Gospel Story Finder

“Robert! What do you mean, you want to use your mission fund on computer equipment? You made some commitments to us, to the bishop, and to your twin sister before she …” His voice trailed off. “I loved Rachel too, son. I miss her too. But don’t you think she would have wanted you to go on your mission regardless of what happened to her?”
I just shook my head. Dad was still going on. “It was nine months ago, son. Maybe she would have wanted us all to bury our grief by now and get on with our lives.”
“I agree with you,” I mumbled. “I want to get on with my life. So why can’t I just use my mission fund on some nice computer equipment? It’s not as if Rachel is around to demand I act like nothing has changed.”
I stomped up the stairs, slammed my bedroom door, threw myself into my desk chair, and stared into the blank computer screen. Another argument. A bad one.
After hyperventilating for a while, I pushed the “on” button and powered up. The thought occurred to me that I seemed to relate better to my computer than I did to humans.
Do you want to work on your AI program as usual, sir?
I “Yessed” the option, and my Artificial Intelligence program, which we had been perfecting for the last year, appeared.
We? I mean I’m working on it alone now. My sister Rachel and I developed it, but she …
I began to fiddle with the program. I have to admit, Rachel was even better than me when it came to computer programming. She could break into any of my personal files, and she’d often leave me a scripture or some word of encouragement that would pop up on my screen. She could even do this from her hospital bed during those last days; she had her portable laptop (plugged into my computer by modem) with her every minute.
I pulled my mind back.
Anyway, her Artificial Intelligence conversational programs were the best I’d ever seen. It worked like this. A question or statement appears on the screen, and anyone can type in an answer. Then—and this is the tricky part—the computer program recognizes a word or a phrase from the human’s answer, and automatically responds with a prewritten answer, as if it were another human. If the person writing the program knows the person well enough, it would seem as if a normal conversation is taking place between the human and the computer. Of course, the machine side of the conversation had all been preprogrammed.
The first question appeared:
I am fine. How are you?
I reply: “I am just great.” The computer recognizes “great” from my answer and gives its prewritten response:
You are great. That is nice. Why do you feel great?
But I decide to tell the truth and type in “I lied. I’ve been feeling rotten for the last nine months.”
The program replies mechanically:
You are feeling rotten? I am sorry to hear that.
At this point, I began to get carried away. I had the overpowering urge to spill my innermost thoughts to somebody or something—even this stupid computer. So I started typing and I couldn’t stop.
“I am feeling rotten because I miss my twin sister.” I could feel tears running down my cheeks, hitting my hands, then rolling on to the keys. “She never complained. She was always joking with me, telling me how she could read me like a book, telling me how she wanted me to promise her that I’d still go on my mission when I turned 19. And I did promise her, just to make her feel better. Then she used to joke that she’d come back to haunt me if I didn’t leave on my mission. She always had that sly grin, that ridiculous wink, even when the pain was the worst.
“But how can I keep that promise to her? How can I go on a mission and ‘proclaim the gospel’ when I feel so bitter inside?”
My computer clock buzzed. It was midnight, exactly nine months from the day of her death. For that matter, it was nine months from when I was supposed to send my mission papers in.
Suddenly my computer screen went blank, and my hard drive began to buzz oddly. This isn’t supposed to happen. Oh no, I thought. I had been neglecting to do a backup system.
Suddenly I heard the synthesized system sing, “Boy, you’re in big trouble and your hard drive’s gonna be rubble unless you repent on the double!” It was then the terrible message appeared in large red letters over my screen:
DO NOT ATTEMPT A RECOVERY! THIS IS A TIME BOMB! YOUR FILES HAVE JUST BEEN HOPELESSLY SCRAMBLED.
