Gospel Story Finder

Elder Rasband’s middle name is Anderson. It helps him remember his mother’s family. His great-great-grandparents were Jens and Ane Cathrine Anderson. They lived in Denmark almost 200 years ago. They learned about the gospel in Denmark and were baptized. In 1862 they traveled to the United States to be with other Latter-day Saints. Jens died on the trip across the ocean, but Ane Cathrine and her son kept going. It was hard, but their faith was strong. They made it all the way to Utah.

A Laurel from Arizona writes: “It was October and our high school homecoming was fast approaching, but I was only 15 and a half when a guy asked me to the dance. I thought about saying yes and meeting him at the dance. My parents wouldn’t know. But then I realized it didn’t matter that my parents didn’t know—Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ always know, and they are the ones who really count. I didn’t go to the dance. Instead I had my girlfriends over. I felt so happy and free and full of life” (letter in possession of Young Women office).

I am so grateful I was blessed with the strength to break the unhealthy cycle with my ex-husband. It took a while for me to forgive him, but as I continued to study the Book of Mormon, I learned it was possible for me to forgive through the power of Jesus Christ’s Atonement.
I felt a huge weight lifted from me as I learned to completely trust that God would judge righteously knowing all the facts of our circumstances. I realized I was hurting myself by holding on to pain and resentment toward my ex-husband. I needed to forgive him in order to heal myself.
Elder Tad R. Callister, an emeritus General Authority Seventy, once wrote:
“One of the blessings of the Atonement is that we can receive of the Savior’s succoring powers. …
“… His spirit heals; it refines; it comforts; it breathes new life into hopeless hearts. It has the power to transform all that is ugly and vicious and worthless in life to something of supreme and glorious splendor. He has the power to convert the ashes of mortality to the beauties of eternity.”2
I know this is true, because I experienced it.
I am so blessed that I have been able to experience the succoring power of the Savior. He healed my heart so I could forgive. He transformed all that was ugly into a glorious experience. I have been filled with joy, and I can honestly say I’m grateful for this trial because it helped me become a stronger, better disciple of Christ.
Years later, I am still saddened at times about my divorce, but it is no longer a painful memory. It is merely an experience in my life that taught me so much about myself and helped me gain a closer relationship with God. And my ex-husband and I have remained cordial, thanks to the Savior’s healing power.

Sometimes, however, boats aren’t necessary. In one village on the island, for example, Sammyo L., Vanessa W., Desleen L., Carleen M., Emtalyn W., and Jemi A. simply walk to the meetinghouse, where Emtalyn’s mother, Tasiana, teaches seminary. One topic that comes up often in class is the temple.

Tasiana, Emtalyn, and their family of 12 are preparing to go to the temple to be sealed. Because their assigned temple is more than 2,100 miles (3,380 km) away in the Philippines and transportation is expensive, going there has been a lifelong goal. As they talk in seminary about their dream that’s about to come true, the other students reflect on how they’ve made it their own goal to be sealed in the house of the Lord someday.

As a teenager I went to visit my aunt in 1991. During my stay she introduced me to the full-time missionaries, and I met with them a few times in my aunt’s home. They asked me if I wanted to learn more about the gospel, but I told them I wasn’t interested.
I returned home to Costa Rica, only to have missionaries visit me there. (My aunt had given them my address.) I still didn’t have any interest in their message, so I asked them to leave.
Four years passed. I was dating a woman with whom I had been friends for many years, and our relationship progressed to engagement. As I thought about our future together, my heart turned to things of a spiritual nature, and I told my fiancée that I wanted to know God. We decided that I would attend church with her to learn about Him. In the meantime I prayed privately to God for opportunities to come to know Him.
During this period of searching, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saint again knocked on my door. Frustrated that they had returned, I told them to go away, and then I shut the door. But at that very moment, a thought struck me: “You’ve been praying to know God. What if these men have some answers for you?”
I opened the door again and called after the elders. I invited them to come in and teach me.
I quickly discovered the power of the truths they taught, and I embraced the restored gospel. Three weeks later, on March 12, 1995, I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
My girlfriend was not pleased with my decision. One night about three months later, she told me that I had to choose between her and the Church. What a painful decision! After a lot of pondering and deliberating, I chose the Church.
I felt that I had made the right decision, but the months following our breakup were a dark time in my life. Nevertheless, I found hope in living my newfound religion, especially in coming to know my Heavenly Father, as I had prayed to do.
A year after my baptism, I left for a full-time mission in Nicaragua. My service there brought me great joy, and my knowledge of and love for my Heavenly Father grew. Several months after I returned from Nicaragua, I met Lili, the woman who would later become my wife.
Making the gospel a priority in our lives isn’t always easy. The decisions I made were difficult ones. But I learned then—and have continued to learn since—that whenever we make sacrifices to know our Heavenly Father, He will reveal His will for us and our lives. The happiness that comes from following His plan and His commandments is always worth the effort.

