Gospel Story Finder

“It’s time for family prayer!” Dad called.
Jessie raced down the stairs to join her family in the living room. Kneeling down between her sister, Kayla, and her brother, Aiden, she reverently folded her arms.
Dad looked over at her. “Jessie, could you say it tonight?” he asked.
Jessie nodded and bowed her head. “Dear Heavenly Father,” she began, “we thank Thee for this day. We thank Thee for keeping us safe. Bless us to not have bad dreams tonight. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
“Amen,” the family echoed. But before anyone could stand, Dad stopped them. “Just a minute,” he said. “Mom and I want to talk to you about something.”
Mom looked around at them, smiling. “We love how reverent you all are during our family prayers,” she said. “But there’s more to prayer than just being reverent. The words we say are important too.”
Jessie wondered what Mom could mean. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked.
Mom pulled her into a hug. “Not at all, sweetie.” She thought for a moment. “When you kids come home from school, what do I have you do?”
“Tell you about our day,” Aiden said.
Mom nodded at him. “Prayers are like that. They’re a chance to tell Heavenly Father about the important parts of your day, like what you’re worried about or grateful for. That way you won’t have to say the same things over and over.”
“But the things I say over and over are the important parts,” Jessie said. “I’m always grateful for my day. And I’m always scared about bad dreams.”
“And that’s OK,” Mom said. “But I bet there are all sorts of other things Heavenly Father wants you to talk to Him about as well. Maybe you can try to think of some tonight.”
Later that night Jessie knelt by her bed. She folded her arms and bowed her head. “Dear Heavenly Father,” she began, “I thank Thee for this day. I thank Thee for keeping me safe …”
Jessie stopped. What else would Heavenly Father want to hear about? What had happened today?
She thought a moment. First she had gotten up. Then she had eaten breakfast. “I’m grateful that Mom surprised us with pancakes,” she said.
And then what? She thought some more. After breakfast she had gone to school. “And I thank Thee that I did a good job on my spelling test. And I’m sorry that I wasn’t very nice to Rachel at recess,” she added. “I’ll invite her to play with me tomorrow.”
Jessie continued to go through the rest of her day, telling Heavenly Father everything that had happened. By the time she was done, it was past her bedtime. Jessie yawned. “And please bless me to not have bad dreams,” she said. “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Crawling into bed, she fell right asleep.
The next morning Jessie was the last one downstairs for breakfast. “Did you sleep in?” Mom asked, pouring her a glass of orange juice.
Jessie shook her head. “No. I got up early to say my prayers.”
As Jessie started to eat breakfast, she smiled to herself.
There was just so much to talk about.

Elder Oaks faced a similar situation in 1984 following his call to the Twelve, as he again left a position and work that he loved as a supreme court justice in the state of Utah. However, this change was different.

In 1970, Elder Oaks reasonably might have thought he would return to his legal career following his service at BYU, which in fact he eventually did. But the call in 1984 was distinctive—a consecrated commitment of his whole soul and entire life to the Lord. The eternal importance and worldwide scope of his new responsibilities truly were overwhelming.

Elder Oaks described his innermost thoughts about this important transition:
“During this period of introspection, contemplating the way I would spend the rest of my life, I asked myself what kind of an apostle I would be. Would I be a lawyer who had been called to be an apostle, or would I be an apostle who used to be a lawyer? I concluded that the answer to this question depended upon whether I would try to shape my calling to my own personal qualifications and experience, or whether I would undertake the painful process of trying to shape myself to my calling.
“Would I try to perform my calling in the world’s ways, or would I try to determine and follow the Lord’s ways?
“I made up my mind that I would try to change myself to fit my calling, that I would try to measure up to the qualifications and spiritual stature of an apostle. That is a challenge for a lifetime.”1

One night Ben awoke in the middle of the night with a terrible earache. His ear hurt so much that he had to go to the hospital. On the way, he prayed, “Heavenly Father, my ear hurts worse than anything has ever hurt me before. I really need help. Please help the doctors find a way to make my ear feel better.” Ben remembered that Heavenly Father hadn’t always given him what he asked for, but he tried to have faith and believe that the pain would go away.
At the hospital, the doctor gave Ben some medicine. It tasted yucky, but Ben swallowed it, and on the way home his ear started feeling better. He knew that Heavenly Father had answered his prayer.