My hands froze over the keys. A time bomb! One of the most awful forms of computer viruses. I tried to remember all I could about this monstrous file-invading practical joke.
A time bomb is an invasion program keyed into a computer’s clock or calendar. It can be put into the system anytime in the past—weeks, even months. It can be set to scramble files, or do anything, when the clock reaches a certain time or date. You can’t get your files unscrambled unless you do exactly what it tells you.
Another message appeared:
And don’t even think about unplugging and using your backup. That’s rigged to scramble also.
It must be a bluff, I thought. I mean, how could anyone get into my backup files? Only if they had all my security codes. But how did someone get into my system in the first place? Nobody could plant a time bomb in my system unless they had all my codes. And there’s only one person who had them, and she’s …
A cold, dull feeling began spreading from the pit of my stomach to my trembling hands, still frozen over the keyboard. And another message began to materialize on my monitor:
Robbie? Don’t be mad. It’s me.—Rachel.
I felt my hands drop to my sides, and I began to breathe funny.
I know you may be a bit surprised, but it’s all perfectly logical, really. I programmed this time bomb to go off nine months after you were supposed to send in your mission papers. I had to do it this way because I knew I’d be gone by then. If you were nicely off on your mission, your computer would have been safely turned off, and the time bomb would have canceled itself out.
But you haven’t left yet, have you, Robbie? I knew if you stayed home, you’d still be fooling around on this stupid machine all day. So because the computer is turned on and you’re not on your mission the time bomb has been activated, and you and I are going to have a little talk.
Okay, listen up. If you do everything I say, this program will unscramble your files. If not, our two-year project goes to byte heaven. Okay? Type your answer here now. And it better be the right answer.
I typed in “OK.” I didn’t have much choice. I was pretty dazed. It was like, well, a voice from the dust.
Her program recognized the correct response, so instead of deleting my files, it responded.
Good boy. I don’t have much time, so let’s get down to business. Remember, back at the hospital you promised me you’d go on your mission? Now, you know I can read you like a book! You kept averting your eyes and looking guilty. So I knew I’d have to arrange a way to do what the Book of Mormonprophets did. I call it my 2 Nephi 33:13 program. [2 Ne. 33:13]
Anyway, Robbie, you didn’t go on your mission like you promised. So now’s your chance to explain yourself. Multiple choice. Pick one.
I, Robbie, didn’t go on my mission because (a) I had some unforeseen difficulties (such as a weird disease or something); (b) I have some sort of worthiness problem; (c) I am bitter about my sister’s death.
This was starting to get ridiculous. How would her program know if I were to make up some sort of fictitious disease and choose “A.” Still, I had only lied to her once and she seemed to have picked up on that with no problem. No sense taking any chances. I might as well come clean and tell the truth. I chose “C” and pressed “Enter.”
Aha! I thought so! You’re still bitter because I had to die?
I started typing in my replies as if I were talking to a real, live person.
“I’m bitter because you had to suffer, and I’m bitter because you died.”
Robbie, remember what we used to do when either of us had a problem we couldn’t figure out? We used to get together and have a mini-scripture chase to find the answers. Well, let’s try that again.
How can I have a scripture chase with someone who’s … who’s dead? I wondered.
Here’s how it works. I’ll give you the scriptures to look up and you type them into the computer. The program will recognize them, and soon you’ll have your precious files unscrambled.
Suddenly the computer started listing scriptures I had to copy. I grabbed a set of scriptures and tried to keep up.
D&C 122:7; D&C 122:9; Rom. 8:28; Abr. 3:25; Mosiah 3:19; Mosiah 23:21.
How long was I typing those scriptures back into the computer? Three hours? Five hours? And then I had to answer questions about each verse. It was like some late-night, unending seminary lesson.
