Gospel Story Finder

I had an experience on my mission that reminded me of the importance of regular repentance. Toward the end of my mission, a member of the Quorum of the Seventy went to Hawaii, where I was serving. Although his primary purpose in going to Hawaii was not related to our Mission, he took a few hours one afternoon to teach a small group of missionaries. I was fortunate to be able to attend that meeting. He taught many things, but one principle stood out to me.

He made a comment that day that had an immediate impact on my understanding of my need for repentance. I remember him saying something like, "The greatest blessings I have received in my life are in proportion to the extent to which I have repented of my sins." When he said this, I was immediately humbled by the realization that I had spent close to two years teaching repentance without regularly analyzing my own life for those things that I needed to repent of. Perhaps I justified repenting less on my mission because, in many respects, I probably was more righteous during this time than I had ever been before my mission. I could have rationalized that I had less to repent of. However, I realized that day that if a general authority taught the principle of repentance by describing the importance of repentance in his life, I needed to reevaluate the application of repentance in my own life.

As I analyzed my life and began to repent of the seemingly small things I needed to repent of, I saw immediate miracles in my missionary service. At the time, I was serving in the mission office which made proselyting difficult. We did not have many opportunities to teach, but no sooner did I begin to apply repentance again in my life than a mother, who had committed to turn her life around, called and asked that we teach her unbaptized children. We also had an elementary school teacher, who was not a member of our Church, come to our office and asked that we spend an hour teaching his class the history of our Church. Unfortunately my mission ended shortly after I learned this powerful personal lesson on repentance.

At Christmas time Cynthia, Richard, Gerald, Mom, and Dad went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. The children helped set up the stable like the one where Baby Jesus was born, sang Christmas carols, and opened presents.
A few days after Christmas Dad said, “It’s time to go home.”
Grandpa and Grandma looked sad.
“Mommy,” Cynthia said, “why are Grandma and Grandpa so sad?”
“Because they will miss us when we go home.”
Cynthia went to find Grandma, who was helping Gerald pack his clothes.
“Grandma,” Cynthia said, “will you be happy if I leave some of my toys? You can play with them till we come back.”
“Thank you, honey,” said Grandma, “I will miss you, not your toys.” She gave Cynthia a big hug.
Cynthia wondered how she could help Grandma and Grandpa be happy. Suddenly she remembered how happy Dad was when Mom put notes in his lunch sack. She ran and whispered to Gerald and Richard and gave them each some pieces of paper. Richard sat on the floor and wrote and wrote and wrote. Gerald drew pictures because he was too little to write.
“Mommy,” said Cynthia, “how do you spell love?”
“L-o-v-e,” Mom told her.
When Cynthia finished writing, she tiptoed into the living room. She hid one of her notes on Grandpa’s chair. She put another note in the piano bench. She even put two in Grandma’s slippers under the couch. Then she tiptoed quietly out.
Richard waited in the hall until Grandpa left the kitchen. Then he scurried in and put one note in the cracker box, one on top of the forks, and one in an apron pocket. He also put notes in the refrigerator and the pantry.
Meanwhile, Gerald was in Grandma and Grandpa’s bedroom. He put all his picture-notes under their pillows for them to find when they went to bed.
Soon Dad and Mom were bundling them into their coats. “Kiss Grandma and Grandpa good-bye and get in the car!” said Dad.
Grandpa kept saying, “I’m going to miss all of you. I’m really going to miss you!” He looked like he was already missing them, and they hadn’t even gone yet!
Grandma kissed all the kids and Mom and Dad too. “Remember to write me,” she told them.
Cynthia, Richard, and Gerald started to giggle.
“What’s so funny?” asked Grandma.
“You’ll see,” Cynthia told her, grinning from ear to ear. “We left love notes for you all over the house.”

We also visited my widowed Aunt Dorothy before she died. She had been very ill for some time, yet she lived on. She waited patiently to be with her husband again after this life. She depended on help from others but lived as fully as possible. She often read the scriptures. A small sign in her home expressed Dorothy’s attitude. It simply said, “Joy.”
Some of the happiest people I know: my mother, Ramona (top), my cousin Dave and Penny Barnes (center), and my Aunt Dorothy (above).
Photographs courtesy of the author
The Keetch family, my mother, Dave, Penny, and Aunt Dorothy are examples of being joyful during trials. They simply live the gospel and look to better days ahead. In doing so they show joy that exceeds the temporary, though painful, trials they face. With faith in God, they follow His plan for them and rely on Jesus Christ and the blessings of His Atonement. This brings joy and peace.