The whole family put their faith on the line several years ago when they decided to close the shop on Sunday, even though it was one of their best days. They lost some customers after that, but they held firm to their decision, and their ex-customers, lonely for the incomparable pastries, came back and brought friends. Surrounded by this kind of integrity, Tom has learned many principles more important than the secrets of baking.

An account of the first Christmas in the Salt Lake Valley, December 25 1847, was shared by Brother Robert Bliss. “… the Snow is now nearly gone and the weather is fine; today we waked by the firing of Cannon, & the day was spent in Work by some & amusement by others. … I visited one of my Old neighbors who was driven out of Illinois with me & partook of a fine Christmas Dinner; but any joys were dampened when I think of my Family; they are more than a Thousand miles from me & there is no possible chance for me to go to them till Spring.” Brother Bliss continued and he indicated that he had faith in God. That He had protected them in all their trials and that He would support his family in every situation that they might be placed in.

1. Notice that Rachel describes specifics from before the priesthood blessing; this will be important to show the contrast of the healing after the blessing.
“When I was young, I had an expander (an orthodontic appliance) in the top of my mouth. One day I developed an infection and my gums swelled up around it. I was in terrible pain, and neither the dentist nor the orthodontist knew what was wrong or how to fix it. All they could do while they tried to figure it out was to give me pain medicine. I stayed home sick from school and spent most of the time sleeping. Every time the medicine wore off, I woke up in pain and cried until the next dose of medicine kicked in.1
2. If you were speaking with nonmembers, you’d want to tell a little more about what priesthood and home teacher mean.
“My mom asked my dad (a priesthood holder) to call one of our home teachers.2 He came over and helped my father give me a healing blessing. After the blessing, the pain never woke me up from sleep again. The swelling went down and I was able to stop taking the pain medicine. When I went back to the dentist, he was astonished and still couldn’t understand what had been wrong or how it healed. He was a member of our stake, so my mom told him I’d had a priesthood blessing, and then he understood why I was better.3
3. She shares how she was healed by priesthood power. Notice how she explains that her recovery puzzled the dentist. This demonstrates that her healing was a result of the blessing and a gift from our Heavenly Father.
“Ever since that experience, I’ve had a strong testimony of the true power of the priesthood. Whenever my testimony gets a little shaky, I can look back on this experience and remember what a real miracle it was. I know the Lord loves me and that it was His power that made me better.”4
4. She concludes her story by sharing a simple but powerful testimony.
Rachel M., Utah, USA

Photograph by Cristy Powell
Before my mission, I moved out of my parents’ home and attended college for a few months. There, I experienced severe anxiety. I wanted to serve a mission but worried about my mental health challenges.
After working hard in therapy for several months, I was ready to serve and received my mission call. I was called to be a service missionary.
My father recalls: “He poured his heart into preparing for his mission. When his call finally came, it was even harder for us when we saw his disappointment in not getting called to the kind of mission he had hoped to serve.”
That is when I took this teaching from President Russell M. Nelson to heart: “Through a lifetime of service in this Church, I have learned that it really doesn’t matter where one serves. What the Lord cares about is how one serves.”
My mother said, “We had to trust that this call was directly from God and that he was needed as a service missionary.”
Looking back, I can truly say that I am happy with the progress I have made, the growth I have experienced, and the many lives I have touched, including members of my family, fellow missionaries, and those I have served.
As part of my service, I write for the Friend magazine, serve in the Mount Timpanogos Utah Temple, and help two teenage boys who have special needs. I have found so much joy helping others come unto Christ through my service.

Nauvoo was swampy and unhealthy. As soon as the Saints began to settle, they were struck with malaria. “It was a very sickly time,” said Wilford Woodruff. “Joseph had given up his home in Commerce to the sick, and had a tent pitched in his dooryard and was living in that himself.” During this period of suffering, the Prophet called upon the power of the priesthood and went among the sick on both sides of the river, healing many.
The following summer the epidemic increased and many died. In 1841, Sidney Rigdon preached “a general funeral sermon” for the deceased, as workers hurriedly drained the swamps in an effort to control the dreaded disease.

