Gospel Story Finder

Thomas B. Marsh ran away from home in New Hampshire at age 14. He worked as a farm laborer in Vermont; as a waiter in Albany, New York; at a hotel in New York City; then as a servant on Long Island. His circumstances were unstable until he met and married Elizabeth Godkin.
He and Elizabeth were eventually led by the Spirit to western New York. There, they heard about the Book of Mormon. Thomas saw copies of the first 16 pages as they came off the press, and the printer allowed him to read the proof sheet. Believing the book to be of God, Thomas chose to join the Church. He was baptized on September 3, 1830.3
Thomas preached the gospel in various areas. He endured tribulation when the Saints were ejected from Jackson County, Missouri, in November 1833. He was an original member of the Missouri high council when it was organized in July 1834. After his calling as an Apostle at age 34, he served as President of the Quorum of the Twelve. Though he had earnestly defended Joseph Smith against dissenters in the past, Thomas himself eventually became disillusioned. In 1838 he chose to leave the Church.4
From Thomas Marsh we can learn that unstable circumstances don’t need to keep us from the blessings of the gospel—or from blessing the lives of others.

A man of Christ stood on October 1, 1959, before a crowd of 1,500 people in a church within the shadow of the Kremlin and boldly referred to Jesus as the great Redeemer. He said in an emotion-filled voice:
“I believe very firmly in prayer. … It is possible to reach out and tap that Unseen Power which gives us such strength and such an anchor in time of need. … Be unafraid, keep His commandments, love one another, pray for peace and all will be well. … Truth will endure. Time is on the side of truth” (Ezra Taft Benson, Cross Fire: The Eight Years with Eisenhower [Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday and Co., 1962], pp. 486–87).
People wept openly on that occasion, including newsmen who had reluctantly attended the worship service. One newsman, a former marine, ranked the experience as one of the two most spiritual and memorable of his life.
There was a man in that cathedral in Russia on that special day. His name, Ezra Taft Benson—he who now presides as the President, prophet of the Church.

However, this calling was only a stepping-stone to what was to come. Eighteen months later, I was listening to the blessing setting me apart as a Relief Society president. I knew there was much work to do to help uplift and strengthen the sisters, many of whom came from cultural and economic backgrounds different from my own. I especially wanted to encourage those sisters who didn’t attend church regularly to come back into full activity and enjoy the fulness of the gospel.
Almost overnight after my setting apart, I felt a confidence I had never possessed before. My compassion increased noticeably. The Lord was truly magnifying my abilities, and I felt that with his help I could accomplish anything he required of me. As I started visiting sisters in their homes, my love for them grew.
I learned patience as I sat beside the elderly and infirm, listening to them talk of their challenges. With tears streaming down her face, one dear sister in her 80s told me how she no longer felt like knitting or crocheting. Every part of her body hurt, and the days and nights were long and sad.
A year later I sat by her hospital bed, holding her withered hand and stroking her thin arm. As she labored for every breath, I pleaded with Heavenly Father to release her from her terrible suffering if that was his will. Many sisters in the ward had helped her feel loved as cancer ravaged her body; we all longed for her to be at peace.
Forty-eight hours later, she breathed her last breath, and we all wept together. We could envision her joy as she entered into a new life of freedom from earthly cares.
As I sat with her that last night, I knew that even in her terrible physical condition, there was still purpose in her life—not only for her personally but also for us. How could we learn to give of our time and love if there were no needy souls?
There were dear sisters in our ward who could no longer see and who relied on others to read to them and keep them informed. There were sisters with hearing loss who couldn’t benefit fully from the lessons and talks given during Sunday meetings. Yet many of them continued to attend, eager for the fellowship and love found within the walls of the meetinghouse.
I learned to give of my time and to feel it was not a sacrifice. Many Saturdays I woke up feeling burdened. How I wanted to take the day off, to stay home and wallow in my own worries and cares! Sometimes the heaviness of heart almost overwhelmed me. But in every case, when I drove up to a hospital or home to visit someone in need, my own worries subsided and the feeling of peace returned. Once again, I was reminded that the Lord greatly blesses us when we sacrifice to reach out to another soul.
I loved the unity I felt among the sisters in my ward. Amid our differences in backgrounds, interests, and cultures, we felt close and united in our love for one another.
I am grateful for the inspiration I received as I sought to meet the needs of others. Ideas flowed, and as I attempted to implement those ideas and prayed for guidance, more light and knowledge came to me. It was a most humbling experience. I felt myself being spiritually stretched and filled.
The greatest experience I had as a Relief Society president was receiving an increase of love beyond anything I had previously experienced. I know that the Lord increased my capacity to love and care, and this feeling has not left me. Never before have I worked so hard and found so much joy in any calling. Relief Society changed my life.

