Gospel Story Finder

Some years ago, one of our young married daughters and her husband asked Sister Rasband and me a very important, life-influencing question: “Is it still safe and wise to bring children into this seemingly wicked and frightening world we live in?”
Now, that was an important question for a mom and dad to consider with their dear married children. We could hear the fear in their voices and feel the fear in their hearts. Our answer to them was a firm “Yes, it’s more than OK,” as we shared fundamental gospel teachings and our own heartfelt impressions and life experiences.
Now, what about that daughter and son-in-law who asked the very heartfelt and probing, fear-based question years ago? They seriously considered our conversation that night; they prayed and fasted and came to their own conclusions. Happily and joyfully for them and for us, the grandparents, they have now been blessed with seven beautiful children as they go forward in faith and love.

As I came out of school, the sunlight reflected on the knee-deep snow. The air was icy cold, but all four of us guys jammed into the cab of Reed’s truck so the chill and the snow did not much matter to us. All we had to bother with was keeping the steam off the inside of the windows.
As we pulled out of the school parking lot, Wayne started cutting up, as usual, and Sid started cutting Wayne down, as usual, while Reed and I mainly listened. We passed the Chicken Inn, where even the snow couldn’t freeze out that frying smell, and turned up the hill to my house. Up ahead we could see a girl struggling over the ice. I mean really struggling. The hill wasn’t all that steep, but like I said, it was one icy day, and she sure looked funny. Her arms juggled a load of books, and her feet were slipping and sliding as if she were walking on a moving sidewalk. Her coat was pulled up around her ears. She looked like a turtle trying to decide whether to go in or come out of its shell.
“A definite specimen of a 1,” Sid laughed, and so did we.
“Who is she anyway?” Reed asked.
“Rachel Roberts,” I answered. “They moved into the ward a while back.”
“Trust Matt to know about the new girls,” Sid teased, and Wayne slugged me in the arm.
“Yeah. Lady’s man Bingham.” Wayne exaggerated each word and made his voice about two octaves higher.
“Cut it out,” I growled. “She’s my sister’s friend.”
“Sure!” Reed laughed.
“Look, she’s a 1,” I said. “A definite 1!” I grumbled a little to let them know I’d had enough.
“Think she’ll make it to the top of the hill?” Wayne asked.
“Bet you a chocolate shake she won’t,” Reed offered, but no one took up the bet.
As the old Ford pulled up alongside Rachel, Wayne called out, “Give her a scare. Fire it!”
“Yeah!” the others shouted. Without hesitation Reed turned the ignition off then on, and the muffler let out a bang that sounded like a Civil War cannon. Inside the cab, the roar of laughter was almost as loud as a cannon as we watched Rachel go into a balancing act. We jerked around and wiped at the back window while Reed shouted, “Tell me what’s happening, will ya? Did we scare her?”
“I’ll say!” Wayne shouted. “You should see the look on her face. Her eyes are as big as billiard balls!”
“Hey, she’s down,” Sid said. “Feet up, arms everywhere!”
“Books sliding all over the place!” Wayne was laughing so hard he could barely talk.
“What a klutz,” I added. But as I said it a sick sort of heaviness bit into my stomach. I tried to get it out of there by laughing harder, but it didn’t work. About then I realized my conscience was working.
It’s not like I really knew Rachel. She was only a sophomore and kind of a quiet nobody. What I mean is that she was not exactly the kind of girl you would look at twice. Now here I was laughing at her and at the same time feeling awful about laughing. But what was I supposed to do? Reed, Wayne, and Sid were almost hysterical.
The laughter died down, and I sensed an uneasiness in the small cab. Slowly I turned back around, all the while wondering if their stomachs felt like mine. “Maybe we ought to go back and see if she’s all right,” I said.
No one answered. Finally we pulled into my driveway. “Ah, she’ll be fine,” Wayne said. “It just scared her a little. See ya at basketball practice.”
I went into the house, and while I fixed a sandwich and poured a glass of milk, I figured it out. I hadn’t been the one to suggest it and I wasn’t the one who turned the key, so why should I be the one to worry about it? By the time I finished my fourth sandwich I’d forgotten the whole thing. Then with homework and basketball practice, even my conscience didn’t have much time to remember it. But about ten o’clock I was in the kitchen getting some cookies when I realized that my sister Jennifer and my mom were talking about Rachel.
“How’s she doing?” Mom asked.
“They’re not sure yet. She’s got a cast on it now, but they want to wait two weeks and see how it’s healing. Her mom says they may have to put a pin in to help it heal right.”
I swallowed one homemade chocolate chip—cookie—whole and felt it scratch all the way down.
“What happened?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t us, but somehow knowing it was.
“Some guys made a truck backfire next to her when she was coming up the hill after school. She slipped on the ice and broke her ankle.”
Suddenly I wasn’t hungry. It had been a joke. We hadn’t meant to hurt her. My stomach churned. I wished I hadn’t eaten any cookies at all.
You all right?” Jennifer asked.
“Sure,” I said, trying to get hold of myself. “I just swallowed wrong.”
“Those guys are probably still laughing about their joke,” she said, her face growing red and her eyes mad, “while Rachel’s over there hurting.”
I’m not laughing, I thought. But that didn’t help much.
All night long I tossed and turned and tossed some more. It was a joke. That’s all. We’re really not bad guys. Wayne was always pulling something, and we always joined in. But we’d never hurt anyone.
The next morning when Reed picked me up I guess I looked bad.
“Hey, what’s with you?” Wayne asked. “Terrie turn you down for the dance?”
“No!” I snapped.
I was the last one in and as we shoved together, everything got kind of quiet, a heavy kind of quiet. We got almost to school without breaking the silence. Then Sid spoke up, “Come on, Bingham. What’s wrong?”
I hesitated a minute and then told them the whole story. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but as I looked around I could see they felt about like I did.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Reed said. “Just a little scare.”
“It wasn’t just you,” Wayne added, and Sid nodded.
We pulled into the school parking lot, and for the first time ever I was glad to be at school. Maybe concentrating on classes would keep my mind off Rachel and her ankle. But it didn’t work. All day long I kept seeing her face, crying, hurting, sitting alone at the bottom of that hill. Why hadn’t I made them go back?
Back at the truck after school I saw the others for the first time since that morning. I could tell just by looking that instead of leaving, the feeling had settled harder, colder. We climbed into the cab and started for home. We got all the way to my driveway before anyone spoke.
“Look, I don’t know about you guys, but I think we ought to do something,” I said.
“Like what?” Reed asked.
“I don’t know. Take her some flowers and candy or something. Apologize.”
“Flowers and candy? Those are for the girls you’re trying to impress. The 10s! Rachel is more of the ‘sweet spirit’ kind.” I knew Wayne was trying to make a joke, trying to lighten the heavy mood, but no one laughed.
“You think we ought to do that?” Reed asked. “I mean go to her house and everything?”
I wanted to say, “Nah, I’m just joking!” But I knew that wouldn’t work. I could see now that much as I didn’t want to face Rachel, let alone risk seeing her mom and dad, my conscience wasn’t going to take a time out unless I went.
