Gospel Story Finder

Lonnie Johnston, a Laurel from Fallon, Nevada, is interested in a lot of things, including softball, volleyball, dancing, public speaking, and goat tying.

Goat tying?

Yup. Lonnie excels at goat tying and other rodeo events. As the National High School Rodeo Association’s queen, she is now spreading her message about how much fun rodeo events are.

“I want to educate people about how rodeo works and what it’s all about,” says Lonnie.

Her year as queen has afforded her the opportunity to travel around the country and make new friends.

“I always take my scriptures wherever I go. People always ask me what they are. It’s a great way to share the gospel!” she says.

“Ready … set …”
I heard Mom’s voice prompting the Cub Scouts as I peeked in from the doorway of the cultural hall. The ten boys in her Bear den were matched into pairs, standing back to back with their elbows linked. I could sense energy and tension pent up in their nine-year-old bodies.
Dad spied me in the doorway. “Hi, Temberly!” He started walking toward me, and I blushed because everyone was looking in my direction to see who was interrupting their fun. Even though the boys were two years younger than me, I still felt embarrassed. Dad wrapped his arm around my shoulder and gave me a quick sideways hug.
“Go!” Mom shouted, and the boys began pushing and straining against each other. I figured out right away what they were trying to do. Each boy was pushing against his opponent, trying to force him to cross a masking-tape line about ten feet away. Whoever crossed the line, lost. Little did I know, I’d have my own serious wrestling match that very afternoon.
Dad walked back closer to the group. “That’s it, keep pushing, don’t give up!” he yelled several times, coaching the red-faced Bears. I noticed that Sister Brandt wasn’t there. She was the assistant den leader, but she’d had a baby last week. I assumed Mom must have asked Dad to help her out. He was smiling widely, obviously enjoying helping with the boys.
Eventually there were five winners and five losers. My brother, Warren, was one of the losers. He was unhappy, but Dad mixed up the pairs of boys and told them all to try again. This time some of the losers became winners, including Warren.
I could tell that Dad was trying hard to make sure that everyone had a fun time. He wasn’t a member of the Church—yet—but I loved him, anyway. He had watched Mom, Warren and me get baptized last year after being taught by the missionaries.
Because it had been a long day of testing at school, I didn’t want to hang around. Mom was busy explaining the next game, so I turned to Dad and asked, “May I walk home?”
He seemed concerned. “Now?”
“I want to get started on my homework. And I’m really hungry, too.”
“I don’t like the idea of you being at the house by yourself,” Dad fussed, hoping I’d change my mind.
“I promise I’ll lock the door behind me.”
“Well, all right. We should be done here in about twenty minutes. But ring the foyer phone once for us so that we know you got into the house OK. Do you know the number?”
“It’s on the ward phone list. Thanks!” I said excitedly, feeling suddenly a little older and more confident in taking responsibility for myself. I turned and walked through the silent foyer and out the double doors. Our house was less than a block away, and I jogged all the way there.
At home, I followed up on my promises to lock the door and ring the phone at the meetinghouse. I was really thirsty at the moment, and something cold and wet sounded good. I went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
That’s when I saw them. The lighting inside seemed to draw my attention to the six cans of beer, right beside the milk jug. At that moment, I was faced with a fierce temptation, an inner wrestling match: my gospel standards versus sinful desires. I just stood there and stared at the appealing-looking cans. I wondered what beer tasted like. My dry mouth needed quenching. It would be easy to open one, try a sip, then throw it away when I was done. Who kept count of how many cans were in the fridge, anyway? No one would ever know.
Who was I kidding? I knew who would know what I’d done. Me. More importantly, Heavenly Father and the Savior would know. That’s too many of us, I decided. I slammed the refrigerator door shut and repeated the words from My Gospel Standards we had been memorizing in Primary, “I will not partake of things that are harmful to me.” Trembling, I went to my room and lay on the bed.
Temptation, my powerful opponent, had tried to push me to step over a line my spirit knew I shouldn’t cross. I sat up and opened the blinds in the window above my bed and let the late afternoon sunshine fill the room. Deep inside, I felt as bright and glowing as the sun’s rays coming through the windowpanes. I was the winner!
After dinner, Mom loaded the dishwasher and Dad and Warren watched baseball on TV. I had gone back to my bedroom to finish my math homework. I decided it was time to ask Dad to help me.
“Dad?” I leaned my head out of the doorway.
“Am I in demand?” He tilted his head to the side to hear my answer.
“I need a greater brain than mine,” I replied, trying to sound exasperated. I watched him stand up, stare at the screen a few more seconds as a batter struck out, then walk down the hall toward me. My smile waned as I saw him carrying a beer can in his hand. He set it down on my desk. I could smell the beer, and I wished he had left it in the other room. We worked together until the fifteen math problems were solved.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re very welcome, Tembers.” I liked his nickname for me. “Is there anything else you need my intelligence for, before I finish watching the ballgame?”
The moment had presented itself, just as I’d hoped. “Dad, why do you drink beer?”
“Where did that question come from?” He looked surprised and embarrassed.
I took a deep breath and confessed, “This afternoon when I was home by myself, I was tempted to drink some and it scared me.”
He eyed me seriously, “But … you didn’t?”
“No.” I looked straight into his eyes and saw relief on his face.
“I’m proud of you, Temberly,” Dad said sincerely. “You made a wise choice today. I knew that as you and Warren grew older, this would be an issue we’d need to discuss. I didn’t realize it would come up so soon.”
“Oh, Dad, I don’t like having that stuff in our house. I know you don’t drink a lot—just when you’re watching ballgames. But when will Warren be tempted to try it? …”
“Tembers, you can be pointedly honest sometimes.” Dad ran his hand through his dark hair. “I suppose, deep down inside, I already knew you felt this way. I’d appreciate your love and patience with me as I try to find the willpower to quit.”
I wiped the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand and rubbed it dry on my jeans. I felt the Holy Ghost strengthen me, and I found the courage to say, “Today, I heard you tell the Cub Scouts to ‘keep pushing and not give up.’ Can I keep pushing you about this?”
“Yes, Coach,” he said, squeezing my hand before he left the room. I was startled when he suddenly leaned his head back in the doorway and said, “Don’t ever give up.” He winked.
I smiled to myself. Dad hadn’t exactly promised to stop, but somehow I knew he was a lot closer to it. And that hope made me feel like a winner … again.

