Gospel Story Finder

Jake loved Sundays! He loved learning about Jesus. He loved singing in Primary.
And he loved pizza.
Every Sunday, Jake’s family stopped at a pizza place on their way home from church. Thinking about the gooey cheese and warm tomato sauce always made his mouth water.
One Sunday, Jake’s class was talking about keeping the Sabbath day holy.
“What can we do on Sunday to show that it’s a special day?” Sister Chi asked.
“Help other people?” Raul said.
“Go to church!” Tamara said.
“Spend time with our family,” Jake said.
“Those are all great answers,” Sister Chi said, writing them on the board. “Anything else?”
“We don’t go shopping on Sunday unless it’s an emergency,” Liam said.
“That’s right,” Sister Chi said, nodding. “Then we can think about Heavenly Father instead of thinking about buying things. Also, that helps other people keep the Sabbath day holy instead of having to work.”
Sister Chi and the other kids kept talking, but suddenly Jake found it hard to listen. His family never went to the mall or the grocery store on Sunday. But they did go out for pizza. Were they keeping the Sabbath day holy?
When class ended, Jake went to find his parents. For the first time, he wasn’t very excited to eat pizza.
Mom met him in the hallway with his little brother, Daniel. She led them outside to the car, where Dad was waiting.
“How was church?” she asked once they were all buckled in.
“Great! I learned a new song in Primary,” Daniel said, singing what he could remember. Jake stayed quiet, looking down at his shoes.
“What about you, Jake?” Dad said.
“It was OK,” Jake mumbled without looking up.
“What did you learn about?” Mom asked.
“The Sabbath day,” Jake said.
“We learned about that too,” Dad said, glancing over at Mom. “Actually, we wanted to talk with you guys about—”
“Should we be buying pizza on Sunday?” Jake blurted out. He didn’t want to ruin their family tradition. But he wanted them to keep the Sabbath day holy too.
Mom looked back at him, surprised.
“That’s exactly what we wanted to talk about,” Mom said. “We realized that eating at the pizza place probably isn’t the best thing to do on the Sabbath.”
“But can we still have pizza on Sundays?” Daniel asked.
“Sure. We’ll eat something else today,” Dad said. “From now on I’ll buy a frozen pizza on Saturday. Then we can bake it at home on Sunday.”
“Can we try different toppings on it?” Jake said. “Like olives and peppers shaped in a smiley face?”
“Yeah! With a pineapple nose?” Daniel added.
“Ha! You got it,” Mom said.
Jake felt a big grin spread across his face. The warm feeling he had inside was worth all the pizza in the world.

Many years ago it was my opportunity to serve as president of the Canadian Mission. There we had a branch with very limited priesthood. We always had a missionary presiding over the branch. I received a strong impression that we needed to have a member of the branch preside there.
We had one adult member in the branch who was a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood but who didn’t attend or participate enough to be advanced in the priesthood. I felt inspired to call him as the branch president. I shall always remember the day that I had an interview with him. I told him that the Lord had inspired me to call him to be the president of the branch. After much protest on his part, and much encouragement on the part of his wife, he indicated that he would serve. I ordained him a priest.
It was the beginning of a new day for that man. His life was quickly put in order, and he assured me that he would live the commandments as he was expected to live them. In a few months he was ordained an elder. He and his wife and family eventually went to the temple and were sealed. Their children served missions and married in the house of the Lord.

Before long, Aulola reconnected with an acquaintance from her early days in Tonga: Brother Semisi Mounga Mateialona, a priesthood holder who had recently found himself single again, too. They bonded over shared experiences and their mutual love for the gospel of Jesus Christ, and Aulola knew in her heart that this was the man for her. The couple got married in New Zealand in 2019 and at the end of September 2022, they travelled to the Nuku’alofa Tonga Temple to be sealed to each other for time and all eternity.

In the hall he saw Cathy and Jay talking in serious tones. Steve, pretending to examine the school’s trophy case several feet away, listened to them.
"Jay, I want you to stay here with me."
"You don’t trust me."
"I trust you, but I don’t trust those others you run around with."
"We’re just going for a walk to the end of this one-horse town and back, that’s all."
"If you really love me, like you say you do, you’ll stay here with me."
"And if you trust me, like you say you do, you won’t worry when I’m out of sight for five minutes."
"Jay," she pleaded, "if you mean it about us getting married in the temple after we graduate, you’re going to have to change your life."
"I will; I promise I will. You know I love you."
Jay kissed her and that ended the argument.
...
Outside, the wind cut through them and stung their faces. Most of the stores had closed early in the afternoon; the only one that hadn’t was in the next block, and its large red neon sign blinked erratically the word Bar.
It was a corner bar and they could look into a window away from the wind’s direction for some protection. Inside Jay and his two friends sat at a table playing cards. There was a big pitcher of beer on the table.
"I never should’ve let him come with those guys," Cathy said.
"Let’s go back. I’m cold."
"Don’t you care about him? He’s a member of the priests quorum."
"Sure I care."
"Then go in there and bring him out."
"It looks to me like he’s where he wants to be."
"He promised me he wouldn’t drink again."
"Look, Cathy, everybody knows the only reason he goes to church is because of you."
"But if I can get him away from his friends, he’ll change. I love him. He’s asked me to marry him after we graduate."
They watched as Jay poured himself another glass.
"If he goes to the bar after you’re married, then what?"
"He wouldn’t do that. Besides, I’d be with him."
"All the time?"
"He wouldn’t do it!"
"Okay."
"You don’t believe me, do you? I can help him be strong."
"Can you?"
"Yes, and I’m going in there to bring him out."
"Do you know what he’s going to say if you go in there?"
He wasn’t sure if she heard him, because she just looked down at nothing in particular for the longest time.
"Yes," she finally said, "I know what he’ll say. He’ll tell me that it’s just the music and the air hockey and the laughter and the cards that he likes, and he’ll ask me to just sit with him, and if I do, then all the way back he’ll tell me that he’s no good and that I deserve somebody better, and I’ll tell him it isn’t true but that he needs to change, and he’ll say he knows it, and he’ll ask me to help him to be good, and we’ll map out goals for him, and then things will be good for a while, but in a few weeks it’ll happen all over again."
She melted into his arms and cried, and he told her it was all right. A few minutes later they returned to the school.
"Thanks for letting me cry on your shoulder," she said just after they were inside.
"It’s okay," he smiled, "the jacket’s waterproof."
...
About midnight, after the bar closed, Jay returned with his friends and some of the truckers. He stumbled around until he found Cathy, who was sleeping on the floor near the other girls in the band.
"Cathy, I’m back. I hope you’re not mad. We found a little cafe in town and we played cards there."
"Oh," Cathy said sitting up. Steve watched them as they talked.
"Anything exciting happen here while I was gone?"
"Jay, if you only knew."
"Knew? Knew what?"
Cathy looked at him carefully in the dim light. "Jay, Steve said he’d pick you up for priesthood meeting next Sunday. I hope you go. Good night."

