Gospel Story Finder

Peni and Jieni Naivaluvou doubled the size of their family when they took in four girls from Vanuatu who were attending the Fiji LDS Church College. But the Naivaluvous do not see this as a sacrifice. They feel they have been amply blessed for doing it. One of those blessings, they believe, is the addition to their family of baby Hagoth, born in January 2009.
In early 2008 Bishop and Sister Naivaluvou of the Tamavua Ward, Suva Fiji North Stake, heard that two young students from Vanuatu needed a place to board, so the Naivaluvous took stock of their own situation. Their sons, Soane, 18, and Ross, 16, were away from home attending a Church school in Tonga, the land of their father’s ancestry. The two girls from Vanuatu were boarding, at high cost to their parents, with a non-LDS family in Suva. The two girls would be good company for then 13-year-old Andrea Naivaluvou; Andrea also attends the Church College and was arriving home in the afternoon before her parents were off work. So Brother and Sister Naivaluvou decided they would invite the two girls from Vanuatu to live in their home at no charge.
The girls insisted on helping with costs, but still their expenses were less than half of what they had been paying earlier—a blessing for their families.
In April two other Vanuatuan girls came for a visit and enjoyed the atmosphere of the Naivaluvou home. A short time later these two girls asked if they too might come there to live. The Naivaluvous gladly took them in.
How did it work to have four extra young people in the home? “We’ve built up such a bond it’s more like they are our daughters,” Bishop Naivaluvou says. The Naivaluvous made it clear from the beginning that the girls were to be considered part of the family. The four girls from Vanuatu actually are related to each other, but in the Naivaluvou home they treated each other like sisters born of the same parents. Andrea Naivaluvou also came to accept them “like my sisters,” she says; the older girls watched out for her and even helped her with homework when there was a need. The four girls began to call Bishop and Sister Naivaluvou Ta and Na—“Dad” and “Mom” in Fijian.
This may be the first time, Sister Naivaluvou says, that girls from Vanuatu who are attending the Church College have been able to board with member families. The father of one of the girls, when he came to visit, expressed his deep gratitude to the Naivaluvous for the love they have shown his daughter.
Sister Naivaluvou points out that one of the girls, the daughter of a district president on Vanuatu, was a great example to their family through her faith; Bishop Naivaluvou says her example helped his family be more consistent about scripture study and family prayer.
Both of the Naivaluvous say they have been blessed temporally because they have shared with others. Their resources have gone farther. And Sister Naivaluvou believes the blessing of being able to become pregnant again after 13 years is connected with their willingness to share love with others.
When the Naivaluvous’ two sons returned home at the end of their school year in Tonga, they too accepted the young women as part of the family. But perhaps Soane can be excused for not seeing the girls exactly as sisters. He found himself drafted as a prom date for one of the young women. He played his role like a gentleman.
When the four girls finished their school year and returned home to Vanuatu late in 2008, the farewells were heart tugging, Bishop Naivaluvou recalls. It was as though he and his wife were saying good-bye to four daughters. And when a new school year began in 2009, the Naivaluvous were glad to welcome their four “daughters” back—plus two more.
With only four sleeping rooms in their home, some would wonder how they could make room for six young women in addition to their own daughter and new baby. But the Naivaluvou family quickly worked it out without difficulty.
After all, it was not a matter of personal space. It was simply a matter of expanding their circle of love.

Jason C. Jones turned up the collar of his wet coat. He tried to creep farther under the bush, but the chilling rain still soaked through and found him.
Will I ever be warm again? Jason wondered.
On this cold night in November 1833, Jason thought back to that hot day in July when it seemed to him their troubles had all begun.
Jason’s father said to him that morning, “I have to ride into Independence for supplies, Jason. Fix the broken fence. And remember you’re eleven now, and you’ll have to look out for your mother and Jane.”
Shortly after noon that day Jason was straightening a fence rail near the road when he heard the sound of running horses.
Shading his eyes, Jason looked down the road. Many men were coming toward him on galloping horses. Then he noticed that all the men had weapons of some sort. Jason saw several rifles and some pistols, but most of the riders carried whips or clubs.
The boy trembled in fright. Are they members of a mob? he wondered. He’d heard stories about men who threatened the Saints, and sometimes when his father and mother had thought the children were both asleep, Jason had heard them whisper about killings.
All but one of the riders raced past the boy. The one who stopped pulled his horse up near Jason and shouted, “You one of those Mormon boys?”
Jason nodded.
“Tell your folks to get out,” the man cried. “You’re not wanted in Jackson County, Missouri.”
Jason stood silent and the man rode away.
When his father came home, Jason told him about the men and then asked, “Why don’t the people want us here, Father? We’re not hurting anyone, are we?”
His father looked sad. He was quiet for a moment, and then he explained, “I guess folks feel there are too many Mormons coming to live here.”
Jason remembered that the rest of the summer was peaceful at their farm, but many other families had not been as fortunate. One night his father rode into Independence again. A meeting was being held so that some of the Mormon leaders and other men chosen from the area could talk over their problems.
Before he left, Jason’s father had smiled and said again, “Take care of your mother and Jane, son. I’ll be home soon.”
But two weeks passed and Jason’s father had not returned. Near nightfall that day Jason walked to the road. He peered in the direction of town, hoping he might see his father coming home. What Jason saw instead made him stiffen with fear. He raced back into the house and shut the door.
Before he spoke, he took a deep breath. “Mother,” Jason quietly said, “some men are coming.”
His mother jumped up. A shirt she had been mending dropped unnoticed on the floor. “Maybe we can get away through the back door, Jason,” she suggested in a shaky voice. “Let’s hurry and—”
Before his mother finished speaking, a huge man pushed the door open.
“You Mormons get out!” he bellowed. “We’re going to burn your house down!”
Jason could not believe what he heard the man say. Then there were sounds in the yard outside, and Jason knew the loud noises meant fences were being ripped down and the barn and other outbuildings torn apart.
Jason helped his mother find Jane’s shawl as well as her own. He snatched a wicker basket and began to throw food into it, but the big man grabbed the basket and shouted, “Go on! Get out before this place burns down around you!”
Jason and his mother and Jane ran outside and up the road. They stopped a few times to look back at the flames that licked around their home as it burned.
During the night they were joined by other homeless women and children. They crossed a burned prairie crusted with sleet. Whenever they tried to stop and rest, men on horseback drove them on.
The driven people moved northward to the Missouri River. They reached the river late one evening.
Crowded on its banks were household goods, boxes, provisions, animals, and many people waiting their turn to cross the river. Only one small ferry was available.
Shortly after dark Jason became separated from his mother and Jane. Now the rain began to fall in torrents, and Jason huddled under the bush. He was desperately miserable and lonely as he thought about all that had happened since that July day when the man on horseback had screamed, “You’re not wanted!”
Then Jason remembered what he could do. Kneeling in the mud, Jason prayed for help.
Finally he dozed. But cries from the people on the river bank soon awakened him, and Jason crawled from beneath his bush.
The rain had stopped, and everyone was looking up. Jason looked up too. The sight he saw filled him with amazement!
The heavens were a deep blue background for a wondrous spectacle of falling stars that streaked downward in bright flames. It looked as if the stars exploded in place and then began to tumble toward the earth.
To Jason, it seemed that every star in the heavens was about to land in the river beside the people.
As the magnificent display gradually stopped, Jason again remembered his troubles. He sighed and shivered as he pulled his coat about him. Just then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and Jason looked up and saw his father.
“Oh, Father,” he sobbed, “I’m so glad to see you!”
His father hugged him close. “I found your mother and Jane too,” he said. “Come.”
The man and the boy walked down the river bank together. A fire burned warmly in front of a tent, and inside the opening Jason could see his mother and sister.
“With our family together again, even a tent is a home,” Father said as he gently pushed Jason inside toward his welcoming family.

