Gospel Story Finder

During the summer, the children often went swimming in the river. A wooden pier came out partway on the deep side of the swimming hole. Those of us who couldn’t swim well would enter the water from the shallow side and play there. One time I thought that I could make it out to the pier. I was wrong. I got out to where I couldn’t touch bottom and started floundering. I remember feeling a hand lifting me up. It may have been one of the older kids, but I can still feel that hand lifting me, and I think that Somebody was watching over me.

I remember visiting South Vietnam some years ago. I talked individually with two or three hundred men—men who had waded through the blood and heat of battle, but men who were virtuous in their lives. I remember one of them, a boy who had just come down from the Rock Pile near the Demilitarized Zone, who said in response to a question on morality: “Not on your life—I couldn’t do that. I want to be worthy of a great girl some day.”

When I was a young university student, one of my classmates urgently pleaded with a group of us—his Latter-day Saint friends—to donate blood for his mother, who was bleeding profusely. We went directly to the hospital to have our blood typed and tested. I’ll never forget our shock when told that one of the prospective donors was unfit because of a positive blood test for a venereal disease. That infected blood was my classmate’s own!
Fortunately, his mother survived, but I’ll never forget his lingering sorrow. He bore the burden of knowing that his personal immorality had disqualified him from giving needed aid to his mother, and he had added to her grief.
I learned a great lesson: if one dishonors the commandments of God, one dishonors mother, and if one dishonors mother, one dishonors the commandments of God.1

The story was told of General Antigonus (382–301 B.C., general of Alexander the Great) who was preparing to have his men attack the enemy. The plan was devised, the strategy decided, and the hour determined. General Antigonus’s men were outnumbered severely. The signal to attack was given. No one attacked. In fact, they were about ready to retreat ingloriously. General Antigonus asked what the problem was. The captains replied that they were outnumbered so severely that the men dared not attack. General Antigonus thought for a moment and then asked, “For how many then wilt thou reckon me?” This spirit spread through the ranks; they attacked and won a great battle.

I had given our third-row seats to the missionaries and their investigators and resettled my little family in the very last row. I didn’t know my nine-year-old daughter, Tracy, was planning to bear her testimony that fast Sunday for the first time.
Three times during the meeting, Tracy stood up and began to walk toward the pulpit. Each time, someone else also arose and Tracy rushed back to her seat. The hour was growing late. I told her, “Honey, you have to keep going. You can’t give up.”
After the next testimony, she took a deep breath and began the long walk. But the next person to stand up was the first counselor in the bishopric, who thanked the congregation for sharing their testimonies. Tracy kept walking.
The organist began the introduction to the closing hymn. Tracy kept walking.
As the congregation sang, Tracy kept walking.
Tears streamed down my face as she took a seat beside the bishop’s counselor. He put his arm around her and whispered in her ear. Then, before the benediction, the counselor announced that one more testimony would be borne that day.
Tracy bore a sweet testimony—that of a child who had not been baptized, even though all her Primary classmates had. She alone had not entered the waters of baptism, because her father—who was not a member of the Church—had not given his permission.
Tracy remained steadfast. Praying that she would be granted the desire of her heart, she “kept walking.” She never gave up.
That same bishop’s counselor who put his arm around her at the testimony meeting later conducted the baptismal service for Tracy and her younger sister. Never have I seen children more aglow.
But that baptismal service was not the end of the story. In June 1999, Tracy’s father was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. One year later, Tracy’s smile glowed brighter than ever when her family was sealed for all eternity in the temple.

1. Jonathan looked at the clock for the eighth time. “Is it time for family home evening?” he asked again.
2. “Yes, we can start now,” Dad said with a smile.
3. Jonathan and his sister, Michelle, were excited. They put paper, pencils, watercolors, and crayons on the table. Everyone sat down on their chairs and folded their arms.
4. After the prayer Dad picked up a letter and read it to them. It was from Uncle Eddie.
5. Uncle Eddie was a missionary in Central America. Jonathan liked to hear about the boys and girls there.
6. When Dad finished reading the letter, everyone began to draw a picture or write a letter to Uncle Eddie. Jonathan drew a picture of Uncle Eddie riding his bike. He drew a picture of him flying away in an airplane to Central America. Then he drew a picture of him teaching a family.
7. “When you are finished, fold your letters and drawings, and we’ll put them in this envelope,” Dad said.
8. Jonathan wrote an extra note before he folded his letter: “Please send more pictures!” Then he signed it,I love you,Jonathan

