Gospel Story Finder

Cotton farming was also a tough one. When the brothers decided to work on this, they had to send away for the book because it seems that no one really raises cotton around Ogden anymore. And after they got the book, they just couldn’t find any cotton seeds. But their mother remembered that she had been in the South some 17 years before and had picked a ball of cotton as a memento. And there are seeds in a real cotton ball. Chad and Craig took the seeds that were in that 17-year-old cotton ball and grew four cotton plants.

Cooper’s video game system was getting old. Whenever he raced cars, the screen froze and he had to restart the game.
“Can I get a new game system for my birthday?” Cooper asked Dad.
Dad shook his head. “I don’t think it fits into our budget. Remember how we spent quite a bit of money last year to buy your guitar and pay for music lessons?”
Cooper frowned. He wasn’t taking music lessons anymore.
“What if I earn the money?” Cooper asked. “Then maybe you could help me order one online.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Dad said.
Cooper went to work doing extra chores and mowing lawns for neighbors. He saved all summer.
Finally he had enough money, and Dad sent it to an online seller advertising the best price for the gaming system Cooper wanted.
Cooper couldn’t wait. Whenever the mailman came, Cooper checked the mailbox. When a delivery truck came down his street, Cooper hoped it was bringing a package for him. But none of the trucks stopped at his house. Weeks went by.
“When is it going to get here?” Cooper asked.
Dad looked worried. “I’m not sure. The seller never sent me the tracking number.”
A few days later, Dad told Cooper some bad news. “I think the seller we chose is dishonest. I can’t contact him on the phone or through email.”
Cooper couldn’t believe it. “You mean he stole my money?”
“It looks that way.”
Cooper hoped it wasn’t true. At night he prayed for a way to still get the gaming system he’d earned. The next day he asked Dad if he could have one for Christmas, but Dad just said, “I’m sorry this happened. Next time we’ll both know to be more careful.”
It seemed there was only one thing left to do: start saving money again. But school had started and Cooper didn’t have as much time for extra chores. “It isn’t fair,” he complained to himself as he sat moping in his room one afternoon. Then he noticed something he hadn’t paid much attention to for a while—his guitar.
Cooper picked it up and tuned it. He strummed a few chords and played through the songs he’d learned. It didn’t take long because he hadn’t had many lessons. He sat with the guitar on his lap, his fingers itching to play something new. He wondered if he could make up a song of his own.
A few hours later, Cooper played his brand new song all the way through. It felt so great that he couldn’t wait to write another one.
Cooper practiced his guitar all winter. He read books about playing the guitar. And when he had time, he earned a little extra money.
When spring came, Dad said, “How are the savings coming? Are you ready to pick out a new gaming system?”
Cooper thought about it. “I don’t know if I want one anymore.”
Sometimes he played video games at his friends’ houses, but he hadn’t really missed playing them at home. Playing guitar was fun, and he felt like he’d accomplished something great every time he wrote or learned a new song.
“I think I’ll leave the money in savings until I know what I want to use it for,” Cooper said.
“Sounds smart.”
Cooper was surprised at how much fun he was having playing his guitar. All year long, his plan had been to play video games. Now he didn’t even miss them. Heavenly Father hadn’t helped him get the video game system, but He had blessed Cooper with something better—the ability to be happy without it.

In his first general conference talk, he revealed a charming self-deprecation that won friends immediately: “I am reminded of a statement made by my first missionary companion when I received a letter of transfer to the European Mission office. After I had read it, I turned it over to him. He read it, and then said: ‘Well, you must have helped an old lady across the street in the pre-existence. This has not come because of anything you’ve done here.’” Despite his high profile as a Church leader for nearly four decades, President Hinckley thinks of himself as an ordinary man who has been given extraordinary opportunities. After 13 years in the First Presidency, he still refers to himself as “Brother Hinckley.”

They rode several miles down the canyon through pasture country, then over the ridge surrounding Squaw Springs where the two caves were located. Brother Nicholas said artifacts found in the Indian caves have been removed for further study by a university. Thus visits to the caves don’t damage archaeological investigations. Brother Nicholas noted the caves were used during the winters by Shoshone Indians.

“One of them told my grandfather about the caves, but he never could find them. Tom Whittaker did, though, and that’s how I know of them.” He continued, “That Indian said that when he was a youngster, the entire band was trapped inside the upper cave by an enemy tribe. They got mighty dry before they were able to get out.”

