Gospel Story Finder

A few weeks ago while in England, I had the opportunity to do some traveling by train. Weather and time schedules indicated this to be the most satisfactory method of transportation.
One day as the train rolled from Manchester to Leicester, after about an hour and a half of reading, I put down my books, looked out the window, and wondered if we were getting close to the station. A few minutes later the door to the compartment opened and the conductor entered. He greeted me with, “What is your destination?”
Inasmuch as I had been giving some thought to arrivals, departures, and stops, I answered, “I have an appointment in Leicester.”
To this he responded with, “We shall be at your destination in ten minutes.” He punched my ticket and made his way to check others.
After he left, I pondered his comments, “What is your destination?” and “We shall be at your destination in ten minutes.” He seemed convinced that every time the train stopped and dozens or hundreds of people got off, they had arrived at their destinations. Apparently he has been announcing this to his passengers for years.
However, I knew, despite his comments, that I needed to be in Leicester for two days for quarterly stake conference sessions but that it was not my destination. Stops in other English cities were not my destinations either. They were all assignments along the way. I had not arrived when I reached any of them.
As a result of this experience on the train, and having given this thought some consideration over the years, I am concerned that many of us are confused in our life’s travels with destinations, arrivals, stops, calls, stations, and assignments. It appears to me that some of us may be lost today because we think we have arrived.

Like Piero, Andrea Rondinelli of the Rome Italy Stake found the gospel after a life-changing event, the death of his father. “I realized it could not end like that,” he says. He sensed that there must be life beyond the grave and purpose to life and death. He had encountered the Church 15 years earlier when his sisters were baptized. After his father’s death he sought out the missionaries and was baptized 15 days later.
Soon he received his patriarchal blessing. In it the Lord promised him an eternal companion. “While I was looking for her, I prayed a lot,” he says. He wanted a wife who would share a common spiritual purpose with him, and he ended one engagement when his fiancée didn’t want to be sealed in the temple. “I did everything I could to be ready for the moment I would meet my wife,” he says. In answer to one of his prayers, Andrea had an impression that someday he would have a son. This experience helped him be patient until he met Mariela.
Mariela found the gospel in Colombia at age 11. After serving a mission in her native country, she visited Italy. She was surprised—and a little distressed—to feel the Spirit prompting her to stay permanently. “Everything was OK back in Colombia,” she says. “I had a job. I was involved in the Church. I had the opportunity to study. But I felt in my heart that I was here for a purpose, that my role was here.”
Andrea is grateful for that prompting. He and Mariela met two years after his baptism, and today they enjoy the kind of marriage they waited for—sealed in the temple, equally yoked in faith. They continue to build unity by “spending time together, like going on walks,” Mariela says.
Family home evening is also key. “Our son’s baptism involved the whole family,” Andrea says. For months they spent family home evening learning how to prepare for baptism and confirmation and “studying the principles that Daniele was going to embrace. We were all involved together, and we felt very much prepared for the occasion.” Whenever they hold family home evening, the children are involved. “Our daughter, Valentina, leads the music,” Andrea says. He smiles. “She’s very good.” Daniele chooses the hymns and sometimes helps prepare the lessons. “Every Monday is always a beautiful experience for all of our family members,” Andrea says. Such experiences strengthen the spiritual foundation upon which their children and grandchildren may build.

