Gospel Story Finder

For some reason as Peter Nordhoff walked through the room, the words he heard from the television made him stop. General conference was being broadcast, and his wife, who had been recently reactivated through the fellowship of a friend, was watching.
Peter and Adrina had been raised in the Church and married in the temple, but for nearly ten years they had not been involved much with the Church. At first, his work kept him busy on Sundays. When that changed, they used Sundays to relax together.
But that conference Sunday changed their lives. “The words of a prophet of God affected me,” Peter says. “The Spirit spoke to me through God’s mouthpiece. It was like a second birth for me. Listening to the prophet helped me realize that I must start doing the things I was supposed to be doing if I wanted my wife and daughter near me in eternity.” Later that day, Peter and Adrina went to their bishop.
“We went from less-active to overactive very quickly,” recalls Adrina, smiling.

Joseph F. Smith was called on a mission when he was fifteen years old. He served in the Hawaiian Islands for over three years.
After his mission, he was traveling through California with a small group of men while returning to the Salt Lake Valley.
One afternoon, a mob of drunken men on horses rode into their camp. They were swearing, shooting their guns, and yelling, “Kill the Mormons!”
The other men in the camp ran and hid in the bushes by the creek. Joseph F. was gathering firewood. Why should I run from those men? he thought.
The leader of the mob rode up to Joseph F. and aimed a gun at him. “It’s my duty to kill every Mormon. Are you a Mormon?” he yelled.
Joseph F. stood tall. He looked the mob leader in the eyes. “Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.”
The mob leader was surprised. “Well you are the … pleasantest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow. I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.”
Then the mob rode off. Joseph F. and the other men were not harmed.

When I was elders quorum president of the Cambridge Ward in Boston, Massachusetts, we found that we often lost track of incoming LDS students during the first few days of their arrival to attend universities in the area. Some of them never did seem to be associated with us in a strong, active way. We developed a program called Project 48. It offered incoming students who would be members of our elders quorum a chance to stay with a quorum member for 48 hours. The quorum member helped the newcomer find a place to live (we kept a list of available apartments). Quorum members offered friendship and brotherhood to the arriving student and made sure he knew his way around.
We bonded many new arrivals to our quorum this way. We didn’t lose them during the first critical hours in a new environment. Twenty-five years later, Project 48 is still being used to welcome students in the Boston area.

Danny was always drawing doodles. He drew doodles around the pictures in his coloring books. He drew doodles on his drawing paper. Sometimes he even drew doodles on his bedroom walls. But most often Danny drew doodles at school when he should have been studying.
Miss Phillips, Danny’s teacher, wanted him to learn to read. Danny’s father and mother wanted him to learn to read. Even Danny’s little brother, Tommy, wanted him to learn to read so that Danny could read stories to him when their mother was busy with the baby. And Danny wanted to learn to read so he could read all of the books he saw on the shelves in the library.
When Miss Phillips said, “Class, it’s time to read now!” Danny took out his reading book, his marker, his writing tablet, and his pencil. But instead of reading, Danny kept his pencil busy drawing doodle drawings. Doodle here, doodle there, doodle everywhere! Before long Danny had forgotten all about learning to read.
Time went so fast when Danny was drawing doodles that he was surprised one Monday morning to hear Miss Phillips say, “Class, reading time is over and it’s time for recess now.” Danny was even more surprised to hear Miss Phillips say, “Danny, will you please stay inside while the other children go out to play?”
“Yes, Miss Phillips,” Danny answered meekly.
Oh dear, thought Danny, Miss Phillips must have seen me drawing doodles again!
Danny sat quietly in his seat and watched his friends hurry outside to play. Soon Miss Phillips asked him to come up to her desk.
“Danny, how many pages did you read today?” Miss Phillips asked.
“Two pages,” Danny mumbled.
“That isn’t very much reading, is it?” Miss Phillips went on.
“No, Miss Phillips,” Danny admitted.
“You were drawing doodles again, weren’t you, Danny?” she questioned.
“Yes, Miss Phillips.”
“Danny, I know doodles are fun, but reading is fun too and very important. I have an idea,” said Miss Phillips. “If you will spend one whole week reading during reading time and not drawing doodles, then I’ll let you teach the art lesson to the class for one day and everyone can draw doodles. How does that sound, Danny?”
Danny’s face lit up, “Oh, that would be fun, Miss Phillips! Will you draw doodles too?”
“Yes, Danny, I will draw doodles too,” Miss Phillips answered, “and we can put our pictures up on the bulletin board for all the parents to see when they come to school.”
All that week Danny worked hard. Danny read lots and lots of pages in his reading book. Whenever he started to doodle, Danny would quietly put his pencil down on the desk. Then he would look up at Miss Phillips and smile.
The next Monday Danny taught the art class and showed everyone how to draw doodles. Danny had had more practice than many of his friends, even Miss Phillips, so of course his doodles were a little better than any of the others. When all of the boys and girls were through with their doodling, Miss Phillips arranged the pictures on the bulletin board.
That night the parents came to visit. They saw the desks and books, and then they saw the bulletin board where Miss Phillips had printed the words DANNY’S DOODLES. All the doodle pictures were there.
Danny’s mother saw his doodles. “That one looks just like a boy reading a book!” she laughed.
“Yes, it does,” Danny’s father agreed.
Miss Phillips was standing nearby. Her eyes twinkled as she said, “And Danny told me today that he had decided that reading can be as much fun as drawing doodles.”

