Gospel Story Finder

About this same time we had a neighbor who dominated and sometimes abused his wife. He roared like a lion, and she cowered like a lamb. When they walked to church, she always walked a few steps behind him. That made my mother mad. She was a strong woman who would not accept such domination, and she was angry to see another woman abused in that way. I think of her reaction whenever I see men misusing their authority to gratify their pride or exercise control or compulsion upon their wives in any degree of unrighteousness (see D&C 121:37).

My dad took my sister, Cathy, and me to a daddy-daughter campout. We had lots of fun. At night we listened to stories and sang songs around a big bonfire. We roasted marshmallows and ate s’mores before going to bed. Cathy and I woke up in the middle of the night because there was a big rainstorm. I said a prayer that our tent would not blow down like it had at our last campout. When I woke up in the morning, the tent was still standing. I thanked Heavenly Father.Susan D., age 7, Virginia

Junior was recently baptized. “Father baptized me and gave me the gift of the Holy Ghost. I felt fresh and clean.”

Brother Mkhabele was also deeply moved by the event. “It was the most edifying [inspiring] experience of my life. When I confirmed him, the Spirit was so great that I did not lack for words to bless him. I felt that the blessing he received was really inspired. And since then I’ve seen a change in him. He is beginning to concentrate better. He thinks more carefully before doing things. He feels a greater need to help people.”