April was here at last. The all-night study sessions and final exams were over and most of our belongings packed into a closet in the old house we had lived in for the past year. Tearful see-you-in-Septembers echoed through the empty rooms as we locked the front door. My roommate, Lanell, and I lugged our bursting suitcases through the slushy snow and into the yellow Renault.
“What a dumb time for a snowstorm,” Lanell grumbled, slamming the car door shut.
“Oh well, we’ll soon be winging our way to Europe,” I consoled, reminding her of our exciting summer plans. We had schemed all year for this two-month vacation, and because we were trying to save money by driving to Chicago and flying from there, it looked as though this sudden spring snowstorm might threaten our plans.
I switched on the radio. Another weather bulletin, this time with bad news. “All interstates in Utah are closed,” the deejay stated blandly. “Students are advised to remain in Provo until further notice.”
“No way,” I declared. “A little snow won’t stop this Canadian!”
I pulled out the road map, and Lanell and I discussed all the alternative routes. We finally chose one that went south of Provo and then east into Colorado. Since it wasn’t an interstate and didn’t seem to be too mountainous, we reasoned that it would be open and fairly safe.
We headed out as the last rays of sunlight filtered through the gray storm clouds and disappeared over the top of the western range of mountains. It was a bad time to leave, I knew, but we were anxious to be on our way.
I drove cautiously on the snow-packed highway and wasn’t too alarmed when snow began falling. We soon noticed, however, that the highway was ascending into the mountains. Lanell checked the map and to our dismay found, in tiny print, the mountain pass we thought we wouldn’t have to cross. To make matters worse, the storm had increased in fury, the snowflakes splattering so thickly on the windshield that the wipers could barely keep up. As the wind howled through the canyon, I realized that conditions were perfect for a blizzard. We considered returning to Provo for the night but were encouraged by the steady stream of cars creeping toward us on the highway.
“They made it over the pass so we will too,” we told each other.
“And the other side probably won’t be so icy,” I said, trying to sound confident. Inside, I was beginning to wonder what we’d gotten ourselves into.
The road was now glare ice and we were steadily climbing. I grasped the wheel lightly as I’d learned to do on icy roads, but as the minutes passed, I felt a knot growing in my stomach and perspiration dampened my ski jacket. I wanted to turn back now but could find nowhere to do so safely. And what would Lanell think if “this Canadian” turned back? On the other hand, what would the downhill side be like, and would I have the nerve to drive it? I mentally tightened my grip on the wheel, silently begging the Lord to help us. If ever I needed a guardian angel, it was now.
Somehow, we reached the summit and I nearly shouted for joy at what I saw in the bright yellow beam of the headlights. Parked across the road, blocking the traffic, was a pickup truck, and standing beside it, a stocky man in a cowboy hat, coveralls, and a heavy parka. He was waving a flashlight, signaling for the cars to turn around and go back.
“The road’s closed. You kids would never make it down the other side,” he said, prying my hands off the steering wheel and kindly suggesting that he turn the car around for me.
As we headed back in the direction we had come, we alternately laughed and cried and prayed. We now knew the truth about all the cars that supposedly had made it over the mountain. All those cars had simply turned around and were coming back as we were now doing. How foolish we had been to ignore the weather warnings and how foolish were those in the approaching cars. Now that the storm had abated somewhat, we could see the ribbon of their lights for miles as we drove carefully down the mountain.
“Bet they’re thinking the same thing we did,” Lanell said with a grin. I grinned back, but silently I wondered, How many times do we make decisions without knowing the whole picture? How many times do we ignore the warnings? And how many times do we continue to tread dangerous paths just because it appears as if everyone is doing it?
We reached Provo late that night, and though I was shaken by the experience, I was grateful for the many insights it had given me. That Utah mountain pass and the angel in the cowboy hat who said it’s never too late to turn around, and who offered to help, will remain forever in my memory.

“Recently I have had a lot of personal accomplishments that have helped me feel good about my abilities,” wrote 18-year-old Brian Whitmer. “One night, though, I was reading Alma 26:12 where Ammon gives God credit for everything, and I realized I hadn’t been doing so. Then President Hinckley’s words reinforced my decision to give God credit—to thank Him for His help and blessings in my personal life. Since then I’ve noticed a change in my life as I’ve become more spiritual and more grateful.”

As in so many other circumstances, the undeniable prompting of the Holy Spirit had its special influence when 17-year-old Tom, unlike the forty-one other recruits with whom he joined the armed services that day, chose the naval reserve (for the duration of the war plus six months) over the regular navy (for four years with a fixed promise of discharge). It was a decision he had made a matter of urgent prayer.
Within just a few weeks of his joining, there was an armistice in Europe and only a few months later came peace in the Pacific. Less than a year after he began his active duty, Ensign Thomas S. Monson returned home to graduate with honors from the University of Utah, just one quarter behind those members of his class who had not given military service. The impressions of the Spirit had spared him three needless years of post-war military duty. Little did he know that even then he was being fitted with “the whole armour of God” (Eph. 6:11) for quite a different kind of battle and a much longer tour of duty. He was “on the Lord’s errand” and his time was very important.

When Edward returned from his mission, the country was in a depression and work was hard to find. Almost without money he fasted and prayed about the matter and felt impressed to pay his last two dollars as tithing. “Bishop,” he said in late November, “I know that I don’t owe this money yet, but I hope to owe it before the end of the year.”
The next day Edward continued to make his usual visits to offices and businesses in Salt Lake City, looking for work. He was leaving the last office when the foreman called him back and told him there was a job in Price, Utah, at the community newspaper (about 200 kilometers from Salt Lake City).
Edward arrived in Price the next day, the company having furnished his transportation money. By Christmas, with the overtime he had accumulated, Edward had earned $21.50. Fully repaid and with some to spare for having paid tithing, he said, “I could have the Christmas I desired.”

I am not a Mormon—yet. I heard of the Church from some of my friends a few years ago. The bishop here in town encouraged me to get the New Era. I love it! Some of my friends whom I am trying to interest in the Church want me to get pamphlets for them, and they also want to read my New Eras. A Mormon friend said I should go on a mission. I don’t think my parents would like me to be a missionary right now, but even so one of my friends was baptized last month with a little of my encouragement. How do you think I’m doing?
Carolyn CookKinston, North Carolina