Robert sat on the swing in his backyard and stared at the overcast sky. It was a boring Friday afternoon, and he couldn’t think of anything to do. His best friends, Will and Jason, were visiting their grandparents over the Thanksgiving weekend. Robert didn’t have any grandparents. The juicy brown turkey and shimmering red cranberry sauce had been eaten yesterday. Oh, there’d be turkey sandwiches and turkey soup, but the actual turkey dinner was only a memory. Even the pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream was a thing of the past—Robert had polished off the last slice right after lunch. There was nothing to look forward to now but a long, empty weekend.
Robert kicked at some of the leaves on the ground. The air was cold, and the sky seemed like a gray blanket above him. With his luck, it would probably snow too. As he stared at the clouds, he saw something red out of the corner of his eye.
Turning his head, Robert saw that that something red was floating past the chimney of a house down the street. It was a balloon! A bright red balloon was floating lazily on the wind currents.
Robert watched the bobbing balloon, fascinated. Forgetting the cold, overcast afternoon, he stood up and ran toward the balloon.
The balloon drifted lower and lower until it was directly over Robert’s head. When he reached up to grab it, the balloon drifted out of his reach. He ran after it and jumped when he was directly beneath the bright object. His hand snagged the balloon’s short string, and he pulled it down. A bright red balloon was a wonderful thing to have on a gloomy Friday-after-Thanksgiving!
As Robert ran his hand over the balloon’s smooth surface, he felt something strange. Turning the balloon around, he saw a label stuck to the side of the balloon. It read:
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
From Ethel Gazelle
Pine Crest Nursing Home
St. Louis, Missouri
Robert had never received a Thanksgiving balloon before. And this balloon had traveled more than sixty miles! Why, his Thanksgiving weekend was turning out to be pretty exciting. Even if he didn’t have grandparents to visit like Will and Jason did, he had a Thanksgiving balloon.
Suddenly Robert had an idea. Holding tightly to the balloon’s string, he raced home. Carefully he released the balloon in his room, where it rose slightly and hovered over his books and papers. Robert pulled off his jacket and hung it on its hook. Then he sat down, found a clean piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote:
Dear Mrs. Gazelle,
I found your red balloon on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Thank you for sending it. It traveled more than sixty miles to Union, Missouri, where I live. My name is Robert, and I’m nine years old. Would you like to be my pen pal? I never had a Thanksgiving balloon before. I like it very much.
Sincerely,
Robert Webster
Satisfied, Robert carefully copied Mrs. Gazelle’s address onto the front of an envelope. Then he wrote his address in the upper left-hand corner. He folded his letter, tucked it inside the envelope, put a stamp on it, sealed it, and took it to the mailbox on the next block.
Robert wondered if Mrs. Gazelle would write back. Maybe they could be pen pals for a long time. He could send her letters and birthday and Christmas cards.
It would be almost like having a grandmother.

I know of another little boy who came home from school one day long ago to find a rented piano in the house. “What’s this piano here for?” he asked his mother.
“It’s for you,” she replied.
“For me?” he asked. “Why for me?”
“Because,” she said, “you are going to take piano lessons.”
He said he didn’t want to take piano lessons. But she had already arranged for a teacher.
Well, this little boy began to miss a few lessons. One day his mother asked, “How was your piano lesson?”
He said, “Fine. I’m doing pretty well.”
“That’s interesting,” she said. “I just talked to your teacher, and she hasn’t seen you for a while.” He had been caught. He didn’t know what the punishment would be, but he knew it would be bad. Then his mother said, “Just for that, you may not take piano lessons.”
He tried to look punished, but inside he was very happy with her decision. Mother, he thought, you have hit on the perfect punishment. I hope you use it often. Within his heart he felt that he had just been liberated. He was free from practice, free from lessons, free from discipline, routine, and regimentation—free from all that seemed to limit his freedom.
When he grew to be a man, he was sitting one day in a church meeting during which a woman was to sing a solo. When her time to perform came, she walked up to the podium and announced, “My accompanist could not come today. I need someone to accompany me.” Looking over the congregation, she saw a man who used to teach piano. “Will you accompany me?” she asked him. The man came forward, and she handed him the music.
As he watched this happen, my friend who had avoided music lessons thought, What would I have done if she had asked me? If she had asked me, I would have been free to do only one thing: to say no. Suddenly, he realized that what he had assumed to be one of the great liberating moments of his life—when his mother said, “You may not take lessons any more”—was in fact a moment of bondage, not freedom. As he sat in that church meeting, he might as well have been handcuffed, for he could not have played the piano if he had wanted to. The other man was free; he could choose to play or not to play. Ultimately, then, freedom is more a matter of capacity and ability than of permission.

