Gospel Story Finder

I started attending my new senior school last September. In a school of over a thousand students, I was the only Latter-day Saint. In my religion class of 30 people, only I and one other girl attend church of any kind. On my first day of class, my religion teacher, Mrs. Johnson*, asked us to name the holy books that are used in different religions. I said the Book of Mormon, and at first she wasn’t sure which church used it. I explained that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She asked me to choose my favorite scripture for the following week and also tell the class about my church.
The following week I read Moroni 10:4, which was the first scripture the missionaries shared with me and my mom. I told the class about the First Vision and how Joseph Smith received and later translated the gold plates. I was really nervous because my friends think that you are a geek if you go to church. I was afraid that they would make fun of me. But when I started speaking, the Spirit was with me, and everybody listened with interest. Afterward, they asked questions.
Since then, Mrs. Johnson has started reading the Book of Mormon and the Ensign, although she hasn’t yet come to church. Also, in every religion lesson we talk about my beliefs. And some of my friends are planning to come to church activities.
My prayer is that one day I will be just one of many Latter-day Saints at my school. Everyone deserves an opportunity to learn about Jesus Christ and His Church and return to live with Heavenly Father. If we keep the gospel to ourselves, we are being selfish. We should share it with everyone, no matter who they are. That is what Jesus Christ wants us to do, and I am trying to be like Him.

While living and working in Alaska a number of years ago, I had occasion to go on a fishing trip with a group of young men that included one of my sons. The other adult leaders and I knew that the area we would be camping in was bear country, so prior to the trip, we gathered the boys together to discuss certain safety measures.
We talked about four basic rules to remember when fishing in bear country: First, don’t do things that would invite a bear into the camp. For example, don’t store food out in the open that would attract the bears. Second, keep the camp clean. Take care of all garbage. If you catch and clean fish, get rid of the entrails and slime. Third, if a bear does come, know how to defend yourself. Drop down, be still, and play dead. Fourth, if someone gets hurt or is attacked by a bear, know how to get help. Signal to others that you are in trouble, and keep a good orientation of your surroundings so that you know the fastest way to go for assistance.
I am confident that all would have gone well on that trip had we kept all those rules. But we didn’t! On our last day we cleaned fish in the center of the camp and didn’t properly dispose of the remains. That night a Kodiak bear wandered into camp. We had just settled inside our tents, when we heard its panting. We literally froze in fear. We couldn’t talk.
Luckily for us, the bear got what it was after and nothing more. It found and ate some of the fish we had cleaned, and it ran off with two buckets, which were filled with the day’s catch. But it left us alone and didn’t do more harm.

Janetta pulled the quilt close around her shoulders and shuddered. Even with its comfort and the warmth from the fire, she felt cold.
“Janna!” her little brother wailed from the lean-to. “I had a bad dream!”
“Come here,” she called softly, holding out her arms. He climbed onto her lap and snuggled down to sleep again. Soon the warmth from his small body flowed into hers and they were both warm.
James whimpered in his sleep, and she rocked him gently. His nightmares had begun this last year. It had been a year especially full of things that could disturb a three year old.
She looked away from their fire across the mighty Mississippi to Nauvoo, where she could see the distant flicker of fires that surrounded the temple where men were still working.
That was “her” temple. She felt a pride in it because she had helped build it. With her mother, she had cooked food and made clothes for the families of those who worked on the temple.
That was how she’d met her best friend, Sarah. One day when Janetta was delivering supper to some workers, she ran right into a girl her own age and knocked her down. When the girl got up, she put her hands on her hips and said, “Well, this is a fine way to meet a new friend.” She grinned at Janetta, then stuck out her hand. “I’m Sarah, and I’m new to the city.”
Janetta shook her hand. “I’m Janetta, and I’ve been here since the beginning.”
It was a great friendship. They giggled together as they spun wool, carded it, and knit through the long winter days. They were proud that men working on the Lord’s temple wore their socks.
Janetta looked again at the flickering lights and felt sadness creep in. Her father had left before the temple walls were up. Their family had never had the opportunity to go inside to be sealed together as a family.
The worst of the trouble had started the summer before, when the Prophet Joseph was killed. Everyone was numb from the tragedy. It was as if a cloud of darkness covered their beautiful city—only there weren’t any clouds.
With tears streaming down their cheeks, Sarah and Janetta had stood hand in hand as the bodies of the Prophet and his brother Hyrum passed by in a wagon coming from Carthage. Later, after the bodies had been prepared at the Mansion House, her parents stood in line to view them.
As the sorrow lessened, some of the Saints became confused. Rumors circulated in the city that the Church was doomed. Some predicted that the temple would never be finished. Several men claimed to be the next leader of the Church.
Janetta was troubled by the confusion. “Father,” she asked one day, “what will happen now? Who will lead the Church?”
Her father took her in his strong arms and hugged her. “This Church was true while Joseph lived, and it’s true now that he’s dead. It’s the Savior’s Church, and He’ll provide a leader for us. We’ll listen to the Brethren and follow what they say. There’s a meeting in the grove tomorrow, and Brother Brigham will tell us what’s right.”
The next day the Saints eagerly gathered at the grove. The first speaker was Sidney Rigdon. Janetta listened very carefully, for he claimed to be the proper leader of the Church. He talked on and on. The more he talked, the more she fidgeted and the worse she felt. She looked over at Sarah and caught her eye. When Sarah winked at Janetta, they both tried hard not to giggle,
Finally Sidney Rigdon sat down and Brigham Young closed the meeting. He announced another meeting under the direction of the Apostles at two o’clock.
Janetta and her parents hurried home and put James down for a nap. Leaving a neighbor to watch him, the three hurried back to the second meeting. Even though they were early, the only seats left were way in the back. Janetta was too short to see over people, but she could still hear the speakers.
Brigham Young stood up and began to speak. Hearing him, she felt a peace fill her. Then suddenly she jumped up and craned to see over the heads of the people in front of her. She thought she had heard the Prophet Joseph!
A blind man sitting beside her jumped up too. “That’s Joseph speaking to us. Surely he’s not dead!”
The extraordinary effect lasted only for seconds, but the people knew that Brigham Young had been chosen to lead the Church. They all listened very carefully to every word that he said.
When the meeting was over, Janetta hurried to find Sarah. “Did you hear him?” she asked excitedly. “He sounded just like the Prophet.”
“I not only heard him,” Sarah answered softly, “I saw him. It was like Brother Joseph was standing right there before us.”
The girls were silent for a moment as they reverently thought of what they’d just witnessed.
“I’ll never forget this,” Janetta whispered. “Brother Young is our prophet now. We can safely do everything he tells us to do.”
Soon after that memorable meeting, her father’s name was read as one of the missionaries called to go on a mission. Afterward the family wept together. They were proud that he was worthy to be called, but sad that he was leaving.
Then one crisp autumn morning Janetta kissed her father good-bye. They parted not knowing when or where they’d meet again. But they all knew that the Lord would protect them and reunite them, if not in this life then in the next.
“Janetta,” her mother said now, interrupting her thoughts, “I’m home. Let me take James and put him back to bed. You must be exhausted. Go to sleep.”
Janetta smiled at her mother. Here they were, camped on the bank of the river, with no roof over their heads, and yet her mother called it home. “Did Sister Brown have her baby?”
“Yes, a fine boy,” Mother answered happily. She warmed her hands by the fire. “I think he’ll be all right, even if he was born in the middle of the wide open spaces.” She turned to her daughter. “Go get some rest. We’ll be leaving early in the morning.”
“I can’t sleep,” Janetta answered sadly. “I keep thinking about our old home. I wonder who’s sleeping all warm and cozy in my bed.”
“I loved that house, too,” her mother answered softly. “Your father built it carefully to shelter us and make us happy. But we’ll be better off far away from the mobs, where we can be safe.”
Janetta continued to stare into the dying flames of the fire. Sleep and comfort seemed far-off.
Her mother rummaged around in their bags for their treasured copy of the Book of Mormon. She began softly to read aloud. At first Janetta only listened to her voice, not to the words. Then the words began to sink in. They told of Lehi and his family, who had left all their worldly goods in Jerusalem and fled into the wilderness.
Mother stopped reading. “It seems we’re in good company,” she said and smiled at her daughter. “We’re not the only ones of the Lord’s people who have had to leave their homes.”
Janetta smiled back, feeling the comfort she needed. Together they left the fire and went to their beds. She said her prayers and snuggled into the bed. She knew that the Saints were doing the will of God. She’d had that witness that they were being led by a prophet. It brought her peace.