Just when I thought I would collapse and fall asleep, precious files or no precious files, the program declared:
Good job! Break time! Have a ten-minute rest.
I sunk back in my chair. I looked out the window, into the cloudless night. All those stars. I noticed I was beginning to feel different. It seemed like my jaw muscles had been clamped together for months, and I had just remembered how to relax them. Was I just getting my second wind, or were those scriptures getting through to me?
Then I noticed I had been using Rachel’s scriptures, the set she used in the hospital. There was a single piece of notepaper stuffed between the leaves, in shaky handwriting:
“Thank you for comforting me these last months. When the pain gets the worst, and I just want to die and get it over with, the nurses and my parents try to comfort me, to make me braver. But they can’t say, ‘I know what you’re going through’ because, of course, they don’t. But you can, because you’re going through worse than me. You just put on that smile and wink at me. You look so funny when you wink, I just have to laugh and then I feel better. You know, I think no one can really understand anyone that is in pain unless they have suffered the same pain themselves.”
The signature ran off the page, unintelligible.
The sound synthesizer played a few trumpet calls, and I shook myself out of my thoughts. I was once more poised at the keyboard, ready to resume what seemed to be her never-ending scripture chase. But instead, the screen declared:
Now, after studying all those scriptures, you should know everything there is to know about why some people have to suffer and die. Yes or no?
I sighed and checked “No.” I had failed. I still didn’t completely understand.
Aha! Gotcha! Of course you don’t understand all the answers to all the questions mankind has been asking for ages. Nice to see you’re finally being honest about it, though.
But at least I got you studying the scriptures again. Keep studying them prayerfully. The answers are all in there. And even if you don’t completely understand everything, come on, admit it. As you read the scriptures again, didn’t you start to feel a little of the peace we always used to feel after a good scripture read?
Or maybe a lot, I thought.
Yes, Robbie, I had to suffer and die—just like a lot of other people. Like the others in my cancer ward, like the handcart pioneers, like Joseph Smith. I prayed, like you, because I wanted to know what was going on, but I didn’t get an answer. But at least I got a feeling of peace, like Heavenly Father was there with me, telling me it was necessary.
You must be reading this sometime after my death, so I guess by now I know all the answers. I wish I could really come back and explain everything to you, but I suppose it’s not my place to tell you. But I can tell you this. I am surrounded by great and good spirits, spirits that want their families who are still on the earth to hear the gospel. I never had the opportunity to go on a mission in earth life, but here, who knows? But I have done my job on earth and will do my job where I am now.
It’s time for you to do yours.
I looked at my hands, as they now rested on the keyboard. My tears had dried, and I realized the alarm clock was ringing. It was dawn. I let it ring. I had to type very slowly because my hands were still trembling.
“Yes, Solemn Twin Promise.”
The program recognized my response, and the printer activated itself, typing out a letter.
“Dear Bishop. I want to meet with you and talk about my mission. Can we get together this Sunday after church?”
Why don’t you sign this handy note and send it off tomorrow?
“Robbie.” My mother was calling from down the hall. “Your alarm clock’s ringing. Wake up and turn it off!”
I pulled the paper out of the printer, signed it, and addressed it to the bishop.
I knew you’d make me proud of you, Robbie! Now you can have our—your—files back, and it’s time for me to go. But when you return in two years or so, turn the computer back on. You never know what other surprise messages I’ve planted in it.
“I can hardly wait,” I replied.
The screen went blank again, and I could hear the drives at work as the time bomb program told them how to unscramble the AI project files. But just before the monitor returned to normal, the family picture file activated, and I caught a half-second glimpse of a picture of Rachel grinning.
And winking.

