Gospel Story Finder

“Let’s get more sticks!” Callie said to Marco.
Marco looked at the sky. “I have to go home. It’s almost sunset.”
“But we haven’t finished our fort yet!” said Callie.
“Sorry!” Marco called out as he hurried off. “I have to be home before the Sabbath!”
Callie sighed. There were great things about being Marco’s friend, and there were hard things. Well, mostly just one hard thing. They didn’t have very much time to play together. They were in the same grade at school but not in the same class. They didn’t have the same recess. Plus, they both spent the Sabbath with their families. In Marco’s church, the Sabbath was started at sunset on Friday night. For Callie, the Sabbath was on Sunday.
And the good things? There were lots of them. One was that Callie never had to worry that Marco would swear, try to get her to do bad things, or watch things that weren’t good. He and his family went to a different church, but they believed a lot of the same things Callie did. Like keeping the Sabbath day holy, even though they had it on a different day.
Callie set down her armful of sticks and went inside.
“Did Marco go home?” Mom asked.
“Yeah,” Callie said, slumping into a chair. “We hardly ever get to play.”
“Maybe you two can get together Friday. It’s a school holiday,” said Mom.
“OK,” Callie said, cheering up. She would get everything ready so when Marco came over, they could start working on their fort right away.
During school later that week, Callie’s teacher made an announcement. The whole third grade was going to watch a movie together.
“Yes!” Callie said. She put her lunch box into her backpack and went into the common area between the classrooms.
Everyone found a place to sit on the floor, and the teachers turned off the lights. Callie got excited as the movie began. It was about some boys building a fort together, just like she was building a fort with Marco! If we ever finish it, she thought. She shook her head and focused back on the screen.
But as the movie went on, Callie noticed that some of the words in it weren’t very good. She started to feel more and more uncomfortable. She didn’t know what to do.
Just then, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Marco! He had crawled all the way through the crowd of students to talk to her.
“Callie, I don’t think we should be watching this,” he whispered. “I think we should go ask our teachers if we can read instead.”
Callie breathed a sigh of relief. It felt good to know someone else felt like she did. “Yeah. I don’t like this movie either.”
She and Marco stood up and tiptoed around their classmates until they reached their teachers. Marco went to his teacher, and Callie went to hers. She asked if she could read a book instead of watching the movie, and her teacher said yes.
As Callie went into her classroom to read, she saw Marco doing the same thing. He waved and smiled. Callie smiled back. Having a true friend was even better than having a finished fort.

I recall an experience I heard at a stake conference in Idaho. A farm family in the community had just contracted for the installation of an additional and much-needed room on their home. Three or four days later the father came to the building supply dealer and said, “Will it be all right with you if we cancel the contract? The bishop talked with my son John about a mission last night. We will need to set this additional room aside for a while.” The building supply dealer responded, “Your son will go on his mission, and he will find the needed room when he returns.” Here was the spirit of Christianity—a family sending a boy into the world to teach the gospel, and friends coming to help the family with their problems. What then, indeed, shall we do with Jesus who is called Christ?

Perhaps only couples who have been childless can understand the heartbreak, frustration, and envy that can develop in nine and a half years of a childless marriage. My husband’s patriarchal blessing had promised him children, but mine did not even mention marriage. We had asked for and received priesthood blessings twice—one from my father, who was our bishop, and one from our stake president five years later. The first promised children “in the Lord’s good time”; the second that we would lose no opportunity for a rich, full life.
Time passed. My husband received his Ph.D. in June 1975, and with it came a job offer from Brazil. We put all our belongings in storage and flew to Brazil with two suitcases, a bag of books, and a violin to begin our new life.
There are many children in Brazil—most are loved. The poorest father will tell you proudly how rich he is in children. But some are put up for adoption, and we knew adopting a child would be easier here than in the United States. In spite of our eagerness to adopt a child, however, we always felt “not yet” when we spoke of it.
Some weeks after arriving in Brazil—partly because of the different language and customs, but mostly because of an empty house—I became homesick. It was an aloneness I had never felt before. The feeling continued to oppress me until, one day, I suddenly felt a sweetness enter our home. With the sensation came the feeling that a spirit child was there with me. Though I could not see him, I sensed that he was as anxious as I was—excited, expectantly waiting. And then he said to me distinctly, though the words were never audibly spoken, “I will be born in February.”
February was the month of Carnival. Everything simply stopped, and all of Brazil was a gigantic festival for a week. We did not participate—we found ourselves chaperoning a Church youth conference instead. The last weekend in February was our district conference. Then the month was over and there was no child, even though we had prayed earnestly that we would be guided to find him. The speakers at the conference only intensified the pain we felt by their references to the importance of having children.
Thursday night following conference, a sister who works in the children’s hospital came to our home, greatly excited. There was a baby boy in the maternity hospital, and the social worker would save him for us till noon the next day. We were at the hospital by 7:30 A.M. We had had a sleepless night and had prayed fervently that we would have no problems—we had already had sufficient experience to know how difficult adoption could be. The social worker was very kind, but the natural mother had changed her mind and had taken the child home early that morning.
Then she hesitantly said, “We have another boy here. Would you like to see him?”
It seemed like we climbed a million stairs going to the nursery. Then they showed us a clear plastic crib containing a very wrinkled little baby. His tiny face turned to ours, and he looked at us with intensely blue eyes. We knew for a surety that this baby was for us.
By noon all the paper work with the juvenile court was done, and at 6:00 P.M. I went to get our son and took him home. We discovered that he had been born February 7, but since he weighed only two kilograms at birth he had stay in the hospital for nearly a month. As it was, when he came into our lives he weighed only 2.2 kilograms and was too weak to cry. We worried that we would lose him.
That Sunday was fast day, so we fasted for him, and Larry gave him a priesthood blessing. That very day he started waking up for meals, and two days later he managed a feeble cry and rolled himself over. Six months later he was a smiling, giggling, 6.8-kilogram, 68.5-centimeter normal baby boy.
We wait for the Lord’s “own good time,” and sometimes we find it very hard. We get frustrated and angry; we cry, hope, envy—I even felt resentment during those nine years. But when the gift is given, we understand.
Like Abraham and Sarah, (Gen. 12:5) like Jacob and Rachel (Gen. 30:1), like the parents of Samuel (1 Sam. 1:20) and John the Baptist (Luke 1:13), my husband and I have felt the greatness of God’s giving. And watching this tiny, growing gift from God, we pray that we, like them, will be equal to His trust.