Carson and Kyleigh said: “When our grandma was in the hospital we decided to give her a special gift by cleaning her house really well before she got home. It made us feel really good to do this for her.”

Janie was tired of winter. It was too snowy and icy for her to play outside, so she looked out the window and wished.
She wished the snow would melt away.
She wished the world would be green with springtime again.
Janie told Father about her wish. He just smiled and said, “If you’re anxious for spring, we can make it come early in a corner of your room.”
Father helped Janie find a tall can. Together they found a spot of ground near the house that was covered with only a little snow. Janie cleared away the snow and dug enough soil to fill the can.
Mother found some beans in a bag in the cupboard. Janie planted the beans in the can and watered them. Then she placed the can in a corner of her room near the window.
Every day she watched the can. Finally the soil burst open! Bright green shoots pushed their way up through the soil. Just like magic, Janie had springtime in the corner of her room.
It was so much fun that Janie asked Mother to save another can for her. This time she planted kernels of wheat. In only a few days Janie could see little spiky green hairs sprouting up in the can. Janie laughed at such a funny sight.
Next she put pieces of carrot tops in a shallow bowl and filled it with water. In a few days the carrots had sprouts that looked like dainty feathery ferns.
Now that she had started, Janie couldn’t stop. Mother gave her a sweet potato and showed her how to put a toothpick in each side of it. Then they filled a quart bottle with water and placed the bottom part of the sweet potato down into the water. The toothpicks kept the rest of it outside of the bottle. Before long the sweet potato began to grow. Quickly it became the prettiest plant in all of Janie’s garden.
Janie was so busy tending the garden in the corner of her room that she had no time to worry about winter. In fact, she was so busy that she almost forgot to notice when it left.
Janie was happy when springtime finally arrived. But she was even happier because she had learned that she could have springtime all year round.

“Economically, our family had its ups and downs. Like many Americans, we did well during the 1920s. My father started making lots of money in real estate, in addition to his other businesses. For a few years we were actually wealthy. But then came the Depression.
“No one who’s lived through it can ever forget. My father lost all his money, and we almost lost our house. I remember asking my sister, who was a couple of years older, whether we’d have to move out and how we’d find somewhere else to live. I was only six or seven at the time, but the anxiety I felt about the future is still vivid in my mind. Bad times are indelible—they stay with you forever.” (Lee Iacocca and William Novak, Iacocca: An Autobiography, New York: Bantam Books, 1984, p. 7.)

I experienced the love others had for him as I approached President Harold B. Lee (1899–1973) in the Salt Lake Cemetery following the dedication of President Smith’s grave. I said to him, “President Lee, as a member of the family I want you to know how much I appreciate the kindness you have shown my grandfather.” In response he looked me in the eyes and tenderly said, “I loved that man!”

Elder ElRay Christiansen told of a wealthy man in Denmark who was converted to the gospel and had migrated to Utah. His commitment caused the loss of much of his fortune, but, after settling here, he again had the ability to amass riches and, in the process, lost his faith and testimony. As his brethren tried to counsel him about his eternal purpose, he would not listen. Finally one of them said to him, “Lars, it is not good to think only of money. You cannot take it with you, you know.”

Lars answered, “Vat is that you say?” and he was told again, “I say you cannot take it with you.”

Lars responded, “Vell, den, I vill not go.”

Elder Christiansen’s report was that he had gone anyway. And we will go as well.