The real key to serving with our talents is to have the Spirit with us. When I was a missionary, I read at the top of the second page in my mission handbook: “The Key to Spirituality.” (This was before the mission handbook was standardized, and the handbook would have been unique to my mission.) It said, “Arise at six each morning and pray intently, hungering and thirsting for the influence of the Spirit to fill your body, until it does.” Of course, the time of rising is negotiable; that was just our mission rule. When I was out five weeks, I was called to train a new missionary, and I really felt my inadequacy. It was the blind leading the blind. I decided I must have the Spirit if I was to succeed, so I started applying this Key to Spirituality. I had prayed for the Spirit before, but never until the Spirit. It was difficult at first. I tried to repent and humble myself and struggle in prayer until I felt the Spirit. I had already had experiences in the first weeks of my mission that had shown me the difference between working with the “power and gifts of God” and working with the power and gifts of Ray Smith. The difference was stark, and I knew that it was hardly worth walking out the door to do the work if I did not have the Spirit with me. I learned that I really could feel the Spirit on a daily basis. It became the norm for the rest of my mission.

When I left my mission to come home, I realized that I needed the Spirit just as much at home as I did in the mission field. I decided to continue the practice of praying daily until I felt the Spirit. I am still doing it today. After returning home, I found a quote from Truman G. Madsen: “Happy is the youth who prays for, and then until, and finally with, this subtle flame” (“Christ and Prayer,” 17). I have experienced the power of that idea.

David D’Arcy, 17, Adelaide. David was at a local shopping center when he and his mates were jumped by “some other blokes. We were fighting,” he says sheepishly. Suddenly the fight was broken up by the appearance of six men in suits, white shirts, and ties.
Later, a school friend introduced him to the missionaries—the same ones who had played peacemaker. David was baptized on his 17th birthday. “Those missionaries,” he says, “I love ’em.” Guess what David D’Arcy wants to be when he’s 19.

One of my favorite examples of trust is contained in a story related by President N. Eldon Tanner. He was 14 years old, and his father, serving as bishop, had gone to prepare for a funeral. He had asked Eldon and his brothers to do the chores while he was gone.
“We decided to ride some calves before we did what he had told us to do. We thought we would have plenty of time, but he came home while we were still riding those calves, and he called us over to him. … he pointed his finger at me and said, ‘My boy, I thought I could depend on you.’ That hurt me very much. I can still almost recall the exact feeling I had at that time. I made up my mind that he would never have a reason to say, ‘I thought I could depend on you.’ Right then I made up my mind that the Lord would never have reason to say, ‘I thought I could depend on Eldon Tanner’” (New Era, Jan.–Feb. 1983, p. 14).