The Holy Ghost also warns us against the dangers and evils in this life. Dorothea Speth, now wife of Spencer J. Condie, records an unforgettable experience that occurred on February 13, 1945, in Dresden, Germany. This was the night that Dresden was firebombed, and Sister Condie’s parent’s home was hit. As the firestorm was raging through the streets, her parents decided to take the four daughters and head for the Elbe River, which was down a wide street about four blocks from their home. She says:

For safety, we did not all walk together. My father took one of my older sisters and my twin sister and began to lead the way. My mother, my oldest sister, and I were to follow as closely as possible. As my father started walking, he headed towards a narrow side street instead of choosing the wide street which led directly to our goal, to the river. Mother stopped, not wanting to follow down the narrow, burning street and began calling Dad to try to persuade him to turn around and take the more direct route along our street, which seemed so much safer and quicker. But due to the firestorm, Dad could not hear her plea, and he continued walking along the narrow side street.
With each passing second, the distance between us increased, but Mom was still not willing to abandon her plan. Then I heard my older sister plead with her, “Mom, let’s follow Dad; he holds the Priesthood!” With this reminder, we started to move quickly, trying to catch up with Dad, who led us safely in a roundabout way down to the river.

After they reached safety, a neighbor lady came to tell them that she and her husband had taken the wide street to the river.
Her husband, tall and slender, walked very quickly leading the way, but she, somewhat short and heavy, could not follow so quickly, and lagged behind. Suddenly she saw her husband burnt alive in front of her eyes. Unknown to anyone, liquid phosphorous from one of the bombs had covered the street. It could not be seen but was immediately ignited whenever anyone stepped on it. There was nothing she could do to save her husband, she could only turn around and save herself. [Dorothea Speth Condie, “Let’s Follow Dad—He Holds the Priesthood,” in Behind the Iron Curtain: Recollections of Latter-day Saints in East Germany, 1945–1989, coll. and trans. Garold N. Davis and Norma S. Davis (Provo: BYU Studies, 1996), 33–34]

As a holder of the priesthood, Sister Condie’s father had listened to the Holy Ghost and had saved his family from a fiery death.

I hadn’t prayed for years, but I finally had to go to my knees. I was afraid to, because I knew my guilt. That first time, honestly wanting to change and repent, was the biggest turning point in my life.
I tried to pray, but I couldn’t. I started to cry, the first time in years, and I felt like I was being torn apart inside. I fell over, still in a kneeling position, and my body went into convulsions. I kept praying in my mind, “Please help me!”
I almost blacked out. Then the physical pain passed, and I just lay there crying. I had a long way to go, but I knew that the first step was the hardest. I didn’t understand the Atonement, but the feeling of peace and comfort that engulfed me left no doubt that it was real.

Elder Donald L. Hallstrom of the Seventy offered a present-day example in an article in the January 2006 Ensign, where he recounted the experiences of Brother Toshio Kawada and his wife Miyuki:

Like all of us, Toshio Kawada of the Obihiro Ward, Sapporo Japan Stake, has had to make crucial choices when faced with life’s difficulties. He joined the Church in 1972, and he and his wife, Miyuki, were sealed in the Laie Hawaii Temple in 1978. They have two sons. . . .

More than 20 years ago, when his family was still very young, Brother Kawada was working for his father as a dairy farmer. Tragically, one day the large barn where they kept their milk cows and all their equipment burned down. Financially devastated, his father went to the farmers’ union for a loan but was turned down. Subsequently, his father and older brother filed for bankruptcy. Although not legally responsible, Brother Kawada felt obligated to help pay back all the debts.

As Brother Kawada was pondering a solution to his problem, he decided to plant carrots. He had grown potatoes, but he did not know how to grow carrots. He planted the seeds and prayed earnestly for his carrots to grow.

All this time, Brother Kawada faithfully served in the Church, kept the Sabbath day holy, and paid his tithing. When he and his family dressed in their best clothes and went to their Sunday meetings, many neighbors scoffed at them. It was difficult to lose one day a week in their fields, especially at harvesttime. It was not always easy for them to pay their tithing, but they offered it to the Lord obediently and cheerfully.

Fall came and Brother Kawada’s carrots turned out to be unusually sweet and large, with an exceptionally rich color. He had an abundant harvest and went to the farmers’ union for help, but they refused to sell his carrots through their distribution system. He fasted and prayed and felt inspired to try to find a produce distributor in Tokyo—something that is very difficult to do without introductions or connections.

Brother Kawada was blessed to find a large distributor in Tokyo. Since then he has been very successful and has repaid all his father’s debts. He currently has a large agricultural operation with many employees, and he is teaching young farmers how to effectively organize their businesses.

Even in exceptionally trying circumstances, Brother Kawada chose to be true to the promises he made in his baptismal, priesthood, and temple covenants.

Let me read you some of Brother Kawada’s own words from his testimony:

Sometimes we worked until midnight on Saturday to keep from breaking the Sabbath. We went to church the next day, often without much sleep. Once we came home from church, and a cow had gotten caught in the pasture fence and died. There were times when we had millions of yen worth of damage to our cut hay because it had lain in the rain on the Sabbath. We knew accidents didn’t happen because it was Sunday. If you worry about that kind of thing, you would never be able to keep the Sabbath. Accidents can happen anytime. . . .