Everyone in the mission knew about Madame Dupont. Her husband, President Dupont, was the branch president of one of the smallest branches in France. He had labored faithfully for years to establish The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in his hometown in the Pyrenees Mountains. In all that time, however, his wife had opposed his membership in the Church. She didn’t like his “folly.” She wouldn’t listen to his testimony. And she wouldn’t allow missionaries in her house—not even in her courtyard!
The day I arrived in town as a brand-new senior companion, my junior informed me that the branch president’s wife was just getting up and around after a short sickness.
“Great,” I said, “let’s take her some flowers to wish her well. Maybe it will help to fellowship her.”
“You don’t know Sister Dupont,” he said. (We called her sister anyway.) “She’ll probably just snarl.”
I couldn’t believe anyone would refuse flowers after an illness. I was wrong.
I held the bouquet while Elder Granville knocked timidly at the gate.
“She’ll never hear you if you don’t knock louder than that!” I said, and I rapped on the wood. A small, gray-haired woman in her 60s peered at us through the window. I knocked again, and the front door of the house opened.
“Go away!” the lady said.
“But we have something to give you,” I replied.
“If it’s for my husband, just leave it at the gate,” she said.
“Let’s go,” Elder Granville whispered.
“We have something for you,” I said again, trying hard not to sound like I was yelling.
She opened the door and walked toward us from the house.
“Oh no!” Elder Granville whispered, pulling at my coat.
By now the short little woman was nearly up to us.
“What could you possibly have for me?” she asked.
“Flowers,” I said. “Flowers to wish you—”
“Don’t like flowers.” She cut me off. “Never did.”
“But—”
“Don’t like flowers. Don’t like missionaries either. Now leave me alone.”
“But there must be something you like,” I said, almost in desperation.
“Yes,” she said, “I like fruit. Fresh fruit. Never get enough of that around here. Now thanks for bringing the flowers, but I really don’t want them.”
And she turned around and walked back to the house.
“Au revoir,” I shouted after her. “Ayez une bonne journée!” It wasn’t the most authentic French, but I did want her to have a good day.
“Brother, were you ever lucky,” Elder Granville sighed as we walked away. “When Elder Stokeley and I said hello to her one day, she slammed the gate in our face.”
I handed him the bouquet of flowers.
“Let’s go tracting,” I said.
The next day was preparation day, and we were shopping at the market near our apartment. It was then that I saw the bushel of apples.
“Hey, Elder Granville,” I said, “I’ve got an idea.”
I picked up the basket and started toward the check-out stand. Visions of a month of apple crisp at every meal must have danced through Elder Granville’s mind.
“We can’t eat that many apples!” he said.
“They’re not for us. They’re for Sister Dupont.”
That left him speechless. For a moment.
“Elder Romney, you’re the craziest senior I’ve ever had!”
“I’m only your second companion since the LTM.”
“Well, you’re still the craziest senior I’ve ever had.”
By now the clerk was wondering what two Americans were doing arguing in English about a bushel of fruit. I set it on the counter.
“Nous prendrons toute la corbeillée,” I said.
“You’ll take the entire basketful,” the clerk repeated (in French, of course). “Très bien, monsieur.” Then, in an effort to be friendly, “Vous devez beaucoup aimer des pommes.” (“You surely must love apples.”)
“They’re not for us. They’re for a friend,” I said.
“For a friend.” The clerk tried hard not to be amazed. “Très bien, monsieur.”
“The whole bushel!” Elder Granville moaned.
“And we could have spent the grocery money for yogurt!” He picked up the rest of the groceries, and we headed for the door.
We did eat some of the apples. We even made some apple crisp and a pie. But most of the fruit went to Soeur (Sister) Dupont. We never delivered the apples in person. Each day we would leave one, with a note attached, in her mailbox. Sometimes the note would simply say, “Ayez une bonne journée.” Sometimes it would say, “Bon rétablissement!” (“Get well soon!”) One day I even stepped out on a limb and tried to translate “An apple a day keeps the doctor away” into French. I’m sure “Une pomme tousles jours vous protégera contre les maladies” lost something in the translation, but once again the wish was sincere. By the end of the month, when the apples started to shrivel, we would cut paper into the shape of an apple, write a note on the paper, and leave that inside the mailbox instead.
All this time Elder Granville kept telling me I was crazy. And all this time we never heard a word from Sister Dupont. At church President Dupont was as cordial and friendly as usual, but he never said a word about the apples.
We were having a dish of soup for lunch one day when we heard a knock at the door. I stepped from the kitchen into the hallway to answer it. I couldn’t believe it when I opened the latch and neither could Elder Granville. There stood Sister Dupont, with our latest apple message in her hand.
“What’s the deal with all these apples?” she asked. “Who do you think I am, Eve?”
“We just wanted to let you know we care,” I said.
“I thank you,” she managed. And she actually tried to smile. “But please, I’ve had enough apples for a while.” She pulled her black shawl more tightly around her head. I was about to invite her inside when she turned to go.
“Oh, by the way,” she said when she reached the top of the stairway, “my husband says I should invite you for dinner on Sunday night.”
“Dinner?” Elder Granville gasped from somewhere behind me. “With Sister Dupont?” I thought he was going to faint. But as soon as the door closed, we both whooped for joy.
Sister Dupont was a marvelous cook. There’s no cuisine like French cuisine, and it’s even better when it’s homemade. That first Sunday evening we mostly ate well and offered compliments. We also watched hope glimmer in Brother Dupont’s eyes. It had been a long, long time since he’d had missionaries in his home. This was the first time since his baptism some 17 years before. We returned for dinner the following Sunday, and the next, and the next. Through bits and pieces of the conversation, we patched together the Duponts’ story.
Before he met the missionaries, Brother Dupont said, he had been like a wanderer in a drought-ravaged land. Then suddenly he stumbled into a lake of water. The gospel was rich and refreshing to him, and he could not drink his fill. In his exuberance to immerse himself in his new-found treasure, he could not understand why others did not want to savor the same message. This lack of communication spilled into his marriage. His wife didn’t understand what had changed her husband.
As we ate, she told us of the war years, when he was bedridden. She had managed to find food for both of them, even during shortages. She had nursed him daily. Even after the war, he had required her constant care for several years before he gained the strength to walk. Then he had spent more years training and rehabilitating himself while she supported the family. No sooner had he started working again than two Americans began talking religion with him. Then he joined their church—he was the only member in town, and they baptized him in the river—and more and more of his life belonged to his church, not to her. She felt deprived, then embarrassed when parishioners laughed at her, the wife of the town fanatic.
