Gospel Story Finder

“Did you mow the lawn?”
Jeff huddled lower as he manipulated the joystick of his video game. Maybe if he ignored her, she would go away.
“I asked, did you mow the lawn?”
Jeff sighed. “No, Mom, I didn’t mow the lawn—OK?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “No, it isn’t OK. You need to turn off the video game now and get the lawn mowed.” She waited a few seconds, but Jeff didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
Suddenly the television clicked off.
“Hey!” Jeff griped. “What happened?” Then he saw his mom calmly slip the remote control into the laundry basket balanced on her hip.
Jeff grumbled as he stomped outside, dragged the mower out, started it up with a couple of angry yanks, and shoved it over the lawn. It took only about forty-five minutes, but he was still irritated when he finished.
“Satisfied?” he asked his mom, who was up to her elbows in bread dough. He jerked the refrigerator door open, looking for something cold to drink.
“Not really,” she replied. “Are you?”
Jeff stopped. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said, “the lawn’s mowed, but are you better for having mowed it? Are you satisfied with a job well done? Are you happy for having contributed to the family?”
“No!”
“Then you did it wrong,” she said and went back to kneading the dough.
Jeff returned to the television, but he couldn’t concentrate. His mother made no sense. The lawn was mowed, right? How could she say he had done it wrong?
Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. He wandered into the kitchen. “So,” he asked, “how many ways are there to mow a lawn?”
“Not ways, really—more like reasons for doing it. Ask around,” she advised him. “Don’t ask people how they mow lawns, ask them why they do it.”
Jeff was happy to get out of the house. He wandered down the street, thinking. There could be only one reason people mowed lawns—because lawns grew and needed mowing and, in his case, because his mother made him do it. But he had the feeling his mother had something else in mind.
Down the block, Jeff saw his friend Chris whistling as he strode along. When he saw Jeff, he hollered, “I’m on my way to the store. Come on.”
Chris pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and waved it under Jeff’s nose. “The first of many, Jeff-o,” he chortled. “My lawn-mowing business is going to rake in the dough! I’ll be rich, rich, rich! Money may not grow on trees, but it does grow in lawns!”
Jeff laughed, then paused. “So why, exactly, do you mow lawns?”
Chris looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “For the money, of course. That’s the only good reason I can think of!”
They walked on, Chris bragging about the things he’d buy before summer was over. Jeff, however, was thinking. So far he’d found two reasons to mow a lawn: fear of punishment and the promise of a reward.
They were almost to the store when they heard an old mower ka-chunking through grass. As they rounded the corner, they saw Daniel finishing up the last bit of his front lawn.
“Want to go to the store with us?” Chris asked.
“Can’t,” Daniel panted. “I still have to mow the back lawn.”
Jeff grabbed the opportunity. “So why are you mowing the lawn?”
“Because grass grows.” Daniel said it very slowly, like he was answering a foolish question.
Jeff turned red. “No, I mean, do you get paid for mowing it? Or will something happen to you if you don’t mow it?”
Daniel just shrugged his shoulders. “Everyone in my family has chores, and today mine is mowing the lawn. Why fight it? I just want to get it out of the way so that I can do more interesting stuff.”
Jeff and Chris nodded in understanding, then headed on down the road.
So that’s what Mom meant, Jeff thought. You can do something because you’re afraid of being punished, or because you’ll get rewarded, or because there’s no point in arguing about it—you might as well just get it done.
Certain that he had found the answer his mother wanted, Jeff poked Chris in the ribs, and they raced each other to the store.
They were slowly heading back when they met Daniel pushing his mower down the street.
“Where are you going with the mower?” Jeff asked.
“The Merrill’s place.”
“Don’t you know that Brother Merrill’s in the hospital?” Jeff asked. “He fell off the roof last week when he was repairing shingles.”
“Yeah,” Chris added. “There’s nobody there. His wife spends every day at the hospital.”
“True,” Daniel said, pushing past them, “but the grass still grows.” He hurried on his way as his two friends stared after him.
“Uh, I have to be getting home now,” Jeff said.
Chris nodded. “Me, too. See you later.”
They did see each other later—about fifteen minutes later—when they both arrived at the Merrills’ home, pushing their lawn mowers.
Daniel was glad to see them. “I’ll do the front lawn if you guys handle the side and back. We can be out of here before Sister Merrill gets home. It will be a surprise.”
It was a hot day, and the grass was tall from more than a week of neglect. When they finished, the lawn looked beautiful. Jeff now knew what his mother had meant about satisfaction. The boys didn’t say much. They just grinned as they pushed their mowers in a line down the sidewalk, each turning with military precision when he reached his own street.
Jeff put the mower away and went inside. The smell of fresh-baked bread filled the air, and a pile of clean, neatly folded laundry was on his bed. He wandered into the kitchen where dinner was cooking and sat down at the counter, elbowing aside plates and silverware that were ready to be set out.
His mother smiled. “Where have you been?”
Jeff grinned back. “Turns out that there are four reasons to mow a lawn. You can do it because you’re afraid you’ll be punished if you don’t. You can do it because you’ll be rewarded if you do. Or you can do it because you have to and it’s easier to just do it than to complain.”
His mother nodded. “You said there were four reasons,” she prompted.
“Yeah.” Jeff looked down, then met his mother’s eyes. “I guess the last one is really the best one,” he admitted. “There’s nothing really wrong with the other reasons for mowing a lawn, but you only get that satisfaction you talked about if you do it because it’s the right thing to do—because it’s an act of service.”
His mother nodded. “And it isn’t true just for mowing lawns,” she said, giving him a hug. She turned to give the spaghetti sauce another stir. “We’ll eat when your dad gets home. Jeff, could you …”
She turned around and saw that he was gone—along with the plates and silverware. Then she heard a shout from the dining room.
“Hey, Mom, where did you hide the napkins?”