“We wanted to organize; we wanted to have a club and wear a uniform, a blazer, and be official. We even got together and selected a name and colors for our club. We wanted something that all the LDS kids in our high school would want to be associated with, so we could be clearly identified as LDS.”
As Jean Sabin Groberg continued her account of that period of time in her life, her enthusiasm increased. “The purpose of our club was going to be to strengthen each other and to look after each other. There were only 20 or 30 of us in a very large high school in southern California. We really wanted to have something like the institute, only for high school, so that we could be strong together.”
With the growing desire that they each shared, she told of how a number of the youth unitedly approached the institute director. He listened to them. Then he met with them to discuss their plans, their goals, and their desires for an LDS club on their high school campus. He heard their concerns and felt the intensity of their desire. He agreed to “see what could be done.”
Sister Groberg recalled that after some time of anxious waiting, it was finally announced that they were to meet with the institute director. “Oh, it was just so exciting,” she exclaimed. “We were told that the seminary would be coming to our area that next year. There had been no seminary available to us, and now we had the feeling that our interest and our initiative had helped to tip the balance in bringing seminary to southern California. At least we felt important, that we were part of the beginning. To be a seminary graduate was a goal we just wanted to attain,” she explained.

“Oh, Paige, that’s not what it means at all.” The timer above the stove started beeping. “Just a minute, honey. I need to punch down the bread dough.” Mom lifted the towel covering the bowl of dough. “Oh, no!”
“What happened, Mom?”
“The dough didn’t rise. I can’t make bread out of it now.” Mom drummed her fingers on the countertop, then smiled. “The dough should work for scones.” Paige’s mother placed a pan on the stove, filled it with oil, and began heating it.
Paige smiled for the first time since coming home. “I’m glad the dough didn’t rise. Scones taste better than bread.”
“You know, I worked hard on that bread dough,” Mom said as she flattened small balls of dough into circles and gently placed them in the hot oil. “I followed the recipe, and I tried to make the best bread dough I could. I had faith that it would rise. But it didn’t. Does that mean that I just didn’t have enough faith?”
“I don’t think so,” Paige said. “And something better came from it.”
“Sometimes Heavenly Father has plans for us that are different from what we think we want. Even if we work hard and have faith, He doesn’t always bless us in the way we think that we want Him to.”
“But being a munchkin isn’t better than being Dorothy.”
“You need to try faith again, Paige.”
“What do you mean?”
“You need to have faith that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know things that you don’t, that They know what will be best for you in the long run. Do you think that you can have that kind of faith?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good.” Mom set a piping hot scone onto a plate, dropped a glob of butter and dribbled honey onto it, and set it before Paige. “Would you like the first scone?”
“Yes!”

For most of my life, I’ve struggled with repentance. I knew it was important and that I should do it, but I didn’t fully understand it. And because it was something I didn’t do well, I felt discouraged whenever someone would emphasize its importance in a talk.
It got to the point where I even disliked hearing the word repentance because it reminded me of something I wasn’t doing. It seemed as though I was falling behind, and the longer this problem continued, the further behind I got.
Finally, I heard the following statement in general conference from then–Young Men General President Stephen W. Owen, and I began to think differently: “The joy of repentance is more than the joy of living a decent life. It’s the joy of forgiveness, of being clean again, and of drawing closer to God. Once you’ve experienced that joy, no lesser substitute will do.”1
Another general conference talk awakened in me a further desire to do better. President Russell M. Nelson said: “Whether you are diligently moving along the covenant path, have slipped or stepped from the covenant path, or can’t even see the path from where you are now, I plead with you to repent. Experience the strengthening power of daily repentance—of doing and being a little better each day.”2
As I did my best to follow this counsel, I found answers to concerns and gained a better understanding of the blessings of repentance. Yet I wondered what I still didn’t understand about repentance that was making it so hard.
As I prayed for help with repentance, I expressed to Heavenly Father that I truly wanted to change and was willing to change. I knew the Lord would help me. And indeed, He did help me change.
At first, sometimes the change wasn’t permanent and I needed to try again. But the efforts we make matter to the Lord. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “With the gift of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the strength of heaven to help us, we can improve, and the great thing about the gospel is we get credit for trying, even if we don’t always succeed.”4
Since gaining this understanding of repentance, I have felt more confident in my ability to follow this counsel given by President Nelson: “Nothing is more liberating, more ennobling, or more crucial to our individual progression than is a regular, daily focus on repentance. Repentance is not an event; it is a process. It is the key to happiness and peace of mind. When coupled with faith, repentance opens our access to the power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”5
When I made the decision to repent better, I had no idea it would have such a far-reaching and lasting influence on my life. The blessings that have come are real. I came to realize that the feelings of discouragement I had were from the enemy of my soul, who didn’t want me to repent. I also came to realize that I was not so much always falling behind through my failure to repent as I was sometimes simply forfeiting blessings I could have received if I’d made more of an effort to do the things I could be doing.
As I have continued to do my best to repent each day, I’ve felt God’s love and direction in ways I could have scarcely imagined before. I no longer feel weighed down by sin. I have come to recognize the privilege and blessing that repentance really is. I now understand what Brother Owen said: “Once you’ve experienced [the joy of repentance], no lesser substitute will do.”