While sitting on the couch watching television, I heard my dad say, “Come in, come in!” To my surprise, it was the missionaries. It was the first time in a really long time that they had visited us. My mom isn’t a member of the Church, and our family wasn’t really active in Church.
Towards the end of the lesson, my mom was asked to say the closing prayer. She was hesitant at first, but with a little encouragement from my dad, she agreed.
All of us knelt down, and my mom spoke in our native language. She thanked Heavenly Father for our unexpected visitors and the message they had for us. She asked for guidance, prayed for the missionaries to get home safely, and asked that we would all be blessed.
Once the elders were gone, I hugged my mom and said I was so proud of her. She hugged me back and said, “Thank you.” I couldn’t wipe the smile off of my face.
My mom still hasn’t been baptized. But I have hope that one day she will become a member and we will be sealed in the temple.
Shaura C., Benguet, Philippines

New converts have blessed and been the lifeblood of the Church throughout its history. One example is particularly precious to me. When I was a young bishop, two marvelous sister missionaries were teaching the William Edward Mussman family. The father, a very capable lawyer, was general counsel of a major corporation. His devoted wife, Janet, was helping the family strive to live a more Christlike life.

Their exceptional son and daughter, both in their early 20s, were also being taught. All four had received the lessons and were attending church. The sister missionaries had emphasized reading the Book of Mormon and praying for a testimony of that sacred scripture. Remarkably, the family prayerfully read the entire Book of Mormon in a short time.

The stake missionaries, both of whom were prior ward Relief Society presidents, accompanied them to sacrament meetings.

As the family was nearing baptism, they received a barrage of literature critical of the Church. This was before the internet, but the material filled a large cardboard box.

The sister missionaries invited me as a recently called 34-year-old bishop to help answer the questions being raised. When we gathered in their living room, the large box of pamphlets critical of the Church was in the middle of the room. I had prayerfully approached this assignment. During the opening prayer, the Spirit whispered to me, “He already knows it is true.” This was important. The sisters believed that the rest of the family already had a testimony. They were unsure about the father.

I immediately informed him that the Spirit had prompted me that he already had a testimony. “Was that true?” He looked at me intently and said that the Spirit had confirmed the truth of the Book of Mormon and the Church to him.

I then asked whether it would be necessary to review the pamphlets, if they already had a spiritual confirmation.

The father replied that it would not be necessary. The rest of the family concurred with his answer.

He said he did have a significant question: One reason they had received so much literature opposing the Church was that they were members of another faith. In addition, he had made a large pledge to help build a new chapel for that faith. He informed me that the sister missionaries had taught him about the importance of tithing, which he gratefully accepted, but he wondered if it would be wrong to also honor the pledge he had previously made. I assured him that payment of the pledge would be both honorable and appropriate.

The Mussmans with their son, daughter-in-law, and daughter.

The entire family was baptized. One year later they were sealed as a family in the Oakland California Temple. I was privileged to be present. The son completed law school, passed the California Bar Exam, and immediately served a faithful mission in Japan. I have watched over the years as the succeeding generations have remained faithful to the gospel. I was privileged to officiate at the sealing of one of the granddaughters.

It wasn’t until she attended preschool that Alba first started learning English. Even though she was very young, she remembers how frustrating it was at times. But she picked up the language quickly.

When kindergarten started, Alba’s teacher knew she was bilingual, so she assigned her a seat next to a boy who couldn’t speak any English. She asked Alba to translate basic phrases for him such as “write your name here.”

One day, a mother who couldn’t speak any English stopped by the office. The staff could not find anyone in the whole school to interpret for her. When Alba’s teacher learned of the dilemma, she immediately recommended her five-year-old interpreter. From then on—from parent-teacher conferences to phone calls—the school asked young Alba for help whenever they needed an interpreter.

“At least three times a week they would call me out of class,” she says. “It was exciting for me. I felt special,” she said with a laugh, “and I could get out of class.”