Last year I reported to my doctor. We had a full surgery scheduled for my right hip, which would mean a body cast for several months, perhaps even endangering my ability to attend my senior year of high school. We’d known about this for a year, since the last checkup when he told me my right hip was in bad shape.
When my dad and I got in the examination room, my doctor held the X-rays to the light. After looking at them, examining me, and looking back at the X-rays again, he announced, rather astonished, that there seemed to be nothing at all wrong with my hip. He could see no reason to perform the extensive surgery he had planned. He said that, except for some work that needed to be done on my feet, I was in fantastic health and would need no more surgeries.
That was surprising news to someone who had already had eight major surgeries and several minor ones.
It is more than important to note that our family and others had offered many prayers prior to my examination, and many dear friends were praying and fasting.
Sure enough, my hip was healed. I know only Heavenly Father could have accomplished what I experienced. I know I have been healed by a miracle, but a miracle is not always required. Sometimes the greater miracle lies in how we deal with not having a burden eased.

At Christmastime in 1996, I was serving a mission in southern Spain. My companion, Sister Noel,* was filled with enthusiasm and had a gift for loving everyone. Many times I saw the love of Christ reflected in her countenance.
Sister Noel and I were working with all our hearts in a little Andalusian town where the members loved us and seemed happy to have missionaries in their midst. It was a special time, and we could feel the spirit of Christmas in the streets and from the people of the ward. Sister Noel and I had both received little Christmas gifts from our families, friends, and home wards, so we had lots of goodies.
Almost everyone we knew seemed happy, except the Fernández family. The father was out of work and had no money to buy gifts for the children. When my companion learned about their situation, she felt we needed to help them in some way. Together we started talking about how we could help.
With the assistance of a member of the ward, we gathered together the goodies our families had sent. With the money we had received, we bought toys for the children.
The Fernández family was thrilled and astonished. But the little miracle did not end there. Thanks to this small act of service, my companion and I were also blessed with greater feelings of love for all the members.
Because of my companion, I learned that it is better to give than to receive. It gave me great joy to give something to a family who needed it more than I did. I’ll always be thankful for Sister Noel, who taught me that every day can be Christmas when we share the love of the Savior with others.

Perhaps many of you have read the story of President George Albert Smith that he referred to as “Your Good Name.” He described an experience he had in his later years.

I became so weak as to be scarcely able to move. It was a slow and exhausting effort for me even to turn over in bed.
One day, under these conditions, I lost consciousness of my surroundings and thought I had passed to the Other Side.
George Albert Smith described what he saw and then wrote:
I saw a man coming towards me. I became aware that he was a very large man, and I hurried my steps to reach him, because I recognized him as my grandfather. . . . I remember how happy I was to see him coming. I had been given his name and had always been proud of it.
When Grandfather came within a few feet of me, he stopped. His stopping was an invitation for me to stop. Then—and this I would like the . . . young people never to forget—he looked at me very earnestly and said:
“I would like to know what you have done with my name.”
Everything I had ever done passed before me as though it were a flying picture on a screen—everything I had done. Quickly this vivid retrospect came down to the very time I was standing there. My whole life had passed before me. I smiled and looked at my grandfather and said:
“I have never done anything with your name of which you need be ashamed.”
He stepped forward and took me in his arms, and as he did so, I became conscious again of my earthly surroundings. My pillow was as wet as though water had been poured on it—wet with tears of gratitude that I could answer unashamed.
President Smith continued:
I have thought of this many times, and I want to tell you that I have been trying, more than ever since that time, to take care of that name. So I want to say to . . .the young men and women, to the youth of the Church and of all the world: Honor your fathers and your mothers. Honor the names that you bear, because some day you will have the privilege and the obligation of reporting to them (and to your Father in heaven) what you have done with their name. [George Albert Smith, Sharing the Gospel with Others (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1948), p. 111–12]