Melinda Marx lived in a brick apartment building in a big city, and she often played in the hall near the front door. She liked to watch the people going in and out, in and out. Eight families used the door, and she knew all of them.
She knew where each of them lived too. “So how are you today, Miss Merry Sunshine?” David Sullivan would say as he rolled his wheelchair out to get his mail. He lived in A-2, and every day he had a different name for her.
“Let me through, kid—I’m late enough for work now!” Mr. Warrel would growl, his big bushy eyebrows wiggling. He lived in A-5, right across from Melinda and her mother and the baby. He frowned and complained a lot.
“Want to play jump rope with us?” the Johnson twins would ask as they swung on the hall door. They lived in A-7 with their mother, who worked at a bakery, and their father, who was looking for a job.
“It’s a disgrace! A disgrace!” Miss Bates would exclaim each time she went in and out, her brown curls bouncing up and down. “Children cluttering up the hallway—a disgrace!” She lived in A-4, and she thought everything was a disgrace.
“Watch out! I don’t want to step on you!” Mr. Spreely, from A-3 would shout when he passed through. He always shouted because he was almost deaf.
“You ought to get out in the sunshine more, Melinda,” admonished Mrs. Treski, from A-8, as she left each day to go jogging. She had glasses that bobbed on her long thin nose as she jogged, and she ran in place as she talked, her words going up and down as she did.
Yes, Melinda knew all of these people. She liked some of them a little, and she liked some of them a lot. But Mrs. Pasquali, in A-1, was absolutely, positively, without a doubt the very nicest of all. She had loved Mrs. Pasquali since the day the little lady moved in, and Mrs. Pasquali loved Melinda too.
“You remind me of my own Rosanna when she was your age,” Mrs. Pasquali would say, her brown eyes sparkling. She had a brown face, too, with gray hair twined around her head in a braid. Her face was lined and worn, and she walked with a limp. Mrs. Pasquali had the happiest laugh in the whole world. Even the metal mailboxes in the front hallway seemed to chuckle right along with her.
She had the most interesting apartment, too, Melinda thought. It was full of wonderful, marvelous inventions. The best one was a record player that didn’t need to be plugged in.
“You just wind it up like this, and you have beautiful music,” Mrs. Pasquali would say. She really did have beautiful music—exciting songs with strange words sung by people with deep, full voices. Mrs. Pasquali seemed to have absolutely everything.
Except money. She didn’t have much of that. “But who needs money if you have love?” she would ask, hugging Melinda. Somehow she always got along just fine. Often her cupboard would be almost bare, but she always managed to find a box of rice or a bit of macaroni when things were bad and her pension check was late.
But then one day it happened! Mrs. Pasquali had no money at all, and none would come until the next day. She had no food, either. Not one scrap. “Dearie me,” she said, peering into her empty cupboards.
Melinda felt tears come to her eyes. Then a happy thought came to her. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Pasquali,” she told her with a merry smile. “You can have some love stew!”
“Love stew?” Mrs. Pasquali stared at Melinda. “What’s that?”
“It’s wonderful,” Melinda said. “You invite people you love to come to dinner, and then you all just sit down and eat love stew. It’s delicious!”
“How can I invite people to dinner?” Mrs. Pasquali asked. “I have no food to feed anyone, and I hardly know anybody. I haven’t lived here very long.”
Melinda spied a huge pot and struggled to put it on Mrs. Pasquali’s stove. “That’s no problem,” she said “I know everybody in this building, and they all love you. I’ll tell them to come here at six o’clock tonight for some love stew.”
Mrs. Pasquali wrung her hands. “But, Melinda, when they come and find I have nothing to feed them, they’ll laugh at me.”
Melinda patted the huge pot. “This will hold the love stew!” she said. “Now I’ll go invite the guests.”
Melinda knocked at the apartment of David Sullivan first. “There is only an empty pot on the stove,” she finished telling him, “but I told Mrs. Pasquali we’d all eat love stew.”
David Sullivan wiped his eyes. He’d been peeling onions, he said, and they made his eyes water. “Hey, Princess, I’d love to come! Count me in.”
Melinda had tears in her eyes, too, but they weren’t from onions. She turned to go up the stairs. The front door banged open, and Mrs. Treski came bouncing in, carrying two jugs of milk.
“Love stew?” she cried, when Melinda invited her. “Sounds very healthy! I’ll be there. Six o’clock on the dot!” She bounded up the stairs.
Melinda looked after her and grinned. Now to invite Mr. Spreely.
The smell of meat cooking drifted out from his apartment. “What?” he kept shouting. “Love stew? Where? When? Who?”
“What’s all this racket?” Miss Bates cried, opening her door across the hall.
“It’s a disgrace! A disgrace!” She agitatedly waved her hand. “What’s going on out here?”
Melinda hadn’t been sure whether she wanted to invite Miss Bates and Mr. Warrel. But yes—even if they were cranky and complaining sometimes, Melinda was sure they liked all the people in the building. And so, twisting her braids, she told Miss Bates about Mrs. Pasquali’s love stew.
“Love stew? I declare! I accept your invitation. It would be a disgrace not to accept it!”
“Six o’clock?” boomed Mr. Spreely. “Yes, yes, I’ll come!” Both doors banged shut.
“Don’t block the stairs, little girl,” said Mr. Warrel, hurrying past Melinda. He was carrying a grocery bag with celery leaves sticking out of the top.
“I was just going up to ask you to come to dinner,” Melinda said. “It’s at Mrs. Pasquali’s. The lady in A-1.” She told him the whole story.
“Well,” he said. He stood a moment, thinking, and Melinda realized that he was rather handsome when he wasn’t complaining or wiggling his bushy eyebrows in a frown. “I usually watch the news then,” he mumbled, “but I’ll come.”
Melinda’s mother agreed to come, too, and to bring the baby. She had planned boiled potatoes for their dinner, she said, but she would rather eat love stew.
Melinda hurried off to the top floor.
“Glad to come,” Mr. Johnson answered. He promised to bring his wife and the twins as soon as Mrs. Johnson returned from work at the bakery.
Just before six o’clock, Melinda went down to Mrs. Pasquali’s apartment to help her set the table. She put water in the huge pot and turned on the burner under it. Then Melinda found her favorite record and was cranking up the record player when there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Pasquali rushed to open it.
“I declare!” cried Miss Bates, hurrying inside and over to the stove as the music started. “I haven’t heard that song since I was a girl!”
“Let me have a look at our dinner!” cried David Sullivan, entering next and wheeling himself toward the stove.
The rest of the guests all arrived together. “I want to see the love stew too!” shouted Mr. Spreely, bobbing impatiently behind the Johnson family. “Excuse me,” said Melinda’s mother, “I want the baby to see that magic pot.” Mrs. Treski opened the refrigerator door to put the milk in to keep cool.
Soon everybody was laughing and talking. Some of them started singing along with the music. Mrs. Pasquali’s merry laugh rang out above the happy sounds.
Melinda scurried about between the kitchen and the guests and the dining room table. Finally she called out, “Dinner’s ready!”
Mrs. Pasquali’s laughter turned into a deep sigh as everyone crowded around the table.
“Make way for the love stew!” cried Mr. Warrel, carrying the huge pot from the stove. He placed it on a thick pad.
Melinda put a potholder on the lid and said, “Come dish it up, Mrs. Pasquali.”
Still looking anxious, Mrs. Pasquali lifted the lid.
The pot was full! It had meat and potatoes and carrots and onions and celery and gravy and a wonderful aroma! There was bread and milk, too, and even a freshly baked pie for dessert. Mr. Spreely offered thanks for it all.
Everyone ate and ate, then bustled around and cleaned up the dishes. A little stew was even left over for Mrs. Pasquali to eat the next day.
“How can I ever thank you?” Mrs. Pasquali asked timidly as her guests started to leave.
“Just bring something to our next love-stew dinner,” said Mrs. Johnson as she helped her husband guide the twins out into the hall.
“Yes, it’s a tradition we have here,” Melinda’s mother explained, hurrying away to put the baby to bed.
“We do it when one of us is lonely,” Mr. Spreely shouted.
“Or sick,” chimed in Miss Bates.
“Or bored,” added Mr. Warrel.
“Or celebrating something special,” David Sullivan put in.
“It keeps us on our toes,” Mrs. Treski joked as she started out for her nightly jog.
“Love stew is a wonderful tradition!” Mrs. Pasquali exclaimed, giving Melinda a big hug. Melinda just grinned and hugged her back.

One day my cousin Jeff came over to play. We played under the back porch. Jeff had a little dump truck and I had a windup tractor. Mom gave us an empty cereal box and we made houses and roads.
I wanted to make another road. Jeff was using the shovel, so I took Woody out of my pocket and started to dig. Woody dug nice roads. I kept making the road longer and longer until I hit a rock and then SNAP! I picked up the piece that had broken off and tried to fix Woody, but it was no use. I felt like crying, but Jeff was there.
“It’s just a dumb stick,” Jeff said.
I put Woody’s broken pieces under the porch steps and kept on playing. When Jeff went home, I crawled under the porch and got the pieces.
“I’m sorry, Woody,” I whispered.
He didn’t say anything. I put him in the cereal box and carried him down to where we planted the flower and made a hole. Then I put Woody in the hole and covered him up.
He was a good stick and I miss him a lot.