I had been a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints only a short while, and I was very happy. I arose early every Sunday to attend church with my young daughter, and I knew I was being well fed spiritually. Then one Sunday I had a disturbing experience.
It was ward conference, and when our stake president spoke, his words were very special to me. Then he said, “Brothers and sisters, I would like you to raise your right hand to show that you sustain President Gordon B. Hinckley as our prophet and President of the Church.” All 50 or so members of my ward raised their hands—except me. The stake president then asked that we sustain the other General Authorities. Once again I did not raise my hand. Finally he asked us to sustain our local leaders. “Now I can raise my hand,” I thought. “I know these leaders, so I can sustain them.”
No one asked me why I had not raised my hand to sustain the prophet and the General Authorities—probably because they knew I was a new member of the Church. But the experience continued to disturb me. “How can I sustain President Hinckley when I do not know him?” I wondered. “And how can I possibly know him when I live in Brazil and he lives in the United States? To sustain him, I need to know him and see him face to face.”
Then the Spirit began to speak to me: “You never saw Jesus Christ face to face, but you sustain Him.”
“Yes, but I know Him through the scriptures, which testify of Him.”
“You can also know the prophet, even without seeing him face to face.”
“How?”
“By reading and pondering his words. Pray for guidance from Heavenly Father, and He will help you to understand how to sustain the prophet.”
And that is what I did. During the following days I read several of President Hinckley’s talks. I watched him and listened to him speak on videos, observing every detail I could about him and his teachings. And I prayed for understanding.
Then one day as I was reading an article in the Liahona, President Hinckley’s words penetrated my soul deeply: “It is never too late to learn. I believe this with all my heart” (“A Conversation with Single Adults,” Liahona, Nov. 1997, 22; Ensign, Mar. 1997, 62). I also believed with all my heart and felt that it was not too late for me to learn.
For a long time I looked at the picture of the prophet printed beside his article. Suddenly I felt as though I were right in front of him. I looked at his eyes—eyes that seemed to speak of eternity. I looked at his face—which radiated peace. I had studied his teachings and felt the Spirit testify of them. For the first time I knew that I knew President Hinckley and that I could trust him and sustain him.
Profound well-being enveloped me, and I felt a desire to raise my right hand, not only in front of the members of my ward, but in front of the entire world. Through the witness of the Spirit, I could declare with complete conviction, “I too sustain the prophet.”