In Italy there lives a Brother Luigi Pittino, who, with other European Saints, attended the Munich conference. For 17 years Brother Pittino had met on Sunday with one or two other Saints. They would have an opening prayer, read and discuss the scriptures, and partake of the sacrament. In these last few years they were all in their 70s and 80s. There was loneliness and a feeling of isolation. Imagine the thrill for Brother Pittino to sit with 14,000 other Saints at the Munich conference!

In 1940, the Kimballs began construction of their dream house, a pueblo-style home they designed themselves. The business was going well. Prosperity beckoned. They looked forward to a long, comfortable, and happy life in Safford.
Then, on July 8, 1943, the phone rang, a phone call that would change the Kimball’s lives.
“It must have taken only a few seconds for me to cross the room to the phone, grasp the receiver and say, ‘Hello,’ but it seemed that an hour’s thinking and retrospection coursed through my mind.”
Then came the voice of President J. Reuben Clark, a counselor to President Heber J. Grant, and a call to the Quorum of the Twelve. There followed six days and nights of weeping, confusion, and prayer. He yearned for a confirmation from the Lord. Finally on a hilltop in Boulder, Colorado, where he and his wife had been visiting their son, he received the calm assurance and peace that his call was indeed inspired. “My tears were dry, my soul was at peace. A calm feeling of assurance came over me, doubt and questionings subdued. It was as though a great burden had been lifted. I sat in tranquil silence surveying the beautiful valley, thanking the Lord for the satisfaction and the reassuring answer to my prayers.”

During the message I delivered at general conference in October 1975, I felt prompted to direct my remarks to a little girl with long, blonde hair who was seated in the balcony of the Tabernacle. I called the attention of the audience to her and felt this small girl needed the message I had in mind.
At the conclusion of the session, I returned to my office and found waiting for me a young child by the name of Misti White, together with her grandparents and an aunt. As I greeted them, I recognized Misti as the one in the balcony to whom I had directed my remarks.
I learned that as her eighth birthday approached, she was in a quandary concerning whether or not to be baptized. She felt she would like to be baptized, and her grandparents, with whom she lived, wanted her to be baptized, but her less-active mother suggested she wait until she was 18 years of age to make the decision. Misti had told her grandparents, “If we go to conference, maybe Heavenly Father will let me know what I should do.”
As we continued our visit after the session, Misti’s grandmother said to me, “I think Misti has something she would like to tell you.” This sweet young girl said, “Brother Monson, while you were speaking in conference, you answered my question. I want to be baptized!”
The family returned to California, and Misti was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Jenny Archer, Author When Jenny writes the story of her life for a school assignment, she tells about her birth on the banks of the Amazon. She exposes her great-grandfather as a bloodthirsty pirate. She reveals the dark secrets of Great-Great-Grandmother Buffalo Belle Archer, the notorious stagecoach robber and opera star. And she unmasks Horrible Hortense, her evil twin sister. It is clearly an A+ effort. So why does her teacher send a note home to her parents?