Vítor lived with his mother and sister at his Grandma Deny’s home. Vítor’s grandma became ill and could not leave her bed for many weeks. She was lonely in her room by herself.
Vítor decided that he could keep Grandma Deny company. Every day when he came home from school, he took a copy of the Liahona into Grandma’s room and read her stories from the children’s pages.
After he read all the copies of the Liahona that his family had, he began reading the Book of Mormon and the Bible to her. Grandma Deny was not a member of the Church, but she loved hearing Vítor read to her. She was happy to learn about the gospel.
Grandma asked many questions. If Vítor did not know the answers, he asked his Primary teacher or looked in the scriptures. Grandma called Vítor her little missionary.
Grandma Deny told Vítor that she had learned a lot from him. She promised that she would attend church with him when she got well. What she had learned made her want to get better and study more about the gospel.
When Grandma was well, she kept her promise. She went to church with Vítor to learn more about what he had taught her. It was not long before Grandma was baptized and confirmed. Vítor had helped her learn that the gospel is true.
When Vítor grew up, he became a full-time missionary in the Boston Massachusetts Mission. Before he left, he went to the temple—with Grandma Deny.

Wow! What can I say about that super article “Hasty” in the November New Era? It came across to me with immense spiritual power. My companion and I are teaching an old man who fits the description of Hasty. He’s so lonely. His wife died recently, and he had retired into a world of his own when we tracted him out. Every time we drop by to see him it seems to brighten up his day and ours. I’m sure it’s because we bring with us the message of the restoration of the gospel.
Elder Harold Z. StanderFlorida Tallahassee Mission

A young sister shared that she often feels nervous about ministering because she doesn’t know how others will respond. I asked how she works through that. She smiled and said, “I go—and it usually turns out much better than I thought.” She exercises faith, and the Lord helps her.
As we minister in faith, we do not go alone. The Lord will be with us. He will “provide [the] means whereby [we] can accomplish the thing which he has commanded”—including the blessing of God’s priesthood power as we keep our covenants and His priesthood authority to represent Him through our assignment. The Lord knows the hearts of those we minister to. He loves them and He loves you. He will help you to bless them in the ways they need.

We have two dogs, Lady and Boo. We were going to go and fly our kites for family home evening when the dogs got out of the backyard and ran away.
We went to look for them. Our dad took the truck, and we took the van with my mom. We drove around and looked for a long time, but we couldn’t find them. Then my mom suggested that we say a prayer and ask for help. I said the prayer. I asked Heavenly Father to help guide me to find the dogs and prayed that they would be OK.
Right after I said the prayer, I thought about the dogs, and then I had a feeling about where we should go. I told my mom that we needed to go straight for a long time. When we got to the right street, I told my mom to turn right. We turned toward a church, and I told my mom to keep going. Then I told my mom that I had a feeling that next time we needed to turn left, but that it was not for a little while.
My mom was afraid that we were getting too far away, but I had a feeling that it was the right way. When we got to the church, I told my mom to turn left. The dogs were right in front of us! I had followed the Spirit, and with the Lord’s help I was able to lead my mom right to the dogs.
Lady had gone for a swim in the canal, so she was all muddy, but they were just fine. My dad came and picked them up in the truck, and we brought them home.
We said a thank-you prayer, and then we were able to go and fly our kites. I am so thankful that Heavenly Father answered my prayer. I learned that following the Spirit is the best. I’m glad that my dogs, Lady and Boo, are OK.