President Dupont repeated over and over again that the Church was true, that he knew it was true, and that he would do whatever he could to share it with his wife. “But,” he said, “she just won’t listen.”
“Can’t you see?” I said one night after they had been sharp with each other. “What you’re really saying is that you love each other. Sister Dupont, all these years you’ve been asking your husband to spend more time with you. That’s important and it’s right. And President Dupont, all you want to do is share with your wife the thing that’s most precious to you. Right?”
He nodded yes. I turned to Sister Dupont.
“Can’t you see that he wants to share the gospel with you because he loves you?”
She didn’t say anything, but you could tell she was thinking. We excused ourselves quietly and went home.
Elder Granville’s prayer that night was straightforward and concerned.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help the Duponts to understand each other. They’re both good people.”
“Amen,” I said. And it sounded so good that I said it again in a whisper.
We had teaching appointments elsewhere for the next two weeks, and then we had to go to Bordeaux for district conference. Although we stopped to see President Dupont on branch business a couple of times, it was almost a month before we were asked back to the Duponts’ home. President Dupont delivered the invitation.
“You won’t believe it,” he said. “My wife’s been reading Church books! And she’s asking questions—good, honest questions. I try to answer them, but I get too pushy. She really wants to talk to you again.”
If we hadn’t had another teaching appointment, we might have rushed over right then.
“C’est incroyable!” Sister Dupont said the next time we all sat in the kitchen. “It’s incredible. Or it’s stupid! A 14-year-old boy can’t talk to God. And the Bible. It’s complete. Why should we need any more scriptures than we already have? And the priesthood. My husband’s never been to divinity school. Why should he be able to hold the priesthood?”
Good questions, all right. How could we handle this? I could imagine Elder Granville thinking this was more like the Sister Dupont of old. Maybe the niceness had been too good to last.
“Sister Dupont,” Elder Granville’s calm voice interrupted my thoughts, “we can answer all those questions for you. But we can’t answer them all at the same time. We have a series of discussions that will answer them one at a time. Would you be interested in listening to those discussions?”
She said yes.
How about that! I said to myself. There’s hope for this junior companion yet!
I wouldn’t exactly say that Sister Dupont became a golden investigator. But she did become our friend. She listened intently to the first discussion. She even joined us as her husband kneeled in prayer. And she invited us to dinner again the following Sunday. It was while we were finishing a serving of the thin mashed potatoes the French call purée that Elder Granville told Sister Dupont a story.
“Did you ever hear about the missionary who was eating dinner and asked his companion to pass the butter? The butter was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it because it was so close.”
“What?”
“Simple. It’s like you and the gospel. All these years your husband has had it right here in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because it was so close. You keep asking where the butter is when it’s right in front of your plate.”
It may not have been the strongest analogy, but Elder Granville was trying. When we got home that night, he brought me a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Why don’t you sign this with me?” he said, turning to a dedication on the flyleaf. “It’s for Sister Dupont.”
I looked at what he’d written.
“Voici le beurre,” it said. “Here is the butter.”
During the next two months Sister Dupont read the book—at least, she read more than half of it. And she had two more discussions, and prayed, and was talking to her husband more and more. And he was seeming happier and happier all the time. That’s when my transfer letter came.
I was moving north to Brittany where I would finish my mission. Elder Granville would be getting his third senior. The letter had been delayed by postal strikes. I would have to catch the first train in the morning.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to leave, Elder Granville,” I said. “We’ve been working so well here. The branch president’s happy and excited again, and the members are working with him. We’ve got some inactives coming out to church and a couple of solid investigators. The Marcellas family is getting ready for baptism. I guess I’ll just have to leave it up to you.”
A knock at the door.
“President Dupont!” Elder Granville greeted the visitor. “Come in, come in.”
President Dupont looked at me.
“I heard about the transfer,” he said. “I know you’re leaving tomorrow. My wife wants you to come say good-bye.”
There was a lot of packing and farewelling to take care of, but I knew I had to visit his wife.
“Of course we’ll be by,” I said.
The living room was dark, illuminated by a single bare bulb as many French living rooms are. The wallpaper, however, was a bright combination of browns, yellows, and tans. Sister Dupont was seated on the orange couch, a tray of cookies and hot chocolate before her.
“Hello, elders,” she said. “Have a seat. What’s this about Elder Romney leaving?”
“I’m afraid that’s right. Tomorrow morning.”
“That means there will be a new missionary here, too.”
“That’s right. Elder Taylor. He’s from New York.”
“I guess I’ll have to get to know him, too.”
I could see the smile on President Dupont’s face.
“I hope you will,” I said.
“Will you write to us?”
“Of course I’ll keep in touch,” I promised. “Trust me.”
“If you can’t trust the elders, who can you trust?” she said.
I thought I might cry.
I did keep in touch, especially five months later when I got home from my mission. It was hard, and President Dupont wrote to me more than I wrote to him. But we did exchange photos (I still have a nice picture of the Duponts with their grandchildren on vacation on the Spanish coast), and Christmas cards, and news of our families. Whatever I sent, even a postcard, I always got letters back, scrawled out in President Dupont’s longhand. He would let me know when he heard from one of the elders, especially from Elder Granville. He always included greetings from his wife, but I never received anything written personally by her. Other missionaries told me that she remained friendly and supported her husband, but she never joined the Church. Every once in a while I would write to her personally and bear my testimony to her through the mail.
I’ve been home for several years now, and this week I received an unusual letter from France. The address was strange, the handwriting unfamiliar. I opened it before I got to my desk.
“Dear Elder Romney,” it began, “I’ve wanted to write to you many times over the years, but I always figured my husband kept us in contact with you. Now my husband is gone. I wanted to let you know so that you could tell the other missionaries. He loved them all so much. Let them know the Church members held a funeral for him.
“I remember much of what you both told me about life after death. Perhaps my husband is there waiting for me, as you said he would be. I never did understand all you tried to tell me, all that he wanted to share with me, but I know you both believed it was true. I’m living with my daughter and her family now. Please write to me if you will.”
You know I will, Sister Dupont. You know I will.