“Well, I’m going tonight. If you guys want to come with me, be here at seven.” Then I got out and went into the house.
The next part was the hardest. I found Jennifer and before I had time to chicken out I told her the whole story.
“Matt Bingham!” she started to yell.
“Look, Jen,” I interrupted, holding her hands so she couldn’t hit me. “We didn’t mean to hurt her. We’re sorry, and now I need your help.”
She looked at me a minute as if trying to decide what to do, then wiggled her hands loose.
“Please, Jen?” I asked real nice.
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Just help me get the flowers and candy. I don’t know what kind she likes or anything, and I don’t want to go in there apologizing and find out she hates flowers and is allergic to chocolate.”
Jennifer laughed, and that made me mad. Then I realized I must be sounding a little weird. I smiled back. “Will you do it?”
“You know,” she said, “as far as brothers go, you’re not so bad.”
“Will you help?”
“I’d better,” she said. “In the first place Rachel doesn’t like candy.”
“See what I mean? What am I …”
“Hold on,” Jen interrupted. “If you’ll drive me, I’ll pick it all out for you. I know exactly what her favorite things are.”
Now that that was all set I felt a whole lot better. But I still worried that none of the other guys would show. I really didn’t want to go all alone, but I shouldn’t have worried. At seven o’clock all three showed up at the front door looking as nervous as I felt.
“Well, you ready?” Sid stammered.
“Yeah, just a minute.” I was afraid that if I waited even one second more I wouldn’t have the nerve to go through with it.
“Do we really need to do this?” Wayne asked.
“Yes!” I tried to sound real positive and found that just by saying it I somehow felt better. I grabbed the flowers and pepperoni pizza that Jennifer had picked out, and we left.
It was the third silent ride that day. Slowly we pulled up in front of the brown brick home and stopped the engine. No one moved.
“Well?” I finally asked.
“I think Matt ought to be the spokesman,” Sid said, “seeing as this is his idea and all.”
The others agreed, and I knew I was stuck.
“Come on then,” I said. “Let’s get it over with.”
From the truck to the front door was the longest walk I’d ever taken. Snow crunched under my feet. My breath formed heavy puffs of steam that hung in front of me. And my heart beat—I mean BEAT. Once on the porch I hesitated, then punched the icy doorbell, hoping that no one would answer it. Before I could turn and run, a woman opened the door, a startled look crossing her face as she saw the four of us standing there with a pizza box and flowers.
“Yes?” she finally said.
“Hello. I’m Matt Bingham, and we came to see Rachel.” The words spilled out like water over a dam.
I’m sure she recognized us from church, but she seemed puzzled.
“She’s probably never had a boy come over before,” Wayne whispered from behind me, and I could feel Sid and Reed giggling. I hoped Mrs. Roberts hadn’t heard.
“Come on in,” Mrs. Roberts said and opened the storm door. “Rachel is in the family room. Right this way.”
She started down the hall, and we followed.
“Rachel,” she said, as she turned into the room. “You have company.”
Rachel was lying on the couch reading a book, her left foot in a cast and propped up on two pillows. It hurt just to look at it.
“Hi,” she said shyly, not as surprised as I thought she’d be.
We stood awkwardly for a moment, no one saying anything. Finally Reed spoke up, “How’s it feeling?”
“It hurts, but it’s getting better,” she answered.
Her mother slipped out of the room and that made it easier.
“I guess you know we’re the ones who were in the truck,” I said, hoping to get it over with so we could leave.
“Yeah,” she said with no trace of anger or anything.
“Well, we want you to know we didn’t mean to hurt you. We feel bad, and we really hope you don’t have to have surgery or anything like that.”
“It was supposed to just be a joke,” Wayne added.
“Anyway, we feel bad about how it turned out, and we wanted to tell you we’re sorry. But I guess that doesn’t help your ankle much. But we are real sorry about it.” I knew I was repeating myself, but I couldn’t figure anything else to say and I felt stupid standing there not saying anything.
“It’s nice of you to admit it,” she said. “Most guys wouldn’t have bothered.”
There was another awkward pause. Then Sid gave me an elbow in the ribs and whispered, “The flowers!”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, embarrassed. “We brought you these.” I handed her the flowers and pizza.
“Daisies,” she smiled. “I love daisies. These are beautiful.”
She opened the box. “You’re kidding! Pepperoni pizza. That’s almost worth a broken ankle. Thanks!”
“It’s the kind you buy at a restaurant, then take home and cook,” I explained.
She breathed in a big whiff. “Smells fantastic.”
I’d never really seen her up close. As she smiled and laughed she didn’t really look as plain as I’d always thought she was. It’s not that she’d ever win a beauty contest or anything. But there was something about her that I’d never noticed before, a kind of extra something that I couldn’t explain.
“Pull those chairs over and sit down,” she invited.
“We’d really better be going,” Wayne said uneasily.
“But you haven’t even had a piece of pizza yet,” she said.
“Well, maybe we could stay for a minute,” Reed said and pulled over a chair.
Rachel called her mom back in and asked her to cook the pizza for us. We all got a chair and sat down around the couch. Before we knew it, we were laughing and talking as if we’d been friends for years. She talked easily, not like she was trying to impress us or anything, and she never once talked about movie stars or clothes. I’d never known it was so easy to talk to a girl before. She was reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court by Mark Twain, and she told us about the eclipse and all. Even Wayne thought it was one of the best jokes he’d ever heard of. Then Mrs. Roberts brought in the pizza and some hot chocolate and donuts, and we talked some more. Before I realized it, we had been there for two hours.
“Oh wow!” Sid suddenly noticed. “I told my dad I’d be home by nine-thirty. I’ve got to go.”
“Me too,” we all agreed as we pushed back the chairs and apologized one last time.
“Don’t worry. I know you didn’t mean for it to turn out like this,” Rachel said, then laughed. “Just don’t let it happen again!”
“We’ll check back and see how you’re doing,” I said.
“Thanks for the flowers and the pizza,” she called as her mother showed us to the door.
The ride home wasn’t silent. Wayne was his old self again, and we all laughed and joked.
“She’s not so bad after all,” Reed said.
“Not a 10 though,” Wayne said. “It’s got to be a 10 for me.”
I knew what Wayne meant. But maybe he was wrong. Rachel wasn’t a Miss America, but all the same there was something about her I couldn’t describe, a warmth or something, that made it so that when I was around her I didn’t seem to notice if she was a 1 or a 10. I’d never been around a girl like that before, unless maybe it was Jennifer. But I doubt sisters count.
I thought about it as I listened to the others joke around.
“What you really want, Wayne, is a 12. But they don’t make 12s anymore,” Reed said, and we laughed again.
Maybe what we need, I thought, though I didn’t say it aloud, is a new measuring system.
“Here we are,” Reed said, as he pulled into my driveway. “See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks for going with me,” I said. The others only nodded, but then they really didn’t need to say anything. I could feel it.
I hurried into the warm house and found Jennifer waiting.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Fine,” I answered.
“She’s nice, isn’t she?” Jennifer asked.
“I guess so,” I said, and for the first time I didn’t think of nice as an adjective you used for a girl because you couldn’t think of any other word. “She’s okay,” I added, then hurried to my room before Jennifer could ask any more questions.