Apples to Oregon: Being the (Slightly) True Narrative of How a Brave Pioneer Father Brought Apples, Peaches, Pears, Plums, Grapes, and Cherries (and Children) Across the Plains, by Deborah Hopkinson, illustrated by Nancy Carpenter. This is the silly tall tale, based on truth, of how young Delicious and her family faced rivers, storms, drought in the desert, and other obstacles on their way across the plains to the West. The colorful oil painting illustrations give even more life to this exciting tale.

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I was your age. I didn’t worry about drugs or pornography because they were not available then. I worried about school and where it would lead. It was the season of the terrible economic depression. I worried about how to earn a living. I served a mission after I finished the university. I went to England. We traveled by train to Chicago, made a bus transfer across that city, and went on to New York, where we caught a steamship for the British Isles. While riding the transfer bus in Chicago, a woman said to the driver, “What is that building ahead?” He said, “Ma’am, that is the Chicago Board of Trade Building. Every week some man who has lost his fortune jumps out of one of those windows. He has nothing else to live for.”

Such were the times. They were mean and ugly. No one who did not live through that period will ever understand it fully. I hope with all my heart we never have anything like it again.

Melanie Gapiz of the Pasay First Ward, Pasay Philippines Stake, has firsthand knowledge of this principle. The daughter of Elder Ruben G. Gapiz, an Area Authority Seventy, Melanie is a successful freelance producer of television commercials. For several years she worked as head of the production department for a prominent television commercial production company in Manila. In that position she faced a difficult dilemma when she found out some employees were embezzling. “I discovered some irregularities involving some of the employees,” she says. “People were making money unethically within the company.”
She talked with her immediate boss and learned he was part of it. “So I went to the president. He wasn’t involved, but he somehow knew what was going on, and he couldn’t have cared less,” she says. This reaction left Melanie with a dilemma. She could turn her back and pretend the problem did not exist. But she knew if she kept working there, people might think she too was involved. “It was difficult,” she admits, “because I was earning monthly compensation and benefits.” But she knew what she had to do. After counseling with her parents—who reminded her of Church standards but told her it was her decision—she left the company and began working freelance.
“I left on good terms,” she explains. “Actually, when I talked with the president, he told me he admired my principles, but he couldn’t feed his people with principles.” She has never regretted her decision, and the Lord has blessed her in her work.
“I’ve always believed in the gospel of Jesus Christ,” says Sister Gapiz. “The law of tithing has helped me a lot. Fasting and prayer have helped. Every time there’s an important decision to make, I fast and pray about it, and I receive help.”

On a visit to London, Stephens first stumbled over his future in the form of Descriptions of an Ancient City, by a Capitán Del Rio, who had visited a strange, ruined city in Mexico called Palenque. He later learned of a second lost Mexican city, Uxmal. In 1835, he eagerly pounced upon a professional journal describing a ruined Honduran city, Copan.
Palenque, Copan, Uxmal. His mind now stirred with visions of nebulous civilization that had existed in Central America. Amazingly enough, he seemed the only one interested. “Instead of electrifying the public,” he wrote, “little notice was taken [of the Copan article].” Nonetheless, he announced his intention to search for those lost cities.
“Nonsense!” roared scientists and public alike. Indians had never progressed beyond savagery. Americans of that age could believe in almost anything other than an “Indian” civilization, in spite of evidence from the conquest. Such proofs were either ignored or downgraded as Spanish public-relations puffery. Scholars and historians held fast to their antiquated beliefs and scorned Stephens’ efforts.
There was, in truth, little documentary evidence to counter what scholars supposed. Joseph Smith’s detractors would vilify him for plagiarism, for example, when there was nothing to plagiarize. Even in 1839, the very well-educated—and rich—Mr. Stephens had great difficulty scraping up any real evidence of an ancient American culture. His meager references were poor in detail. And in Joseph Smith’s time, records were even poorer—or nonexistent.
This dearth of information made even the irrepressible Stephens a bit skeptical, but he had high hopes. In company with a kindred spirit—and accomplished artist—Frederic Catherwood, he set sail for Central America.
Their first goal, Copan, was a sickly village of mud-walled huts. But discovery loomed near. A native guide led them through the jungle to a riverbank. Opposite reared a hundred-foot-high stone wall—the edge of ancient Copan and of a new era in history. Quickly crossing the river and scaling the wall, they found themselves amid the fallen relics of a forgotten civilization.
“Working our way through the thick woods,” Stephens wrote. “we came upon a square stone column, about fourteen feet high … sculptured on all four … sides … in very bold relief … they were works of art … some equal to the finest monuments of the Egyptians.
“America [said historians of the 1830’s] was peopled by savages; but savages never built these structures, savages never carved these stones. When we asked the Indians if they knew who made them, their dull answer was ‘Quién sabe? [Who knows?]’”
The scholars and historians of the Western world could not have answered any better. Copan—and the Mayas—surged to their lofty level of art and culture while Europe descended into the gloom of the dark ages. They conquered the jungles and strung their cities through Yucatan like sparkling gems on a jeweled collar. But for the Old World, their deeds and histories were as quiet as the silent jungle they lived in.
Sometime before A.D. 900, however, the Mayas abruptly and mysteriously stepped off the stage of history. For a thousand years, Copan lay buried by the thick, heavy Honduran jungle until disturbed in 1839 by Stephens and Catherwood.
The pair could not see it all—the jungle was too thick. They concentrated on the unburied “idols,” or stelae. These were huge, thirty-ton monoliths carved with an incredible profusion of figures, flowers, and animals. Erected on set dates to commemorate events unknown to us, they climaxed the Mayan genius.
In a two-year journey, Stephens and Catherwood discovered and rediscovered Copan, Palenque, Uxmal, Chichén Itzá, and forty other ruined Mayan sites. The mystery deepened, and Stephens’ reactions were rhapsodic. At Palenque, he said:
“Here were the remains of a cultivated, polished, and peculiar people, who had passed through all the stages of the rise and fall of nations; reached their golden age, and perished entirely unknown. The links which connected them with the human family were severed and lost, and these were the only memorials of their footsteps upon earth … In the romance of the world’s history, nothing ever impressed me more forcibly than the spectacle of this once great and lovely city, overturned, desolate, and lost; discovered by accident, overgrown with trees for miles around, and without even a name to distinguish it.”
The dedication of the two explorers in uncovering these mysteries baffles the modern mind. In an age when gentlemen stayed at home, these two suffered hunger, malaria, myriads of insect attacks, extreme physical discomfort, and near brushes with death. To accomplish what?
History judges Stephens among the great. His contribution is rated equal to Jean Francois Champollion (1790–1832), French Egyptologist who discovered a stone that had writing in three languages. From the stone, he was able to decipher ancient Egyptian writing; or to Heinrich Schliemann (1822–1890), German archeologist, who excavated the city of Troy in Anatolia, proving this legendary Greek city actually existed.
From our point of view. Stephens’ importance is momentous: John Lloyd Stephens and Joseph Smith never met, but the Book of Mormon’s cry in the wilderness was now reinforced as Stephens’ physical testimony of Lehi’s people swept over the world.