My message today might best be illustrated through the experiences of a young couple whom I will call John and Gayle.

John was a thoughtful, kind young man, affectionate, with a frank and open manner. He sincerely tried to obey the Lord’s commandments and found honest contentment in the joys of family life. Gayle, his wife, was young, attractive, high-spirited, but inclined toward more worldly interests and activities. The society in which they lived was, in general, one of affluence and materialism. People seemed preoccupied with temporal gain, social status, entertainment, and self-gratification. Religious leaders were concerned about the apparent breakdown in family life and moral standards.

In the early years of their marriage, John and Gayle were blessed with children, first a boy and then a girl; but Gayle seemed uninterested in her domestic responsibilities. She longed for glamour and excitement in her life and was frequently away from home at parties and entertainments, not always with her husband. In her vanity, Gayle encouraged and responded to the attentions of other men until eventually she was unfaithful to her marriage vows.

Throughout, John encouraged Gayle to appreciate the joys of family life and experience the rewards of observing the laws of God. He was patient and kind, but to no avail. Shortly after the birth of a third child, a son, Gayle deserted her husband and children and joined her worldly friends in a life of self-indulgence and immorality. John, thus rejected, was humiliated and brokenhearted.

Soon, however, the glamour and excitement that had attracted Gayle turned to ashes. Her so-called friends tired of her and abandoned her. Then each successive step was downward, her life becoming more and more degraded. Eventually she recognized her mistakes and realized what she had lost, but could see no way back. Certainly John could not possibly love her still. She felt completely unworthy of his love and undeserving of her home and family.