Each of us has his own way of remembering. At Christmastime I take delight in visiting the widows and widowers from the ward where I served as bishop. There were eighty-seven then, just eight today. On such visits, I never know what to expect, but this I do know: visits like these provide for me the Christmas spirit, which is, in reality, the Spirit of Christ.
Come with me, and we’ll together make a call or two.
At a nursing home on First South, we might interrupt, as I did a few years ago, a professional football game. There, before the TV, were seated two widows. They were warmly and beautifully dressed—and absorbed in the game. I asked, “Who’s winning?” They responded, “We don’t even know who’s playing, but at least it’s company.” I sat between those two angels and explained the game of football. I enjoyed the best contest I can remember. I may have missed a meeting, but I harvested a memory.
Let’s hurry along to Redwood Road. There is a much larger home here where many widows reside. Most are seated in the well-lighted living room. But in her bedroom, alone, is one on whom I must call. She hasn’t spoken a word since a devastating stroke some years ago. But then, who knows what she hears, so I speak of good times together. There isn’t a flicker of recognition, not a word spoken. In fact, an attendant asks if I am aware that this patient hasn’t uttered a word for years. It makes no difference. Not only have I enjoyed my one-sided conversation with her—I have communed with God.

“Genealogy is addicting,” the Rexburg, Idaho, resident says. After school and on weekends, you’ll find the sixth grader working as a family history assistant at the Upper Snake River Valley Family History Center at Ricks College. Because he’s so young, some folks find it hard to believe he knows so much. After all, family history is a bit perplexing. That is, until they ask him a question and discover he really does know what he’s talking about.
“Once I’ve helped them, they will sometimes come in and ask, ‘Does Josh know something about that?’” he says. Even one of his trainers, Elder Melvin Dickerson of Rexburg, a former full-time family history missionary, was a bit skeptical at first. “We don’t run a baby-sitting service,” he said more than once.
But Elder Dickerson quickly changed his mind when he discovered Josh was serious about the work. “He learned very fast,” he says. “He just gobbled everything up. He was incredible, and still is.”
While the use of computers is sometimes a stumbling block to some researchers, Josh is adept. Dickerson adds, “He is still a young child in some ways, but when it comes to family history, he knows how to do it and how to run the computers.”

The raspberries were red, ripe, and juicy. Whitney had never seen quite so many. Mom had bought several large containers when they were on sale, and now she wanted Whitney to help her make jam. Whitney loved jam on toast in the mornings or on hot rolls when they came out of the oven. Her mouth watered at the thought of the treat.
Mom lifted a sack of sugar out of the storage bucket. “Start putting the raspberries in the strainer,” she instructed. “Then run them under the water in the sink until they’re clean. Be sure to pick out any bits of leaves you find.”
Whitney filled the strainer, cleaned the berries, and dumped them into a big bowl. She refilled the strainer and went through the process again and again. It hardly felt like work to her.
After Mom finished measuring the sugar, she took lots of clean jars out of the dishwasher and stacked them on the countertop. Once the dishwasher was empty, she pulled several more jars out of a cardboard box and placed them in the dishwasher.
“Why are you doing that?” Whitney asked. “They don’t look dirty to me.”
“Some of the jars have been sitting on the shelf downstairs for a while. I just want to make sure that they are all clean before we fill them with jam.”
Mom and Whitney worked together for several hours before Dad and Wendee, Whitney’s sister, came home. “Put on some aprons and come give us a hand,” Mom called to them. Dad started mashing up the last of the berries while Wendee began labeling the finished jars.
“Honey, before you put away those jars, make sure all the lids are sealed,” Mom said to Wendee.
Whitney stopped stirring and laughed. “Sealed?” she asked. “Are they getting married or something?”
Now Dad, Mom, and Wendee laughed.
“Well,” Whitney said defensively, “Mom told you to make sure the lids are sealed. So what are you going to do? Take them to the temple?”
Wendee picked up a jar and showed her younger sister the lid. “See, the lid has to seal to the jar so the jam won’t spoil. If the lid doesn’t seal, the jam won’t last. We’re not talking about the temple.”
“Well,” Dad said, “maybe we are. Think about it—isn’t it the same with families? The ones sealed in the temple by priesthood authority can last forever. Those that aren’t sealed aren’t going to last.”
“Keep mashing the rest of those berries while you preach your sermon,” Mom said as she started spooning finished jam into the jars. Whitney reached out to steady the jars while Mom worked.
“I thought getting sealed just meant getting married,” Whitney said.
“Not exactly,” Mom explained. “A man and a woman can get married anywhere, but when they marry outside of the temple, it’s only for this life. Couples married, or sealed, in the temple can be married forever.”
“Now who’s preaching?” Dad asked with a smile.
“Sealed means linked together or hard to break apart,” Mom explained. “When you get married in the temple, you are linked eternally to your spouse and your children. We seal the lids to preserve the jam. Being sealed in the temple preserves families.”
“These berries are all mashed. What’s next?” Dad asked.
“Just take those last few jars out of the dishwasher.”
“I feel another lesson coming on,” Dad said. “See, Mom cleaned the jars before she filled them with jam. Sealing jam in a dirty jar would not work. It’s the same way with the temple. We have to be clean and worthy to enter the temple. That’s the only way the sealing counts.”
“I’m impressed,” Wendee said. “Dad, you’re pretty good.”
“So is this jam,” Mom said. “Now, who wants some before we put it all away?”
Over the next few weeks, everyone in the family enjoyed the jam. Whitney liked it best of all.