Their first stop in India was Edwin’s brother’s house. Edwin’s parents and siblings were there too. Right away, Edwin and Elsie started teaching them. Their family was happy to learn about the gospel.
A few weeks later, Edwin and his family gathered around the swimming pool in his brother’s yard. The pool had been cleaned, painted, and filled with fresh water. Everyone was wearing white. The women wore flowing saris that draped over their shoulders. The men wore loose Indian-style jackets and trousers.
Edwin stood in the pool with his father. “Samuel David,” Edwin said, “having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
Edwin felt happy as he baptized his father. He felt even happier when he baptized his mom next. By the end of the day, Edwin had baptized 18 people!
The next day, Edwin and Elsie rode a train for six hours. They visited more family members and taught them about the gospel. Edwin baptized four more of his relatives in a nearby river.
Finally, Edwin and Elsie took a 16-hour train ride to visit Elsie’s parents. Elsie’s father was a leader in another church. He didn’t get baptized, but he thought the Book of Mormon was a good book. He helped translate the Book of Mormon into Telugu, one of the languages spoken in India.
When Edwin and Elsie finished their mission, there were enough new members to start one of the first branches of the Church in India! Edwin and Elsie were happy when they returned to Samoa. They were grateful Heavenly Father had sent them on a mission!

My family went to the temple 45 years ago. My parents made covenants, and then our family was sealed in the Washington D.C. Temple. I was almost 2 years old at the time, so I do not remember what happened there, but I remember many other things after. I remember watching my parents strive to live and persevere on the covenant path, making our home a piece of heaven. I watched them fulfill their Church callings and take care of their children so that we would not stray from the covenant path. I learned many of the things about being successful in my callings from my father. I watched how he ministered to the brothers, how they came to our home seeking help, and how he loved them, just as my mother did with the sisters.

Because they stayed on the covenant path and persevered, they and their family received blessings. Their three children served full-time missions, have been sealed to their families in the temple, and have seen blessings and the fruit of their efforts. Although it takes a little work, the rewards of living on the covenant path can be seen, as it happened with the inhabitants of ancient America who “taught, and did minister one to another; and they had all things common among them, every man dealing justly, one with another.”