Before leaving his hometown of Mystowice to serve as a missionary, Elder Tomaszewski left a challenge for his younger brother Patryk, who was also deeply involved in jujitsu. “If you want to find out why I’m doing this, why I’m giving up my sport, read the Book of Mormon and pray about it.”
And what has been his best day as a missionary?
The day he learned that his younger brother had taken his challenge to read and pray about the Book of Mormon. Patryk Tomaszewski also received a testimony. He was baptized in August 2004.
Now there are two Tomaszewskis to share the joy of the gospel.

How can we develop a good attitude of cooperation? One wise stake president counseled priesthood and Relief Society leaders to determine their actions by asking, “What would the Savior do?” rather than “What has been done before?” With this idea in mind, ward leaders examined their “policies” in working together. Several ward “traditions” came under examination—the first, when the ward budget was presented for approval to the men in priesthood meeting, but not to the women in Relief Society.
“Would the Savior do that?” priesthood leaders wondered. They decided that he wouldn’t, and then they consulted the General Handbook of Instructions, which indicates that proposed budgets should be discussed with all ward members in a special meeting. That tradition was changed, and the sisters in the ward are much more supportive of ward activities now that they are included in the planning.

I know that I have an elder brother Jesus Christ. He is my Savior and Redeemer. Without his atoning sacrifice none of us would have any hope of every returning to live with our Heavenly Father again. Next to his atoning sacrifice I am grateful for the perfect example that he has set for me to follow. I will conclude with a personal experience that illustrates this concept.

A year and a half ago our beautiful two-year old daughter passed away. Through the long night before she died I sat at her bedside in the Intensive Care Unit at Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City ,Utah. As I held her hand, I prayed silently, but constantly that Heavenly Father would spare her life and that she would be restored to health. Being a Registered Nurse, I watched anxiously for any sign of improvement in her condition. As the dawn came, signaling the beginning of a new day, so did the realization that not only was her condition not improving, but it was deteriorating. The doctors gave us no hope. I, at that point, had to contemplate what my life would be like without her. I could not imagine it. She was my baby and she liked me. I couldn’t comprehend living the rest of my mortal existence without her here with me. I began to silently plead with my Heavenly Father. I begged him not to make me go through it. I told him it was too hard and I couldn’t do it. Somewhere in the midst of my pleading, words came into my mind. They were the words of my Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane where he suffered beyond anything that I, as a mortal, can comprehend. He pleaded with our Heavenly Father to not make Him go through it. But then came His concluding words, “Not my will, but Thine be done.” With all of the courage, hope, trust, and faith I could muster, I silently concluded, not my will, but Thine be done.

Within an hour as my husband and I rocked her, still connected to life support, she was gently lifted from our arms and returned to our Heavenly Father. As we drove the 3 ½ hours to home in silence, there were many things that went through my mind. One that I shamefully admit thinking, “Heavenly Father, I sure hope you know what you are doing.” because taking her had left such a huge hole in our family and in our hearts.

When we walked into our family room that day, all ten of our children were there along with our two little grandchildren. Our returned missionary son was reading from the scriptures about where Kaylie, our little daughter had gone. Our then, three-year old son ran up and hugged my legs and then looked up at me and asked, “Mommy, how long are you going to be sad?” My response was immediate and without thought. I told him that I was going to be sad forever because at that moment, it truly seemed like I would be sad forever. But then I had to stop and think. Really, how long would I be sad? I would be sad until I was with Kaylie again and if I looked at it in eternal perspective, this life is but a moment. I would be sad, but a moment and than I would be with Kaylie again.

We then sat down and talked as a family about why we were sad that day. We decided we were sad because one of us was missing. We concluded that is how sad we would be in the next life if one of us was missing because we did not make right choices in this life, only then, it truly would be forever. We made a vow that day that we would try harder to live worthily to be with our Heavenly Father and Kaylie again. If you were to come into our home today, you would notice tucked in the corner of each of our temple pictures, a wallet size photo of Kaylie in her little white dress taken just three weeks before she died. A constant reminder of the commitment we made to each other to be together in the eternities.