The river is spread with wisps of morning mist, and a girl with golden hair lies in her sleeping bag, her head propped in her hands. She looks for a long time as the tide flows out. Dragonflies dart in and out of the mist and a light breeze mumbles in the tules across the river. The smell of rich earth, wet reeds, and slow water hangs over her like a summer incense. Above the drowsy hum of insects, a fish now and then makes an indolent plop somewhere, and the water is brown and silver in the morning.
After a while the girl lays her head down and dozes with the others.
With no alarm clocks to make the sun an enemy, the girls slept late that morning on the Sacramento River Delta, and when they awoke, they still felt like the inhabitants of a dream.
The dream began in Danville, California, where the Mia Maids and Laurels of the Danville Ward, along with their adult leaders, met one morning under cloudy skies to load suitcases, sleeping bags, water skis, and supplies into their cars. Later, as they rolled through the lion-colored hills of a California summer, the sun seared away the clouds and burned its seal of approval onto their horizon.
There was magic in that solar endorsement because from that moment the world’s rotation appeared to slow. The three-day adventure seemed to last weeks, and contrary to all previous experience, the more fun the girls had, the longer the days lasted. It was as if time were being poured from a cruse of sunshine that could never run dry.
When they arrived at Bethel Island, the girls poured out of the cars to inspect the small summerhouse that was to be their vacation home. Behind the house was a high levee, and they poured over that also to discover a stream whiskered with docks, the warm, brown tide flowing out. They were happy to learn that this stream was just part of an 1,100 mile spiderweb of interconnecting tidal waterways that they proceeded to christen collectively “The River.” During the next three days the river became the setting for a thousand watery adventures.
The most prevalent adventure was waterskiing. Some girls performed as if they were born on skis, others as if they were likely to die on them. Some cut graceful furrows with slalom skis. Others gouged furrows with their faces; but they kept trying, and eventually everyone got up. They skied and skied under the opulent sun till everyone was bright pink and then bright red. And even then they kept on skiing.
One day they took a trip to the Meadows, a gentle backwater slough where tall, shady trees line a sandy beach. The sky there was blue enough to swim in, and the trees stood out against the sun like negatives of themselves. They nosed the boat into shore alongside tall houseboats and jumped out for a lunch of submarine sandwiches. Afterwards they lazed and floated under the sun and went exploring in the boats through green corridors of smooth water.
They glided under a high railroad bridge where unknown urchins in cut-offs clung like spiders, leaping off now and then as if on filaments of silk.
They nosed up to tangled blackberry thickets that hung over the water, picking and eating the huge berries by the handfuls.
They played king of the hill atop a giant inner tube, splashing like dying stunt men into the white cushion of reflected clouds.
They frolicked like otters among patches of water lilies.
They stood rooted in air, earth, and water, groping with their toes for freshwater clams in the luxurious mud, water to their chests. They skittered frisbees along the shallows, swam with slow, lazy strokes in the deep, and napped on the cool sand of the shore, and when they had done everything once, they started all over again. After all, they had forever. They were Californians, and the sun was their birthright. It stood still for them as if they were so many Joshuas, as if the day, the summer, and their youth would never end.
Once, in the quiet shade of the bank, Bishop Alan P. Johnson could be seen in earnest conversation with a new girl in the ward, as intent as if she were the whole Church.
Late that afternoon they returned home, towing skiers all the way. It was a fitting exit, but by no means to be compared with their entrance that morning, when they had walked on the water—thanks to a sandbar right smack in the middle of the broad Sacramento River the girls had splashed along apparently on the surface of the waves.
They spent another day on a small sandy island in the middle of a channel, boating and sunning. Some of the beginners tried their hand at skiing and hit the water like naval artillery, kicking up fountains of water and flying skis.
“I know what you did wrong,” a helpful friend on the bank called to a casualty. “You forgot to close your eyes!”
She watched as her friend tried again, this time performing a beautiful belly flop and skipping on the water like a lopsided stone. “That was better!” the coach on the shore said. “She remembered to close her eyes that time.”
Another sadistic onlooker chimed in with a word of shouted advice: “Whatever happens, don’t let go!”
When they weren’t skiing or boating, some of the girls became artists, creating lofty-towered sand castles on the beach and then watching the tide lay seige to and finally overwhelm their ramparts.
On the way home that day the girls jumped out of the boat several hundred yards from their home dock and let the tide carry them in.
One day on the river the girls visited the town of Locke, constructed originally by the Chinese laborers who built the levees and now occupied by their descendants. Here the girls explored the streets of two-story, tic-tac-toe wooden houses and mysterious passageways that were neither streets nor alleys.