Illustrations by Brooke Smart
Oliver couldn’t wait for the week to go by. Next week was the big day he had been waiting for since he was four years old. He was going to be baptized.
Oliver was so excited about his baptism that he wanted to shout it from the rooftops for all of England to hear! He couldn’t wait to tell his friend Dylan at school.
“I can’t believe it. My baptism day is finally almost here,” Oliver said. “It’s going to be brilliant!”Dylan looked confused.
“I thought only babies got baptized.”
“Kids have to be at least eight to be baptized in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” Oliver said. “That’s my Church.”
“Oh. Cool,” Dylan said.
Suddenly Oliver had a thought. “Would you like to come to my baptism?”
“Sure,” Dylan said. “But I need to ask my parents first.”
“OK!”
Oliver was excited that Dylan might come to his baptism. This gave him another idea. I don’t want to share my baptism with just one friend, he thought. I want to invite as many people as I can! Oliver rushed home to tell Mum he had a plan.
On Sunday, Oliver started his plan. He shared his testimony during fast and testimony meeting. At the end he said, “I’m getting baptized next Saturday, and I want everyone to come! Will you please invite anyone you know who isn’t a member, or who doesn’t come to church, to my baptism?” He felt like a missionary. He really liked that feeling!
Over the next week, Oliver invited friends, family members, and teachers to his baptism.
“It would mean a lot to me if you could come!” he told them.
As Saturday got closer, Oliver started to wonder how many people would actually show up. What if they were all too busy or didn’t want to come?
He said a short prayer that at least a few people would come. Then he stopped worrying about it. He knew he had done a good thing just by inviting them. Besides, the most important thing about the day was getting baptized.
When he got to church on his baptism day, Oliver could hardly believe his eyes. A lot of his friends were there to support him. He even saw a bunch of people he didn’t know. He waved when Dylan walked in with his parents.
When it was time to be baptized, Oliver stepped into the warm water. His dad took his hand, as they had practiced. Then he said the baptism prayer and lowered Oliver into the water. Before he knew it, Oliver was standing up again—dripping wet and grinning. He knew he was following Jesus’s example.
After Oliver changed into dry clothes, his dad and a few other men confirmed him a member of the Church. They gave him a special blessing and invited him to receive the Holy Ghost. Afterward, Oliver got to share his testimony.
“Thank you for coming to support me on my special day. It means so much to me,” Oliver said. “I’m grateful for my baptism, and I believe this is Christ’s Church on the earth.”
Afterward, people came up to congratulate Oliver.
“Thanks for inviting me!” Dylan said. “I had a good feeling inside.”
“Everyone has been so kind!” Dylan’s mum said. “We have felt very welcomed.”
That night, Dad sat down on the end of Oliver’s bed. “What a great day!” Dad said.
Oliver nodded. “I’m glad I could share it with my friends.”
See family manual, pages 114–115.

Before my conversion, I used to read novels and magazines that did nothing for my spirituality. But following my baptism, I happened to find a copy of L‘Etoile (French) with an article “Come unto Me” that seemed to be written just for me. The Spirit inspired me to read the article several times. Since then, worldly books and magazines no longer interest me.
I read each issue of the magazine, and I especially enjoy the articles and testimonies of Saints all over the world because their testimonies help to increase mine.
I would encourage everyone to read and use the Church magazines to improve their lives and feel of the Spirit.
Bokota B. LouisonKinsuka First Branch, Kinshasa Zaire Masina District

My mother was a recent convert to the Church when she was called to be the Relief Society president in our small branch in San Salvador. She told the branch president that she was inexperienced, unprepared, and inadequate. She was in her 30s, had very little formal education, and her whole life had been devoted to the care of her husband and seven children. But the branch president called her anyway.
I watched my mother rise to the occasion. While serving, she learned leadership skills and developed new gifts such as teaching, public speaking, and planning and organizing meetings, activities, and service projects. She influenced the women in the branch. She served them and taught them to serve one another. The sisters loved and respected her. She helped other women to discover, use, and develop gifts and talents; she helped them become builders of the kingdom and of strong, spiritual families. She stayed faithful to the temple covenants she made. When she passed away, she was at peace with her Maker.
A sister who served with her as a counselor in the Relief Society wrote me a letter years later: “Your mother was the person who taught me the way to become what I am now. From her, I learned charity, kindness, honesty, and responsibility in our callings. She was my mentor and my example. I am now 80 years old, but I have stayed faithful to the Savior and His gospel. I have served a mission, and the Lord has blessed me greatly.”

Our next stop was at the home of the American consul and his family, also our investigators. They were a wealthy family and lived in a large home in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in the city. We went to the front door and began to sing the same songs we had just sung to the poor people in the monastery.
We had barely started the second verse of our first song when the door opened. Dozens of people came outside and started to sing with us. They were all diplomatic representatives of several countries who had gathered there to commemorate Christmas. We soon saw in their faces the same tears and smiles we had seen in the faces of the poor people living in that abandoned monastery.
When we finished singing, the wife of the consul said, “We were gathered here with everything to make us happy; nevertheless, we felt that something was missing. It was then that you came, bringing the Christmas spirit of Jesus Christ. Now our Christmas is complete.”
Our group consisted of more than 20 missionaries from several parts of the world—Brazil, Portugal, Angola, the United States, Canada, Paraguay, and Colombia. When we were invited in, each missionary bore testimony to the diplomats from his country. As in the monastery, we invited them to hear the discussions and attend church.

As a college student, Marion G. Romney (1897–1988) had decided he could not serve a mission because of his family’s financial situation. On one occasion, however, he heard Elder Melvin J. Ballard (1873–1939) speak. A biography notes, “Little did [Marion] know that the course of his life, in one very short moment, was about to be completely changed.”

The story continues: “For the first time Marion … fully understood what it was [like] to be under the influence of inspiration. A piercing, tingling sensation filled his soul. He … never had been so touched as he was now, listening to the words of this newest of the Apostles. …

“… The glow of the Apostle’s countenance and the sincerity of [his] testimony filled him with an irresistible desire to go on a mission. … He knew that his plans for further education must be postponed.”4

Soon, Marion was on his way to Australia, where he served faithfully. Later he became a mighty Apostle and a member of the First Presidency.

I have had problems with using bad language around my friends at school. It made me feel guilty whenever my parents would say, “We’re glad you don’t use bad language,” because they didn’t know what I was doing. I felt that the Holy Ghost would leave me because I was not only using bad language, I was also lying about it to my parents.
In Primary, we had a lesson about making right choices. I felt I should tell my parents about what I had been doing. I told my mom. Together we told my dad. They told me to start praying to Heavenly Father for help and for forgiveness. We talked about ways to stop swearing. Every now and then they would ask me how I was doing.
Today I’m still praying to Heavenly Father to help me use good language. I’m doing much better. Whenever I feel like saying something I shouldn’t, I get a hesitant feeling. That’s the Holy Ghost helping me to not swear. I get a warm feeling inside whenever I stop myself. I know that Heavenly Father is helping me to be more like Jesus.