How do three lovely young ladies who are profoundly deaf speak fluently with confidence, joy, and Irish accents?
The answer? With patient faith, hard work, and tender help from parents, sisters, teachers, and their Heavenly Father.
The Ferguson sisters, Deborah, 21, Julie-Ann, 16, and Heather, 13, are from Bangor Branch, Belfast Northern Ireland Stake, and were born with hearing impairments. Two more sisters, Amanda, 20, and Gail, 18, along with parents Peter and Lillian have normal hearing. The girls’ grandparents were also born deaf and mute.
But communication is no problem for this outstanding family. Trust in the Lord and determination are working miracles in their lives.
Proof of this is abundant in Deborah’s many achievements. Her bubbling personality and eagerness to live life to the fullest have bridged some hearing problems. Since graduating from seminary, she has participated in the Cub Scouting programme, serving in assistant leadership positions.
Among other hardearned awards are trophies of all shapes and sizes for numerous sports, including badminton, squash, swimming, and football.
“When we held the dance festival,” said Young Women president Sister Geddis, “Deborah was the best at keeping on the beat, moving perfectly with the music.” Deborah explains, “Although I can’t hear sound, I feel vibrations through the floor, and with care can dance like the rest.”
Whether dancing or studying, no obstacles will prevent Deborah from enjoying every programme of the Church has to offer. “I will be serving as a missionary,” she says. “I love to serve and have a great desire to spread the gospel amongst other people with hearing disabilities.”
Her younger sister Amanda feels the same way. Although able to hear perfectly herself, she has witnessed the aspirations of her family and is determined to open doors for others less blessed with opportunity. She is taking a university course in British Sign Language and after three years will be qualified to interpret and teach.
“I’d like to begin by sharing the gospel with my grandparents, aunt, and uncles who are also deaf,” Amanda explains. “I feel they’re missing so much. I’d love to help them learn the truth.”
Learning plays an important part in sister Gail’s life too—especially seminary. “It’s a great programme. I gain such a lot. Seeing things through the eyes of ancient people has helped me appreciate my own family and their present struggles.”
Gail has an outstanding talent for dealing with children. Acting as “ears” for younger sisters for many years, she has developed patience, kindness, and sensitivity to others’ needs.
Those listening ears are greatly missed by Julie-Ann and Heather for many months each year. These two leave home, family, and Irish stew behind and attend school at the renowned Mary Hare United Kingdom Grammar School for the Deaf in Newbury, England. Due to the rigorous academic requirements, for one pupil to be accepted at this outstanding school is an accomplishment (a bit like being chosen for Oxford or Cambridge), but for two from the same family to attend is something of a miracle.
“Letting the children be educated so far away has been a traumatic experience for us all,” Brother Ferguson says. “But through prayer we found comfort and confirmation that our decision was right.”
“We all send letters once or twice a week,” says Julie-Ann, “and there’s a special telephone at school which allows three-way conversations between pupil, interpreter, and parent, so we don’t have to go too long without help from home on any problem.”
“Brother and Sister Williams from Newbury Branch pick us up for church each Sunday,” says Heather. “We enjoy that. There’s a lovely feeling among the members.”
“I love learning everything I can about the Saviour and his church,” says Julie-Ann. “I do home-study seminary, and it always helps me. I find sacrament meetings a bit frustrating sometimes, especially when I can’t keep up with the speakers. I want to understand every word of their message. People are kind and write things down for me, but often talks go too fast to get the full story.”
Both girls are excellent lip readers, however, and are equipped with the latest hearing aids. So skilled are they becoming that they are even learning another language. Both are coping well with French. “It’s difficult,” says Heather. “I have to concentrate much harder than students who hear.”
Reading music has been part of their lives since infancy. “Our mother used to point out how notes go up and down in hymnbooks at church,” says JulieAnn, “and if the congregation doesn’t drown out the piano, I can pick out the beat and sing hymns.”
“We play recorders the same way,” comments Heather. “I feel pulsation of sound through my feet and legs, and with plenty of practice, we get the tunes right. We have a good orchestra here.”
Although Julie-Ann, Heather, and Deborah use their talents to achieve results in life equal to, and often better than, those of people without hearing impairments, they are sometimes disappointed and hurt by the attitudes of many people towards their disability.
“I prefer to be treated just like everyone else,” Heather says. “It’s really embarrassing when I’m in a crowd and someone starts speaking to me very slowly, with wildly waving arms, acting like I’m stupid or something.”
“Yes,” agrees Julie-Ann, “it’s nice to be accepted as part of the group, spoken to normally, and not stared at as if we’re odd. I often feel like telling people, ‘I’m exactly the same inside as you are.’ It makes me heartbroken and depressed when they are afraid or don’t want to understand me.”
“That’s right,” Heather adds. “I don’t always get a question the first time, and if I ask ‘pardon?’ they often say, ‘Oh, never mind,’ and go away! I’d rather they try again and again, so we can learn about each other. I don’t much like tiny conversations with only ‘Hi!’ or ‘How are you doing?’ I’d prefer to talk properly, long discussions, not too fast or too slow, but real conversations with facial expression and feeling.
Perhaps because of a certain isolation that deafness creates for them, all three girls have developed a close, personal relationship with their Heavenly Father.
“I talk to the Lord in prayer much of the time,” says Julie-Ann. “I feel the presence of the Holy Spirit strongly and am constantly grateful for the promptings I receive. We watched a video of general conference. During remarks about keeping high standards and avoiding friendships with the wrong crowd, I felt so warm inside as the Spirit testified this was important advice. I could have cried. I didn’t want that wonderful feeling to go away.”
“I get a similar sensation when I think of my sister Deborah on her mission. I think she’ll be homesick for a while, leaving Northern Ireland. It’s such a lovely country. I remember how I felt. But we’re all excited for her. I look forward to hearing how she gets on. My patriarchal blessing tells me I’ll also go on a mission when I’m 21.”
The Fergusons seem to be a part of fulfilling prophecy. In Isaiah 29:18, the prophet wrote, “In that day shall the deaf hear the words of the book.” [Isa. 29:18] Not only are the Fergusons hearing the truth of the gospel themselves, they are becoming well educated and prepared to share those words with all who care to listen with ears, eyes, hands, and hearts.