It was a beautiful summer day in northern Alberta, Canada. I was 16 years old, and my dad had set me up with a great summer job at a goat farm. Every day I made the half-hour drive in his old pickup along the obscure, bumpy dirt roads that I doubt were on any map. I loved these drives as I cruised in silence due to the broken radio. The northern landscape is beautiful in the summer. There are forests, fields, and lakes that are virtually untouched by man. At times I would look around and feel like I was the only one around for miles and that all this was made just for me.
On one of these drives home after a long day of herding goats and fixing fences, my peaceful drive suddenly turned into a nightmare. It had rained the day before, and the familiar dirt roads had turned into washboard roads. I hit a few patches of consecutive bumps that shook my old truck around pretty good, and I knew I had to slow down. I shifted down and continued a little more cautiously toward home. Suddenly I hit a patch of bumps that didn’t stop. I could feel my truck losing control, and the rear end started to slide around. By the time I finally got traction, my truck was facing sideways, and I went tearing straight into the ditch.
I remember this almost like slow motion. I knew I was going off the road, and I knew that I was heading straight for a fence post. The only thing that went through my head was to cry out for help. As my truck caught air over the ditch, I cried out loud, “Heavenly Father, help!”
I landed hard, but I did not roll as far into the post as I had anticipated. I was a little shaken but otherwise uninjured. My truck would not start, and it was good and stuck in mud and tall grass. I climbed out and walked back up to the road. I looked around, hoping by some chance that there would be a farmhouse in sight. Nothing. This was before the age of cell phones, so there I was a 16-year-old girl completely alone on an obscure road in northern Alberta.
I began to pray to Heavenly Father and ask Him which way I should start walking to find help. I chose a direction that I thought might be good and began to walk. I had only just started when I received the distinct impression to go back and wait. I reasoned in my head: Wait? I have never once seen another vehicle on this road! What in the world would I be waiting for? Nevertheless, I felt calm and peaceful and knew that was the right thing to do. I stood on the side of the road and waited. Not five minutes later I heard a vehicle in the distance. Please let them stop, I pleaded in my head to Heavenly Father. The truck came into my view, and I simply stood there as it slowed in front of me.
An older, traditionally dressed Russian man and woman got out of their truck and surveyed my situation. I was a little cautious and did not know exactly what to expect from this couple. The wife smiled warmly and said in her thick accent: “It looks like you need some help.”
Her husband moved to the back of their truck and started to hook up a towing hitch. While her husband was hard at work, the wife told me how funny this situation was to them. That morning they had both had the feeling that they would need their tow hitch today, so they had put it in the back of their truck. They had kept it there all day and not needed it. They were now on their way home for the night when her husband decided to turn off the main roads and take the more scenic drive. That is when they came across me. She laughed at the coincidence of it all, but I was filled with the Holy Ghost testifying to me of my Father in Heaven’s awareness and love for me.
Once my truck was released from the mud and grass, it quickly started up again. The Russian couple and I parted ways. I did not drive far before I was overcome with tears of gratitude. I know that the Lord has rescued me many times throughout my life, both physically and spiritually. I know that He was aware of my needs in advance in order to prepare this couple to come and help me. I also know it was the right thing to do to call out for His help as I was going off the road because He heard and answered my frantic prayer.
That the Lord has power enough to move mountains and part seas and yet still cares for little me enough to prompt an old Russian couple to come help me pull my truck out of the ditch is witness to me of God’s love and personal level at which He works.

During my first Christmas as a bishop, a single mother with three small children lived in our ward. This young woman had a strong testimony of the gospel and lived it to the best of her ability. She cleaned homes and did sewing to try to earn enough money, but often she could not.
Raising three young boys by herself was a real challenge. These active, energetic youngsters always seemed to be in some sort of trouble. I remember removing them from more than one tussle with their classmates.
Several good people helped this struggling family. I’ll never forget the brother who came into my office one Sunday just a couple of weeks before Christmas, asking to speak with me privately. He was concerned about the young mother and her family and wanted to do something for them. Would I accept his contribution and use it in the best way I could to help them? As we spoke, I hardly noticed his small son, who remained in the office with us.
The man explained that he did not know what the woman and her family needed. He just wanted to help and felt that I would be inspired to know what to do. He then entrusted to me quite a remarkable sum of money—not remarkable in amount, but remarkable relative to his modest income, of which I was well aware, I knew that this gift meant a sacrifice of his own family’s Christmas, at least in the temporal sense. Seeing the resolve shining in his eyes, I protested only gently. Then I cleared my tightening throat, thanked him for his unselfish gift, and promised to do my best to make Christmas a little brighter for the young mother and her sons.
I also agreed to honor his request that his name be kept secret.
The story might well end here and still be memorable. But the event that has kept this experience in my mind had yet to occur. It wasn’t the way I was able to help the family with the contribution—although that turned out to be most gratifying—but rather what took place in my office one week following that brother’s visit.
It was just a few days before Christmas, and I was between tithing-settlement interviews when I heard a soft knock on the office door. I opened it to see, standing quite alone, the six-year-old boy who had sat quietly in my office while his dad and I had talked the Sunday before.
He asked politely if he could talk to me for just a minute. After we walked into the office—which I think is always a bit of a frightening experience for youngsters—I invited him to sit down. He fidgeted with something in his pocket and, after some struggle, pulled out three small coins and laid them on my desk. He apologized that the coins were all the money he had, and that they were a little old and dirty, since he had had them quite a while. The money, he explained, was for me to use to help his three friends, like his dad was helping their mother. As my heart swelled and my eyes became moist, he added that he felt I would know best how to divide his treasure among his friends and that he was sorry that one of the coins was of less value than the other two, so they could not be divided evenly between the three boys.
What lessons originated in that moment! A father’s unselfish example, the trust of a small boy in his bishop, and the humble, Christlike act of a child obviously without guile. Only a few weeks before I had pulled this boy from a quarrel with the boys who would soon be receiving his forgiving love and charity.
I hugged him, partly to cover my now obvious tears and mostly to tell him how much I appreciated him and how much I knew his Father in Heaven loved him. I then walked him to the door, shook his hand, and assured him that I would do the best I could to help his friends this Christmas with his generous gift. As I turned to go back into my office, he whispered after me, “And remember, Bishop, don’t ever tell anyone it was me.”
Well, I never have told anyone until now, my young friend. I hope relating our special story in this way is alright so that others might feel a bit of the quiet Christmas spirit of love and charity that we felt that day.