A wise first step is to guide each deacon to a spiritual awareness of the sacredness of his ordained calling. In my life this was accomplished when the bishopric asked that I take the sacrament to a shut-in who lived about a mile from the chapel. That special Sunday morning, as I knocked on the door of Brother Wright and heard his feeble reply, “Come in,” I entered not only his humble cottage but also a room filled with the Spirit of the Lord. I approached his bedside and carefully placed a piece of the bread to his lips. I then held the cup of water, that he might drink. As I departed, I saw him smile as he said, “God bless you, my boy.” And God did bless me with an appreciation for the sacred emblems which continues even today.

As soon as I walked into the house, I smelled the sweet, yeasty dough. I charged into the kitchen. “Can I help?” I asked.
Mom was standing at the kitchen table, and there was a huge brown blob of dough in front of her. Her hands and arms were covered with flour, and she was pushing her hands into the dough and rolling it over and pounding it with her fists. She looked up at me and smiled. “Whew!” she said. “I’m worn out, Aaron. Hurry and wash your hands, and you can help me.”
I hung my cap on the bathroom doorknob and hollered to Jarom, “Mom’s making bread.”
Jarom was in the basement, putting together a model race car, but as soon as he heard me yell, he came thundering up the stairs and headed straight for the bathroom. “I thought I smelled something besides glue,” he panted.
A few minutes later we were both in the kitchen, dusting our hands and arms with flour and getting about as much on our shirts and faces.
“All right, Mom, can we punch it now?” I asked. Mom nodded, and Jarom and I doubled up our fists, reared back, and began punching. We pretended we were fighting the Blob from outer space.
“I think you’ve kneaded it enough,” Mom finally said. “Now we need to divide it into eight parts and pat it into loaves. We’re going to add magic to them today.”
“What’s going to be magic about them?” Jarom asked.
“You’ll see.” Mom smiled.
“Does it have magic in it yet?” I asked.
“A little bit,” Mom replied.
Nobody added anything to the dough while we shaped it, or when Jarom and I helped Mom grease the bread pans and drop the little logs of dough into each pan, or when we set them on the kitchen table to raise. Afterward, Jarom and I washed our hands and ran outside to play catch, but every few minutes we crawled up the cherry tree and peeked in the kitchen window to check our loaves of bread. Slowly each loaf began to swell and bulge. Just when it looked like they would pop, Mom put them into the oven. We didn’t see her add anything to them then, either.
The next time Jarom and I came into the house, it was filled with the smell of Mom’s magic bread. It seemed like you could grab a gob of air, spread some butter on it, and eat it. Finally the little clock on the stove jangled, and Mom took the loaves of bread out of the oven and tipped them from their pans onto a clean white dish towel spread on the table.
“Is it magic bread now?” Jarom asked, reaching out to gingerly touch the hot golden loaves of bread.
“Almost.”
“What else do you have to do to them?” I asked, scratching my head. “They look plenty good to me.”
“To make them really magic,” Mom whispered, like she was telling us an important secret, “we have to give them away.”
“Give them away!” Jarom and I gasped. “We don’t want to give them away. We want to eat them.”
“But they’re not magic if we eat them.”
“Then let’s not have magic bread. Let’s just have the regular kind,” Jarom said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “We did all the work. We should get to eat the bread.”
Mom took a deep breath. “Don’t you want to give at least some of it away?”
“Maybe one loaf,” Jarom mumbled.
“All right. Take one loaf, and if you can see the magic work, maybe you’ll want to come back and give some more away.”
“How does the magic work?” I asked, getting just a little curious.
“The magic makes people happy. People who are angry or sad or ornery become happy and kind if you give them a loaf of magic bread.”
“Let’s take one to Sister Rogers,” Jarom said. “I like her.”
“But she’s always happy,” I pointed out. “We’d never know if the magic worked.” I grinned. “Now, if we gave a loaf to Brother VanGesen, we’d really find out if it was magic.”
“He’d have to eat the whole batch of bread,” Jarom said. “I wouldn’t waste any of it on him. He’s the meanest man I know. Every time our baseball goes into his yard, he yells at us and tells us he’s going to call the police.”
“Then he’s just the man who needs a loaf of this bread,” Mom said as she grabbed a loaf of warm bread, wrapped it in paper towels, and handed it to me.
“You mean I have to take it?” I cried.
Mom thought for a moment, then wrapped another loaf and handed it to Jarom. “You’re right. Each of you should take one.”
“But, Mom,” we protested.
“Run along,” she said, pretending to be stern. “Go see if the magic works.”
Jarom and I left the house, each carrying a loaf of bread. I dragged my feet, hoping that we’d never get to Brother VanGesen’s. But pretty soon we saw his house. He was on his hands and knees, pruning and digging around the rosebushes in his front yard.