The old car barely ran anymore. The engine stalled just as I pulled into the parking lot. There were few other cars around; it was just the beginning of August, and school didn’t start for another month. The dormitory was a long rectangle of orange-brown brick. It looked rather like a warehouse with lots of windows. I coasted to a space with a clear downhill run in front of it, so I wouldn’t have to get someone to push-start me when I had to leave. I set the parking brake and let out a big sigh. It had been more than two years.
I staggered up the steps with all my worldly possessions balanced precariously in my arms. Luckily someone had the door wedged open with a folded welcome mat. I plopped all of my things down in front of the table in the lobby where Coach Reese was passing out room keys.
“Marchant, David C.,” I said.
“Marchant …” he repeated as he sorted through his box of keys. He found one with my name on it and handed it to me. “Don’t we have to call you Pastor, or Father, or something like that now?”
“Coach, I explained all of that before I left,” I said with pretended impatience, “but if you’ve forgotten, I suppose I could spare an hour or two right now. Could you call for some pizza?”
“Always a wise guy,” he said, shaking his head. “I just hope you still remember how to play football after two years in South America.”
“Me too,” I called back as I started down the hallway with my pile of bags.
I could hear the music even before I got close to my room. Obviously my future roommate had already arrived, and he liked playing music loud enough to rattle our door. I carefully let my things fall to the floor of the hallway and listened. It definitely wasn’t the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The doorknob buzzed my fingertips as I turned it and stepped inside. Dorm rooms are comfortably furnished, about on par with your average state prison cell; they contain a couple of desks with chairs, two closets, and a pair of beds about six inches shorter than most football players. One of the beds in my room was occupied by a large young man casually flipping through the pages of a magazine. He had already staked claim to one side of the room; it was covered with posters, a pyramid of beer cans, and a giant stereo box that looked detailed enough to control a manned space flight. He hadn’t noticed me as I hadn’t yet made any noise over a hundred decibels, so I leaned in front of him and waved. He looked up with a start, stood up, and turned down the music. I’m six-foot-four, and he was a little taller than me, and looked generally like the kind of guy you like to have on your side if a fight ever breaks out.
“Mike Webster,” he said, grabbing my outstretched hand. “Freshman tight end.”
“Dave Marchant,” I said. “Sophomore linebacker.” I nodded my head toward the bare side of the room. “I’ll take this bed.”
Training camp is football’s version of the Missionary Training Center. For a month you’re cut off from the outside world. You do nothing but eat, sleep, and practice football, and your body soon feels like the losing entry in a demolition derby. The passage of time is eased somewhat by the wonderful company you keep; one hundred bruisers whose demeanor would give Miss Manners a terminal migraine. Actually, by the end of the month quite a brotherhood develops among teammates under such trying circumstances.
That first night all we had was an orientation meeting, and after it was over I went straight back to the room and got ready for bed. Mike came in a couple of minutes later.
“Man,” he said, “those coaches treated me like a king when they came to my high school in the spring.” He sat down on his bed and started examining the playbook they’d just given us. “Now they act like I’m some Marine recruit or something!”
I laughed a little, remembering my freshman year. “They tend to take things a little serious during camp,” I said, “but don’t let it get to you.” Out of habit I turned back the covers on my bed and knelt down to say my prayers. Even before I got started, I had a strange feeling that someone was watching me.
I turned around, and sure enough, Mike was staring at me like I’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a concerned voice. I wasn’t sure what to say. I got up and sat down on my bed for a second. I hadn’t thought about how I was going to act in situations like this. Before my mission it was easy being the only member of the Church on the team; I was just a Mormon incognito. I kept the gospel tucked carefully under a bushel, ensuring that no one could make life miserable for me. Remembering how I used to act was starting to make me feel guilty; here I was a returned missionary, and the guy who would be my roommate for a whole month didn’t even know I was a member of the Church.
“I believe in God and I’m saying my prayers,” I explained in my best door-approach-type voice. “I’ll be doing this every night and every morning.
You can basically ignore me, but I would appreciate it if there was no music playing during that time, if that’s possible.” His eyes were still as big as golf balls.
“Oh,” he said nervously. His eyes were searching as if he were looking for a possible escape route. “Fine. Fine. That’s uh … That’s just fine.” I turned back to my prayers. After I finished I stayed on my knees a while, thinking about what my duty as a missionary was in this situation. I should get up and tell Mike I’m Mormon, I thought. I should ask him what he knows about the Church and if he’d like to know more. Then I’ll challenge him to take the discussions. I reconsidered when I thought about how he reacted to my prayer. He’d freak out, I concluded to myself. He’d grab his stereo box and go sleep on a couch in the lobby tonight and ask coach for a room change first thing in the morning.
Then I remembered something my mission president had told me in my last interview with him, not two months before.
“Missionary work involves both planting and harvesting,” he counseled. “You have seen a lot of harvesting the past two years. Now go home and do some planting.”
For the first time, what President Bender had told me started to make sense. It was no longer my calling to teach Mike the discussions and challenge him to be baptized. My job now was to let the light of the gospel plant the seeds inside of him. I knew what to do. I’d throw away that candle-snuffing bushel, and I’d start acting more like a candlestick.
I climbed in bed and got ready to read my scriptures. I took out a blue missionary copy of the Book of Mormon and placed it in plain view on the edge of my desk. I opened the New Testament to Matthew, chapter 5, where the Savior talks about this whole candlestick and bushel thing. I glanced over at Mike, who was unsuccessfully trying to act nonchalant and ignore me. I was obviously the first praying and Bible-reading linebacker he’d met.
The next day during the afternoon practice, the linebackers, tight ends, and running backs met for tackling drill. This is a very sophisticated variation of running into a brick wall on purpose. Two players line up ten yards apart and run full speed into each other, smashing themselves senseless. I was fourth in line on my side. I looked over at the other side and saw Mike. He was third in his line. I said “excuse me,” and stepped around the guy in front of me, so I would be in line to tackle Mike. I could see Mike peering around his line, trying to see what I was doing. I could see a smile creep onto his face when he realized I had changed places so I could tackle him. I knew what he was thinking: This is one of those religious wimps. He reads the Bible. I hope I don’t put him in the hospital.
Now, for Mike to have a reasonable basis for serious consideration of the gospel, his preconception about men of faith would have to be reformed. So when our turn came I did my best. I have to admit that it was a great effort. I let out two years of pent-up tackling energy on Mike. Planting my helmet square into his number, I lifted him up off the ground and body-slammed him into the grass, ending up almost in a headstand on his sternum. He just lay there for a second. I helped him up, gave him a friendly slap on the helmet, and trotted off. When I got back in line I looked over and saw him in the other line, rubbing his chest and looking very perplexed. He was getting ready to see some light.
I continued to leave the Book of Mormon on the edge of the desk. It took another week before Mike’s curiosity got to him, or at least before I caught him. The linebacker meeting ran a little late that night, so when I got to the room I opened the door quietly in case Mike was asleep. He was leaning over from his side of the room, gingerly holding open the Book of Mormon with his fingertips, as if it might bite him, and peering inside.
“Hi there!” I said cheerfully. He just about jumped out of his socks.
“How ya doin’?” he said, trying to think of something to say. “I was just …”
“Listen,” I interrupted, “you can borrow that book anytime you want. You don’t even have to ask.”
“Oh no,” he stammered, “I don’t … uh …”
“Honestly,” I said. “It’s no bother. I have two copies.”
“Well,” he said, “maybe I will look at it some other time.” I left it at that.
Two nights later it was really hot, and I was having trouble sleeping. I could tell Mike was awake also, as I heard him wrestle with his sheets about every fives minutes in a vain effort to get comfortable.
“Marchant,” he whispered, “you awake?”
“Yeah,” I said, “what’s up?”
“Is that book—” he asked, “that blue one on your desk—is it like the Mormon Bible or something?”
“Well, it’s not a Mormon Bible,” I explained. “But it is a religious history, like the Bible is. We consider them both to be books of scripture.”
“What do you mean, history book!” he said out loud in the darkness.
“Well, Mike,” I started out, “the Bible is basically a religious history of the ancient Mideastern people, and the Book of Mormon is a religious history of the ancient American people.”
“Don’t give me that!” he shot back in the darkness. “That’s no history book.” He threw off the covers and turned on the light. He grabbed the Book of Mormon off my desk and flipped right to the page with Arnold Fribergs’s painting of a well-muscled Nephi on it.
“Look at this guy!” he said, shoving the book in my face and pointing to Nephi. “This looks more like Muscle and Fitness magazine!”
It took me the better part of an hour to explain that picture and all the rest of them to his satisfaction. After that Mike kept the Book of Mormon on his desk, and whenever we couldn’t sleep we would talk about the gospel.
At the first of September school started. Mike and I decided we’d see if we could room together for the whole school year. His parents flew in from California for the first home game, to see their son’s college debut. As I was jogging off the field after the game, Mike grabbed me and introduced me to them.
“Mom, Dad, this is my roommate, Dave Marchant. He’s that Mormon guy I’ve been telling you about.”
I got a lump in my throat. I was sure they were going to tell me that they weren’t going to allow Mike to have a roommate who was a religious fanatic.
“How do you do,” I said. “Your son is pretty tough for a freshman.”
“We’ve heard about you,” his father said as he shook my hand. Oh no, I thought to myself. Here it comes.
“And we want to thank you for being such a good friend to Mike,” he continued. His mother put her hand on my shoulder and said: “Our next-door neighbors at home are LDS, and they’re such fine people.” I offered a prayer of gratitude in my heart for the light of that family, whoever they were.
Mike’s parents took us both to dinner at their hotel, and afterward I drove him to the airport so he could see them off. They wanted to let us use their rental car to drive back to the university, because we always had to push-start my car, but we said we were used to it. On the way home, while we were stopped at a stoplight, I asked Mike if he had told his parents anything else about the Mormons, besides the fact that I was one.
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly, “I told them I was thinking about becoming one.”
“You did what?” I choked, as I popped the clutch and stalled the car right in the middle of the intersection.
“Well,” he explained, “I told them that I read the Book of Mormon and I think it’s true. They’ve always said that when I was old enough, I could choose my own religious beliefs. Anyway, I think we better get out of the middle of the intersection.”
He got out and push-started us. When we got going again I decided I had better find out if he was really serious.
“Mike,” I counseled, “are you sure about this? When did you read the Book of Mormon?”
“Whenever you weren’t around,” he said, “and sometimes I used my flashlight and read it after you were asleep. Anyway, it says in this part at the end to pray to God to find out if it’s true.” He stared out the window at the lights going by. “I did, and it is.” He turned toward me. “What do you have to do to belong to this church of yours?”
I started to feel that missionary glow inside again. It was a nice feeling.
“Well,” I said, “I suppose we could find some harvesters around town someplace.”
“Harvesters?” Mike’s voice had that concerned tone again.
“I meant missionaries,” I laughed. “I told you how I used to be one.”
“Oh, yeah,” he remembered. “Who push-started the car for you when you were in South America?”