“I sing and play the piano and violin. For a Personal Progress project, my older sister Marinda and I performed at a rest home every Sunday morning. This gave me the opportunity to share my talents and to make those people happy. It was also fun for my family, who helped me when they could.
“One Sunday we asked the elderly people if they had any favorite songs they would like us to sing next week. One sweet lady said she loved ‘Danny Boy.’ This was a song my family knew well. But when we prepared our music, we decided not to do ‘Danny Boy’ because we figured that lady would have forgotten, and we had other songs to do.
“When we got to the rest home that morning that lady came in looking very sick and tired. She told us that she was not feeling well at all, but she came to hear us perform because she knew we would be singing ‘Danny Boy’ for her. Luckily we had brought along the book with that song in it. My brother Richard sang the song for her in his beautiful bass voice. That lady cried during the whole song. I was impressed that she came to hear us sing even though she was sick. She was a great example to me. I hope all youth find an opportunity to serve the elderly. They have a sweet spirit about them, and it is fun to serve them.”Jessie Allred, 16Park Ward, Centerville Utah North Stake

Matthew got in the van with his family and put on his seatbelt. Today they were going to the parade!
Matthew loved parades. He was excited to see the bands marching along with their big drums and their shiny hats. Every year he tried to guess which float would win as they all rolled by, and he laughed at the clowns on their tiny bikes. He couldn’t wait to see the horses and hear the fire trucks blow their horns.
Dad parked the car, and they walked to where Grandpa and Grandma were waiting.
“Hey, buddy,” Grandpa said as he ruffled Matthew’s hair. “Ready to get some candy?”
Matthew nodded. He checked his pocket to make sure he had his plastic bag. He loved waiting on the curb and getting the candy and other things people handed out. Last year he got a whole bag full of candy and toys. He knew that Grandpa liked the candy as much as he did. He always looked through his bag afterwards to find something Grandpa liked.
“I hope I get lots of candy!” Matthew’s sister Abby yelled as she jumped up and down. “Look! It’s starting!”
Matthew quickly picked a spot on the curb. He felt his heart thud as a band began to play. Suddenly the air was filled with bubbles as a float covered with tropical fish passed by. The people walking behind it were handing out lollipops. Matthew and Abby both got one.
The next group handed out tickets to the bowling alley. Then the clowns came. Some were on stilts, one rode a unicycle, and some rode the tiny bikes Matthew liked.
The next group was dancing and handing out bright green water bottles. A water bottle like that would be perfect for soccer! Matthew and Abby both grabbed one. Then Matthew saw a little boy nearby crying because he hadn’t gotten one. Matthew looked at his bag filled with candy and toys. He looked again at the boy and then took out his water bottle and walked over to him.
“Here you go,” Matthew said, holding it out to the boy. The boy grabbed it, smiled, and wiped his eyes. The boy’s mom smiled and said thank you.
As Matthew went back to sit on the curb, he saw Grandpa wink at him. He felt good that he had shared the water bottle with the little boy, even though he could have used it for soccer. Matthew thought that sharing with the boy was what Jesus would have wanted him to do.
After the parade Grandpa asked Matthew what he liked most. Matthew thought about all the fun things in the parade. Then he thought about the boy and the water bottle. He knew he had done something even better than watching a parade and getting candy.

1832–1919
“She took me in and was a mother to me.”
She and her husband joined the Church in Hawaii.
She cared for Joseph F. Smith when he was sick as a young missionary.
When Joseph F. Smith was the prophet, he promised her she would live to see the temple in Hawaii.
When the temple in Hawaii was finished,she was able to go inside and be sealed.
Joseph F. Smith, as quoted by Charles W. Nibley in Gospel Doctrine, 5th ed. (1939), 520.