When Calvin started stuttering just asking for the salt and pepper, I knew something was wrong. Calvin had always had trouble talking. It was cute when he was two or three years old, and endearing when he was five or six. But by the time he was seven or eight and still stuttering, Mom took him to a speech clinic. After that the problem seemed to clear up, except for certain times when Calvin was upset about something.
Calvin is my older brother, and I can tell when he’s scared about something—partly because of the stuttering but also because of little things that he says or does.
He was worried about becoming a priest and blessing the sacrament. It isn’t that he didn’t want to bless the sacrament—he did. That was the whole problem. Calvin takes things like that very seriously. He didn’t want anybody, especially the deacons on the front bench, to have an excuse for giggling during that scared ordinance, even if they were only laughing at the way that Calvin said the prayer.
Calvin reads a lot, and I guess that’s where he got the idea of using marbles. Some Greek man by the name of Demosthenes used to recite aloud while climbing steep hills or put rocks in his mouth and then shout speeches over the roar of the ocean waves so that he could talk more clearly. I thought it was a silly thing to do when Calvin told me about it—he might swallow the rocks or something—but Calvin was desperate, I guess. He knew Morn would be angry if she ever caught him putting rocks in his mouth, so marbles were the closest substitute he could think of.
I collect marbles. I can’t do much with them, but I like to look at the different colors and what light can do when it shines through them. Calvin came downstairs to my room one day and stood in the doorway for a long time, just watching me. My brother has a way of standing sometimes that tells me he has something on his mind, and he was standing that way then. A tall young man, maybe too skinny, with very short, very blond hair. Calvin likes to play ball in the summer and hair gets in his way. There was a strange look on his face while he watched me. I was sitting on my bed, and I had all my marbles spread out in front of me. They looked gorgeous.
“Jenny,” he said finally. I looked up and waited. “Would you sell me five or six of your marbles?” That’s when he turned red—a complete betrayal. My brother always turns red when he talks about something important to him. The speech therapist says that it’s part of the same problem that made Calvin stutter and that it would go away in time. So far that part hadn’t come true.
Then Calvin seemed to change his mind and said, “It’s not important.”
I scooped up a red marble and held it up to the light so that I could see the bubbles inside. “If it isn’t important,” I asked, “then why buy them?”
He didn’t say anything, and I knew that if he tried to talk, the words would come out in a long stream of stuttering. He looked at me though, and there was agony in that expression. Then he turned around and walked out of my room.
Later, of course, I gave some marbles to him. What else could I do? I washed six of them, dried them off, and put them in a box. Then I put the box on his bed. When he came to the supper table, I said, “There’s something for you on your bed, Calvin.”
He didn’t say anything then either, but I could see what was in his eyes.
I didn’t hear anything more about the marbles for a long time. Calvin is very cautious when he doesn’t want people to know about something. But his birthday was coming closer every day. And each Sunday when the sacrament was being prepared, I would find myself looking at my brother. He would be scrunched down in his seat, and I could imagine what he was thinking. Sometimes while the prayer was being said, I almost forgot to close my eyes. He’d listen so intently that it seemed he was listening hard enough for both of us.
The thing that I dreaded was when someone made a mistake in repeating the sacrament prayer. When it happened I looked at Calvin, and I could see him hurting inside, waiting for the time when he would have to kneel and say the prayer. He had such a strong feeling for that prayer that he wanted it to be perfect. It really mattered to him and I knew it!
One day I went downstairs and I could hear mumbling, so I began looking for the source. It was coming from the laundry room. I turned out the downstairs light, walked over to the laundry room door as quietly as I could, and opened it. Calvin was standing by the washing machine with my marbles in his mouth. He was saying something, though I couldn’t understand the words through all the marbles.
I stood there for a long time. But I didn’t want Calvin to know that I had seen him, so I turned around and went out. Then I came back into the room a second time as noisily as I could, on the pretense of getting some soap. The mumbling sound stopped immediately. Calvin nodded and I went out again and up to my room. In a few minutes I heard him come upstairs.
Several weeks later it was Calvin’s birthday. The Sunday after, he was ordained a priest and assigned to give one of the sacrament prayers.
I can still remember sitting there, staring at him and seeing how the light hit his blond hair, making it shine. Boys aren’t supposed to be beautiful—or at least, you’re not supposed to admit that they are—but Calvin was beautiful. I was so scared for him that I thought my heart would stop beating. I was sure his agony was going to make me cry.
Suddenly he looked straight at me, and there was in his eyes an expression that made me know that he knew that he would be all right. Then he got down on his knees, the way the priests do, and started the prayer. Nobody cries during the sacrament except the older ladies, but that Sunday I couldn’t help crying too. Calvin’s voice was soft, but it carried to the back of the chapel. I’ve never heard anybody else give the prayer the way he gave it that Sunday. He began, “O God, the Eternal Father, we ask thee. …” (D&C 20:77) And he didn’t make a single mistake.
I sat and wept, because it was beautiful, and because I love my brother! And that night when I went upstairs I found the marbles back on my bed.
Someday I guess I’m going to be old, and there’s not much I can do about it. But even if I’m ninety, I’ll never get rid of those marbles, any more than I can get rid of the memory of that first time Calvin blessed the sacrament.

Ídolos was a television show I really enjoyed watching. I have always liked performing and hoped to someday enter a music competition. This year I didn’t hesitate; I simply signed myself up for the show and went to the audition with my dad. I guess you could say I’ve been preparing for Ídolos my entire life. Every experience I had with Ídolos was amazing, without exception. I tried to take advantage of every opportunity that came my way.

Once during a dinner with the other contestants, we talked a little bit about religion, and I spoke about my faith and the standards of the Church. Later I gave each of the finalists a copy of the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet so they could better understand what I believe. Some said the Church’s standards seemed really conservative, but others praised me for having such high standards in these days.

I continued to say my prayers, read my scriptures, participate in seminary, and take the sacrament every Sunday. I am currently preparing to serve a mission, which is something I’ve wanted to do since I was little. I serve in my ward as ward pianist, ward missionary, and assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. I had to dedicate almost all my time to the competition, but I made sure to first dedicate time to the Lord.

