Gospel Story Finder

Another set of choices has to do with selecting integrity over duplicity and virtue over vice. Our word should be as good as our bond. President Kimball taught that “one might be full of wit and humor; one might be dexterous in performance, but if he has not honor and integrity, he has little or nothing” (TSWK, p. 388). We must decide our direction. We must determine who it is that we would like to become. As President Benson said:
Most individuals do not intend to be dishonest, dishonorable, or immoral. They seem to allow their characters to erode by a series of rationalizations, lies, and compromises. Then when grave temptation presents itself, they haven’t the strength of character to do what they know to be right. [TETB, p. 367]
Cheating, defrauding, flattering, and deceiving do not establish a basis of trust for family life, friendship, or career. The student who, in the midst of egregious violation of Church standards and Honor Code expectations, tells himself, “Don’t think about being a BYU student, a temple-attending returned missionary who is employed by the Church, because if you do you will not be able to savor this moment, you will have to stop what you are now doing,” is absorbed in deeply deceptive behavior that cheats and defrauds self more than others. A total lack of sensitivity to the absence of personal integrity and the integrity of the institutions affected by the action seems clear.
On the other hand, a student who has violated Church and Honor Code standards, who accepts responsibility for what has been done, who is remorseful, who confesses the violation, and who takes every step within the range of possibility to make amends, now says, “I wish that every student could have experienced what I have experienced because the experience has blessed my life. We all take the gospel, our membership in the Church, our student status, and the Honor Code too lightly. But it is better to not have to learn this the hard way. I will do everything in my power to help others avoid doing what I have done.” This student has vigorously affirmed the desire to make integrity a central feature of daily living.

At the end of that year, I added another thing to my testimony box. The temple. I felt for a while like I needed to go to the temple. I needed to receive my own endowment. I was just 21 at the time, and in those days, women didn’t go through the temple unless they were getting married or going on a mission. I wasn’t getting married, so I assumed that I was supposed to go on a mission. I prayed and prayed and couldn’t get an answer to go on a mission. I went to my branch president and told him my impressions. He calmed my heart and let me know that he had been praying for his own answers recently, and my telling him this impression answered a question that he had been diligently seeking clarity for.

I received a calling in my branch that needed me to be endowed. I went through the temple a few short weeks later. I had a profound experience. It was sacred and has provided me with spiritual clarity ever since. During the years after, I was able to bring people to Christ in a way that only could have been seen by God beforehand. I was able to add both the temple and how interconnected we all are in the eyes of God to my testimony box. He gives us opportunities to be linked together. I was the answer to someone else’s fervent prayer. And in turn, I received my response. God always uses us for good.

Before dances, dating, and driving occupied my weekends, I often spent Saturday nights babysitting. I remember thinking that I was prepared for any challenge. I had already dealt with overflowing toilets, policemen at the front door, minor illnesses and injuries, and even a leaking ceiling. But I was about to face my biggest babysitting challenge, and it would happen while the kids were sleeping happily and safely down the hall.
Mrs. Porter* left in a hurry, handing me her usual list of instructions and emergency phone numbers with a note at the bottom that read, “I grabbed a movie for you to watch after the kids go to bed. It’s supposed to be good. Thanks again.”
With the exception of an entire bottle of bubbles being spilled on the closet floor, the night went without major upsets. Five rounds of Mother May I later, bedtime came and I had a chance to see what Mrs. Porter had picked out.
I popped the movie into the VCR and read the description on the back of the box. The opening credits started rolling as I noticed the letter R in the bottom corner. With a sigh of exasperation, I pushed eject and put the movie back in the box. I didn’t watch R-rated movies.
But sitting there on top of the TV, the movie seemed to stare at me, calling my name. The minutes seemed like hours as thoughts started to invade my mind, forcing me to question my standards.
No one will know if you watch this, it seemed to say to me. When you’re done, you can just hit rewind. You don’t have to tell anyone. Besides, it’s just a little bad language. It’s not like you don’t hear worse language every day in the hallways of school. How bad could it be? No one will know.
The movie won. My heart started to pound as I opened the box. It’s just a movie, I reassured myself. Just as I reached to put the movie into the machine, I paused. What was I doing?
Then it hit me. Even if no one else in the world ever found out what I had done, I would know, and my Heavenly Father would know. I shut the box with a snap, amazed that I had come so close to doing something I knew in my heart was wrong. The movie lost.
Standing there with the box in my hands, I made a promise to myself to keep my mind clean of things that did not meet Heavenly Father’s standards. I promised to do what was right, even when no one was watching.