Our recent Gong family reunion included a fun talent show, complete with a dad jokes contest.
But this contest was unusual. On one team was Grandpa (me) and two of the grandchildren, ages 12 and 11. On the other team was an artificial intelligence (AI) program prompted by a cousin to tell dad jokes in the style of Gerrit W. Gong. Grandpa Gerrit Gong versus AI Gerrit Gong.
The grandchildren and I went first.
What do you call a dinosaur who crashes his car? Tyrannosaurus Wrecks.
AI Gerrit Gong was instructed—think like Gerrit W. Gong. Talk like him.
AI Gerrit Gong—“Here is a dad joke as if spoken by Gerrit W. Gong, embracing his warm, thoughtful, and uplifting style: Why did the humble tree make people smile? Because it was rooted in love and reached out with branches of kindness. Like that tree, we too can find strength in our roots and joy in extending kindness to others.”
Well, what do you think? That’s why they’re called dad jokes.

A few months ago, I was visiting with a fellow in an airport. After we talked and I asked about him, he asked about me. I said, “I guess you could best describe me as a Mormon missionary. Would you like to know about the Mormon Church?” I asked. He said he would. I got his name and address and asked if I could have two members of the Church call on him. In about three or four weeks, I got a letter telling me how wonderful the experience was. I think the Lord places many of his elect in our paths, puts them near us, and it is up to us to bring about the linkage between that person and the truth.

It was our usual Sunday School class circus. Dennis was trying to balance on the back legs of his chair and tipped over, pulling the guys on either side of him down as he fell. Roger had some new jokes to tell, and Allan was doing tricks with his face. Elaine and I were writing notes to each other. The rest of the class was much the same, either laughing at the boys or providing their own entertainment. I had no idea that something the teacher would say that day would change my life.
The year we were 14, we didn’t quite know who was going to be our teacher each week. Each new teacher would give up and refuse to teach us again. But then we got one teacher who stuck with us, each week trying to give a lesson that we would listen to. This particular Sunday, our lesson had been on Joseph Smith. Just before the end of class, our teacher turned to us and said, “Joseph Smith was 14 when he prayed and got an answer to his prayer. You are 14. You can pray and get answers to your prayers too.”
Somehow that really hit me. The thought that I could pray and get an answer about something really important interested me.
I had been raised in the Church, baptized at eight, and went to church every Sunday and to every activity during the week. But I still needed to know for myself that the Church was true. My parents, my grandparents, my teachers all said that it was true, but I needed to know for myself. I decided to take my Sunday School teacher’s advice and pray about it.
That night, as I finished asking for blessings on my family, I asked the Lord if the Church was true. I waited for the answer—nothing. I was a little discouraged. I wanted an answer right away.
I still kept going to church, listening to the lessons, participating in Mutual activities, giving family home evening lessons. Every night I prayed to know if the Church was true. Still nothing.
Then one night, after many weeks of nightly prayers on the subject, I was feeling really bad that I hadn’t received any type of answer to my prayer. I talked to my Heavenly Father like I would talk to my own father and told Him how much I needed this answer. I explained how hard I was trying to find out what was right. I finished my prayer and was still kneeling when a sentence came into my mind. It wasn’t really a voice, but it was a sentence that had not been there before. I heard, “This is a good place for you to be.”
I had a wonderfully comfortable feeling. I still didn’t know for sure that the Church was true, but I knew that the Lord was aware of me and answered my prayer. He told me that church was a good place for me to be. I knew that if I kept going to church, to Mutual, and seminary, and continued to pray, that eventually my prayer would be answered completely.
My answer was just the first step, but it was a step that led to more answers.

When he was 15, his family moved to New Jersey, where he had some of his most memorable testimony-building experiences. “It was during that time that my faith matured into a full-blown testimony,” he says. “I grew up with faith among family and friends and others who influenced my life; I don’t recall a time when I didn’t have that belief that the gospel was true. But in New Jersey I became conscious of knowing that it was true and that it mattered.”2
During that time, he and his brother Greg participated in the Hill Cumorah Pageant in New York for two summers. Once when he was about 16 years old, he was searching for a personal testimony of the gospel and thought that the pageant would be the perfect time to get it. He recalls:
“One night after the performance, I decided to go to the Sacred Grove alone. It was a beautiful, clear summer night. I thought, This is it—the place, the time. What more ideal setting could I have? I prayed for a long, long time—well over an hour. Nothing happened. I finally gave up and walked back to Palmyra, wondering, What did I do wrong or what didn’t I do right? What was missing?
“I’ve since thought a lot about that experience. One of the lessons I learned from it was that you shouldn’t try to dictate to God the timing or the content of revelation. It was later that summer—when I was home by myself in a little basement bedroom, reading the Book of Mormon—that a witness came very powerfully. It just overwhelmed me. I know from that experience the truth of what Joseph Smith witnessed and the truth of the Book of Mormon and the reality of the Savior. That hasn’t been my only witness, but it was a great strengthening of my testimony.
“I found that you don’t have to be in a special place to receive that witness. You will receive answers to your prayers if you are earnest and keep asking and searching. … Anywhere in the world, the Lord will speak to you.”3

The Depression of the 1930s deepened during the early years of their marriage. To earn money, Howard sold soap door to door, ran a surveying transit, and painted bridges for Claire’s father, who operated an industrial painting business. He and Claire became parents on 20 March 1934 when Howard William Hunter, Jr., was born. But that summer, tragedy struck as little Billy became ill with an ulcerated intestinal diverticulum and died following surgery.