Things had been hard since Joseph’s death. Nauvoo wasn’t allowed to use its police force, so bad men did what they wanted. They burned farms outside town and caused trouble in Nauvoo. Then some of the Latter-day Saint boys formed the “Whittling and Whistling Brigade.” When one of the bad men came to town, the boys followed him everywhere, whistling and whittling pieces of wood with their pocketknives. There were too many boys for the man to fight, and they wouldn’t let him out of their sight long enough for him to do anything bad, so finally he would leave and look for mischief someplace else. Howard and George couldn’t wait to join the brigade, but they were only six and four then, and Mama wouldn’t let them use her knives to learn to whittle. They practiced whistling, however. Finally, though, even the brave boys couldn’t keep the bad men away.
Aurelia squeezed George’s hand and pointed to show him the temple across the river. Even on this cold, gray day, the tall building seemed to shine on the hill. She remembered when its roof had caught fire one day. She lived only a block away and had run with a bucket of water to help fight the fire. It had been put out, and work on the temple had continued. Just two months ago, Mama and Papa had gone to the temple to be sealed together. Mama said that that was the hardest part of leaving Nauvoo—leaving the temple they’d worked so hard to build. It still wasn’t quite finished. “Heaven only knows when we’ll have a temple again,” Mama had said. “We’ve been blessed to have this one.”
Aurelia looked to the left of the temple to see if their house was visible from here. She couldn’t see it. But she did see Mary Ann Stearn’s house. Mary Ann and her cousin Ellen Pratt were Aurelia’s best friends. They had gone to school together and played together. Aurelia stared at Mary Ann’s house, but she knew that Mary Ann wasn’t there. She, too, was going west with her family. Aurelia wondered if they’d meet again on the way to the Rocky Mountains. Oh, she hoped so! It was hard leaving everything and everyone to travel to a strange land. Why shouldn’t the bad men have to leave instead? It wasn’t fair to be forced to leave friends, homes, gardens, orchards, the temple!
Thinking of Mary Ann made Aurelia remember something else. At the last general conference, in October, Mary Ann’s stepfather, Parley P. Pratt had spoken to the Saints. People had crowded into the temple to listen. Elder Pratt spoke about how hard the Saints had worked to build a beautiful city and temple and how hard it was to leave it all behind. But the Lord had other plans for this people, Elder Pratt had said. He explained that a small nursery could produce many thousands of fruit trees, but that as they grew, they must be transplanted. They need room to grow if they are to produce fruit. He promised that the Lord had a place for the Saints to grow, where they wouldn’t be crowded and where they would enjoy liberty and equal rights.
Aurelia knew that it was true. She thought of those tiny twigs of fruit trees she and Ellen and Papa had planted. She had seen them grow and blossom and produce sweet fruit. It was hard to leave Nauvoo, but it was time to be transplanted to a place where she and her family and all the Saints could grow strong and bloom.
Aurelia murmured, “Farewell, Nauvoo,” and turned with George to face the west. It would be a long journey to the Rockies, but she had her family and the true gospel. She was ready.