In February 2002 I was sitting across the desk from President Gordon B. Hinckley. He asked, “Bonnie, how is your health?” I answered that my health was fine, although I could not hear in my right ear because I had lost that hearing in the mission field. He then asked, “How is the hearing in your other ear?” “Fine,” I said. “Well, then,” he replied, “just turn your head.” He then proceeded to issue my current call. President Hinckley understands the principle of doing the best with what we have and making adjustments when we need to compensate.

Through the long hours of the night, I kept a lonely vigil by the nursery window. Inside the nursery, a tiny boy struggled for breath. The day before, we had rushed nearly 160 kilometers from our ranch to the hospital. The baby was born shortly after our arrival, six weeks premature. He looked like a fine, healthy boy, but the doctor told us that his lungs had been slow in developing and that he was fighting a desperate battle for air.
A few hours before, I had given Matthew his name and a father’s blessing. As I had blessed him, the Spirit had assured me that he would someday be a part of our family.
Little Matthew continued to cling to life until his mother was able to come to the nursery to see him. He died before we left the room. It seemed to me that he had only waited for her to have one look before he returned to his heavenly home.
The shock of our son’s death left my wife in such a daze that she could not cry. It was only after the small graveside service, when we had returned home to the ranch, that she was finally able to release her grief. She wept for a long time.
The emptiness of losing a baby after those long months of expecting him was very hard on her. She wasn’t really happy again until the next baby, a fine healthy boy, arrived.
As the years passed, we were blessed with many children. They grew up feeling that Matthew was as much a part of our family as they were. One of our children, the oldest, has felt an unusual closeness to him and has at times sensed his presence. Once, while traveling to work through a storm, she felt him with her, watching over her. One night she awoke and saw a young man standing by her bed. He seemed to sense that she could see him, and appeared to “melt” in the air like a burning film. This experience frightened her, and she prayed to know who the young man was. A few years later, she again felt Matthew’s influence—when her sister-in-law lost a baby and needed comfort and understanding.
Not long ago, one of our sons was married in the Idaho Falls Temple. We had assembled in the sealing room for the ceremony when the sealer asked me and the bride’s mother to bear our testimonies before he performed the marriage ceremony. As I spoke, I noticed that my oldest daughter was sobbing. Later, outside the temple, she told us that as I stood to speak, Matthew had entered the room accompanied by so much spiritual power that she could not control her feelings. As she was about to leave the room, lingering behind all the others, she had felt something warm touch her shoulder. A still, small voice had whispered, “That was your brother Matthew. He is the one who stood by your bed one night.”
The peace and joy this beautiful experience brought to us is inexpressible. What comfort there is in knowing that we are important to Matthew and that he cares about what we are doing, and to know that God loves us and has let us feel Matthew’s presence so that we can have that assurance.

After my wife, Jean, and I were baptized on 27 October 1957, we did not start paying tithing right away as we should have. I thought we had too many debts and too little money. I should have known that we could not afford not to pay it.
When a year passed, we were expecting our third child. We had just purchased a new house and also had several more debts. About this time, my wife said, “We need to pay our tithing.” I did not know how we could because we had no money left after our expenses, but I said, “We will do it.” And we did.
We had already moved into our new house, but the loan had not yet closed because the street and the driveway were not finished. It soon began to rain and rain and rain some more. As a result, the work on the street and driveway was delayed. The loan did not close, so we had no house payments.
By the time the work was finally completed, the mortgage company had lost the loan papers and seemed in no hurry to find them. When the papers were finally found, we had lived in our house for six or seven months without making a single payment. We were able to get ahead on some of our other payments during this time.
Things have not always been financially easy for us, but we have never stopped paying our tithing. We call this experience a blessing from heaven.
Henry Hardnock, Midland Second Ward, Odessa Texas Stake

I realized that Todd was awful gloomy that day. At first he didn’t even want to come out and play with me, and I’m his best friend! Then, after a little coaxing from his mother, he did come out.
“How about playing some ball?” I asked hopefully. “We can try your new bat! I’ll even pitch to you first!”
“No, I don’t feel like it,” Todd said, stuffing his fists into his jeans pockets and kicking a stone off the sidewalk. “I don’t feel like doing anything!”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You don’t ever turn down a game of ball, especially if I’m willing to pitch to you first. Are you sick?”
“I just don’t feel too great. My grandma died,” Todd answered, quickly brushing away a tear.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I guess you miss her a lot.”
“Miss her! I’ll never see her again!”
“Yes, you will,” I said. “She just went to the spirit world.”
“The what?”
“The spirit world,” I repeated. “When people die, that’s where they go.”
“Will I really see her again? And can I visit on weekends like I used to?”
“Not now—because you’re still alive. But after you die, you’ll go to the spirit world too.”
“Really?” Todd asked excitedly.
“Will she make me my favorite chocolate cake?”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said. “But I do know that someday everyone will be resurrected.”
“What does that mean?” Todd asked.
“That means that your spirit and your body will get back together, and you will live again!”
“How do you know all this?” Todd asked, suddenly suspicious.
“My mother taught us that in family home evening last Monday.”
“So you didn’t make it all up?”
“No. Honest!”
“OK. I still miss her, but maybe I can play just one game with you.”
“Great! Let’s go!” I thought that I had convinced him and that everything would be OK, but that evening Todd came over with his parents. They seemed really mad. I’m in trouble now, I thought, so I tried to hide upstairs.
“Jamie,” my mother called.
I had to come down and face whatever it was that I had done.
“Jamie,” Todd’s mother began, “today you told Todd that he would see his grandmother again. Try as we may, he won’t listen to anything different that we try to tell him. Todd’s grandmother is dead, and there is no way that we’ll see her again. We need you to tell Todd that.”
“I can’t,” I said softly. Todd looked at me, and I knew that I was in real trouble.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
She was really upset with me, but Mom saved me. “What he means,” my mom began as she stepped forward and placed her hands on my shoulders, “is that we believe that Todd will see his grandmother again. And so will all of you.”
“But, Lisa,” Todd’s mother pleaded with my mother, “how can you know this? What proof do you have?”
“I’ll show you.” She let go of my shoulders, got her Bible, and thumbed the pages until she stopped and read this passage aloud: “‘And [they] shall come forth; they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation’” (John 5:29).
Todd’s dad jumped into the conversation then: “Lisa, is that a quote from your Golden Bible?’”
“Oh, you mean the Book of Mormon. No, this is the King James Version of the Bible,” Mom replied.
“Well,” said Todd’s mom. “That’s the same Bible that we use. I wonder why we never saw that before.”
Mom was on a roll now! “We will all be resurrected as Jesus Christ was, which means that we will all live again, just as Jamie was telling Todd. In 1 Corinthians 15:21–22, it says, ‘For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead.
“‘For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.’” [1 Cor. 15:21–22]
They just stood there in silence for a moment; then Todd’s mom began quietly, “I guess I owe you an apology, Jamie. I never knew that was all in the Bible.”
“That’s OK,” I said.
“Does that mean,” began Todd, brightening again,” does that mean that Jamie was right and that I will see Grandma again?”
“It seems so,” said Todd’s mom.
“We’ll have to do some studying. We’ll probably be back to ask Jamie and his folks some more questions.”
“Great!” I said. “Anytime.”
Well, that’s how my day ended. Things turned out OK after all, and you know what? Todd’s family had the missionaries over the other night! They invited us over too. It was really great to see the missionaries teach my best friend the gospel. I hope that someday I can find the right scriptures quickly, as Mom and the missionaries do. Mom says that it just takes practice. So here it is—I’ve found my first scripture for you: “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live” (John 11:25).