We planted carrots with great success. Finally we were getting some kind of order in our lives. With carrots, it didn’t matter if it rained or we took every Sunday off. We could make our own decisions. We could serve more easily in any calling we were called to.

In our business, we use a lot of part-time help. When we are really busy, our employees suggest that we work Sundays. I tell them that we just don’t work on Sundays. When our workers know that, they work hard and rarely take days off. On Sundays the younger workers spend the day with their children, and the older workers visit with their grandchildren.

A month after I started my company, the stake president asked me to meet with him. Soon I was called to be the bishop of our ward. I realized that Heavenly Father had opened a way for me to accept and fulfill this calling. With my other job, I would not have had the necessary time for members of the ward and for my own family. But because I have my own company, I have a flexible schedule. I have been home for important events in my family’s life, such as when my children were born and started walking and talking. In addition, my wife and I have been able to serve in the San José Costa Rica Temple. These opportunities, which came because we had responded to promptings and sought direction in prayer, have tied us together.

The Mike and Shaz Kramer family of Garwood, New Jersey, USA, held a party earlier this year to which several non–Latter-day Saint families were invited. One family arrived early so the husband could ask a question about the Church. A minister friend of his had indicated that Mormons didn’t believe in Jesus Christ. Brother Kramer said, “I simply reached over and picked up the March Ensign, with Christ’s picture on the cover, and asked, ‘Does this look like a church that doesn’t believe in Jesus?’ ” The man took the magazine with him and met with the missionaries later that week to ask more questions.

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.”

There was a tiny glow of growing yellow light just above the mountains to the east as I crept across our front lawn and headed for Buddy’s place next door.
“Well, good morning, Aaron,” Buddy greeted me in a soft, surprised voice. “I would have bet my best fishing pole that you’d never get that mattress unstuck from your back at this time of day.”
“And you would have lost that fishing pole,” I teased back.
Buddy chuckled. “It’s rare for a ten-year-old boy to get himself out of bed at four o’clock just to help his neighbor irrigate his yard.”
Buddy was old enough to be my grandpa. I used to call him Mr. Chambers or Brother Chambers until he told me that his name was just plain old Buddy. Mister, he said, made him sound too old, and Brother made him sound like a preacher.
I’d been helping him with his yard, in his shop, or around his house for as long as I could remember. When I helped him work on his truck or car, he explained how everything worked and why he had to change the oil or the spark plugs or pour in antifreeze. When we planted his garden, he asked me where we should put the carrots and the tomatoes and the other vegetables like I was the expert and had to be the one to decide. He usually planted them right where I suggested.
When I arrived that morning, the irrigation water was gurgling into Buddy’s backyard because he had already pulled up the headgate that let the water in from behind his backyard fence.
For the next hour, Buddy and I sloshed around in the cool brown water as we irrigated the garden, the fruit trees, the lawn, and the flowers.
“We have to be careful that we don’t let in too much water back here,” he told me, “or it will overflow the patio and run into the basement. It happened once, and it took Marva and me a week to pump all the water out and get things cleaned up. We had to replace the carpet and almost everything else downstairs. Marva hasn’t let me forget that boo-boo. That’s why I needed you out here today to keep me on my toes. Another accident like that, and I’ll be sleeping in the shed for the next two years.”
When we finished, he said, “I’m hungry. What do you say we drive down to Burt’s cafe?”
I had eggs and bacon alongside a stack of pancakes floating in blueberry syrup. Soon I was so stuffed that I could hardly move. “Buddy,” I asked, “would you come to Primary with me on Sunday?”
“I’m afraid I’m too old for Primary. They ran me out of Primary years ago. I don’t think they’d let me back now.”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t mean that, and you know it. I’m going to give a talk this Sunday. I thought you’d like to hear me give it.”
“I’d love to hear you preach, Aaron. I’ll tell you what, you get your talk all polished and practiced, then come over and give it to Marva and me.”
“But I want you to hear me give it in Primary.”
Buddy wagged a finger at me. “You’re a sneaky guy, but I know your tricks. You’re just trying to get me to go to church. I already told you that it’s been so long since I went to church that the whole building would fall down if I walk through the door.”
“That’s not true,” I came back. “You were there when I got baptized, and it’s still standing.”
Buddy smiled. “That was a special occasion. Special occasions don’t count.”
“Sundays are special occasions,” I pestered. “Marva would love to have you there. She hates always going to church alone. Why did you stop going to church, anyway?”
Buddy set his fork down. “Oh, somebody hurt my feelings. It doesn’t seem like a big thing now, but it seemed pretty important back then. I decided I’d stop going, and I just got out of the habit. Now I’m in the habit of staying home, and it’s a tough habit to break. Besides, I’m too old to go back. And nobody cares, anyway.”
“That’s not true. I care. So does Marva.”
“Aaron, it would take a miracle to get me back inside the church.”
“What kind of miracle?”
“Oh, a little one would do fine, but I don’t think anybody’s passing out miracles these days. But when you get your talk ready, you come over and practice on Marva and me.”
“Mom, do you believe in miracles?” I asked my mother later that morning as I helped her clean the family room.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“What do you think a miracle is?”
Mom thought for a moment. “I suppose a miracle is something that doesn’t normally happen, and when it does happen, it’s because the Lord helps it happen that way. For example, when you had an earache in the middle of the night last year and there was no way to get you to the doctor, Dad gave you a priesthood blessing. Right away the pain stopped, and you went to sleep. That wasn’t a huge miracle, but it was a miracle.”
“Do you think it would be all right for us to pray for a miracle for Buddy? He says he won’t go to church unless he has a miracle.”
“Well, Aaron, the scriptures tell us that we aren’t to ask for signs. A miracle might be considered a sign. We could pray that Buddy would decide to go to church, but I’m not sure asking for a miracle for him would be the right thing to do.”
I worked on my Primary talk. I decided to talk about how the Lord answers prayers. I included the story about my earache. When I finally had the talk as good as I could get it, I went over to Buddy’s house and practiced on him and Marva.
“It’s a mighty fine speech, Aaron,” Buddy said.
“So will you come to Primary and listen to me give it there?” I coaxed.
Buddy laughed. “You don’t ever stop pestering me, do you? Besides, Marva and I are going to be out of town for three or four days, including Sunday. In fact, I need you to keep an eye on things while we’re gone. Will you water the flowers and pick the green beans and cucumbers?”
I was disappointed, but I didn’t stop praying for Buddy.
Monday morning I watered Buddy’s flowers. I picked the green beans and cucumbers. I even pulled the weeds. Then I checked all around the yard to make sure everything was all right before going home.
On Monday afternoon as I was reading a mystery book, I got to wondering about Buddy’s place again. I went back to my book, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking of Buddy’s place. I’d done more than he’d asked me to do, but something kept pestering my mind.
Finally I set my book down and muttered to myself, “I’ll go back and check again.” I wandered around Buddy’s front yard, making sure all the flowers had received water. I looked through the front window. Everything was all right in there. The rose bushes on the side of the house were all fine.
I was starting to feel kind of silly. Then I went through the gate. The backyard was a huge pond, and the water was just a few inches from running into Buddy’s basement! Someone had taken the headgate from the irrigation ditch when it was empty. But now it was full, and the water was gushing into Buddy’s yard.
Without stopping to pull off my shoes and socks, I sloshed over to the ditch and pushed the headgate into place. The water stopped rushing into Buddy’s yard. It had started trickling into the window wells, but it didn’t look like it would flood the basement.
When Buddy and Sister Chambers came home, one glance at his backyard told him what had happened. “Well, Aaron,” he said, “I owe you a great big thanks. As soon as I walked back there, I remembered taking that headgate out to clean the ditch. I forgot to put it back. I almost thought I’d had a miracle.” He grinned. “But it wasn’t a miracle at all—you look out for me all the time. I’m sure glad that I’d asked you to keep an eye on things.”
“But, Buddy,” I said seriously, “I think it really was a miracle. I’d already checked on your place once today, and everything was fine. I’d done everything you’d asked me to do. I had no reason to go back and check on anything. But this afternoon something in my brain kept insisting that I needed to check again. That’s why I went back.
“The other day you said that nobody cared about what you do. That’s not true. The Lord was watching out for you. He was the one who sent me over here to check up. I don’t know everything about miracles, but if you ask me, that’s a miracle. It might be just a little one, but it’s still a miracle.” I hesitated. “Maybe you’ve had more miracles than you know about. Maybe you just haven’t recognized what they were.”
The next morning I went over to help Buddy clean up his backyard. We didn’t say very much at first, but when we took a short rest, he said, “I’ve been doing some serious thinking since last night. You were right. Even though I’ve stayed away from church so long, the Lord hasn’t forgotten me. He still knows where I live. I didn’t think He did.
“And He doesn’t even mind sending a miracle or two my way, even when I don’t deserve them. I guess I’m going to have to break an old habit—staying home Sundays.” He took a deep breath. “It’s been a long time since I’ve walked through those church doors, but if you’ll walk beside me and take me by the hand, I’m going to see if I can do it without the whole building falling down.”
I smiled. “You missed my Primary talk,” I teased him, “but that’s OK, because more than anything, I want you to come back to church. For good. Next Sunday will be best of all, because I’ll know that you’re not there for a special occasion. You’ll be there because you’re finally changing a bad habit for a good one.”