I first started playing football in seventh grade and was excited to finally be on a school team. Moving to ninth grade football, I noticed that everyone seemed a little more intense and competitive. I also noticed that the language on and off the field was rougher than it had been before.
In my monthly interview with my dad I brought up my worries about the vulgar, degrading talk that was a part of school and sports. He listened while I described how the players behaved on the field and how people talked at school. Dad listened and said that language shows the true nature of a person. I pointed out that my older brothers, Peter and Christian, had played high school ball a few years before and had not talked or acted inappropriately. It occurred to me that we actually have a choice as to how we behave and express ourselves at school and on the field. In fact, in every aspect of our lives, no matter where we are, we can choose just how we are going to be.
At the end of the interview, my dad and I came up with the idea of “clean mouth/clean mind.” The next night in family home evening, we talked about the importance of having a clean mouth and a clean mind in everything we do, including sports. Mom abbreviated the “clean mouth/clean mind” phrase to (CM)2, and we set a rule to keep a clean mouth and a clean mind at work, school, and play. We even made shirts with (CM)2 printed on them.
When I started wearing the (CM)2 shirt at school, my friends and teachers began to ask me what (CM)2 stands for. After I explained what it was, they wanted to join in. When some parents found out about (CM)2, they also asked for shirts as a reminder for themselves. Word spread from my middle school to my high school and then to the high school across town.
Because of the Internet, we’ve had people participate in places as far away as India, Europe, and South Africa. We’ve had a lot of fun getting the word out. My dad refers to the project as “a family home evening out of control.” We really don’t know just how far it will spread. Maybe it will reach clear around the world. It kind of makes you wonder how much better the world would be if more people agreed to have a clean mouth and a clean mind.

In April 1844, President Joseph Smith called the Twelve Apostles to serve missions in the Eastern United States.
Joseph Smith: All of the Apostles except Willard Richards and John Taylor are called as missionaries to continue preaching the gospel.
Wilford Woodruff had already served as a missionary in England and America, but he was obedient to the Prophet. He packed his things and got ready to travel.
When he went to say good-bye to the Prophet, Elder Woodruff could tell that he was sad. Elder Woodruff felt sad too even though he didn’t know why.
Joseph Smith: You are about to start upon your mission. God bless you, Brother Woodruff. Go in peace.
Two months later, Elder Woodruff was preaching the gospel in Maine when he heard some terrible news.
Woman: Have you heard, Elder Woodruff? The Prophet has been killed! Joseph Smith has been shot in Carthage Jail!
Elder Woodruff immediately left to meet with the other Apostles in Nauvoo.
Elder Woodruff: Now I know why I was so sad before. That was the last time I would ever see the Prophet Joseph Smith here on earth.
Although many Saints were worried that the Church would not be able to go on without the Prophet Joseph Smith, Elder Woodruff was not afraid. He was asked to go and comfort the Saints in Europe and lead them until a new prophet was called.
Elder Woodruff: Though our Prophet has been killed because of his testimony, the keys of the kingdom of God are still here upon earth. The heavens are not closed.
Elder Woodruff: Heavenly Father will still speak to us and direct His disciples. Be humble and faithful, and the Lord will bless you.

During my youth I had cultivated my spiritual soil. I had planted the seed of prayer in my heart and had felt the growth of knowing that there is a God and that he answers prayers. I had planted the seed of service by home teaching and performing other Church tasks, and I had felt the growth that told me that there is joy in such deeds and that in serving my fellow beings I was truly in the service of my God. I had paid my tithing and had felt the joy of having the windows of heaven opened to me.

Because of these and other thoughts and feelings and commitments, I was in a springtime condition when I planted a mightier seed than I had ever planted before. I accepted the call to serve a mission.

After my bishop announced to me that the Lord would like me to serve a mission, I left his office and went directly to the service station where I worked and told my boss that I was going on a mission. He replied, “That’s good. It’s great training. You’ll be able to speak up and have a lot more confidence when you come home.” Then he added, “Just don’t stand up in church and say you know the gospel is true, because you can’t know that. Those who say such a thing are liars. They don’t know it’s true.” I could not tell him at the time that I knew the Church was true, but I did tell him that I thought it was.