Marcus and Sara threw open the door to their apartment building.
“Beat you up the stairs!” Marcus yelled to his friend as he started running up the first flight. Sara bounded right behind him, laughing and running as fast as she could.
As they reached the third floor, old Mr. Sharp stuck out his bald head and shouted at them—as usual. “I’ve told you kids a hundred times to quiet down. The whole building shakes when you two get home from school! Now, learn how to walk!”
Marcus heard the door slam hard as he reached his own apartment door on the fourth floor. Sara was still right behind him. “That old grump,” she complained as they entered the apartment, “I bet he never was a little kid.”
“Mom! Mom! I’m home!” shouted Marcus.
“I’m in here, Marcus,” came Mom’s muffled voice from his bedroom. “In your closet. I’ve been trying to clean out this disaster area,” she explained when they reached the room. “It looks like a trash heap. You’ll have to quit just throwing things in here.”
The closet was one of Marcus’s favorite places because it was one of the newer parts of the old building.
“Sorry, Mom,” said Marcus. “Let me finish cleaning it,” he offered halfheartedly.
Mom crawled out of the closet, and he took her place amid the jumble.
“You have only an hour or so before dinner,” Mom said as she left the room, “so you’ll have to hurry.”
“Sorry, Sara. I guess I won’t be able to play today,” Marcus apologized.
“Oh, that’s OK. We have one of those big closets, too, but ours is in the living room. It hides a radiator, just like yours does. My sister and I throw all our junk in it, and our mom gets sore too.”
Marcus was puzzled. “You have an old radiator too?”
“Yes. Every apartment in the building has one someplace. When they remodeled and put in electric heat, they didn’t bother pulling out the old radiators. They just built these closets around them. Well, see you later.”
Marcus turned to the task before him. He really didn’t mind all that much, because it was like being alone in another world. He began stacking his books in one corner. On the very top of the pile, he noticed a book about codes that he had used for a school project. He opened it up and saw one of his favorites—the International Morse Code. A click followed by a short space is the signal for a dot. A click followed by a long space is the signal for a dash. A series of dots and dashes are translated into letters, words, and numbers. It had taken a lot of practice, but Marcus had gotten pretty good at understanding the code.
Picking up a spoon, Marcus started banging around to practice. He hit the pipe that came out of the side of the radiator and ran down through the floor. It made a lovely clanking sound that echoed through the pipe. Perfect, Marcus thought. He started practicing: A, B, C, D. It took him a while, as he was a bit rusty at it, but he was soon able to tap out the letters of the alphabet and numbers one through nine and zero.
Suddenly Marcus heard someone else’s tapping coming through the pipe. What could it be? he wondered. He listened again, grabbed a crayon off the floor, and began to write as the message came very slowly: “H E L L O.” He couldn’t believe it. “Who could it be?” he murmured.
It came again: “H E L L O.”
Marcus still couldn’t believe it. He tapped back a very slow “H E L L O.”
“Time for dinner, Marcus,” Mom called, so Marcus tapped out a quick “B Y E.”
The next day he could hardly wait to get home from school. He ran upstairs, automatically hollered hello to Mr. Sharp, and heard the old gentleman’s door slam just as he reached his own front door. He ran straight to his closet, picked up his spoon, and started tapping out the message he had worked on at school:
“A R E Y O U T H E R E?” He tapped the message several times. And then an answer came: “Y E S.” Marcus next tapped: “ W H O A R E Y O U?”
The answer came slowly: “A F R I E N D.”
Every day Marcus planned a message to send to his new friend. Sometimes his mom helped, and sometimes Sara had a good suggestion. He learned that his Morse-code friend’s favorite color was blue, that his favorite sport was baseball, that his friend liked cats, and that his favorite food was spaghetti. Marcus also learned that his friend didn’t like to watch much television but preferred to listen to his record player and radio.
One Friday afternoon Marcus and Sara were late getting home from school. Running pell-mell up the stairs, they hoped that Marcus’s Morse-code friend would be sending a message. As they ran into his room, they could already hear tapping sounds coming from the pipes. Marcus was pleased, and he quickly picked up a pencil to record the message. It was a strange message, just three letters repeated over and over: “S O S. S O S. S O S. ”
“That’s a distress signal,” Sara told him. “Your friend must be in trouble!”
Marcus yelled, “Mom, come quick! It’s my friend. He needs help!”
Mom came running into the room, and Marcus showed the message to his mother.
Calmly she said, “Marcus, signal your friend. Ask him where he is.”
Marcus tapped: “W H E R E?” The answer came back slowly: “3 3. 3 3.”
“Thirty-three—what does he mean, Mom?”
Suddenly they all realized what it meant: apartment 33!
They ran down the stairs to Mr. Sharp’s apartment. Finding the door unlocked, they all pushed inside. There was Mr. Sharp, lying on the floor and still feebly tapping out his message with his cane on the radiator pipe.
It was a long time before Marcus and Sara saw Mr. Sharp again. After he went away in the ambulance, things just weren’t the same. Even Sara said that she missed him. Then one day Mr. Sharp’s son called to say that Mr. Sharp was home from the hospital and wanted to see Marcus. Mom explained that Mr. Sharp had had a stroke. He could still think, but he could not yet talk.
Marcus went downstairs and knocked on the door of apartment 33. After a moment a friendly man opened the door. “You must be Marcus,” he said, shaking the boy’s hand. “I’m Michael, Mr. Sharp’s son.”
“Oh, hi,” said Marcus. “Where’s Mr. Sharp? He’ll be OK, won’t he?”
“Marcus, my dad is very, very sick. He can’t do a lot of the things that he used to do, so I’m going to live here with him for a while. But he’s been looking forward to seeing you. Come on, let’s go to his bedroom and see him.”
Marcus walked over to Mr. Sharp’s bed and squeezed his friend’s hand. Mr. Sharp smiled back. Picking up a spoon from his lunch tray, he tapped a message on his water glass:
— •••• •— —• —•— •••“__ __ __ __ __ __••—• •—• •• • —• —•• __ __ __ __ __ __.”
(Can you decipher the message?)
A •—
J •— — —
S •••
2 ••— — —
B —•••
K •—•
T —
3 •••— —
C —•—•
L •—••
U ••—
4 •••• —
D —••
M — —
V •••—
5 •••••
E •
N —•
W •— —
6 —••••
F ••—•
O — — —
X —••—
7 — —•••
G — —•
P •— —•
Y —•— —
8 — — —••
H ••••
Q — —•—
Z — —••
9 — — — —•
I ••
R •—•
1 •— — — —
0 — — — — —
Answer:

In the summer of 1973, I succumbed to an unexplainable urge to go to Europe in search of family history records. That is how my two granddaughters and I ended up copying records inside a large old building in Kappeln, Germany.
I had felt impressed to concentrate my limited time on searching out Grandfather Thomsen’s people. The building we were in housed the civil and religious records of Kappeln back to 1764. We did not speak German, but fortunately the English-speaking curator explained enough terms for us to understand the records.
My granddaughters and I worked as fast as we could to get the information I needed until they left for England in keeping with our plans. I felt I could not leave yet; my urge to research my grandfather’s family line now seemed like true inspiration.
It didn’t take long for the staff at the Kappeln archives to learn how important their records were to me. I was waiting at the door each morning when they opened, and I did not stop for lunch. They responded generously: not only did they allow me to stay when they closed for lunch, but they offered to open their doors an hour earlier each morning. Given my limited time, I was grateful beyond expression.
When I had searched through the births, marriages, and burials back to 1764, I wondered where to go next. I knew the records before 1764 had to be somewhere, but where? At that moment I had the impression, “You haven’t looked.” Somewhat astonished, I went to the building’s vault and muttered, “Where haven’t I looked?”
Some large books on the top shelf caught my eye. I mused to myself, I’ll bet the records are in those big books that no one has looked at for ages. To reach them I had to step on the bottom shelf. As I reached with my right hand to remove one of the large volumes, I placed my left hand in a recessed corner to brace myself and felt something there. After retrieving the massive book from the top shelf, I looked to see what I had felt with my left hand. It turned out to be a much smaller book. Its cover was the same color as the shelves, an unobtrusive tan. I opened it. Old Gothic script spread across the page. What was it?
I flipped to the back where the writing was more modern and found the name of a child born to parents whose records I had already assembled going back as far as I could—to 1765. I was now looking at the record of an older child born to those same parents in 1763.
I was afraid to hope, but as soon as the staff returned from lunch I took the book to the archivist. After some discussion, he told me that the book was, in fact, just what I had thought—a record of christenings in Kappeln going back to the mid-1600s. “This is the Kappeln record, but we have never seen this record here,” he said.
I made arrangements with the staff to have a copy made. The 101 sheets I received produced many names my family and I would later submit for temple work. Paper copies and a film of the book are now available in the Church Family History Library.
I gratefully acknowledge the help the Lord gives those who sincerely seek their ancestors. This experience confirmed to me the wisdom of the scripture: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Prov. 3:5–6).

The story was that of a fictional black family, the Hendersons. The parents and their lively teenagers are a righteous family searching to know more of God’s truth. Two missionaries, “Elder Elder and Elder Younger,” come to their home. The Hendersons welcome the missionaries warmly, receive their message, and agree to come to church. The concluding scene shows the family walking to the front of the stage with many other branch members coming from the wings of the stage behind them, welcoming them and including them in the fellowship of the branch.

Brother John William Orth, 78, shines the light of the gospel despite his struggles with Parkinson’s disease. John has been a faithful member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints all his life, serving in various callings, including as a bishop. Almost five years ago, after a long struggle with the illness, it became necessary for John to take up residence at Lutheran Homes in Glynde, South Australia, an aged care facility run by the Lutheran church.
Despite his health issues, John remains positive and is actively involved in his Lutheran Homes community, which provides church services and classes overseen by a full-time pastor. Soon after moving into the facility, John learned that the pastor would be away for a while and suggested that in his absence, the classes could be led by other residents — John was happy to lead one himself, if needed. The pastor took him up on his offer and John has since taught dozens of classes, which include a weekly broadcast (as his health permits) over an internal TV channel aired to hundreds of residents in the facility and its surrounding village.
Even as he grapples with physical limitations, John spends numerous hours a week preparing his lessons, sensitively referencing videos and other learning material from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Initially, the pastor reviewed each lesson before it was presented, but he now has no concerns about John’s teachings. In fact, John’s messages have seen several copies of the Book of Mormon placed with residents, many of whom have asked him to cover specific topics. He speaks fondly of one such request, which resulted in a 5-week course of instruction on grace.

Illustration by Bradley Clark
Because of old plumbing and an unsound foundation, my childhood home flooded whenever a storm produced enough rain. Because storms in Virginia, USA, can last for hours, water invaded frequently.
We lived in that home during most of my growing-up years, so I thought flooding was normal.
After several storms, we improved our flood-fighting tactics and learned to work together. Storms often hit in the middle of the night, and my parents would wake us all up to work at our posts as the water encroached through the basement like slow-moving lava. My brother and father would bucket out the stairwell while my sister and I quickly sopped up water with towels to save the carpet.
We giggled as we jumped and danced on those towels, feeling the squishy wetness between our toes and through our pajama legs. Mom hurriedly wrung out the drenched towels, hurled them into the dryer, and brought new ones fresh for stomping. When we were satisfied the house was safe, we went to the kitchen to dry off and enjoy hot cocoa and cookies for our labors. Then, if it wasn’t yet time for school, we would try to go back to sleep.
Whenever my childhood home would flood, my brother and father would bucket out the stairwell while my sister and I quickly sopped up water with towels.
These floods must have given my parents great anxiety, but I remember them as some of the happiest moments of my childhood, even with the booming thunder and the flashing lightning. In fact, the smell of wet carpet still makes me nostalgic for family time.
My parents could have fought the flooding alone, but I’m so glad they employed all of us in defense of our home. Fighting the water was a joyous event because we were together and we each played a part.
Now that I am grown, I think about those days and wonder how I can create the same joy of working together in my own children. Though grateful that my home does not flood, I know that something unwanted will inevitably encroach upon our family.
No matter what trouble my family may deal with in the future, I hope we stay together and work together in defending our values, our faith, and each other. Then perhaps, even in adversity, we can laugh, smile, and feel happy as we labor side by side.