Then one day, passing through the streets, John recognized Gayle. Surely he would have been justified in turning away, but he didn’t. As he observed the effect of her recent life, all too evident, a feeling of compassion came over him—a desire to reach out to her. Learning that Gayle had incurred substantial debts, John repaid them and then took her home.

Soon John realized, at first with amazement, that he still loved Gayle. Out of his love for her and her willingness to change and begin anew, there grew in John’s heart a feeling of merciful forgiveness, a desire to help Gayle overcome her past and to accept her again fully as his wife.

Through his personal experience there arose in John another profound awareness, a realization of the nature of God’s love for us, his children. Though we disregard his counsel, break his commandments, and reject him, when we recognize our mistakes and desire to repent, he wants us to seek him out and he will accept us.

John had been prepared, through his personal experiences, for a divine mission. Though I have taken some literary license in telling the story, it is the account, perhaps allegorical, of Hosea, prophet of the Old Testament, and his wife, Gomer.

Like Church members from Dresden, which was in the far southern part of the German Democratic Republic, members up north in Schwerin experienced great difficulty in finding a home for their branch. For ten years they moved from one rented room to another, then to one family’s living room. In 1956, they were able to purchase a piece of property—but had to do so in the name of the branch president because the Church could not own property. Members were not allowed to tear down a building on the property because it contained an apartment, but they were given permission to build on the remaining part of the land. They were also allowed to tear down an old army barracks eight kilometers outside the city to use as building materials.
Then, after they had hauled twenty-three truckloads of building materials to their site, they were refused permission to build! But after they had fasted and prayed, they were allowed to remodel an old horse barn on the property into a meetinghouse.
The remodeling project required more building materials, which were under strict government control. But members felt that they succeeded in obtaining these with the help of the Lord. (See Schutze, page 22.) On 5 January 1958, Henry Burckhardt, counselor to the president of the North German Mission, dedicated the former horse barn as a meeting place for the Schwerin Branch.
In 1973, the branch was given permission to expand the building, but this meant going through the difficult process of obtaining building materials all over again. A large quantity of building blocks was obtained through the aid of the building supervisor of the Evangelical Lutheran Church, who had come to appreciate the industriousness and integrity of the Latter-day Saints. Other building materials could be obtained only in small amounts, after members had stood in long lines to request them. Because work schedules prevented men in the branch from waiting in line, the branch president’s wife took responsibility for obtaining the materials—even though it meant she had to get them to the building site in a hand-pulled cart. (See Schutze, page 24.)

Miguel’s entire family loves their country, and each year they do a special service project for their community. Last year they received permission to paint Miguel’s school classroom during a two-week break. First they painted the room all white. Then they painted the ocean on the walls with whales and sunken ships and all sorts of fish. The class was really excited when they saw it. Miguel’s teacher helps the students learn their colors, counting, and sizes using the colorful walls.

Indio High School’s water polo team was surprising everybody. The Southern California 3-A championship game was half over, and they were thrashing the El Dorado Hawks, 7–3. Indio’s Rajahs were considered a Cinderella club, strong on teamwork but lacking the polish and size necessary to pull off an upset. Yet somehow they were winning the game!
Calvin Lowell, 17, braced himself at the edge of the pool, ready to sprint to the center. (In water polo each quarter begins when the referee tosses the ball to the middle of the water, and players swim toward it in a scramble for possession.) He knew El Dorado would come out fighting.
Cal looked up at his father, Dr. John Lowell, who was standing near one of the diving boards, ready to shout encouragement. It wasn’t just another case of a proud spectator cheering on his boy. Cal’s father is the Indio coach.
The whistle shrieked. Waves foamed and churned. One blazing shot after another skittered into the net, despite flailing arms and lunging defensive maneuvers. Two of Indio’s top players fouled out. The lead narrowed to 8–7. Each team scored again quickly. Then with two minutes and 36 seconds remaining in the fourth quarter, an El Dorado forward slapped the ball from the goalie’s hand and it floated into the net to knot the score at 9–9.
Coach Lowell bowed his head. Ignoring thousands of screaming fans, he said a silent prayer. He knew the Lord couldn’t promise a victory, but he hoped that each player would perform to the best of his ability. A new strategy came into his head, and he called a time out.
He gathered the players around him and counseled them to avoid the congested area just in front of the goals, concentrating on outside shots. Play resumed. The tactic worked perfectly, but the man who wound up free with the ball was the team’s poorest marksman. “Not him,” Coach Lowell wanted to shout. “Anybody but …”
The ball slammed into the goal’s canvas backing. Indio led again, 10–9. The same play worked twice more with other Indio shooters, while the Hawks tallied only one more point. The seconds timer read zero. The championship game was over, and the Rajahs had won, 12–10!