“Our Area Presidency has challenged us to read the Book of Mormon before stake conference. Will you try?” my dad asked me. “I’ll try,” I said reluctantly. I was reluctant because I had recently been in a bicycle accident and had received a serious concussion. I remember the exact date of my accident—27 July 1993—because it was my younger brother Brent’s 12th birthday.
The morning of Brent’s birthday, I did not have a present for him, so I decided to ride my bicycle to a store to find something. The store was not far away, but getting there required riding along a busy state highway. Thinking I would be safer, I rode on a seldom-used sidewalk that ran by some condominiums not far from my home. Toward the bottom of a hill, the sidewalk became uneven and was covered with sand, dirt, and plants. The sidewalk was not easily seen from either the highway or the condos. I headed down the hill, picking up speed as I went, but my trip didn’t take me where I had planned to go. I ended up in the hospital instead.
I have no memory of what happened. All I remember is the pain. I later learned that two teenage boys found me. They contacted a neighbor, who called my mom and the paramedics.
Five days later, I was still delirious. I had more than 40 stitches over one eye and on my chin, and bandages covered other cuts and scrapes. While I was in the hospital and at home, many loving people in our ward visited me and brought me gifts—although I can’t remember most of it.
Later, when I was feeling better, my parents had a speech pathologist test me. The tests showed moderate to severe impairment of my ability to retrieve general information, organize thoughts, and speak intelligently. My mental age had dropped. Although I was nearly 15 years old, I was performing at a 12-year-old level.
One of the most frustrating consequences of the accident was not being able to read. I could see the words, but my mind couldn’t process them. It was almost as if I had forgotten how to read. So my dad’s request that I read the Book of Mormon within a two-month period would be an immense challenge.
That night, I knelt by my bed to pray to Heavenly Father. During my prayer, I felt strongly that if Heavenly Father wanted me to read the Book of Mormon, He would help me. After the prayer, I got up, sat in bed, and opened the Book of Mormon to the first page. I slowly looked at the words in front of me and began: “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents …” I was reading! I could actually understand the words! Part of me was totally amazed and excited. Yet part of me wasn’t surprised at all. Somehow I had a complete assurance that I would be able to read the Book of Mormon if it was the Lord’s will and if He was helping me.
After only one month, I finished reading that great book of scripture. The Lord and the Book of Mormon had taught me how to read again. More important, my faith in Heavenly Father increased, as did my testimony of prayer and the scriptures. That faith and testimony sustained me years later as I served as a full-time missionary in the Korea Seoul West Mission.
I’m grateful my dad challenged me to read the Book of Mormon. Because of that challenge, I was able to understand that Heavenly Father can bless us in our trials. I’m also grateful for miracles—not only for the miraculous coming forth of the Book of Mormon and the miraculous Restoration of the gospel, but also for miracles that happen today to people like me.