Maybe we weren’t the best troop in the district, but could you really blame us? Boy Scout Troop 756 (of the Mesa 34th Ward, Mesa Arizona East Stake) was barely a year old, and already we were losing our third Scoutmaster. We were losing interest in Scouting too.
Some of us had been to camp the summer before. Camp Geronimo, nestled under the Mogollon Rim in the heart of Arizona’s ponderosa pine forest, has the reputation of being one of the best Scout camps in the country, but we weren’t very well organized and didn’t take advantage of their program. Few of us wanted to go back. We’d lots rather go camping in the Grand Canyon, if we could get someone to take us.
Our problem was discussed in the next troop committee meeting. Brother Decker had just moved into the ward and had accepted the assignment of advancement chairman. He agreed to take charge of us until someone could be called as Scoutmaster.
At our next troop meeting Brother Decker explained to us what the situation was. We discussed the Grand Canyon trip and decided on a date, and our new leader agreed to contact the park and make reservations for the campgrounds we planned to use. He then showed slides he had taken on other hikes he had made in the canyon.
In our troop meetings the next few weeks we learned how to make up a light pack. All the equipment we took into the canyon would have to be carried out, and the last 7,000-foot climb would be when we were the most tired. There would be no need for sleeping bags—an air mattress and a sheet or sleeping sack would suffice. Food would be planned for light weight and high energy: instant cereals, jerky, dry soups, etc. (We could have freeze-dried camp packs if we could afford it.) We practiced first aid and other things we might need on the trail and were encouraged to hike a few blocks every day to condition ourselves and make sure our walking shoes were well broken in.
The big day finally came, and we all met at the prescribed place at the crack of dawn. Our transportation arrived—two Volkswagen bugs! That’s the best our leaders could come up with. We crammed ourselves in and headed north.
We stopped in Flagstaff to visit the headquarters of the Grand Canyon Council. They have patches that can be earned for hiking some of the trails in the canyon. First there’s the diamond-shaped patch with a colorful view of the canyon. Then there are chevron-shaped patches to sew around it, such as “The Hermit Trail,” “Supai To River,” and “Rim to Rim to Rim.” (The latter would be about the best 50 miler you could ever make!) We found that we would have to hike the trails first, then apply for the patches.
We entered the park through the south entrance and went directly to Mather Point where most of us got our first view of the canyon. What a view it was! No words can describe it, and pictures can’t do it justice. I’ve heard it said, and really believe it, that the Grand Canyon’s magnitude is impossible to comprehend.
We loaded back in the cars and went to the visitor’s center where our leaders checked our reservations and got our camping permits. Then we drove out to Yaki Point where we loaded our packs and started down the trail. It was steep at first, with several switchbacks; then it straightened out along Yaki Point. Dropping down on Cedar Ridge we encountered our first mules. The famous mules of Grand Canyon carry thousands of visitors on tours of the canyon each season. This, however, was a work detail repairing the trail.
At Cedar Ridge we found hitching racks for the mules, a scheduled rest stop on the way out of the canyon from Phantom Ranch. We also found a glass-covered case protecting an imprint of a large fern leaf in solid rock, no telling how old.
As we dropped down behind Bucky O’Neil Butte, storm clouds started gathering above us. Brother Decker told us that the only shelter on this trail was the tunnel at the suspension bridge over the river. This was over four miles away. The rain came, and we got into our packs for our sheets of plastic. They worked almost as well as raincoats and kept our packs dry too. The rain was really a blessing in disguise. It would have been pretty hot without it. Sometimes the temperature down in the gorge reaches over 120 degrees.
The troop was strung out as we went down over the Tip-Off. Brother Slade had twisted his knee and was taking it easy for a while. We found the tunnel at the river, which opened right onto the suspension bridge, and then we crossed the river, and waited for everyone to catch up. The sun came out and the wet cliffs glistened—a beautiful sight, and the river ran peacefully along below us. It was restful there, and we could have stayed for hours, but we still had to find a place to camp. It would be dark soon.
We followed the trail around the bend to Bright Angel Creek and then on to Phantom Ranch. Brother Decker remarked that another flood had gone through since he was last here; boulders were exposed everywhere. The beautiful new pool that had been so nice to swim in had disappeared, and a lawn had been planted in its place. A deer grazed peacefully nearby.
We found the concession window open at the restaurant. They didn’t have much of a selection, but the tall, cold lemonade sure tasted good.
We went on up the trail and found a beautiful campground. A little bridge over a sparkling brook led to a level area with plenty of grass under large spreading trees. Bright Angel Creek bordered the camp on the west. We just had time to get supper and make up our beds before dark. Most of us were pretty tired and went right off to sleep, but some of the guys amused themselves by tracking bats with their flashlights. They claimed that with the light on them the bats would lose their radar and crash into things.
The sun rises late in the canyon. Breakfast was over, and we had stashed our packs in a shed at Phantom Ranch for a hike up Bright Angel Creek. We didn’t see the sun until we had hiked up through the Box, with sheer rock walls reaching thousands of feet above us, and had come out in a valley inside the canyon. Here, out of sight of the towering cliffs, it was easy to imagine we were in an area of rolling hills rather than the bottom of a mile-deep chasm. Only the South Rim could be seen far in the distance.
To reach Ribbon Falls we had to leave the trail, cross the creek, and wind our way up a side canyon about half a mile: Ribbon Falls is a fantastic place. The water flows out of a cliff about a hundred feet above where we were, falls to a moss-covered ledge about halfway down, then onto the bottom, some falling free and the rest running down a tall, green wall of moss. We climbed up the ledge. We were hot and tired from the long hike, and the water sure looked inviting. We went in, some of us fully clothed, and it was the best shower I’ve ever had! We relaxed around the pool beneath the falls and ate the snack food we’d brought in our pockets. It was so peaceful it seemed like the most out-of-the-way place in the world. We didn’t realize at the time that only a mile or so away, almost directly above us, was the bustling Grand Canyon Lodge on the North Rim!
We returned to Phantom Ranch and our old campground. The day was hot and the pool in the creek looked like a good place to cool off. Storm clouds were beginning to appear, so we stashed our clothes and packs where they wouldn’t get wet and enjoyed ourselves in the creek. The rain came but we didn’t care. We were comfortable in the water.
We still had a long way to go. It was seven or eight miles and 2,000 feet up to the Indian Gardens Campground where we had reservations to spend the night. We broke camp, policed the area to make sure there was no sign that we had been there, and headed out. We went down past the ranger’s station and crossed the river on the lower bridge, the one that carries the water line from Roaring Spring to Grand Canyon Village. It’s a half mile below the suspension bridge.
The trail ran a mile or so along the river, with each bend giving another spectacular view. The sun was getting low in the west when we turned up the side canyon and started climbing the Bright Angel Trail. Since the campgrounds were always so crowded, we decided to let the senior patrol leader and some of the faster boys go ahead and pick us out a good campsite at Indian Gardens. The rest of us made our way the best we could. A patrol leader was assigned to bring up the rear, and it was way after dark before we reached the camp. In fact, those who went ahead were just starting to organize a search-rescue mission to come look for us. We had hiked about 20 miles that day, with the last two or three miles as hard as you’ll find anywhere.
We made our supper in the dark. Most of us used canned heat, but Brother Slade, a member of the bishopric, had made up a little stove from a tuna fish can with rolled up corrugated cardboard inside and melted paraffin poured over it. It worked fine for the whole trip. He was using it that night, and it made so much light that the Indian camp attendant came over to tell us that campfires weren’t allowed!
If everyone hadn’t been so tired that night, we would have had some star study. I’ve never seen stars as bright as they were that night at Indian Gardens. The sky was perfectly clear with no clouds, and no moon. The only light we could see was the one from the Grand Canyon Lodge on the North Rim, 16 miles away. We didn’t enjoy this beauty very long; sleep came fast.
As we began stirring at daylight the next morning, Brother Decker called a conference. He reviewed each boy on his advancement, then gave the senior patrol leader some assignments on Scoutcraft instruction. This hike wasn’t just for play, he said, after we’d already hiked nearly 30 miles! He went on to mention a few things we could improve on and bragged us up a bit for the way the troop as a whole was conducting itself. Brother Slade also gave us some words of encouragement.
With breakfast over, some of us went on a morning hike with Brother Decker out to Plateau Point. This is where the mule parties go for a look down into the gorge. The rapids were shimmering in the sun, and although we were 2,000 feet above them, we could hear their roar. The colors in the canyon that time in the morning were indescribable. When we returned to the campground, we found everyone ready to leave. We still had 4 1/2 miles and 3,000 feet to climb.
On the trail we met several mule parties, with a dozen or so tourists in each. Most of them were on a half-day trip to Plateau Point. Too bad that they couldn’t go on and see Phantom Ranch and Bright Angel Creek as we had. The only way to really see the canyon is to walk! When we met these mule trains, courtesy required us to get clear off the trail out of their way.
We reached the three-mile rest station and found a little stone house with a drinking fountain and a telephone. No one was ready to call for assistance yet, especially after reading the message by the phone that it would cost $30 to have a mule come down for you. There was another rest station much the same as this one 1 1/2 miles farther up. By then it was becoming a race to see who could be first to reach the top.
The snack bar at Bright Angel Lodge was sure a welcome sight. We decided that we liked civilization after all. Our leaders drove out to Yaki Point for Brother Slade’s car. When they returned, we all went to the Yavapai Museum where they have a bank of mounted binoculars that we used to look down on all the places we’d been. It was goodbye for now to the canyon, but we all wanted to go back.
As we traveled homeward that night I reflected on the events of the past few days. We’d had a very good hike. We had learned a lot. (The best way to learn Scouting skills is in actual practice.) We had driven ourselves almost to the limit of our endurance, but we had succeeded. It was a comfortable feeling, one of great satisfaction.