My name is Dumazedier Kabasele, and I live in Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo. I am married to a wonderful wife, Choudelle Kazadi, and we are the parents of two beautiful sons named Bryan and Khalis Kabasele.
I am a returned missionary who served in the French-speaking Democratic Republic of the Congo Lubumbashi Mission. The missionary manual Preach my Gospel inspired me to learn English because it would be a blessing for me, my family, and the Church. I did not realize how much this blessing would affect my life. My decision to learn English during my mission was supported by my mission president and his wife, Philip and Joy McMullin. I studied English two hours each day and this helped me to continue to gain more knowledge.
I got my first degree (an MD degree) in general medicine in my home country of DR Congo. Interested in learning more about the brain, I conducted further university studies in Bangalore, India, to expand my knowledge through a post-graduation fellowship in neurology and electrophysiology.
I first heard about the BYU-Pathway Worldwide program when I was in India. Most Church members were enrolled in this program. I was surprised that the Church offered the program in other countries but not my home country of DR Congo. But I could not join BYU-Pathway at that time due to my intense graduate studies, but my prayer was that the program could one day be offered in my home country and that I could join and learn more about it.
In 2019, the program was approved, and I was among the first generation of students in Kinshasa to be enrolled. The beginning was difficult for me, because I had a full-time job and lived in a different area from the meeting location. But I had the support of my family and my friend Patrick Kalambayi. We both walked a long distance to attend the meetings and returned home late. Sometimes we didn’t have electricity. We were looking for places with electricity to charge our computer.
At one point, the government authorities shut down internet due to some political issues. My friend and I went to the local UN agency for help, telling them we had to send our school assignments and we needed connection to the internet to do our homework. I have a testimony that Heavenly Father puts people in our path to support and help us in times of adversity, such as electricity and internet access shortages.
After completing PathwayConnect, I decided to enroll in the public health program at Brigham Young University-Idaho. I completed a certification in public health planning and implementation, health method evaluation and epidemiology. I have learned to support the world in disease prevention and developed a pandemic health program. I was very happy to support my country during the COVID-19 breakout in Kinshasa. People were amazing. I learned more skills about how to control this disease in my community.
The BYU-Pathway Worldwide program helped me to understand that we must be faithful and improve our skills to establish the kingdom of our Savior on the earth. This program increased my knowledge of the Savior and motivated me to gain more skills and to become more faithful.
Instead of dwelling on difficulties and struggle, I have learned to trust the Lord and to pursue my education at famous universities across the world. Today I am proud to say that I earned three university degrees: one from my country, one from India, and one from the United States. As a result, I have increased my income, my faith in Jesus Christ, and my skills in the field of public health.
The skills that I learned during my journey have helped me to build a health nongovernmental organization and work in mental health awareness in the DRC. My recent experience, when I was applying for a new job as a public health specialist at the Center for Disease Control in DRC, the human resources team was surprised that I have an American degree and I live in Congo, and it was easy for them to verify this from my diploma.
The hiring process was interesting and each step I went through, I learned to be ready due to the PathwayConnect program, preparing my CV and cover letter, enjoying the interview, and showing people my unique qualifications. I am grateful to my Heavenly Father for the opportunity He gave me to join the team of the Center for Disease Control in DRC to prevent, detect and control disease in my country.
As an African, we are blessed to have an American degree, serve our community, and strengthen the Church in our local area. BYU-Pathway Worldwide blesses my life, my family, and my country in this specific time. The program helped me to understand the principle of working hard quietly and to let your success be your noise.
Whatever level you are in life and whether you have a degree or not, please join the program and work hard, the Lord knows your effort and will assist you to gain a new degree and develop more skills and the world will pay you based on your education and skills.

At a nursing home for the aged, two young men prepared the sacrament. While doing so, an elderly patient in a wheelchair spoke aloud the words, “I’m cold.” Without a moment’s hesitation, one of the young men walked over to her, removed his own jacket, placed it about the patient’s shoulders, gave her a loving pat on the arm, and then returned to the sacrament table. The sacred emblems were then blessed and passed to the assembled patients.
Following the meeting, I said to the young man, “What you did here today I shall long remember.”
He replied, “I was worried that without my jacket I would not be properly dressed to bless the sacrament.”
I responded, “Never was one more properly dressed for such an occasion than were you.”
I know not his name. He remains anonymous.

Two or three weeks ago this great teacher gave me motivation to try even harder to follow his example. Each Thursday morning after the Twelve have met for two hours, we are joined by the First Presidency to take care of our joint business. When President Kimball comes into the room on the fourth floor of the temple, one by one we go by and shake his hand.
President Kimball, now worn from long years of service, has a difficult time seeing, hearing, and speaking, so when it was my turn, I said, “President Kimball, I am Marvin Ashton.” He took my hand, paused, and then finally said softly, “Marv Ashton, I love you.” That is all he said to me. What else do I need? I can now go into the world and accomplish all of my assignments more effectively when I realize President Kimball trusts me and loves me.
When I am asked, “What does President Kimball say when he is with you and the others in the temple?” I say, “That is not too important. The thing that is important is that he is there. Despite pain, discomfort, and a tired, worn body, he is there. From him we learn what enduring and persistence are all about.