Shortly after Sister Cook and I arrived in Mongolia, we were asked to accompany two young elders to a city called Muren. At the conclusion of our trip, our return was delayed by bad weather. Each day we went to the airport to see if our plane was going to arrive so we could fly out. We waited with other passengers until we received word whether we would depart that day or would be forced to return to the city for the evening.

Trying to take the same flight out was a group of foreign tourists. They told us they had been by horseback to some of the most remote, little-explored areas of Mongolia.

While we were waiting at the airport, one of these tourists approached one of our elders and said: “I know who you are! What are you doing here? These people don’t need you. They are an unspoiled people with a rich heritage. Why don’t you just go home and leave them alone?”

The elder came to me and was very upset, and we talked about the several responses he could have given. It wasn’t until about two weeks later, however, that I read a statement by President Benson that explained what would have been the perfect response. President Benson said:

“Some may ask why we as a people and church quietly and consistently seek to change individuals while there are such large problems about us. … But decaying cities are simply a delayed reflection of decaying individuals. … The commandments of God give emphasis to improvement of the individual as the only real way to bring about the real improvement [of] society” (A Plea for America [1975], 18).

“The Lord works from the inside out. The world works from the outside in. The world would take people out of the slums. Christ takes the slums out of the people, and then they take themselves out of the slums. … Christ changes men, who then change their environment. The world would shape human behavior, but Christ can change human nature” (“Born of God,” Ensign, Nov. 1985, 6).

Grandma got steadily worse after that. Mom kept trying to get her to use the bedpan, but grandma insisted on her dignity. All those months that grandma lived with us, I would go into her room and talk to her after school. Her mind seemed to drift backward at times. She could remember her childhood better than what had happened only moments before. I tried not to notice her sagging skin hanging off her protruding bones. She weighed only 80 pounds.
Mom told me not to bother grandma anymore. She told me that grandma didn’t understand what I was saying anymore. Sometimes I’d rub grandma’s feet or stroke her forehead or we’d just be together.
My father was always too busy with work and my mom was pregnant with twins and half crazy with worry over my rebellious older brother and his motorcycle and girl friend. But grandma, she was always there.
It was nearly the end of the school year when I ran in the house one day and charged down the stairs to grandma’s room. A boy in my science class and I had been working on a science fair project for two months together. We’d taken first place, and he had asked me to the graduation dance. I wanted to tell grandma as I had everything else all year.
When I opened the door, flushed from running, the bedroom was empty. Grandma was gone.
“Where is she?” I shouted running up the stairs to the kitchen. “Where’s grandma?”
The house seemed strangely quiet. Most of my family were in the kitchen looking solemn.
“Mom had to take her to the hospital this morning,” my dad said, squeezing my arm. “She died this afternoon.”
“No!” I shouted, “She wasn’t ready yet!”
“It was her time, honey. It’s better this way. She won’t be suffering anymore. She’s happy now,” dad answered.
“She was happy before, too,” I said pulling away.
I ran out of the house and up the street to the field at the end. The tears stung as they ran down my hot cheeks. I climbed the tree. There, in the top branches, the wind felt cool on my burning face. With my eyes closed, I bit down on my bottom lip. I wanted it to hurt. The soft summer wind rustled the lacy leaves, and the slow tumbling water from the irrigation ditch lapped against the crooked, moss-covered roots of the willow tree. Time passed.
Later, I opened my eyes and looked up. I could see the gray silhouette of a bird slicing through the crimson sky overhead. Somehow I didn’t feel angry any more. I laid my cheek against the rough bark of the tree and put my arm around the limb. I felt comfortable and secure. The sun, round and orange, balanced on the mountain horizon. Cool, dark shadows rolled across the weed grass in the field.
Slowly, deliberately, I climbed limb by limb back down the tree to the ground. I took a deep breath of the summer-scented air. As I walked away from the tree, I felt as if an irreplaceable part of myself had stayed behind—there in that tree in the topmost branches. Yet I felt a new part of myself fill the gap and the longing as I realized that maybe, no matter how old we are, we’re never good and ready. Even knowing the glories of the other side doesn’t make it easier to let go of that which we know and love.
As I reached the end of the field near the street to my home, I turned around. The tree looked dark and hazy in the early evening light.

