheet turned upside down. “I’m just following the directions,” he told me.
He slipped the upside-down cookie sheet into the oven. “You can’t use an ordinary earth timer for this,” he said. “We have to count, ‘One from Pluto, two from Pluto, three from Pluto,’ and so on.”
So we counted together. We got clear up to ‘ninety from Pluto’ before the toast was brown and bubbly.
When Granddad pulled the cookie sheet from the oven, he burned a finger. He dropped the toast on the countertop and yelled, “Jackrabbits!” before he stuck his finger in his mouth. We laughed again.
Then, from his shirt pocket, he took a small plastic bag.
“Sugar and cinnamon,” I said.
“This is star dust,” he whispered as he carefully sprinkled it onto the triangles of hot toast.
I quickly took my seat at the kitchen table because I was really hungry.
“We can’t eat toast from outer space at an ordinary kitchen table,” Granddad told me. “We must sit on the floor.”
He spread a clean bath towel on the floor and placed the pan with the toast, and a pitcher of orange juice, by the towel.
So Granddad and I sat on the ordinary kitchen floor, drinking ordinary orange juice, and eating toast from outer space. We talked, and Granddad laughed at my knock-knock jokes.
We had almost finished our unusual breakfast when the door opened. In came Mom and Dad. Mom walked with crutches. She had a big white cast on her foot and leg.
The lump in my throat came back.
“Don’t worry,” Mom said. “I’m all right. But I’m going to need your help for a while.”
Many weeks passed. I helped my mom. When the doctor finally cut her cast off with a little saw, things at our house were pretty much back to normal.
Then one day I walked around the block to see Alonzo, my best friend. I found him sitting on his front porch with his mom. They looked really sad.
“My dog, Poco, was hit by a car,” Alonzo told me. “My dad took him to the vet.” I could hear the lump in his throat.
“I have a great idea,” I said. “Let’s all go inside and make toast from outer space.”

Golf is a popular sport in Japan, so I started playing it when I was 14 years old as a way to spend time with my father. It was fun from the start, and eventually I started to practice on my own and played on the golf team at my high school. I became friends with my teammates and coaches, who encouraged me to pursue my dream of becoming a professional golfer.
I worked hard, not just on my game but on my studies, graduating near the top of my high school class.
When I first entered college, I had a great relationship with my golf coach and teammates. They were better than I was, so I did all I could to keep up with them. Some of the team members commented on my unique first name, Shuho. I told them that my Korean maternal grandmother gave it to me and that in Korean it means “beautiful mountain.” From that point on I felt like their attitude toward me changed, tainted by a generations-long tension between some in Japan and Korea.
They began calling me “the Korean kid” and said I would hurt the good name of the university. Rather than allowing me to practice golf with them, they made me clean the toilets.
It became increasingly stressful to be around the team. Being away from home, I felt like I was on my own. I tried to hang on to my dream and return to the good favor of my coach and team, but after two years, I couldn’t tolerate their harsh treatment anymore, so I returned home.
This was a dark time for me. The stress was having psychological and physical effects. My self-esteem had taken a beating for two years. My dream to be a professional golfer was at an end. I didn’t know where to go with my life. And I was angry. I was angry at everyone: the coach, my teammates, and my parents. I was so angry, my thoughts scared me. I had no friends, and I felt I was unable to trust or associate with other people. For six months, I only left home to work out at the gym.
During this dark part of my life, I made friends with Justin Christy, whom I met at the gym. When I first saw him, I thought he was a foreign-exchange student. I was hesitant to talk to him until I saw him talking to someone at the gym and was surprised to hear that he spoke Japanese. I still felt unable to trust other people, but he suggested that we train together. There was something different about him that I didn’t understand at the time. I was calm when I was around him. I started to look forward to our training time together. I had found someone I felt I could trust as a friend.
After training together for several months, Justin invited me to a dinner group that he went to on a regular basis. I was hesitant, but after several invitations I decided to go to what ended up being a young single adult dinner at the home of Richard and Corina Clark. They greeted me warmly when I entered their home, Brother Clark in Japanese and Sister Clark in English. I didn’t understand what she was saying, but I attempted to respond to her. Even though several people there didn’t speak Japanese, they were a fun-loving group who were warm and friendly. There was lots of laughter.
I began attending other young single adult activities and had never had so much fun with other people in my life. I wondered what it was about these people that made them so nice and friendly.
Around this time Justin asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I was surprised to find that my goals had started to change. I told him I wanted to learn to speak English and I wanted to be a friend to all, just like him. He told me of the free English classes at his church. I went to the English class and met the missionaries. Even though I had never thought about God, I felt like I should listen to the missionaries. They taught me the fundamentals of the gospel and called me almost every day. They became my good friends, which made me really happy because I didn’t have very many friends yet.
I started meeting many members of the Church who went to the missionary lessons with me and became good friends with them. They taught me the gospel and set the example for me. Justin talked to me about the Book of Mormon and told me stories from it so that I wanted to read it for myself. Another friend, Shingo, who is very detail-oriented, discussed doctrines with me in a way that was easy for me to understand. He always bore his testimony at the end of our conversations.
I had found something I believed in and a place I felt I belonged. After I was baptized and confirmed, I started to think about serving a mission, but I was worried about dedicating two years to it. I talked to a lot of people about serving a mission, especially my returned missionary friends. I thought a lot about it, and I realized that the gospel was the only thing that could have saved me.
I know that God has given me everything: my dreams, hope, friends, and especially love. The gospel helped me come out of darkness into the light.