When we got to Brother VanGesen’s front walk, I gulped, blinked twice, licked my lips, then started creeping up the walk. Maybe he wouldn’t see us, and we could just set the bread on one of his lawn chairs and run home.
But when we were a few feet from him, he turned around to get his pruning shears and saw us. “Well, what are you boys doing here?” he growled. “I hope you didn’t walk across my petunias.”
“No, sir, we didn’t,” I said. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs. “We brought you some fresh bread,” I blurted, thrusting my loaf at him.
Suddenly the frown on Brother VanGesen’s lips disappeared. A smile chased it right off his face! He pulled his gloves off and reached for both loaves. “They’re still warm!” he exclaimed.
“Yeah,” I replied. “We just finished baking them.”
“You helped your mom make them?” he asked.
We nodded.
“And you wanted to give them to me?”
We nodded again. We could tell that he was surprised. And it was easy to see that he was happy. It looked like he might even do a little dance.
“It’s best if you eat it while it’s still warm,” Jarom explained. He looked at the ground. “That’s why we brought them now.”
“Well, thank you.” He beamed, then looked around, set the bread on the lawn chair, ran over to his porch, and came back with a baseball. “I found this in the bushes.” He smiled. “I don’t know whose it is, but I’ll bet that you boys do.” He handed the ball to me. “Say,” he added, “why don’t you pick a couple of roses for your mother.”
As soon as we had each picked a rose and were out of Brother VanGesen’s yard, I turned to Jarom and whispered, “That is magic bread. I’ve never seen anything like it. Did you see him smile? I didn’t even think he knew how. And he was nice too!”
“Do you suppose that magic bread will work on anybody?” Jarom asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I sure want to find out! Let’s try some on Sister Willis. All she does is sit on her porch and growl at the dogs that cut across her lawn.”
“And what about that man who just moved into the Henderson place. I’d like to see him smile.”
Soon we were galloping up our front steps, yelling, “Mom, it works! It works! We want to give away more magic bread.”
Mom was sitting at the table, waiting for us. “Don’t you want the rest for yourselves?”
We shook our heads. “We need to help our neighborhood. There are too many grumpy people in it.”
Mom got a big paper sack and filled it with the rest of the loaves of magic bread wrapped in paper towels.
We gave a loaf to Sister Willis, and she was just as happy as Brother VanGesen had been. When we took a loaf to the man in the Henderson place, he smiled and gave us each a little box of raisins. We hurried all over the neighborhood, giving magic bread away. Jarom and I had never been so excited and happy in our whole lives! The magic had rubbed off on us too!
Soon there was only one loaf left. We’d already given loaves to all the real sourpusses, so we were thinking about eating it ourselves. But just before we reached home, Barney Stubbs came by, carrying a baseball bat over his shoulder.
“Oh, no!” Jarom whispered. “Should we run?”
Barney was always pushing around anyone littler than him, including Jarom and me. “Maybe we could give him the magic bread,” I muttered.
“Maybe we could give him a punch in the nose,” Jarom countered. “Together, we’d have a chance.”
“Hey, what are you guys doing?” Barney yelled at us when he was still a little way off. “And what’ve you got in the bag?”
“Something for you,” I called out, reaching into the bag and pulling out the last towel-wrapped loaf of bread.
Barney reached out and took it. “What is it?” he growled.
“Mom’s bread. We helped her make it, and we thought you’d like some.”
Barney took off the top towel, broke off a corner of the loaf, and put it into his mouth. He chewed it, broke off another piece, and stuffed it into his mouth. Slowly a smile tickled the corners of his mouth. “Hey, this is good!” he announced.
“It’s even better with butter and jam on it,” Jarom told him, still a bit anxious.
Barney nodded. “I’ll go home and get some right now.” With his bat over his shoulder and his bread under his arm, he hurried off down the street. Before he had gone far, he stopped and called back to us, “Hey, why don’t you guys meet me at the park after a while. I have a new bat we can try out.”
We nodded, and Barney headed on down the street.
When we returned home, Mom was smiling and waiting for us in the kitchen. “Did you save any bread for yourselves?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “It was too much fun watching the magic work.”
“Can you make another batch?” Jarom asked. “We’ll help again.”
“Another batch?”
“Sure,” I answered. “There are lots of people who can use some magic bread.” Then I asked, “Mom, what exactly was the magic that was added to the bread?”
Mom motioned for us to come closer, then whispered in our ears, “Love.”
“Love?” I almost shouted.
Mom nodded.
“When did we put love in?” Jarom demanded, rather confused.
“When we made it for someone else. And when you gave it away. That filled the bread with love.”