When I was a young missionary assigned to the British Mission, my first area of labor was in what was then the Bristol District. One of the local Church leaders emphasized that missionaries serving in that area needed to be “shipshape and Bristol fashion.”

Initially I didn’t understand the point he was making. I soon learned the history and meaning of the nautical phrase “shipshape and Bristol fashion.” At one time Bristol was the second busiest port in the United Kingdom. It had a very high tidal range of 43 feet (13 m), the second highest in the world. At low tide when the water receded, the old ships would hit bottom and fall on their sides, and if the ships were not well built, they would be damaged. In addition, everything that was not carefully stowed away or tied down would be thrown in a chaotic fashion and ruined or spoiled. After I understood what that phrase meant, it was clear that this leader was telling us that, as missionaries, we must be righteous, follow rules, and be prepared for difficult situations.

Whilst my wife and I were serving as leaders of the Fiji Suva Mission, we would monitor the storm weather sites from November through April to be aware of any cyclones that may affect our missionaries serving throughout the islands.
In early-April 2018, tropical Cyclone Keni developed into a category 2 cyclone which, on its projected course, would track several hundred kilometers south of the island of Kadavu. As we drew closer to the 11th of April 2018, instead of staying on its predicted course, Cyclone Keni veered northward and increased in intensity to category 3 with winds gusting up to 215 kms per hour, which tore through the island of Kadavu.
Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen served on that island, and I was extremely concerned about their welfare and that of the community of Saints there. With the power knocked out, communication was impossible for many hours. Finally, the elders were able to get a call out. The first thing I heard was, “President we’re okay.” Oh, what relief and joy filled my heart along with humble prayers of gratitude.
They shared that their accommodation was destroyed, and they had to shelter in one of only a few concrete block homes on the island, this one owned by Brother Lal (a counselor in the branch presidency). They had lost most of their belongings but had scoured the forest and reclaimed some clothing.
With their welfare in mind, I started the arrangements to evacuate these elders off the island. When I called the next morning to give them more details, Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen asked without any thought for their own needs, “President, can we stay? The members and families on the island need our help to rebuild their homes.”
As they expressed this desire, my heart swelled with admiration for these humble servants of the Lord who put their own needs aside to offer much-needed help to others.
Over the next two weeks they laboured tirelessly to clean debris from damaged dwellings and assisted with the repairs to several homes. These young missionaries exemplified the scripture: “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).
After these two weeks, Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen returned to Suva to be assigned to a different area, until the mission quarters on Kadavu could be rebuilt. As they entered the mission home, they looked different. Yes, their clothes were a little untidy, because no washing machine or iron was available, they had all disappeared in the cyclone, but their countenances shone brightly as they recalled numerous experiences of assisting members and nonmembers alike.
Their service brought a great feeling of unity to the people in Kadavu and prepared many hearts to receive the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. Indeed, these young missionaries exemplified this verse of scripture: “And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).
I will be forever grateful for the example of Elder Tupe and Elder Christensen. They exemplified so beautifully what it means to truly keep the second great commandment, to “Love thy neighbor as thyself,” (Matthew 22:39).

But there is also a lonely side to being known as LDS. As well liked as the Hiltschers are, there are some activities, particularly on the weekends, that the brothers are excluded from. “Sometimes we wish there wouldn’t be drinking at the parties so we would go,” Brent explained. “But it’s not like we wish we could drink. A lot of weekends, we just go our separate ways from our school friends.”
What do they do then? They found an answer one weekend when they decided to throw a party of their own. They had lots of games, lots of food, and lots of fun. That showed their school friends that you can have fun without drinking.