There was once a very rich squire who owned a large farm, had plenty of silver in a carved chest, and money in the bank besides. But there was something he had not, and that was a wife.
One day a neighbor’s daughter was working for him in the hayfield, and the squire took a fancy to her. As she was a poor man’s daughter, he thought that he had only to mention marriage and she would be more than glad to have him at once. So he said to her, “I’ve been thinking that I want to marry.”
“Well, one may think of many things,” said the lassie, as she stood there smiling innocently. She really thought the old fellow should be interested in something that suited him better than thinking about getting married at his time of life.
“Now, you see,” he pursued, “I was thinking that you should be my wife!”
“No, thank you,” said she, “but I’m much obliged for the offer.”
The squire was not used to being opposed—the more she refused him the more he wanted her. So the old man sent for her father and told him that if he could persuade the girl to become the squire’s wife, he would cancel a debt the father owed him. And into the bargain he would give him a piece of land that lay close to the father’s meadow.
“Yes, yes!” agreed the father. “Be assured that I’ll bring the lass to her senses. She is only a child and does not know what is best for her.”
But all his coaxing, all his threats, and all his talking went for naught. The daughter declared she would not have the old miser, even if he sat buried in gold up to his ears.
The squire waited and waited until at last he became so angry and impatient that he told the father the matter must be settled at once if he expected him to stand by their bargain.
The father could think of nothing else to do but let the squire get everything ready for the wedding; then when the parson and the wedding guests arrived, the squire would send for the lassie as if she were needed for some simple task on the farm. When she arrived he could marry the girl right away and in such a hurry that she would have no time to refuse.
On the appointed day the guests arrived, and the impatient squire called to one of his farm lads and ordered the boy to run down to the lassie’s father and ask him to immediately send up what had been promised.
The lad ran off like a shot. “My master has sent me to ask for that which you promised him,” said the puffing lad when he arrived at the father’s home. “But, pray, lose no time, for master is terribly busy today.”
“Yes, yes!” answered the man. “Run down to the meadow and take her back with you.”
The lad ran off, and when he came to the meadow he found the daughter there raking hay. “I am to fetch what your father has promised my master,” he told her.
Ah, ha! thought she, so that’s what they’re up to! And with a twinkle in her eye, she said, “Oh, yes, it’s that little bay mare of ours he wants. She stands tethered on the other side of the pea field.”
When the boy found the mare he jumped on her back and rode home at full gallop.
“Have you got her with you?” asked the squire.
“She is down at the door,” said the lad.
“Take her up to the room my mother had,” ordered the squire.
“But, master, how can I?” asked the lad.
“Do as I tell you!” demanded the squire. “And if you can’t manage her alone, get the men to help you,” for he thought the lassie might be stubborn.
When the lad saw his master’s face, he knew it would be no use to argue. So he got all the farmhands together to help him. Some pulled at the head and the forelegs of the mare and others pushed from behind, and at last they got her upstairs and into the room. There lay all the wedding finery ready.
“Well, that’s done, master!” said the lad, descending the stairs and wiping his wet brow. “But it was the worst job I have ever had to do here on the farm.”
“Never mind, never mind, you shall not have done it for nothing,” said his master, and he pulled a bright silver coin out of his pocket and tossed it to the lad. “Now send the women up to dress her.”
“But, I say—master!”
“None of your talk!” cried the squire. “Tell them to hold her while they dress her, and mind not to forget either wreath or crown.”
The lad ran into the kitchen. “Listen here, lasses,” he called out. “You are to go upstairs and dress up the bay mare as a bride. I suppose master wants to play a joke on his guests.”
The women laughed and laughed, but ran upstairs and dressed the bay mare in everything that was there. And then the lad reported to his master that she was all ready, with wreath and crown and all.
“Very well, bring her down. I will receive her at the door myself,” said the squire.
There was a clatter and a thumping on the stairs. And when the door was opened and the squire’s “bride” entered the room, you can be sure there was laughing and tittering and grinning enough.
And as for the squire, they say he never went courting again.

A woman I once counseled was having difficulty with an adopted son and wanted to learn some techniques for dealing with him. As I listened to her, it became apparent to me that some of the problems stemmed not from the child’s behavior, but from the woman’s own impure heart.
The boy was somewhat handicapped. In addition to a physical difficulty, he was emotionally handicapped because his real mother had been unable to meet his developmental dependency needs.
But the adoptive mother had an even greater handicap: she was suffering from the disease of pride. When she was a child, her parents had tried to appear shameless and had self-righteously demanded perfection from their children. The family was extremely concerned about external appearance and the impression others had of them. They were caught up in the pride of materialism, status, and prestige. They had learned to be judgmental and critical of themselves and of others.
When this woman’s adopted child didn’t measure up to her expectations, the fear of his making her look bad became a serious threat to her personal image, and she would strike out towards him.
Together, we studied a few verses in the Book of Mormon. And she came to realize that, although she had been diligent in the outward performance of religion, she had failed to see the impurity of her heart. In a sense, she was active in the Church, but inactive in some important aspects of the gospel.
This sister began to see that she had become entangled in the pride of the world. One of the greatest evidences of her pride was that she had been relying on her own strength to solve her problems.
As she began to see more clearly, she began to feel hope—hope born not of faith in herself or in her own ability to raise her child properly, but a hope based in Jesus Christ and in his power to heal and redeem. Through repentance, she changed her attitude and behavior. And she began studying the scriptures—not just reading them—seeking the Spirit, and putting her hope and trust in the Lord.
This sister is a different woman today. She is still far from perfect and still has problems dealing with her child. But she has a different perspective now as she confronts her challenges. She is working with the Lord to find the solutions.