You take these pumpkin seeds, Brose. Plant them and take good care of them. Who knows—when pumpkin pie time comes this fall, your pumpkins might be just what we need!”
It seemed to Brose that even her eyes smiled as Granny handed him the little bag of seeds. The seeds were his! Not Jeremy’s, not Willie’s, but his, his very own! He was pleased that Granny had given them to him instead of to his older brother.
Brose took care of the pumpkin patch, all right. In fact, he did it so well that it began to bother Pa. “Every time I need you, Brose,” he complained, “you’re in that pumpkin patch. Why, the weeds in the rest of the garden could grow as high as cornstalks, and you’d be out there lifting up pumpkin vines, trying to find another weed to pull. Well, at least I always know where to find you.”
This second year in the Salt Lake Valley was proving to be about like the rest of his nine years, Brose decided. Being in the middle, a boy could scarcely move either way. No one paid him the attention that they did Willie, who was only two and a half and who had hair the color of the brightest sunset over Great Salt Lake. Why, even strangers would stop Willie and ask his name. All they ever said to Brose was, “Is he your brother?”
When Willie did something wrong, no one made a big fuss because Willie was still so young. But when Brose did something that Pa didn’t like, Pa would say, “Brose, you’re big enough to know better!” And whenever it came to deciding which boy would get the best jobs—like riding the pony and herding the cows on the east bench—Pa would say, “Wait up a spell, Brose. You’d best help Ma with the wash and let Jeremy do the herding this year. You’re still a mite small for that job, and Ma can use a little more help than Trudy can give her.”
Brose didn’t give up, though. He wanted Pa to know that there were lots of the good jobs that didn’t have to be left for his older brother to do.
One day the three of them took Old Brownie and Belle and went up City Creek Canyon for a jag of firewood. As soon as they’d found a good place to stop and load up, Pa had Jeremy unhitch the team so that they could graze while the wagon was loaded.
“There,” said Pa, when the wagon was full. “That’ll do it for this trip. Hitch the horses back to the wagon, Jeremy, while Brose and I fasten the chain around the load to keep any logs from falling off.”
“Let me hook up the horses, Pa!” cried Brose. “I can do it, honest! I watched you and Jere do it every day, coming across the plains! Let me hook ‘em up, Pa!”
Pa hesitated, then said, “All right, Brose. Don’t forget to fasten the crosslines, so you can drive the team together without their trying to go off in all directions.”
“So you can drive them!” That’s what Pa said! Maybe, if I hook ‘em up just right, thought Brose, Pa’ll let me drive all the way home!
Brose didn’t have any trouble leading the horses into place. Brownie stepped right over the wagon tongue into her place while Belle stood quietly waiting on the other side. Then, just as Pa had cautioned, Brose fastened the crosslines, snapping the one from Belle’s harness onto the ring on Brownie’s bit, and the other onto the ring on Belle’s bridle.
Next he took the wide leather strap on the front of Brownie’s harness, slipped it through the big ring on the end of the yoke, and fastened the snap to the ring on the other side of the harness. “There! That was just the way Jeremy would have done it,” Brose murmured, pleased. He fastened the strap on Belle’s harness to the yoke the same way. Then he took the driving line from where Jeremy had hung it on Brownie’s hame and threw it ever so gently over Belle’s back, just the way Pa would have done it—quiet, easy, so as not to frighten the team.
When he walked around to put Belle’s line with the other, Brose heard a bird call. It was a new sound, something like a meadowlark’s, yet different. It was more like that little brown bird he used to hear back in Connecticut before the family had come west. Maybe it was! Maybe that very same little brown bird had followed him, Ambrose Dodd, all the way to the Valley!
Brose didn’t know how long he had listened to the bird before he saw Pa and Jeremy. They had walked a little way down the canyon and had stopped, waiting for him.
Brose was to bring the team and wagon! He was going to drive! He climbed up onto the seat, picked up both of the lines, and slapped them against Brownie’s side, just as Pa would have done.
“Giddap!” he cried, loud enough for Pa and Jeremy and the horses to hear. The horses stepped forward. But the wagon did not move. Only the yoke went with the team, the ring on it sliding off the end of the wagon tongue and the lines slipping through Brose’s hands.
Jeremy ran toward him just as the wagon tongue banged to the ground. “Brose!” he called. “Hey, Brose! You forgot the wagon! It won’t move unless you hitch the tugs!”
Brose couldn’t move. How could he have been so dumb! How could he possibly have forgotten about the tugs?
Jeremy reached out and took the lines and drove the team around in a little circle, putting the team right in place. Brose came out of his daze and scurried around to pick up the end of the tongue and slip it through the ring of the yoke, which was still fastened to the horses.
Jeremy was just hooking the last tug to the doubletree when Pa came. Brose watched Pa climb over the front wheel and take his place on the front of the load. Pa reached for the lines, and Jeremy handed them up to him. Pa took them without a word, and Brose knew that he had lost another chance.
There wasn’t much talking during chores that night. When supper was over, Brose sat on the little stool beside the fire, listening to the crackling and hissing of the pine knot and watching the sparks it sometimes sent up with the smoke.
Jeremy took Pa’s fiddle from its case, and music began to fill the little cabin, then float away on the night air. Brose leaned back against the warm cabin wall near the fireplace and listened. He wished—oh, how he wished!—that he could play like Jere. Pa had been fair about it, though. He had tried to teach both of them. Brose still remembered Pa’s words: “Seems as though you’ve got ten thumbs, Brose, and they all want to go in different directions.”
Pa had quit trying to teach him soon after that, and at the time Brose had been relieved. But now every time he listened to the fiddle singing under Jere’s fingers, Brose wished Pa hadn’t given up quite so quickly.
He’d much rather be standing there by Pa’s chair, playing the fiddle, with Ma and Trudy and Willie giving him all the smiles Jeremy was getting, than do the job he was supposed to be doing. He saw Ma looking at him from time to time, but she didn’t interrupt the music with talking, and after a bit Brose made himself get started.
He knew someone had to straighten out the kinks in the wool so that Ma and Trudy could knit it into socks for winter. Brose hated to card. Mostly women and girls did it, but Ma said that Trudy was as fast at knitting as she was, herself. With both of them knitting, they could have twice as many socks ready when winter came. They could, that is, if Brose would just keep ahead of them with the carding.
Brose had his problems with this job too. Sometimes he got the wool so tangled up that Ma said it was worse for knitting when he got through with it than before he started. But she had more patience than Pa. Or maybe she needed the wool carded more than Pa needed another boy to play the fiddle.
Across the firelight Brose saw both Ma and Trudy knitting, each tapping a foot in time to the music. The only time either of them stopped was if one of them happened to drop a stitch. Then the stitch-dropper would move closer to the fire so that she could see to pick it up. Brose sighed as he pulled the big basket of wool closer to him and reached for the cards.
He laid one card close to the fire so that the wire brush would warm. He picked up a handful of wool and drew it across the other card. Then he took the card he had warmed and pulled it carefully across the wool, trying to get the strands straight.
“Learned that fiddle quicker’n I did,” said Pa, as Jeremy stopped for a moment. “Never did see a boy pick it up as fast as that.”
Pa will never be that proud of me, thought Brose, even if I did the carding perfectly! Ma would be pleased, but Pa and Jere wouldn’t care about it at all. Maybe … just maybe someday I’ll do something that they’ll think is important …
“Brose!” He was startled from his daydream by Ma’s voice. “The wool, Brose! I can smell it! You’ve got it too close to the fire!”
Brose jumped and snatched the card away from the flames. “Sorry, Ma.”
Ma reached over and took the wool from him. “You’d better let me finish that,” she said kindly. “You can help Trudy with the knitting.”
Brose nodded and moved over to Trudy. He watched her fingers go quickly over the needles.
“Show me,” he said.
Trudy smiled. “I’ll try, Brose. But don’t blame me if you get ten thumbs in the way again.”
Brose grinned, and the knot inside him began to loosen a little. Maybe he couldn’t drive the team or play the fiddle, but there were other things he could do. And maybe, if he kept trying, someday he’d find one that was just right for him.
(To be concluded.)