Meanwhile, back at the house, there was both work and resting to do in between the playing. Three times a day the girls cooked delicious meals and then handled the cleanup efficiently. One night when a Mia Maid was called to help with the dishes, she said quietly to a friend, “Actually, it’s not my turn, but I’ve got to get over the habit of complaining,” and she went to wash the dishes. When she was gone her friend sat in silence for a moment. Then she sighed and said, “I haven’t helped wash the dishes yet. I guess I should go help even though they didn’t assign me,” and she went. Soon an assembly-line sudsfest was underway, accompanied by a spirited medley of folk songs and so much all-purpose hilarity that several more unassigned girls joined in just for the fun of it.
One evening the group dined on mouth-watering fried catfish donated by a neighbor lady. Later that night they visited the good woman and sang her a song of appreciation. Not content to leave it at that, the girls used their talented toes the next day to find her a sackful of clams for fishbait.
At night the girls filled the bedrooms, the sun room, the sun deck, the combination kitchen-dining-living room, and spilled out over the levee onto the dock, where they slept with the gentle rocking of the waves and the murmur of the moving water. A few girls even slept in the boats that were moored to the dock. These outdoor dwellers were treated to a huge moon that rode above the tules and made the river into a highway of gold, not to mention the sun that rose each morning on a tide of cricket and bird songs to burn away the mist.
“Wow! Did you see that sunrise?” one ecstatic girl asked her sleepy companion after the sleeping bags had been put away.
“Yeah,” her more prosaic friend replied. “I woke up and took a look and said, ‘Well what do you know, there’s the sunrise,’ and then I went back to sleep.”
As with any group of Mormons totaling more than one, there were some meetings too. Their first night on the river the girls enjoyed a talent night that included readings, songs, and even some magic. The second night there was a family home evening in which the girls shared ideas on the importance of being a child of God. They expressed their love for the Savior and nodded quietly, as one young lady said, “Whenever you build a wall between yourself and another human being, you build a wall between yourself and Jesus Christ.”
There was plenty to do in spare moments: sleeping, fishing off the dock, writing letters, writing in journals, scripture study, gab sessions, sailing a little two-girl boat with a sail like another white cloud under the sky, and a lot more, including first aid treatments for sunburns. And sometimes they just dived off the dock or sat watching the tide flow in or out, ceaselessly, day and night.
At least as warming as the sun was the love these young women showed toward one another. Whenever a girl was seen standing shyly apart, a kindly arm would appear around her shoulders to draw her in, When there was disagreement, it was settled by discussion rather than argument. There were no cliques, no in-groups or out-groups, no social outcasts, no cruel jests or biting sarcasm. When it was mentioned to one of the girls that they seemed surprisingly free from backbiting, she said, “How can there be backbiting? We know that there shouldn’t be.”
Another girl explained, “I’m trying to learn how to love other people. I’m learning to do things for them, to stop thinking ‘want’ and start thinking ‘give’.”
Two of the girls in the very thick of the action on the three-day adventure were nonmembers, and they appeared to be loving every minute of it. That’s not surprising considering the missionary record of the Danville young people. Half the Laurel class consists of converts introduced to the gospel by the young people of the ward. The previous year there had been ten baptisms attributed to the efforts of the young men and women, and the work was going on. They talk openly to their friends about the Church, knowing what an important gift they have to offer.
“A lot of kids at school say they don’t know who they are,” one girl said. “Well, we know who we are!”
The last evening of their stay on the river, the girls had a testimony meeting. One of the girls brought a roll of tissue and set it in the center of the group in easy reach of anyone with leaky eyes. More than one needed it as they bore testimony of the gospel and their love for the Lord and one another. A nonmember girl stood with tears in her eyes to tell of her love for the Mormon girls and their leaders although she hadn’t yet gained a testimony of the gospel. A girl who had been in the ward only a week and in the Church only a few months told how she had come on the trip homesick for her old ward and fearing loneliness and rejection. But in three days she had come to feel she had known these girls all her life.
The next morning, as four girls debated the best way to get four suitcases, four sleeping bags, four pillows and four overnight bags into the trunk of one Volkswagen, the group took their leave of the river. They said good-bye to each other as if they were not to meet again for a long while, although they were merely taking a short drive back to the same city. But they were saying good-bye not so much to one another as to a wonderful experience that would soon pass from the full color of the present to the black and white of memory.
But the color hasn’t all faded yet. There is still a girl skiing at sundown, golden in the silver wake, flinging curtains of glittering spray as she leans into each turn. There are the girls in bright bathing suits singing Mormon Tabernacle Choir songs as passing boaters look at them and wonder. There are the bright orange life preservers as the girls float with the pull of the tide.
There is the duotone image of a young girl sitting on the sun-deck in a quiet moment, reading the Book of Mormon and thinking.
And above the images, the color, the splashing and laughter and sunshine and delicious river smells is the reality that is the foundation of all the joy these young people find in life. As one young lady said, “In my last interview the bishop asked me what I had learned this year. I think what I’ve learned this year is that without the gospel nothing else in this whole world really matters.”