I had a particular experience in my life that showed me how using the wrong word can shock those who do not expect such an utterance to come from you. I was in boot camp in the U.S. Marine Corps during World War II. Of course, the language among my fellow Marines was not of the caliber that you would want to repeat. Being a recently returned missionary, I determined I should keep my language above the level they were using. I tried consistently to keep from saying even the simplest and most common of swear words.
One day we were on the rifle range firing for our final qualification scores. I had done well in the 100-, 200-, and 300-yard positions. Now we were back at the 500-yard position. All I needed was a reasonable score—just hitting the target without even having to hit the bull’s-eye—and I would make Expert Rifleman. We had been charged up with the desire to excel and be the top platoon in firing for qualifications. I tensed up at the 500-yard standing position and on my first shot threw my shoulder into the rifle. Of course, the flag waved—I had missed the target. And likewise I missed the opportunity of being named Expert Rifleman.
Out of my mouth came a little four-letter word that I had determined never to use. Much to my shock and chagrin, suddenly the whole range stopped firing and everyone turned and looked at me with their mouths open. Any other Marine firing from that position that day could have used the word I used without anyone paying attention. But because I had determined that I would carry the standards of the mission field into the Marine Corps, everyone was shocked when I forgot myself.

One day our Primary visited the São Paulo Brazil Temple. The gardens were more beautiful than any I had ever seen. We learned that through the covenants we make in the temple, we can live with our families for eternity. The president of the temple spoke to us in the waiting room, where we saw beautiful paintings. I had a very warm and happy feeling, and my mother told me it was the Holy Ghost testifying to me that what I was learning was true. I gained a testimony that the temple is the house of the Lord.
Renato B., age 8, Brazil
Renato and his family at his baptism

As the years passed, my parents stopped practicing their religion, and I became an atheist. I thought it beneath me to believe in God.
One day when I was 17, I was sitting alone, looking out the window. For some reason, I suddenly began to believe in God again. At the time I was not interested in religion, but there came into my heart a conviction that God did actually exist.
A week later my family moved to Clermont-Ferrand in central France. I began asking myself some difficult questions: What is Jesus like? What is my relationship to Him? One afternoon some young men gave me a paper that read: “Who is Jesus? Come to the Christian pub to discuss this question with other young people.” I told the young men that I had been asking myself that very question. I said I would stop by soon.
The next day I decided to go to the Christian pub. But as I walked up to it, I couldn’t bring myself to enter. In the days that followed, I went back several times, but for some reason I was afraid to go inside.
My inability to enter the pub left me feeling sad. I didn’t know what to do. But after I came home from one of my uncompleted trips, the thought came to me that Jesus Christ organized His Church almost 2,000 years ago; therefore that Church must exist today. As soon as the idea entered my mind, the doorbell rang. I opened the door and saw two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints standing there. I was surprised—not by their sudden appearance at my door, but by my reaction. I felt as though I had been waiting for them.
Because my room was in disorder, I felt embarrassed to have the missionaries come in, so I asked where they held meetings. The following Sunday I attended church at the address they gave me. What I learned of Jesus Christ and of my relationship to Him felt right. I was soon baptized. I have always believed the Spirit converted me to the gospel before the missionaries ever contacted me.

When Hurricane Irma hit the Caribbean in September 2017, it caused widespread destruction to several islands. A Church member from the United States who wanted to help reached out to my husband, who was then serving as a stake president in Puerto Rico.
“I have a large boat that I’m going to bring to Puerto Rico so I can take food and supplies to the island of Tortuga,” he said. “I need your help gathering supplies.”
In response, we began gathering donations of food, clothing, and other items from Church members and others in Puerto Rico. We sent two boatloads to Tortuga and were preparing to send a third boatload of supplies, which we had gathered at the stake center for distribution. That’s when we learned that another storm, Hurricane Maria, was headed straight for Puerto Rico.
When Hurricane Maria made landfall, it devastated our island, killing thousands of people. For several days afterward, we couldn’t leave our neighborhood because of fallen trees, debris, and other destruction. At the stake center, however, we had a supply of food, water, clothes, and personal items—everything we needed for a natural disaster. We had gathered those things to help others, but they ended up blessing us instead.
The hurricane caused blackouts and knocked out the internet and cell phone service. While Puerto Rican authorities worked to respond, we had supplies that provided immediate help to many people.
When my husband could finally leave our home, he felt impressed to visit certain members of our stake. He found two sisters whose homes had been destroyed and who had lost everything.
“We can help you,” he said. “We have what you need. The stake center is full of supplies.”
As Church members and members of other faiths contacted my husband for help, we began receiving monetary gift cards from Church members in the United States that we distributed to the needy. The Church also mobilized humanitarian resources such as food, water, and other supplies to our island. For months, these donations enabled us to help countless Puerto Ricans.
As we worked to help our neighbors after Hurricane Irma, the Lord prepared a way for us to help ourselves after Hurricane Maria. As the Savior taught, “Give, and it shall be given unto you” (Luke 6:38).