Yellow Leaf was lying on a moss-covered boulder that overhung a deep, clear brook. Dreamily, she watched a huge speckled trout nosing among the pebbles on the bottom of the deep pool. Olive green, with iridescent flecks of color on each side, the trout was so beautiful, Yellow Leaf had no desire to catch it. A pale golden moth fluttered too near the surface. The trout spun upward with incredible speed. “Aiii,” the Indian girl sighed in sorrow as the moth vanished.
A strange squealing sound startled Yellow Leaf and drew her to the top of the hill. Dropping flat, she watched in amazement as a clumsy, bargelike wagon drawn by a pair of oxen pulled to a stop below. The squealing sound she had heard was the iron-bound wheels, badly in need of grease.
Judging from the clouds of dust still hanging in the air, the wagon had come out of the arid, boulder-strewn badlands. The people in the wagon must have traveled all night to have survived; it would have been impossible to travel during the heat of the day.
The wagon had no cover; only charred pieces of canvas clung to the metal hoops across the top of the wagon. There were no water barrels lashed to the sides. Creeping closer, Yellow Leaf saw a telltale arrow piercing the wagon bed.
This family was probably all who had survived from a wagon train. Indian tribes to the east, who were also enemies of her tribe, were on the warpath because of a broken treaty. These Indians must have attacked the wagon train.
Yellow Leaf felt pity for the little family. “They will have little chance of survival here,” she murmured. Yellow Leaf watched the woman, carrying a small baby, herd two other children to the meager shade provided by a large boulder. The man, bent with fatigue, moved about among the rocks, searching.
“Water! They’re dying of thirst!” the girl whispered as she remembered the missing barrels. “If they had horses instead of oxen, the horses would sniff out the water and lead the people to it.”
Yellow Leaf yearned to help, but she didn’t dare. Even if she could speak their language, it wouldn’t help. The man had a gun, and she would almost certainly be shot if she approached. Regretfully she turned to leave.
A feeble wail from the baby stopped her. It sounded like her baby brother. Looking back, she saw that the man was some distance away, still threading his way through the barren rocks. There was water out there, but he wouldn’t know where to find it. He was even going in the wrong direction and would soon drop in his tracks from thirst and weakness.
There was another weak cry from the baby, and Yellow Leaf raced back to the brook. Spilling the lush purple berries from the earthenware pot, she filled it with icy water. Hesitating for only a moment, Yellow Leaf glided silently down the steep slope.
The woman was lying there, curled protectively around her children, her eyes closed, and her lips cracked and swollen. Forgetting all danger, the Indian girl knelt and scooped up water in her hands, letting it splash on the woman’s face. Her skyblue eyes reflected disbelief as they fluttered open and stared into Yellow Leaf’s dark eyes. For a long moment, the girl held her breath, expecting the woman to begin screaming; that would bring the man running with one of the long guns feared by Yellow Leaf’s people.
But the woman’s panic was overcome by concern for her children. Taking a metal cup from the wagon, the mother watched carefully as the older boy and girl drank, making certain they didn’t drink too much. She cared for the baby, and then she wet cloths to cool the heads of the children. Only then did she drink herself.
Preoccupied with watching the children, Yellow Leaf didn’t hear the man approach. She wasn’t aware of the danger until the woman cried out, “No, Frank. No! She brought us water.”
The man seemed dazed as he lowered his rifle. “Water? Where could she find water in this dried-up land? There’s not a sprig of grass anywhere!”
When he too had quenched his thirst, the tall, gaunt man pointed to the clay pot and asked, “Where?” His tired face fell as Yellow Leaf pointed to the bluff.
“We could never get the wagon up there,” he sighed, motioning toward the heavy wagon and the thirsty oxen.
Yellow Leaf understood. Standing up, she walked to the wagon and stood waiting. “She wants us to get in. Maybe she knows a way!” the woman said hopefully.
Walking ahead of the oxen, Yellow Leaf led the way around the barren hills to a gentle slope that led up and then down into a green valley where the brook wound like a silver thread.
“It’s the most beautiful spot I’ve ever seen! It’s exactly the place we’ve dreamed about,” the woman cried in delight.
“Yes. There are trees to build a cabin, and the land wouldn’t take too much clearing. It’s rich ground, too, Sarah. Almost anything should grow here,” the man said softly, his eyes bright with excitement and hope.
Neither noticed when the Indian girl slipped away. Turning for a last glimpse, Yellow Leaf felt tears sting her eyes as she watched the man and woman, hand in hand, lost in their brave dreams for the future. They were the first white people who had ever seen the fertile valley hidden away behind the desolate rocky hills. Would they ever know the anguish Yellow Leaf suffered at giving them her beautiful green land?
A chill swept over Yellow Leaf. Suddenly she felt like the fluttering golden moth.