NARRATOR: When inspiring words unite with noble and stirring music, art is raised to worship. There is perhaps no better blending of artistic talent in LDS hymns than in those created by Eliza R. Snow and George Careless. Five times the products of their combined pens appear in our hymnbook. Of these, none excels the hymn “Though Deepening Trials.”
Written in 1838 or 39 when the Saints were being driven from their homes in Missouri, the poem offers strength, encouragement, and hope. Having experienced persecution, first in Kirtland and then Missouri, Eliza R. Snow understood the need for comfort, assurance, and hope for better times. From the depths of anguish and despair rose the lofty expression of hope and courage:
“Press on, press on, ye Saints …
The time at longest is not long …
Though tribulations rage abroad,
Christ says, ‘In me ye shall have peace.’”
Just as these noble thoughts found life in the midst of despair, so too did the music. George Careless had endured a long illness that had gradually sapped his physical as well as his spiritual strength.
In a mood of great despondency, he went first to the scriptures and then to his beloved hymnbook in an attempt to find some comfort and hope. As he read through the familiar words of the hymns he knew so well, he came at length to one of Eliza R. Snow’s that she called “Be Not Discouraged.” As he read through the words, they inspired him to write the music that has made this hymn one of our most popular. His spirits rose, his despair left, and when he was once again well, he called on his good friend, Horace K. Whitney, to suggest a title for it. Brother Whitney gave it the name, “Reliance.” (See Pyper, p. 140; Cornwall, p. 278.)
SONG: “Though Deepening Trials.” (Hymns, p. 285.)

In addition to this Church work, Joseph Fielding Smith diligently assumed the responsibilities of husband and father. In April 1898, when he was twenty-two years old, he married Louie Emyla Shurtliff. After being married for only a year, he was ordained a seventy by his father on 12 May 1899, and left the next day for the mission field. Surely, making such a personal sacrifice was no easier for Elder Smith to do then than it would be for us to do now. He accepted his call, labored in the Nottingham Conference for two years, and returned home in June 1901.

Cara S. Longmore, now of the BYU 176th Ward, Brigham Young University Second Stake, was called to be a visiting teacher with her mother as her companion. Her mom was excited, but Cara considered herself too young for Relief Society. She remembers: “We were assigned to two wonderful women. As I look back, I realize the significant impact these sisters had on my life at that difficult time. They became not only examples to me, but also friends in a true sense—not just older mentors. When we would visit, I felt calm, secure, and truly loved.
“I am also so very thankful for that time with my mom. Now that I am at college, I realize how valuable those visiting teaching visits were to our relationship. I feel so grateful that I got to see my mom in that setting, hear her strong testimony, and learn more about the love she has for her ‘sisters in Zion’ [see Hymns, no. 309]. Because we were in the context of a team, we were more equal and I truly felt that we were ‘sisters in Zion’ as well.”

I have always loved the story of the son of King Louis XVI of France because he had an unshakable knowledge of his identity. As a young man, he was kidnapped by evil men who had dethroned his father, the king. These men knew that if they could destroy him morally, he would not be heir to the throne. For six months they subjected him to every vile thing life had to offer, and yet he never yielded under pressure. This puzzled his captors, and after doing everything they could think of, they asked him why he had such great moral strength. His reply was simple. He said, “I cannot do what you ask, for I was born to be a king.”

When I was growing up in Tonga, my mother occasionally helped teach seminary. From the time I was 5 until I was 10, she would often wake me up before seminary and lead me to the house where the class met. Although it was less than a quarter of a mile (0.4 km) walk on the trail through the guava bushes, she would ask me, “Are you afraid?” I would bravely answer, “No.”
Then she would say, “Someday you must be brave and serve your Heavenly Father. He has provided all things for us, even a plan that we can return to live with Him. Someday you will go on a mission and serve Him with all your heart, might, mind, and strength. You must start preparing now to be a good missionary.”
Eventually my parents moved our family to Ontario, California, USA. My mother found herself in an unfamiliar country, unable to speak the language and in culture shock. Like a hen that gathers her chicks under her wings, she would gather all of us children and fall to her knees, pleading to Heavenly Father that none of the children He had given her would fall away from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My parents used family prayer, daily scripture reading, regular family fasts, weekly family home evening, and Church meetings to seek Heavenly Father’s help in fortifying our family.
My parents encouraged us to behave like missionaries early in life. We always wore white shirts to church and had missionary haircuts. As a priest I would bless the sacrament, and my younger brothers would prepare and pass the sacrament as teachers and deacons. I could see my mother and father watching us, making sure we completed our duties faithfully.
Before I left on my mission, my mother said, “Do your part, and I will do mine. I will fast and pray for you to find people to teach.” She continued fasting and praying for all four of her sons during their missions. We all served faithfully and returned home with honor.
During my last visit with her before her death, my mother said, “Peiholani, I have taught you all that I know to be most important in this life and the life to come. That is, the gospel of Jesus Christ is true. The atoning blood of Jesus Christ is salvation to your soul. Honor the covenants you have made with the Lord in the temple. Do this, and our family will be together again. This I know without a doubt because Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ live.”
My testimony was built on the gospel, by every word my mother and father said. I know that our family will be together again someday because my parents fulfilled their mission to teach us the gospel and lead us to the Savior.