To explain why I was so stirred by our son’s response, I must share a story about his older brother, born shortly after my father’s death. We gave this older son his grandfather’s name as a middle name. He felt awkward about that old-fashioned name in his early years and didn’t use it. But when he took up debate in high school and learned that his grandfather had been a champion debater in the 1920s, he began feeling a tie to his namesake. My father had kept a personal journal during much of his adult life, and one day I showed my son an entry describing his grandfather’s big debate. I left that journal with him, hoping he would read it.
He was a good boy, but he wasn’t easy to rear. We prayed for patience. We prayed that the seeds of faith would take root in his heart, but we knew we couldn’t force that process. I thought during those days about my own older brother, who died in an accident during his turbulent adolescence. How my parents had prayed and grieved for him! Then one night my son left me a simple note: “I never want to do anything that would hurt you and Mom the way your brother’s problems hurt your parents.” I wondered how he could have known of something so personal from a generation ago. Then I remembered the journal, but I chose not to ask more.
A few weeks later, our son worked his way through a particularly trying experience and came to us late at night to tell us what had happened: “Dad, I never knew Grandpa Hafen, but I felt he was there, helping me.” I held him close that night, and I told him more about his grandfather.
Not long afterward, he was deciding how he should respond to a mission call. We were in southern Utah for a family reunion. One afternoon, with no explanation, he drove alone to the isolated little canyon where his grandfather had loved to ride his horse—the place, in fact, where he had passed away. Our son had read of this canyon in the journal and had seen it from a distance but had never been in it. In a secluded spot there, he knelt and asked the Lord’s help in sorting through his questions about his faith, his mission, and his life. At his missionary farewell, he alluded to the sacredness of that day and described the deep assurance and sense of direction he had carried from his grandfather’s canyon. Now, some years later, with children of his own, he reflects in his life that same assurance and direction, and I know the joy my father must feel.

We get many letters about athletes who clean up the courts or the fields but not many about athletes who clean up the team’s language. Andy Fuhriman was chosen basketball MVP and All-Star, not only for the baskets he made, but for the way he influenced the team. He even helped the coach stop swearing.
Andy made the sacrifice of turning down a chance to play in an AAU tournament because it was held on Sunday. He’d rather be in his priests quorum in the Sandpoint Ward, Sandpoint Idaho Stake. His other interests are painting and studying, as demonstrated by his high grades.

“What kind of job do you want to have when you grow up?” Mrs. Lu asked the class.
That was easy to answer! I wanted to be a scientist. I imagined myself wearing a lab coat and doing awesome experiments.
“Today each of you will take a test on the computer that will tell you what jobs you might enjoy someday,” Mrs. Lu said.
Soon I was at the computer, taking my test. I answered all the questions and took a deep breath as I hit the “finish” button.
Scientist! Artist! Astronaut! I thought as the results loaded. Those jobs would be amazing.
But the results did not mention any of those jobs. I looked at the list. Graphic designer sounded kind of cool. I wasn’t so sure about baker. Or event planner.
The most surprising one was the top result. It told me that I would most enjoy being … a florist.
What?! Someone who arranges flowers? I thought. This has to be a mistake!
But I knew I had answered each question honestly. My face felt hot. I didn’t want my friends to see my results, so I hurried and shut down the computer.
“Cool!” said my best friend, Dan. “My top result is website designer!”
“That’s awesome,” I mumbled. “But do you think this test is really right about what our job should be?”
“Well, it’s just a test,” said Dan, shrugging. “What was your top job?”
I froze in fear. “It’s probably wrong. But it told me I should be a florist.”
My worst fears came true. Dan started laughing.
“I knew you’d want to pick flowers for a job! You’ve always liked weird things like that,” Dan joked.
“No way!” I snapped. “I don’t even like flowers.”
Dan smiled and turned back to his computer. My stomach started to hurt. I was so embarrassed! Was the test right? Was Dan right?
Walking home from school, I still felt embarrassed about my test results. I thought about all the things I loved to do, like making art and playing the piano. They were pretty different from the things that some of the other boys in my class liked.
Maybe I am weird, I thought. Tears filled my eyes as I walked inside.
“What’s wrong, Jeff?” Dad asked. “Did something happen at school?”
I sat down and told him all about the job test and how I felt different from a lot of the other boys.
“You know, Jeff,” he said, “Heavenly Father gave you your talents. He loves you and wants you to develop them. And I love you too! Liking different things than your friends like doesn’t make you weird.”
“Really?” I asked.
Dad nodded. “We are all supposed to be different. I want you to love who you are. And remember, the test was just to give you some ideas of what you might like to do. It doesn’t mean that you’ll definitely end up with one of those jobs. You get to make your own choices. But if someday you choose to be a florist, I’m sure you’ll be great at it!”
“Thanks, Dad.” I gave him a hug. My stomach didn’t feel sick anymore.
The next day at school, Dan sat by me at lunch. “Hey, Jeff,” he said. “I’m sorry I laughed at you. I think you’d be awesome at whatever job you have!”
“Thanks, Dan,” I said. “Who knows—maybe I’ll own a flower shop and you’ll build my shop’s website!”
“Deal,” said Dan, smiling. “Maybe I’ll be your first customer too!”
This story took place in the USA.

Brooke P. of California, USA, could feel her resolve wavering—it would be so much easier to blend in with her teammates. The other girls were pressuring her to dress like them for practices and games.
Brooke had already decided that she wanted to be modest, but she didn’t know what that meant for playing her sport. Would it be OK to dress like her teammates just during sporting events?
“I decided to do some research,” Brooke says. “I looked through For the Strength of Youth, the scriptures, Church talks—everything I could get my hands on. Nothing seemed to describe my exact situation and give me specific enough advice. But I knew that Heavenly Father knew me and that He knew what would be modest.”
So Brooke took action again. “I decided to get down on my knees and pray,” she says. As she prayed, she expressed her desire to obey the commandments and then asked whether it would be OK for her to dress like her teammates for their practices and games.
Now let’s return to Brooke. After her prayer, she felt impressed not to alter her clothing choices. Although her decision was unpopular, she found confidence and peace knowing that her choice was pleasing to Heavenly Father.