Mia was sad. It was time for bed, and she couldn’t find her stuffed cat, Tinkerbell. Everybody helped her look—Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, and Dad. No Tinkerbell.
They searched all over. They looked under the bed. They looked behind the couch. They even looked under the sink. Still no Tinkerbell.
“We’re not having much luck, are we?” Mom said.
“No,” Mia said with a frown.
“I don’t know where Tinkerbell is,” Mom said. “But there’s someone who does know.”
Mia’s eyes lit up. “Who?”
“Heavenly Father knows. Should we say a prayer and ask Him for help?”
Mia nodded and knelt down. Everyone stopped searching and knelt down too.
“Heavenly Father, I miss Tinkerbell. Please help us find her. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen,” Mia prayed.
“Now we need to listen and think so the Holy Ghost can help us find Tinkerbell,” Dad said. They were all quiet for a little while.
Mom looked at Mia. “Where do you think Tinkerbell is?”
“In the closet,” Mia said.
Everybody checked a closet. But there was still no Tinkerbell. Suddenly Mom had an idea. “This morning I put your backpack in the upstairs closet. We didn’t check there yet. Maybe Tinkerbell is there.”
Mia and Mom ran upstairs to check. They opened the closet. Tinkerbell was in the backpack!
Mia gave Tinkerbell a great big hug. Mia and Mom knelt down right there and thanked Heavenly Father.