My high school graduation was from a small Methodist boarding school in Thomasville, Georgia. I had enjoyed school very much and was hoping to continue my education at Berry College in Rome, Georgia. However, I was facing an uphill struggle to obtain the necessary funds for tuition, books, housing, and other expenses. My parents and family were not in a position to help me, and I made only a limited amount as a waitress during the summer. It was at this time that I received a surprising letter from the Women’s Division of Christian Service of the Methodist church. They offered to put me through college if I would fulfill a two-year mission for them as a teacher after graduation. I was deeply touched and astonished by their offer and wanted very much to accept. A few months earlier this would have seemed like an answer to my prayers, but now I wasn’t so sure.
I thought of every reason why I should accept the offer. My future would be secure, my dreams of a master’s degree in art would be realized, and I could devote my time to studying without having to worry about working. Was there really a difference in serving a mission for the Methodist church instead of the Mormon church? Weren’t they both Christian churches? My friends and teachers were encouraging me to take the offer. Their concern for my future was genuine, and I appreciated their love—I didn’t want to disappoint them. My personal desire to say yes to the Methodist church was strengthened by my fear of facing my friends if I did not.
“How could I turn down this offer?” I asked myself. But a still small voice, much quieter than the voices around me, whispered, “How can you accept it? How can you live a lie?” I realized then that if I accepted I would have to keep secret the fact that it was not the Methodist church I desired to serve. I could not use their support to achieve my goals. They were such wonderful people, so generous in their nature. The voice was right. How could I? I could not. My decision was made, and I had to find the strength to face it no matter how unrealistic it seemed to my friends. I wrote the council and explained that I was a Mormon, and though their offer was something I would never forget, I could not accept it. They answered my letter, expressing appreciation for my honesty with them, and wished me luck in my future endeavors.
Since then, through a lot of hard work and help from many people, I have graduated from Brigham Young University with the art degree I so much wanted. I was privileged to enjoy several teaching assistantships there plus the companionship of some of the greatest people I’ve ever known. When faced with similar decisions since then, I’ve reflected back on this experience of standing against the advice of friends and loved ones and listening instead to the whispering of one small voice that only I could hear. I have learned that no matter how great the problems and pressures or how difficult the decisions, Heavenly Father is always there to guide us.

When I was 30 years old, I was visiting the Nagoya mission as part of my work. After the meeting, the mission president kindly arranged for the elders to drive me to the airport. However, as we reached the intersection at the bottom of a long hill, a large truck came barreling down from behind us at great speed. It rammed into the rear of our car and propelled it forward more than 70 feet (20 m). The terrifying part of all of this was there was no driver. The rear of our car was compacted to half its original size. Fortunately, both the elders and I survived.
However, on the following day, I began experiencing pain in my neck and shoulders and developed a severe headache. From that day, I couldn’t sleep and I was forced to live each day with both physical and mental pain. I prayed to God to please heal my pain, but these symptoms lingered on for about 10 years.
At this time, feelings of doubt also began creeping into my mind, and I wondered, “Why do I have to suffer this much pain?” However, even though the kind of healing I sought was not granted, I strove to be faithful in keeping God’s commandments. I continued to pray that I would be able to resolve the questions I had about my trials.
There came a time when I found myself struggling with a few additional personal issues, and I was agitated because I did not know how to cope with this new trial. I was praying for an answer. But I didn’t receive an answer right away. So I went and talked with a trusted Church leader.
As we were talking, with love in his voice, he said, “Brother Aoyagi, isn’t your purpose for being on this earth to experience this trial? Isn’t it to accept all the trials of this life for what they are and then leave the rest up to the Lord? Don’t you think that this problem will be resolved when we are resurrected?”
When I heard these words, I felt the Spirit of the Lord very strongly. I had heard this doctrine countless times, but the eyes of my understanding had never been opened to the extent they were at this time. I understood this was the answer that I had been seeking from the Lord in my prayers. I was able to clearly comprehend our Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation and understand anew this important principle.
Let’s now consider that rear-end collision in Nagoya. I could have died in that accident. Nevertheless, through the Lord’s grace, I miraculously survived. And I know that my sufferings were for my learning and for my growth.5 Heavenly Father schooled me to temper my impatience, to develop empathy, and to comfort those who are suffering. When I realized this, my heart was filled with feelings of thankfulness toward my Heavenly Father for this trial.