The following Wednesday, I turned down an invitation to a Young Women activity so I could go to the movies with Amy and a few other friends before the summer ended. When I pulled up I saw Amy and Beth standing along the brick wall outside the theater. As I began walking toward them, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Amy and Beth were smoking!
After a few moments of trying to hide my discomfort, Amy leaned toward me and whispered, “Just do what I do, and Beth won’t know you’ve never smoked before.” She handed me a cigarette. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped the lighter as she handed it to me. Reaching down to pick it up, I caught a glimpse of my pink neon shoelaces. I remembered the Pink Penguins. I remembered seeing those laces help carry me to share my testimony. This time was different. Those laces carried me across the parking lot to my car and straight to the Young Women activity.
That evening as I crawled into bed, I couldn’t help but notice the peace and happiness I felt. I reflected on how the evening might have turned out if I had accepted the cigarette. I knew the Spirit would have left me. My pink laces were nothing more than a symbol—a symbol that someday would grow old and wear out. I knew the joy I found would not wear out as long as I continued to keep my actions consistent with my beliefs.

I also remember learning the importance of prayer. When I was about five or six, my baby brother David would sometimes get such high fevers that he would go into convulsions, making his body shake and tremble. This worried my parents. I remember how they put David into a cool bath one day, trying to bring down his fever and stop his convulsions. I took my four-year-old sister, Helen, into another room, where we kneeled and prayed that everything would be all right. We finished our prayer and told our mother that David would be all right. And he was. David never had another convulsion. Prayer is real, and it works.

My father worked long and hard practically every day of his life. I’m certain that on the Sabbath he would have enjoyed just being at home. Rather, he visited elderly family members and brought cheer into their lives.
One was his uncle, who was crippled by arthritis so severe that he could not walk or care for himself. On a Sunday afternoon Dad would say to me, “Come along, Tommy; let’s take Uncle Elias for a short drive.”
Boarding the old 1928 Oldsmobile, we would proceed to Eighth West, where, at the home of Uncle Elias, I would wait in the car while Dad went inside. Soon he would emerge from the house, carrying his crippled uncle in his arms like a china doll. I then would open the door and watch how tenderly and with what affection my father would place Uncle Elias in the front seat so that he would have a fine view, while I occupied the rear seat.
The drive was brief and the conversation limited, but oh, what a legacy of love! Father never read to me from the Bible about the good Samaritan. Rather, he took me with him and Uncle Elias in that old 1928 Oldsmobile along the road to Jericho.

Let’s start with the assignment to be a ministering sister. Whether you have that assignment as a 10-year-old daughter in a family where the father has died, or as a Relief Society president whose town was recently affected by fire, or when you are in a hospital recovering from surgery—you have a chance to fulfill your call from the Lord to be His ministering daughter.

A sister recovering in a hospital from surgery was prepared to minister to her fellow patients. She had spent a lifetime ministering for the Lord to every stranger as if he or she was a neighbor and a friend. When she felt in her heart the call to minister in the hospital, she served others so bravely and with such love that the other patients began to hope she wouldn’t recover too soon.

Miguel’s entire family loves their country, and each year they do a special service project for their community. Last year they received permission to paint Miguel’s school classroom during a two-week break. First they painted the room all white. Then they painted the ocean on the walls with whales and sunken ships and all sorts of fish. The class was really excited when they saw it. Miguel’s teacher helps the students learn their colors, counting, and sizes using the colorful walls.