A week and a half before the October 2019 general conference session, I, along with family and friends, had to bury the loveliness of my mother, Eudie (YOU-dee) Charnes. My heart was broken, grieving, and empty beyond empty. The beauty of Eudie, the beauty that was Eudie, was, simply and sadly, no more. She was no longer before me to hold, to hug, or to nourish—to bless, to sing to, to cry over, or to pray with. The life and the light that had given me life had died, her blessedness now gone and beyond. And so too a part of me died with her also, a part deep within, leaving me forever without. With grace she died, embraced by faith, interlaced in the loving arms of her beloved family: of my wife, Sarah; of our daughter, Yael; and of mine, her newly orphaned son.
We were all together, yet completely alone—each alone in our individual loss, but bound together in our shared loss. And that fragile togetherness that we shared with each other was helped, and at times was even held together, by the kindness and presence of two living Latter-day Saint community treasures: Brother Mike Law and his eternal celestial companion, Sister Debbie Law, of Colorado, USA. Their humble hearts overflow with a love that can only be described as being inspired from above, and we are forever grateful for the light of their accompanying presence during our walk through the darkness and the despair of death.
It was during this time, a mere two days after burying my mother, that my desperate cry for the blessed was answered—answered in the form of a simple phone call and offer from my treasured friend Brother Mike Law. He was again reaching out and reaching in, as always, to see how I was faring and wayfaring along, in loss along this long and lonely journey of woe.
While we were speaking, I noticed a subtle tenor of uncertainty entering into Mike’s voice as he asked me the following question: “Joe, I know the answer is probably going to be no, but would you like to go to general conference, if I can get tickets?” My response was simple, immediate, direct, and urgent: “Mike, there’s actually nowhere else that I’d rather be.”
Those were my words, friends; those were my words—words sung forth in solemn song and solemn sorrow. I just knew that general conference would be that consecrating moment of graceful uplift for my heart. I knew the generous arms of every Latter-day Saint–inspired heart would be unconditionally extended and extending in love—that the arms of their loving hearts simply would not fail.
At general conference, people simply smile from the heart. They say hello from the heart, and they glow from the heart. There is an unspoken language of presence of heart. Their presence says hello. Just being there says hello. Just being there is being embraced.
That was the balm my aching soul needed—that heart-embracing balm of general conference kindness. That is why general conference would truly be that healing balm of Gilead for my soul in need.
And this is a general truism of your grand faith. Wise, loving, nurturing kindness is the service anthem of the Latter-day Saint community; it is the emblematic hallmark and legacy of your faith. If the old adage is true that “the highest form of wisdom is kindness,” then general conference is truly a gathering place for some of the wisest human beings on the planet.
You are “a light unto the nations,” and a light unto my heart. Bless you, Mike, for following the promptings of your heart. Your devotion to helping me restore peace within has the heavenly choir above singing, “Well done, good and faithful servant” (Matthew 25:23).

As young women, you have the privilege of working on projects as part of the Young Womanhood Recognition Award. Anna Nichols of Centerville, Utah, writes about a special experience she has had:
“I did a Laurel project last year that has brought me closer to my grandma who[m] I never knew. She passed away when my mom was about five years old from a severe type of cancer. My mom has a collection of old slides and letters that she had kept. I went through these and picked out pictures of her and her family and letters that she had written to her sister sharing her feelings and thoughts before she died.
“I put all these in a scrapbook in memory of her and I gave it to my grandpa. To watch his face as he turned each page was the most awesome feeling as he told me the stories of each picture. We cried together. I could tell that he misses her so much and how with this book she is partly back into his life again.
“Because of this book I have a personal relationship with my grandma. I feel her spirit with me. I know she has protected me and helped me when I am in need. Now when I go and visit my grandpa we always talk about her and share stories. I always look forward to this time I get to spend with him.”

Sister Eyvonne Black and her husband, Russell, served as missionaries in the Dominican Republic. Their service enabled hundreds of people to find hope through studying the word of God. They organized more than 100 literacy classes, using the Book of Mormon as their text. While learning to read, the students learned of Jesus Christ. Many were baptized and, with faith centered in Christ, began to “hope for a better world” (Ether 12:4).