“What’s this?” I said to myself as I walked into my bedroom and saw a vase and flower on the dresser. It was a bud vase of green glass, with a yellow ribbon tied around it. It held a red velvet rose, made with obvious care and skill.
I knew my 15-year-old daughter, Ellen, had made flowers like this before, usually for friends or to give away as presents. But why would she be giving one to me? Though we rarely quarrel, she and I had quarreled earlier in the day, and the storm clouds between us had not yet evaporated.
And what was this—a note addressed to me? I opened it and read:
“Dear mom, this may seem like a small thing to give, and it may only be a copy of the real thing, but it still has the beauty of a real rose. This rose isn’t real, though, and that’s on purpose. Because real roses die. But this one will always be alive. And so will the love I have for my mother. Even though it sometimes seems that I don’t love you, I do love you.
“Just like when there’s dust on the rose and you blow it away and everything seems new, the same is true when we’re upset. Blow the dust away and our love shines clean and new. I love you, mom. I always will.”
Tears dropped down my cheeks. I felt ashamed for not having been the first to apologize, but Ellen had apologized first. She had more than cleared the problems between us. She had given me a gift of love.
We still disagree occasionally, but now we both know how superficial that dust on our relationship is, and we have learned to quickly blow it off. After we have, then, with warmth and tender appreciation, I walk into the bedroom and blow the dust off my velvet rose, too.

One day my mom decided to make a treat for my sisters before they came home from school. We needed a couple of things from downstairs, so I went down with her. Mom was pulling out the brown sugar when she suddenly told me to move. I wasn’t even close to the brown sugar, but I moved, and just a second later a glass jar fell down right where I had been standing. I am glad that I obeyed my mom because broken glass was all over the place, and I didn’t even get hurt.

Elder Hunter related an experience he had during the time he served as president of the Genealogical Society: “I went to see President McKay one day after a computer representative told me that his company had developed a cylinder that would hold a billion bits of information. I was excited! This was a break-through for genealogical record keeping. As I told President McKay about it, I said, ‘Isn’t that marvelous?’ He replied, ‘What’s marvelous about that? You haven’t had use for it before, have you?’ I replied, ‘No, we are just at that point now.’ And he said, ‘Well, that’s the reason the Lord has provided it now.’”

I got invited to a birthday party for a boy in my class. I was super excited. My mom told me the party was on a Sunday. She said I could make the choice about going to the party. I really wanted to go, but I knew that we are supposed to keep the Sabbath day holy. I told my mom I knew the right choice—I was going to skip the party. We took a present to my friend’s house on Saturday. I asked his mom if we could play on another day and explained why I couldn’t go to the party. I know I will be blessed because I chose the right and decided to keep the Sabbath day holy.

To a child of seven, the phrase “a judge in Israel” seemed much too profound a term to understand. In my teenage years, however, I learned that this was a phrase used to describe a bishop. I couldn’t imagine myself being a bishop, but I knew that if I was going to be one, I’d better live worthily. I charted a course that included honesty, high standards, and moral cleanliness. (And eventually, I was called to be a bishop, by men who did not know of that patriarchal promise.)

I carried my patriarchal blessing with me during service in the United States Navy in World War II. I had grown up in Taylorsville, Utah, sheltered and shy, the product of a tranquil pioneer community. I now entered a harsher life, where oaths and profanity were common, where some men made bragging about sexual exploits part of their daily ritual. But again, my patriarchal blessing served as a beacon. Its promises gave me hope that I could stay clean, that I could survive the conflict and live to serve in our Heavenly Father’s kingdom.

Throughout my mission in Europe, a phrase in my patriarchal blessing about preaching the gospel in power reminded me I was on the Lord’s errand, and therefore I should speak with authority. When I returned home and began searching for a wife, I knew I must find someone who would help me be worthy. After all, my patriarchal blessing made reference to the joys of a righteous posterity. Today, I am thrilled to go to the temple with my six children and their companions, and I do find joy and rejoicing in my posterity.

There is one sentence in my patriarchal blessing that has always intrigued me. It says, “You shall see great progress in the work of the Lord; for Zion shall be the head and not the heel.” This phrase has repeatedly come to my mind in recent times as we all have observed the growth and progress of the Lord’s Church throughout the entire world.

I can truly say that my patriarchal blessing, though short, has been a guide to me during my entire life. Your patriarchal blessing can do the same for you, if you read it often and chart your course by it. In these challenging times, when you are faced with temptations and pressures to compromise your beliefs, a patriarchal blessing can be the source of great strength that will instill faith in a loving, personal Heavenly Father.

How do you obtain a patriarchal blessing? Begin the formal process by talking to your bishop. He can answer questions and help you prepare. When you’re ready, he’ll give you a recommend.

Bishops are instructed to issue recommends only to those who are old enough and have been in the Church long enough to appreciate the sacred nature of the blessing.

The blessing is given in private, although a few family members may be present. Come to your appointment in an attitude of humility and prayer. You might also choose to fast.

Don’t compare blessings or share them, except with close family members. They should not be read in Church meetings or public gatherings.

A patriarchal blessing is not having your fortune told. It is a source of guidance as you grow in maturity and spirituality. As with all blessings, the fulfillment of your patriarchal blessing depends on personal worthiness and staying close to the Spirit.

Patriarchal blessings are not just for the future. The experience of receiving one is a blessing itself, an experience of learning firsthand how important and wonderful you are in the Lord’s sight. Just the same, you may have some concerns.

I’m not sure if I’m old enough or ready enough for a patriarchal blessing.
Why not talk it over with your parents or your bishop? Ask them if they think you are old enough and if you’re ready.