She catapults helplessly through darkness and she is screaming, screaming, screaming. “Wake up, Amy!” Scream. “Wake up! You’re having a bad dream.”
Amy struggles to look at her father who is smiling even though it’s the middle of the night. She feels beads of sweat, newly formed along her brow, trapping her hair. Her voice trembles, “What time is it?”
“Three-thirty.”
“I’m sorry I woke you, Dad.” Amy frowns as she slides back under the covers.
“Don’t worry. I was getting up at four anyway.” Amy’s dad goes to the flower mart early so he can choose the freshest blooms for his shop himself. “Looks like I’ve got some free time; want to talk about these bad dreams you’ve been having?”
“I’m pretty sleepy, Dad. Maybe we can talk tomorrow.”
“It is tomorrow,” he says, watching Amy rub her eyes. “Okay,” he sighs, “after school then.” He kisses Amy’s cheek. “Pleasant dreams.”
Amy stays awake. Pleasant dreams, sure, she thinks.
Later that morning at the breakfast table her little brother makes slurping noises. “Can’t you be a decent human being?” Amy asks.
Her brother, Markie, opens his mouth to defend himself, but Amy’s mother interrupts their morning ritual with one word: “Amy.”
Amy reads the ingredients on the cereal box. “Yuck, this cereal is full of poison! I can’t eat this stuff.”
“Amy,” her mom strains to speak patiently, “you need to eat something. The cereal is not poisonous.”
“It’s full of chemicals and preservatives. It’ll give me some incurable disease or something.” With that, Amy grabs her books and heads out the door for school. As she walks, a passing car reminds her of a recent nightmare. She was in a car and there was a horrible accident.
At school Becky invites her to go snowboarding Saturday on the last spring snow. “It’ll be great and I’ve got a snowboard you can borrow.”
“I can’t.”
Becky squeezes her face into an expression of disbelief. “Why not?”
Amy doesn’t want to go because she has never done it before and she’s afraid she’ll break a bone, probably an important one. “I have to finish my research report this weekend.”
“All you need to do is type the bibliography, remember?”
“I, uh, you know, had to make some major changes in it.”
“Okay, suit yourself. I’ll just ask someone else.”
Amy watches Becky walk toward a group of girls. She decides this would be the ideal time to finish her current events assignment. After a while the news stories begin to bear a striking resemblance to her nightmares. There are shootings and stabbings, drunk drivers killing innocent people, kidnappings, and tornadoes tearing apart entire communities. The bell rings and Amy nearly hits the ceiling.
Walking home after school, she takes a detour to see if her dad’s truck is at the flower shop. Seeing it, she goes inside the shop and sees the manager. “Hi, Amy, how are you?”
“Hi, Mrs. Jepperson. I’m okay.”
Mrs. Jepperson looks up while filling some balloons with helium. “Just okay?”
“Yeah.” How can anyone be any more than that? she thinks. There’s a horrible war on the other side of the ocean and there are town-eating tornadoes. No one has a right to be anything more than okay under the circumstances. “Where’s my dad?”
“He’s probably at your house by now. He ran out for a while. Oh, before you go, take these.” Mrs. Jepperson reaches for a scrambled bunch of flowers, the leftovers she would soon throw out.
“Thanks, but no.” Amy pushes through the door. “They’re just going to die.” That’s the trouble with flowers, Amy thinks as she walks up the hill to her house. They always turn brown and shrivel up.
Her dad is drinking ice water in the kitchen. “Amy, I need to go back and get the truck. Why don’t you come with me?” Amy knows what that means. He wants her to run with him, so she begins to formulate her excuse-for-the-day, but remembers that it won’t do her any good. She could give a hundred good reasons why she can’t run with him, and he’ll give her two hundred reasons why she should. It’s another family ritual.
“Okay,” she sighs, and goes to her room to change.
As they start down the hill he asks about her day. She tells him about all the horror stories she read in the newspaper and about how she couldn’t go snowboarding. Then he asks her if she knows why she’s having nightmares. “I really don’t know,” she says. “I just wish they’d go away.”
“Keep running hard and you’ll sleep like a baby.”
“But babies wake up crying every few hours.”
“Okay, I’ll think of another comparison,” he says as he playfully shoves his daughter into the grass.
“Dad! You got grass stains on my shorts!” They walk in silence the rest of the way to the shop.
She waits outside in the truck while he talks to his employees. When he comes out he’s carrying the armload of leftover flowers. He doesn’t even put them in the back; he just climbs into the driver’s seat with all the flowers. Some fall over onto Amy’s lap; they feel cold. “Dad, how can you see to drive?”
“I’m just going to breathe these in for a moment.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Ah, that’s wonderful.”
“But they’re not fresh. They’re going to die, like, probably tomorrow.”
Her dad opens his eyes and looks at her for what seems like hours. He puts the flowers down and begins to drive. “They’ll be gone, maybe tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy them today.” He doesn’t drive toward home.
She wishes he’d take her home. She’s in grass-stained shorts and a sweaty T-shirt. What if someone sees her? Her dad turns on the radio. It’s his favorite program, some old-fashioned comedy. He’s laughing hard. When the commercial comes on she switches the station to the news. They hear reports of a capsized boat and how the coast guard is looking for survivors. They hear about some famous couple getting divorced, and then they hear reports of atrocities in a war-torn country.
“Can I switch it back to my station now?” he asks Amy.
“It’s the news, Dad. It’s reality. We can’t bury our heads in the sand.”
“That’s true. But we don’t have to wallow in misery,” he says as he pulls over.
“Who’s wallowing in misery?”
Amy looks up to see pink and yellow flowers as far as she can see. “I’m just aware of what’s going on.”
“Being aware is one thing, but you can’t let it get to you.”
“Why not? It’s a miserable world. I have reason to be miserable.”
Amy’s dad gets out and opens Amy’s door. She gets out reluctantly. He takes her arm and leads her toward the rainbow of endless flowers. They stop at a patch of ground surrounded by flowers, and he digs into the dirt. Yuck, Amy thinks. Mud covers his fingers and an earthworm squirms away.
“Imagine,” her dad says, “if flowers decided that since they only live a short time they shouldn’t bother being beautiful and fragrant.”
“Yeah, but how can we go around being happy when so many people are suffering?”
“Does being unhappy help the people who are suffering?”
“Well,” Amy turns toward the truck.
“Does being unhappy help you in any way?”
Amy tries to think of a response. She looks at her dad for a clue. He isn’t even paying attention. In the middle of his lecture he’s stooping over, smelling flowers.
“Do you remember that scripture about ‘Man is that he might have joy’?” He stretches his arms out and looks like he is offering some kind of salute to the flower kingdom.
“But that’s for after we get through all the misery of this earth.”
“Is it? Amy, I have two assignments for you. One is for Saturday while you’re sitting around with nothing to do when you could have been snowboarding. I want you to answer the following question using your scriptures and other Church books. Think about this. Could it be that it is a good thing to be of good cheer?”
“And the other assignment?” she asks.
“Race me to the car!”
They run all the way, the colorful images of the flowers flashing past in such a blur that Amy almost laughs out loud, especially when her dad passes her along the skinny path looking like some kind of hairy gnome in running shorts. The fragrance is energizing, and she wonders if the things her dad said are true.
That night she helps her mom fold towels and asks her, “Why is Dad always so happy? Hasn’t he ever experienced anything really hard?”
Her mom stops folding and looks at the towel she is smoothing. “Oh, he’s had some hard times. Maybe you’ve forgotten. Your dad’s mother—your grandma—died when he was 12. That was really hard. He lost the first business he started. Then he was diagnosed with a liver disease and diabetes all in the same year.” She pauses, begins to lift a stack of towels, puts them down, and continues. “He was sent to fight in Vietnam when he was 19. He’s told me some about that, but I know he hasn’t told me everything. His brother was killed there. That was probably the hardest for him; he used to wake up with nightmares.”
Amy doesn’t say a word. The rest of the weekend she hardly says anything at all until her research is finished. On Sunday her dad asks her to sit down and make a report to him.
“Dad, terrible things happened to Christ, but he spent his time lifting others. And there are others who were like that too. They did terrible things to Joseph Smith and his family, but even though he had the right to be really miserable he still found time to arm wrestle and play with the kids and things like that.”
“So, did you learn from your research that it’s okay to be a happy person?”
“It’s more than okay. I think Heavenly Father wants us to find joy in our lives while we’re here. Maybe it’s like a skill. If we learn it here we’ll be better at it in eternity.”
He smiles. “So your research really helped.”
“Actually, I think I learned the most from example. There’s this man, you see, and he’s had some hard things happen to him. But he likes to get up early every morning and go to the flower mart, he listens to corny comedy on the radio, and he’s been teaching me all along that being happy is an important skill.”
Her dad isn’t smiling anymore. She doesn’t remember ever seeing him look this serious. “We have our agency,” he says. “We choose how to react to the hard things in life. We can grow and have gratitude for our blessings, or we can be miserable and stagnate.”
“Dad, will you lighten up!”
“Here, let’s give these to your mom.” He takes an armload of wilted flowers from a large grocery bag, and the two of them carry the gift. Amy fully breathes in their fragrance.