Then Christine thought of another day, just last October. It was overcast, gray, cool. The heavy air smelled of rain. Papa and Clément were up early, as usual on a Monday. The big diesel engine was already throbbing, mildly vibrating the entire house.
Clément stuffed the compartment behind the cab with blankets, canned pudding, instant soup, snack food. He ran inside to get some tapes, his earphones, and a tape player.
Then he thought again, and laid them aside. This was his last trip to Mechanicsburg for two years. He and father would be talking all the way there, talking about his mission.
The stairs were steep at the south end of the terrasse, but Christine took them easily. Hours of volleyball practice had conditioned her to run, and her lungs pulled in air that was crisp and pure. She reached a narrower boardwalk, the Promenade des Gouverneurs, which stretches along the cliffs to reach the Plains of Abraham.
The French love to tell of a great struggle here, when the Chevalier de Lévis, battling to reclaim Quebec, lured the British far from the city and beat them. But those assigned to cut off the retreat failed, and the rest of the army, too tired to pursue, let the enemy escape. British reinforcements arrived soon, and what should have been a French victory turned to defeat.
Christine breathed deeply and let the air out slowly. It surprised her when she thought of a scripture: “Look unto me, and endure to the end, and ye shall live” (3 Ne. 15:9).
“Endure,” she said aloud. “Sometimes you just have to endure.” And then she was remembering again.
It was a routine, the same routine Marie Claude had followed every morning for years. Get up early and care for the animals. Feed Daisy, Belle, and Lady, the horses. Feed Fido, the bull in the barn. Feed three pigs, three sheep, two dogs, four ducks, and any other animals calling the farm home at the moment.
From upstairs, Christine heard Marie Claude come in the house and bolt the back door against the wind. She could imagine her hanging her flannel coat on the peg in the kitchen. Then she heard her pull a chair across the floor and put breakfast dishes on the table.
For as long as Christine could remember, Marie Claude got up early to take care of the animals. But today the routine was different—the movements slower, the pauses longer, the sighs heavy and audible.
And Christine knew why. Last night, Marie Claude had finally told her boyfriend good-bye. He was a decent fellow, a nice man. But he didn’t understand. He’d had the missionary discussions, even been to church a time or two. But all this religion, meetings every Sunday, marriage in a temple—for him it just wouldn’t do.
And now Marie Claude, who loved him and had dated him for a couple of years, who had argued with him before, had sent him away. She sat at the breakfast table, numb, almost crying, wrenching solace from the everyday routine.
At the end of the promenade, there’s a gazebo. To get there, Christine had to mount steps again. Quickly she bounded up them, the end of her run in sight. And as she ran, her mind flashed ahead, like a video on fast forward.
Here was Marie Claude again, but this time she was smiling. Dressed in embroidered chiffon, she sat by a cheery window in a friend’s house, holding hands with an amiable young man in a blue sweater.
It was amazing. When they laughed, it was the same laugh. The smile was the same smile. They looked like each other, they talked like each other. They both had kind eyes. You’d think they were brother and sister, not fiances.
Yet there on the table was their wedding announcement, and it really did seem like a dream come true—“C’est avec joie que nous vous annonçons notre mariage qui aura lieu au Temple de Washington, D.C., mercredi le six mai.” (It is with joy that we announce our marriage in the Washington, D.C. Temple on May 6, 1987.)
André and Marie Claude. They met at church, and fell in love quickly. But after years of struggling to feel right about something that was wrong, it was easy for Marie Claude to do something that felt so true.
At the gazebo, Christine stopped.
She thought about the family. She pictured her mother, joking with the visiting teachers, happily discussing her hobby of decorating cakes. She saw Father, smiling broadly, the proudest sacrament meeting usher the Branche de Québec has as ever had. She imagined Clément, Elder Ferland, teaching missionary lessons in broken English. And she pictured Marie Claude, in her own home as a newlywed, so happy she was almost dancing.
Then she thought of spires of white, rising from a green woodland, and she cherished the promises of eternity.
Christine looked across the ancient battlefields. The rolling hills seemed to be resting, calm now as she was calm. In the distance, a calèche, a carriage, bobbed along the folds of green. From so far away, it seemed to be in slow motion. But in the evening air, she could hear the clip-clop, clip-clop of the horse’s hooves.
She turned and looked again at the river. It was shining still, but it was no longer silver. The setting sun had turned it to gold. And the sailboat, still a silhouette, pulled up to its moorings.
Dusk was past. The time for returning was here.

Let me provide another example of disconnecting gradually and physically from things as they really are. Today a person can enter into a virtual world, such as Second Life, and assume a new identity. An individual can create an avatar, or a cyberspace persona, that conforms to his or her own appearance and behavior. Or a person can concoct a counterfeit identity that does not correlate in any way to things as they really are. However closely the assumed new identity approximates the individual, such behavior is the essence of things as they really are not. Earlier I defined the fidelity of a simulation or model. I now emphasize the importance of personal fidelity—the correspondence between an actual person and an assumed, cyberspace identity. Please note the lack of personal fidelity in the following episode as reported in the Wall Street Journal:

Ric Hoogestraat is “a burly [53-year-old] man with a long gray ponytail, thick sideburns and a salt-and-pepper handlebar mustache. … [Ric spends] six hours a night and often 14 hours at a stretch on weekends as Dutch Hoorenbeek, his six-foot-nine, muscular … cyber-self. The character looks like a younger, physically enhanced version of [Ric]. …

“… [He] sits at his computer with the blinds drawn. … While his wife, Sue, watches television in the living room, Mr. Hoogestraat chats online with what appears on the screen to be a tall, slim redhead.

“He’s never met the woman outside of the computer world of Second Life, a well-chronicled digital fantasyland. … He’s never so much as spoken to her on the telephone. But their relationship has taken on curiously real dimensions. They own two dogs, pay a mortgage together and spend hours [in their cyberspace world] shopping at the mall and taking long motorcycle rides. … Their bond is so strong that three months ago, Mr. Hoogestraat asked Janet Spielman, the 38-year-old Canadian woman who controls the redhead, to become his virtual wife.