They met in the kitchen for the priests quorum lesson. John sat in the back row and idly played with a set of keys while his adviser gave the lesson. He never volunteered any answers; it was a practice he had acquired early in school.
Brother Stewart came into the kitchen and interrupted the lesson. He had a large bald spot that made his head look like an eagle’s nest. John never did know what calling Brother Stewart had, but he always carried a clipboard.
“We need some help with the ward welfare project next Saturday,” Brother Stewart announced.
John hunched over in his chair, trying to make himself as small as possible.
Seconds of silence passed. Finally one of the priests cleared his throat: “I can’t next Saturday. That’s when we’re going to practice for the roadshow.”
“That’s right!” another remembered happily. “I can’t either.”
Brother Stewart waited, his pen ready to pounce on a name.
“John,” his adviser asked, “are you in the roadshow?”
“Are you kidding?” John scoffed, “No way.”
“Well, could you work for a couple of hours next Saturday?”
“I don’t know anything about the welfare project,” John complained.
“No trouble,” Brother Stewart replied, already writing down the name, “we’ll show you what needs to be done. Anybody else?”
Before he left, one other priest had agreed to work.
On Friday night John was involved in his usual TV marathon when the phone rang. His father answered it, took the message, and relayed it to John. “It was Brother Stewart. He just wanted to remind you about working on the welfare project tomorrow.”
Since his father now knew about the assignment, John realized that he wouldn’t be able to conveniently forget it.
“I guess that means you’ll need the car,” his father said.
“Yeah,” John brightened, “I guess I will.”
John stopped by Saturday morning for the other priest who had volunteered to work. On their way out, they stopped at a drive-in and had a milk shake.
They arrived a half hour late.
The welfare project was honey production, and the ward had 50 hives. The efforts on that February day involved building new hives for the coming season. John was given the job of collecting nine newly assembled wax frames from the assembly line of ten people making them. He put the new frames into a newly constructed box that people called a “super.” Then he carried the new super to a storage area.
On the second that the two hours he’d been assigned to work had elapsed, John was heading for the door. Before he made it out of the building, he was intercepted by Brother Stewart.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” John answered. “I’ve worked my two hours.”
“But you’re not smiling.”
“So?”
“When I see someone leave here who isn’t smiling, I get concerned.”
“Oh wow,” John cynically thought to himself.
“Aren’t you happy that you worked here today?”
“Sure, and I’m also happy to be going home.”
Brother Stewart thrust his arm around John’s shoulder. “You can’t go home yet.”
John felt himself being escorted back to the assembly line.
“Why not?”
“You haven’t worked here long enough to catch the vision of Church welfare projects. You need to work here until you do.”
John stopped and squared off, facing Brother Stewart.
“You can’t make me stay.”
“I know, but please stay. Working on welfare projects is supposed to bring you blessings. It’s supposed to make you feel good. Stay here just a little while longer. I’ll even give you a different job.”
John was given a hammer and a place in the assembly line.
“Work with Brother Mattson. Ask him about bees.”
Brother Mattson was at least 70 years old. He had worked with bees all his life and helped the ward start its honey project two years ago.
“If you’re going to work here, you’d better learn how to build the frames right. Next summer, each of these frames will hold 20 pounds of honey. They’ve got to be built right so they won’t fall apart.”
Brother Mattson showed him each step in assembling the plastic laminated sheet and wooden frame together.
The first frame that John built needed some work by Brother Mattson before it was good enough. On the second frame, John had to pull out one of his nails and redrive it.
Finally, after 15 minutes, John showed Brother Mattson a frame that was built exactly the way he had been told. Brother Mattson examined it carefully, and then smiled and said, “I couldn’t do better myself. Now all you need to do is work on speed.”
At what seemed a short time later, his friend from the priests quorum came over to John.
“Let’s go. I finally got away from Brother Stewart. Let’s get out of here before he puts us back to work.”
“I think I’ll stay,” John said.
“Are you crazy? We’ve already been here three hours.”
“Can you get a ride with someone else? I’m staying.”
Sunday morning during their quorum lesson, Brother Stewart came again with his clipboard.
“We need to build some more frames next Saturday. We didn’t finish yesterday.”
Two of the quorum members began to tie their shoes.
“I’ll go,” John said.
“You went last week,” his adviser said.
“That’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“We need two crews, one to work in the morning and one to work in the afternoon. When do you want to work?”
“I don’t mind working all day,” he said. The priest next to John looked at him strangely.
On Monday morning John faced the ordeal of school and, much worse, American History and Mr. Lattimer, who had a theory that the more uncomfortable a student was in class the more he learned.
John was gazing out the window, coveting the cars in the parking lot, when Mr. Lattimer confronted him.
“You seem bored by our discussion.”
“No,” John answered. He had learned long ago that you never tell a teacher that you’re bored—even when you are.
“Maybe it’s because you already know about the Civil War. Let’s see, can you tell me when the Civil War began?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me when it ended?”
“No.”
“Can you explain the extent of foreign intervention in the war?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” Mr. Lattimer derided. He had a habit of repeating what a student said and making it sound ridiculous. “Did you read the assigned material?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. There must be a better reason than that.”
“I don’t like to read,” John confessed.
“You don’t like to read. If you don’t like to read, then why don’t you pay attention in class? Do you think that might help?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how important an education is today? What kind of a job do you think you can get if you don’t read?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know? Let me tell you. I might as well give you a broom and let you practice using it because that’s all you’ll do in life unless you show a little interest in school. Do you read anything?”
“No.”
“I bet you watch TV though, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
Mr. Lattimer then went on about how TV was wrecking the education system. John sat quietly in his desk, outwardly quiet, but inside furious and embarrassed.
The winter months passed slowly. John’s grades that year were even lower than they had ever been before, which prompted several discussions between him and his father.
“How do you expect to go to college on these grades?”
“I don’t. I’m never going to school again after I graduate.”
“What will you do to make money?”
“I’ll work.”
“You need an education to get anywhere today,” his father said.
“Okay,” John exploded, “I won’t get anywhere!”
The next time the ward built new frames was in May. Again John volunteered to work. By then he was almost as good as Brother Mattson in assembling frames.
While he was working, Brother Stewart escorted a girl over to the assembly line. “John, this is Cathy Barker. Her parents just moved here a few weeks ago. Cathy’s just come back from BYU, and she’s here for the summer. Will you show her how to build frames?”
Cathy stood next to John and observed as he put a frame together. He found it hard to concentrate on his work. Her pale blonde hair flowed gently around her face. Once as she leaned over to see where he placed a nail, he could feel her hair brushing against his arm.
John knew guys at school who had clever sayings that could start up a conversation with a girl, but John didn’t remember what they were. The more good-looking a girl was, the less he could say to her. With Cathy he couldn’t say anything at all.
“How old are you?” Cathy asked.
“Seventeen.”
“I’m 19,” she said.
“Oh.”
Several minutes passed as they both worked silently.
“You must be the strong silent type,” she said.
“Why?”
“You don’t talk much.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘Tell me about yourself.’”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Tell me about yourself.”
Cathy talked about where her parents had lived before they’d moved, and about BYU and her roommates, and how she didn’t know anybody in the ward.
“How about yourself?” Cathy asked. “Tell me about you.”
“There’s not much to tell. I’ll be a junior in high school next year. That’s about it.”
“That’s not much.”
“No.”
At noon they walked outside and ate their sack lunches together.
“John, would you consider … no, forget it.”
“What?”
“Well, I’m going to go crazy this summer unless I get out of the house. Could we go roller skating or fishing or something this summer?”
“Me take you out?” John asked. “There must be plenty of guys who want to take you out.”
“Well, there’s a 26-year-old returned missionary I met last Sunday in church. But I’m a little wary of him. He keeps talking about how much he wants to get married and about the rising price of houses. He says if he waits any longer, he won’t be able to afford a house. I think he’d marry me just to avoid spiraling inflation. Anyway, he makes me nervous.”
“I can take you fishing, but I still don’t see why you’d go with me.”
“I’m waiting for a missionary who gets back in 18 months, and I don’t want a romance, but I could use a friend. Okay?”
“Okay,” John agreed. Before John left that day, Brother Mattson asked him if he’d go out with him next Saturday to work the hives. “I’ve got to install some new queen bees. The ward has a bee suit you can wear. How about it?”
“Okay,” John said.
A week later Brother Mattson picked John up about 10:00 in the morning. They rode in his old battered pickup.
“Sweet clover looks real good this year, don’t it?” Brother Mattson remarked as they bounced along a gravel road toward the ward’s beehives.
John looked out the window. It was the first time he’d ever noticed the tiny yellow flowers on what he thought were just weeds along the side of the road.
After they arrived at the site, they put on their bee suits over their clothes. By the time John got on the white coveralls, the veil, the long gloves, and put elastic bands around the cuffs of his suit to keep bees from crawling up his leg, he felt like an astronaut about to set foot on the moon.
Brother Mattson opened up a hive and examined each frame to find the old queen. When he found her, he killed her and set a small cage with the new queen carefully into the super.
“See that plug there,” Brother Mattson said, pointing to a plugged hole in the cage. “It’s made of candy. The worker bees will go to work clearing the plug, and by the time they get it open and get the new queen free, they’ll be accustomed to her and they’ll accept her.”
As they worked, Brother Mattson pointed out the drone bees, the larva cells, and explained about beekeeping. Even though there was a cloud of bees around them, John felt his fear leaving and being replaced by deep respect.
After they got back to town, Brother Mattson loaned him two books about beekeeping. John read the books in two weeks.
From that time on, he went out with Brother Mattson every chance he got.
A few weeks later in priesthood meeting opening exercises, Brother Stewart announced that a local beekeeper wanted to sell his 50 hives. The ward was going to buy 20 of them, but any members who wanted to buy any of the other hives should contact him.
As they were leaving to go home to get the family for Sunday School, John told his father, “I want to buy ten hives.”
“What for?”
“I can provide the family with honey for food storage and sell the rest.”
“I don’t know,” his father said. “The last project you started and didn’t finish was selling Christmas cards. That cost me $20.”
“That was four years ago. Besides, this is different.”
“Let me think about it. Okay?”
On Monday night after family home evening, the family talked about John’s plan. Finally they decided that John would borrow $500 from the bank on his father’s signature, and he’d also throw in $200 of his own savings to buy 15 hives.
By Wednesday, John found a place to put his hives. It was in the middle of an alfalfa field in a small valley whose hills were covered with sweet clover.
He took Cathy fishing a couple of times a month. She was easy to please, she could bait her own hook, and she seemed happy just to be with him without feeling pressure about getting serious. But John felt himself falling in love, although he didn’t tell her because he knew it would upset her.
Once that summer he took her out to see his bees. As he helped her get her bee suit and veil and gloves on, she half-seriously threatened, “If I get stung, you’re in real trouble.”
“Don’t worry. Bees don’t hurt anybody unless they’re being hurt.”
He took off the top hive cover, and pulled out a frame of honey, covered with bees. He gently brushed them off with a small brush. A cloud of bees surrounded them. He showed her the pattern of eggs laid by the queen, and, after some searching of some frames from another super, he showed her the queen.
“You love it here, don’t you?” she asked him thoughtfully.
He nodded his head. “I really do.”
After they were through, they moved several hundred feet away from the hives, took off their veils, and sat down and ate lunch. John looked up from his sandwich, and it seemed that his mind etched the scene forever into his memory. Cathy, her hair the color of ripe wheat, talked happily about the Church; her voice was like a pleasant song. The field of alfalfa was a sea of purple blossoms. Further up on the hill, the yellow sweet clover blanketed the ground. John watched a steady stream of his bees returning to the hives, each one carrying a small bead of pollen. Small puffs of clouds hung lazily in the sun-drenched sky.
It was a moment that lasted forever.
“Are you listening to what I’m saying?” Cathy asked.
“Cathy, you’re so beautiful.”
“Oh sure,” she said with embarrassment, “in a pair of coveralls.”
“Really you are.” He thought about telling her that the sun made her hair look like a tan flame, and that he loved her, and that the moment seemed perfect, as if all nature had contrived to give him one moment when all his senses would come alive and record forever in his mind one instant of his life, and that no matter how old he got he’d never forget this one moment.
“It’s real nice out here, isn’t it?” was all he said.
The next Sunday the bishop called him to be an assistant beekeeper for the ward welfare project. John learned as quickly as he could. When Brother Mattson applied powdered antibiotic mixed with powdered sugar to the church bees, John helped him and then hurried to his bees and did the same thing. When Brother Mattson split some hives, John split some of his hives.
By the end of the summer, he had extracted 1,800 pounds of honey from his hives, sold it for $900, paid off his loan, and put $100 dollars in the bank.
From that time on, John knew what he’d do with his life. He’d be a beekeeper.
A day before Cathy was supposed to go back to BYU, he took her out fishing. As they sat in a small rubber raft in the middle of a lake, he finally got the courage to say it.
“Cathy, I think I love you.”
“Do you? I think a lot of you too.”
“If I were older, and if I’d already been on my mission, I’d ask you to marry me.”
She touched his cheek. “I guess our timing’s not too good, huh?”
“I guess not,” John said.
“But you’ll always be one of my best friends,” Cathy told him.
The next day Cathy left for the Y.
The next summer, John set aside $2,000 for his mission from money he’d earned from his hives.
That November John worked with Brother Mattson to winterize each hive. They reduced the entrance holes and wrapped tar paper around each hive to cut down the flow of cold air. The hives were then two supers high, giving the bees just enough honey to survive the winter.
In January of that winter, Brother Mattson died. John learned about it from his father when he got home from school one day.
“It was a heart attack. It came in the night when he was asleep. Maybe he never even woke up.”
John didn’t cry at the funeral or out at the burial site. The graveside service took place in a snowstorm as the prairie winds whipped across the cemetery, slowly drifting over the flowers set there by friends.
The next day John drove out to the ward’s hives. Walking ankle deep in fresh snow, he trudged across the barren fields to the hives. It was too cold to open up the hives, and he didn’t really have a purpose to be there, but he just stood for a long time, his hands in his pockets, looking at the black, tar-paper-covered hives standing alone in the middle of the cold white field. It’s like the bees are in mourning, he thought, seeing the blackness covering each hive. And then the memories of Brother Mattson flooded into his mind, and he heard himself sobbing loudly, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself for a long time.
Two weeks later John was called in to talk with the bishop. “John, you’re the only one in the ward now who knows the details of beekeeping. We’d like you to take Brother Mattson’s place and be the ward’s beekeeper. You’ll work with the priesthood quorums when you need help. Will you do it?”
“Nobody can ever take Brother Mattson’s place,” John said.
“I know, but he’d want us to continue on, wouldn’t he?”
“He would,” John agreed.
“He told me once how proud of you he was, and how much you’d learned. He said that you knew as much as he did. After we cleaned out his apartment, we found a couple of books about beekeeping. I think he’d want you to have them.”
They were the same books Brother Mattson had loaned John after the first time they’d gone out together to work the bees. John handled the worn books with care.
“Bishop, I’ll be glad to accept the calling.”
“I knew we could count on you.”
“There’s just one thing. I’ll need to train someone who can look after the bees while I’m on my mission.”
“Who would you like?”
“My dad.”
“Okay, we’ll call him to be your assistant.”
That winter John spent an hour a week with his father, training him. It brought them close together again.
In April John received a wedding announcement from Cathy, who was getting married to her returned missionary. John attended the reception in the ward cultural hall. She and her husband looked radiant.
“I gave you some honey for your honeymoon,” he told Cathy in the reception line.
“How sweet,” she countered, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
“Have you met my cousin yet?” she asked. “She’s going to be staying with my parents this summer. I’ve told her all about you, and she wants to learn about beekeeping.”
He looked four places down the reception line where a girl with long blonde hair smiled back.
“She’ll be 19 when you return from your mission,” Cathy said with a scheming smile.
The last semester of his senior year, John took an elective course from Mr. Lattimer. It was a class in which each student could specialize in some aspect of American history. John chose to write about beekeeping in America.
“You’re the last person in the world I would have thought would take another course from me,” Mr. Lattimer remarked one afternoon.
“People change,” John said.
“You have. You seem like a different person. You seem to know what you want from life.”
“I do,” John answered, proceeding to outline his plans for a mission, marriage in the temple, and becoming a professional beekeeper.
“What’s made the difference to cause you to change?”
John thought back over the past two years and finally answered, “I guess it all came because I agreed to work on a Church welfare project.”