The stadium lights illuminated the morning fog like specters from some 1960s horror movie. Under them, Emma marched robotlike and fingered the keys of her clarinet, missing notes repeatedly until the student conductor shouted her name. She wanted to cry. How could one conversation have turned her world so completely upside down?
That conversation had happened only moments before in the band room when Skylar, a senior and awesome flutist, had plopped her instrument case on the counter beside Emma. Although each girl played in the varsity band, they were two grades apart and seldom spoke to one another. But the room was unusually quiet this foggy morning, and the hand-drawn “What would Jesus do?” design taped on Skylar’s case begged Emma’s comment. “Did you draw that? It’s nice.”
“Thanks,” Skylar said, unsnapping her case.
“I don’t suppose you have a copy. I’d love to scan it.”
Skylar shook her head, obviously embarrassed at the flattery. Then she fell quiet and looked intently at Emma until Emma felt embarrassed. “What’s wrong?” Emma asked.
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I heard you’re a Mormon.”
Emma sighed and nodded, wondering what was to come next. She opened a new reed.
Skylar said, “Can I show you something?”
Emma shrugged. “Sure.”
Skylar surprised Emma by pulling a Bible from her backpack. “My youth group meets tonight,” Skylar said. “I’m assigned the reading but haven’t decided on a verse yet. That’s why I have this.” She held up the Bible. “Anyway, one Sunday my youth minister showed this passage to me. I’ve wanted to share it with you, but it’s weird talking about religion at school.”
Emma chuckled. “Yeah, I go to a seminary class at six in the morning. I don’t mention it much here either.”
Skylar nodded and opened her Bible. “You ever read Revelation 22:18–19? Most people haven’t because it’s at the end of the Bible.” She shrugged. “Guess they don’t get that far.”
Emma chuckled as she received the book.
“Will you read it out loud?”
Emma glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying attention, so she began reading:
“For I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book, If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book:
“And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life.”
As she read, Emma’s forehead creased hard. Why was Skylar sharing this particular passage with her?
“Do you know what it means?” Skylar asked, breathing deeply. “My youth minister says it means that anyone who adds anything to or takes anything away from the Bible will be condemned.” Skylar’s voice was shaking. “It’s so important that the Apostle John concluded the Bible with it.”
Emma said cautiously, “That makes sense.” She put her reed in her mouth.
Skylar gulped. “Your Joseph Smith added to the Bible, didn’t he? Isn’t that what your church teaches? That the Book of Mormon is additional scripture?”
Emma said nothing; she felt confused. She closed her instrument case. Mr. Bets shouted for everyone to move outside, now! Emma hurriedly fastened the reed to her clarinet.
“I don’t mean to offend you, really, but my youth minister says that, as a Christian, it’s my duty to warn you,” Skylar said. “If you don’t forsake Mormonism, you’ll be damned.”
Emma’s face flushed.
“Hurry!” Mr. Bets called.
Emma may have walked away from Skylar, out into the morning fog, but she couldn’t walk away from the questions Skylar had planted in her mind. As she lined up, she wondered, Was Skylar right? Hadn’t Joseph Smith added to the Bible? On cue, she’d marched 20 steps to the right. What if he’d made up the Book of Mormon? What if it was all a lie? These and similar questions had scorched her mind throughout drills, and when the conductor finally ended practice, Emma rushed toward the band room, hoping to get away from Skylar. She felt half ashamed for doubting and half filled with fear that her doubts were correct.
Skylar joined Emma in the crowded band room though Emma tried to ignore her. Skylar said, “My youth group is meeting at our minister’s tonight. We’ll shoot pool and listen to CDs. He’d like to meet you.”
Emma threw away her reed. It was Wednesday. The Mia Maids would be collecting used children’s videos from ward members for a local shelter.
“I can pick you up.”
Emma snapped her instrument case. “Thanks, but I’ve got something at my own church,” Emma turned. “My parents make me go.” She blushed. Why did I add that? she thought.
Skylar hummed sympathetically. “My youth minister’s got a book about Mormonism that I think you should read. I’ll bring it tomorrow, okay?”
Emma gazed at Skylar. Revelation 22:18–19 had seemed so plain. No one should add to the Bible, and there was no denying that the Church teaches that the Book of Mormon is additional scripture. Emma hurt, thinking of the implication. All she wanted was to know the truth. Maybe the minister’s book had it.
“Okay,” she said. But agreeing to read the minister’s book didn’t calm Emma’s worries. Throughout the day, troubling questions buzzed in her brain. The day dragged, but finally the seventh period bell rang. She turned in her French test but was in no hurry to leave. She waited until the other students had filed out. She dreaded seeing her family, dreaded going to Mutual later that night. She didn’t want to be around any Latter-day Saints. What would they think of her if they knew her doubts? They’d all try to talk to her, tell her to have faith. But faith in what? In the Book of Mormon? How could she have faith in something she wasn’t sure was true? Emma’s head ached and her stomach felt empty. It was a long walk home.
She entered the kitchen and found her mother baking. “Mindy sent another letter,” she announced, but Emma ignored her and headed toward the staircase. “She included a paragraph in French just for you and …”
“I’m busy, Mom. I’ve got homework, you know.” Emma hurried toward the stairs. She wanted time to think.
Her mother stared silently at her.
Emma trudged upstairs, closed the door, then threw herself onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. Why should she read what her missionary sister had written? It was always the same: her testimony of this, her testimony of that. What did Mindy know about anything anyway? She always did exactly what Mom and Dad wanted.
Emma shook her head and rolled to her side. Why does everyone think they have all the answers? Mindy, Mom, Dad, all are sure the Church is true. She looked at her scriptures on the nightstand. Skylar and her youth minister swear it isn’t. She snatched up the Bible and opened to Revelation 22. “If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues …” Her head fell against the wall.
I should talk to Mom, she told herself, ask her about this passage. I should walk right downstairs and say, “Mom, what about this?” But she couldn’t. She lowered the Bible onto the mattress and pulled a pillow over her face. She already knew what her mom would say: “Pray, dear, trust the Lord, and He’ll answer you.” But I’ve been praying all my life, and I still don’t have a testimony! she thought. Maybe God hasn’t given me a testimony because the Book of Mormon isn’t true.
Suddenly her brother Brady’s nasal voice shouted, “Mom, Emma’s crying again!”
Emma threw the pillow toward the closed door, but it was too late. Her mother was in her room in no time. She eased herself down beside Emma. “Want to talk?”
Emma shook her head. She was afraid.
Her mother stroked her hair. “If you don’t talk to me, I can’t …” She stopped. Emma saw her glance at the open Bible, pick it up, and read. She pointed to the last verses. “Is this what’s bothering you?”
Emma’s shoulders tightened.
Her mother said thoughtfully, “When I was investigating the Church, my minister showed this passage to me. He thought it would convince me not to believe in the Book of Mormon.” She paused. “Did someone show this to you?”
Emma hesitated; then words spilled from her mouth. “Mom, it plainly says that man shouldn’t add anything to the Bible. Joseph Smith did!”
Her mother leaned back thoughtfully, then said, “Many people interpret it that way. When the minister showed it to me, my first reaction was that Mormonism had to be wrong. I told the missionaries to forget about baptizing me.” She chuckled. “But they showed me something.”
Emma’s mother pointed to a footnote, “This reference.” She flipped to the Old Testament.
Emma sat upright, a vein of hope rising within her. Her mother began to read Deuteronomy 4:2: “Ye shall not add unto the word which I command you, neither shall ye diminish ought from it.”
Emma burst out, “It says the same thing! Skylar’s right.”
“No, Emma, think. Who wrote Deuteronomy?”
“I don’t know!”
“Moses. And he wrote long before John wrote Revelation. Just like John wrote long before Joseph Smith.”
“So?”
“So if you use your friend’s logic, every scripture recorded after Moses wrote Deuteronomy would have to be false because in Deuteronomy God said no one should add to His word.”
Emma blinked.
“But we have the rest of the Bible because other prophets understood that Moses only meant people shouldn’t add to this book, to Deuteronomy. And John only meant that nothing should be added to the book of Revelation.”
Emma stared. Her mother was actually making sense. She wiped away a tear.
“This may say that man shouldn’t add to scripture, but, Emma, where does it say that God won’t?”
Her mother’s words sent a tingling sensation through Emma as they sank into her soul. She reread the passage and looked up in wonder. “It doesn’t say God won’t give any more revelation, does it?”
Her mother shook her head. “And it says not to reject any of God’s words.”
“Including the Book of Mormon!”
“Right.” Her mother hugged her. “Having doubts is a normal part of the testimony-building process. It’s natural to question before you understand. Share your questions because you never know how Heavenly Father will send His answers. Sometimes He even uses mothers.”
Emma grinned.
Her mother rose. “Now, that homework, young lady.”
Emma reached for her backpack, then grimaced. “I forgot. Skylar’s bringing me a book about Mormonism tomorrow.”
Her mother paused at the door. “It won’t be kind, and it will probably use the same kind of logic that led them to misunderstand that scripture in Revelation.”
Emma nodded. “I won’t take it. I don’t need to seek doubts.”
“I agree that would be the best. Dinner will be early.” Her mother pulled Mindy’s letter from her pocket and left it on the dresser.
After the door shut, Emma retrieved the letter. Out fell a snapshot of her missionary sister standing before the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Emma’s gaze traveled to the Book of Mormon on her nightstand. A grin blossomed. “I wonder if Skylar would like to read a book that really explains Mormonism!”