Auckland, New Zealand, seminary students decided to develop their “talents” and lend a helping hand to others at the same time.

Following the principle in the parable of the talents (Matt. 25:14–30), each student was given $1 and one month in which to invest in any undertaking.

One motivation factor was a previous “Project Concern” activity that involved youths in picking tomatoes and netted a profit of $186. This money was sent to the Philippines to purchase library books for Church students.

After discussing suitable investments for their “talents,” students were each given $1 to invest. A special newsletter was also sent out informing others about “Project Talents.” The students voted that all money earned should be sent to the Church to be used in Mexico or South America.

What can one person do with $1 and one month?

One student bought wool and knitted a poncho. This was sold and the money used to purchase enough wool for two more ponchos that were also sold. The net profit was $8.

Another bought several flashlights from a teacher who works as a sales representative and sold them to ward members at a profit since the country was going through a power shortage and power cuts were threatening. Candles were also sold, and, together with the flashlights, resulted in a $15 profit.

Cakes were sold, babysitting services established, car washes organized, lawn mowing operations set up, and a mini-restaurant made its debut. All proved successful. All together the students made a 137 percent profit from the $165 investment. One interesting factor was that the few losses that occurred were the result of cooperative efforts rather than individuals’ projects.

“Mike,” Dad called. “Time for school.” Walking slowly down the stairs, Mike found Dad waiting for him at the bottom.
“Do I have to go?” Mike asked. “Can’t I wait until tomorrow?”
Dad shook his head. “There have been too many tomorrows. I understand how you feel, but you need to get caught up.”
“Mrs. Peters sent home some of my work,” Mike said.
Dad sighed and handed Mike a sweater. “Today I go back to work—and you go back to school.”
Mike felt tears welling up. Surely he wasn’t going to cry again! “It’s so hard without Mom.”
Dad knelt and hugged Mike. “I know.” Mike could see the pain in Dad’s eyes.
As Mike walked out the door, he looked at Mom’s beautiful rose garden. But it wasn’t beautiful anymore. Weeds were popping up everywhere. He sighed. Would anything ever be the same again?
School was the same—noisy children running and talking. Mike dragged himself into his third-grade classroom.
Sam, his best friend, waved. Mike tried to smile, but his smile wouldn’t work. He kept taking deep breaths and trying not to cry.
Mrs. Peters began class. Mike heard her talking, but his gaze wandered outside. It was sunny. “How can the world look bright when Mom has died?” he wondered. A tear slid down his nose.
“Look, Mike’s crying!” shouted Bill, who sat across the aisle.
Without thinking, Mike got up and ran out the door and down the hall. He would never go back to school again! He pushed open the big school doors and ran the five blocks home. It was cold without a sweater.
He went to his room to get a jacket, then sat on his swing in the backyard. He swung back and forth, staring at the ground.
He thought of going to Grandma’s house, but she was sad now, too. She used to laugh a lot and go bowling and bake cookies. He wondered if she had gone back to work, too.
Mike made the swing go higher. Maybe, he thought, he would fall off and die. Then he could go to heaven and see Mom.
He heard words like the wind in the trees—“Then Dad and Grandma wouldn’t have you. Would you want Dad to leave?”
He stopped the swing, his feet skidding in the dirt. Who had said that? Was it Mom, speaking to him from heaven? He looked around, but there was only the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.
Mike looked at the patch of blue sky through the trees. “I miss my mom! Please, Heavenly Father, help me!” His tears started again.
Suddenly he had the urge to go to Mom’s rose garden. He stood looking at the poor rosebushes, without water and with lots of weeds. Mom sure wouldn’t like that! He knelt and began pulling and yanking at the weeds. Then he grabbed the garden hose and watered the bushes he had weeded. Soon it would be spring, and the roses would bloom bright red and yellow and pink. He wondered if Mom would see them from heaven. Somehow he felt closer to her as he worked in her garden.
Dad’s car came roaring up the driveway. He jumped out, ran to Mike, and hugged him. “They called me from school.”
“I’ll go back tomorrow,” Mike promised. “Dad, look at the rosebushes.”
“Mom would be proud,” Dad said. “I’ll change clothes, and we can work on it together.”
As Mike weeded alongside Dad, he thought of the roses that would bloom. He could almost smell their fragrance. After they bloomed, he decided, he would pick some of them for Grandma.
Mike looked up to see Sam and Bill. The two boys looked at the weeds.
“Can we help?” Sam asked.
Mike nodded. Slowly, a smile crept onto his face.

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.

The Hyde Park Ward, Chicago Heights Illinois Stake, has some fine young men to look up to, literally. With only four young men available to make up the basketball team, they looked for a way to have a team for competition. The ward members asked some friends to join with them, and the result was a winning combination.
Eddie Britton, first assistant in the priests quorum, was the captain of his high school football team. But he showed real skill with the round ball as well. Eddie, plus lead scorers Leon Harvey and LaMonte Thompson, and teammates played an undefeated season. They went on to win both the stake and regional championship.
The young men found that basketball was an excellent way of introducing the gospel to their friends. Playing together on a team also cemented friendships and established good relationships within the community.