It was a typical Ohio winter night, cold enough to be snowing, yet warm enough to be raining. I was making an almost futile attempt at driving and checking street signs at the same time. Jim Bowen and Mark Auckerman, eighteen-year-old non-LDS friends, were reading off the street signs as we slowly drove down the ice-covered street.
“All I know,” explained Jim, “is that Chris lives on Dibert Avenue, and it’s somewhere off this street.”
“But are you sure it’s down this far?” asked Mark.
We were in the south end of Springfield, a district that none of us was very familiar with. I was stuck with the treacherous task of driving and decided we should just keep going until we found Dibert Avenue or came to the end of the street we were on.
Slowly we drove on, block by block, attempting to read each sign as we passed it. Just as we were about to give up hope and turn around, we saw it. “Dibert,” we chorused happily.
Because of the ice and the poor condition of my tires, I turned the car into a parking lot about 20 yards past Dibert. By making a U-turn in the lot, I stopped the car perpendicular with the street we had been searching for. Now the problem was which way to turn on Dibert. As Mark and I argued about whether to turn right or left, Jim drew our attention to the house directly in front of us.
It was a two-story frame house, like most of the dwellings in this part of the city. The front of this house was a small store; the back appeared to be a couple of apartments. The store faced the street we had just turned off, and we faced the side of the house.
Through a side window we could see some kind of flame throwing shadows on the walls inside. The window shades were drawn, and we couldn’t see if the flames were in a fireplace or a stove. But soon we realized that the flames looked too big for a stove and too high off the ground for a fireplace.
Leaving the engine running, I put the car into park and jumped out, followed closely by Mark. As we reached the window, we could see the flames were much taller than we had realized. We hopped the fence and ran to the back door. We pounded as hard as we could, but no one answered. The door was locked. I ran around to the front of the building while yelling to Jim to go call somebody.
I kicked open the front door and leaped over the counter just inside. There was a small room between the front of the store and the apartment in back.
In the living room of the attached apartment was a young woman who was screaming hysterically and trying to beat out the fire with a small rug. What appeared to be a large overstuffed sofa was completely engulfed in flames. The paper on the wall had caught fire, and the flames were shooting up the wall and across the ceiling directly above her.
My first reaction was to bend down low, turn, and leave the room. The heat was intense, and the smoke was quickly filling the room.
I screamed at the woman to leave but finally had to grab her by the arm and drag her out of the room. I asked her if there was anybody else in the house. Before she could answer, there came cries from upstairs.
“My children,” she sobbed.
“How many?” I asked.
She said there were two children upstairs. She pointed to a doorway right next to the flaming couch. Though only a few seconds had elapsed, the flames had now engulfed the entire wall and were shooting across the entire ceiling.
Glancing at the doorway, I realized that even if I could make it through, there would be little chance of returning the same way.
My thoughts turned to Heavenly Father. It seemed there was only one thing to do. Putting my complete trust in God, I darted for the flame-engulfed doorway, my face burning as I ran up the narrow stairway as fast as I could.
Standing at the top were the two children, a five-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy. They were crying for their mother. I tucked a child under each arm and turned to run back down the stairs. Their mother had broken away from Mark and was about three-quarters of the way up the stairs when I turned around.
I heard a loud boom. The flames were now coming about halfway up the inside of the stairwell.
In that split second on those stairs, I prayed harder and with more intensity than I had prayed in my entire life. I now realized that not only my life but the lives of a woman and two children depended on my actions. I remember praying, if not saying aloud, the words, “Not my will, but thine.”
I suddenly remembered Mark was still downstairs and started yelling at the top of my lungs for him. Mark later told me that the loud boom I heard was the living room ceiling collapsing and that a huge piece of blazing plywood had fallen to the floor just as the woman disappeared into the doorway. He had stayed downstairs and tried to confine the fire by shutting doors throughout the house. He never heard me yell that we were going out a window.
Knowing that the smoke wasn’t going to leave us much time, I ran up the stairs to look for a window.
When I reached the second floor, I ran straight into a totally dark room that apparently had no windows. I could feel the soles of my feet getting warm and realized that the smoke was getting more unbearable by the second. The woman led me down the hall to a small window that led out onto the roof.
She climbed out first and I followed, still squeezing a child under each arm. When we reached the edge of the roof, I could see that smoke was pouring out of every window in the house. I saw Mark on the ground right below us and yelled that I was going to drop the children down to him.
Pivoting, I tossed the little boy about three feet away from the house to Mark, who made a perfect catch.
The smoke was so thick now that I couldn’t see the ground, but I heard a voice I didn’t recognize and dropped the little girl off the roof. I was told later that a man had seen the blaze, stopped his car, and ran over to Mark in time to help catch the little girl.
The woman was still sobbing and crying hysterically. Mark had put down the little boy and broke the fall of the woman as she fell from the roof. I jumped feet first and landed unhurt.
Safely on the ground, I ran to the apartment on the other side of the house. There, Jim and I pounded on the door, but no answer came. After a few seconds, we broke the glass and unlocked the door. We checked the entire house and found that no one was living on that side.
My thoughts, as we ran back around the building, were the products of years of Boy Scout training—treatment of smoke inhalation, shock, and exposure. The woman and the children were brought to my car, which was warm and still running. The little boy asked where his puppy was, and even though I had seen no dog, I tried to assure him his puppy was all right. By now the fire trucks and ambulance were parked at the front of the house, so I told Mark and Jim to meet me at the hospital.
Everyone was treated and released.
When we returned to the scene of the fire, we counted nine fire engines. The blaze had been doused, and all that remained of the building was the charred frame. It sent chills up my spine to look at the house, smoke still billowing from the windows. As we stood there solemnly looking at the destruction that had taken place, a fireman emerged with what looked like a small stuffed animal. It was the little boy’s puppy. It had hidden in a downstairs closet in some kind of air pocket and had survived the two-hour blaze without so much as a scratch.
A feeling of relief and thankfulness swept over me. I realized that chance had not led us to this house, but that a heavenly force had inspired us to make that wrong turn. I knew that without the Lord’s help, several people would likely have lost their lives. Before this experience I had thought my faith was weak, but I knew then that if it had not been for faith, I would have panicked at the thought of death. Because of the teachings of the gospel and the understanding it gives us of death, I was able to think clearly and do what had to be done. I realized that my life was in Heavenly Father’s hands. I’m thankful now that we were spared and that my faith was strengthened immensely by an inspired wrong turn.