Those reactions justified my confidence in the scriptures. The returned missionary who had resented the assignment wrote, “I have rediscovered an exciting adventure. I have once again astonished myself with the wonder of learning and understanding the gospel as it has been presented to us by the prophets. The gospel has become even more relevant in these last few weeks than ever before. I understand more clearly that faith and the strength of one’s testimony are things that vary from day to day and must be kept current.”

The other students’ responses were equally enthusiastic. It was apparent that scripture study affected them just as it affected the ancient prophets. It vitalized their prayers, improved their sensitivity to spiritual things, increased their productivity, strengthened their self-mastery, and changed their attitude toward life.

One student spoke of a more sensitive conscience: “It seemed to have a residual effect on my conscience of not letting me rationalize so easily . … Especially since I had become engaged, I had noticed that I was trying to rationalize a few things, play it close to the line between black and white. I don’t say reading the scriptures was the only influence, but I am glad for their influence.”

Several students spoke of a new spirituality. A law student wrote: “One significant thing distinguishing the past year for me is the matter of scripture as a means of maintaining spiritual sensitivity. The results have been so undeniably stimulating to the spirit that I am now confident that daily scripture study shall be a life-long pursuit.”

A girl active in her sorority found that scripture reading helped her stay spiritual at school: “Well, I decided that if I promised to read the scriptures for thirty days, I would do it for thirty days—which wouldn’t do me too much good. So I promised to do it for the rest of my life. That was about six months ago. I’ve almost read the Book of Mormon three times since then and oh the difference! It has made possible the thing that I have always thought impossible, which is to be spiritual during the school year.”

Some students who had never enjoyed the scriptures discovered what a delight they could be. Wrote one girl, “I have tried to read the Book of Mormon many times, and each time felt that something was lacking. I had to force myself because I didn’t enjoy it and couldn’t figure out what was wrong. This year I’ve loved every minute of reading the scriptures. I now read the Book of Mormon every morning, and I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I thought it would be terribly hard to get in the habit of reading every morning, but it hasn’t been.”

Another wrote: “I am one who often used to ‘tune out’ when scriptures were read, not purposely, just automatically, and also one of those people who has never read the Book of Mormon. I started to read it two or three times but never got past 2 Nephi. … my whole attitude toward the scriptures and even the gospel itself has changed. Not that I didn’t feel a testimony before, but my testimony was built on faith and not scriptural knowledge. Now I feel that I have a much better understanding of the gospel and how it applies to me personally. Every time I read the scriptures at home or when we read them in class, I feel a closeness to God and Jesus Christ and more of a desire to do good. Even my prayers have changed, and I’ve only read through Enos.”

Students discovered that the scriptures brought them closer to God and made their whole lives happier. A boy living in the dorms wrote: “When I read scriptures out of the Book of Mormon, it seemed as though my whole day went more smoothly. I was happier with people. My life became cleaner. I would pray night and morning, which was hard to do before. I can control habits easier and ignore social pressures that are in the dorms. I really can’t explain the feelings I have, but all I know is that I feel closer to God.”

There is an example that expresses my meaning well. Some years ago a young lady missionary shared with me some of the circumstances of her call. Her humble father, a farmer, had willingly sacrificed much for the Lord and his kingdom. He was already sustaining two sons on missions when he talked with his daughter one day about her unexpressed desires to be a missionary and explained to her how the Lord had helped him to prepare to help her. He had gone to the fields to talk with the Lord, to tell him that he had no more material possessions to sell or sacrifice or to use as collateral for borrowing. He needed to know how he could help his daughter go on a mission. The Lord, he said, told him to plant onions. He thought he had misunderstood. Onions would not likely grow in this climate, others were not growing onions, he had no experience growing onions. After wrestling with the Lord for a time, he was again told to plant onions. So he borrowed money, purchased seeds, planted and nurtured and prayed. The elements were tempered, the onion crop prospered. He sold the crop, paid his debts to the bank and the government and the Lord, and put the remainder in an account under her name—enough to supply her wants on a mission.
I will not forget the story or the moment or the tears in her eyes or the sound of her voice or the feeling in me as she said, “Brother Hanks, I don’t have any trouble believing in a loving Heavenly Father who knows my needs and will help me according to his wisdom if I am humble enough. I have a father just like that.”