Illustrations by Scott Greer
Dani looked up but still couldn’t see the top of the beautiful cathedral. People who belonged to a different church came here. Dani didn’t understand why her family was visiting this church on a Friday, but Dad said they were going to something called Evensong.
“What’s that?” Dani asked.
“It’s a meeting where people sing, read scriptures, and pray together,” Dad said. “Like a big family at the end of the day.”
Dani liked how that sounded. She and her family were visiting England. Last Sunday they went to a ward in a city called York. In Primary all the kids knew the same scriptures and songs Dani did. She knew the ward she visited was part of Jesus’s true Church, just like her ward at home.
But this cathedral was very different from what she was used to. She noticed a small table filled with candles. Dani watched a boy light a candle.
“Why are you lighting candles?” Dani asked him.
The boy smiled. “I light a candle when I pray for special things. As long as the flame burns, I hope the prayer will continue to be heard by God.”
They looked like regular candles to Dani. She was a little confused, but she wanted to be polite. She smiled at the boy.
Dani and her family sat down, and soon Evensong started. She saw the same boy a few rows away. Then she realized she didn’t know any of the songs everyone was singing. When they prayed, they read out of a little book. Everything seemed different than what she was used to.
But the music was beautiful, even if it wasn’t familiar. Then a man got up to read the scriptures. He was wearing robes, instead of a suit and tie like Dani’s bishop. But as he started reading, Dani realized she knew this story! He was reading about Jesus healing the 10 lepers.
“Dad,” Dani whispered, “I love this story.”
Dad smiled. “Me too.”
Then the man in robes said a prayer. He asked God to bless those who were sick and in need. Just like Dani did! He also asked a special blessing on leaders of his church. Dani remembered how her family always asked Heavenly Father to bless President Thomas S. Monson and his counselors.
A warm feeling came into Dani’s heart. She knew Heavenly Father was telling her He loved all His children and heard all their prayers, even if they went to a different church and didn’t have the fulness of the gospel.
As they got up to leave, Dad checked his phone. He looked sad as he read his messages. “Sister Monson passed away,” he said.
“Oh no!” Dani said a quick prayer in her heart that President Monson would be OK.
“Are you all right?” someone asked. It was the boy from before. He had heard Dani, and he seemed worried.
“Sister Monson passed away,” Dani said. “She was the wife of our prophet, President Monson.”
“I’m sorry,” he said kindly. “I’ll light a candle for him.”
Dani smiled and thanked him. She thought it was nice of the boy to say a special prayer for President Monson. She knew Heavenly Father would hear the prayer she said in her heart and the prayer the boy said too.