Shortly after we married, my husband and I moved to a faraway town in eastern Bolivia where we were the only members of the Church. My husband was a new convert, and we wanted to comply with all the commandments of the Lord.
Every month we would save our tithing in an envelope until we could deliver it to our bishop. My husband had a strong conviction that if we complied with this law, we would be blessed and protected.
We lived in a hot, expensive, uncomfortable hotel room while we looked for a home to rent. For many days our search proved fruitless. The only house we could find was a small, pretty one whose owner lived in another city. Many outsiders had tried to rent the home, but they could never find the owner.
One morning just as we had finished praying about our situation, a young man knocked on our door. He told us that the owner of the home had returned for a short visit. My husband rushed out to meet with her while I continued praying that we might get the house. When he returned, he reported that the lady had rented the house to us at an incredibly low price. What added to our joy was that the home was already furnished. At the time, all we had was two large boxes and a suitcase full of our things.
The law of tithing does not have to do with money but rather with faith. My husband wasn’t earning much, but as we faithfully paid our tithing, the Lord blessed us to find a good home and enabled us to provide for ourselves.

When we started our pirate band, there were six of us: Jason, Kyle, Joel, Jeremy, Marv, and me. We made swords out of sticks and borrowed bright-red bandannas to tie around our heads. And we rolled our pant legs to our knees, wore patches over our eyes, and painted tattoos on our arms with watercolor markers.
Brother Rogers’s huge backyard was a jungle of cornstalks, cantaloupe and watermelon vines, apple and peach trees, and berry bushes, so we met there to make our plans for raiding and plundering everyone along Piccadilly Street.
“Do we share the loot?” Jason wanted to know.
“Sure,” I said, sounding as gruff as I could. “That’s what pirates do. We’ll bring the stuff back here and divide it up evenly. Any more questions?”
For a while everyone was quiet, then Joel asked, “Where are we going first? Who are we going to raid? And what are we going to plunder?”
I hadn’t thought much about that.
Jason spoke up. “Maybe we ought to look around first and see what there is to raid and plunder.”
“Good idea,” I agreed. “We’ll split up and meet back here in fifteen minutes. But don’t let anybody see you or follow you back here to our hideout.”
We all nodded, straightened the bandannas on our heads, adjusted the patches over our eyes, checked our swords, and sneaked out of the cornfield.
“Wow! What a gang of cutthroats!”
We all jumped and whirled around. Marv tripped over a cornstalk, and Jason and Jeremy dropped their swords. Joel jabbed me in the back, and the patch over my eye slipped down and covered my mouth.
Brother Rogers was hoeing the weeds around his cantaloupes. He leaned on his hoe and grinned. “I heard some dastardly deeds being planned in there,” he said, nodding toward the corn, “but I didn’t dare go in for fear I’d be taken hostage and put up for ransom.”
“Now we’ve been caught,” Joel grumbled. “We got caught before we even got started.”
“You’re not going to tell on us, are you, Brother Rogers?”
Brother Rogers took off his straw hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Do you pirates have a hideout?” he asked.
“We figured on using your cornfield,” Marv muttered.
“Oh, an old cornfield isn’t any place for a pirate hangout,” Brother Rogers said. “You need a place where you can really hide and plan. I think I know just the place. Come with me.”
We followed Brother Rogers to the corner of his lot behind some thick berry bushes. Almost hidden by the bushes was a little shed. I’d seen it before, but I’d never paid much attention to it.
Brother Rogers pushed through the bushes, opened a little door, motioned for us to follow, then ducked inside the little shed. At first we wondered if Brother Rogers was going to hold us hostage, but we finally followed him.
For a little while we had to just stand still while our eyes got used to the dimness. The place was full of rusty tools, boxes of newspapers, and battered buckets and cans.
“This used to be my three boys’ clubhouse!” Brother Rogers explained. “It’s a little dusty, and there’s some junk in here that needs to be cleaned out, but it could be fixed up into a right good pirate hideout.”
“You mean you’d let us use it?” Kyle asked.
“Sure.” Brother Rogers grinned. “No other gang of pirates has asked for it yet. You’ll have to promise not to do any raiding or plundering around my place, though.”
“Would you get some of our loot?” I asked, not sure I wanted to trust Brother Rogers with our pirate plans or to give up any of our treasure.
“No, you can keep the loot.”
The others in the gang looked at me and nodded. I started for the door. “Well, let’s get going, then, and find out what there is to raid and plunder.”
“Wait a minute,” Brother Rogers called after us. “Are you good pirates or bad pirates?”
“Shoot,” Kyle said, “I thought all pirates were the same.”
Brother Rogers shook his head. “No,” he answered slowly. “It depends on how you raid. If you raid to do good, then you’re good pirates.”
“But what’s the sense of raiding and plundering to do good?” I wanted to know.
Brother Rogers thought for a long time. “Pirates are always looking for treasure, aren’t they?” We all nodded our heads. “Well, if you’ll raid and plunder to do good, you’ll find some treasure.”
“Oh, come on, Brother Rogers,” Jason said. “There isn’t any treasure around here. You’re just kidding us.”
Brother Rogers shook his head. “You mark my word—you pirates go on your first exploration, looking for good things to do, and before you’re finished today, you’ll have found some treasure.”
When we left, we weren’t sure that Brother Rogers knew what he was talking about. But since he’d offered to give us a hideout, we decided to give his way a try.
“What are we looking for?” Kyle grumbled, swinging his sword at a branch.