Editors’ note: This story is a reminder of what one young couple sacrificed to be sealed for time and all eternity. We hope it will inspire you to make temple marriage a priority in your own life.
In October of 1979, the day after we were married in a civil ceremony, my wife, Maria Ondina, and I left our hometown of Arequipa, Peru, near the shores of the Pacific Ocean, to travel to the São Paulo Brazil Temple, on the Atlantic coast, to be sealed. We were the first couple from Arequipa to travel by land to be sealed in the newly dedicated temple—the first built in South America. We had planned to make the round-trip journey in 10 days, but in the end, it took us almost 30 due to a dangerous political climate. I didn’t know how it would work out—all I knew was that I had made a promise to God that after my mission, I would get sealed to a worthy woman.
After a nine-hour journey by night, we arrived in Juliaca, Peru. It was Thursday, and we still needed to get stamps in our passports and exit permits so that we could leave the country. The following day was a national holiday, and government offices would be closed for the rest of the weekend, so we arrived in line at the Bank of the Nation that morning to ensure that we would have sufficient time before all offices closed at noon.
When we finally got to the counter at 11:00 a.m., the gentleman expressed concern. “Sorry,” he said. “We don’t process these kinds of documents here. You will have to go to our office in Puno.” We were both surprised and frustrated—Puno was 45 minutes away.
After struggling to find a taxi, we made it to the office in Puno by 1:30 p.m. The doors were already closed. I knocked the iron doorknockers together as hard as I could. A very upset man opened the door and asked, “What do you want?” I said a silent, fervent prayer and looked this stranger in the eyes. “Sir,” I said, “I’m a Mormon, I’m going to get married in the temple in São Paulo, Brazil, and you can help me.” His hostile attitude changed. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he said, “but everything closed over an hour ago, and almost everyone has already left.” I responded, “Let me in and let my God help me find what I’m seeking.” He let me in.
After finding the manager, Rosa, I explained our situation. She politely responded, “Those forms are processed by three different employees, and I think everyone has left.” But all three men were still there, and she enlisted them to stay late to help me.
The first man asked me for forms I didn’t have. “You’re supposed to have gone to the Ministry of Economy, bought six forms, and brought them here for processing,” he explained. “You have to wait until Monday.”
I froze—I couldn’t believe it! Again I said a silent prayer. “Sir,” I said, “I’m Mormon, and I am going to the temple in São Paulo, Brazil, to be married. And you can help me.” He no longer seemed to be in a hurry. He looked in every drawer and finally located the longed-for forms. The next clerk quickly checked them and stamped our passports.
At the next window, as I paid the exit tax in U.S. dollars, the cashier seemed to take great pleasure in saying, “I’m sorry. See this sign?” A sign on the wall read, “Dollars not accepted.” Our plan was about to fail—there was nothing I could do.
“Take the payment,” I heard Rosa say from behind us. The cashier accepted the money and gave me the documents. We were on our way!
Heading into downtown La Paz, Bolivia, it was getting dark when rocks began hitting our bus. Through the windows we could see angry people in the streets, throwing rocks and putting up barriers to stop the traffic. Our bus continued moving swiftly to the center of town. That night was the start of a revolution in Bolivia.
We got off the bus and began looking for a hotel. The only one we could find was very expensive, but after repeating my explanation to a good man who worked there, he boarded us in the hotel’s cleaning supply room very cheaply. He placed a mattress on the ?oor and gave us blankets to protect us from the cold and the sounds of gunfire that echoed outside all night.
We left early the next morning, frightened and hurried. On our way to the bus stop, we saw soldiers supported by tanks firing ri?es at those protesting the revolution.
Fuel was beginning to run scarce, and instead of three bus departures a day as usual, only one was being announced. The seats had sold out days in advance. I found the manager and said the words I had used with everyone else: “Sir, we are Mormons, and we are going to the temple to get married. And you can help us.” He asked, “Where do you need to go?” “Cochabamba, sir.” He opened a drawer and pulled out two tickets. I could see there were no more. “Hurry up,” he said, “the bus is about to leave.” Our suitcases seemed weightless, and our feet barely touched the ground—in our hands we held that day’s blessing.
We arrived in Cochabamba amidst more chaos from the revolution. We found a market filled with tents, where a kind fellow Peruvian let us wash up and then store our suitcases while we went to the bus terminal. Using our same plea, we made it standby onto another bus and arrived days later in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, near the Brazilian border. For three mornings, I went to the train station to ask if there would be any departures. The answer was always no. But on the fourth day, news spread that a train would be leaving soon for Brazil.
By this point, we were running out of money. I shared my concerns with my wife, who ?rmly replied, “Even if we have to arrive by foot or on the back of a donkey, we’re going to make it.” Her reply made me happy. I wasn’t unsettled about money for the rest of the trip because our confidence was placed in our faith.
As we talked, an old lady walked toward us. She stopped in front of my wife and said, “Young lady, wouldn’t you like two tickets for today?” My wife practically ripped the tickets out of her hand. I paid the old woman, and she vanished among the crowd. It took us a few seconds to realize that the Lord and His angels were still by our side.
When we finally arrived at the São Paulo Temple thanks to one last ride from a friend we made on the train, the temple lodging was closed. Resigned but happy, we made ourselves comfortable on a couple of benches outside the temple. There it was, just as beautiful as we had dreamed it would be. It was now midnight, and we cried as we hugged, tired and wet from the falling rain. We didn’t feel the dampness, the hunger, or the cold, just an indescribable sense of happiness for being so close to the house of the Lord. We had been obedient, and there was our reward.
While we were basking in that moment, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was one of my former mission companions, who had been sealed in the temple that day and was returning from dinner with his wife. He let us stay in their apartment that night, and the next day he was a witness to our sealing, performed by the temple president himself. How beautiful it was to see my wife in the celestial room, all dressed in white.
With a loan from my missionary friend and help from the temple president, we made the return trip in less than five days, without any delays—and with only $20 dollars to begin a life with my wife, Maria Ondina, as my eternal companion.

Some people think that babies are a bother, but Hans wasn’t. He was good. He would watch us, then try to do everything we did. He used to go around the house picking up little pieces of rubbish that no one else saw. Then he would run to the wastebasket and throw them in. He always tried to help everybody. He was smart about it too. One day he decided to help Mom. He climbed up onto the stove when he was alone in the kitchen. Later we found him sitting beside the burners stirring a pot full of cold water. When we came in, he clapped his hands and said, “Oh, see!”