Answer/Sister Charlotte England and daughter
Since my daughter, Katherine, has faced this question personally, I wish to report the substance of a recent conversation with her that provides the best answer we two have found.
Charlotte: I’ve been asked whether a Latter-day Saint should date someone who is becoming interested in the Church. Does that sound familiar?
Katherine: Does it ever! I might have written that question in to the New Era when we were living in a very small branch in the mission field and there were absolutely no Mormon boys to date. Of course, during high school it didn’t seem to be much of a problem because most of our social life was in groups, not as couples or on formal dates.
Charlotte: But that began to change as you graduated and went on to a college where you were asked out by non-Mormons.
Katherine: Yes, and I remember the talks you and I had then about how we end up marrying the people we date. I really didn’t understand your concern because I was determined to marry in the temple and thought if I dated someone that I liked and who really cared for me, he would investigate and join the Church.
Charlotte: But that was exactly my concern—that he would join the Church for you.
Katherine: You mean to please me because he liked me and perhaps wanted to marry me, and not because he was really converted to the gospel?
Charlotte: Exactly. And isn’t that what almost happened with __________?
Katherine: I think so. I remember I was so happy when he came to church with me and then started taking lessons from the missionaries. He felt the special closeness of our branch and was really amazed that there could be such a spirit of love. It was different from any church service he had been to. But the informal atmosphere and the way everyone took part, from little children to new converts who were untrained—all that bothered him; he couldn’t see that that was part of what created the spirit of love. He was really impressed, though, with the missionaries; he had never met young men his own age with such high goals and such a spirit of service.
Charlotte: I remember that they became good friends, and he kept taking the lessons even though he didn’t seem to be making much progress.
Katherine: That was because of me. He wasn’t really becoming converted, but he kept on because of what the Church meant to me. He especially resisted taking initiative himself, like in praying, and he started saying he could never imagine himself giving talks, or teaching a class, or especially being a missionary. Then after a while he began to resent even talking with me about the Church. It was horrible to see the very things that had helped him before—encouraging him to study and pray and go to church, bearing my testimony to him and talking about the joy of the gospel—now turn him more against the Church and against me. That’s when we finally decided to break up.
Charlotte: That was a very painful time, Katherine; we all suffered so much with you.
Katherine: It still hurts to think about it, but I know it was the right thing to do. I’m just grateful that my convictions about temple marriage were so strong that I couldn’t compromise and marry him anyway, in the hope of converting him later. President Kimball told us in an address last fall at BYU that as much as he loves and honors those who join the Church after marriage, the odds are against it, that only one out of seven non-Mormons who marry Mormons later join the Church. That’s leaving very small chance for eternal happiness.
Charlotte: Yes, we’ve seen the heartache that situation has caused entire families. Your father and I prayed many times for you, but we had confidence in your training and your testimony.
Katherine: Well, I’m grateful to __________ for having the integrity not to pretend to believe something he didn’t.