Have you ever been to a restaurant where some of the food items on the menu are unfamiliar? In 2018, my wife and I went to a restaurant in Osaka, Japan. The menu had many options, most of which were unfamiliar and strange to us. One person in our group chose calamari (squid). But I did not like calamari, so I chose something else. Everyone selected something different from the menu. We all enjoyed our meals because we each chose a dish that appealed to us.

You do not need to eat calamari unless you like it. (By the way, after sampling excellent Japanese calamari, I have come to like it.) You can choose to invite others to learn about the gospel of Jesus Christ in ways that are comfortable and natural for you, using your own talents and abilities. Over time you may find that the range of things that are comfortable expands.

In a neighboring village Aunt Toini was living in comfortable surroundings, but she was not comfortable at all. Her past haunted her. Though she had always been well off and had plenty of everything, her sister had not.
Her sister had had a family—a husband and three-year-old twin daughters. Her sister’s husband had been severely injured in an accident at work. After a short while she had become sick with tuberculosis and in desperation went to Aunt Toini asking for the small sum of 20 marks and bread for her girls. But in selfishness Aunt Toini had refused to give help in any way. A short time later Aunt Toini’s sister died of tuberculosis, and her husband died as a result of his injuries. Strangers adopted their three-year-old girls.
“It was my fault that my sister died and those little girls had to be adopted,” Aunt Toini confided to me that day I first met her. Tears blurred my vision as I listened to her sad story, and I sensed she was seeking forgiveness.
“My sister lived in this very house,” she told me. She looked me in the eye and handed me 20 marks. “Here you are. Pray that God will forgive me.” After a little while she pulled herself together, stood up, and said, “Well, let’s get to work. I’ll bring some wood so we can make supper.”

“Come on, Jodi! It’s only one soccer match! God isn’t going to hate you for playing just this once on Sunday.”
“That’s right,” thought Jodi Allen, a seventeen-year-old from Sandy, Utah, and the best goalkeeper on her championship soccer team. “It is only one soccer match.” But to play in it would break a personal promise she’d made to Heavenly Father years before.
But how could she explain that to the teammates who were pressuring her to play? As a team, they had worked hard all season, winning the Utah state championship and traveling to the regional tournament in San Francisco, California, to compete against other winning teams from throughout the western United States. They had successfully played a couple of tournament matches and now had the opportunity to play a team that had beaten them the previous year. Jodi’s team wanted revenge, and a win for the team would place them in the regional finals.
But the game was scheduled for Sunday.
“Oh Jodi! Who do you think you are? Some of us are members of the Church too, and we’re playing on Sunday. Do you think you’re better than we are?”
So there was never a question about playing on Sunday—not even in this tournament. But making her teammates understand was another story.
“Look,” she tried to explain, “if I don’t play on Sunday, I’ll disappoint my team, and I feel bad about that. But if I do play on Sunday, I’ll disappoint so many more. I’ll disappoint myself, because I’d be breaking a promise. I’d disappoint my parents, who know how important that promise is to me. I’d disappoint my cousins, who don’t play on Sunday because of my example, and I’d disappoint my seminary teachers, who have taught me better. But most important of all, I’d disappoint God. I just can’t do that.”
It was a great explanation, but it didn’t do Jodi much good. All Saturday night the team tried to convince her to play. They made fun of her. They called her every name they could think of. Finally, at about midnight, Jodi telephoned home in tears. It wasn’t that she was tempted to give in. It’s just that she felt so alone.
Her parents listened. Her parents understood. Both her mother and father got on the telephone and had a prayer with her. After they hung up, they called an old friend in the San Francisco area and asked her to give Jodi some support.
The next morning Jodi got up and got dressed—in a dress, which she wore as she stood on the sidelines watching her team play. The final score was one-to-one. After the game, many of her teammates apologized for being so critical of her.
The team took third place overall in the tournament, which was better than they’d ever done before. Jodi thought this would be a highlight on which to end her soccer career.