I grew up in Mexico with my siblings, my mother, and my grandmother. Every day after doing homework and chores, I played soccer. I loved soccer! I would pretend that my right leg was one team and my left leg was the other team.
One day when I was playing soccer, I suddenly couldn’t breathe very well. I rested for a few minutes, but I still had trouble breathing. I became so sick that I had to go to the hospital.
The hospital room had many other children in it, but I missed my family and felt very alone. Although I was not a member of the Church yet, I believed in God. Every day I prayed to be healed, but instead I got worse and worse. The doctors thought I might not live.
The doctors finally sent me home from the hospital, but I had to spend the next year in bed. I took many pills and had two shots every day. And I still had a prayer in my mind and heart. I told Heavenly Father that if I got well, I would serve Him all the rest of my life.
Then one day when I was reading in bed, I accidentally dropped my book on the floor. When I leaned down to pick it up, I realized that I was breathing normally. I dropped the book again. Again I could pick it up without any problem!
I got out of bed. At first I was dizzy because I had not walked by myself in such a long time. I looked in the mirror and saw that I was smiling. I knew that I had received an answer from Heavenly Father.
Every day since then, I have tried to do something to express my gratitude to Heavenly Father. When I grew up, I became a doctor to help answer the prayers of other children. And now I am trying to serve Heavenly Father with my calling in the Church.

A young woman named Brooke writes: “This past summer I had the opportunity of attending a leadership conference. It only took a couple of hours to find out that the LDS kids were in the minority there. I ended up [rooming] with two girls who were very nice but definitely didn’t have the same standards. At night when I read my scriptures they stared at me like I was some kind of weirdo. While they were talking about their drinking parties, I was talking about [parties] with punch and cookies. They laughed but were always curious.

“Although I was scared sometimes, I never failed to stand up for what I believe in. At the end of the conference, one of my roommates [said], ‘I guess Mormons can be cool,’ and that she would think about our religion and maybe even learn about it. I [learned] that I could make a difference by simply standing up for what I believe.”

I have a testimony that the things the bishop asks us to do will help us in our lives. The bishop asked the Primary kids this year to memorize the articles of faith. I memorized all of them. Later I was on the bus with my friend, and the conversation popped up about our beliefs. I told her that I read the Book of Mormon, and I didn’t really know what to say after that. And then the eighth article of faith popped in my head, and I recited it.
Allison H., age 9, Illinois, USA

After dinner, I thought about Sister Higgins’s lesson. I couldn’t figure out if I really had faith or not. Last Christmas I’d prayed for a bike, but I didn’t get it. Maybe I just hadn’t exercised enough faith. So I decided I’d try again. I wasn’t doing very well in math, and I wondered if faith would help me get better grades. I decided to pray for a score of one hundred on my math quiz the next day.

Then I went outside and rolled in the grass with Stubbs. He was the craziest dog I had ever known. He’d had us all in stitches last family night when he kept hiding behind Dad’s chair and popping out to bark every time someone got up to do his part.

The next day at school, when I received a score of only seventy-two on my math quiz, I knew that I must not have enough faith. I decided that faith must be something only grown-ups have.

I walked to school one day, my first day in fourth grade and at a new school. I was scared but got to my classroom OK. At recess, I was all alone. I saw Erin* all alone, too. She didn’t have any friends, and other kids made fun of her because she had lived in three foster homes.
I went over and said hi. She started crying. I asked what was wrong. She said that nobody had been that nice to her. It made me feel really warm inside to know that I had made someone feel better.