Several years ago I heard about a good brother who described his attitude as President David O. McKay gave the concluding talk of general conference. It was a sultry afternoon, and this was the fifth session he had attended. He was sitting in the balcony, and his mind had a serious wandering problem. He noticed a man sitting in the middle section who had fallen asleep with his head tilted back and his mouth open. It occurred to him that if he were in the roof of the Tabernacle, he could drop a spit wad through one of the vent holes right into the mouth of that sleeping man. What a glorious thought! Following the meeting, he overheard two men talking about their feelings during President McKay’s talk. They were visibly moved by what they had heard. He thought to himself, These two brethren were having a marvelous spiritual experience, and what was I doing? Thinking about dropping spit wads from the ceiling!

There is a little village called Mistolar on the Paraguayan desert. All of its residents are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Despite their distance from the Church’s Paraguayan headquarters in the capital city of Asunción, these humble people of Indian ancestry follow the programs and principles of the restored gospel and are an example of faithfulness to the world.
Mistolar had its beginnings in 1977. At that time, the Paraguayan mission president, Merle Bair, saw Walter Flores, a man from the deserts of the Chico in Paraguay, on a television program in Asunción. President Bair felt impressed to find the man and share the gospel with him. In 1980, the missionaries located Flores. He was very receptive to the gospel message, and was soon baptized. Brother Flores’ testimony was so profound and clear, he knew he had to share the gospel with his fellow Indians. Several hundred joined the Church.
One group of some 214 Nivaclé Saints (formerly Chulupi), wanted to be free from worldly influences and settled a large piece of land in an uninhabited, remote area of Paraguay. They named their settlement Mistolar. At first, they were totally self-sufficient in their gardening, hunting and fishing, and had little communication with other people.
But the massive Pilcomayo River, between Mistolar and the northern border of Argentina, challenged their self-sufficiency and their faith.
One year, as the snows of the Andes Mountains melted, the swollen Pilcomayo overflowed its banks and flooded Mistolar. The Saints were forced to move and they relocated ten kilometers away from the river’s edge. But even there, they were not safe. Another disastrous flood left their land more than knee-deep in water for a month. They lost the beautiful chapel they had built, their homes, their gardens, their clothing—almost everything they owned. But, as I was to discover, they still had their faith.

In my early life I had been very interested in oil painting, drawing, graphics—anything that had to do with art. Now I had lost the ability to even hold a pen or brush, and the scripture came to mind that if talents aren’t used they regress and become dormant. That’s exactly what had happened to me.
Then one day, as I sat working with a sander to strengthen the shoulder motion that I had, I noticed a pencil on the table. For a moment I daydreamed about how wonderful it would be to be able to do a simple thing like pick up the pencil and write my name. This illustrates how meaningful even the smallest things became.
At my request the brace maker fashioned a small attachment to the brace that enabled me to hold the pencil in an almost natural position. I stared down at the paper, afraid to begin. I felt like a small child picking up his first crayon. And as I applied the pencil to the paper, I found that I could only make senseless scribblings. I couldn’t even form the basic letters of the alphabet!
I won’t elaborate on the devastating discouragements that presented barriers at this time; but after three months of treatment, I did succeed in making one small drawing of a tree, and I had learned to print my name. This was, to me, great progress.

Our family loved the trips we took to the mountains when our children were young. Standing on the edge of beautiful Jackson Lake, with the majestic mountain peaks reflected in its glassy surface, we would have contests skipping rocks across the smooth water. As the rocks sank, we watched while ripples moved out across the water as far as we could see. Even the smallest pebble tossed by our youngest child rippled on and on and on.

“We had one lesson at least every two months on preparing to go on a mission,” Elder Kolb said. “On the blackboard we’d list all the things you needed to do to get ready—preparing yourself physically, spiritually, and financially. I felt like my spiritual and physical preparations were okay, but not my financial. So at 15 I got a job planting trees, and I had that job for five years. I’ll be able to pay for my whole mission myself.”

Sewing a quilt in my high school sewing class proved to be harder than I’d thought. For one thing, my thread kept getting jammed in my sewing machine, but that problem was easy enough to fix. The harder problem was the swear words. Three young women in my class were working together at the next machine over, and they’d been swearing loudly the entire class period.
The idea of asking them to stop swearing intimidated me. But I’d been taught by my parents and Church leaders that people will often respond well to our invitations to do good as long as we are kind. So I took a deep breath and asked the three young women as nicely as I knew how if they could stop swearing.
Unfortunately, they didn’t take it well. The tallest one gave me a rude answer, and before I knew it, we were arguing. Eventually I gave up and went back to my sewing. Now I was frustrated with the swear words, the three young women, and myself. The last thing I’d wanted to do was start an argument.
As I brooded over my mistake, I heard the three young women swearing again and saw them bent over their machine. I could tell that their machine was jammed the same way mine had been a few minutes earlier. I walked over to their machine and quickly showed them how to fix the problem.
I could feel their eyes on me as I went back to my seat. A moment later, the tallest young woman said, “Hey, sorry about the things we said earlier. Thanks for helping us with our machine.”
“No problem,” I said with a smile. My parents and leaders are right—kindness really works!