When Deborah learned of her son’s drug addiction, she was plagued by feelings of guilt as she thought about how she could have been a better mother. Then she discovered that she could apply the steps to herself. She says, “What I learned in the program is that no matter how my son is doing, I can still be happy and have Heavenly Father in my life.” She adds, “On the outside I look the same, but my life has completely changed on the inside.”

For the next several years, I enjoyed all the blessings Latter-day Saint youth have. I attended seminary and Young Men activities, blessed and passed the sacrament, and eventually received the Melchizedek Priesthood. Unfortunately, my mother opposed my Church activity, protesting that I spent too much time at church. When I turned 19 and began to fill out my mission papers, my mother asked me to stop. I decided to respect her wishes and to serve the Lord in whatever other ways I could.
For the next four years, I served as stake clerk, giving my might, mind, and strength to my duties. And I often worked with the full-time missionaries. I dreamed of someday becoming a full-time missionary.
In time, I was called to teach seminary. This opportunity, along with my stake calling, kept me busy enough to feel that at least I was serving the Lord—even though I was not on a mission.
Then one day my sister came to visit with her two beautiful little daughters. It was one month before my 24th birthday. Time was running out, and I knew I needed to decide what I was going to do with my life. That day one of my nieces fell asleep in my arms. As I watched her sleep I realized that someday I would have children and they would ask me, “Daddy, why didn’t you go on a mission?” At that moment I made my decision.
My decision was not easy for my mother to accept. She and my father were separated, and I was the only child at home with her. Still, I knew that what I was doing was right, so I filled out my papers and sent them in. When my call to serve in the Honduras Comayaguela Mission came, my mother was so upset she became ill. But in time, she began to accept my decision, and she even helped me prepare to leave.
On the day I left for the Missionary Training Center, I gave my mother a priesthood blessing. And as I served I began to understand the Lord’s promise: “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say” (D&C 82:10). How great was my joy when the calling I had so long dreamed of holding was finally mine—that of full-time representative of the Lord and His Church. How great was my joy when one year into my mission I received word that my mother had accepted the truth and had been baptized. How grateful I am that I took a leap of faith.