The most abundant harvest came for me some two months after I arrived in England as a missionary. Those first weeks were difficult, and I had been homesick and heartsick. But at the same time I had an intense desire to be a good missionary. I had been assigned to tell the Joseph Smith story to the other seven missionaries in the Hull District. I stood up to recite that which I had diligently and prayerfully prepared and planted within my heart. At first my message was just words, but then something happened. I felt a swelling within my soul which filled me with such joy I could scarcely speak. In my heart I could see the Sacred Grove and I could see Joseph Smith and I could see that he could see God the Father and his Son, Jesus Christ. Then I knew it was good and was true. I didn’t think anymore that the Church was true—I knew. When I returned from my mission, I said in the presence of my former boss that I knew the Church was true. To have not done so would have been a denial of the very real harvest that had grown within me.

I have a very funny kitten. She followed my grandpa home one day, and she has stayed with us since then. We call her Shadow because she is black.
Shadow always looks up. She jumps into the empty bathtub, looks up at the towels, then jumps up to pull one down. When she is outside and wants to come in, she looks up at the window in the door and jumps up and holds on to the window frame with her paws and looks in at us.
Sometimes I think Shadow believes she is a dog. She jumps out of a hiding place and lands on my dog; then they roll around on the ground and playfully chew on each other. When my dog grabs a stick, Shadow runs around, trying to catch it. They even eat out of the same bowl.
Shadow really loves to look up at my grandpa. He picks her up and pets her and tells her what a good kitty she is. I think she loves him in a special way because he found her. She was very tiny and sick when she followed him home. He took her to the animal doctor to get her some medicine. Grandpa made her a nice, warm bed in our house too.

I share with you an account described in a mother’s letter to me relating to prayer. She wrote:
“Sometimes I wonder if I make a difference in my children’s lives. Especially as a single mother working two jobs to make ends meet, I sometimes come home to confusion, but I never give up hope.
“My children and I were watching a television broadcast of general conference, and you were speaking about prayer. My son made the statement, ‘Mother, you’ve already taught us that.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ And he replied, ‘Well, you’ve taught us to pray and showed us how, but the other night I came to your room to ask something and found you on your knees praying to Heavenly Father. If He’s important to you, He’ll be important to me.’”
The letter concluded, “I guess you never know what kind of influence you’ll be until a child observes you doing yourself what you have tried to teach him to do.”

When Braeden started kindergarten, he loved meeting new friends and having fun with them. In his class he noticed one boy who was a little different than some of the other children. Sometimes the boy had a hard time sitting still, listening to the teacher, or behaving. Braeden knows that Jesus Christ loves everyone, and he really wants to be like Jesus. Braeden is kind to the boy in his class, just like Jesus wants him to be.

The great wonder of writing and reading is indicated by the experience of an early-day explorer in the dark continent of Africa. He desired to send a message to a friend many miles away, and it was arranged for a trusted native to be his messenger. The native watched as with his pen the explorer made some marks on a piece of paper, which had no significance to him. Then the explorer gave the native the letter for delivery.
After traversing the many miles of wilderness, the native put the message in the hands of the one for whom it was intended. The native discovered that as soon as the recipient had studied the paper, he immediately knew exactly where the explorer was and what his problems were. He knew all about his health and as much about the needs that prompted him to send the letter as though the explorer had come in person.
The miracle involved in this mysterious communication so impressed the native that he fell down on his face and worshiped the paper.

Chance skipped into his aunt’s home after a long drive. He and his mother and younger brother were excited to be visiting her. “Hi, Aunt Barbie!” Chance exclaimed as he hugged his aunt. “Do you have any crayons and scissors?”
Aunt Barbie smiled and got Chance settled at the kitchen table with the supplies.
As Aunt Barbie made dinner, she glanced at Chance’s project. “What are you drawing, Chance?” she asked.
“I’m coloring a picture I got in Primary,” Chance said. He carefully filled in the black-and-white figures with bright colors. “After we eat, can we have family home evening?” Chance asked. “I have a lesson I would like to teach.”
“That would be very nice,” Aunt Barbie said. “Thank you, Chance!”
After dinner Aunt Barbie invited her roommate to join them for family home evening. The roommate wasn’t a member of the Church, and she was curious about the family gathering.
Chance began the lesson by asking, “Where did we come from?” Then he held up a picture he had colored of the spirit world. He asked more questions and showed colorful drawings about Heavenly Father’s plan. Finally, Chance asked, “Does anyone know the name of this plan?”
Aunt Barbie’s roommate said, “I don’t. What is it?”
“It is the plan of salvation,” Chance said, smiling. “Because of it, we can be together forever with our family.”
After the lesson, Aunt Barbie took Chance aside. “Chance, you just helped my roommate learn about Heavenly Father’s plan. Thank you,” she said.
Chance didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he asked, “Why do I feel funny inside? I feel warm and happy.”
“That is the Holy Ghost testifying to you that what you just taught is true,” Aunt Barbie said. “I’m sure Heavenly Father is very happy with you.”
Chance got a big smile on his face. He was glad he could teach someone about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness.