“But, Mom, I don’t want to go to church today!” Trevor complained. “I want to stay home and play outside. We get a vacation from school in the summer, so why can’t we take a vacation from church now too?”
Trevor’s mother smiled as she asked, “What do you think would happen if Heavenly Father took a summer vacation from watching over us and helping us? Besides, you have all the rest of the week to play outside.”
The next day Trevor did play outside. He played long and hard. Late in the afternoon, while he was racing his bike with his friends, he turned his head to see how far ahead of them he was. In that instant his bike hit a rock, and the next thing Trevor knew, he was in a hospital bed with a big cast on his left leg and a huge bandage on his head.
As Trevor lay there, his leg was held up by a chain and pulley. He couldn’t turn; he could only lie on his back. The doctors told him that he would have to lie that way for at least four weeks! His whole summer was ruined!
To just lie still in the big hospital bed was the hardest work that Trevor had ever done. His mom, dad, and sisters came to visit him every day. They brought books to read and tapes and games that he could play while lying down. This helped, but each day still seemed like forever.
When Sunday came, Trevor knew that his family would go to church and wouldn’t come to see him till late afternoon. Trevor colored in his new coloring book, then read some of his books. Nothing feels right. This is Sunday, and I would be in church if I were home. That would feel right, he told himself.
Trevor thought about his Primary class. They’re probably in Sharing Time right now, singing some of my favorite songs. Maybe they’ll play that Bible story gamethat Sister Hinton taught us last week. Trevor wondered what Sister Norman’s lesson would be about today. Last week it had been about “Forgiveness.” He really did like the lessons. Even though it was hard to sit still sometimes, Sister Norman could always tell when everyone needed to wiggle a little. She would have them play the wiggle game until they got all their wiggles out. The more Trevor thought about church, the more he wished that he could be there.
The next week wasn’t any easier for Trevor. He kept thinking about not being able to go to church on Sunday. After lying still for days and days, sitting for three hours didn’t seem quite so impossible anymore.
When Sunday came again, the morning seemed to get longer and longer. Trevor looked at the clock on the wall. Sharing Time is just getting over, and everyone will be going to their classes. I bet the lesson’s a good one, Trevor thought sadly.
About ten minutes later Sister Norman appeared in the doorway! “Hello, Trevor. May we come in?” she asked.
“Wow! Yes! Yes!” Trevor shouted happily.
Sister Norman was followed by the other four children in Trevor’s Primary class. Each child carried cards and letters that all the children in Primary had made for Trevor during Sharing Time.
After a few minutes of visiting, Sister Norman said, “Trevor, we all missed you so much that we decided that Primary wasn’t Primary without you, and we decided to bring Primary to you today.”
The children all sat down around the bed while Sister Norman gave her lesson on kindness to others.
All too soon the lesson was over, and it was time for Trevor’s class to go. Before she left, Sister Norman said, “Trevor, if it’s all right with you, till you’re well, we’d like to visit you each week and give you the Primary lesson, just like we have at the ward.”
“Oh,” Trevor said, “that would be just great! Thank you.”
After his class had left, Trevor thought, I’m glad that Primary doesn’t stop during the summer. And I’m especially glad that Heavenly Father doesn’t take a summer vacation!

We were fortunate to attend the Melbourne Temple in November 2019 for a few days. Little did we realise it would be our last trip for a significant amount of time. Before the pandemic, my husband and I would attend the temple anywhere between one and four times a year. To get there we would either take a flight or a ferry. Some years that has been hard financially, so we made the trip less often. Some of those trips were day trips; others lasted a few days.
When the temple and our state borders closed during the COVID-19 pandemic, I wondered how I would keep the temple as a meaningful part of my life. I felt strengthened by feelings of the Holy Ghost that even though the temple was closed, the blessings of my temple covenants were not closed to me. I felt an added closeness to the Lord, particularly when I focussed on serving others, whether in my own family or those I minister to.
I spent time reviewing in my mind the covenants I have made, the feelings I have experienced in the temple, and the knowledge I have gained. I reviewed in my mind the wording of the ordinances. I continued researching my family history, entering names and sources into FamilySearch, and sharing those names with the temple. I look forward to seeing the list of shared names start to be completed when the temples reopen.