I remember the summer before entering college having the chance to go to Monument Valley to work on the first high school built there for the Navajo people. As I was about to leave home, my father asked me if I was going to take my Book of Mormon. I hadn’t thought to, but I paid heed to his question. I remember lying in my bunk late at night at the construction site and feeling the spirit and power of the Book of Mormon.

I remember as a young missionary in the Great Lakes Mission coming to that great knowledge and absolute testimony that the Book of Mormon was another witness of another nation that Jesus is the Christ and that this Church is true. From those experiences there burns in my heart today that divine witness of the message of the Book of Mormon, of Christ as our Savior and Redeemer, and of the Restoration of His Church in these latter days.

When I was a teenager, my six-week-old sister, Carol, had whooping cough. Those were the days before antibiotics. I was working then as a grease monkey, or mechanic, at a bus station. I can remember coming home one night after my shift, seeing the lights on in my home, and knowing that it was a bad sign.
As I walked into the house, I saw Carol lying on the dining room table. She was having difficulty breathing and was turning blue from lack of air. We quickly summoned a neighbor, who joined Dad in giving her a blessing. I thought she was going to die, but I watched her stay alive by the power of the priesthood as they got her to the hospital. She stayed there for two or three weeks, and I continued to see the Lord bless her and pull her through. That experience of seeing the priesthood in action impressed itself forever upon my mind.

Ariel shares a similar experience: “One day I was rushing to school, and I don’t know why, but something told me to take my scriptures with me. So I quickly put them in my bag and went to school.” She goes on to say, “It just so happened that I had a really bad day. I think I was in the last class of the day, and I was looking in my bag and saw my scriptures there. Just seeing them made me happy and brought the Spirit to me, and I knew that this bad day wasn’t so bad and that everything would be okay.”