Years ago, I served as a local Church leader. One of our young men, Danny, was outstanding in every way. He was obedient, kind, good, and had a great heart. However, when he graduated from high school, he started to associate with a rough crowd. He got involved in drugs, specifically methamphetamine, and traveled down the slippery slope of addiction and destruction. Before long, his appearance completely changed. He was hardly recognizable. The most significant change was in his eyes—the light in his eyes had dimmed. Several times I reached out to him, but to no avail. He wasn’t interested.
It was difficult to see this incredible young man suffer and live a life that was not him! He was capable of so much more.
Then one day, his miracle began.
He attended a sacrament meeting where his younger brother shared his testimony prior to departing for a mission. During the meeting, Danny felt something he had not felt for a long time. He felt the love of the Lord. He finally had hope.
Although he had a desire to change, it was difficult for Danny. His addictions and the accompanying guilt were almost more than he could bear.
One particular afternoon, when I was out mowing our lawn, Danny pulled up in his car unannounced. He was struggling terribly. I turned off the mower, and we sat down together in the shade of the front porch. It was then that he shared the feelings of his heart. He truly wanted to come back. However, turning away from his addictions and lifestyle was extremely difficult. Adding to this, he felt so guilty, so ashamed for falling so far. He asked, “Can I really be forgiven? Is there really a way back?”
After he poured out his heart with these concerns, we read Alma chapter 36 together:
“Yea, I did remember all my sins and iniquities. …
“Yea, … the very thought of coming into the presence of my God did rack my soul with inexpressible horror” (verses 13–14).
After those verses, Danny said, “This is exactly how I feel!”
We continued:
“While I was harrowed up by the memory of my many sins, behold, I remembered also to have heard my father prophesy unto the people concerning the coming of one Jesus Christ, a Son of God, to atone for the sins of the world. …
“And oh, what joy, and what marvelous light I did behold” (verses 17, 20).
As we read these passages, tears began to flow. Alma’s joy was the joy he had been searching for!
We discussed that Alma had been exceptionally wicked. However, once he repented, he never looked back. He became a devoted disciple of Jesus Christ. He became a prophet! Danny’s eyes widened. “A prophet?” he said.
I simply responded, “Yes, a prophet. No pressure on you!”
We discussed that while his sins did not rise to the level of Alma’s, the same promise of complete and perfect forgiveness is made to everyone—in and through the infinite Atonement of Jesus Christ.
Danny now understood. He knew what he needed to do: he needed to begin his journey by trusting in the Lord and forgiving himself!
Danny’s mighty change of heart was nothing short of a miracle. Over time, his countenance changed, and the brightness in his eyes returned. He became temple worthy! He was finally back!
After several months, I asked Danny if he would like to submit an application to serve a full-time mission. His response was one of shock and awe.
He said, “I would love to serve a mission, but you know where I have been and the things I have done! I thought I was disqualified.”
I responded, “You may be right. However, there is nothing precluding us from making a request. If you are excused, at least you will know that you expressed a sincere desire to serve the Lord.” His eyes lit up. He was thrilled with this idea. To him this was a long shot, but it was a chance he was willing to take.
A few weeks later, and to his amazement, another miracle occurred. Danny received a call to serve a full-time mission.
A few months after Danny arrived in the mission field, I received a telephone call. His president simply said, “What is it with this young man? He is the most incredible missionary I have ever seen!” You see, this president had received a modern-day Alma the Younger.
Two years later, Danny returned home with honor, having served the Lord with all his heart, might, mind, and strength.
Following his missionary report in sacrament meeting, I returned home, only to hear a knock at the front door. There stood Danny with tears welling in his eyes. He said, “Can we talk for a minute?” We went outside to the same porch step.
He said, “President, do you think I have truly been forgiven?”
Now my tears accompanied his. Before me stood a devoted disciple of Jesus Christ who had given his all to teaching and testifying about the Savior. He was the embodiment of the healing and strengthening power of the Savior’s Atonement.
I said, “Danny! Have you looked in the mirror? Have you seen your eyes? They are filled with light, and you are beaming with the Spirit of the Lord. Of course you have been forgiven! You are amazing! Now what you need to do is move forward with your life. Don’t look back! Look forward with faith to the next ordinance.”
Danny’s miracle continues today. He married in the temple and returned to school, where he received a master’s degree. He continues to serve the Lord with honor and dignity in his callings. More important, he has become an incredible husband and a faithful father. He is a devoted disciple of Jesus Christ.
President Russell M. Nelson taught, “Without the [Savior’s] infinite Atonement, all mankind would be irretrievably lost.” Danny wasn’t lost, and neither are we to the Lord. He stands at the door to lift us, to strengthen us, and to forgive us. He always remembers to love us!

Young Eldon was blessed with a keen mind and insatiable hunger to learn. His schooling was interrupted by grain harvests and other farm work, but he managed to get through high school in Cardston and Raymond by helping in a butcher shop to pay for his board and through Calgary Normal School by working in a grocery store. On graduating from normal school, he was offered two jobs, one at Hill Spring and one at Rocky Ford, Alberta. Although the latter paid a higher salary, he chose the Hill Spring job because there was no LDS church at Rocky Ford. At 20 years of age he became a principal of a three-room school.

The students at Hill Spring had a reputation as rowdies, but Eldon was equal to the challenge. He was a firm disciplinarian, and he had the ability to make academic subjects fascinating. He also introduced boxing, wrestling, basketball, and other extracurricular activities; formed a Scout troop; and trained cadets. One young man later reported that President Tanner had been his schoolteacher, Scoutmaster, and cadet instructor as well as his boxing, wrestling, and basketball coach, all at the same time! His coaching produced several provincial wrestling championships.

Seminary also serves as a great preparation for the missionary work you will do—as a member missionary today and also if you serve as a full-time missionary in the future. Franco Huamán Curinuqui of Peru knows that his scripture study in seminary has been helping him prepare for his mission.

He says this preparation is worth getting up for seminary at 4:00 a.m., riding canoes when months of flooding hit the area, and then wading through mud to get to class. He says, “I want to finish seminary and start institute classes in order to be prepared for a mission. I am going to keep growing in the Church.” Seminary is important to him because he learns about the scriptures and memorizes important verses, which will help him be a better missionary.

I said I was speaking to the young. I still am. A 14-year-old boy recently said to me a little hesitantly, “Brother Holland, I can’t say yet that I know the Church is true, but I believe it is.” I hugged that boy until his eyes bulged out. I told him with all the fervor of my soul that belief is a precious word, an even more precious act, and he need never apologize for “only believing.” I told him that Christ Himself said, “Be not afraid, only believe,”12 a phrase which, by the way, carried young Gordon B. Hinckley into the mission field.13 I told this boy that belief was always the first step toward conviction and that the definitive articles of our collective faith forcefully reiterate the phrase “We believe.”14 And I told him how very proud I was of him for the honesty of his quest.