During my world literature class one day, I felt the Spirit prompt me to leave and go to the restroom. I was in the middle of taking a test, and since it was only the second day of school, I didn’t want to make a bad impression on my teacher. But the longer I sat there, the more I felt I needed to leave. So I got a pass to go to the restroom. Several girls were there, including my friend Kelsey. As I was washing my hands, I saw a girl about my age with tear-stained eyes standing in the corner. No one seemed to notice her.
I smiled at her, and all of a sudden I could feel exactly what was wrong. "Is everything okay?" I asked.
The girl gave no answer. I knew immediately what to say, almost as if the Spirit were there saying it. "You’re new, aren’t you?" I asked.
Almost instantly she sobbed and nodded but still didn’t say anything. The Spirit told me she was having a hard time making friends. "Are you having a hard time making friends here?" I asked.
Then she spoke with relief that someone actually cared enough to notice her. My friend Kelsey and I quickly introduced ourselves, and Kelsey invited the girl to sit with her at lunch.
This made me realize the truth of the scripture, "I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you" (John 14:18). The Lord always knows when we need Him, but sometimes it’s through other people that He comforts us.

A promising young man has not returned to a prestigious university in the East because he has discovered during his summer break at home that a friend, with whom he had foolishly tampered briefly with an addictive substance which he himself then quit and never touched again, has gone on with the habit and is now addicted. The scholar stays home to help, saying that this is the most important thing he has to do.

As a new member of the Church, I was taught the importance of gathering family records. I began immediately to keep a journal and research my genealogy. I was surprised and pleased that my parents supported my efforts and showed interest in their heritage. I began to ask them questions about their parents and grandparents.
My father was 71 years old at the time, and his memory of dates and ages wasn’t always accurate. But I learned a lot about his childhood and life experiences. When he passed away two years later, I was so grateful that I had asked him about his life! The little bit of information I received from him was so precious because I was able to research his family’s information and prepare their names for temple work.
With the help of other family members, I also searched for family records. My mother seemed pleased to hear about our heritage, and I believe it softened her heart toward me following my baptism.

Last year, when I was five years old, I wanted to practice being a missionary. I decided to give the family home evening lesson. I prepared the lesson by myself. I cut out temple pictures from old magazines so I could talk about temples. When I showed a picture of a temple, I asked my family to guess which temple it was. Then I read the name that was written on the back of it. I wore my church clothes. On my white shirt, I had attached a little missionary tag that my grandparents had given me. It said “Future Missionary.”
This experience helped me to be more like Jesus Christ because He was a missionary too. He taught and served many people. I want to be a missionary like Jesus Christ.

In 1872, a new semimonthly periodical called the Woman’s Exponent started in Salt Lake City “for Latter-day Saint women to help them learn about their work, their lives, and their history.”6 Emmeline submitted articles. Eliza R. Snow, a member of the Exponent committee, noticed her talent and asked her to write an editorial. Emmeline wrote in her diary, “I love this kind of work.”7 She began helping in the Woman’s Exponent office and in 1875 was named associate editor. In 1876, President Brigham Young asked Emmeline to lead the women’s grain storage program as well. In August 1877, Emmeline became the editor of the Woman’s Exponent.

Fast forward a decade. I was married and had three children when I got ahold of the family candle time binder. I could hardly contain my excitement to recreate the sacred and sweet memories of my childhood. However, the first night of candle time was a disaster. Pillow fights, scuffles over personal space, and bickering among my children resulted in the candle falling over and spilling melted wax on our carpet. This wasn’t how I remembered candle time!
My husband and I reflected on our family situation and talked about ways to help my childhood tradition become our family’s tradition. We learned that a family tradition must be realistic, unique, flexible, and viewed as an opportunity rather than an obligation. Identifying the purpose behind the practice increased our potential for peace and joy. Reframing my view of candle time and letting go of a set ideal helped me claim joy rather than guilt. I now look forward to our candle time, and my children love it as well.