Can my parents tell me about their own patriarchal blessings?
If your parents have received their blessings, ask if there are portions they would feel comfortable sharing with you. You will probably find you are one of the blessings they were promised. For example, if they were promised righteous posterity, you are an important link in that chain.

What if my parents aren’t members of the Church or don’t support me in Church activities?
Check with your bishop or patriarch—they may have suggestions about how to appropriately include your parents.

I don’t feel worthy to receive a patriarchal blessing.
If you feel unworthy, become worthy. Put your life in order. Talk to your parents and to your bishop if necessary. But also remember that we’re all learning and growing. One of the important reasons for obtaining your patriarchal blessing is to receive guidance and strength.

I’m afraid the Lord will reveal what he expects of me, and then I’ll be obligated.
Actually, the Lord has already revealed many things he expects of you: righteousness, obedience, compassion, honesty. You’ve been taught about them all your life. And you’ve already made commitments—at baptism, each time you take the sacrament, when you receive the priesthood. Remember, a patriarchal blessing is an expression of the Lord’s love for you personally. More than anything else, it will help you understand through the Spirit your own marvelous potential and some of the great blessings the Lord has in store for you as you keep his commandments.

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar. Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
In those days my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several such dolls were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper.
“If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and me mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm.
“We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“Ye’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it, but,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for ’tis a shame to waste good food.”
He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat. He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste.
We gave him the blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old, would-be sophisticate the plastic beads.
We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.”
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree.
“’Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction. “I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more. The sophisticate, I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the toy car for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?”
I produced them, wondering. She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”
She saw me looking and she explained: “’Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

“You need glasses! You wouldn’t know a foul if it knocked you over!” Melvin sputtered at the referee.
“That’s it! You’re out,” the referee yelled back.
Melvin stomped off the court. He dropped onto the bench and glared at the floor.
The coach sat down beside him. “Do you know what this means?”
Melvin nodded without looking up. “I set a new record.”
“More than that,” the coach said. “It worked again.”
Melvin knew what was coming. He’d heard it before—how the other team knew that if they could get him angry enough, he’d lose his temper and get thrown out of the game. But he couldn’t help himself. He got so mad that if he didn’t do something, he’d explode.
“You’re the best player I have,” the coach said. “You just have to keep your cool!”
The final buzzer sounded. The coach yelled something about next Friday’s championship game as Melvin stalked off the court. “Fourteen times!” he muttered, pounding his fist into his hand. He had just broken the school basketball record for technical fouls on one player. It wasn’t an achievement he was proud of.
Who needs refs anyway! Melvin thought, suddenly glad he had invited his buddies over for a friendly game of baseball.
They were already gathering in his backyard by the time he arrived. Soon they were laughing and playing ball together in the small park down the street.
In the first inning, an opposing batter hit a towering shot to deep left field. As he rounded third base and headed for home, Melvin screamed, “Throw me the ball!”
There was a satisfying thump as ball connected with glove, and Melvin tagged the runner. “You’re out!” he proclaimed triumphantly.
“Safe!” the runner yelled back.
“Uh-uh, I tagged you.”
Everyone started yelling at once.
“He slid under your mitt!”
“He’s safe—I was standing right there!”
“He touched the base before you touched him!”
Finally Melvin jumped atop a bench and yelled, “I got him out! You guys are as blind as bats. If you can’t play baseball right, then maybe …” His voice trailed off. The boys were picking up their gloves and leaving.
Melvin dragged home and slumped onto the stump of a tree cut down several years before. He picked at the dirt that filled the holes in the dry wood.
Suddenly his older brother, Mike, sat down beside him. “Short game, huh?”
“Yeah,” Melvin said quietly. “Every time I open my mouth, something bad happens.”
“How about just every time you open your mouth in anger?”
Melvin shrugged.
“I bet you don’t know how all those holes got in that stump,” his brother challenged.
Melvin shook his head.
“I put them there.” Getting up, Mike went to the garage and returned with a bucket of rusty nails and a hammer. “Who do you think set the previous record for technical fouls at your school?”
Melvin’s eyes widened. “You?”
His brother chuckled. “It would’ve been a lot higher if Dad hadn’t shown me how he learned to control his temper.” He pulled a nail out of the bucket. “These have been pounded in and pulled out of this old stump at least a hundred times each.”
“Will it keep me from getting angry?” Melvin asked.
“No. I wish it were that easy. You’ll probably still feel angry—at least for a while. But what you do with that anger … Well, after a little practice, you can begin to control that.”
Melvin took the hammer. With an easy swing, he drove the nail deep into the old stump. Then he pounded another, and another.
By dinnertime Melvin had pounded more than fifty nails, and the anger had melted away.
Over the next week, Melvin visited the stump almost every day. Sometimes he went before he lost his temper and started yelling or throwing things. Other times he went afterward and worked out the rest of the anger.
The day of the championship game arrived. The school gym was filled with students. Melvin checked his shoelaces one final time. The buzzer sounded, starting the game.
Feet pounded up and down the court. Back and forth the ball changed hands. Melvin snatched the ball from an opponent and raced toward the basket.
Wham!
Melvin tumbled to the floor. He rolled over in time to see the grinning face of the boy who had just knocked him down.
Melvin jumped to his feet, his heart racing. Jaw clenched and blood vessels bulging, he stalked over to his opponent. Part of him wanted to shove the boy back and yell at the referee, “Are you blind? Aren’t you going to call a foul?” Part of him wished he was home at the backyard stump so that he could pound out his anger before he lost his temper.
Suddenly Melvin had an idea. He balled up the fist of his right hand and opened flat his left hand. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Over and over he pounded as if his fist were the hammer and his palm the stump, until he felt himself gain control. Then he turned and walked away from his bewildered opponent.
Early in the second half, Melvin faked his man out of position and drove to the basket. At the last second, the other team’s tall center stepped into his path. Wham! They both went spinning to the floor as the ref’s whistle blew. “Charging!” the ref shouted, pointing at Melvin.
Melvin jumped to his feet. Charging? he was screaming inside his head. He didn’t have position, you idiot! But outwardly he merely pounded his palm as hard as he could. The ref looked him over, fingered his whistle, then turned and gave the ball to the center to throw inbounds.
The game continued. Late in the second half, with the score tied, Melvin sprinted downcourt, leading a fast break. He caught a full-court pass on the run, dribbled once, and gathered himself for an easy lay-up.
Whack! Melvin was pushed hard from behind and went sprawling into a row of spectators behind the basket, barely missing the basket support. A whistle sounded. Without even looking to see who had pushed him, Melvin began pounding his fist. But this time it sounded louder. Melvin opened his eyes to see the other students smacking their fists in rhythm with each other. With each supporting thwack of the students’ hands, Melvin became more determined to finish the game without losing control.
When the final buzzer sounded, Melvin jumped about and high-fived the rest of the team—and not only because they were the champions. He had won a much more important victory: He had kept his cool. He had finished a whole game without a technical foul! It was a new record—one that he was not ashamed of. He looked into the crowd and found Mike giving him the thumbs-up sign.