The Lord in his great and infinite wisdom created us, his children, all differently, and surely this is how it should be. As the years have swept by, there stands out in my memory an individual, a girl named Maggie Mahoney. But who was Maggie Mahoney?
Maggie first entered our lives when I was in the eighth grade in our small farming community in southern California. As Maggie walked into our classroom that day, she wore what must have been at one time, when it was new, a white dress, now sallowed and grayed by both age and soil. It was wrinkled and much too large for her scraggly little frame of a body. Her shoes were black, with thick heels, sort of like the shoes our grandmothers wore to church on Sundays. Her hair was the color of over-ripe tangerines. I think, though, the thing that made us all stare so long and hard was not her shabby old clothing. No, it was her freckles. Hers were not the ordinary freckles that many of us had sprinkled across our noses. Hers were gigantic brown blotches that covered her face, arms, neck, and legs. The boys began to giggle and whisper, and we girls, well, we looked at each other in that kind of knowing way we had of communicating without actually speaking. We knew then she would never be one of us.
In reflecting over the situation, what really made the entire episode of Maggie more pitiful was not just the fact that we kids didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t accept Maggie, but that our teacher, Mrs. Saunders, likewise did not accept her. From the first day Maggie entered our room, it appeared that she and Mrs. Saunders had some kind of power struggle going on between them. When the teacher asked Maggie to come forward and read, as we were all asked in turn, Maggie stated firmly she would not come up to read now or ever in front of the class. I realize Maggie probably did not know how to read, as her background was that of an itinerant farm worker, moving from town to town with her family who harvested the crops. Words such as educationally handicapped or dyslexia were foreign to a teacher at that time. So, it was assumed that Maggie was simply stubborn and determined to have her own way.
Thus began a long series of verbal encounters between Maggie and Mrs. Saunders, many of which ended with Maggie’s getting paddled with a large wooden paddle that was usually reserved for the boys. Often she would be made to sit in a corner for long hours without being allowed to even move, or sometimes it was an actual physical encounter with the teacher in the cloakroom, as Mrs. Saunders at times had an uncontrollable temper.
What about me? How did I feel about Maggie? I was quiet, almost to the point of being shy. I was a follower. I went along with what my friends did. I didn’t always feel they were right, but I was too timid to ever protest. I recall one occasion when we were planning a party for graduation, and the subject came up about Maggie coming. Since it was to be a class party, it would have to include her, but the girls stressed that everyone would be expected to wear a party dress, and we all knew that the only dress we had ever seen Maggie in was the one she wore to school day after day. Something inside me wanted to reach out and help Maggie, perhaps offer to help her make a dress or give her one of my better dresses, but I knew what would happen if I crossed the barrier between her and my girl friends. There really wasn’t much I felt I could do.
That summer was especially memorable as we had graduated from eighth grade and were going into high school in the fall. We felt we were being liberated into a whole new world of dances, football games, and boys, especially older boys. My friends and I spent long hours on the phone talking about all the exciting events that were about to transpire in our lives. Vaguely I can recall someone mentioning that because of Maggie’s problems, she might not be passed on into high school, but this was a problem that we didn’t want to become concerned about.
I recall vividly that autumn morning, about a week before school started, when my mother came quietly into my bedroom and sat down on the edge of my bed. I knew by the tone of her voice that something was wrong. She related to me that the previous night Maggie had been involved in a terrible accident, an accident that had taken her life. The circumstances were vague, and there was even talk going around by some of the people in the town that Maggie had taken her life. It was a question that was to go forever unanswered.
I was stunned, bewildered, and then I began to cry. Deep sobs racked my body, but they were not for the dead Maggie. No, they were for all the memories that flooded into my mind of the cruel injustices, the hurting remarks, and all those terrible, cruel things we had in our self-righteous way dealt to the living Maggie. We had literally shut her out of our lives.
In the following years, I was to find the gospel, and thus came a great spiritual awakening in my life. There has come, too, a feeling of deep regret for what might have been had I known what I know now. Maggie had come to this earth not to be endowed with great beauty, wealth, or intellect. She had come in her own uniqueness only to be shut out by her peers who didn’t even care enough to look beyond outward appearances to find out who Maggie Mahoney was. She was our sister, and we didn’t even know it!