When the day finally came to return to the hill, Joseph went alone. Without Alvin, he was unsure if the Lord would trust him with the plates. But he thought he could keep every commandment the Lord had given him, as his brother had counseled. Moroni’s instructions for retrieving the plates were clear. “You must take them into your hands and go straight to the house without delay,” the angel had said, “and lock them up.”30

At the hill, Joseph pried up the rock, reached into the stone box, and lifted out the plates. A thought then crossed his mind: the other items in the box were valuable and ought to be hidden before he went home. He set the plates down and turned to cover the box. But when he returned to the plates, they were gone. Alarmed, he fell to his knees and pleaded to know where they were.

Moroni appeared and told Joseph that he had failed to follow directions again. Not only had he set the plates down before safely securing them, he had also let them out of his sight. As willing as the young seer was to do the Lord’s work, he was not yet able to protect the ancient record.

Joseph was disappointed in himself, but Moroni instructed him to return for the plates the following year. He also taught him more about the Lord’s plan for the kingdom of God and the great work beginning to roll forth.

Still, after the angel left, Joseph slunk down the hill, worried what his family would think when he came home empty handed.31 When he stepped inside the house, they were waiting for him. His father asked at once if he had the plates.

“No,” he said. “I could not get them.”

“Did you see them?”

“I saw them but could not take them.”

“I would have taken them,” Joseph Sr. said, “if I had been in your place.”

“You do not know what you say,” Joseph said. “I could not get them, for the angel of the Lord would not let me.”32

When you receive a check, it’s always nice to write a second note after you’ve spent it. You might say something like
Dear Gram,
It was lots of fun deciding what to do with the money you sent for Christmas. Sandy (my best friend) and I had a great day at the mall looking at sweaters. I finally picked out a fuzzy red one to go with my new plaid skirt. Thank you again for the check and the nice day spending it. You gave me two gifts in one.
Love,Judy

One of my personal goals in life is to show people that I can have fun without drinking alcohol—even if they think that’s impossible!

But when I get questions about turning down drinks—which is often, since alcohol is so ingrained in social events—I can share that I’m happy and enjoying life the way I am. I can let the Light of Christ shine through me and show people that keeping the Word of Wisdom helps me make good decisions and brings me joy.

A few years ago I was privileged to be at an investigator fireside at the Parramatta stake center in Sydney, Australia. The main speaker was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve. The audience was made up of many long-time investigators who had been taught the principles but did not have a testimony sufficient to do anything about it. The member of the Twelve was especially blessed that night as he unfolded the restoration of the gospel in a most powerful way. Step by step, he unfolded the scriptures to those present. The Spirit bore witness that what he was teaching was true. At the meeting’s end, seven of those long-time investigators set their baptismal date.

In 1995, since our stake youth conference focused on family history work, we decided to do baptisms for the dead, using family names gathered by members of the stake.
Because it was my first time going to the Salt Lake Temple, I was nervous entering the baptismal font room. As I sat on the bench waiting my turn, the Spirit prompted me to let some other youth go ahead of me. When my sister’s turn came, she was baptized for names that our grandpa had given us. It was wonderful to see her baptized for members of our family.
When my turn came, out of 1,400 names that the stake had submitted, I was also baptized for names my grandfather had gathered.
I felt like the Lord wanted me to wait so that I could do the baptisms for my family members. I have a firm testimony of family history work. I now work in the Salt Lake Temple and I see a lot of youth with family file cards every month. I think that’s amazing that people are doing their family history.

My big brother and I were sealed to our parents in the Provo Utah Temple. We drove for a long time to get there. When we went into the temple, Grandma Lee, who serves at the temple, and another nice lady took my brother and me to a special room. We listened to stories, had cookies and punch, and watched a movie about temples. Then we dressed in white clothes—I even wore a little white tie. The nice lady took us to the room where our parents and other family members were. When we were sealed to each other there, I felt happy. I know that our family will be together forever if we keep the commandments.