Halloween is a traditional autumn holiday throughout North America. And for some special adults in Idaho, it is a holiday they look forward to with great anticipation each year.
At a Halloween carnival given just for them, they arrive dressed up as clowns, hoboes, or witches (with at least one cowboy in the bunch). They bob for apples, hook treats from the fishing pond, win prizes for bean-bag tosses, and compete for goodies at the cake walk—all the usual fun that typifies Halloween. These people are special. They are handicapped.
About 50 adults ranging in age from 20 to 60 come from all over the Upper Snake River Valley of eastern Idaho to attend this carnival. They are guests of the Young Women of the Rexburg Idaho 18th Ward, Rexburg Idaho North Stake.
The event started as a service project seven years ago, and although the people who attend it receive great joy from it, the young women say they have been repaid with an increase of love and understanding for those with physical and mental handicaps.
“This project is a highlight of our year’s activities,” 17-year-old Elyse Moss says as she helps one of the guests shoot a basketball through the hoop. “They get so excited over little things—like this,” as she gestures toward the basketball standard. “They’re like little children on Christmas morning!” And as the evening progresses and both the guests and the hostesses become more comfortable with each other, “It gives you a really good feeling when one of the people asks you to have your picture taken with them,” Elyse continues. Seventeen-year-old Holly Holman adds, “I’ve learned that each person is unique. By the end of the night I’m comfortable around them and calling them by name.”
Other rewards for the young women have come from this activity. For instance, 14-year-old Megan Jeppesen says, “At first I was scared, but the carnival has helped me overcome my fears of handicapped people. Now I tutor some handicapped kids in my school.”
After an evening of games, doughnuts, and cider, the handicapped adults from eastern Idaho leave with happy hearts and bags full of treats. The Young Women of the Rexburg 18th Ward leave happy, too, and with a greater compassion for others who are different from them.

Not long after our friend Carolyn Rasmus joined the faculty of Brigham Young University, a group of her new teaching colleagues invited her to join them on a Saturday hike in the mountains above Provo. Carolyn was not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but she had felt particularly welcome in her new circle of associates. She eagerly joined them for the climb.
As the sun steadily rose, so did the hikers on the mountainside. Then, as the ten o’clock hour approached, the group began to find places to sit down. Carolyn thought, “This is wonderful. How did they know I needed the rest?” and she, too, looked for a comfortable spot to stretch out. But the participants seemed unusually earnest about this particular break, some pulling out pencils and notebooks while one intently dialed a transistor radio.
What then happened would be a turning point in her life forever. One of her friends said, “Carolyn, we need to explain something. This is the first Saturday in October, and for us that means not only lovely weather and bright fall foliage, but it also means a general conference of the Church. As Latter-day Saints, wherever we are or whatever we are doing, we stop and listen. So we are going to sit here among the oak and the pines, look out over the valley below, and listen to the prophets of God for a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours!” thought Carolyn. “I didn’t know there were prophets of God still living,” she said, “and I certainly didn’t know there were two hours’ worth!” Little did she know that they were going to stop again at two o’clock that afternoon for another two hours and then invite her to tune in at home for four more the next day.
Well, the rest is history. With the gift of a leather-bound copy of the scriptures from her students, the love of friends and families in the LDS ward she began to attend, and spiritual experiences we want all who make their way into the light of the gospel to have, Carolyn was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. The rest is, as they say, history. With her introduction to general conference that day sitting high atop Y Mountain, Sister Rasmus had seen her own personal fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophetic invitation: “Come ye, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; and he will teach us of his ways, and we will walk in his paths: for out of Zion shall go forth the law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.”