My family visited a ranch where I got to ride a white horse. Another horse spooked him, and all of a sudden he was running away with me. I was bouncing about and holding on for dear life. Finally I fell off! The only parts of me that got hurt were my right foot and the top part of my leg. Everyone said that I held on for a long time and landed well. I know that Heavenly Father helped me so I wouldn’t get hurt badly. I know that He protects us all, and that we should thank Him.Audrey M., age 10, Washington

I’m a yoga instructor, and when I’m teaching, I always strive to help others feel loved and connected to the Spirit like I do. At the head of the class, I can see everyone’s body language, which usually allows me to see the uncomfortable emotions they may be holding on to.

One morning I noticed a young woman in my class. I could see through each movement that she was sad and trying to let go of something heavy in her life.

After class, I felt a prompting from the Spirit to ask her how she was doing. I felt sort of awkward about it, but when I remembered Christlike examples of ministering, I followed the prompting. I went up to this woman and told her I could listen if she needed someone to talk to.

She immediately started sharing her feelings and struggles with me.

I am grateful I listened to the Spirit and was able to have a vulnerable conversation with her. During our conversation, we felt the Spirit, and she expressed her gratitude that I listened to her. She said, “The Savior places people in our paths to love and support us—to help us. I am grateful He’s leading me to friends who lift me up.”

“When Elder [David A.] and Sister [Susan] Bednar were married, they consistently had family prayer, scripture study, and family home evening with their three sons. Sometimes things did not go well, and Elder and Sister Bednar wondered if their efforts were worthwhile. Now and then during scripture study there were outbursts such as, ‘He’s touching me!’ ‘Make him stop looking at me!’ and ‘Mom, he’s breathing my air!’ Family prayers were sometimes interrupted with giggling and poking. And family home evening lessons were not always calm with three active, noisy boys.
“But they kept trying.” 1