In conclusion, I would like to share a tender story a close friend recounted to me recently.

It is about his son who was discouraged and miserable just after arriving in a foreign mission. No matter how the parents and others pleaded with the young missionary, he said he couldn’t take it and wanted to come home. In a reception during a training session with some general authorities, the distraught father just mentioned in passing to President Hinckley about his son’s struggle. The parents continued to plead with the son to stay, but his early return home seemed imminent.

The following week an envelope from the First Presidency’s office arrived at the parents’ home. Inside was a copy of a letter that had been sent to their son. The letter had been hand-typed from a typewriter and very tenderly addressed to the discouraged Elder. It was a several-page letter, full of encouragement and the writer’s own missionary experiences about faith and sticking to it. The letter was warm, loving, thoughtful, personal, and signed, "Sincerely, your brother, President Gordon B. Hinckley."

It is little wonder that shortly thereafter, the Elder wrote to his parents and said he was staying. This Elder not only stayed, but flourished and became a mighty power for good among the people of his mission.

Think of it! President Hinckley, in spite of his age, is such a public figure, revered for his extensive speeches, books, and his general leadership in the Church. Yet, he conducts a private, silent ministry as well to bless others individually. Can you imagine how that single unselfish act of a Prophet will be treasured not only in this young man’s life but in his posterity?

A short time ago I attended the funeral of a friend’s son. Earlier in the week, the young man was traveling home late at night with friends when the driver of another car fell asleep. The second car crossed the median and smashed head-on into the first. The accident occurred with such swiftness that few, if any, brake marks showed on the highway and both cars were demolished. The accident took three lives, including my friend’s 17-year-old son.
Death teaches that we do not experience a fulness of joy in mortality and that everlasting joy can be achieved only with the assistance of the Master (see D&C 33–34). Just as the lame man at the Pool of Bethesda needed someone stronger than himself to be healed (see John 5:1–9), so we are dependent on the miracles of Christ’s atonement if our souls are to be made whole from grief, sorrow, and sin. If grieving parents and loved ones have faith in the Savior and his plan, death’s sting is softened as Jesus bears the believers’ grief and comforts them through the Holy Spirit. Through Christ, broken hearts are mended and peace replaces anxiety and sorrow. I received a letter from the boy’s parents telling me the peace they have found through their faith in Christ. They know that they will see their son again and be with him in the eternities.

Sometimes it is a lack of faith in Christ or confidence in our selves that becomes the barrier. When we were mission president in Tonga, one of our young missionary couples had twins in the little island of Lofanga. One of the babies got a terrible infection that caused her whole body to swell. Her little face was so swollen you could hardly discern her features. We had fasted and prayed as an entire mission for little Kalolaine. The parents were desperate. The father called to ask if he could take the baby back to their home island to be buried if she died. Death seemed inevitable. He asked me if he should bless her to pass on from this world. She was suffering so much. It was pitiful. All I could think of to say was, "Lisala, give your baby one more blessing and whatever you say the Lord will do."

I went back into the bedroom feeling some alarm at what I had promised. I fell on my knees and begged Heavenly Father to please bless this little baby and her desperate father but that His will be done. At that moment I distinctly heard the words in my mind, Vakai, na`a `oku si`isi`i ho`o tui `a `au. (Watch out, lest your own faith is insufficient.)

The father's faith was vindicated. The baby recovered miraculously and last time we saw the Lisalas, Kalolaine was an exuberant teenager.