Charlotte: I am too. That is a terrible pattern that hurts and destroys too many marriages. As you saw __________ with a person can want to please someone he loves enough to try to believe something different and become different. But if the change doesn’t genuinely occur through his own decisions, after a while he can’t help resenting the pressure on him, and he eventually turns the resentment toward the one who seems to be pushing him in that direction. This is true not only of nonmembers of the Church, but of people in the Church who do not have the same convictions about the Church and their duty in it, or as strong a spiritual witness of the gospel. Especially after marriage when there is no longer any need to pretend in order to win someone over, the very efforts that before were encouraging them tend to be turned into a source of irritation, even a cause for rebellion.
Katherine: That’s exactly what happened with __________ and me! We were lucky that it happened before we got married.
Charlotte: Would you date a non-Mormon now who was becoming interested in the Church?
Katherine: Mom, I’m really torn. I want to be a good missionary and share the joy and blessings of the gospel with others, even during these dating years, but I don’t think I’d risk it now that I know the dangers.
Charlotte: So you think it’s not possible to date a non–Latter-day Saint and still allow him to be objective about investigating the Church? Where does that leave young Mormons who live where there are few or no other members of the Church and their best hope for an eternal companion is someone they help convert?
Katherine: I guess I’d forgotten about that, even though I was once in that situation. Many Mormons can go to a Church college or a school with an LDS institute, or they can take part in all-mission or regional activities where they can meet Mormons their own age. But there is still a problem for some. I guess in those situations I would have to decide in each case whether to date an investigator after careful prayer and asking counsel of Church and family leaders. But I’d be certain to make my testimony of the gospel and my commitment to temple marriage absolutely clear from the very beginning.
Charlotte: Could it work if you were determined not to let the relationship get at all serious until after baptism and evidence of real conversion? Could you keep the few dates you had before then just friendship dates, the kind that might in fact help the investigator see the Church in action and understand its spirit and influence on your life?
Katherine: It takes a very mature person to do that, and the consequences of failure are very serious.
Charlotte: You’re right. And most young people in the Church don’t need to take the chance. They can find plenty of wonderful people to date in the Church, if they seek the Lord’s help and really try, and they can do good missionary work just as a friend, without dating.
Katherine: For us who sometimes find ourselves in a situation where it seems good to date investigators, are there some guidelines and helps?
Charlotte: You should first be certain your own goals and convictions are clear and strong and that you are willing and able to express them forthrightly. You should assess carefully the risk of actually interfering with a person’s conversion by shifting his attention from the struggle to have faith and do right to the struggle to please you. And you should consider the terrible risk of a marriage where you might be caught in the trap of having to hide or suppress your deepest convictions about how to live and bring up your family—or else having your husband resent you for being self-righteous or trying to change him.
Katherine: How painful it would be to live the most sacred and important part of my life—my religious activities and spiritual feelings—essentially by myself.
Charlotte: The most important guideline is that you can ask for and depend on receiving the Lord’s help—both in deciding whether to date an investigator in a special circumstance and also in controlling the dating properly if you do. There is nothing the Lord is more concerned about in your life and more anxious to help you with than choosing your eternal companion and building an eternal marriage. If you ask thoughtfully, “with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ” (Moro. 10:4), and then really listen for the answer—which may come directly through the Holy Ghost, through a patriarch, a bishop, a branch president, or a parent—you will know what to do. I know this is true from my own experience, from the answers to my prayers that have made possible my own marriage, which is the most precious and joyful thing in my life.