Pich Sareth, a member of the Phnom Penh 12th Branch in the Phnom Penh Cambodia North District, also saw trials at a very young age. He was only five years old when he was separated from his family and forced to work in the fields. He would sometimes find crabs or frogs he could eat to quell his hunger.
Brother Pich’s wife, Seng Tha, and her family were also forced from their home. Because she was only four years old and small, she was not required to work, as other children were. She was separated from her family much of the day and was watched by elderly women who could not work.
After meeting the missionaries in 1995, Brother Pich and his wife began to learn about the love Heavenly Father has for them. “When I had problems, I could see that praying helped me get through them,” Brother Pich says. “I knew Heavenly Father cared.”
After Brother Pich decided to be baptized, his wife also gained a testimony of the gospel and was baptized.
Since their baptisms, Brother Pich and his family have recognized the joy that stems from gaining a testimony of Jesus Christ. The Pich family takes time every day to read the scriptures. As they have done this, the joy of the gospel has permeated their souls.
“We feel we are on the right path now, and we want to stay on this narrow path and continue to progress,” Sister Seng says. “I am grateful every day that we can have our children on this path with us.”

The night was chilly, the clocks had gone back and the last thing I felt like doing was turning up to fill a duty slot at the FamilySearch Centre. The day had already been packed with ‘busy stuff’, and I was convinced that no one would turn up anyway.
It was youth activity night and—as expected—the usual sight of an empty FamilySearch Centre greeted me on arrival. Wanting to be proactive, I wandered over to the foyer, where two mums were happily chatting while waiting for their children. Their younger ones were off playing somewhere in the building. I asked if they’d like to come into the FamilySearch Centre and carry on their conversation there. Both wrinkled their noses and shook their heads. I told them they could still chat while getting involved. Feeling a bit sorry for me, one of the mums reluctantly said she’d give me half an hour. The other mum took a bit more convincing. She let me know, in no uncertain terms, that she was setting her alarm for 30 minutes—no longer—as she tapped away on her phone. I chuckled and said she might be surprised and end up staying longer, but I was happy with the time they’d both offered.
I showed one of the mums how to check names that the computer had completed. Once she realised she could do it independently, there was no stopping her. Very quickly, she’d checked sixty names. She kept going, ignoring the alarm when it went off and then asked about her family tree. We moved over to work on her tree using FamilySearch, taking breaks for phone calls to relatives to confirm names and dates. Before long, her tree was filling up with ancestors that others had already researched—and her 30 minutes turned into 90! She told me how much she’d enjoyed herself and how satisfying it was to have accomplished something so meaningful.
Meanwhile, the other mum’s younger children wandered in—probably hoping to play with the nursery toys, as the FamilySearch Centre doubles as the nursery. They grew curious about what was going on and wanted to help check the names too. Together, they cheerfully decided whether names ‘matched’, needed ‘editing’ or were ‘unsure’.
The Spirit of Elijah was tangible in the room during those 90 minutes. On my way home, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for all that had happened and thanked those two sisters for their attendance and willingness to help gather Israel. I even managed to get a photo of them and shared it on our ward Facebook page, explaining how a simple offer to help for 30 minutes had turned into an hour and a half of joyful service.

I’m going to share an experience I had with President Kimball to help you understand what a choice human being he is, besides a powerful prophet, and perhaps base the rest of my remarks on this incident. I stood alone in the basement of the Church Office Building about two years ago, waiting for an elevator. It was very early on a Monday morning, well before the influx of office workers. As the elevator lowered into place, suddenly two Church security officers appeared from out of somewhere and held back the opening doors. Now, nobody does that for me, so I looked around just in time to see President Kimball and his personal secretary, Brother Haycock, entering the area. They moved quickly into the secured area, and I quickly moved out of the way. Well, as President Kimball turned and faced the front of the elevator, he saw me standing out there waiting for the next one. And he said to me very graciously, “Good morning.” And I said, “Good morning, President Kimball.” And he said, “Aren’t you going to get on?” And I said, “Well—” and hesitated for a few moments—“I didn’t think I was supposed to under the circumstances.” And then he said, “Aren’t you going up?” And I said, “Yes.” And he said, “Well, tell me, how do you intend to get there?” And then he said, “Come along.” So I got on! At the prophet’s invitation I was happy to ride up with him.

Next, young women, may I admonish you to participate in a program of daily reading and pondering of the scriptures. We remember the experience of our beloved prophet, President Spencer W. Kimball. As a fourteen-year-old boy, he accepted the challenge of reading the Bible from cover to cover. Most of his reading was done by coal oil light in his attic bedroom. He read every night until he completed the 1,519 pages, which took him approximately a year; but he attained his goal.