They say everybody loves a party, and I guess that is generally true, if it’s the right kind and with the right friends. You do have to choose carefully though, for a wrong choice can be embarrassing. I know I’m a lot more careful about the kinds of parties I go to now, especially since the accident. I’m a police officer and do have some type of professional image to maintain. But, nevertheless, awhile back my wife talked me into attending a Police Association Halloween party.
She had planned what was sure to be a prizewinning costume for us, and as reluctant as I was to wear it, she won the day and I agreed that we would go as “The Tortoise and the Hare.” Our costumes were quite simple, consisting of two pair of long thermal underwear, dyed to fit our characters—a gray pair for Nancy and a bright green pair for me. A cardboard shell and a funny cap completed my rig while a cute cotton tail and a pair of ears rounded out hers. It was a little distressful but fun, and we did win a prize.
Not long after the party, on Thanksgiving Day, I was riding my police motorcycle on traffic patrol duty. It was a beautiful day, but the weather was cold and I was dressed warmly with high motorcycle boots and breeches, a leather jacket, and earmuffs in my helmet. I would be glad when my shift ended at 2:00 P.M. that afternoon and I would be free to join my family for a special Thanksgiving dinner. I decided to check traffic on 9th East and had just stopped my motor on a side street to watch, when—Zipppppp—a nearly new car went zooming by at a very high rate of speed.
My foot punched the gear lever into low as my fingers released the clutch and cranked the throttle open. The bike jumped forward and I was in pursuit. “Get a clock first on his speed,” I thought, as I rapidly accelerated and stabilized my speed with that of the car. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. We were steady, and I punched my speedometer lock, which would keep it set at the clocked speed. Noting the distance we had traveled at that rate, I prepared to make the stop. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, and simultaneously pushed the red-light switch with my thumb, screwed the throttle full on, and pushed down the siren pedal with my heel. The powerful cycle leaped forward, siren screaming. The cold fall air bit deeper into my cheeks, and my eyes began to water as my speed reached 55, then 60 miles per hour.
I was still perhaps a quarter of a block behind the speeder and gaining rapidly, when suddenly I saw a movement from the side of the road. A dark small car, having stopped at the side street stop sign, had let my violator pass and was pulling into the street right in front of me. The driver had failed to see my speeding police motorcycle in spite of my lights and siren and had pulled right into my path.
Instant reflexes took over. Throttle off, brakes on hard, weight shift smooth to the left and front wheel turned hard to the right to put the motor into a broad slide. Training I’d been through many times before on a dirt field and at much slower speed could now perhaps save my life—if I remembered it and did it correctly. The idea in such an emergency was to lay the motorcycle down so that it was sliding toward the object, wheels first on its crash bars. If the rider can stay on and hold the bike down, the wheels and engine will protect him from death and reduce his injuries.
So far, so good. I was in the broad slide, and my speed was down to probably about 45 miles per hour. The driver of the car had seen me at last and had stopped abruptly in the center of the lane. My skidding cycle shot past the front of his car, missing him by inches. I was going to make it. I relaxed. What a mistake. When I did so, my heel released slight pressure from the brake, allowing the wheel to turn. It caught the pavement and flipped the motorcycle hard to its opposite side. The effect of this acted upon me like a giant catapult, and I was thrown into the air head first, arms outstretched, still moving probably 40 miles per hour. I must have looked like a great ungainly bird sailing along for a moment, and then the pavement was slamming into my chest and arms and I was sliding and skidding along the road.
Still sliding, I realized that I was now on the wrong side of the roadway and that other traffic was coming at me. A car was very close, and I could see the driver. His eyes were wide with surprise and indecision. I could see his white hair, and I just knew he was old and probably had reflexes which would let him run right over me before his foot got to the brake.
“I must get turned around and hit him feet first,” I thought. “At least I won’t be killed, just seriously injured.” Somehow I did it. In the few seconds left before impact I turned on the roadway and the crash ended as my posterior hit the oil pan of the old gentleman’s car and my motorcycle came to rest between a tree and fire hydrant nearby.
All was very quiet for a moment and I lay very still, afraid to move, feeling great waves of nausea and pain come over me. Then people came from everywhere to help. There were sirens in the distance, and soon helpful persons had pulled me from beneath the car and were trying to determine the extent of my injuries. My uniform was torn and my leather coat had holes worn in its sleeves and, oh, did my bottom hurt.
Then it happened. Right there on that public street the ambulance crew began stripping away my uniform to check my injuries and, in front of everyone, exposed to view the brightest green thermal underwear you have ever seen. I was mortified and embarrassed. A police officer is supposed to be manly and maintain an image of strength and decorum at all times, and suddenly my secret was exposed to the world. I couldn’t explain about the costume party and the fact that I only had one pair of thermals to wear on a cold November day. My secret was exposed to the world, and when I got to the hospital, those nurses didn’t help my ego any with their snickers and whispers either.

Why me? Why now? I had just gotten back from competing in a major horse show held in California and was at the height of my hunter-jumper equestrian riding abilities. I was busy with school, piano lessons, and Beehives. I was doing everything I had been taught to do, and I thought that my life was about as perfect as life can ever get. Then it changed.