Not everyone can go to BYU, at least not in his freshman year when he lives only 15 miles from another college, Mark thought as he made his way to a desk in the large amphitheater prior to his first class at State College.
He glanced at the 60 other strangers who had also elected to take Sociology 119. Many of them were also freshmen, opening their cellophane-wrapped notebooks for the first time.
He looked to see if he could recognize any members of the Church. As far as he could tell, he was the only Mormon on campus.
Two rows ahead of him was a girl who caught his attention. It was not her long hair flowing softly over her shoulders or her high cheek bones that caught his eye. She was reading a Bible.
The instructor, Dr. Guthrie, entered the classroom. He wore a turtleneck sweater and carried an old pipe that he carefully filled with tobacco as he waited for the bell to ring. He looked to be about 30 years old. Mark’s adviser had told him that Dr. Guthrie was one of the most popular teachers on campus. He had won teaching awards for the past three years.
Dr. Guthrie began his lecture by telling the class that he was a little “hung over” from a party the night before, but that he’d try to muddle through. He opened with a joke.
Mark looked around at the others in the class. For the most part they were happy to find an instructor who was “human.”
Dr. Guthrie talked for a few minutes about the course requirements, then switched to another joke that ended with a string of swear words.
The class roared its approval.
The girl in front of him raised her hand.
“Yes,” Dr. Guthrie said.
She stood up, cradling her Bible in her arms. She stood with dignity and said calmly, “I’m a Christian, Dr. Guthrie, and I believe the Bible is the word of God. The Bible teaches that taking the Lord’s name in vain is a sin.”
Mark stared at this beautiful girl with no make-up who had the courage to face 60 people and declare her standards. At the same time he felt embarrassed for her, knowing the reaction of the rest of the class.
Dr. Guthrie studied her thoughtfully for a moment, trying to decide whether to humiliate her in front of the class or let it go.
“What’s your name?”
“Sara Taylor.”
“Okay, Sara. Thank you. I’ll try and control my language.”
Dr. Guthrie examined his notes for several seconds, and then, looking up with a sly grin, announced, “Sara has just wiped out half my lecture.”
Loud laughter pulsed through the large amphitheater.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ve got four jokes I won’t be able to tell today, but if anybody wants to hear them,” he said, with a mischievous grin, “come down after class and I’ll whisper them to you.”
“Just send her out in the hall when you want to tell a joke,” someone suggested.
“I’m afraid she’d be in the hall all the time,” Dr. Guthrie kidded.
He’s the Pied Piper of State College, Mark thought.
After class, while the rest stayed to hear the jokes, Mark followed Sara out of the amphitheater into the hall.
“Sara?” he called after her.
“Yes?” she turned to face him.
“I agree with what you said about the Bible.”
“Do you? I didn’t hear you say anything in class.” She turned and hurried away.
As Mark drove the 15 miles home that night, he rehearsed in his mind that first class, trying to picture himself standing up as she had done. Deep down, however, he knew he couldn’t have done it.
As he drove, he remembered his disastrous first-grade school year in a small farm community, reliving the panic as he attempted to answer a teacher’s question but stuttered so badly she finally turned to someone else for the answer. On the playground that year, other boys in the class had mimicked him day after day until finally he would not even go out for recess.
They had moved to a larger town after that year, and careful professional therapy had helped him overcome the problem, but the emotional scars were still there. He couldn’t speak to large groups.
The next class started out with Dr. Guthrie being careful to control his speech. He was an excellent teacher, Mark had to admit, and only used the jokes as a diversion to keep everyone awake.
Halfway through the class, sensing students beginning to tire of sociology, he told a joke that would have made any truck driver blush. There was raucous laughter from a group of guys who sat on the last row.
Sara’s hand shot up again.
Dr. Guthrie saw her and, with a grin, announced, “Oh, oh, I’ve been a bad boy. Yes, Sara.”
Again she rose to her feet, and with a calm voice said, “The Bible teaches that adultery is a sin.”
“That may be true, Sara, but I don’t believe the Bible. I’m an agnostic, and any reference you make to the Bible is meaningless to me. I am more interested in what can be verified and proven. Please confine your statements to something having intellectual merit.”
She sat down. I wonder if Dr. Guthrie ever loses, Mark thought.
After class, Mark stopped her in the hall.
“Can I buy you a donut and a glass of milk?”
“Why?”
“I want to talk with you.”
They went to the student union cafeteria and found a table in the corner.
“Sara, I admire you for your courage.”
For the first time, she seemed to relax, realizing that he wasn’t going to argue with her.
“I know I don’t do it very well, but I have to say something. I just can’t let him walk over everything I cherish.”
That she dunked her donut in her milk made her seem a little more human to Mark.
She continued: “Before class today a girl came over and said that she hoped I wasn’t trying for a good grade in the class. I asked her if she had been quiet in class because of wanting a good grade, and she said, ‘Sure, I’ll believe whatever he wants me to believe for an A.’”
“Oh,” Mark said, feeling a little condemned by the story.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked as gently as she could.
He looked at her eyes, trying to decide if he could confide in her. She did not carry with her any arrogance.
“I’m afraid,” he answered honestly.
“Anybody would be nervous; that’s natural.”
“No, it’s more than that. When I was young, I had a speech problem. I overcame that, but the fear of being laughed at is still there.”
“Exodus, chapter 4, verses 10, 11, and 12 [Ex. 4:10–12],” she answered with a grin.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Here, I’ll write it down and you look it up later.” She wrote the reference on a napkin and gave it to him. He put it in his wallet.
“Are you a Christian?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, wondering how much more he should tell her.
“Someday you’re going to have to show it. Jesus will help you.”
He wondered why this girl, who had only a fraction of the scriptural knowledge about the Savior that he had could be so much better at showing her love for Him.
“Will you help me?” he asked her.
“Yes, of course.”
“Dr. Guthrie knows his business, but maybe we could be more effective if we could meet him in his own arena, you know, ‘intellectual merit.’ My Sunday School teacher is a trial lawyer. He knows how to present a case before a jury. I’m sure he’ll help us. Will you come with me to my Sunday School?”
“What church is that?” she asked.
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The one we go to is 15 miles from here. I could pick you up at your dorm.”
Sunday he picked her up at 7:30 in the morning so he could attend priesthood meeting. She attended a Sunday session of Relief Society.
After class he saw her coming out of the classroom. She was upset.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Take me back to the dorms or I’m walking.”
“Why?”
“This is the Mormon church.”
“Yes, that’s another name.”
“And you’re a Mormon?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been deceived,” she said, turning and walking quickly out of the building.
He ran after her. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Back to the dorm.” She stopped and accused him, “You’re not a Christian.”
“How can you say that? How could a church that is named after the Savior not be Christian?”
“What about the Book of Mormon?” she said. “That’s your Bible, isn’t it?”
She turned and ran from him. He ran after her. After half a block she slowed down to a fast walk. She wouldn’t allow him to walk beside her, and so he maintained a ten-foot distance behind her.
A few blocks from the church, a family driving to church who knew Mark stopped and asked him if he needed any help. He asked them to tell his parents that he’d be late. Before they left, he asked if he could borrow a copy of the Book of Mormon. They willingly agreed.
He had to run to catch up with Sara. By this time they were outside the small town and were walking along a gravel road that eventually led to the highway back to the college.
“Sara, you can’t walk 15 miles.”
“Watch me.”
“Sara, listen to me. I’m going to read you the flyleaf from the Book of Mormon.” She sped up, but Mark stayed close enough so she could hear him: “‘… to the convincing of the Jew and Gentile that Jesus is the Christ, the Eternal God, manifesting himself unto all nations …’”
“Do you have several wives?” she snapped.
“I don’t even have one, and if all women are as unreasonable as you, I may keep it that way.”
She kept on walking.
A few minutes later, he tried again. “Sara, I’m going to read from the Book of Mormon about the Savior. Did you know that he visited people in the New World after his resurrection?”
No answer.
Mark began reading aloud in chapter 11 of 3 Nephi [3 Ne. 11]. As he began, she again sped up, trying to get out of hearing range of his voice.
It was difficult to both read and watch where he was walking. He fell down once but quickly got up and continued.
After a few pages she slowed down.
He read aloud to her to the end of 3 Nephi. It took two hours.
Then, finally, she stopped and turned around. “What you’ve been reading, it’s in the Book of Mormon?”
“Yes.”
She began walking toward him. She passed him, standing there, and kept on going, now heading back to town.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
“Back to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Sara?” he called after her.
“What?” she asked, not breaking stride.
“Can I walk beside you?”
She stopped and turned around. It was the first smile he had seen from her that morning.
By the time they reached town, the other ward was about to begin their sacrament meeting. He ushered her to the second row.
It was fast and testimony meeting, and it was one of those meetings that you hope will never end. At one point he looked over and saw tears streaming down Sara’s face.
After the meeting they drove to the home of Brother Packard, who was a lawyer and Mark’s Sunday School teacher. He agreed to help them debate the concepts presented by Dr. Guthrie. They stayed so long that they were invited for a light supper. While Sara helped Sister Packard in the kitchen, Mark called his parents to explain what had happened. He also called the elders to arrange a time for the missionary discussions for Sara.
During the next week Mark and Sara prepared to debate the opinions of Dr. Guthrie. They spent several hours a day in the library taking notes from reports that would sustain their position in regard to chastity, family life, and use of drugs. They used a shoe box to file their notes. On Thursday they met with Brother Packard who coached them.
Friday night Sara received her first discussion.
On Saturday morning Mark took her rock climbing in the mountains near the college. She had never climbed before, so he chose an easy route.
The air was crisp, and the leaves on the aspen trees along the canyon had begun to turn various shades of gold and yellow. They were both quiet as they made their way up a rock cliff, talking only when necessary, somehow trying to disturb as little as possible the beauty around them.
Finally they reached the top of the rimrock and sat down. He pulled two apples from his small pack. They munched on the apples slowly and watched the morning progress into day.
She looks best out here, he thought to himself. On campus, if she were placed alongside a girl who uses make-up, Sara would look plain, but out here where simplicity is a mark of beauty, she looks good.
“Last night I woke up and started to cry,” she said quietly.
“What for?”
“The problem I face is, what if your teachings are true?”
“They are.”
“Mark, you can’t be right. God would’ve told more people. How many Mormons are there?”
“Four million.”
“And those four million are right, and everybody else is wrong?”
“The priesthood has been restored.”
“I know that’s what you believe.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked her. “What’s really bothering you?”
“Okay, I’ll tell you. My mother. All last night I worried about my mother. She’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” she said, fighting back the tears. While she waited to gain composure, she picked up a small gold leaf from the ground and examined it.
“My mother was a good person. Dad and Mom were always dedicated Christians. I never was. When I was 14, I rebelled against them. I did everything I could to hurt them. When I was 17, I ran away from home. I wound up in California, living with a group of other girls who had also left their homes. We were pretty wild.
“One day I went with some other girls to hear an evangelist speak. We went on a lark, but as he spoke, my heart softened and all the bitterness left me. I made a promise to dedicate my whole life to Jesus. As soon as I could scrape up the money, I took a bus home.