Such vivid physical images of Herman remain in my mind that I think I would recognize him today, and I have often wished I could see Herman again. Yet I cannot remember any conversation I ever had with him—and he was part of my life for nine months.
You cannot say we ostracized him. We were afraid of him or perhaps in awe of his ways, which because they were not known to us, were a threat to our innocence. And he seemed not to want or need our friendship. We were together only because of a clerical fact of life that took seven hours a day for nine months to be fully executed.
It was the last day of school, and we were graduating from the sixth grade. School, for all intents and purposes, was over. We were just marking time till the closing assembly would propel us into three full months of vacation, and the air was positively humming with excitement.
We were growing up fast. No longer were we wide-eyed innocents surprised at everything happening around us. People and things were sorted, analyzed, and filed for future reference in minds with miles of empty corridors just waiting to be filled.
This is where Herman came in. To minds sorting, analyzing, and filing, Herman was a gold mine. He was different for a number of reasons.
First of all was the physical. Herman was not attractive, so we did not care to look any further. He had a large nose on a thin face, and his whole head just seemed too big for his body. Maybe it was his hair that created that impression. It was thick and bushy, and on Herman we never saw the naked ears of a brand new haircut sticking out in self-conscious embarrassment. It was never longer but never shorter.
He was thin and sinewy. He had a lean, hard body that was in many ways more mature than the other boys in our class. That was because Herman was “rough.” He had “rough” friends and did “rough” things. That was the major difference.
But his clothes were the real factor when it came to sorting Herman. He was among the first group to wear motorcycle boots and black leather jackets. At that particular time in our country’s culture, the only people who wore leather jackets were “hoods.” So we went no further in analyzing Herman. We could tell, after all, just by looking that Herman did not fit in our world. Not because we did not like him but because … well, he was just different, you know? He was all the things we did not know about and did not care about.
Then suddenly, after nine months, it was time to go into the auditorium for the final hurrah of our childhood.
I was in the choir, so I was allowed to go into the auditorium early and take my place in the chairs reserved for us down front. When facing the audience we were expected to sit silently without excess movement. And it was thus that I learned one of the more startling truths of my life.
I watched as the people walked purposefully into the big room, each of my friends in turn with their mothers. I beamed as my own mother came into the room and took a place where we could see each other comfortably. It seemed that fathers never came to things like that, and we knew perfectly well it was because they were at work and could not come.
There were many beaming faces that afternoon, not only on the children, but also on the parents. (It is always hard to tell who is the prouder in a situation like that.) There was something almost magical in having your mother at school. Maybe because she reaffirmed your individuality in a sea of faces. Or maybe just because she was your mother and you had so few chances to show her off. The mothers beamed because we were their children and that was reason enough.
I knew most of the mothers of my friends from visits to our classroom, or birthday parties, or simply seeing them shopping. But nobody knew Herman’s mother or even thought of him as having one.
But then, right there in front of my eyes, came Herman Teague with—and there could not possibly be any mistake about it—his mother.
The pride in Herman’s thin, large-nosed face was the first thing I noticed and is probably why I cannot erase him from my mind. Herman never showed emotion in class. He simply showed up and “learned” every day, just like he was supposed to. It was shocking to realize that he was a boy just as proud of his mother as the rest of us were of ours, and he was showing it just as we did.
Then I looked at her. She was a little gray-haired lady not much taller than her son. All of the other mothers were somewhere around 30 years old. Herman’s mother was more like 50. She was plump and had an open face that I automatically associated with kindness and sincerity.
My revelation came when I looked at her clothes; but then I cannot really say I looked first at her age, then her face, then her clothes, because she was a total experience taken in at one gulping moment of learning. I have saved the clothes till last to bring this moment as forcefully to your mind as it came to mine on that day 20 years ago.
She had on a plain cotton print dress that buttoned down the front, the kind worn by every grandmother worth her salt. And over it she wore a black leather jacket—identical to Herman’s!
I stared, probably as every child of that age stares, with my eyes bugged out and my mouth wide open.
There they were, right before me for the whole hour’s program, none of which I can remember at all. And for one hour the thought rang through my mind and bounced off every surface in my brain lest I should somehow not have noticed or perhaps taken it too lightly: Herman Teague had a mother.
If she had worn a sweater, or a shawl, or even no wrap at all, the moment would have passed without any meaning to me whatsoever. It was the combination of mother and black leather jacket that made all the difference in my analyzing. The meaning and images of mother in my mind were too real to be denied. After all, only hoods and people like that wore those jackets, didn’t they? How could that plump old lady with that open, kind, sincere face—that mother—be a hood? Seeing her in that black leather jacket brought to mind a whole flood of reasons why Herman was different that I had never considered before.
I had such a mixture of emotions in those moments that it has taken me years to finish the sorting, analyzing, and filing that began on that day.
A seed of wisdom and understanding sprouted in an instant, and since that moment I have not only been reluctant to judge people, but I have not been able to look upon any of God’s children casually or indifferently. They, too, have mothers.