It was the second day of the Wyoming state track and field meet, and I was a nervous wreck. I could barely eat my breakfast that morning, and I had never been so nervous in all three years of my high school track career. I was one of the favorites to win the 2A girls’ 800-meter dash, along with Patricia. She had the fastest time of the season and was my main competition. If anyone was to beat her, it was me.
As I warmed up for my race on a nearby practice field, I silently prayed to my Father in Heaven for help with my race. I also thanked Him for all my blessings before silently closing my prayer. Saying prayers before my races had become a habit when I started racing in high school. I knew if I put forth my best effort, the Lord would extend a hand and help me.
I continued warming up but still felt nervous and sick to my stomach. A few minutes before my race, I fervently prayed again. This time I only asked the Lord to let me know that He loved me and that He would be there for me.
Almost simultaneously, I felt as if the Lord wrapped his arms around me and gave me a warm hug. Tears began stinging my eyes as the Spirit touched me. I realized that the Lord really did love and care about me. It was one of the most wonderful feelings anyone can ever experience.
I didn’t win the race that day, but I was taught an important lesson. I now know that God hears and answers prayers, and that He loves me very much.

I love sparkly things. I always have. I love how sparkles capture and reflect light, and I think that’s why I love crystal chandeliers so much. I especially love the crystal chandeliers in the temple.
I remember reverently walking through a temple open house with my family when I was only nine years old. I’ll never forget standing under the chandeliers in the celestial room in absolute awe. I couldn’t believe how beautiful, clean, and white everything was.
When we walked out of the temple, my grandpa told me he had a gift for me. My eyes grew bigger as my grandpa pulled a sparkly necklace from his pocket. It was a long chain with a small, single crystal on the end—just like the ones in the temple.
“I made this for you,” my grandpa said as he tied the necklace around my neck. My grandpa is an electrician. He sells all kinds of beautiful light fixtures. He told me he made the necklace with an extra crystal from his shop and he wanted me to wear it so it would remind me of the temple.
He asked me to promise I would go to the temple someday, and he bore his testimony of how the temple had blessed his life and how it can bless everyone’s lives. Every time I wore my crystal necklace I would think of the temple and how I wanted to go inside. I always remembered that promise I made to my grandpa.
When I was finally old enough to go do baptisms at the temple, I loved every chance I got to go. In the temple, I have always felt connected to my Heavenly Father. And I will never forget the feeling I had after receiving my endowment. After that sacred experience, I walked into the celestial room and hugged my grandpa under the beautiful crystal chandelier.
My grandpa was right about how the temple can bless our lives. It has continued to bless me my entire life because it helps me remember my purpose here on earth.

When I was eight I invited a friend in my class at school to a Cub Scouts activity. He is still coming now that we’re in Boy Scouts. He has been to church a few times now too. When I invited him, I didn’t know that his grandparents are members of the Church and in our ward. They had been praying a lot that he would be able to have some connection to the Church, and my invitation came as an answer to their prayer.
Michael M., age 12, California, USA

I saw holiness in the countenance of Evangeline, a 13-year-old girl in Ghana. One of the ways she keeps her covenants is by magnifying her calling as the Beehive class president. She humbly explained that she goes to the homes of her friends, the less-active young women, to ask their parents to allow them to come to church. The parents tell her that it is difficult because on Sunday the children must do household chores. So Evangeline goes and helps with the chores, and by her efforts her friends are often permitted to come to church.