Sam Stewart builds temples. Their spires do not rise majestically above busy freeways or green hilltops, but above the floor of the Stewart family room in Henderson, Nevada. Their walls are not hewn from fine granite but cut from plain brown cardboard boxes. Yet these knee-high models somehow capture the majesty of real temples.
Sam (11) hopes to design real temples someday. Architects (people who design buildings) must have an artistic flair, and Sam does. His mom first discovered his talent when he was just three years old. She walked into his room and was astonished to see pictures of dinosaurs all over the walls. On the one hand, she didn’t feel that bedroom walls were quite the right place for drawing dinosaurs. On the other hand, they were drawn so well! She suggested that Sam use paper next time, but the already-hatched reptiles were left to roam the walls.
Cardboard replaced paper as the young artist’s favorite surface when he was nine years old. The family was reading about putting on the whole armor of God (see Eph. 6:13–17). There were cardboard boxes lying around because the Stewarts were sending packages to Sam’s brothers who were on missions. The boxes and the armor collided in Sam’s mind, and he began constructing a cardboard “shield of faith.” After he finished it, he shaped a “sword of the Spirit” out of wood.
About this time, Sam began to feel a strong attachment to the nearby Las Vegas Nevada Temple. At first he appreciated it simply because it was beautiful. But as he learned more about the purpose of temples, he came to love it for the blessings it brings to people’s lives. This interest soon grew to include all the temples of the Church. Sam began filling a binder with pictures of the world’s temples and a file with diagrams and information about their design, history, and construction. By the time he had filled the binder, he knew that he wanted to build temples of stone someday. In the meantime, he would build temples of cardboard.
With boxes, a pair of scissors, a hot-glue gun, and a ruler, he created a faithful scale model of the Las Vegas Temple. It was astonishingly good. No one taught him how to build cardboard temples. He invented the craft as he went along.
Next came his version of the historic Nauvoo Illinois Temple, which was then being rebuilt. The family read all they could find about the project as Sam raised his cardboard walls. He drew the sunstones and other carvings onto the surface with a pen. The Manti Temple and the Preston England Temple followed. Then Sam started working on his masterpiece—the Salt Lake Temple, crafted in far greater detail than the others. This project has taken a year so far and is not yet finished. Once it’s completed, he plans to build models of the Montevideo Uruguay Temple and the Portland Oregon Temple.
Sam doesn’t just build temples; he studies them, too. He learned so much about the stone carvings on the Nauvoo Temple that his dad invited him to explain their meaning to the temple preparation class he teaches. Sam has also given family home evening lessons on temple architecture to several families in the ward.
He is not shy about sharing his love of temples with his friends from other religions. They like to watch him build, and as he works he quizzes them about temple facts. By now they know all the answers.
Working on temples doesn’t fill all of Sam’s time. He is an excellent student who studies hard because he knows that to be an architect he must be good at math and get good grades. He enjoys sports, including skiing, baseball, and soccer. He especially loves the outdoors and the beauties of nature. He is always eager to visit his family’s cabin in the mountains of Utah.
Families and temples just seem to go together, and Sam loves his family even more than he loves temples. His brothers, Willie and John, who are twins serving missions in Uruguay and England respectively, are role models for him. He is especially close to his sister, Lea, a student at BYU. Five years ago Lea suffered a spinal cord injury in a car accident, and she now uses a wheelchair. Sam often paints with her and plays wheelchair basketball with her when she is home on vacation. “Sam’s very sensitive to the feelings of others,” Lea says. “Since I’ve been in the wheelchair, he’s always there to help.”
“Sam wants to understand things spiritually,” his dad comments. “He prays. He reads the scriptures. He asks a lot of difficult questions—the kind that parents don’t always know how to answer. He’s made me a better person just being around him.”
His mom adds, “He has a clear vision of what’s right and wrong, and he’s strong in doing what’s right. He wants to make people happy. If I’m down, he knows it, and he’ll cheer me up.”
This builder of temples is also helping to build a happy family.

On at least one occasion, I gave a spiritual thought with one message in mind, and the Spirit conveyed a totally different message to a student who was listening. Here is one such example from an anonymous student:

Thank you so much for your spiritual thoughts. A few weeks ago you shared a scripture that really changed my life, no exaggeration. I had been on a bit of a downward spiral, and to tell you the truth, during the first month of class it kind of irritated me that we would have “spiritual thought time” in a finance class, when the thought would have nothing to do with what we were talking about. The scripture you shared was in [Doctrine and Covenants] where the Lord tells Joseph that he is chosen, but because of transgression he will fall if he isn’t careful. He tells Joseph to repent and that he is still chosen and called again to the work, but if he does not repent, he will lose his gift and his chosen status (see D&C 3:4–11). That scripture hit me hard and started a chain reaction of introspection with my wife into our lives, so that now I feel like I’m back on a spiritual high akin to that on my mission.

This week I found out that my dad has been [struggling with personal issues that would in the end cause him to leave my mother]. . . . [Y]esterday I was able to talk to him and share everything that has happened to me over the last month (starting with your scripture) to help me find my testimony again and get myself back on track. I felt the Spirit so strong, and I know he did, too.

I’m telling you this story because it is very likely that your scripture not only saved me, but it could save my family and my parents’ temple marriage. If my dad could [move beyond his struggles] to making the right decision, it would be nothing short of a miracle—all because of how you have let the Lord work through you. Don’t ever stop the spiritual thoughts, no matter what anyone else says! Thank you!

A couple weeks later, I received this follow-up from this unknown student in the suggestion box:

I just wanted you to know that over the past two weeks my dad got his act together. My parents are going to stay together! His testimony is starting to return, and he is committed now to working hard on it and his marriage. Thank you! I truly believe this is all because of your spiritual thoughts.

As a bishop or branch president, through motivating interviews you can bless the life of every young man in your ward as well as appropriate couples by encouraging them to prepare for full-time missions. Not only will you bless those potential missionaries but you may answer the prayers of parents who have a maturing son not yet committed to a mission despite their efforts to encourage that desire. For example, from childhood through maturing years, our daughter Mary Lee heard her parents speak of our treasured missionary experiences. We had explained how challenging missionary opportunities had enriched our lives and laid the foundation for all that we treasure in life. Yet we taught that it was her decision whether she would serve or not. Through her growing years, it was clear that she intended to be a missionary. However, as missionary age approached, her exciting experiences in the university began to present attractive alternatives. Once when she mentioned wrestling with that uncertainty, she was counseled to talk to her bishop. An appointment was arranged. As she sat down before a choice bishop, she asked, “What do you think of my serving a full-time mission?” The bishop jumped from his chair, clapped his hands on the desk, and said, “That is the greatest thing I could imagine for you.” That comment tipped the scales.