This story happened in Samoa.
Dark, gloomy clouds hung in the sky. Alex glared up at them.
BOOM!
More thunder rumbled. Big, heavy raindrops crashed down everywhere.
Alex shook his head. This wasn’t good. Not good at all. Sometimes, in Samoa, it could rain for days without stopping. But he wanted his grandpa’s birthday to be perfect!
Alex went to his room and knelt by his bed.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” he said. “Please make the rain go away in time for Papa’s birthday party tomorrow. We already sent out the invitations. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
When Alex stood up, he saw Mom and Dad standing in his doorway. They were smiling.
“I hope you don’t mind that we heard your prayer,” Mom said.
Alex smiled. “That’s OK. I just want tomorrow to be special for Papa. It won’t be the same if we need to stay inside. We wouldn’t have room to dance!”
Dad squeezed Alex’s shoulder. “No matter what the weather is like, Papa will know how much you love him.”
The next morning, Mom and Dad asked Alex to say the family prayer. It was still raining hard. And it still didn’t look like it would stop.
“Please bless the rain to go away in time for the party,” he said. “And please bless us all to have a good time. Especially Papa!”
Alex watched the sky all morning. For a long time, nothing changed. But then something amazing happened.
“Look!” Alex shouted. “A patch of blue sky!” His family ran out to the yard. The clouds were starting to clear up.
In a few hours, all the clouds were gone! Even the puddles on the ground had dried up. Alex hurried to decorate the yard. Papa and the other guests would be here soon.
When Papa got there, he was surprised. He looked at the lights, the colorful streamers, and all the guests. “Everything looks beautiful,” he said. “Thank you so much!”
The party was just as fun as Alex had hoped. They danced to Papa’s favorite songs. The food was tasty—especially the sweet coconut bread. Alex even got to sing with Papa.
The best part, though, was when it was time for the Siva Taualuga. This dance was always performed by the most important person of the day. And, of course, that was Papa!
Papa got up to dance, but then he looked at Alex. “Come join me, Alex!” Papa called. Alex jumped up and danced next to Papa. Soon all the others were dancing too.
Papa leaned down to hug Alex. “You made me feel very special today,” Papa said. “This was the perfect birthday party.”
After the party ended, Alex looked up at the sky. The thick black clouds were back. Rain started pounding down on them again. But this time, Alex didn’t mind. He knew that Heavenly Father had helped the weather stay nice long enough for Papa’s party.
“Thank Thee for the nice weather,” Alex prayed. “And thank Thee for such a wonderful Papa.”

When I first met Judy 30 years ago, I had no idea she had been a member of the Church for only 4 years. She had an important responsibility in the Church, and I had no reason to believe she had not been a member all her life.
Three years ago Laura gave a lovely opening prayer in our stake conference. After the prayer we were informed that Laura had been baptized just a few months earlier. “Wow!” I thought. “She has made remarkable progress.”
Only when I talked to Judy and Laura about their experiences as new converts did I learn that both had found their new Church membership to be more challenging than expected. It’s something they have in common with many—if not most—new converts.
Judy says, “You don’t just change where you go to church. You change your life. After my baptism I found myself asking, ‘Can I really do this?’”
Laura agrees: “I had no idea it would be that hard.”
It’s important to recognize that you are not alone in feeling challenged or even overwhelmed. Knowing that your experience is shared by many, you can be patient with yourself. You can reach out for help—to your bishop or branch president or to home teachers or other members—without feeling embarrassed or ashamed. And most important of all, you can have real hope that, yes, you can do this with the Lord’s help. He did not guide you into His Church only to abandon you. “The Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Nephi 3:7).
If ignorance is not bliss, it’s not a sin either. You may feel overwhelmed because there are new words and terms to learn. (Tithing settlement?) There is a whole organization that is unique to the Church. (Stake high council?) Reading and navigating the scriptures may be a new experience. (Where is the book of Omni?) There are responsibilities, or callings, in the Church that you didn’t know existed, and all of a sudden you are asked to accept one of them. (Just what does a Young Women secretary do anyway?)
Don’t worry. The Lord does not condemn you for what you don’t know. But He’s the only one who can read your mind. Others can’t, so don’t be afraid to ask questions. As you reach out and begin to make friends in the Church, find a mentor—a member friend who can answer questions and explain things. If you have trouble finding a mentor, ask your bishop or branch president to help you find one. If you have a calling, ask to have your duties explained to you. Request a copy of any handbooks or other helps that may be available.
Then, as Judy counsels, “just build knowledge line upon line. Start with the basics.” And remember that you already have the foundation for the rest of your gospel learning: you know the Church is true.
Sometimes you will disappoint yourself. Baptism and confirmation made you clean, not perfect. It’s the same for the other members of the Church. We all make mistakes, and we all have to repent and renew our baptismal covenants by taking the sacrament. (For more about those covenants, see Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s article on page 10.) And as we continue to repent and strive to do better, the Holy Ghost helps us become more pure. We begin to lose our desire to sin (see Mosiah 5:2). The power of the Atonement begins to change our very nature.
Laura says, “It has now become easier to be a member. Heavenly Father has given me a greater desire to do what is right. Things are coming more easily and naturally.”
As for those occasions when other Church members show their less-than-perfect side, Laura says she’s not bothered by the imperfections of others. “I work hard at not being judgmental,” she says. “I try to accept others for who they are. We’re all doing the best we can.”
The Savior has given this invitation to all:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
“For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28–30).
A yoke is a device that allows two animals to fairly and comfortably share a burden that one alone would find difficult or impossible. It is still used in many parts of the world today where animals plow fields or pull wagons.
Speaking of the Savior’s yoke, President Howard W. Hunter (1907–95), fourteenth President of the Church, said: “His yoke requires a great and earnest effort, but for those who truly are converted, the yoke is easy and the burden becomes light. …
“Obviously, the personal burdens of life vary from person to person, but every one of us has them. … To one and all, Christ said, in effect: As long as we all must bear some burden and shoulder some yoke, why not let it be mine? My promise to you is that my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”1
Conversion is a process, not just a single event. Our Heavenly Father is patient, kind, and gracious. He gives gifts of the Spirit not only “to those who love [Him] and keep all [His] commandments” but also to “him that seeketh so to do” (D&C 46:9; emphasis added). Live what you know, and more knowledge and strength will come. Let the Lord make of you what you could never make of yourself. He promises, “My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them” (Ether 12:27).
Doubts are natural. They can spring up from within, or they can come from others. Regardless of the source, there are some tried-and-true ways to deal successfully with doubt.
1. Remember the spiritual experiences you’ve already had. For example, Oliver Cowdery was Joseph Smith’s scribe during much of the translation of the Book of Mormon. He had already received a witness of the truthfulness of the Prophet Joseph’s testimony regarding the golden plates. But apparently he wanted additional reassurance from the Lord. Speaking through the Prophet, the Lord counseled Oliver:
“If you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon [remember] the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things.
“Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?” (D&C 6:22–23).
The Lord expects us to remember the witness we have already received from the Spirit.
2. Be patient. When you come across things that you don’t understand, be patient. Hold fast to what you already know (in other words, remember). As Laura says, “I cling to what I already know and don’t let questions bother me. I keep asking in prayer, knowing the Lord will answer when I’m ready for it.”
3. Feed your faith; starve your doubts. As you continue to pray, search the scriptures, and keep the commandments, you will receive additional strength to your testimony. Alma compares this process to nurturing a seed as it sprouts and grows into a tree that provides sweet, precious fruit (see Alma 32:28–43). Nurturing doubts produces the opposite effect, and testimony withers.