A turnspit dog! Before last week Jonathan had never even heard of a turnspit dog. Though the morning was cold, Jonathan was snug and warm in his homespun suit. Pulling his sled, he followed the snowy trail that led through the sparsely settled New England woods to the Sewell’s cabin. As soon as he heard that Mister Sewell had sent to Philadelphia for a turnspit dog, Jonathan’s curiosity would not let him rest until he had seen it.
In the early 1700s the settlers’ usual way of roasting meat was to put it on a spit, a long piece of metal supported between two andirons in front of the fireplace. It was a tiresome chore to turn the meat by hand, so someone had hit upon the idea of training small dogs for this work.
On his way to the Sewell’s, Jonathan passed Mistress Clark’s cabin. He noticed that no smoke curled from the chimney. Mistress Clark was a widow and very old. She’s probably still sleeping, Jonathan decided.
Finally Jonathan reached his destination.
“Why, it’s young Master Jonathan Adams!” Mister Sewell cried heartily. “Come in!”
Then Jonathan saw the turnspit dog. He had not known quite what to expect, but surely not this!
The spit, holding a joint of meat, was attached to a set of wheels that in turn was attached to a treadmill. Around the treadmill was a railing, inside of which was a little dog—running, running, running. As he ran, the treadmill engaged the wheels of the spit and slowly turned the savory meat.
Suddenly the dog looked up at the newcomer, and Jonathan thought he had never in his entire life seen such sad eyes. “Please rescue me!” the little dog’s eyes seemed to be pleading.
Then Jonathan saw with horror that Mister Sewell held a long switch that he occasionally flicked in the direction of the turnspit dog.
Jonathan knew at once that he must do something to help the wretched little animal. He felt sure his parents wouldn’t mind if he had a dog, so, turning to Mr. Sewell, he pleaded, “Sir, will you sell me your turnspit dog?”
Mister Sewell burst into laughter. “Tell me, just how do you propose to pay for my trained dog?”
It was a fitting question, for Jonathan had no money.
Jonathan left the Sewell cabin feeling heartsick. The way homeward led down a gentle slope, but Jonathan found no fun in gliding down the hill on his sled. How in the world can I rescue that little dog from such cruel slavery? he agonized.
When Jonathan reached Mistress Clark’s cabin again, he saw that smoke still didn’t rise from the chimney. Worried, he went up to the door and lifted the knocker.
“Come in,” called a feeble voice.
In the cabin Jonathan saw that Mistress Clark’s fire had gone out during the night. Now, shivering with cold, she was vainly trying to start another fire.
“Oh dear,” she sighed, “my son in Philadelphia sent me this tinder wheel but I cannot make it work.”
“I know how to work a tinder wheel,” Jonathan offered. “Let me try.” Jonathan began spinning the small steel wheel, using the piece of cord that was attached. It was much like spinning a humming top. As the wheel spun, it struck a piece of hard stone or flint fixed in the side of a little trough filled with bits of old linen that served as tinder. Paper was far too valuable to be used to start a fire.
Finally Jonathan produced a tiny spark. Blowing softly, he nursed the spark into a small flame that fed on the tinder. Quickly he gathered wood shavings to use as kindling. In a few minutes a glowing fire burned in the fireplace.
“Thank you, thank you!” said Mistress Clark. “My son is always sending me newfangled things I cannot use. Just last month he sent me this roasting kitchen.” She pointed to a metal box with an open side that would face the fire. A spit, turned by a crank on the outside, ran through it from end to end.
Suddenly Jonathan had an idea.
“If you have no need for the roasting kitchen, will you let me have it?” he asked excitedly. “In return I will stop by each morning to start your fire if it has gone out. I will also fetch your water and run your errands!”
Mistress Clark smiled. “Yes,” she replied, “take the roasting kitchen. I will be grateful for a little help.”
Mistress Clark and Jonathan put the roasting kitchen onto the boy’s sled, and he began to climb back up to the Sewell cabin.
“What have we here?” asked Mister Sewell as he helped Jonathan set the roasting kitchen onto the floor of the cabin.
Jonathan saw that the little turnspit dog was still running on his treadmill. How tired he must be by now! he worried.
Jonathan turned to Mister Sewell. “Sir, I have come to make you a trade. I will trade you this fine new roasting kitchen for your turnspit dog. Notice how it stands on legs to make it even with the fire! See how the little door in back can be opened to baste the meat!”
“It is true,” said Mister Sewell, “that I could enjoy such a new roasting kitchen. Yes, perhaps it would be a good trade—if you really want the dog.”
“Yes, yes, I do!” cried Jonathan.
He had only to whistle once and the little dog jumped over the railing of the treadmill and into the boy’s arms.
“You are my dog now!” Jonathan said joyously, and the dog bounded along at his little master’s side as they set out for home.

Our mission president had been admonishing the missionaries in the Ghana Accra Mission to “stay focused.” He was famous for using this phrase. At one of our zone conferences, he suggested ways we could do this, and a key point in his list was having a favorite hymn.
He told us to select a favorite hymn, memorize it, and sing it at times we may be tempted or down. This statement echoed in my memory throughout the day.
I was homesick. Nobody in my family had written to me recently, and I felt depressed. I had been less focused. This was the moment I needed to select a hymn to uplift my spirit. I was familiar with many hymns in our green hymnbook, but which did I love the most?
That night, I took an old hymnbook and flipped through the dog-eared pages, searching for a hymn that had a comforting meaning to me. Immediately, I had an idea. Elder Sheldon F. Child of the Seventy, then Africa West Area President, had visited our group in the missionary training center and spoken about the Atonement. He concluded, “If all you young missionaries understood the Atonement of our Lord Jesus Christ, there would be no need of mission rules.”
That was the kind of hymn I needed. I was no longer confused. If I had a hymn about the Atonement, I would feel the love of my Savior, be comforted, and stay focused on what He wants me to do.
I finally chose hymn number 136, “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.”
Today I am grateful to my mission president for his wise counsel. Now I have a favorite hymn memorized, which I ponder always and remember to sing in times of depression, trials, and difficulties. “I know that my Redeemer lives. What comfort this sweet sentence gives. … He lives to bless in time of need.”