With a start, I awoke and listened. It was still dark so I knew it wasn’t the breakfast call that had awakened me. I nudged my older brother. “Ben, wake up. Something strange is happening.”
Ben pushed a sleep-fogged head out of the covers and listened. “I don’t hear anything, Shrimp. Go back to sleep.”
“That’s just it,” I insisted. “There aren’t any sounds!”
Ben listened again and then he smiled. “It’s probably snowing. It’s sure cold enough for it.” His blond head disappeared under the comforter.
The first real snow this year, I thought. Maybe there’s enough for sledding on the hill. As soon as I heard Mama lighting the kitchen stove, I threw on my clothes to keep the bed warmth in and ran downstairs to the heat below.
“What brings you down without a third call and a few threats thrown in?” asked Mama.
“It snowed!” I almost shouted the news.
“It certainly did—almost two feet,” Mama said. Then Ben and the little ones came clattering in, and the kitchen became a cheery waking-up place with the smell of bacon frying and everyone talking about what to do in the snow.
“Whoa,” said Mama, moving Wyn by the shoulders to his seat at the table. “This is a school day. You’d better eat and get out of here. It will take you longer to get to the bus stop in these drifts.”
“Oh, please, let us stay home,” we chorused.
“Sorry, fellows. Only Libby stays, since she has a cold.”
Outdoors I flopped on my back in the glistening snow. “Look, I’m an angel,” I called, flapping my arms and legs to leave an angel print.
“That’s about as close as you’ll ever come to being an angel,” yelled Ben, as he pelted me with snowballs. Seeing me down, Wyn and Jon joined in. I was laughing and trying to get up when the school bus horn blared. “We’ll be skinned for sure if we miss it. Run!” cried Ben.
All day at school the class was noisy. At two o’clock our teacher announced that school would be dismissed early. She laughed as we all plunged for the coatroom.
“Let’s not wait for the bus, Ben,” I suggested. “We’re out a whole hour early so let’s walk.”
“Can’t. We’d be late and then we’d catch it.”
“Not if we cut cross-country.” Turning to Jon and Wyn I called, “Last one over the fence is a scrungy turtle.” Over they climbed and then Ben followed, just like I knew he would.
“Good thing Libby’s not with us,” Jon said, knee-deep in the snow. “She couldn’t keep up in these drifts.”
“That gives me an idea. Poor Libby’s been in all day with her cold. Why don’t we roll a couple of balls and surprise her with a gigantic snowman?” I suggested. Ben thought it would take too long, but Wyn and Jon wanted to.
It was fun racing two and two, pushing the snowballs. But soon Ben and Jon got ahead as our snowballs grew bigger and harder to push. “It must be getting late,” said Ben, looking at the lowering sky.
“Maybe it’s just darker because it’s started to snow again,” I ventured.
“Either way, we’d better leave one ball. We’ll make good time with the four of us on one.”
It was really dark when we reached our lane. Ahead we could see headlights and from the sound we guessed it was Papa’s truck. Around the corner it came and caught the four of us and our giant snowball full in the headlights. The truck skidded to a stop. Papa came flying out of the cab. “Your mother has called half the county, trying to locate you!” he shouted. “As a last resort I was on my way to town to round up a search party. We figured you’d freeze if you stayed out in this all night. Now here I find you, playing with a snowball!” He waved an arm at the back of the truck and we piled in, leaving the giant snowball behind.
When we reached home, Papa said, “You get into the house fast and think of something nice to say to your mother, to make up for all the worry you’ve caused. If you’re lucky, she may heat up some supper for you.”
When we went into the kitchen, she seemed more glad to see us than anything else. After supper Papa ordered us up to bed. I was thinking we were getting off easy when he boomed, “All except Ben.” As usual, the ideas from my shrimpy-red head got us into trouble, but it was Ben who got the blame. He’s the oldest and Papa always says he’s responsible.
I went straight to bed, but I meant to stay awake until Ben came up. Next thing I knew Mama was calling, “Breakfast!”
Ben stirred. “Gosh, Ben. I’m sorry,” I began. “What happened after we came to bed?”
“It wasn’t too bad, Shrimp. Wait and see.”
Nothing was said at breakfast. Then we all piled into the truck to ride to the bus stop. Libby was going, too, and Papa said he didn’t want her starting the day all wet.
Before we reached the end of the lane the truck stopped. From the cab we could hear Libby squealing and Papa’s deep laugh. We all hung out the back to see. By the side of the road stood the gigantic snowman we had planned for Libby!
I looked at Ben. He grinned and then explained. “When I told Papa why we were late, he said it had been a dumb thing to do. He left me squirming for a few minutes and then said, ‘Well, get some warm clothes on. If we’re going to finish that snowman, we’d better get started now that it’s stopped snowing.’”
By the truck lights they had finished him off to be a giant, taller even than Papa. He was a proper snowman, too, with rock eyes, a carrot nose, and a hat borrowed from our old horse.
“The snowman won’t mind that his hat has slits for ears,” said Libby, her eyes shining with pleasure.
“I’m sure he won’t,” Papa said. And we looked at each other and winked.