Illustration by Petur Antonsson
I had noticed the commercial beehives before—several times, in fact. They stood out like white sentinels in a clearing off the road just outside the small town where we lived in central California, USA.
But it wasn’t until my brother, several friends, and I rode by on our bikes one Saturday that we decided to take a closer look. Honey sounded especially good that morning. But how could we “borrow” a little without getting stung?
I don’t remember who came up with the idea, but we all agreed it was a good one. One of us simply had to tuck his pants inside his socks and cover his upper body, including his hands, arms, neck, and head. Then he could approach the hives without worrying about getting stung and grab what is called a “honeycomb frame.”
It was a sweet plan. What could go wrong?
We drew lots, and as with Lehi’s sons, the lot fell to the eldest—my brother, Mark. We knew we’d picked the right boy for the job when he grabbed his leather bicycle bag, cut two small eyeholes in it, and put it over his head. The rest of us pulled off our T-shirts and layered his arms and neck for protection. When we took off our shoes and gave him our socks for his hands, he was ready for battle.
Captain Moroni would have been proud—had we not been about to use our makeshift armor to take something that wasn’t ours.
My friends and I stood what we thought was a safe distance from the hives as Mark ran up to them. He quickly grabbed a honeycomb frame from one of the beehive boxes. Then he shook it, dropped it to the ground, and hightailed it back to us. The bees were not amused, but they soon settled down.
So far, so good.
Now all Mark had to do was run back, pick up the honeycomb frame, shake it free of bees, and sprint back with it.
All went according to plan until Mark started running toward us. Turned out he had company. The bees were coming too—and they were madder than hornets!
During the next few exciting minutes, I gained valuable knowledge.
I learned that honeybees fly fast—at least, faster than barefoot boys running on rocks and stickers.
I learned that honeybees are brave—they die after they sting you. As my shirtless friends and I tried to run away, about two dozen bees sacrificed themselves on our ears, necks, backs, and arms.
I learned that when we make a choice, we also choose the consequences of that choice. As President James E. Faust (1920–2007), Second Counselor in the First Presidency, said: “When you pick up a stick you pick up both ends.”1
After the honeybees had finished teaching my friends and me these painful lessons, the surviving bees retreated to their hives. We boys—smarting, swollen, and wiser—trudged back to my brother, who had enjoyed the spectacle without getting stung and who was now enjoying the honey.
By then I had lost my appetite—for honey and for “borrowing,” which I knew in my heart was just another word for stealing. My body wasn’t the only thing that was stung. So was my conscience.
I can honestly say, however, that the lessons I learned that day from the bees and their honey have stuck with me.