I have seen the law of the harvest fulfilled in my own family.
Some years ago I was visiting family, when the bishop asked me to conclude the sacrament service. As I was coming down from the stand, a woman approached me with her seven children and introduced herself as Sister Rebecca Guzman.
She asked, “Elder Rasband, do you know Rulon and Verda Rasband?”
I beamed and replied, “They are my parents.”
You can see where this is going. With Rebecca’s permission, who is here with family in the Conference Center, I share her family’s story.
My parents, Elder Rulon and Sister Verda Rasband, were serving as a senior couple in the Florida Fort Lauderdale Mission. They were proselyting and by divine guidance knocked on the door of Rebecca’s home. She was just a teenager and loved listening to the music of the Osmonds, in particular our friend Donny—who is here with us today. She had listened to their media interviews and learned they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She felt there was something different about them, and thinking it might be their religion, Rebecca spent two years researching the Church’s beliefs in the school library. So, when a kindly-looking couple knocked on her family’s door and introduced themselves as Latter-day Saint missionaries, she was taken back.
“My mother told me to get rid of them,” Rebecca later wrote, “but my heart said, ‘No.’ I looked into their faces, and I felt so much warmth and love. The memory still brings tears to my eyes and deep emotion to my heart.”
Rebecca invited them in, and my missionary parents shared a message with her, her two younger sisters, and, despite her objections, her mother.
Rebecca described to me: “Both your parents were wonderful in explaining any questions we had. I can still see their faces as if there was light surrounding them. We always hugged your mother when she left, and she always made a point of helping my mother feel comfortable and respected. Your father always had a sparkle in his eyes as he was teaching us about Jesus Christ. He tried to include my father in discussions and eventually won him over. My father was a chef at a local country club and started cooking dinners for your parents, including making your father’s favorite, key lime pie.”
When Elder and Sister Rasband asked Rebecca and her family to read the Book of Mormon, Rebecca did so in five days. She wanted to be baptized immediately, but the other members of her family were not ready. After four months, Rebecca insisted she be baptized and join the true Church. She recalled, “Every fiber of my soul knew it was true.” On April 5, 1979, missionaries baptized 19-year-old Rebecca, her mother, and two sisters. My father was a witness at the baptism.
When I met Rebecca and her family at church, we took a photograph of her family with me. I took it home to my elderly mother, and she held it close to her heart. Then she said to me, “Ronnie, this is one of the happiest days of my life.”

“It looks like Sarah will need to have an MRI of her back,” said Dr. Frank. He smiled at Sarah. “I’m going to schedule one for tomorrow. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Sarah’s back had been hurting for a while. When she woke up that morning, it hurt so much that it was hard for her to stand up straight, and she could barely walk. Sarah and her mom had come to see Dr. Frank to find out what was wrong.
“Another MRI?” asked Sarah, looking up at Mom. She’d had an MRI once before. She remembered how scared she had felt in the big tube that took pictures of the inside of her body.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” said Mom. “But the pictures will help Dr. Frank learn what’s wrong with your back. I know you can do it. And I’ll be right there with you.” Mom squeezed Sarah’s hand.
“But you can’t come inside with me,” said Sarah. Her head dropped, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Mom could be with her in the room, but once Sarah went into the machine’s tunnel, she would be alone.
Mom put her arm around Sarah. “That’s true, but do you know who can be there to comfort you?”
Sarah remembered a name she had heard for the Holy Ghost: the Comforter. Maybe the Holy Ghost could help her not feel so afraid.
“The Holy Ghost?” Sarah asked.
Mom nodded. “That’s right. You can pray for the Holy Ghost to help you. Dad and I will pray for you too.”
That gave Sarah a great idea. “Can I ask Dad for a blessing?”
Mom smiled. “Of course. I know he’d love to do that.”
That night Dad placed his hands on Sarah’s head and gave her a priesthood blessing. When he blessed Sarah that she would be comforted by the Holy Ghost, a soft warmth filled her body. The feeling stayed with her all night.
The next day Sarah lay on the bench that would slide into the big tube in the MRI machine. She repeated in her head the words Dad had used during her blessing: The Holy Ghost will be there to comfort you. Sarah squeezed Mom’s hand tight. Then the nurse slid her into the tube.
The MRI machine made funny noises while it took pictures of her back. Sarah had to lie very still so the pictures wouldn’t be blurry. She panicked for a minute, but then she felt that warm feeling again. It felt like one of Mom’s hugs. Or a snuggly blanket. She knew that everything would be OK. Before she knew it, the MRI was over!
In Dr. Frank’s office, he showed Sarah and Mom the pictures of Sarah’s back. “You did a great job lying still,” Dr. Frank told Sarah as he knelt down beside her. “These pictures of your back show that you will need surgery to help you walk better.”
Sarah gulped.
“We’d like to do the surgery soon,” Dr. Frank said, looking up at Sarah’s mom. Then he turned back to Sarah. “It might take a few weeks afterward for you to feel like your old self again, but after seeing you today, I know you’ll do great.”
Sarah tried to think about all the things she’d do after Dr. Frank fixed her back. I’ll be able to run and swim and jump in a big pile of leaves. She missed doing all those things. But surgery was even scarier than an MRI! Then Sarah remembered her prayers and her special blessing. Heavenly Father had sent her the Comforter. He would help her again.
She looked at Dr. Frank. “Then can I jump in a big pile of leaves?” she asked.
He grinned. “Then you can jump in a big pile of leaves.”