Many years ago, on my first visit to the village of Sauniatu in Samoa, my wife and I met with a large gathering of small children—nearly 200 in number. At the conclusion of our messages to these shy yet beautiful youngsters, I suggested to the native Samoan teacher that we go forward with the closing exercises.
As he announced the final hymn, I suddenly felt compelled to greet personally each of these children. My watch revealed that the time was too short for such a privilege, for we were scheduled on a flight out of the country, so I discounted the impression. Before the benediction was to be spoken, I again felt that I should shake the hand of each child. I made the desire known to the instructor, who displayed a broad and beautiful Samoan smile. In Samoan, he announced this to the children. They beamed their approval.
The instructor then revealed to me the reason for his and their joy. He said, “When we learned that a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles was to visit us here in Samoa, so far away from Church headquarters, I told the children if they would earnestly and sincerely pray and exert faith like the Bible accounts of old, that the Apostle would visit our tiny village at Sauniatu and through their faith he would be impressed to greet each child with a personal handclasp.”
Tears could not be restrained as the precious boys and girls walked shyly by and whispered softly to us the sweet Samoan greeting “talofa lava.” A profound expression of faith had been evidenced.

Monday morning is usually taken up with washday chores. But on the Monday before Christmas my thoughts were on the lovely Christmas centerpiece display I wanted to make for the table. I felt compelled to drop everything and make the journey to purchase the materials.
Preparing to cross the road to the bus stop, I suddenly changed my mind and decided to walk. I had gone two-thirds of the way when I saw a woman in a self-propelled wheelchair. She was not a member of the Church, but I recognized her as the spokesman for the elderly citizens of the borough in thanking our ward for the yearly concert we presented for them.
I greeted her, and as we chatted I learned that she would be alone at Christmas. So that was why I had felt prompted to go out that morning! I invited her to join with our family. The decorations were unimportant now, though I did continue on and purchase them.
Then, having committed myself to an extra guest, I panicked. What would my nonmember husband say? We had already invited six relatives to come (two were elderly and two were children), in addition to our household of four. How would they all respond?
At first my husband was not comfortable with the idea at all. Christmas is a time for family, he reminded me, and this lady was a complete stranger. Yet I felt she had been sent to us by inspiration, so I fasted and prayed about it and asked my Relief Society visiting teachers to do the same. By the next day there was a sunny atmosphere in our home again, and the coming of our special guest was accepted by all.
We enjoyed sharing our Christmas with her. She brought a sweet spirit into the house with her testimony of the Savior. As she testified to our nonmember relatives of her belief in the second coming of Christ, I was able to concur with her faith and to explain much more of the gospel than had ever been possible before. Our new friend had paved the way.

Thanks so much for the November New Era. I was inspired so much when I read “God Speaks with Our Voices.” I read this article many times because I was very impressed with the missionary work in Chile. It inspired me to achieve the same kind of success in my own mission. My companion and I (both of us are Indonesian) were finding it difficult to find sincere investigators to teach. But after reading this article, we decided that we must work harder than before, so we prayed humbly to our Father in Heaven that he would show us the pure in heart.
And as we went about our work, I also always remembered in my mind “God speaks with our voices.” Approximately two weeks later we found some investigators who were eager to know the Lord’s way. As we taught them, they were very happy because they could feel the Spirit of God. They asked to be baptized and brought to us their neighbors and friends to be taught the true gospel of Jesus Christ. Some of those friends have been baptized and are active in the Church. We are still busy teaching the gospel of Jesus Christ. I am so grateful to the New Era.
Elder Eddy P. JudjionoIndonesia Jakarta Mission