Miguel opened the door to his abuelo’s (his grandpa’s) shoe shop. He took a deep breath and smelled the leather. It was one of his favorite smells.
“Hi, Abuelo!”
Abuelo was kneeling down and tracing a customer’s foot onto a piece of paper. He didn’t look up. Abuelo’s hearing wasn’t very good.
Miguel sat down at a workbench. He looked at the stacks of cut leather. He imagined what Abuelo would make with each one, using his hammer and pliers.
The tools reminded Miguel of something else he loved. Abuelo always gave him a piece of candy whenever Miguel helped clean up.
Miguel knew he wasn’t supposed to take a treat without asking. But he was hungry now! And it looked like Abuelo would be busy for a while. Maybe I don’t need to wait, Miguel thought.
Miguel reached under the counter for the candy jar. It was his favorite—sweet and spicy with chili powder! Part of him knew he should ask Abuelo first. But part of him just kept thinking about how tasty the candy looked. He hurried and put it in his mouth.
Pretty soon the customer left. Miguel watched Abuelo pick up a piece of leather and dunk it in some water. That helped make the leather soft and easy to work with.
Miguel ate the rest of the candy as fast as he could. Then he walked over to Abuelo.
Abuelo looked up from his work. “Hello!” he said with a smile. “I didn’t see you come in.”
Miguel hugged Abuelo. He hoped Abuelo couldn’t tell he’d eaten a piece of candy. Miguel pushed the worry away.
“It looks like you’re busy today,” Miguel said, pointing to the stacks of leather. “Do you need any help?”
“Sure! Could you pass me that thread?”
Miguel reached for a long piece of thread. He tugged it between his hands. It was tougher than it looked.
“Wow, that’s strong.”
Abuelo chuckled. “It has to be, to last through the wear and tear of life.” Abuelo pulled the thread through the leather. Then he got that look on his face that Mamá sometimes called the “Wise Abuelo” look.
“You know, we need to be more like this shoe,” Abuelo said with a nod.
Miguel squinted at the leather. “Um. We do?”
“Yes, indeed. We need to stay strong. That way Satan’s temptations won’t make us fall apart.”
The red candy flashed through Miguel’s mind. He knew he should tell Abuelo about it.
Abuelo took an old shoe off the shelf. “See this big hole?”
Miguel could probably fit his hand through the hole. “Yeah.”
“This was once a small hole that could’ve been fixed easily. But the owner waited, and now it’s going to be much harder to fix. Bad habits and bad choices are like that hole. Best to fix them early.”
Abuelo nodded again, and the Wise Abuelo look turned back into a smile. They kept talking as Abuelo worked. The whole time, Miguel kept thinking about the red candy stick.
When Abuelo finished, Miguel helped him clean up. Then Abuelo reached for his jar of candy.
Finally Miguel couldn’t take it anymore. “I took one of your candies without asking!” he blurted out.
Abuelo set down the jar in surprise. “What was that?”
Miguel told him all about taking the candy. “I’m so sorry, Abuelo! I’ll never do it again. I promise!”
Abuelo gave Miguel a big hug. Miguel felt so much better.
“Thank you for being honest. That’s more important to me than just about anything else.”
On the walk home, Miguel felt just like one of Abuelo’s new pair of shoes. Strong as can be, and ready for life!

Some years ago I was serving as a bishop. At the same time I was working on a doctor’s degree at a university and working a full-time job. I was under some strain, fearing that because of my desire to succeed in so many areas I was really failing as a father.
One Sunday evening I stayed late at church to complete some work. As I walked into the chapel to turn off the lights before going home, I suddenly felt lonely. I felt that my back would not bear for another day the heavy burdens I was carrying.
I fell to my knees near the pulpit and cried to the Lord. I poured out the feelings of my soul to him and described in detail my seemingly insurmountable tasks. When I finished I remained kneeling. And then I heard the Spirit speak to me in my heart. The answer it gave me was all I needed. It said just three things: Go forward. Do your best. Love your family.
I arose a new man.

As I drove to work through our neighborhood in Puyallup, Washington, I began to notice a young girl among a group of children waiting for the school bus.
Washington is well blessed with rainfall, and there were many cold, wet mornings when the kids would huddle together. But I could always count on her to ignore the elements and come up with a big smile and wave as I passed the bus stop.
The young girl was tall and slim and about 13 years old. She wore a mouthful of braces and I could see them glisten in the glare of my car lights.
Somehow her little effort to be friendly helped me get my day started right and became something I looked forward to.
I told my wife about the little friend I had, and how without fail she would always be there with that sweet smile and friendly wave. We didn’t know who she was, but she seemed to be an outstanding young girl.
It wasn’t very long after this that our own 13-year-old daughter, Cheryl, asked if she could go to an activity that a local church was having. She called it MIA. She was going with a neighbor girl, Vicki, and promised us that there would be parental supervision.
Cheryl began to attend MIA regularly, and after a few occasions she told us that Vicki was a Mormon. Cheryl also said Vicki was my friend from the bus stop.
Discovering that Vicki was a Mormon gave us a good feeling. I was aware of the reputation the Mormons had of being a good and family-oriented people.
A short time later Cheryl came home from school and relayed a message from Vicki. She was sending two young men over, missionaries, to tell us about her church.
“Tell Vicki that I have been waiting for 30 years to know what a Mormon is,” I told my daughter.
The elders arrived and we heard about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith. I will never forget when those young men bore their testimonies of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith being a true prophet of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. Over the next few weeks we began to read and were soon captivated by the new scriptures.
I finally met Vicki—she was at church our first time and was in the audience, smiling, when the three members of my family were baptized. We moved away from that part of the state soon after and have not seen Vicki since. I recently heard she is married now and has a family of her own.
Through her actions and those of the young people we have known since, my wife and I are thoroughly convinced that the greatest potential for missionary work lies in the youth of the Church. We have served as stake missionaries and have served a full-time mission in Pennsylvania, and each time have relied upon the referrals and good example the youth have supplied.
We will never forget Vicki and will be forever grateful to her.