“Why not just a little?” That was the question David asked after his early-morning seminary teacher had finished an entire lesson about protecting yourself from sin. “I’m not talking about doing anything big,” David continued. “I just want to know why I can’t have a sip of beer—just to taste it and know what it is like. Why not just one cigarette or one night with a girl so my friends will stop bugging me?”
Before the teacher could even start giving him the usual answers, David outguessed him and blurted, “And don’t tell me that alcohol kills your brain cells and that cigarettes cause cancer. Don’t tell me about AIDS.” He didn’t want to hear the typical “scare” stories. David continued, “I know men who used to drink and smoke, and they’re bishops now.”
It was true. David knew many people who had repented and been forgiven of their sins. “So,” he looked directly at his teacher and repeated his original question, “why not just a little?”
By now nearly every young person in the room was nodding and saying, “Yeah, why not?” The seminary teacher knew he had to say something—quickly. He swallowed hard, said a silent prayer, and offered, “Try looking at it like this: Isn’t the Holy Ghost a member of the Godhead?”
“Yes,” answered David, “but what does that have to do with anything?”
The teacher explained, “Well, ‘no unclean thing can dwell with God’ (1 Ne. 10:21; Mosiah 2:36–38). Maybe that’s why we must be baptized—completely cleaned—before we receive the gift of the Holy Ghost” (see D&C 68:25; D&C 84:64).
The room was quiet. Despite the fact they had already sat through one lesson that day, David and his friends were listening to their teacher. “In scriptures we are told that the Spirit won’t always strive with men (see Gen. 6:3; Ether 15:19; D&C 1:33).
“The immediate consequence of any sin is withdrawal of the Spirit of the Holy Ghost. So one cigarette may not be enough to give you cancer, but it is enough to alienate you from the Spirit. One can of beer may not make you an alcoholic and leave you homeless, but it is enough to leave you without the Spirit. The same thing for a premarital sexual experience.”
Most of the class was agreeing with their teacher now, but David still wasn’t completely convinced. He said, “So the Spirit leaves. So what?”
Class time was over. The students needed to go to school. “Let’s pick this discussion up tomorrow,” said the teacher, and they did. Over the next few days the class studied the fruits of the Spirit. What David had not considered was that when we lose the Spirit we automatically lose some other things as well.
The seminary class was glad David had asked, “Why not just a little?” In the course of their discussions and study, David and his friends had come to some important conclusions. One student summed it up like this: “Why not just a little sin? Well, why not just a little touch on the burner of a hot stove? Sure, you may heal in the long run, but not without going through a lot of unnecessary pain and suffering.”

In September I was invited to give a talk about my conversion at Stake Conference. I was so nervous, but I knew that I had the Holy Spirit with me and I knew that what I was about to say was true. At university I studied Egyptology and Ancient History, and the knowledge I acquired has helped to strengthen my testimony regarding the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I have been able to find many links between the Book of Mormon and the civilisation of ancient Egypt.

On the day of my baptism I was nervous – not about the decision that I had made to become a member of the church, nor about my belief in our Saviour Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon – but because I was worried about being fully immersed in water. However, I should not have worried. I cannot adequately describe the feeling I felt as I was immersed and raised out of the font feeling clean, fresh, pure and rebuilt. As I was confirmed I could feel the Holy Spirit at work. I had a tingling sensation down my spine, I felt calm, strong, and galvanised. I still feel the Holy Spirit with me, especially when I study the scriptures and pray to Heavenly Father. When the Holy Spirit is near I feel goosebumps on my arms and legs, and this sensation gives me comfort, and I know that I will never be alone.

My life has changed dramatically since my baptism. I continued with my weekly lessons with the missionaries to help further my knowledge and understanding of the Book of Mormon. I have spoken publicly regarding my testimony and I have written an article for the Liahona.
I love going to sacrament meetings every week, I have joined the choir and I defy anyone not to leave a Sunday service with a big smile across their face and a feeling of empowerment for the week ahead. I have repaired the relationships within my biological family, but I have also gained a new ‘church family’ and I have a genuine love for the brothers and sisters in my ward.
I am a much happier and far less stressed person since becoming a member of the Church. Everyone has noticed and commented on it, and I am so happy that my husband decided to be baptised too. I look forward to our future – serving in the church, participating in ordinances, attending the temple, and being sealed to my husband for all eternity.
The gospel has transformed my life and for the first time in a long time I am hopeful and excited to see what Heavenly Father has planned for me.

“How do you know when the Holy Ghost is talking to you?” Carver looked up from his scriptures.
Dad smiled and put down his Come, Follow Me book. “The Holy Ghost can talk to you in lots of ways. Sometimes it’s a feeling, or an idea that pops into your head.”
Carver frowned. “But how do you know it’s the Holy Ghost?”
“Maybe we can say a prayer to help us find the answer,” Mom said.
One of Carver’s sisters said the prayer. Then they headed off to school. Carver thought about his question all day.
When he got home, the house smelled delicious. “Bread!” Carver shouted.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “I made some bread for us to share with others.”
Carver looked at his sisters. Eva scrunched up her nose. Jane raised her eyebrows. “You mean we don’t get to eat it?” Jane asked.
“We wanted to practice listening to the Holy Ghost,” Dad said. “So Mom came up with an idea.”
They would each pray to ask Heavenly Father who might need to feel loved today. Then they would give that person some bread.
Carver knelt by his bed. He wanted to hear the Holy Ghost, but what did the Holy Ghost sound like? He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“Heavenly Father, who needs bread today?”
Carver tried to listen for the Holy Ghost, but he didn’t hear anything. Then he remembered passing Sister Smith’s house on the way home from school. She always waved at him. Maybe she liked bread. Perfect!
Mom handed out cards to write notes for the people they were going to visit. Carver wrote, “Dear Sister Smith, I said a prayer to see which person I should give this bread to. I waited for a prompting, and POP! you came into my head. Love, Carver.”
When Mom drove up to Sister Smith’s house, Carver grabbed his loaf and walked to the front door. He felt nervous. What if Sister Smith didn’t like bread? What if visiting her was just his brain’s idea and not the Holy Ghost?
Then Carver remembered something else Mom had said. She said that if it’s a good or kind idea, you don’t need to worry about whether it’s just your own thought. Nice things are always good to do! Carver took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
Sister Smith opened the door. “Hello, Carver! What brings you here?”
Carver handed her his loaf. He looked at his shoes, then back at Sister Smith. “Do you like homemade bread?”
“It’s my favorite!” She smiled. “Thank you very much.”
Carver smiled too. “You’re welcome!” Then more words popped into his head. He followed the prompting right away. “Heavenly Father knows it’s your favorite. He loves you a lot!”
Sister Smith’s eyes started to look shiny. “I’m glad He can count on you to hear Him.”
Carver felt as light as a balloon. He waved to Sister Smith and walked back to the car. Now he knew that giving Sister Smith the bread was a prompting from the Holy Ghost. He was excited to listen to the Holy Ghost again!