I always thought that I was one of the lucky exceptions to some gospel standards. So I did my own thing, deciding which standards were important and which weren’t. One of the standards I saw as optional was not listening to profane and vulgar music (see For the Strength of Youth [2011], 22). I didn’t think that the music I listened to made a difference in how I acted and how I felt about the gospel. I still had a strong testimony of Jesus Christ, and I did my best to serve others and attend my Church meetings. I told myself that it was unfortunate that those musicians didn’t live virtuous lives, but I was OK listening to their music—after all, it didn’t keep me from living a gospel-oriented life.
As I prepared to serve a mission, I didn’t think twice about how the music I listened to was stifling my spiritual progression.
However, within hours of opening my mission call, the scripture Alma 32:27 came into my head: “But behold, if ye will awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words.”
And then I thought of that one word: experiment. If I wanted to receive the blessings I was missing out on, I had to experiment. So for the next three weeks, I went without my inappropriate music. It was hard at first, and I had many relapses. But after a few days, the peaceful feelings I began having every day were enough to get me through. On top of that, as a college student, I began to do better in my classes. I could focus more, and I was more in tune with the Spirit in a time of my life where heavenly guidance was especially important.
I found that even my desires changed. I wanted to have every blessing that Heavenly Father is waiting to give me. My experience in changing my music habits helped me realize that there are no optional standards and that every commandment we are given is designed to deepen our relationship with our Heavenly Father and make us more like Him. Skipping out on ones we don’t like will only deny us His promised blessings.

Long ago, I sought to learn physics and mathematics in my college years. I felt overwhelmed. … I began to think of quitting, of doing something easier.
I felt weak. As I prayed, I felt the quiet assurance of the Lord. I felt Him say to my mind, “I am proving you, but I am also with you.” …
I learned that my struggle with physics was actually a gift from the Lord. He was teaching me that with His help, I could do things that seemed impossible if I had the faith that He would be there to help me. Through this gift, the Lord was working to prove and strengthen me.

When my family lived in Mesa, Arizona, our one-year-old daughter became ill with viral meningitis. When the doctor diagnosed the illness, he told us that we would know within the next twenty-four hours whether she would live or die. We began to fast and pray for her recovery. She lingered near death for a week, much longer than the doctor had expected in terms of seeing some kind of change.

After that week of struggling, we again fasted, and the ward joined us. When we prayed, fasted, and said to the Lord, “Thy will be done,” a peace as tangible and real as anything we have ever experienced came to our minds. We were not in turmoil, nor were we anxious about the matter. We did not know whether she would live or die, but we were at peace. Happily, she began to recover.