Janie Sigoda stared at the strange hat and shiny red notebook on the table. She was still wondering what they were for when her father started the family home evening lesson.
“Did you know,” he asked the family, “that the Nephites kept records but that they didn’t always remember to write all the important things that happened to them?”
Janie forgot about the hat and notebook and bounced up and down on the couch. “Yes, Dad,” she said, “in Primary Sister Lind said that Jesus asked the Nephites why the story of Samuel the Lamanite hadn’t been recorded.”
“It sounds like you already know the story,” Dad said with a smile. “Can you find it too?”
Janie opened the family copy of the Book of Mormon and searched through Third Nephi. “Here it is!”
Her father began reading while Mom held the baby. Janie and her brother, Chris, cuddled with Dad in the big overstuffed chair so that they could read with him the Savior’s words about Samuel the Lamanite.
“You see,” he finished, closing the book and looking at each of them, “keeping records is very important to the Savior.”
Janie’s eyes went back to the notebook, and even before her father spoke again, she guessed what he would say.
“Do you all see this red notebook?” Dad held it high, and the baby tried to reach and grab it. “This isn’t just any old notebook,” he went on, letting baby Karen play with it a few moments. “It’s a special reporter’s notebook. We don’t want to miss great stories in our family record either.”
He picked up the funny hat and stuck a card with FAMILY REPORTER printed on it into the hatband. “Each month someone gets to be the Sigoda family reporter. Who will it be first—Mom, Chris, me, or Janie?”
“Oh, please let it be me,” Janie begged.
Dad winked at Mom, then smiled at Janie. Pulling her close, he put the hat on her head and handed her the shiny red notebook. “Here’s your gear, Miss Sigoda. Next month you can read your report of our family stories to us.”
The month passed with lots of stories to write. One Sunday they visited Grandma, and Janie made sure that she wore her reporter’s hat and carried her notebook. Grandma always had great stories. “Tell me something about Dad when he was a boy,” Janie asked her privately after dinner.
“Oh, your dad!” Grandma’s laugh twinkled in her eyes. “I remember the time our bishop asked the congregation to raise their hands if they wanted a new parking lot. Every person there but one raised his hand to vote yes. Then, when the bishop asked if anyone was against the new lot, your dad raised his hand high and called out, ‘I am, bishop. If you put in a parking lot, we won’t have anyplace to play basketball!’ The rest of the congregation laughed for ten minutes!”
That was a good story to report, but the best one Janie wrote was of when Chris was baptized. She worked hard to get all the details exactly right for the family records. She made sure to include the facts that Dad baptized Chris and that both grandfathers were witnesses to the baptism. And she carefully wrote down each word of Chris’s testimony after he was confirmed: “I want to thank Mom and Dad and my sisters for all that they teach me,” he said. “I know that this church is true and that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me.”
The month ended too soon for Janie. She read her stories on family night, wearing her reporter’s hat. She especially liked watching her brother’s face light up when she finished by reading all about his baptism.
“Janie,” Mom said, “Dad and I are proud of you, and I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus are too.”
Dad gave her a big hug, then said, “You’re the last person to hold the family record, and like the prophets in the Book of Mormon, you get to pick who keeps the record next. So, sweetie, who will it be?”
Janie looked first at her mom, then at her dad, then at Chris. She could see his eyes shining just as hers had shone the month before.
“Chris,” she said, “I give the record to you.” She handed the hat and precious red notebook to him. As Chris jumped up and down and put the reporter’s hat on, Janie smiled. She knew how he felt—being a family reporter was great.

Some years ago, I found an article in a local newspaper so intriguing that I saved it. The front-page headline read, “Determined Dog Won’t Abandon Lost Sheep.”14 This article describes a small number of sheep belonging to an operation not far from my friend’s property that were somehow left behind in their summer range. Two or three months later, they became stranded and snowbound in the mountains. When the sheep were left behind, the sheepdog stayed with them, for it was his duty to look after and protect the sheep. He would not go off watch! There he remained—circling about the lost sheep for months in the cold and snowy weather, serving as a protection against coyotes, mountain lions, or any other predator that would harm the sheep. He stayed there until he was able to lead or herd the sheep back to the safety of the shepherd and the flock. The image captured on the front page of this article allows one to see character in the eyes and demeanor of this sheepdog.

Lisa, a high school sophomore, tells about the time the quarterback of the football team asked her to the homecoming dance.

“I couldn’t believe my luck,” she said. “One of the most high-profile guys in the school had asked me to the most prestigious dance of the year.”

Her enthusiasm dampened, though, when after the dance her date started driving down a lonely road she realized led to Lover’s Lane. Quarterback or no quarterback, she had decided long ago that “parking” was something she would not do.

To avoid embarrassment, she began talking about how this particular road reminded her of a friend’s experience. The police had caught her friend and a date parking up there, and had taken them to the police station.

“Of course, anyone who is silly enough to park deserves what they get,” she laughed. Without speaking, her date turned the car around, and a few minutes later they were sitting in her living room eating pie with her parents. [JeaNette Goates Smith, “Dating: Give Me a Brake,” New Era, June 1993, p. 10]

“She hath done what she could”! What a succinct formula! A journalist once questioned Mother Teresa of Calcutta about her hopeless task of rescuing the destitute in that city. He said that, statistically speaking, she was accomplishing absolutely nothing. This remarkable little woman shot back that her work was about love, not statistics. Notwithstanding the staggering number beyond her reach, she said she could keep the commandment to love God and her neighbor by serving those within her reach with whatever resources she had. “What we do is nothing but a drop in the ocean,” she would say on another occasion. “But if we didn’t do it, the ocean would be one drop less [than it is].”9 Soberly, the journalist concluded that Christianity is obviously not a statistical endeavor. He reasoned that if there would be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over the ninety and nine who need no repentance, then apparently God is not overly preoccupied with percentages.10

Other outgoing teenagers find they are not isolated because of their religious beliefs. Fourteen-year-old Geraldine Hall of Exeter Ward in Devon attends a Church of England school. She finds schoolmates accepting her beliefs without prejudice. She even manages to share her testimony.