I would like to share another experience of faith. Being the only child, Elder Hermelindo Coy said good-bye to his mother and left for the first time in his life his small village in the mountains of Senahú, Guatemala. He entered the Missionary Training Center the 14th of March 1991. Although he had been a member of the Church for only two years and was very timid about talking to people, his determination to serve was great. His formal education was less than five years of elementary school in his native language of Kekchí. Spanish, the official language of Guatemala, was foreign to him.
During his mission he learned to live with pain in his leg. He rarely complained. In August 1992 he noticed, in addition to the increase in the pain, something abnormal about his knee. The diagnosis was bone cancer. A more careful exam revealed cancer in the liver, lungs, and lymphatic system; in other words, his illness was terminal. He did not understand the nature of the illness nor its seriousness. With the help of a translator and using examples from the farm life with which he was familiar, he came to understand that he had little time to live.
He never asked, Why is this happening to me? He did not lament nor express negative feelings. He was obedient to all that was required of him. He was asked if he would like to return home, but he asked to remain in the mission and serve as long as possible, even until his death.
By October he walked with difficulty, requiring the use of a cane. He could only work a few hours each day. By December he was unable to walk. For the first time he was discouraged because he could not proselyte. His worry was always who would take care of his mother after he died.
In one of his visits, the mission president asked him to teach more of the basic doctrine to his mother, who, along with mission nurses, was providing 24-hour care. When he taught the plan of salvation to his mother in his native tongue, his face radiated assurance and light. Elder Coy was understanding with power and conviction what he was teaching.
As his strength declined, he placed his complete trust in the Lord. On one occasion when the pain was very strong, he expressed in prayer, “Heavenly Father, I do not know the day nor the hour that I will die, but I want to know soon from thee about my new assignment.” He died in February 1993. His death blessed all the missionaries, leaders, members, and even nonmembers who learned of his courage to serve and endure to the end. His faith was so simple that it was contagious. He never feared death. He strengthened all who knew him.

Many years ago I stood by the bedside of a young man, the father of two children, as he hovered between life and the great beyond. He took my hand in his, looked into my eyes, and pleadingly asked, “Bishop, I know I am about to die. Tell me what happens to my spirit when I die.”
I prayed for heavenly guidance before attempting to respond. My attention was directed to the Book of Mormon, which rested on the table beside his bed. I held the book in my hand, and it providentially opened to the 40th chapter of Alma. I began to read aloud:
“Now my son, here is somewhat more I would say unto thee; for I perceive that thy mind is worried concerning the resurrection of the dead. …
“Now, concerning the state of the soul between death and the resurrection—Behold, it has been made known unto me by an angel, that the spirits of all men, as soon as they are departed from this mortal body, … are taken home to that God who gave them life.
“And then shall it come to pass, that the spirits of those who are righteous are received into a state of happiness, which is called paradise, a state of rest, a state of peace, where they shall rest from all their troubles and from all care, and sorrow.”
My young friend closed his eyes, expressed a sincere thank-you, and silently slipped away to that paradise about which we had spoken.

We planted a garden, weeded it, and irrigated it. Some of my choicest childhood experiences were irrigating with my father. Our turn began at 2:00 A.M., so Dad and I would pitch a tent in the yard and go to bed about 9:00 at night. We’d set the alarm clock and get up at 2:00 and turn the water in. Then we’d get up every half hour until 6:00 to change its flow. During all my growing-up years, Dad and I spent many nights irrigating side by side. It’s a great experience to be with your father like that.