I hadn’t even been thinking of the new kid down the street—not until Mom remarked one evening at the supper table, “Toby Walker’s mom is surely glad that Toby has a good friend like you.”
I choked on my milk and looked across the table at Mom to see if she was kidding. “Who said I was Toby Walker’s friend?” I asked.
“Toby told his mom that you were his best friend,” Mom answered, glancing at me.
I set my glass down and licked the milk from my lips. “I have plenty of good friends without Toby,” I mumbled.
“Maybe Toby needs you for a friend,” Dad said as he reached for the rolls.
I shrugged my shoulders and tried to think about eating my peas and carrots. “Toby’s all right,” I grumbled. “It’s not that I don’t like him. It’s just … well, it’s just …”
Mom and Dad both stared at me and waited for me to explain. “I’m never mean to him,” I said, poking at my peas and carrots with my fork. “I don’t play keep-away with his hat or hide his books or tell him he can’t play baseball with us. I don’t say mean things to him.”
“Do you do nice things for him?” Mom asked.
“Or tell the other kids not to be mean to him?” Dad asked.
“Why should I do that?” I blurted out. “Toby’s not my—” I shoved a forkful of peas and carrots into my mouth, but I had a hard time chewing them, and I could fell my face turning red.
I didn’t think much about Toby until the next day at noon recess, when we were getting ready to choose up teams for baseball. Bobby Mills and I were the captains, and we were each trying to choose the best team that we could. I didn’t pay any attention to Toby until everyone else had been chosen and he was the only one left. It was Bobby’s turn to choose. He took one look at Toby and growled, “You can’t play, Walker. It will make the teams uneven.” Then he grinned. “Why don’t you see if the girls will let you play?”
Everybody laughed and headed onto the field. Toby stood looking down at the ground and digging at the grass with the toe of his shoe. Just as I was about to turn and run out to first base, Toby looked up and stared at me. He had big, sad brown eyes that looked out from under a shaggy mop of sandy hair. He didn’t say anything. He just turned and walked off and sat on the school steps to watch us play.
I tried to think about baseball. I tried to laugh and make jokes with the other guys, but I kept remembering Toby’s sad eyes. I also remembered what Mom and Dad had said the night before, and I wondered what it would be like to have no friends at school.
All afternoon I thought about Toby. When I came home from school, I was still thinking about him. As I dragged my feet up our walk, I glanced up and saw myself in the glass in our front door. Usually I liked to watch myself in the glass. My reflection was like having a good friend come out to greet me. But this afternoon I took one look in the glass, ducked my head, and went around to the back door, where there wasn’t a reflection. I knew then that I’d lost two friends that day—Toby and the guy in the glass.
The next day on my way home from school I spotted Toby a half block ahead of me. He was alone as usual. His head was down, his hands were in his pockets, and he was kicking a battered pop can down the sidewalk. For a long time I just watched him, staying back so that he wouldn’t know that I was there. Finally I hurried to catch up with him. “Hey,” I called out, “where’re you headed, Toby?”
He jumped and whirled around like he was scared; but as soon as he saw that it was me, he smiled and mumbled, “Hi, Kyle.”
I bit down on my lip. “I have a pretty nice tree house in my backyard,” I said. “Dad helped me make it. Want to come over and see it?”
Toby looked at me to see if I was kidding him. I wasn’t, so he nodded and we headed for my place.
We had a good time that afternoon. Toby was quiet at first, but it wasn’t long until he was talking and laughing and having a good time just like any other kid. I was having a good time too. We played Tarzan in the tree house, shot some marbles, played catch with my new football. And while we had cookies and milk on the back steps, we just talked. I liked Toby. He was as good a friend as a guy could have.
That afternoon I grinned at the guy I saw when I went into the house through the front door.
The next day at recess Bobby Mills said something about Toby always wearing the same pants and that they were full of fleas. Everybody laughed and started making fun of Toby, and he walked off by himself and sat under the weeping willow tree at the corner of the school grounds. I didn’t say anything bad about Toby or laugh at him. But I didn’t stick up for him either, not like a real friend would have done. That afternoon when I went home, I had to go through the back door again because I knew I couldn’t face the guy in the glass.
After supper I found Dad in the living room, reading the paper. “How can a guy be a real friend?” I asked.
Dad looked up and asked, “What do you mean, Kyle?”
I looked down at the floor. “It’s easy to be a friend to Toby here at home,” I said, “but when I go to school, I’m scared to be friends. I keep wondering if everyone else will start to laugh at me like they do at him.”
Dad dropped the paper on the floor and thought for a while. “Being a friend isn’t always easy,” he said. “Sometimes it takes more courage to be a friend than to be anything else.”
“Can a guy have that much courage?” I mumbled.
Dad reached over and squeezed my arm. “When Jesus was on the earth,” he said, “there were lots of men and women that other people didn’t like. There were poor people, lepers, publicans, and sinners. People probably made fun of them and wouldn’t be friends with them or even talk to them. But Jesus was a friend to everyone who needed Him. He knew that being a friend was very important. In fact, He said, ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends’ [John 15:13]. And while we may not have to give up our lives for our friends, we should be willing to defend them when necessary, even when it’s not easy.”
That night when I knelt down by my bed, I prayed harder than I’d ever prayed before. I asked Heavenly Father to help me have the courage to be Toby’s friend.
At school the next day my stomach was churning and flopping, and I kept licking my lips and chewing my fingernails. The closer the clock’s little hand got to the twelve, the more I twisted and squirmed in my seat.
At lunch I finished my sandwich, drank my milk, and headed for the baseball diamond. When I got there, everyone else was lined up and ready for Bobby and me to choose sides.
I had hoped that Toby would be there, but he was over on the steps by himself. I told myself that since he wasn’t on the field ready to play, I didn’t have to help him out, that he didn’t want to play, that maybe he liked being by himself. I looked around, about to choose someone else. But I couldn’t. I knew I had a job to do. I thought about Jesus and the lepers and the publicans, and I knew what He would do if He had to choose a team.
“Come on, Kyle,” Bobby said. “You’re choosing first. Let’s get going!”
I looked across the field toward Toby. “Hey, Toby, you’re on my side!” Toby looked up. Even though he was a long way away and I couldn’t see his face, I could tell that he was surprised. I waved for him to come over and shouted again, “Toby, you’re on my team. Hurry!”
For a moment no one said anything. Everyone just stared at me, then at Toby, wondering if I was playing a joke. Even Toby wondered, because he came over kind of slow and had his hands deep in his pockets and was just waiting for someone to laugh or tell him to go play with the girls.
“What do you want him for?” Bobby asked.
I guess he thought I would choose Billy Taylor or Brandon Cooper or Justin Knight. I just shrugged and said, “your turn, Bobby.”
“He doesn’t even have a mitt,” Bobby growled.
“I’ll let him use mine,” I answered.
“You’re going to lose. He doesn’t even know how to play ball.”
“Your turn, Bobby,” I said.
“Who even said he could play?” Bobby demanded, scowling at Toby.
I licked my lips, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. “I said he could play,” I replied hoarsely. “I’m choosing, and I can choose anybody I want. I choose Toby.”
“But why is what I want to know?” Bobby insisted. “Why him?”
“Because he’s my friend,” I answered. The word was out before I really had a chance to think about it, but as soon as I’d said it, I felt good about it, and I knew then that it didn’t really matter who won or who lost the game.
My team didn’t win that day. We lost by two runs. But when I went home that afternoon, I didn’t sneak in the back door. I marched up the front walk and onto the porch and looked my reflection right in the eye. I knew then that I’d made two friends that day—Toby and the guy in the glass.