“After a home economics lesson one week,” Geraldine says, “the teacher asked, ‘Who would like a cup of tea?’ Of course they all said ‘yes please’—except me. When someone asked, ‘Why don’t you drink tea?’ one friend answered, ‘Because she’s a Moron.’ ‘Not Moron—Mormon,’ I replied. Then, whilst they all sat round, I explained what we were really called and why. After that no one’s ever tried to belittle my faith.”

I realize that before me are hundreds of young men, many of whom are deacons. I remember when I was a deacon. (It has been a long time ago, however.) I thought it was a great honor to be a deacon. My father was always considerate of my responsibilities and always permitted me to take the buggy and horse to gather fast offerings. My responsibility included that part of the town in which I lived, but it was quite a long walk to the homes, and a sack of flour or a bottle of fruit or vegetables or bread became quite heavy as it accumulated. So the buggy was very comfortable and functional. We have changed to cash in later days, but it was commodities in my day. It was a very great honor to do this service for my Heavenly Father; and though times have changed, when money is given generally instead of commodities, it is still a great honor to perform this service.

Most of us have been asked musically if we know the way to San Jose, and except in a general sense, most of us don’t. A lot of good Latter-day Saints call it home, however, and this article is about some of them.
Except that it isn’t about San Jose. It’s about San Francisco. There are a lot of fun things within easy reach of the young people in San Jose—everything from beach parties, to ski trips, to camping, to sailing, to sports and cultural events, to San Francisco, which is why this story happened.
San Francisco is about an hour from San Jose, just far enough to make it adventurous and close enough to make it convenient, and that’s how the priests and Laurels of the San Jose Seventh Ward came to make the trip one bright morning.
Their first stop was the Golden Gate Park, a giant green finger pointing out of the Pacific toward San Francisco Bay. They strolled in the shade of the gigantic trees and spent an hour in the lush beauty of the Oriental Tea Garden. They could easily have spent a day seeing the Park’s other attractions, but there was a city of 42 hills and 42,000 adventures waiting for them.
They visited the Golden Gate Bridge, standing on a windswept observation point and watching the vast red span stretch away from them. The intense blue of the bay was dotted with sails, and wave-swept Alcatraz Island looked foreboding in the middle of them.
Next they visited the quaint brick buildings of Ghiradelli Square and ate their lunches on the steps of a fountain there. Then, refreshed by the rest, they ambled along to Fisherman’s Wharf, passing on the street artists who sold their handiworks and street musicians who played in the open air, glancing hopefully now and then into guitar cases and hats where people would occasionally throw money.
One man sat in the back of a pickup truck parked by the curb and played an upright piano. Another innovative fellow climbed inside a painted box and billed himself as a human juke box. People put money in through a slot, and he played a wandering trumpet for them.
They walked along Fisherman’s Wharf, talking to the fish vendors and looking at the stacks of fresh crabs, lobsters, shrimp, and other seafood. Some of it looked back at them and snapped angry claws.
After spending some time observing the long rows of docked fishing boats, they boarded a cable car and rode up the steep hills to Chinatown. They walked up and down the steep streets lined with exotic buildings with upturned roofs, neon signs in Cantonese and English, and shops filled with the pungent aroma of unfamiliar foods.
By then the sun was getting low, and knowing the way to San Jose very well, they returned home.
Although San Francisco and San Jose are very nice places to know the way to when that’s where you want to go, these fine young Latter-day Saints also know the way to somewhere more important. They know the way home to their Father in Heaven, and they all bear testimony of their dedication to him and of the truthfulness of the gospel. When it was suggested, tongue in cheek, that it isn’t really possible to live the gospel fully outside of Salt Lake City, Utah, the whole group rose up in righteous indignation and explained almost simultaneously that there is no better place in the whole world for being a true Latter-day Saint than in San Jose, California.
They know the way in San Jose.