I was now in a hospital bed, too sick to even open my eyes. I had been diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. My illness came just four years after my mom died from a similar cancer. I was on heavy chemotherapy to get rid of the cancer, and the doctors were saying that I would have to undergo chemotherapy for two and a half years to make sure that all the cancer was gone. I couldn’t understand why me and why now.
I soon learned that being diagnosed with cancer was not the only challenge I would face. One of the drugs used to treat leukemia is a steroid given at extremely high doses. It is very effective at killing the leukemia cells, but there is a small risk that it can result in avascular necrosis (a condition in which bones die near the joints), particularly in teenage girls. My doctors thought that, at 12 years old, I was too young for that to happen. However, within one month of starting chemotherapy, the steroids ended up destroying most of my major joints and parts of my spine. I was living in constant pain. Four months after I was diagnosed with leukemia, I had my first hip surgery to begin trying to repair the damage done by the steroids and to lessen the pain. The surgery did not go as well as I had hoped, and my orthopedic surgeon told me that I would probably never ride a horse again. All of a sudden, the future I had planned was gone.
I was a good student, and I really enjoyed school. Now I couldn’t go to school or even out in public because the chemotherapy had destroyed my immune system. Instead, I stayed home with my stepmother. At this point I thought things were pretty bad, but they got worse.
Six months after my hip surgery, I had to have another hip surgery because the first one hadn’t worked. I was in a wheelchair because it hurt too much to walk. I was absolutely sure that I wasn’t going to ride horses again, and now I was worried if I would even be able to walk again. Living life sick, in constant pain, and confined to a wheelchair didn’t sound like a lot of fun to me.
I was praying to my Heavenly Father, and I know many other people were praying for me also. Through all of my trials, I prayed that I would be healed, that my joints would recover, and that I wouldn’t have to go through the rest of chemotherapy. I felt that my prayers weren’t being answered because I still had to go to Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City every week for more chemotherapy. I still hurt. And I was still stuck in a wheelchair. At one point, I started to think that my parents were crazy for believing in a God who wouldn’t even listen to a poor little sick girl.
Years before, I had gone through a similar trial of my faith when I prayed for my mom to get better. She was on oxygen all the time and was too weak to even walk around the house. I prayed and hoped and prayed some more that she would miraculously be healed. However, she wasn’t. After she died, I learned that we can pray for what we want all that we want to, but we need to pray for the right things—praying that the Lord’s will be done—to have our prayers answered.
Remembering this lesson, I changed my prayers from “Please heal me” to “Heavenly Father, I would really like to be done with these trials, but I will accept Thy will.” As soon as I changed my prayers, I found that I was able to handle the chemotherapy more easily, and I had a better attitude. That was just the beginning of the blessings and the answers to my prayers and questions.
My dad and grandfather gave me many priesthood blessings. Whenever I had to go in for surgery, I would ask for a blessing. The blessings helped me and my family feel calm about the procedure. One time I had a high fever, and we had to go to the hospital. I received a blessing from my dad and a neighbor before we left. By the time we pulled up at the emergency room door, my fever was gone, and I didn’t have to stay the night in the hospital. I know that priesthood power is a gift from a loving Heavenly Father.
One moment that will always stand out in my mind was the day I came home from the hospital after I was diagnosed with leukemia. The young women and Relief Society sisters had moved my stuff from the basement into a room on the main floor so I would be closer to my parents and wouldn’t have to use the stairs. They had cleaned and decorated the room to make a great place for me to live while I was sick. My family was the recipient of many other service projects. In the beginning, it was hard for me to accept service. When people would do service for me, it would make me feel like I couldn’t do anything for myself. However, I soon learned that it was OK to ask for help. When I started feeling better, I began looking for opportunities to serve other people more. Now I try to serve as much as I can. I get a good feeling when I serve other people. I have come to realize that by letting other people serve me, I allow them the same good feelings.
I have learned to think more about the future and my choices because I was so close to death. At school, I heard girls complaining about how they were having a “bad hair day.” As I was sitting there in my hot pink wheelchair with a wig on my head, I would think, “Well at least you have hair!” Girls would also complain about their feet hurting from walking around in high heels. I would think to myself, “At least you can walk.” Now I try to focus more on the big picture instead of the small things I used to worry about.
Over the past few years I have learned many other things through the blessings of having leukemia and the complications from chemotherapy. I have become closer to my Heavenly Father. My testimony has grown. And I have learned what is truly important. I have learned to appreciate all of the small things that people do for me. I am now in remission, in less pain, and gradually getting back some of the use of my joints. As I continue to heal, the blessings and learning experiences keep coming.
So why me? Why now? I don’t ask those questions anymore because I grew spiritually during my trials. I have discovered who I really am because the Lord loved me enough to let me experience adversity and the blessings that can come with it.
Note: Elizabeth is in remission and recently passed her third anniversary of being off chemotherapy. Her joints are healing, and she is no longer in a wheelchair. While there is still a risk for a relapse, Elizabeth doesn’t think about it. Instead, as a freshman in college, she is focused on studying for tests and practicing the oboe and English horn.