Because I’ve spent many years mingling with nonmembers, entertaining and being entertained by them, I’m often asked how a member of the Church should respond when confronted with a conflict of standards, particularly in regard to the Word of Wisdom. Perhaps the best way to answer the question is to relate some of the ways I’ve handled the problem and share some of the principles I’ve learned from my experiences.
Let me first address the problems a host may face when entertaining nonmember friends.
Today, my wife and I simply request that visitors in our home observe the Word of Wisdom. We have no ash trays, and serve no coffee or alcohol. I even ask friends not to smoke in the car I drive and the small planes I fly. None are offended. But it wasn’t always that easy.
I remember a tough time when we were just married. I was barely back from my mission and had accepted a position with one of the most important international banks in the world. They sent us to South America, where we were expected to entertain friends of the bank and many dignitaries. I learned something fundamental about different cultures during those years. Every culture devises social forms and rituals to communicate hospitality, friendliness, and acceptance. Some of these rituals fit comfortably with the Word of Wisdom, but others do not. We found, however, in nearly every situation, as both hosts and guests, that we could modify the content of these social rituals and come up with something that would still let us participate warmly and sincerely in the friendliness implied in the ritual.
For example, there’s the delicate business of formal champagne toasts in traditional champagne glasses. When I was a guest, I would ask the head waiter for juice instead of champagne. All you need to do is talk to him when you arrive. Do not wait until the moment of the toast because you cannot ask the whole party and the host to wait for you. A tip to the head waiter helps him remember who you are. It also helps to tell him where you will be standing if there is a large group of people.
When an LDS member is the host and needs to offer a toast, the problem is more conspicuous. I solved the problem successfully for the first time in Paraguay, and used that formula from then on. At a major banquet in which I had to offer a toast to the president of the country, to his cabinet ministers, and to Paraguay as our host country, I decided to use water. In Paraguay one of the bank’s clients was the new municipal water system, which for the first time in that country’s history produced a pure, fine-tasting uncontaminated water. At the appropriate time, I lifted my champagne glass full of water and announced to the assembled important people, “I don’t know what you have in your glasses, but in mine I have the purest of liquids—water from the municipal water system of Asuncion—and I lift my glass in a cordial toast to his Excellency, the President,” etc., etc. The compliment was sincere, and it worked very well. They laughed, and no one ever forgot that “Mormon Toast.”
As hosts, we had two styles. According to our agreement with the bank, we entertained “bank style” for business purposes when they paid the bill—the waiters, the caterers, etc. But there were many occasions when business friends would drop in unexpectedly and we would invite them to dinner. We would say, “You’re here as our friends, and we want to treat you as family.” We would serve them only what we were serving the family—no coffee, no drinks.
At other times, when it was a special affair of our own, such as a party for relatives or visiting Church dignitaries from Salt Lake City, we would tell our guests in advance that this was to be a “Mormon party” and they would understand what was expected of them. Nearly always, if some smoked, they had simply forgotten and would go outside when given a gentle reminder.
Being a host has a different set of problems than being a guest in a nonmembers home. It’s a lot easier to be a guest. Our hosts bent over backward to make us feel comfortable, and we tried to help them. We found that juices, not milk, are the easiest substitute for coffee. I found that when our hosts asked, “Coffee?” they really wanted us to feel comfortable and were perfectly happy to take care of us if we answered, “No, thanks, but do you have any juice?” If they didn’t have any juice, we simply reassured them that we really didn’t need anything. But the next time we were in their home, they always had some juices on hand. In most countries there are now hot cereal-based beverages or herb “teas” that are easy substitutes for coffee or tea.
I sometimes used the same approach with wine at formal dinners, asking for unfermented grape juice instead. They usually didn’t have it the first time, but they did the second time. We found out that almost everyone wanted to try our unfermented grape juices with their dinners. We didn’t try to be furtive about it. We just made it part of the enjoyable dinner conversation.
Hostesses who were inviting us to their parties usually called to ask if we had any preferences of juices; if there were other things we couldn’t eat, such as ham; or if we were vegetarians. We always explained at each opportunity what our Word of Wisdom was, and they were usually relieved that it was so simple.
Tobacco was never a problem. People don’t smoke to be sociable. There may be some societies where there is a tobacco protocol, but I have not encountered them. Abstinence is a sign of wisdom in the international social circles I have been in.
There is one occasional moment of very high protocol, however, which is a bit of a problem unless you are forewarned. That is in those very elegant homes where they serve high tea, a ritual usually reserved for intimate family members and close friends of the family. The tremendous formality and protocol of the whole affair are most impressive, almost symbolic. The tea service is ornate sterling silver, sometimes dating back hundreds of years. The cups and saucers are of the most delicate imported bone china. The hostess has her place, and a matron of honor is chosen to help her pour the tea from the pot or hot water on to tea bags in the cups. The hostess looks at you and says, “One sugar or two?”
One answer is just to say, “Neither thanks, but a lovely hot lemon tea would be nice.” That makes it easy for them to just pour the boiling water over the lemon slice always available, and you could enjoy it and the delicious pastries arranged on silver platters in front of you.
In my experience I have never found it necessary to avoid a social situation because of the Word of Wisdom. If there wasn’t an easy way or a humorous way, there was never anything wrong with the direct way: “No, thanks.” No one ever said anything other than, “Can I get you something else?”
I have never found any cause for uneasiness or embarrassment in observing the Word of Wisdom. I have never found a host or hostess who was not totally interested in serving exactly what we wanted. No one ever questioned our standards; in fact, I do not remember a social occasion in which we were not asked to explain our religion, and most of the time it was the Word of Wisdom that started the conversation. As I perceived it, we always had the respect of our friends and colleagues for our position.