Mary Lee served a most effective mission in Spain that unveiled hidden capacities, matured her spiritual development, and caused to flower capabilities that have blessed her as a wife and mother. The bishop that had such a profound influence in my daughter’s life is J. Willard Marriott Jr., currently an Area Seventy. But we remember him most for what he did for our daughter Mary Lee. Now in her own family with the strong examples of a returned missionary father and mother, a son and a daughter have fulfilled exemplary missions. The remaining son will clearly be a missionary, and the last daughter will in time make the proper choice. Another grandchild, following in the footsteps of his father, was recently called to serve in the Mexico Cuernavaca Mission.

President Thomas S. Monson shared the experience of Jay Hess, an airman who was shot down over North Vietnam in the 1960s: “For two years his family had no idea whether he was dead or alive. His captors in Hanoi eventually allowed him to write home but limited his message to less than 25 words.” President Monson asks: “What would you and I say to our families if we were in the same situation—not having seen them for over two years and not knowing if we would ever see them again? Wanting to provide something his family could recognize as having come from him and also wanting to give them valuable counsel, Brother Hess wrote [the following words]: ‘These things are important: temple marriage, mission, college. Press on, set goals, write history, take pictures twice a year.’”7

It all started when, during one of her hospital stays, Brittany began drawing funny, chaotic cartoon scenes and posting them on her door. One scene featured a carnival with roller coasters, bumper cars, a person stuck in a fake cannon, and even someone getting buried by an out-of-control cotton-candy machine. Another showed different events in the hospital, including a patient escaping in a wheelchair.
Children especially loved her drawings, and all sorts of people would stop at her door to smile and laugh. Brittany ended up making copies of these drawings so the hospital could put them up on the walls. She’d found that something she did for fun could provide a way to bless others.

The second-generation Church members in the Kreiberg family are solid evidence of President Andersen’s assessment of the fortification that comes through temple marriages. For Inge Kreiberg the strongest proof of this is in their third child, Caroline.

“We wouldn’t even have Caroline if we hadn’t joined the Church,” Inge explains. Like most Danish women, Inge felt she was through with having children—“I thought two kids and a job were enough. Then one evening as I prepared to teach an institute class on women’s role in giving birth, I stopped abruptly. I knew I wasn’t practicing what the lesson taught.”

She recalls believing the lesson was teaching the truth. She knew she needed to study and pray about motherhood, and her study became intense and personal. She decided that, for her, having another child was right—a choice of no small significance in Denmark. Now Finn, Inge, and Caroline, eleven, live in Odense, in a sturdy house with lots of leaded windows, converted from a derelict railway station where Finn had played as a boy.

I was 11 years old when I learned about the Church. From the moment I first entered the meetinghouse, I felt a beautiful spirit. I continued to attend for several months, during which time I turned 12 and started the Personal Progress program in Young Women. Two months later, on August 14, 1994, I was baptized.
It was surprising to the ward members to see a girl of 12 baptized by herself, without her parents. How did this happen? I asked my father if I could be baptized. He replied, “You’re an intelligent young woman, and you will know what decision to make.” I had already made the decision in my heart that I would never again be without the beautiful feeling I had when I heard the true gospel.
During middle school and high school I experienced wonderful and difficult years at the same time, because during adolescence a young person wants support from her parents. It wasn’t easy to be the only member of the Church at home when my parents did things that were at odds with the Church’s teachings. But I remembered what Nephi said, “If ye shall … endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life” (2 Ne. 31:20).
Years later my younger siblings were baptized, but my parents were not. The missionaries talked to them, but they did not want to be baptized. Their decision saddened me, but I knew I had set a good example.
When I was 16 I traveled to the temple in Orlando, Florida, and it was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. I went by myself and was able to be baptized for my ancestors. Two years later, when I received my Young Womanhood Recognition, my joy could not be contained. I felt that our Heavenly Father was pleased with me.
When President Gordon B. Hinckley visited our beautiful island of Puerto Rico and spoke to the members, I had the privilege of singing in the choir. He urged us to go to the temple on the neighboring island of the Dominican Republic. I did, and in that temple I made a firm decision that I would be married for eternity to a returned missionary.
I reached this goal when I found a worthy priesthood holder who is a returned missionary. We were sealed in the Dominican Republic temple for time and eternity. We now have a baby boy, and I am serving in the stake Young Women presidency. My parents are still not members, but I am pleased with the example I have given them. I try to build on the good in my parents while forgetting their imperfections.
I know I belong to the true Church and that Jesus Christ is my Savior. My dream, which I pray for, is to be sealed someday to my parents and siblings. I love this gospel that has given me so much joy and hope in my life.