“The woman he’s legally wed to is not amused. ‘It’s really devastating,’ says Sue Hoogestraat, … who has been married to Mr. Hoogestraat for seven months.”5

And what a valuable thing a covenant in our lives can be, if we will let it guide us. Another problem: an overweight girl from Ogden went to see her bishop. In the purity and goodness of charity, trying to help the girl, he counseled her that it might be a good idea to lose a few pounds. Pitifully heartbroken, she went home and told her father. It had cankered her soul. The father, of course, negative toward the Church all of his life, waiting for something like this, sprung like a cat on the bishop’s back, and they came down to see me and wanted their memberships transferred out of the bishop’s ward. I asked them why, because I didn’t know all this background, and they said, “Well, our bishop suggested to our daughter that she might lose a few pounds and make herself a little more attractive.” Now I want you to know that I defended that great bishop. I said to this family, “You are wrong. That sweet bishop, out of purity and love for your daughter, felt and did that which he was impressed to do. I am sure it was a message from God to your daughter, and she let it canker her soul. The strange thing is that she was probably up in her bedroom the night before praying, ‘Heavenly Father, I am lonely. I need someone. Please help me. Help me to find someone so I won’t be so lonely.’” And yet oftentimes we are offended because a sweet bishop gives us some instruction which is hard for us to live.

A number of years ago, I attended my 20-year high school reunion. I hadn’t seen many of my former classmates since graduation day, and I was excited for the opportunity to see them again. Some of these classmates surprised me; a few who were formerly well-behaved youth had since gotten into trouble or seemed to have otherwise changed for the worse. A few others who used to have lower standards were now active Church members, and I could see that the power of the Atonement had been at work in their lives.
However, I noted with interest that the majority of my former classmates were on the same path they had been following in high school. The decisions they had made so many years ago had largely determined where they were today. Many who had been good, righteous teenagers were now righteous adults. And many who had started down the wrong path so long ago were still on that course.
As a teenager, you are faced with decisions every day that can influence the course of your life and will decide what kind of person you will become. You cannot see exactly where your future will lead, but you can ensure your future happiness by making righteous decisions now. Here are some guidelines that will help you when making important decisions. They will help get you on the path of righteousness and make sure you don’t wander.
Several years ago, I was in the market for a van. My wife and I had nine children, and we needed a larger vehicle. One day, I saw a big 12-passenger van for sale. I contacted the owner, who let me take it for a test drive. I was worried about the height of the van, so I decided to drive it home to see if it would fit in our garage.
I eyeballed the van and the garage door, and it looked like the van was too tall. I got a tape measure and measured the van, then the garage door. Sure enough, the van was too tall. But I wanted the van so badly; I wanted it to fit! So I called my wife out and said, “Come out and watch this. I’m going to try to pull the van into the garage and see if I can make it.” Luckily, before I actually tried to pull the van in, I thought, Wait a minute, I know I can’t make it! I realized that I had two reliable standards already. When I looked at the van, I could see it was too tall. And when I measured the door and the van, I could see the van wouldn’t fit. Yet I was almost willing to risk damage to the van and the garage by trying to drive it in. My personal desires almost kept me from trusting the standards.
When you have difficult choices to make, use your parents, your leaders, words of the prophets, and the scriptures as standards to see if your decisions fit, so to speak. The For the Strength of Youth pamphlet is another terrific resource. There’s no need to spend a lot of time worrying about many of the choices you’re faced with, because the answers are right there in that little pamphlet. It contains very specific guidelines for music, media, dress, and so forth. Follow the standards it contains. Don’t be like those who think, “If I look at this standard from a different angle, maybe my unrighteous decision will fit.”
You will find joy as you make choices that help you follow the Savior. Everything our Heavenly Father does is calculated to bring us joy and happiness. “Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy” (2 Nephi 2:25). On the other hand, Satan’s devices always lead to misery. But he tries to disguise this fact. He tells us, “Commit this sin and it will make you happy.” But it’s a lie. Sin always leads to misery. Remember Alma’s words to Corianton: “Wickedness never was happiness” (Alma 41:10).
Mormon’s counsel in Moroni 7 is very wise. In verses 16 and 17 he says: “Wherefore, I show unto you the way to judge; for every thing which inviteth to do good, and to persuade to believe in Christ, is sent forth by the power and gift of Christ; wherefore ye may know with a perfect knowledge it is of God.
“But whatsoever thing persuadeth men to do evil, and believe not in Christ, and deny him, and serve not God, then ye may know with a perfect knowledge it is of the devil.”
When you are faced with an important decision, be sure that your choice will lead you nearer to Christ.
It is important that you come to understand how the Holy Ghost works in your life. Learn to recognize and understand the Spirit’s gentle promptings, and have the courage to always follow them. When you are faced with a hard decision, following the Holy Ghost can make all the difference.
I remember once, while on a break from high school, a friend and I decided to go hiking through the slot canyons in southern Utah. We drove for several hours to our destination and then hiked to a nice campsite by the river and spent the night.
When we got up in the morning, all my excitement for our hiking trip was gone. Instead, I had a feeling that we ought to return home. For more than two hours this feeling kept bothering me; then suddenly, it went away. I felt so relieved because, frankly, I was afraid to share my feelings with my friend. We’d spent so many hours driving and hiking to our campsite and planned to spend several more days hiking and camping. I was afraid of what my friend would think of me if I said, “I think we ought to go home.”
After lunch, my friend left the campsite to be alone for a few minutes. When he returned, he said, “I think we’d better go home.”
“I do, too,” I said. We cut our trip short and went home.
Today I still think about that experience. I didn’t listen to the Spirit—or at least I didn’t act on the promptings I felt—and the Spirit left me. I am grateful that my friend had the courage to listen and follow.
You also have the Holy Ghost to give you direction. You know what is right. You can feel it. You know when you’re not supposed to watch a certain movie or play a particular video game. You may be tempted to ignore or go against the promptings of the Spirit because you are afraid of how others will react to your decision. Be courageous and do what you know is right.
As a teenager, you face challenging decisions on a regular basis. The choices you make now will shape your character and help to determine the person you will be years from now. Don’t wait until you’re an adult to figure out how to recognize the Spirit; learn now. The Lord will be generous in providing you with opportunities to feel what is right. If you learn to recognize and follow the Spirit, your life will be blessed forever, and you will receive the guidance you need in making important choices.