Would you ever believe that the quiet, grandmotherly lady in your ward first kissed a boy on a dare? Or that the smiling, old grandpa who’s been in your ward forever once drove his car into the side of a barn because he forgot that he had to hit the brakes instead of yell “Whoa”?
It’s probably difficult to imagine that the seniors in your ward ever did such crazy things—especially when the only thing you know about them is what bench they usually sit on during sacrament meeting. But that’s not the case for the youth in the Dalton Gardens Ward, Coeur d‘Alene Idaho Stake. They know all about the lives of the ward’s elderly members. Of course, it hasn’t always been that way. It wasn’t until their ward’s “Family History Can Be Fun” night that they began to learn about the older people’s lives.
But ever since then, their hearts have been turning—not only toward their ward’s seniors, but also toward their ancestors and toward each other.
All this turning began when the Dalton Gardens Ward youth took Malachi’s prophecy to heart and became excited about family history work (see Mal. 4:5–6).
They did this by filling out pedigree charts, having classes on the importance of genealogy, visiting with their ward’s senior citizens, and organizing a ward activity in which they acted out episodes from the lives of the grandparents in their ward family.
And what’s been the outcome of all this excitement? For one thing, the ward’s generation gap has narrowed.
“Now when you go to church, you see a lot of the young people going up to the older people in the ward and saying hi and maybe walking them to class,” says Russell Isaacson, a 16-year-old priest. “Before we might have just walked by them because we didn’t really know them at all, but now we see them as our friends.”
Desiree Wallace, 15, interviewed Virginia Gjevres about her life. Desiree found out about Virginia’s first teddy bear and her longing for a dog. And she learned that while Virginia was growing up she was so accident prone that everyone called her Calamity Jane.
“I didn’t really know Sister Gjevres before I interviewed her. I had only seen her at church. But now I just have this love for her, and I want to adopt her as my grandma,” says Desiree, who doesn’t have any grandparents living nearby.
As connections were made between the youth and the elderly in the ward family, it caused some to reflect on the importance of forming eternal connections with their own ancestors.
“The grandparents just really seemed enthusiastic about us getting to know them better. They looked so happy,” says Cassie Gatten, 15. “So it made me realize that when we do genealogy work for our ancestors who have died that they’re probably really happy about that too.”
Interviewing the grandparents about their lives, writing the scripts, finding costumes, and then having rehearsals to make sure everything was just right took a lot of time. But the youth said the time spent was worth it when they saw everything and everyone come together on the night of the activity.
“Sometimes I didn’t really feel like it was worth all the time it took to put this activity together. But then when I saw the final night and the looks on the faces of the elderly as they watched incidents from their lives acted out before them and as they realized that the youth in the ward care about who they are, it all seemed worth it,” Cassie says. “It also made me want to live my life in a way so that if someone were to write a play about me when I am old I wouldn’t be embarrassed by it.”
After acting out scenes from Reny Sampert’s life, Kim Pearson, a 17-year-old Laurel, and her group sang Reny’s favorite song, “O My Father.”
“When we were singing ‘O My Father,’ Reny got tears in her eyes, and you could tell she was really touched,” Kim says.
“This activity brought us so much closer to the older people,” says Amber Isaacson, 15. “A lot of people in the ward are related, but there are families like mine who are not, so it’s just really neat to get to know them like the relatives do.”
Even though Amber and her brother Russell don’t have any relatives in the ward, in doing this activity Russell has realized how much some of the ward’s grandparents have contributed to his life.
“Talking with the elderly in our ward helped me to understand that they are actually a part of me because they helped form the Church here in Coeur d‘Alene. And just to look at it today and see how I’m involved and see the key part they have played in my life makes me grateful that I was able to get to know them better,” Russell explains.
Learning about the grandparents in the ward has also given Russell some understanding about the effects that trials can have in a person’s life.
“Talking with Frances Young and learning about the different trials she went through in her life helps me to see how things like that have made her the great person she is today,” Russell says. “It’s just interesting how different experiences can mold a person.”
Cassie says she learned a lot of new things about the people she interviewed too, even though they were her own grandparents.
“A lot of what I learned about them was a surprise to me,” she says. “But in learning about their youth, I realized where some of their characteristics came from.”
Cassie has also learned that it is only by understanding her heritage that she is able to understand herself.
“It made me really want to figure out where I came from,” she says. “We’re made up of all these people and we don’t even know what they are, so how can we know what we are?”
Whether they learned more about themselves, about their ancestors, or about the seniors in their ward, one thing is certain for the youth in the Dalton Gardens Ward—their hearts have been turned.
“Doing this brought us so much closer to the elderly,” Amber says. “The older people were excited to share their lives with the youth, and we were excited to know about their lives. Everyone wanted to do a really good job with the skits because they had become such good friends with the elderly that they wanted their skit to be the best.”
Everyone in the ward took part in the activity. The Primary children sang, the Relief Society prepared food, the youth performed, and the older members brought their heirlooms to put on display.
A few hours before the activity started, all of the heirlooms were dropped off at the church, making several large piles of mismatched items. By the time everyone arrived, just a few hours later, the piles of items from various families had been organized into an old-fashioned bedroom, kitchen, and living room. All the mismatched items had come together to form a perfect display. And this is the way the activity affected the Dalton Gardens Ward. There was a group of people—some old, some young, some related, some not—that have now come together so well that no one would know they weren’t all from the same family.