“Hey, look!” Jeremy pointed down the street at Tiffany and Tami Mason, who were walking our way. We crept into the bushes on the opposite side of the street and watched them approach.
“I wonder where they’re headed,” Marv whispered.
“They’d better watch it when they go past the Bailey place,” Joel said. “Old Ripper will scare the daylights out of them.”
Ripper was the Bailey’s German shepherd, and he was more bark than bite. But if you didn’t know that and he came charging up to you with his teeth bared and growling, you were likely to jump right out of your skin.
From where we were, we could see Ripper’s ears prick. As Tiffany and Tami approached, laughing and talking and not worrying about a thing, Ripper made his move.
“Now, Pirates!” I sang out.
Jerking the bandannas down over our foreheads and holding our swords high, we charged across the street, swinging our swords.
When Tiffany and Tami saw Ripper coming, they were so scared that they just froze. And Ripper was concentrating so hard on Tiffany and Tami that he didn’t notice us. He had charged around the Bailey’s chain-link fence and was only about five yards from Tami and Tiffany when we cut him off.
When old Ripper saw us pirates with our swords out and heard our pirate yells, his bark changed into a surprised yelp. He tried to stop, but he slid right into us. He didn’t waste any time getting turned around, though. And he didn’t stop running until he was clear around the Bailey’s house and under their back porch.
Tiffany and Tami stood wide-eyed with their mouths open. We grinned at them, and Marv made a little bow and announced, “The Piccadilly Street Pirates just wanted to make sure that you made it safely to where you were going.”
I liked the sound of that name. I puffed out my chest and said, “Yes, we’re the Piccadilly Street Pirates, and it’s our work and mission to go about spreading good.” Bowing to the two girls, I turned and shouted, “Let’s go, men.” And before Tiffany and Tami could say a word, we were gone.
“Hey, that was kind of fun,” Jason said as we hid in some bushes in my front yard.
“But we can only scare Ripper once,” Joel complained. “Now what do we do?”
“That,” Kyle said, pointing across the street to Sister Ballard’s garden. Sister Ballard had been in her garden most of the morning, pulling and hoeing weeds. But she had gone inside, leaving the last few rows of beans and peas unfinished. “Let’s finish weeding her garden,” Kyle said.
“Doesn’t seem like pirate’s work to me,” Joel grumbled.
“Let’s give it a try,” I said. “Maybe this will be as much fun as chasing old Ripper.”
We sneaked out of the bushes, crept across the street, and began to work. Because there were six of us, finishing the garden didn’t take long, and it was fun creeping up and down the rows and whispering to each other. When we finished, we gathered the weeds into a pile.
“When we do things,” Kyle said, “people need to know that pirates did it.”
“I know,” I said, “Wait here.” I ran across the street to my house for a notepad and pencil and scribbled a note: “The Piccadilly Street Pirates have struck again!” I put the note on top of the pile of weeds and jabbed a stick through it just as Sister Ballard started coming out her side door.
“Hide!” I commanded. We pushed behind the lilac bushes growing beside her house and watched. Sister Ballard pulled on her gloves, adjusted her straw hat, then walked right past the pile of weeds, picked up her hoe, and started for the rows of beans and peas!
We giggled as she began searching for weeds. She looked hard, scratched her head, and looked some more. Finally she saw our pile of weeds. When she read the note, the biggest, happiest smile spread across her face.
“The Piccadilly Street Pirates!” we heard her exclaim. “Well, that’s the best thing that’s ever happened on Piccadilly Street!”
She went into the house, and before we could slip away, she returned with a bulging bag. She set it by the weeds, then went back into the house. We looked at each other, then, making certain that no one was watching, rushed over to the weed pile. Taped to the bag was a note: “Treasure for the Piccadilly Street Pirates.” We snatched the bag and skedaddled. Safely away, we opened the bag and found chocolate chip cookies!
“Let’s go back to the hideout,” Marv said, “and eat our treasure.”
We headed for Brother Roger’s shed, but on the way we noticed that dogs had knocked over the Hansens’ garbage cans and scattered the trash, so we cleaned things up for them. Down the street Sister Wheeler had been trimming her bushes and hadn’t yet picked up the branches, so we gathered them and hauled them to the curb.
We dashed here and there, doing little good turns on the sly. And wherever we went, we left a note stuck someplace that said, “The Piccadilly Street Pirates have struck again!”
By the time we reached Brother Roger’s place, we were laughing and shouting and waving our swords like conquering heroes.
“Well, the pirates have returned.” Brother Rogers grinned as he saw us. “I finished just in time. Come in and see if you approve of your pirate den.”
“Wow!” I shouted as we filed inside. All the junk had been taken out, and the board floor had been swept. Brother Rogers had put an old table in the middle, with boxes and buckets around it for chairs. The two windows were covered with burlap sacks so that no one could peek in. There were nails pounded in the wall where we could hang our swords, and Brother Rogers had even made a big pirate map of the neighborhood and tacked it on one wall.
“We’re pirates for sure now!” Jason whooped.
“Thanks, Brother Rogers,” we all chimed in.
“And how was your raiding and plundering?” he asked with a wink.
“We saved Tiffany and Tami from Ripper.”
“We picked up the Hansens’ spilled trash.”
“We gathered branches at the Wheelers’ and hauled them to the curb.”
“We weeded part of Sister Ballard’s garden, and we even got some treasure!” I shouted, holding up the bag of cookies. “We’ll share them with you. And since we’re using your hideout, Brother Rogers, we’ll make you an honorary member of the Piccadilly Street Pirates.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a pirate,” he told us. “I’ve just been waiting for the right band to join.”