Now, I wish to move to a different matter. I spoke of this same thing many years ago. I repeat it because those who heard it then have long since forgotten, and those who did not hear it need to hear it. It concerns President Joseph F. Smith, who served as President of the Church from 1901 to 1918, altogether 17 years.
Joseph F. Smith was the son of Hyrum Smith, who was the brother of the Prophet Joseph and was martyred with him in Carthage. Joseph F. was born at Far West, Missouri, on November 13, 1838. He came out of Missouri as an infant. As a lad not yet six years of age, he heard a knock on the window of his mother’s home in Nauvoo. It was a man who had hurriedly ridden from Carthage and who told Sister Smith that her husband had been killed that afternoon.
When he was nine, he drove an ox team with his mother across the plains to this valley. At the age of 15 he was called on a mission to Hawaii. He made his way to San Francisco and there worked in a shingle mill to earn enough money to buy passage to the islands.
Hawaii was not a tourist center then. It was populated by the native Hawaiians, who were, for the most part, poor but generous with what they had. He learned to speak their language and to love them. While serving there he experienced a remarkable dream. I quote from his narrative concerning this. Said he:
“I was very much oppressed [when I was] on a mission. I was almost naked and entirely friendless, except [for] the friendship of a poor, benighted … people. I felt as if I was so debased in my condition of poverty, lack of intelligence and knowledge, just a boy, that I hardly dared look a … man in the face.
“While in that condition I dreamed [one night] that I was on a journey, and I was impressed that I ought to hurry—hurry with all my might, for fear I might be too late. I rushed on my way as fast as I possibly could, and I was only conscious of having just a little bundle, a handkerchief with a small bundle wrapped in it. I did not realize … what it was, when I was hurrying as fast as I could; but finally I came to a wonderful mansion. … I thought I knew that was my destination. As I passed towards it, as fast as I could, I saw a notice [which read B-A-T-H], ‘Bath.’ I turned aside quickly and went into the bath and washed myself clean. I opened up this little bundle that I had, and there was [some] white, clean [clothing], a thing I had not seen for a long time, because the people I was with did not think very much of making things exceedingly clean. But my [clothing was] clean, and I put [it] on. Then I rushed to what appeared to be a great opening, or door. I knocked and the door opened, and the man who stood there was the Prophet Joseph Smith. He looked at me a little reprovingly, and the first words he said: ‘Joseph, you are late.’ Yet I took confidence and [replied]:
“‘Yes, but I am clean—I am clean!’
“He clasped my hand and drew me in, then closed the great door. I felt his hand just as tangible as I ever felt the hand of man. I knew him, and when I entered I saw my father, and Brigham [Young] and Heber [C. Kimball], and Willard [Richards], and other good men that I had known, standing in a row. I looked as if it were across this valley, and it seemed to be filled with a vast multitude of people, but on the stage were all the people that I had known. My mother was there, and she sat with a child in her lap; and I could name over as many as I remember of their names, who sat there, who seemed to be among the chosen, among the exalted. …
“[When I had this dream,] I was alone on a mat, away up in the mountains of Hawaii—no one was with me. But in this vision I pressed my hand up against the Prophet, and I saw a smile cross his countenance. …
“When I awoke that morning I was a man, although only [still] a boy. There was not anything in the world that I feared [after that]. I could meet any man or woman or child and look them in the face, feeling in my soul that I was a man every whit. That vision, that manifestation and witness that I enjoyed at that time has made me what I am, if I am anything that is good, or clean, or upright before the Lord, if there is anything good in me. That has helped me out in every trial and through every difficulty” (Gospel Doctrine, 5th ed. [1939], 542–43).
The core of that meaningful dream is found in the reproof given by Joseph Smith to young Joseph F. Said the Prophet, “Joseph, you are late.”
Replied Joseph F., “Yes, but I am clean—I am clean!”
The result of that dream was that a boy was changed into a man. His declaration “I am clean” gave him self-assurance and courage in facing anyone or any situation. He received the strength that comes from a clear conscience fortified by the approbation of the Prophet Joseph.

Sam was a computer science major from Utah who had always felt it was best to marry someone born and raised in the Church—that way both sets of grandparents would be LDS. Then he met Charly—a liberated rich girl from the East who was planning to spend her life laughing at people’s beliefs. Her father was Sam’s father’s boss, and so Sam agreed to take her out—once. But what starts out as a disaster (“You never told me how much your father is paying you to take me out.” “Not enough.”) ends up in a marathon Ferris wheel ride—and the beginning of an entertaining and engrossing love story.
Charly’s conversion; her and Sam’s courtship, temple marriage, and semester in a broken down BYU basement apartment, and their first few years together in South Dakota (“where fall lasts two days”) are told with the unpredictable humor that Brother Weyland is known for. Charly’s struggles to become a good Mormon wife (“If you want me to, I’ll learn to make plastic grapes in Relief Society”) are matched by Sam’s efforts to overcome his pride (“I could believe that the Savior could forgive past sins—but I wasn’t sure I could”). How each succeeds gives the novel some of its most memorable and sensitive moments.
Charly’s death (which Brother Weyland introduces in the opening paragraph of the book) is a moving climax to the story. As Charly weakens, Sam agonizes: “This thing that to us was such a great tragedy, what was it to [the Savior], who saw beyond the grave? Did he understand the depths of my sorrow?”
Then Sam answers his own question: “I remembered the raising of Lazarus—Mary and Martha weeping for the loss of their dear brother. … Jesus was certain that in five minutes Lazarus would come forth. What if he had turned to Mary and told her not to cry and that everything would be okay? What if he had treated lightly her sorrow?
“Instead he wept.
“He hept because they wept and because he shared their sorrow. He wept because he loved them, and whatever grief they carried, he shared it with them.
“He would not leave me comfortless because he loves me, and he loves Charly. He wept because he loves us.”