Celeste hopped into the van and scrunched down so that no one outside it could see her. Tears flooded down her freckled cheeks and splashed on her jumper like a monsoon thunderstorm breaking loose.
“It isn’t fair,” she muttered. She pulled a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and wiped her hazel eyes. “Why doesn’t Eli pick on someone else, for a change?”
“Hey, look who’s talking to herself!” said Peter, her older brother. “Celeste is having a celestial chat!” He started to laugh, then noticed her tear-stained face. “Aw, Celeste, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. What’s wrong?”
“What did you do?” Jimmy, her younger brother, asked Peter. Celeste turned away and stared silently out the window.
Mom gave the boys a meaningful look and said, “Please remember, Sunday is supposed to be a peaceful day of rest, a day free from the cares of the world and,” she added pointedly, “from the teasing of brothers.”
Celeste looked guiltily at Peter and Jimmy. Normally they deserved a lecture like this, but today wasn’t really their fault. It was Elijah Smith’s. The only time Eli had been decent to her was the week Sister Newman had given a lesson on “love your enemies.”
Later, in her room, while Mom sat quietly beside her, the day’s tragic events spilled out.
It had begun when Celeste enthusiastically answered two tough questions in her Valiant B class. Sister Newman had complimented her. “Good job, Celeste! I can always count on you.”
Celeste had flushed with happiness until Eli whispered loudly, “Miss Goody-goody Two Shoes knows all the answers.” The other children had snickered.
Later Eli bumped into her, then flopped on the floor, groaning, “Oh no! I’ve touched Miss Righteous. Help—I’m going to be translated!”
Even Celeste’s best friend, Mary, had laughed.
“Mom,” she asked now, “how could anyone name a boy like that after a great prophet?”
“Two prophets, if you count his last name,” replied Mom. “Don’t let him get to you, Celeste. Eli may not know about Elijah or Joseph Smith. He and his dad just started coming back to church this year. Besides,” Mom encouraged her with a big hug, “you know how to handle teasing. That’s one advantage of having two brothers, right?”
Celeste smiled, then broke into laughter when Mom winked at her, tiptoed to the bedroom door, opened it quickly, and Peter and James tumbled in.
“Eavesdropping, guys?” Mom asked sweetly. They grinned.
The next Sunday, things went from bad to rotten. In class, Eli brushed past her chair and snorted, “Teacher’s pet.” Celeste pasted on a smile and looked right through him.
The real bombshell hit when Sister Newman announced, “Class, we are going to have a prophet-mastery contest like the seminary youth do with scriptures! I’ll divide you into teams of two, and you can study together.
“Mary, you team up with Charles. Celeste, you’re partners with Eli.”
It was hard to tell whose jaw dropped first. Both Celeste and Eli looked like goldfish gasping on dry land.
“Please meet with your partner this week,” said Sister Newman, handing out a list of some prophets.
“Mom,” moaned Celeste during lunch, “how can I work with someone who doesn’t even like me?”
“I could ask Sister Virden to transfer him to my Blazer class,” Peter volunteered.
“No—to my class!” Jimmy clamored. “Sister Florio doesn’t let anyone get away with what she calls shenanigans.”
“See, honey,” Mom told her, “even though they tease you a lot, your brothers are telling you that they love you.”
Celeste sighed. “I guess that leaves me with ‘love my enemy.’”
At school, Eli and Celeste avoided each other all week. Finally, Saturday morning, Celeste called him. To her surprise, Eli agreed to come right over.
“We can’t show up tomorrow and look like dummies,” he explained. “That’s the only reason I’m here.”
They studied for two hours before Mom brought in some almond brownies.
“Food!” shouted Eli.
While he ate two in quick succession, Celeste said shyly, “You know, there is another prophet I think you’d really like. He’s in the Old Testament.”
“Oh, yeah?” Eli mumbled.
“His name was Elijah, like yours.” Eli stopped chewing as she continued. “He was one of the great prophets—in fact, another Old Testament prophet spoke of him, and Jesus told the people in the Book of Mormon about it. Elijah performed many miracles in the Lord’s name, like when he called fire down from heaven and burned up a sacrifice and an altar too.”
“Cool!”
Celeste rushed on, “He sealed up the heavens for three and a half years so it wouldn’t rain. During the famine the drought caused, he blessed a widow’s flour and oil so that she would always have food. And later he even raised her son from the dead. And he did all these things to help people turn to the Lord and to be good.”
“Wow! How do you know all this great stuff?”
Ducking her head modestly, she answered, “Oh, our family reads scriptures together. I do some on my own too.”
Before Eli left, she gave him a piece of paper with “1 Kings 17” [1 Kgs. 17] and “2 Kings 2” [2 Kgs. 2] written on it so that he could read more about Elijah.
The next day, when Eli came into Primary, he whispered, “Celeste, how come you didn’t tell me Elijah was taken up to heaven in a chariot of fire, pulled by flaming horses? He really was a great prophet of the Lord. I’m proud to have his name—and my last name’s the same as the Prophet Joseph’s!”
Mary and Charles won the prophet-mastery game, but Celeste and Eli were just one point behind. When Sister Newman asked the triple bonus question: “Name two prophets who appeared to Joseph Smith in the Kirtland Temple,” Eli surprised everyone by waving his hand.
“Moses and Elijah,” he said proudly. “That’s from Doctrine and Covenants section 110 [D&C 110]. My dad showed me.”
“Wonderful!” said an amazed Sister Newman.
“Better watch it, Eli,” teased Celeste as they filed out of class, “if you get too good, a fiery chariot with your name on it might show up.”
Eli laughed and said, “Know what, Celeste? If it did, I’d let you come too.”

“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.