Mark had a baby sister.
Everyone said to him, “How nice, Mark, that you have a baby sister.”
Mark’s teacher said it.
Mark’s mailman said it.
Mark’s uncle said it.
Mark’s friend said it.
Everyone said, “How nice, Mark, that you have a baby sister.” And Mark became tired of hearing it.
Mark’s mother seemed happy.
His father seemed happy.
But Mark didn’t feel happy at all, even though he would smile and say thank you when people said to him, “How nice, Mark, that you have a baby sister.”
Mark was unhappy because no one seemed to have time for him anymore.
When Mark wanted his father to play catch with him, his father had to do the shopping or go to work or rake the leaves or cut the grass.
When Mark wanted his mother to read books with him, she always had to bathe the baby or do the dishes or feed the baby or rock the baby.
Mark didn’t think it was fair. After all, he had been there first. So Mark spent a lot of time sitting around alone just thinking.
He spent a lot of time staying in his room.
He spent a lot of time doing nothing else.
One day Mark got tired of sitting around alone in his room. “Boy,” he said out loud, “I must do something about this!”
He thought and thought. He sat and thought. He walked in circles and thought. He lay down on his bed and thought. He even stood on his head and thought. At last he knew what to do.
Mark went into the kitchen where his mother was feeding the baby.
“I’ll feed the baby,” Mark offered. “I’ll feed the baby so you can start dinner. Then maybe we could read a book if there’s enough time.”
“Why, thank you, Mark,” Mother said, giving him a big hug. “I think I will have time to read if you feed the baby.”
As Mark fed his baby sister, she pushed the food out of her mouth with her little pink tongue. Soon it became a game for Mark. He tried to get some food into her mouth before she pushed it out. Before long she had eaten all her dinner.
“Good girl,” Mark smiled. “Good girl.”
His sister smiled back at him.
Mother finished peeling potatoes. “Now let’s read,” she said. Mark and his mother sat in the big chair and read books.
When Mark’s dad came home, it was still light enough to play catch. But Dad said, “Well, I guess I better finish raking those leaves.”
“I’ll help you, Dad,” Mark beamed.
“Great!” his dad answered.
Together they raked the leaves into a pile beside the porch railing. Mark stood on the porch and jumped into the pile. The leaves flew all around. Mark and his dad laughed and raked again. Then his dad jumped into the pile.
They had time to play catch too.
When they went in, Mark went over to the playpen and put his hand on the baby’s soft cheek. He thought about the people who said to him, “How nice, Mark, that you have a baby sister.”
And Mark said out loud, “Yes, it is nice.”
His baby sister smiled at him, her eyes twinkling.
And Mark smiled back at her.

by Reneé Heyland
One of the altars in the sealing rooms of the Sao Paulo Temple in Brazil is very special to some former Mia Maids from the Lethbridge Alberta Stake. During the course of a year, girls from the nine different classes in the stake raised $1,425—approximately $225 more than the cost of the altar they hoped to contribute to the new temple.
Cheryl Crane from the Second Ward expressed the following thoughts about her experience: “At first I wasn’t too happy to give up my free time to earn the temple money, but then I read about the sacrifices the members in Brazil are making.
“Hundreds of thousands of dollars had to be raised, and such amounts of money are not easy to come by. One young couple saved $2,000 to come to Salt Lake City to go through the temple, a dream they had shared for many years. But when they were asked to contribute to the temple fund, they gave up that dream for the sake of another—the dream that every Brazilian Saint could go through the temple, instead of just a few.
“When I read about these and other sacrifices that Saints in Brazil had made, I realized my sacrifices hardly classify as sacrifices at all.”
Throughout the year the girls participated in a variety of money-raising projects. To the usual baked-food sales one of the groups added caramel popcorn, another sponsored a spaghetti dinner, and several of the classes sold concessions at stake sports events. The girls had car washes, pop bottle drives, and Christmas tree sales. One ward sponsored a carnival (complete with balloon-shaving and doughnut-eating contests); another cut out, made, and sold doll clothes; and a third took orders for and assembled silk flower corsages for Mother’s Day gifts. Several nonmembers became as enthusiastically involved as their Mia Maid friends.
Along with the money-raising events came “spirit-raising” events. Lessons were devoted to learning about the Saints in Brazil, temple marriage, and the significance, structure, and purpose of our modern-day temples. In addition, some of the girls were able to visit the Alberta Temple and do baptisms for the dead. But the highlight of the year was the special stake meeting held for all the Mia Maids, their parents, and leaders at the completion of the project. A Mia Maid from each ward explained how her class had raised the money and then gave her testimony of this special project. Next was the presentation of a story “The Dark Blue Suit” (see the July 1978 New Era), which gave a little insight into the faith and attitudes of some of the Saints in Brazil.
The conclusion of the evening was a talk by stake president Lamont Matkin concerning what the temple in Cardston should mean to the Mia Maids in the Lethbridge Stake.
Adviser Lesley Heath of the First Ward summed up her feelings about the year by saying, “It was a time of learning—about the Brazilian people, about the value of temples, and about the special beauty of each individual Mia Maid in my class. Only I, as their adviser, will ever know the real sacrifice of the two girls in our class who went the extra mile and donated twice as much of their babysitting money as they had promised. Only I will ever know of another girl who took the time away from a special event with her friends to work all day at the basketball concession stand. I’m grateful for this experience, and for the vision it gave us of what we can do.”

When Eddy Bourdeau was baptized in 1983, he never imagined one day becoming the district president for the entire country (before its recent division). “I didn’t have a strong conviction at first,” he says. “In fact, I was apprehensive about receiving the Aaronic Priesthood.”

Then he read several books on Church history that increased his dedication. “When I came across an account of the early pioneers who left their homes, countries, even families, to go to an unknown wilderness in Utah, I thought, ‘They traded everything. They wouldn’t sacrifice that much for something that wasn’t true!’”

His subsequent reading of the Book of Mormon added to his conviction that “if they can do it, I can do it, no matter how hard things get.” He now recalls many blessings—such as his returned-missionary wife—that came to him when he decided to devote himself to God. “God provides. He’ll help us here in Haiti,” he says. “But we ask that the members throughout the world pray for us as we try to start over again. We need your prayers.”

Early in January 2022, I applied to work for a company in Japan. During the six months of waiting to hear back from them, I learned to trust in God’s timing. I finally got to the point where I could say to God, “If this is meant to happen, please let it happen. But if it isn’t, I will be OK. Either way, I will follow Thy lead.”

I immediately felt peace. My stress and anxiety were still there, but they felt a lot easier to handle because I knew He had a plan for me and would help me along my journey.

President Nelson counseled us to seek and expect miracles6 in our lives. While waiting to hear about the job in Japan, I learned to do just that.

I stopped calling things “coincidences” and “tender mercies.” I started calling them what they really are: miracles. Our God is a god of miracles (see 2 Nephi 27:23), and we should give Him credit for all the miracles in our lives.

I have now been here in Japan for a few months, working at a job I love. I am still seeing God’s miracles in my life—big and small.