“My dad stressed the importance of honesty to all his children. He was one of the most honest and fair men I have ever known. When I was a young boy, a neighbor widow’s chickens used to come over to the back of our lot and lay eggs in the high grass and bushes. Even though I used to take eggs to the store to trade (we didn’t have much money in those days), I never took any of those eggs to the store, because they weren’t mine. I took them to the widow, their rightful owner.

When I was younger, I made a friend who wasn’t a Church member. She and her family had been invited to church before, but they weren’t interested. I prayed about it and felt that I should go to their house and give them a copy of the Book of Mormon.
The next day I gave the Book of Mormon to my friend and her family and asked if they’d be willing to read just one chapter. I went home and told my mom that I wasn’t sure if they would do it. After a while, my friend asked if I wanted to spend the night at her house. While there, her family said that they’d read a little bit from the Book of Mormon but didn’t feel like it was the right time to learn more about the Church.
At dinner, my friend’s dad asked what members of the Church usually did before eating. I explained that we pray over the food. He asked if I’d be willing to pray. I was surprised! But I was also excited to share what I believed in. They thanked me for my prayer, and my friend said that she’d felt something as I prayed that made her feel good inside. We talked for the rest of dinner about prayer and more of what I believe in.
The next morning at breakfast, my friend’s dad prayed for a blessing on the food. He then mentioned that he had also prayed before bed the night before.
Though they haven’t joined the Church, I still keep in touch with them and answer their questions about the Church and encourage them to read the Book of Mormon.
I am glad that I could be a missionary and help them feel the Spirit. I know that by ministering to them and helping them feel the Spirit, I’ve helped them come closer to Christ.

One time President and Sister Harold B. Lee were in our home. Sister Lee put a handful of pennies on a table before our young son. She had him slide the shiny ones to one side and said, “These are your tithing; these belong to the Lord. The others are yours to keep.” He thoughtfully looked from one pile to the other and then said, “Don’t you have any more dirty ones?” That was when the real teaching moment began!