“OK, Randal,” Mom called to Dad from the kitchen. Dad turned off the dining room lights. When four-year-old Sarah saw my cake with ten flaming candles, she clapped with excitement and squealed.
Mom set the cake in front of me. “Make a wish, Birthday Boy!”
I stared for a moment at the dancing flames and the butterscotch frosting, then at the pile of presents in colorful wrappings. On top was the fanciest present of all, and I was sure that inside was the tiny, portable TV that I wanted. I wasn’t going to take any chances, though, so I shut my eyes tightly as I silently repeated my wish. Then I took a deep breath and blew out the candles.
Mom handed me my presents one by one: new dress pants, new school pants, and a shirt. But she saved the fancy package for last.
My heart thumped excitedly as she handed it to me. It was just the right weight, too, and I wondered if we had enough batteries for it. The ribbon came off with a tug, and I tore open the paper. And there …
There in my hands—I couldn’t believe it—was a block of wood! I stared at it numbly, then looked at Dad.
“It’s mahogany,” he said, looking both serious and happy.
“This present has a special message for you, Randy,” Mom said.
I turned the block over, hoping that one of its sides might have a picture tube and controls on it, but no such luck.
“We’ll give you a couple of clues,” Dad said, “but you’ll have to discover the meaning of the special message yourself.”
Mom started clearing the table as she added, “The first clue is ‘desk.’”
The only desk in our house was my father’s desk in the den, so I took my block of mahogany to the den, still hoping that maybe there would be a television for me there.
But there was no TV there and no notes telling me to look some other place. The desk itself was wood, but that didn’t tell me anything. And the only other wood on the desk were the eagle bookends Dad had carved years ago. Did they mean anything? I had no idea.
I went back into the family room and grabbed the remote control for the television. One of my favorite comedies had already started. As the television screen came to life, I noticed in front of it four narrow rectangular pieces of wood standing in a row, like four letter I’s or four number 1’s. They were old, gray, and cracked.
It had to be the other clue. They knew that I’d see them there. Dad’s always saying that I spend too much time watching television. “You have too much talent, too much potential to waste so much time in front of that TV set. Remember, action unlocks potential!”
“OK, Dad,” I’d tell him. “I’ll just watch my favorites.” The problem was that I had several favorites every day.
When a commercial came on, I took the four old pieces of wood into the kitchen. “These are the other clue, aren’t they?”
Dad smiled. “And what do you think they mean?”
I laid them on the floor, putting one piece horizontally on top of another and putting the bottoms of the other two together to spell TV.
Dad laughed and shook his head. “Randy, what kind of wood is that? Do you know?”
I shrugged.
“It’s pine,” he said. “Remember that tomorrow when we go to Grandma’s.”
The drive to Grandma’s took about a half hour. During the drive I glanced often at the piece of mahogany, wondering why Mom had said that I should bring it. I didn’t think that Grandma would be too excited about seeing a block of wood, even if it was mahogany. And I wondered why Dad had wanted me to remember that those four old pieces of wood were pine.
“Randy, do you remember Grandma’s address?” Dad asked as we got closer to his old neighborhood.
As I thought, I could see in my mind the numbers on her porch—“One-zero-seven-five.”
“One-zero-seven-five what?”
“I don’t remember.”
When we turned onto Grandma’s street, I looked up at the street sign. Pine Street! Maybe, just maybe I’m starting to understand one of the clues.
After we snacked on cookies and I opened my presents from Grandma—a book and a sweatshirt—I asked, “Grandma, is there a house at eleven-eleven Pine Street?”
Grandma grinned. “That’s old Mr. Evangelesi’s house. He’s such a nice man, and he certainly was good to your father when he was growing up. It’s about time you met him, Randy. He’s expecting you.”
I walked down the street until I saw four narrow, weathered strips of wood above a porch: 1111. I mustered all my courage, then rang the doorbell. After a minute the door opened, and on old man with white tufts of hair above his ears looked out. He glanced at the block of wood in my arms, then squinted at me through his glasses.
“You look just like your father,” Mr. Evangelesi said. “A real chip off the old block.” He chuckled and held the door open, then stepped back a couple of steps and motioned for me to come in.
I didn’t know what to say, so I just held up the block of wood. He took it and turned it over, looking at it from different angles. Then he looked at me. “What is this?”
I was proud to know the answer. “It’s mahogany.”
“Yes, yes. Of course it’s mahogany!” he held it in front of me. “But what is it?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Wood. It’s a block of wood.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. Come with me.”
Mr. Evangelesi walked through a doorway and down some wooden stairs, leading me to the basement and into a large workroom. When the light came on, I was amazed at what I saw—shelves filled with beautiful wood carvings. If it hadn’t been for the large worktable and the saws, knives, chisels, and clamps, it would have been easy to think that this was a room in a museum.
I walked slowly around the room, looking at everything: a horse rearing with the wind blowing its mane, a lion stalking its prey, two muscular men wrestling, a beautiful woman praying, a large graceful vase with swirling rings of color in the wood, a twirling ballet dancer, a fish jumping out of the water.
“Go ahead. Pick it up,” Mr. Evangelesi said as I studied a wooden chain.
I was amazed as I picked it up and saw each link attached to its neighbors—all carved from a single piece of wood!
I got more and more excited as I examined a race car, an airplane, a small totem pole, a pirate ship, a flintlock pistol, and the most beautiful baseball bat that I’d ever seen. “Mr. Evangelesi, they’re just awesome! Everything!”
“You know, Randy, you could make things like these.”
“No, not me.”
Mr. Evangelesi smiled kindly. “Your parents think that you can, with a few lessons and the right tools. You know, your father said that he learned some important lessons about life when I taught him how to carve wood.”
I thought about the eagle bookends on Dad’s desk.
“Do you know why I have a basement full of beautiful wood carvings and those old beat-up house numbers outside?”
I shook my head.
“Contrast! Nothing was done to those numbers. They just sat out in the wind and the rain and the sun. And now they look old and ugly. But you know what? Even those four pieces of wood had a beautiful grain once, just like your mahogany here.” He picked up my block of wood. “But nothing was done to bring out the potential of those four pieces.”
He walked across the room, pointing at his carvings. “All these carvings were once like this piece of wood that I’m holding. But after I studied the grain, I began to see what each piece of wood could be. Then I worked until I brought out its potential.” He placed my chunk of mahogany back in my hands. “There’s a work of art inside there,” he said, nodding at the wood, “waiting to get out, waiting to be almost anything that you want and can imagine in there.”
“But you’re an artist, Mr. Evangelesi.”
“Well, thank you, Randy. But I don’t think of myself as much of an artist, I think of myself more as a doer. I have a motto that I’ve always tried to live by: ‘Action unlocks potential.’”
Those words hit me forcibly. Dad had picked up that phrase from Mr. Evangelesi. Until now, they had been just words to me. But now. …
I looked at Mr. Evangelesi and his beautiful carvings. I thought of my Dad and all the good things that he had done and all the good that he was still doing. Then I picked up the block of mahogany and turned it over in my hands. I started to see some of the things that it could become. I saw some of its potential.
Most importantly, I started to see my own potential, to see that by working on myself, instead of sitting around watching television, I could become a person of worth just as by working on my block of wood, it could become an object of worth.