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?”

Finances became a major concern. I had enough money in the bank to cover 11 of the remaining 15 months of my mission and hoped Mom could get enough together for the remaining four. My plans for college were now pushed back into the realm of hopes and dreams. However, the Lord takes care of his missionaries.
I received a letter from my mother telling me that I needn’t worry about finances anymore. A man had contacted my bishop and asked if he could support me for the rest of my mission. This is not too unusual, since there are many good-hearted men in the Church, but the twist in this instance was in what the man told my bishop: “I’m not a member of your church, but out of the love and respect I have for Horace Rappleye, I’d like to support his son for the rest of his mission.” And he did. For 15 months the money was placed regularly in my bank account by the anonymous benefactor.
He remains anonymous to this day.

In school on Monday, Marcus slid his math assignment next to hers.
“Let me check my paper,” he said. “I want to make sure I have the same answers you do.”
Sarah handed him her paper, as she always did, but this time she saw Marcus scribbling out his answers and writing hers down. He wasn’t checking—he was cheating! Sarah knew it was wrong to let Marcus cheat, but she didn’t want to make him feel bad. Wasn’t being nice more important than being honest about one little math assignment? After all, she wasn’t cheating—he was.
A familiar, uneasy feeling crept into the pit of her stomach. Remembering how bad she had felt a few days ago, she yanked her paper away.
“What are you doing?” Marcus cried.
“I can’t let you cheat,” Sarah said. Even though Marcus gave her a dirty look, she didn’t give in to the temptation to let him copy her answers. She realized that she had made a right choice because she felt calm and happy inside. “That’s what the Holy Ghost feels like,” Sarah thought. Her quick decision hadn’t been easy, but she had done what was right.
After school, Mom drove Sarah to Megan’s soccer game. On the way there, Sarah told her about the experience she’d had.
“I’m proud of you, Sarah!” Mom said. “See? You’re learning from your mistakes.”
“I guess so,” Sarah agreed. “Now I know what the Holy Ghost feels like, but I’m still confused about something else.”
“What’s that?”
“I wonder why I think about disobeying lately. I never wanted to touch your book until Megan told me to, and I never wanted to let anyone cheat until today. I almost let Marcus copy my paper, even though I knew I shouldn’t.” Mom was quiet, so Sarah continued. “That isn’t all. Sometimes I’m mean to Spencer. Sometimes swear words pop into my head, and I want to say them. I want to be good, but I keep being tempted!”
“That’s what happens when you join a team,” Mom said. “The opposing team gets mad.”
“What?”
“Think of watching soccer,” Mom said. “It’s obvious that you’re loyal to Megan’s team, because you cheer for them. The other team might not like it, but you’re on the sidelines. You can’t help them to win or lose as much as if you jogged onto the field and started playing.”
“What do you mean, Mom?”
“When you were baptized, you chose sides,” Mom said. “You know that baptism shows Heavenly Father your love and commitment to obey. Don’t forget that it proves to Satan whose side you’re on, too. He’ll tempt you to change your mind.”
“I went to church every week before I was baptized,” Sarah protested. “Didn’t my going to Primary upset Satan just as much then?”
Mom pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. “You were on the Lord’s side, but you were cheering from the sidelines. Now you’re in the game. Being righteous will take more effort than it has before. And it will take more courage, and it will definitely take more repentance.”
Sarah thought about that. “I guess watching a game is much easier than playing it.” No wonder the gift of the Holy Ghost hadn’t taken away all of her problems. The Spirit could help her see when Satan was tempting her, but the temptations wouldn’t just disappear. “Is that what ‘opposition in all things’ (2 Ne. 2:11) means?” she wondered. She had read in the Book of Mormon that without agency to choose between good and evil, no one could become more like Heavenly Father.
“Even if it’s harder, it’s more worth it to play than to just watch,” Sarah decided aloud.
“Especially when you win,” Mom added with a smile.
Sarah got out of the car and walked toward the field. She silently promised herself that she would really, really try to follow the Holy Ghost, no matter how much she was tempted. She had chosen the Lord’s side. As long as she did her best to be worthy, the Spirit would bless her with the courage to keep choosing the right.

Your testimony will grow as you listen to the prophet’s voice. You will feel the concern he has for you. When he speaks, you will feel the Holy Ghost. When I was 12 years old, the President of the Church was David O. McKay. My Beehive class was in Salt Lake City one day to do baptisms for the dead at the temple. We saw President McKay. Our Beehive advisor was bold enough to walk us all over to meet the prophet. He shook all of our hands. I will never forget the powerful feeling I had when I shook his hand. I knew he was a prophet of God.

For family home evening our family decided to spread hay on our garden. It’s not in our yard, so we had to drive there. Some of us didn’t want to go because it looked like it was about to rain. Then we remembered that President Spencer W. Kimball had said to plant a garden. When we got there the storm hit, so we left. Arriving home we discovered that a big branch from our neighbor’s tree had fallen onto our driveway! If we had not left, our car would have been crushed! We are glad to be blessed when we follow the prophet.

A four-year-old Brazilian girl, Mayara Fernanda Dos Santos, suffering from leukemia and with oxygen going into her nose from a tube, was blessed in 1996 by Elder Claudio Costa and myself in Curitiba, Brazil. After the blessing, little Mayara smilingly wiped a tear from her anxious mother’s cheek. Instinctively wise beyond her years, Mayara knows how to “comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9), including her precious parents.