The wind was howling and shaking the palm trees by the time Grandma’s car reached Ana Luisa’s house. “Grab your things, girls, and go inside,” Grandma said. “I’m going to find some rocks to put behind the car’s tires.”
“Why?” Rebecca asked.
“So maybe the car won’t blow away,” Grandma said.
Rebecca and Sarah looked at each other, their eyes wide.
The girls didn’t remember the last hurricane that had come to Puerto Rico eight years ago, when Sarah was two and Rebecca just one. But they knew that the Arecibo River had flooded their neighborhood and that a lot of houses had been destroyed. Now Hurricane Georges was on the way, and newscasters warned that this hurricane might be even worse.
“So, girls, are you ready for Hurricane Georges?” asked Ana Luisa as they stepped through the front door.
“Brother Soto came to our house this morning and nailed boards on all the windows. Grandma says we need to pray that everything will turn out all right,” Sarah said.
“That’s right,” Ana Luisa said. “Heavenly Father will watch over us.”
Ana Luisa was a friend from their new church. Even though the girls were worried, Ana Luisa’s comforting words and the familiar smell of rice and beans inside her cozy house made them feel better.
The sister missionaries, who had taught Grandma and the girls the gospel just three months ago, were spending the night at Ana Luisa’s too. “It’s going to be fun,” Sister Lewis, one of the missionaries, told them, “like a party, except with really bad weather.”
For a while it was like a party. They ate dinner, then munched on cookies and listened to the radio. Every once in a while they heard a crash outside. Rebecca and Sarah wondered if Grandma’s car had blown away after all, but it was too dark to see.
Later, the lights flickered and went out. As Rebecca made a funny face in the beam of her flashlight, Grandma said, “Now is probably a good time for bed.”
After they put on their pajamas, Grandma called Sarah and Rebecca back to the living room. “We’re going to say a prayer together,” Grandma said. Sister Lewis asked Heavenly Father to keep them all safe during the hurricane and to protect Rebecca and Sarah’s house. Hearing Sister Lewis pray helped the girls feel calmer.* * *
The next morning, when Sarah cranked open the metal window slats, Ana Luisa’s street looked like it belonged on a different planet. Grandma’s car was still there, but some trees had fallen down, and sheets of metal from people’s roofs were on Ana Luisa’s lawn. Pigeons waddled helplessly down the sidewalk, too heavy with rainwater to fly. “If Ana Luisa’s street looks like this,” Sarah asked Rebecca nervously, “what do you think ours looks like?”
Early that morning Grandma had driven over to check on their house. She finally came back around lunchtime. “The neighborhood is flooded,” she said. “I couldn’t even get near our street.”
Rebecca wanted to cry. Sarah asked, “What do we do now, Grandma?”
“If it’s OK with Ana Luisa, we’ll stay here for a few more days. Maybe by then the water will go down, and we can go home.”* * *
Everyone from church wanted to help Grandma, Rebecca, and Sarah. Ana Luisa cooked dinner for them, and the sister missionaries brought clothes that Sister Lewis’s family had sent. Bishop Espinosa even came to give Grandma a blessing when she was feeling sick. But it was hard not to be in their own house and harder still not to know if their house was even there anymore.
After eight days the streets in their neighborhood were finally clear. Buckled into the backseat of Grandma’s car, Sarah and Rebecca felt a twist of excitement and fear in their stomachs. As they rode, they saw houses with walls that had been blown down. Broken tables, waterlogged mattresses, and mud-crusted refrigerators lay abandoned on the side of the road.
“What if our house is gone?” Rebecca asked.
“Then Heavenly Father will help us find a new one,” Grandma replied.
The streets in their neighborhood were still oozing with thick black mud, so they had to drive very slowly. Finally, Grandma turned the corner onto their street.
“I see it!” Rebecca shouted. “Our house is still there!”
“There’s a hole in the roof,” Sarah pointed out.
Inside, everything smelled musty. The girls leaned their mattresses against the wall to air them out and helped Grandma wipe up the water that had come in through the hole in the roof. “Can we stay here tonight, Grandma?” Rebecca asked.
“I don’t think so. We’ll have to wait a few more nights until we can get the roof fixed.”
Rebecca sighed and sank onto the damp couch. “I wish we could stay.”
“I’m just glad our house is still here,” Sarah said.
“Heavenly Father listened to our prayers,” Grandma said. Then, looking through the doorway, she pointed toward the street. “I think He’s still listening.”
Outside, a large truck with a crane was pulling up. Bishop Espinosa and Brother Soto hopped down, along with some other men from their ward.
“Do you need any help?” the bishop called. “Maybe some people to fix your roof?”
Sarah and Rebecca grabbed hands and squealed. “Does this mean we can stay, Grandma? Can we sleep here tonight?”
Grandma smiled and nodded. “Welcome home, girls.”

Why are the youth of the Denton Texas Fourth Ward smiling?
Maybe it’s because they’re on an excursion to the Dallas Temple, a place they all enjoy visiting. Or maybe it’s because some of them are doing baptisms for their own ancestors. But, more than likely, it’s because they met their bishop’s challenge to gather 100 names for baptism—and then some.
A few weeks before the temple trip, the bishop issued the challenge, and the whole ward went to work. By the time the youth arrived at the temple, they had enough names to baptize the equivalent of their entire ward.
Elder L. Lionel Kendrick of the Seventy, who was then the president of the Dallas Temple, said the youth had done something unique in the history of the Dallas Temple. He gave the youth a special blessing.
“It was pretty powerful,” says Merrin McWilliams, 14. “The people who work in the temple have a great privilege. It’s the Lord’s house.”
Many of the youth say they had special feelings and witnesses of the spirit while doing baptisms, especially for members of their own families.
Fifteen-year-old John Searcy was baptized for his great-grandfather.
“I know he was special to my dad since he named me after him,” says John. “I’m glad we did it.”