When the one-year anniversary of Joe’s baptism was approaching, he started asking about going to the temple. Again, my reaction was, “Whoa! Slow down! I’m not ready for that.”
So my patient husband waited. Every now and then, he would slip something into the conversation like, “Honey, I read a great article about the temple. Do you want to read it?” or “Hey, babe, I saw a wonderful video about the temple. Do you want to watch it with me?” His enthusiasm was endearing, but it wasn’t getting me any closer to being ready to go to the temple. Finally, one day he asked me directly what made me feel unprepared.
“You know I had some issues with the Church growing up,” I said. “But I loved going to the temple. Baptism trips were my favorite. I loved the way I felt in the temple, so calm and peaceful. But I don’t know about the rest of the temple. What if someone says or does something that bothers me? What if that ruins going to the temple for me? What would be the point of being a member of the Church if you can’t go to the temple? So I don’t want to go until I’m sure nothing will shake me.”
I found solutions to most of my issues, but I was still struggling with one: how could I be part of a church I didn’t always agree with? This led me to the final step of learning from my journal. I realized I needed to try to understand why other people believe what they believe and say what they say. I needed to know why God had directed the Church to be the way it is today.
I found solutions to most of my issues, but I was still struggling with one: how could I be part of a church I didn’t always agree with?
I found my answer through my husband. When he first started reading the Book of Mormon, a line from the title page stood out to him: “And now, if there are faults they are the mistakes of men; wherefore, condemn not the things of God.” Joe had quoted this over and over, but now it meant something more to me.
I realized that the Church exists in an imperfect world populated by imperfect people. And that includes me. We all have times when we get things wrong before we get them right. I realized I needed to stop judging others, just as I wouldn’t want them to judge me. We are all on a path of learning and growth.
I also realized that the Church is the Lord’s. It is in His hands. Yes, He works through imperfect people, but He directs His work. He knows what is needed, and when.
After this, I felt ready to go to the temple. I was pleased to find that it felt just as good on that day as it had years before when I had done baptisms. On our third wedding anniversary, my husband and I went to the temple again to be sealed together and have our son sealed to us. It was so sweet and such a happy day. I kept thinking that this was what all families are meant to be—eternal. And I had yet another realization: though there might be policies or doctrines that might take me time to sort out, there are also rare and beautiful truths in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. One is that each of us can actually talk to Heavenly Father and receive answers. Another is that through living prophets, He gives guidance for our day.

To a large majority of the world, we are considered a different kind of people. We live a clean, mellow life in contrast to the partying lifestyle. I had the opportunity to travel to several different colleges throughout the United States on recruiting trips. While this was an extremely fun and exciting experience, it was also a huge eye-opener for me. The girls on the teams I was being recruited by had never even heard of Mormons. On every single trip, I ended up explaining my beliefs. They were shocked by some of the things I told them, but this was a real testimony builder. As I told them what I believe, I felt an even stronger testimony growing inside me.

Our grandchildren are learning that when they make a choice, they also choose its consequences. Recently one of our three-year-old granddaughters refused to eat her dinner. Her mother explained, “It’s almost bedtime. If you choose to eat dinner, you are choosing ice cream for dessert. If you choose not to eat dinner, you are choosing to go to bed now, without ice cream.” Our granddaughter considered her two choices and then stated emphatically, “I want this choice—to play and eat only ice cream and not go to bed.”

One day I witnessed evidence of the Spirit and the courage to follow counsel. It was in a second grade elementary classroom. The student-teacher held the children captive with her storytelling skills. In great detail she told of a cross old man whose name was Mr. Black. In contrast, the account was given in similar detail of a Mr. Brown who was kind and thoughtful and loved by everyone. At the conclusion of the story, the teacher asked the children, “How many of you would like to be a neighbor to Mr. Brown?” Every hand was raised high. Then almost as an afterthought, she inquired if there was anyone who would like to have Mr. Black for a neighbor.
A little boy in a faded green shirt near the back of the room began to raise his hand, which brought a ripple of quiet amusement from the children. Hesitating only briefly, he looked around at his friends and still mustered the courage to hold his hand high and to stand alone in his difference. When called on for an explanation to his single vote, he spoke in a soft tone. “Well,” he said, “I’d like Mr. Black to be my neighbor, because if he was, my mom would make a cake for me to take to him, and then he wouldn’t be that way anymore.” A hush fell over the room. Everyone felt something wonderful that they couldn’t explain. A little child broke the silence like a benediction: “Oh, I wish I’d said that!”
We had all made a quick decision about who would be the best neighbor, but only one, just one, had a spirit within, a discernment that allowed him to see what might be.

Sometimes contentions arise because we disagree with what a leader is trying to do. I recall one couple who were very upset at their bishop. They came to me, their stake president, and said the bishop had asked their son to be his assistant—but that the bishop had asked him to get his haircut before he was presented to the quorum. Their son had come home angry. He had just had a haircut a few days before and felt no need to have it shorter. As the mother and father complained to me, they referred to how much more serious it would be if he were smoking or drinking. But getting a hair cut seemed so trivial! Why would the bishop insist on that?
After listening to what they had to say, I asked them if they felt they really loved their son. They looked surprised at my question, but quickly assured me this was the reason they were here. I then told them that if he were my son I would go home and tell him how grateful I was that the bishop had such great love and respect for him. It was a great compliment to be chosen to be an assistant. Undoubtedly the bishop felt he must have leadership ability and the ability to be an example to all the other priests in the ward. I would explain to him how the Lord loves an obedient servant and that many times our obedience has to rest upon faith.
I told this wonderful couple that they needed to strengthen that bishop in the eyes of their son in every way possible; to do otherwise would only bring them unhappiness. Failure to support the bishop would communicate to their son that the bishop was not called of God, that we may follow our leaders only when we choose. The danger of this approach would be that they would be teaching their son that he was a law unto himself, ever sitting as a judge over the words and actions of those called to guide him. There would come a day, I said, when something much more critical than a haircut would arise to test their son. How he—and they—responded to this smaller test would help determine his response to the greater ones.
As we chatted, the contention in the room melted away. Through the Spirit we were all reminded that contention is of the devil and can bring only destructive results.