“All the way home on the bus, I thought how happy Mom and Dad would be to see that I’d finally accepted Jesus as my Savior. When I arrived home, I found that my mother had died four weeks earlier. She never saw me as a Christian. We were never united as a family.”
She let the leaf slip from her hand and fall to the ground. “What about my mother? Is she to be condemned for never hearing about Joseph Smith?”
He reached into his pack and pulled out his Bible and also his three-in-one combination.
“Do you have an answer?” she asked, surprised at seeing his broad smile.
“The most beautiful answer in the world,” he said, turning to the Pearl of Great Price.
In the afternoon they found a path in the woods and followed it for miles. They talked about many things, both large and small, but once, during their walk, she turned and asked if they could talk about the Savior, and it was like two people getting together and sharing news about a cherished friend whom neither had seen for some time, each sharing memories of his experience with that friend. Sara told of His mission to bring salvation to the world, and of His love for even those who have sinned. Mark told of His appearances to Joseph Smith and other prophets, and that He was speaking to a prophet in our day.
As he said good-bye to her at the dorm, she said, “Mark, I must tell my father that I’m learning about Mormonism. I owe him that.”
Sunday night she received the second missionary lesson.
Tuesday night he picked her up at the library at closing time, and they drove to a diner on the highway for a snack. She seemed very distant and tense as he drove.
When the waitress came to take their order, Sara said abruptly, “I’ll take a cup of coffee.”
After the waitress left, Mark asked, “Why? Why did you order coffee?”
“Why not? Do you think I’ll be damned if I have one cup? Are you that close-minded?”
“You’ve never ordered coffee before,” he argued.
“There’s no reason I can’t drink coffee. I’m not a Mormon, you know.” Her voice was sharp, her face hard.
“You’re drinking it just to spite me.”
The waitress put down two rolls and her cup of coffee and his glass of milk. Sara eagerly took a sip.
“Would you like some?” she taunted.
“No.”
“Why not? Afraid it will kill you?”
“Why are you acting this way?”
“My father received my letter today. He called me tonight after supper and read me some things about Mormonism from a book he’d found in the library. They are quite different from what you’ve been telling me.”
“And you’re going to believe him?”
“Why shouldn’t I? He’s my father.”
“Will you at least finish reading the Book of Mormon and taking the missionary lessons?”
“No. I’m through.”
“And so you’re just going to believe what is in some anti-Mormon book without completely investigating our teachings?”
“I’m past the rebellious stage. Do you know what I put my father through when I ran away from home? I can’t hurt him anymore. I love my father.” She hastily got up. “Good-bye, Mark.”
She hurried out of the diner. He threw down a dollar bill on the counter and ran after her.
“Where are you going?” he asked, running to catch up with her as she ran along the side of the road.
She stopped to confront him. “Leave me alone!” she yelled. “Go find someone else to convert!”
“Look, you say you love your father. Fine. I’d expect that of you. But do you love your mother?”
“She’s dead.”
“I believe she’s waiting for you to accept the message of the Restoration. At least give me five minutes.”
They turned and walked back toward his car. He drove her to the parking lot near her dorm and parked the car. During that time, he tried to decide what to say, praying in his mind for help.
“Sara, you know a lot about the Bible. I want to talk about something that is in the Bible. When Jesus was on the earth, he was not accepted by most people as the Messiah. One of the reasons was that he was from Galilee, but the scriptures testified that the Messiah would come from Bethlehem. Do you agree with me on that?”
“Yes, but he was born in Bethlehem.”
“I know. Hundreds of people rejected him because others, some of them influential and smart men, ‘proved’ that Jesus was not a true messenger. Any one of those people who rejected him could have asked Jesus about the apparent contradiction, and he would have told them that he had been born in Bethlehem.”
“I wouldn’t want to have made that mistake,” she said.
“Sara, don’t reject our message just because someone says that we’re wrong. Study it out. Finish reading the Book of Mormon. Finish the missionary lessons. Pray and ask God if it’s true. That’s all I’ll ever ask. Will you do that much?”
She studied his face carefully for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders and replied, “Okay, I will do that.”
Just before she left him outside the dorm, she reached out and held his hands. “Mark, I think we had better quit seeing each other. I will do as you’ve asked, but I don’t want to feel any pressure to accept your teachings because of my feelings for you. That wouldn’t be honest.”
And so they quit seeing each other except in their sociology class. Mark asked the missionaries after every discussion about her progress. She was having a difficult time.
Sara continued to voice her opposition to some of Dr. Guthrie’s views, but it was in her own way, and many in the class enjoyed seeing Dr. Guthrie systematically destroy her arguments.
Mark inherited the shoe box with references on recipe cards because Sara did not feel comfortable using them, but he had not yet spoken in class. The fear of being laughed at, as he had been when young, prevented him from speaking out. At night he would resolve that tomorrow would be different. He would practice in front of his mirror what he would say. But when morning came, he faltered.
Sara never did falter.
Another month rolled by. As Mark began his fast on Saturday, he decided to pray for help so that he could overcome his fear of speaking. He spent the afternoon in his bedroom praying for help.
Sunday morning, as he drove to priesthood meeting, he was stopped by the state police.
“Could I see your driver’s license?” the officer asked.
“Here it is,” Mark said, pulling it out from his wallet. “Is something wrong?”
“Your back license plate is about to fall off. You better get it fixed before you lose it.”
“Thanks. I’ll take care of it right away.”
After the policeman had left, Mark put his driver’s license back into his wallet. He noticed a small piece of napkin tucked in with the other cards. He pulled it out. There was writing on it—Exodus, chapter 4, verses 10, 11, and 12 [Ex 4:10–12]. He read the scripture while still parked alongside the road.
He saw Sara at church and went with her to the class taught by the missionaries. Near the end of the class, one of the elders asked what her reactions were after learning about the Church.
“It’s been very interesting,” she said lightly. “I think everyone should learn about other beliefs.”
Mark turned to her, “Is that all you can say?”
“What am I supposed to say? I told you my father doesn’t want me to become a Mormon.”
“Is the message true?” Mark asked. “That’s the first question to answer.”
“I love Jesus,” she answered. “Isn’t that enough?”
“How much do you love him? Enough to be baptized into his church? Enough to follow a prophet who receives revelation from Jesus?”
“Mark, when we’re together, why is it that I always end up crying?”
“Sara,” one of the missionaries gently asked, “will you pray and ask God if the Book of Mormon is true?”
She stared at the wall for several seconds. Finally she answered quietly, “I don’t need to ask. It is true. I’ve known that for days.”
“If you know that, will you be baptized?”
“Don’t you understand? I love my father. All he’s ever wanted from life is that I follow in his faith. He doesn’t want me to be a Mormon. It would hurt him deeply, and I’ve already hurt him so much. How can I ask him to let me be baptized?”
Mark placed his hand on her shoulder. “Once you gave me an answer for one of my problems. You told me, ‘Jesus will help you.’ Sara, he’ll help you too.”
On Monday, Mark arrived late and didn’t get to talk to Sara before class. Dr. Guthrie stated that they would discuss changes in the past ten years regarding dating and marriage. He quoted a number of surveys that showed a marked change in these areas.
“Have these changes been healthy?” he asked. “I think they have. The old religious philosophy of damnation for doing what was labeled sin is almost gone, and good riddance.”
Sara objected. “I believe that kind of physical intimacy is reserved for marriage.”
“And who reserved it only for marriage?” Dr. Guthrie asked, obviously baiting her.
“God,” she answered.
“I see,” he said with a smirk that was shared by many in the class. The group of guys on the back row began to boisterously sing “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Dr. Guthrie smiled and asked them to stop.
“Sara, I’m afraid your opinion is fast leaving the contemporary scene. Does anyone else feel the way Sara does?”
Mark knew that he must finally defend his beliefs.
“I do,” he said boldly, standing up to face Dr. Guthrie.
“Oh?” Dr. Guthrie asked, surprised at finding anyone else who would support Sara’s position. “And are you going to quote the Bible too?”
“Dr. Guthrie, I can understand that two people may have an honest difference of opinion, but you have delighted in making Sara look bad. I felt the implication from you that anyone who believes in Christianity is foolish. And I have sat by and let you do it. I should have stood long ago to defend my beliefs, but I didn’t. This is hard for me to do. Is there anyone else in here who has felt uncomfortable with the way Dr. Guthrie has treated Sara?”
A girl’s hand went up. Then another. Slowly, soberly, others raised their hands until there were 15 hands in the air.
“Thank you,” Mark continued. “You seem to take great sport in poking fun at the Bible. Have you ever read the Bible?”
“No. Not completely. I’ve got more important things to do.”
“Is it fair then to say that you are not an authority on the Bible?”
Dr. Guthrie’s smile had disappeared. “Yes.”
“On what basis do you choose to reject a book you’ve never read?”
“That’s beside the point. This is a sociology class.”
“I’ll get to that in a minute, but will you agree that there may be merit to the teachings of the Bible, but Bible study has been outside your area of expertise, and so we may treat your opinions on that subject differently than we might were you to speak about your area of research? Is that a fair statement?”
“Yes,” Dr. Guthrie said grimly.
“Thank you. I’d like to make one small suggestion about your teaching. I can see why you are rated so highly as a teacher. You deserve the tribute you receive. However, I have noticed that you seldom present more than one side of any issue. That to me is not very scholarly.”
Mark wished he had time to write out what he was saying in order to filter it. He was making mistakes, angering Dr. Guthrie, but he had to muddle through as best he could. He felt the sweat pouring down his shirt, and he knew that he was blushing.
“Last week you chose to speak about the legalization of marijuana. The week before we discussed open-coed dorms. In each of these issues your opinion matched that of the majority of the class. Today we will discuss a subject that, when we are through, will end up with you agreeing with the majority of the class that traditional religious sanctions on dating are old-fashioned. I am curious why you have chosen topics upon which you must know beforehand that there will be agreement between you and the class. Is that the price you pay for popularity as a teacher?”
There was utter silence in the room.
Too strong, Mark thought.
“Are you through?” Dr. Guthrie asked curtly.
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I don’t want to change anything in the class except to add a more balanced approach to the topics we discuss. If you would not be offended, I am prepared to present tomorrow an opposing viewpoint to your position concerning the subject of dating standards.”
After class Sara met him in the hall. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “Can we go for a walk?”
It was snowing lightly that morning. Large flakes settled gently on the lawn and trees and her hair.
“I called my dad this morning, and I told him that I loved him, and that I loved my mother—more now than ever before. I told him that Jesus has restored his gospel to the earth. I told him that this church holds the only opportunity that our family can ever have to be united together in heaven. I asked him to give me permission to be baptized. Mark, he said yes.”
He threw his arms around her, lifted her off her feet, and they spun around and around until they both fell down on the snow, laughing, crying, bubbling.
In a few minutes they continued their walk.
“After I talked to my father, I phoned Sister Packard and asked her to help me fill out a form so that someone can be baptized for my mother in the temple.”
“You’ve had a busy morning,” he said.
“We’ve both had a busy morning,” she said, squeezing his hand as they approached the cafeteria. “But you know what? It’s just the beginning of busy mornings and afternoons for both of us.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“This morning, when I phoned the missionaries to tell them I wanted to be baptized, we also talked about something else. Who do we need to contact about setting up an LDS institute program on campus?”