If I had to name one thing I hated concerning college life, it was buying books each semester and watching my checking account go from a pitifully small amount to almost nothing in one mean whack. This was only the second semester of my freshman year, but I remembered the pain I’d gone through last semester, and I wasn’t too thrilled about dealing with the “money massacre” again.
I’d been mentally going through my classes for winter semester, figuring roughly the amount each book would cost while I tried to keep up with the step aerobics instructor and the rest of the sweating bodies around me. I was sure I must have added something wrong when I reached an eye-popping total of $200—not including tax.
“Hey, Jenny, are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” I mumbled.
“Here, let me help you.” Cathy’s a great friend. She doesn’t laugh at me when I do stupid things like tripping all over my bench during aerobics because I’m not concentrating. Even now, while I was busy trying to re-tie my shoelace, she was on the floor, straightening my bench for me.
“Killer class today, huh?”
“Yeah.” Tripping over my bench had made my very tender right hamstring muscle even more sore.
“So, Jenny, have you bought your books yet?”
Ugh. That again. “I’m going to buy them right after this class is through.”
“I spent $175 this time. I won’t be able to do anything fun for weeks.”
Only $175? I was wishing I could be so lucky all the way to the bookstore.
The place was jammed with other poor souls like myself who’d waited until the last possible second before taking the hardest plunge of the semester.
Chemistry, English 201, trigonometry, humanities, music appreciation. By the time I made my way to the cash register, I had two ugly stacks of reading material that would keep me busy for months.
The clerk behind the register hardly gave me a glance before rubbing her eyes and wearily lifting the first book from one of my piles. I was sure she must have hated the book rush as much as everyone else did.
“Hey, Jenny!”
I turned around and saw a waving figure with a big, blonde ponytail. Cathy again. She pushed and shoved her way through the endless line of students. Her eyebrows lifted to new heights while she examined my piles of books.
“Pretty impressive.”
“Just don’t be expecting a birthday present from me this year.”
Cathy laughed and rattled off her latest winter semester classes.
“That will be $157.30, please.”
I whipped my head in surprise to face the clerk. The look on her face dared me to make any negative comments, so I quickly wrote my check and escaped with Cathy.
I was all ready to gloat over the low cost of my books that night to Gary, my freshly returned missionary brother, since I knew his books had cost him a small fortune. But as I picked up my receipt and quickly scanned each book price, then the total, I stopped and frowned. I counted the figures again and again.
“Something’s not right here.”
“What’s wrong, Jenn?”
I glanced up from my cross-legged position in the middle of my bed. Gary was standing in the doorway.
“Oh, nothing, really. I bought my books today, and I think the lady at the register may have added them up wrong.”
“Really? Well, let’s have a look.”
I scooted over to make room for him on my bed, and in a matter of minutes, it was all figured out: Only one stack of my books had been rung up. I had gotten the other stack free.
“Gary, you know what a rip-off it is to buy books. The school makes a killing. Besides, all together my stuff isn’t worth more than $150.”
“It’s tough to part with hard-earned money, and if I were you, I’d feel the same way. At one time, I might never have taken the books back and paid for them.”
“After all, it’s not like I stole them. I didn’t see what she was doing. I thought she’d rung them all up. It’s her mistake, not mine,” I quickly chimed in defensively.
“I know, I know,” Gary soothed. “And I’m not going to tell you to take them back. You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”
I started to gather the books, my mind made up, but something in Gary’s voice stopped me.
“You know, this reminds me of something that happened to me about a year ago in the Netherlands.”
Great. An inspiring missionary story. I sighed and settled against my pillows to listen, resolving that nothing he could say would make me change my mind.
The next few days were miserable ones. I couldn’t get Gary’s words out of my head, let alone even look at my “free” books. It was hard for me to do, but Monday morning after my aerobics class, I waded through the endless line of students at the bookstore, ready to lose another $150.
The same clerk was behind the register as I shoved my books onto the counter before her.
“I was in here a few days ago, and these books of mine were never rung up.”
She lifted her eyebrows at me in surprise. “Really? And you brought them back? Even I wouldn’t have been so honest at your age.” She paused for a second. “Maybe not even now.”
For a moment I had a happy, fleeting thought that she was going to reward my honesty by telling me not to worry about these books—that I’d already paid for them in my own way. I almost smiled. Being honest wasn’t so hard.
“That’ll be $175 even.”
As I drove home, I tried to tell myself I wasn’t losing money but gaining an education. It didn’t help much. Especially considering the fact that my right hamstring was still pretty sore. Yet it hadn’t been as touchy today as it had been on Saturday. It would get stronger as I exercised. Pretty soon, it’d be so strong, no amount of fancy step work would bother it, and I’d be able to do all the steps with ease.
Gary’s words struck me again, and for the first time, the memory wasn’t painful. Exercising, integrity; it was all the same. Of course I’d walked away from the book incident feeling a little bruised. I had exercised something harder than ever before. But the next time, it’d be easier even if it was trickier.
Strengthening my muscles and my character in the same day. That was the true, total workout.
I waved to Gary as I maneuvered the car into the garage. I did feel sort of warm and good inside, and I wondered if realizations like these were truly the best types of warm feelings you could ever have.
“So how was your day?” Gary questioned as I jumped out of the car. I held up my bag of books for him to see.
“Hard and good. Even my hamstring is shaping up.” I grinned at him and hurried into the house. Doing something right when it was hard for me to do didn’t feel so terrible after all. In fact, it felt pretty good.