Daniel pushed the handcart with all his strength. His arms and legs shook with the effort. He saw sweat run down his sister’s face as Jane pushed beside him and their parents strained to pull the handcart. He saw his mother’s mouth moving and her eyes shut, and he knew she was praying for strength.
The last few weeks had been difficult. Food supplies were low. Each person in the handcart company was allowed only about 230 grams of flour a day. There hadn’t been any meat for days. Daniel didn’t mind the hungry feeling as much as the weakness. And now they had come to this stretch of the trail. The deep, dry sand made it difficult to pull the wagons, and they were almost at the end of their strength.
Daniel’s father set the cart handle down and said, “Let’s all rest for a few minutes.”
Jane crumpled into a heap at Daniel’s feet. He sat down by her and gingerly lifted one of her feet. He tore another little strip from the bottom of his shirt and wound it snugly around her foot.
Her shoes had worn out weeks ago. At first, she had tried walking in the soft dust of the wagon-wheel ruts. But her feet had become so sore that much of the time she either had to crawl or have Daniel carry her piggyback. When she had to stand, her feet bled painfully. “Tell me again what the Salt Lake Valley will be like,” she said.
Daniel sighed. At least she hadn’t asked how much farther they had to go. “The missionaries said that the beginning of a beautiful city is already there. Thousands of people have arrived in the valley, and a temple has been started.”
“Will we live in the city?” she asked next.
“The missionaries said some of us will stay there, but Brigham Young will call some families to settle towns and cities in other places.”
“What is the land like? Is it beautiful?”
Daniel tore another strip from his shirt to wrap her other foot. He wondered if she was missing her flower garden.
“Well, the missionaries said it was land that no one else wanted. That’s one reason the Saints hope to be able to worship and build Zion there without the persecution we’ve had elsewhere. And we’ll make it beautiful. After all, the scriptures say that the desert will ‘blossom as the rose’” (see Isa. 35:1).
Jane smiled contentedly. Daniel leaned against the cart. He knew Jane had been waiting to hear “blossom as the rose.” For some reason that gave her comfort. Tears sprang to his eyes as he looked at her. Her clothes were worn, and her feet were blistered and scabbed, but a complaint never escaped her lips. Her testimony of God was firm and sure. He wished he felt that way.
He had at first. But lately, with so many adversities, he had begun to wonder. Why wasn’t God helping them? Why had the journey been so difficult? Did he really want to be planted in this new land—especially a desert—after all?
Daniel looked around. Not a handcart moved. Most of the company were doing as his family was—resting. His parents moved closer to him and Jane. His father pulled off his hat and bowed his head in prayer. “Dear Father,” he pleaded, “Thou seest our situation and knowest our needs. We pray that thou wilt bless us that we may live to yet serve thee and to build up thy kingdom. …”
“Pa, look!” Daniel whispered as soon as the prayer was over. A large cloud of dust was moving toward them.
“Is it a buffalo stampede?” Jane asked.
The attention of the whole company riveted on the growing dust cloud.
“I think it’s Indians, Pa,” Daniel whispered. Jane moved close and put her hand in his.
The Indians stopped a short distance from the weary company. The sun shimmered on the sand, and waves of heat could be seen as well as felt. One Indian dismounted and slowly approached the handcarts. Daniel hugged his sister protectively. He heard Mother’s sharp intake of breath.
The Indian went to where Father stood and stared at him for several moments. Without taking his eyes off Pa, he took hold of the cart and began to pull it. It moved sluggishly, protesting with loud creaks. At his signal, the other Indians got off their horses and pulled the handcarts through the sand. Their somber faces sometimes broke into smiles, as though they were having fun. A great cheer arose from the handcart company.
By evening the handcarts were on solid ground again. The pioneers began to fix their meager meal to share with the Indians, who now unloaded fresh buffalo meat from two ponies. As Daniel helped one of the Indians unload some of the meat, he noticed a pair of moccasins tied to the saddle. If only Jane could have them for her feet!
Perhaps there was something he could trade for them. All through supper, he hardly noticed the taste of the roasted meat as he thought about the moccasins. His only possession was a broken pocketknife. He pulled it out and looked at it. Very little of the blade was left. No, he couldn’t ask his new Indian friend to trade for it. It wasn’t a fair trade. He put the knife away.
Morning came early. The Indians stayed for breakfast; then they and the Saints prepared to go their separate ways.
Mother leaned her mirror against the wagon wheel. Daniel took the comb from her hand and began to comb his hair. He had long since quit grumbling about this morning ritual. Even though it seemed silly to him to comb his hair in such circumstances, he knew it was important to his mother.
The astonished face of his Indian friend filled the mirror beside his own. The Indian examined it front and back. He pointed to the mirror and then to himself. Daniel nodded. “Mother, I think he wants this mirror.”
Mother looked up from the campfire. “After all he has done for us, if he wants it, let him have it.”
Daniel lifted the mirror off the wheel and put it into the hands of the Indian. Within minutes the man was back with his horse. He put the reins in Daniel’s hand. Daniel understood that the Indian wanted to trade his horse for the mirror. Daniel smiled warmly at his friend, shook his head, and handed him back the reins. The Indian pulled a long rifle out from under his saddle blanket and offered it to the boy. Again Daniel shook his head. His friend climbed on his horse, looked at him for a moment, then disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Daniel sighed. He had wanted to ask for the moccasins, but he didn’t know if it was fair to ask for more when they had already been given so much.
The next morning he was abruptly awakened by his sister. “Daniel, come quick! Look what Heavenly Father has blessed me with.”
There on her bedding lay the beautiful moccasins. Daniel gently slipped them onto her feet. The Indians had helped them get out of the sand, given them food, and now his friend had left footwear for Jane! In his mind and heart the thought blossomed—Heavenly Father does answer prayers!