It is often difficult to know what the most important things are. We are blessed to raise our children in a time when the gospel has been restored and when God has called prophets to help us with decision making. I am grateful for the direction given us by President Ezra Taft Benson. In preparing for this talk,I have studied again his counsel regarding the ways that mothers can bless the lives of their children. I would like to share my experience in implementing one of his suggestions.
President Benson counseled us, as have other prophets, to read the scriptures as a family each day. For the past several years, our family has been trying to do that. Last year, however, I noticed a problem developing. Our children practice musical instruments, and I encourage them to do this in the morning when there are fewer distractions. But sometimes they would go to bed late and get up late. On those days they would not have enough time to finish practicing, dress, eat, and read the scriptures before going out the door. The activity usually slighted was scripture study. Sometimes we would read a verse or two, and sometimes we’d say we’d get to it after school, but our efforts were inconsistent. This year I realized that my priorities were wrong. It occurred to me that I might be conveying to the children that the study of music was more important than the study of the gospel. I decided that on those mornings when time was short, we would study the scriptures and postpone music practice. I want to bear you my testimony that I have felt a great peace as we have followed the counsel of the prophet in this matter.

Now that I had a testimony of the restored gospel, what about my ministry? I still had 10 months left in my contract as a minister. After much prayer and counseling with God, I decided to complete my service. For the next 10 months, I continued to share traditional Bible truths, but when possible I added the perspective of the restored gospel. People resonated with those truths, and my little flock grew from 20 to nearly 150.