While I was serving as a full-time missionary in my homeland of Ecuador, one day I had a definite feeling that someone special was waiting for us—someone who would accept the gospel.
As my companion and I walked, we came to a humble house. An elderly lady, perhaps 80 years of age, smiled sweetly at me. I smiled at her in return. I was ready to keep walking, but the woman looked so happy to see us. Something told me to stop right there.
Many people in that little town were illiterate, so I asked her if she could read. Her answer was an enthusiastic yes. I was suddenly filled with excitement. I felt that she was the person the Lord wanted us to teach. I took a Book of Mormon from my bag and showed it to her. I was surprised when she began to read aloud from the first page without needing glasses. I asked her if she would like to have the book, and again she answered yes. Happiness glowed in her tired eyes—eyes that had long been seeking a better life.
We began to teach her the gospel, and the Spirit bore witness to her of its truthfulness. Such tender feelings filled my heart.
As we concluded our lesson, I showed her chapter 11 of 3 Nephi, which tells about the visit of Jesus Christ to the Americas. She promised to read it. She marked the page herself and kissed the book, beaming with an unspeakable joy.
We made other visits to our new investigator, and we were delighted to find she read everything we assigned her. After completing her daily work, she would read the Book of Mormon late into the night. She also started attending church, although it took two hours for her to walk slowly to the meetinghouse. Her feelings about the Book of Mormon and Jesus Christ grew rapidly and deeply. After hearing all of the missionary lessons, she wanted to be baptized and pay tithing.
What great blessings this dear woman received! Her heart was ready to follow the Lord, and His Spirit guided us to her. She taught us about love, courage, sacrifice, joy, and obedience. Above all else she taught us that it is never too late to change.

Some young men march to the beat of a different drum. Because they may not enjoy physical activity, as most do, they are often isolated from the group. I remember one young man, not much of an athlete, who excelled on the stage. In our ward plays and roadshows, we could always count on a stellar performance from Mike.

Later in his youth he directed a theater-in-the-round production in the ward. Today he teaches drama in a great university and is a faithful member of the Church. How easily we could have lost him without that opportunity to be someone and to excel at something. Our cultural arts have been neglected in recent years, not intentionally, but when stakes and wards were given the liberty to choose their activities instead of being dictated to from Church headquarters—something made necessary by the worldwide growth of the Church—some took this as a signal that cultural arts were no longer to be promoted. The ward and stake activity committees are there to help our bishoprics, quorums, and Young Women classes carry out those cultural activities planned by the Bishopric Youth Committee: music, drama, speech, dance. These again are as broad as the interests of the youth and a valuable resource in promoting activity and brotherhood in the Aaronic Priesthood quorums.

Another chapter in the Bensons’ life began a few years later when Elder Benson, with the encouragement of President David O. McKay, accepted an appointment as United States Secretary of Agriculture under President Eisenhower. Sister Benson cheerfully moved her family to the nation’s capital, focusing her time and energies on her family and shunning much of the Washington social scene.
But on one occasion, as a missionary effort, Sister Benson decided to give a luncheon for Mrs. Eisenhower and the other wives of the president’s advisers. As was common practice in the Benson household, no outside help was hired for the affair. She and her four daughters spent weeks carefully planning a menu, cleaning their home, preparing entertainment, and reviewing etiquette and protocol.
If Sister Benson worried that her guests would miss the coffee, cigarettes, and card playing which normally were part of such affairs, she needn’t have. The cocktails made from ginger ale and home-bottled apricot juice were a great success, as was the entertainment—a choir from Brigham Young University that was touring the east coast.
“The most exciting part was the beautiful letters we received afterward from the women, telling us what a thrill it was to experience a touch of ‘Mormonism’ and what wonderful youth the singers were,” Sister Benson remembers.