I first had contact with the missionaries in 1992. From their first discussion, I felt something special in my heart. As the discussions progressed, I learned of gospel principles that I never knew existed. The first time I attended a Church meeting, I was warmly greeted by the members as though they had always known me.
I was the first member of my family to be baptized. Now my two sisters are also members, and my father is reading the Book of Mormon.
For some months now, I have been receiving the Liahona (Spanish), and I am very pleased with its contents.
For a First Presidency Message President Thomas S. Monson wrote: “The Paths Jesus Walked.” I was touched deeply by his counsel: “In a very real sense, all can walk where Jesus walked when, with His words on our lips, His spirit in our hearts, and His teachings in our lives, we journey through mortality.”
The magazine contains messages that teach so much. The articles about the Saints, and their testimonies, not only help me, but they can also help others who are not yet members of the Church.
Wanda RiveraIsabela Branch, Mayaguez Puerto Rico Stake

“He started it!” Robbie wailed.
“I did not,” Robbie’s big brother, Will, protested. “He took my stuff without asking. I was just getting it back.”
“I don’t care who started it,” Mom said. “What I care about is who stops it. And I wish it didn’t always have to be me. You are both confined to your rooms until you can work this out peacefully. And here”—she handed each of them a piece of paper—“maybe you should write down some things you can do to avoid fights in the future.”
Glumly the boys walked down the hallway to their bedrooms. Just before Will went into his room, he waved his paper at Robbie and sneered, “I’m going to write down all the reasons I can’t stand you!”
“Oh, yeah? Well, my list will be twice as long as yours.” Robbie’s response was cut off by Will’s slamming the door.
Robbie shut his own door and plopped down on his bed. What a jerk! He thought. Just because he’s bigger than I am, he thinks he can push me around. Robbie found a pencil and wrote on his paper: Reasons I can’t stand Will. Then he skipped a few lines and wrote, “1. He’s bigger than me.”
Robbie tapped his pencil on his chin and tried hard to think of another reason. He looked around his bedroom. His eyes caught sight of the model airplane that hung from his overhead light. Will had hung that model for him because Robbie wasn’t big enough to reach the light, even if he stood on a chair. Sometimes Robbie was glad that Will was bigger. It wasn’t a bad thing.
Robbie needed to write down something else. He noticed the baseball mitt hanging on the footboard of his bed. It was Will’s old mitt. Robbie hardly ever got anything new. He usually got Will’s hand-me-down stuff, including his clothes and sports equipment. Robbie wrote, “2. I always get his old stuff.”
Of course, that wasn’t always a bad thing, either. Will usually took good care of his things, and he bought a lot of them with his own money. As a result, Robbie ended up with some pretty good stuff that he didn’t have to pay for. And Will always taught him how to use the equipment, so he got free lessons, too.
Robbie knew that he was going to have to think harder to come up with a reason why he hated Will. He noticed a candy wrapper on the floor. That gave him an idea. “3. He eats a lot of food.”
That was true. Will ate at least two bowls of cereal at breakfast, and he always seemed to have a snack in his pocket. Mom said that he was an active, growing boy, and she always made sure there was a lot of good food in the house. Of course, that wasn’t a bad thing. That meant more food for Robbie to eat, too. And Will often had some little treat in his pocket to share with Robbie.
Robbie frowned. He was never going to get his list done. Will must have dozens of things written by now.
Just then there was a knock on Robbie’s door. Through the door Will quietly said, “Are you ready to see my list, short stuff?”
Robbie sighed. I might as well get this over with, he thought. Then he got up and opened his door to let Will in. Will didn’t seem angry anymore. He almost seemed happy. He’s happy his list is so long, Robbie thought. Will walked in and sat down at the desk, his list folded carefully in his hand.
“You go first,” Will said.
Robbie sat down on the bed and picked up his list. “I could only think of three reasons,” he admitted. “And they aren’t really reasons why I can’t stand you—they’re reasons why I like you.” Robbie crumpled up the paper. “Guess it’s your turn now. How many reasons did you come up with—a million?”
Will unfolded his paper and showed it to Robbie. It was blank.
“I couldn’t think of even one reason why I can’t stand you,” Will said.
Robbie’s eyes got wide.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. You’re all right, for a little brother.” Will pulled a package of pretzels from his pocket and offered some to Robbie. “So now I guess we’d better do what Mom asked and figure out how we can stop fighting so much.”
“I think we just figured it out.” Robbie popped a pretzel into his mouth. “We just have to remember how much we like each other.”
Will nodded. “I guess you’re right. OK, we’re done here. Let’s go play some ball.”
Robbie grabbed the old mitt off the bed and followed his big brother down the stairs.