I watched firsthand how Lesa extended her friendship to a family in a very normal and natural way. It was and continues to be for me a remarkable model of love, share, and invite. While we were living in Japan, her invitation to a friend—the mother of one of our son’s fourth-grade classmates—to attend a concert of a Latter-day Saint performer led to remarkable outcomes. Here is a picture of that night after the concert in the mission home. [A photo was shown.]

Nearly three years later—after the simple invitation to an activity and after countless missionaries and missionary lessons—the two boys who attended school with our son Kyle were baptized by their now fully participating father. Eight years later their mother was baptized. One year after that we took this picture with their family following their sealing in the Taipei Taiwan Temple. Our sons—who were both fourth graders when they met—were then serving as missionaries in Taiwan. [A photo was shown.]

Remarkably, this was a journey that had begun nine years earlier with a simple invitation by Lesa for this family to attend an activity at our meetinghouse in Japan.

“It was the first time I’d performed in public in four years,” said Gretchen Williams, from Newport News, when talking about her performance the night before in the opening program. She danced a ballet solo while a friend sang a song. What most people didn’t know is the she’d given up her beloved ballet several years earlier because she was afflicted by painful arthritis.
When Gretchen arrived at the encampment, she discovered that the stage would be much smaller and shaped differently than the one she’d rehearsed on. It would have been easy to back out, using her physical pain or the unfamiliar stage as an excuse. After all, under the given circumstances, there was no way she could perform her best, and hundreds of people would be watching. But Gretchen wouldn’t think of pulling out.
She realized, as the program she performed in said, “Integrity is doing what you know you should do, even it it’s inconvenient or difficult.”
And with that she adds a deep, rich purple to the rainbow.

When I was 15, I had an interaction at church that left me feeling hurt. I never wanted to go back after that day. My early faith and hope crumbled as I slowly lost my focus on my divine identity. I felt a lot of doubt and couldn’t find any answers.
So, I tried to find meaning outside of the gospel. I fell further away as many of my loved ones watched with concern. My parents tried to help in every way. Many friends included me in activities. But I had not had “a mighty change wrought in [my] heart” (Alma 5:12). But, over time, as people in my life shared Christlike love and provided good examples, I learned the meaning of God’s plan for me.
If you have a loved one who is struggling with their faith, you might be wondering how you can help them. In my case, my loved ones acted as the Lord’s servants. It was their love and devotion that brought me back to the gospel.
And you can do the same for someone you love.
Here are three principles my loved ones practiced that helped me see Heavenly Father’s love for me:
“For I remember the word of God which saith by their works ye shall know them; for if their works be good, then they are good also” (Moroni 7:5).
My bishop, a great friend and example to me, continually invited me to minister with him even when I was no longer attending Church. He was such an important person to me that I couldn’t refuse his invitations. We had countless wonderful experiences serving those whom we visited, and he always offered to share gospel insights with them so that I would not be uncomfortable.
He served me while also inviting me to serve others, and that made a huge difference in coming back to Christ.
“And charity suffereth long, and is kind, and envieth not, and is not puffed up, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil … [Charity] beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things” (Moroni 7:45).
My father is a great example to me of charity. He has always shown me charity, regardless of my beliefs or choices. During a very dark time in my life, I spoke to my father, and he met me with the “pure love of Christ” (Moroni 7:47). He listened to my concerns without judgment and gave me simple and invaluable advice.
One of the most powerful things you can do for your loved ones is to show them Christlike love, no matter what their choices are.
“But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing” (James 1:4).
I returned to the Church after ten years of not attending, and my mother went above and beyond with Christlike patience. She never pushed me or grew frustrated toward me. She loved me, remembered my worth, and knew that the Spirit and Heavenly Father were influencing me.
We can’t rush the Lord’s work or force another person’s agency. Instead, we can stay close to the Spirit to know when it is time to invite or serve those we love.
When others chose to serve, love, and be patient with me, I was blessed with opportunities and relationships that wouldn’t have been possible without their help. It is the Savior’s light, especially when it is exemplified in our actions, that guides others back to the joy of His gospel. My humble witness is that God loves all of us no matter where we are in life or what we have done, but He can bless us even more when we come unto Him. I’m so grateful for the gospel, and I testify that it was truly through the Christlike examples of those in my life that I was able to return.