“Since I was 23 when I joined the Church I thought I’d be too old to go on a mission. But I went to a Young Adult conference in Brisbane, and after talking with some friends there I was motivated to go. I worked as a civil servant before my mission, and I had saved enough money to support myself as a missionary.
“My mission has changed my life, too. I used to be shy, almost embarrassed to talk about the Church. That shyness has left me and I feel now that I can talk about it with anyone. When I told my parents I was going to go on a mission they were quite upset—they were concerned about my job. But when I received my call they were really happy for me. So in a period of about six weeks there was a real transition in my family’s attitudes. And now they are actually having a friendship with the missionaries at home. I don’t know if they’re being taught or not, but there was a time when they wouldn’t even let missionaries in the door.”

A true story from the USA.
“Why don’t we go to church anymore?”
Sadie had asked her parents this question several times. Usually her mom just shook her head and looked almost as sad as Sadie felt. “There are a lot of reasons,” she would say at last. Sadie didn’t understand.
Just before her family had stopped going to church, her parents had let her be baptized. Sadie was happy about that, but she wished her parents would take her to church even if they didn’t want to stay. She really missed going to Primary.
Her family still did fun things together. In the fall, they hiked in the mountains. They had picnics at the park and played frisbee. They went to the play her older brother was in.
In December she and her family took plates of treats to friends and neighbors. They decorated the Christmas tree together. They spent a Saturday sledding in the snow and came home for hot chocolate and homemade donuts.
Sadie liked doing these things, but she missed going to church more than ever. She missed singing Christmas hymns and listening to talks about the birth of Jesus Christ.
This year Christmas was on Sunday. Her friend told her that the Primary was singing in sacrament meeting on Christmas morning. Sadie loved to sing.
“Can we go to church just this Sunday?” Sadie asked her parents. “Please? The Primary is singing, and I want to be there.”
Her parents looked at each other, then back at Sadie. “I’m sorry,” Dad said, “but we can’t. Not this year.”
Sadie held onto the hope that her family might go back to church someday, but that didn’t help her this Christmas.
On Christmas morning, Sadie felt the familiar excitement of gathering around the Christmas tree and opening presents with her family. She thought about how much she loved her parents and big brother and knew that they loved her.
Mom made their favorite breakfast—chocolate-chip pancakes piled high with whipped cream. "Best breakfast ever," her brother said after having two full plates. Everyone agreed.
After she helped clean up, Sadie went to her room. She thought about the Primary children singing in church and did her best not to be sad that she wasn’t there.
Sadie looked around her room for something to do. Her eyes landed on a box of colored pencils. Suddenly she had an idea. Even if she couldn’t go to church right now, maybe she could still bring Jesus into her day.
She found a piece of paper and started drawing a picture of the Nativity scene—baby Jesus in the manger, Mary and Joseph watching over him, and shepherds gathered around them all. She sang “Away in a Manger” to herself as she drew.
When she finished her picture, she took it to the kitchen and used a magnet to put it on the refrigerator door. Her parents and older brother didn’t say anything, but they did smile.
Sadie felt good. She couldn’t change how her family felt about going to church. But she could still keep Christ and Christmas in her heart.