“What’s the matter with Anderson?” everyone was asking.
“Maybe he’s sick,” guessed Howard Mountain Lion.
“He doesn’t look sick,” replied Ruben Six Killer.
“Come and play, Anderson,” called Aaron Long Run. “You’re always missing recess.”
Anderson kept whittling on a stick. He didn’t even look up.
“Maybe he didn’t do his lessons,” Mary Tall Eagle suggested.
“No, he always does his lessons,” her brother, Freddie, insisted.
“He’s just tired or something,” Aaron said. Then he yelled, “Blackfoot warriors coming!”
Everybody forgot Anderson. The boys galloped off on their stick horses to ambush the invading tribe.
With a gloomy look on his face, Anderson Corn Bread watched the others play.
“I wish that new teacher hadn’t come to our school,” he muttered. “She’s always saying, ‘Be proud of your Indian history!’” Anderson mimicked. “‘Live up to your tribal names!’” He paused and then continued mumbling to himself, “All we ever study are Indian hunters and warriors.”
Anderson glared across the schoolyard at the boys playing as if they were warriors fighting a fierce battle over tribal territory.
“Howie Mountain Lion thinks he’s so brave!” Anderson burst out. “I bet your grandfather was as scared of mountain lions as you were of that badger we saw last summer.
“And look at Aaron Long Run playing as if he’s his great-grandfather, the one Teacher says ran for three days to warn his people the Blackfoot nation was on the warpath. That Aaron, he’d run away if he saw his own black feet!”
Anderson went on spitefully, “And Ruben Six Killer—he couldn’t kill six grasshoppers. And Freddie Tall Eagle—”
“And Anderson Corn Bread,” a voice spoke.
Anderson whirled around ready to fight. But it was only old Mattie Washtub. Some people said Mattie was a witch, and others claimed she was a wise woman who knew all things and heard thoughts not spoken.
Mattie Washtub didn’t look at Anderson. She just poked in the weeds with her stick, mumbling all the while.
All the kids were afraid of Mattie. Anderson didn’t know whether to run or not. He was about to slip down off the fence when he noticed she was muttering about the first one called Corn Bread—Anderson’s father, three fathers back.
“He was a good man,” old Mattie was saying. “Many men asked, ‘Corn Bread, will you tame my wild horses?’ No other man in all the tribe could gentle an animal like he could. Even the wild creatures of the mountain, feathered or four-footed, took food from his hand.”
Suddenly Mattie’s face was right in front of Anderson’s.
“What matters the name or how it came?” Mattie challenged.
Anderson was so startled that he tumbled off the fence. He jumped up and ran to the schoolhouse. But he had heard everything old Mattie said. Her words kept going round and round in his head and in his heart.
Early the next Saturday Anderson went into the foothills with his sister, Nahni, to pick bullberries. Along the irrigation canal they found many bushes with thick clusters of the mellow orange fruit. It was cool there, with only the sounds of plopping berries and chirkling water.
Suddenly the peaceful morning was split by a CRASH! SCREAM! SPLASH!
Anderson went thrashing through the bushes to see what had happened to Nahni.
She had fallen into the canal, and the swift full stream was tumbling her over and over.
Anderson quickly threw his weight on some long overhanging branches. In an instant Nahni was swept into them and she grabbed hold. Gasping, she pulled herself up and held on.
Anderson frantically looked here and there, trying to think of a way to get his sister out. The canal was wide and deep with straight sides. Anderson couldn’t reach Nahni, and if she tried to move, she would be swept off her feet again.
Suddenly Anderson knew what to do. He shouted, “Can you hold on awhile?”
Nahni nodded, but her teeth were already chattering from the icy water.
“I’ll hurry,” Anderson assured her.
He eased himself off the branches and dashed away. Nahni would drown before he could ever get help from the village, so Anderson ran in the other direction like a scared rabbit. When he reached the weir where the mountain creek was diverted into the canal, he tugged and tugged at the main head gate. But the surging water jammed it tight. Frantically, Anderson smashed against the supports with a big rock, weakening them until the water itself tore away part of the gate and rushed through. Then Anderson was able to divert most of the water endangering his sister.
Back he ran to help her. Carrying a long pole, Anderson jumped in beside Nahni. Finally he was able to get her over the bank to safety.
A few weeks later the tribal council called all the people to an important meeting. Everyone was surprised when the council chief announced, “It is the wish of the tribal council that the boy Anderson Corn Bread stand before them.”
Anderson couldn’t believe his ears. He was terrified. He tried to think what mischief he had done that the council would handle the problem instead of his own father. Someone gave Anderson a nudge, and he went forward on wooden legs. He felt as if the eyes of all the world were on him.
Anderson heard a voice speaking. It sounded far away, and at first he couldn’t catch even a word. But then as the voice continued, he heard “… in wisdom and action … to face trouble, not whining, crying for help, or making excuses … acting as a man … tradition of tribe to earn his own name … known forever by his proudest deed. We, the tribal council, decree that hereafter Anderson Corn Bread be known forever by all people in all places … this new name … earned by his own …”
Anderson felt as if he had been struck with lightning and was glowing with fire! They were honoring him! They had given him a proud new name! But just for helping his sister?
Anderson saw his mother, who looked pleased, but he could not tell how his father felt. Father was a good man and, like all the Corn Bread men, one of the best with animals.
Now there was silence. Anderson realized the council waited for an acceptance of their honor. The proud new name buzzed in Corn Bread’s head but other thoughts struggled in his mind. His eyes ran around the room seeking words to make his tongue work. His mother looked nervous; his father had a wondering look; the elders looked solemn.
Sitting on the floor in the corner old Mattie Washtub nodded as if asleep. But she was giving Anderson the most searching look of all. Anderson remembered the words Mattie had spoken to him that day. And suddenly he knew what he wanted to say!
Anderson spoke in a shy quiet voice, but the room was so listening-still that everyone heard clearly.
“I thank the tribal council for this great honor, but I do not wish to have the new name,” Anderson spoke haltingly as he looked at his father. “My father’s name is a good name. All the men of his family have made it a good name. I want to make it a good name too.”
Then, raising his eyes to old Mattie, who was staring at him, Anderson repeated her words, “What matters the name or how it came?”
Suddenly Anderson knew that a man’s real name is the thought of him other men carry in their hearts.