As a boy, I loved to run. When I was eleven years old, I won an Oregon state cross-country race and I vowed to become a national champion before I graduated from high school. Full of boldness, determined to be better than anyone else, I began a training routine that was to last for years. Every day I ran from five to sixteen kilometers. I loved training. Neither mud, rain, sweat, nor pain were to keep me from my goal. “You only get out of it what you put into it” became my motto.
I began to look ahead to running in the Junior Olympics. My plan was to prepare to race in the 1985 competition, when I would be fourteen years old, and again in 1987, when I would be sixteen. I calculated that these would be in my best years and I would be in my top running condition. What I didn’t calculate was that by 1985 I would grow from a skinny, lightweight boy, to a taller and heavier young man. My whole system had to catch up with the added dimensions of my growing body. My knees ached constantly; my feet and hips almost cried out in pain as I ran; and it was all I could do to win a state championship by a fraction of a second. I knew 1985 wasn’t the year to enter the Junior Olympics, but I would have two years to prepare myself for the 1987 event.
By the spring of 1987 I was running well. I was undefeated in the 1,500-meter run and praised by a local newspaper as the fastest high school freshman in the state of Oregon. My aches and pains had gone. I felt good and I knew I was ready for the Junior Olympics.
Meanwhile, three teammates and I had been invited to participate in a prestigious regional track meet. Full of confidence and in high spirits, we got into the team van with our coach for the ride to the meet.
As we drove onto the main highway, I noticed how congested the traffic was and subconsciously fastened my seat belt. We were all laughing and joking when I casually looked up and noticed a speeding car coming our way. Completely out of control, it began swerving back and forth in our traffic lane, barely avoiding several cars ahead. Stunned into silence, we helplessly watched the car head straight for us.
I awoke to the sounds of screaming sirens, two-way radios crackling, and shouting policemen. We had been hit head-on by a car driven by a wanted man in a stolen car who was being pursued by police in a high-speed chase. My teammate and good friend, Lenny, who was in the seat behind me without his seat belt on, had been thrown across my seat. I had been propelled forward and pinned under the weight of his unconscious body and my doubled-up seat.
I managed to move just enough to see out of the window. The other car looked like a crumpled piece of paper. Two ambulances drove in beside our crushed van, and I was quickly, but very carefully, lifted out of our wrecked vehicle. “I think this one has a broken back!” I heard one ambulance man say as he looked at me with pity and concern.
As miracles go, my back wasn’t broken—just my nose! However, serious back strain, several pulled muscles, and joint displacement prevented me from walking for a few days and kept me from running normally for several months. This had not been in my plan. I became discouraged as my training schedule for being in top condition was once again interrupted.
I continued to train, both with the high school team and with a running club my brothers and sisters and I belong to. As I watched my ten-year-old brother, Tyler, run, I began to feel more frustration and irritation. He ran strong and well. He could keep up with several of the high school runners and was getting better every week. As much as I loved him, I resented how easy it all seemed for him.
I watched Tyler win in a state track and field championship, defeating his nearest competition by 500 meters. A crowd of excited supporters gathered around him as I stood back. An incredible sense of pride built up inside me, and as Tyler looked past all the well-wishers, seeking my approval, the feeling of love was so intense between us that I felt we were the only two in the noisy stadium. As I sensed his deep need for my approval my resentment of his success totally left me. At that moment, I vowed that my little brother would go to the national championships prepared with all the knowledge I could share and with the assurance of my support.
We ran together after that. I talked about form and strategy, how to pass other runners and maintain a lead. We ran up hills to build his endurance, sprinted on the track to build his speed, and made up all sorts of exercises to improve his reflexes. We talked about racing as we did chores around the house, as we ate breakfast, as we drove into town, and as we watched sports news on television. We ran in pouring rain and sweltering heat.
Tyler and I both placed first in our age categories in the Northwest Regional Championships, and that gave us the chance to compete in the national championships. Because of the accident and the interruption of my training, I thought I might only place in the top twenty-five runners. My race was first, and I was twenty-first out of 300 and gained a national ranking.
Satisfied and happy with my performance, I then turned my attention to Tyler. I had already taken him through the cross-country course, showing him how to approach and hurdle a deep ditch, when to stride out, where to save his strength, what to avoid, and how to stay mentally tough. He wa ready! As we looked for his starting place among the other 265 runners on the starting line, I felt as nervous as when I had lined up for my own race. Tyler was tense, and I just kept assuring him that he was the best. I could sense his apprehension as if it were my own. How I wished I could transform his pain to joy! “Be tough, Tyler. Just remember, no one is better than you. No one can beat you,” I said. My arm slipped around his slumping shoulder, and I felt like I was deserting a desperate man when I walked away and noticed the tears in his eyes.
I watched him run a perfect race as I ran from place to place on the course to cheer him on, hoping he could feel my support reaching out to him. Could he hear? Could he sense my strength reaching out to him? He came toward the last stretch of the race in second place. “Keep going, Tyler!” I yelled. “Use your arms! Breathe deeply!” If he could just feel what I felt for him in that crowd of 5,000 wildly screaming spectators.
He was turning the corner for the last 100 meters—a part of the course we had run over and over together as we planned this moment. “Now Tyler! Give it all you’ve got left! Come on!” I pleaded. My voice choked as I thrilled at the sight of my little brother, a picture of perfect health, striding down the homestretch to a spectacular finish to become the national champion I had planned to be.
My pride in him told me that I had won something too. I realized I had given part of myself away to help Tyler succeed, and it created a feeling within me far richer and more powerful than I could have ever imagined. As an exhausted Tyler broke away from the crowd and came to me, he gasped out the words which taught me the lesson of my life.
“Jason, I felt terrible—but I could hear you cheering the whole way, over the noise of all the people, and I knew I could win. I knew I had to win!”
What other lessons would this little champion learn from me—good or bad?
What about all our other brothers and sisters in the family of men. What messages do they hear above the crowd? Just as Tyler could hear and respond to that call to win, how many others need that voice in the crowd? How often do we get caught up in our own plans and fail to call out our encouragement, fail to cheer others on to victory?
As Tyler and I embraced, I truly knew the meaning of the words, “He that loveth his brother abideth in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him” (1 Jn. 2:10).

Jenna and her mom were both baptized in 2002, and Zack was baptized when he turned eight about a year later. Her mom met the missionaries through the hospital where she works. As her mom studied the gospel, Jenna also became interested and eventually decided that she wanted to be baptized too. They attended several other churches before deciding to join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When asked how the Church was different from other congregations, Jenna answers, “It feels like the right church. It just feels like I’m close to Heavenly Father.”