Lisa was relatively young at when she joined the Church. She attended meetings with her friends and their families. One day her class got up to sing a special musical number in sacrament meeting. No one had told her anything about it. She’d never heard the song before, and she sat in agonized silence as the rest of her class smiled and sang from the pulpit.

After church, she asked why she hadn’t been included. She was informed that since her parents were not members and she lived several blocks away, they didn’t think anyone would bring her to rehearsals, so they hadn’t invited her to participate. Lisa was devastated, and her parents weren’t very impressed with the lack of compassion that was shown either.

When I was attending Brigham Young University, I learned what it truly means to be a queen. I was given a unique opportunity, along with a small group of other students, to meet the prophet, President David O. McKay. I was told to wear my best dress and to be ready to travel early the next morning to Huntsville, Utah, to the home of the prophet. I will never forget the experience I had. As soon as we entered the home, I felt the spirit which filled that home. We were seated in the prophet’s living room, surrounding him. President McKay had on a white suit, and seated next to him was his wife. He asked for each of us to come forward and tell him about ourselves. As I went forward, he held out his hand and held mine, and as I told him about my life and my family, he looked deeply into my eyes.

After we had finished, he leaned back in his chair and reached for his wife’s hand and said, “Now, young women, I would like you to meet my queen.” There seated next to him was his wife, Emma Ray McKay. Although she did not wear a crown of sparkling diamonds, nor was she seated on a throne, I knew she was a true queen. Her white hair was her crown, and her pure eyes sparkled like jewels. As President and Sister McKay spoke of their family and their life together, their intertwined hands spoke volumes about their love. Joy radiated from their faces. Hers was a beauty that cannot be purchased. It came from years of seeking the best gifts, becoming well educated, seeking knowledge by study and also by faith. It came from years of hard work, of faithfully enduring trials with optimism, trust, strength, and courage. It came from her unwavering devotion and fidelity to her husband, her family, and the Lord.

On that fall day in Huntsville, Utah, I was reminded of my divine identity, and I learned about what I now call “deep beauty”—the kind of beauty that shines from the inside out. It is the kind of beauty that cannot be painted on, surgically created, or purchased. It is the kind of beauty that doesn’t wash off. It is spiritual attractiveness. Deep beauty springs from virtue. It is the beauty of being chaste and morally clean. It is the kind of beauty that you see in the eyes of virtuous women like your mother and grandmother. It is a beauty that is earned through faith, repentance, and honoring covenants.

Michael was more than six feet tall, with long arms, skinny legs, thick glasses, and hair that looked as though it had been styled by a brisk wind. Michael had a passion for reading. In middle school, I’d often pass the library on my lunch break and see him with his nose in a book. We had some classes together, but I didn’t consider him a friend. I suppose the only token of friendship we shared was an occasional hurried hello or nod in the hallway between classes.
Often, I heard others say things about Michael that were anything but complimentary. He was an easy target because he was different. He was tall but not athletic. And he was always reading. I didn’t really care about him, and from what I could tell none of my peers did either.
But I began to see Michael differently one day when I least expected it—at work, teaching second-graders the basics of basketball.
Every Saturday during the fall and winter, I coach basketball and soccer for first- and second-graders. I’ve learned how to develop patience and a positive attitude because, if I’m not enthusiastic, they won’t be.
One second-grade girl in particular really knew how to test my ability to have a positive attitude. She tested the other coaches as well. We were getting ready for the day’s activities when one of the other coaches let out a huge sigh and said, “Oh, brother! She’s here.” Another coach said, “It’s going to be a long day whenever Wendy is here.”
Standing in the doorway was Wendy. She was autistic and didn’t fit in well with other children. Wendy often yelped and grunted, and she couldn’t stand still for very long. She had the habit of touching other children’s hair, which made them uncomfortable and caused disruption. Sometimes she pushed and even slapped other people, both children and coaches. I had to agree. It was going to be a long day.
Wendy walked to the middle of the gym floor, lay down, and started crying. It looked as though one of us was going to have to spend our whole day on “Wendy Patrol.”
Then something unexpected happened. In came Michael. He walked to Wendy and gently picked her up. In a voice hardly above a whisper, he calmly said, “Come on, Wendy, I’ll do the warmups with you so you won’t be alone.”
Michael was Wendy’s big brother. For the rest of the morning, he never left Wendy’s side. He was so patient and caring. I could tell that Michael loved his little sister and wanted her to fit in and be happy. Maybe he wanted those same things for himself.
I started to think about Michael’s trials. All day at school, he heard put-downs and snide comments from people who thought they were being clever. And then I thought about his home life, dealing with a sister who had a difficult condition. Yet these trials brought out the best in him. He was compassionate and Christlike.
It was at that point I recognized Michael for what he was—a hero, a true hero, right there in a small school gymnasium early on a Saturday morning.
My attitude toward Michael changed. I am grateful I was able to see a side of him I didn’t know existed. I’m grateful, too, that when Michael made eye contact with me that Saturday morning, I gave him a sincere smile. I tried to be his friend after that.
There are heroes like Michael among us. We all need heroes close by, people we can learn from and model our lives after. If I watch them long enough and pattern my life after theirs, perhaps I can one day be somebody’s hero, too.