Gospel Story Finder

In 1999, I made a significant decision to leave my position at the Polynesian Cultural Center as a full-time musician to become a teacher. This choice felt monumental. While I loved my job as a musician, my passion for shaping young minds compelled me to pursue a career in education. I felt strongly that this was where I was meant to be.

In the scriptures, we learn that “children are an heritage of the Lord.” [4] This profound truth resonated with me as I embarked on my teaching career. I remembered the Savior’s admonition in Matthew 18:3, where He taught, “Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.” [5] This scripture reminded me of the purity, faith, and obedience that children embody, and it became a guiding principle in my teaching philosophy.

In Sister Jean A. Stevens’ April 2011 general conference talk, “Become as a Little Child,” she shared how Jesus Christ taught us to look to children as examples of faith and obedience. [6] I found this message to be a reminder that I needed to be humble and always to contemplate my purpose: Was I merely going through the motions, or was Heavenly Father guiding my every step? As I began teaching, I realized the profound influence I could have on my students’ lives, and I embraced this opportunity with enthusiasm.

One pivotal moment in my journey occurred when a principal recognized potential in me that I hadn’t seen in myself. She asked me to sign a piece of paper, which I later discovered was my enrollment in the administrator licensing courses for the Department of Education. It was a leap into the unknown, but I felt a divine nudge encouraging me to take that step. As I embarked on this new journey, I understood that every experience—every twist and turn—was leading me closer to understanding my purpose.

After five years of teaching, I became a principal, and I felt both exhilarated and intimidated by the responsibility. In 2012, I was asked to transfer from He‘eia Elementary to King Intermediate School, a challenge that tested my resolve. I often pondered whether I had the capability to help the youth of this community, but deep down, I felt that Heavenly Father had a plan for me, even if I couldn’t see it clearly at the time.

The trials and tribulations of being a principal were many, but so were the blessings. I leaned into my faith and the principles of the gospel, relying on the teachings of our Heavenly Father to guide me. After many nights of fasting and prayer, I reorganized my teaching philosophy and based it on the fundamentals of the Church’s Children and Youth program. The structure and organization of this very well-established program was something I needed to learn and morph into my organizational structure. With this structure in place, my admiration for the Church’s infrastructure was deepened. I learned that students need to feel loved, to have a sense of purpose, and to be valued. To achieve this, it was essential to value the teachers, for they are the backbone of the educational experience.

During this time, I recalled President Gordon B. Hinckley’s counsel in his opening remarks for the April 2005 general conference to “stand a little taller” in every aspect of our lives. He taught us to “lift our eyes and stretch our minds to a greater comprehension and understanding of the grand millennial mission of this The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” [7] I sought to create an environment where students and teachers alike felt valued and inspired, a place where we could all stand a little taller and believe that we have the capability to achieve greatness. I believed that by fostering a culture of love and support, we could create a nurturing atmosphere conducive to learning and growth.

These school years brought many challenges, but also great rewards. In 2013, our school received the STRIVE HI Award, recognizing our students for achieving the highest test results in Hawaii. That same year, I was honored as Hawaii’s Principal of the Year, and later, received the National Principal of the Year award. As I stood on that stage, accepting these honors, I couldn’t help but reflect on my journey and the divine hand that guided me. From a small town in Turangi, moving to Hawaii, and never thinking these opportunities would be offered to someone like me. Those that were honored were principals with unbelievable experiences—and then there was me! The question that always came to mind was, “Why me? What does my Heavenly Father want me to do with this opportunity? How do I share my testimony on this platform?” The spotlight was overwhelming, and I felt a surge of insecurity and inadequacy. I began to pray earnestly, seeking guidance from Heavenly Father. I realized that every blessing and recognition was not just for me, but for my students, my community, my culture, and my family, but most importantly for our God.

“Evacuate your homes now!” bellowed the loudspeaker on a truck. “The fire is coming! The fire is coming!”
The forest fire raged down the mountain toward the town. Fierce winds fanned the enormous flames. Short of water and help, the firefighters couldn’t hold it back any longer. Families were going to lose their homes and belongings. There was nothing anyone could do.
Seven-year-old Catherine sat in her family’s living room, watching the news reports. It was hard to believe that the fire was only an hour away. She stared as flames licked through the treetops. She didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t look away. She felt sad and sick.
Catherine went to her room and thought about the fire. Looking around, she wondered what it would be like to leave everything behind. She had lots of prized possessions. The most precious was Ginger, her favorite doll. She looked at her other dolls, her trophies, her toys, even her clothes and shoes. Losing everything was hard to even think about.
When Dad got home, Catherine and her parents ate dinner. They discussed the new evacuations. Tears welled up in Catherine’s eyes, and she began to cry.
“What’s the matter?” Mom asked.
“Why can’t they stop the fire?” Catherine asked. “Where will people live if their houses burn down?”
“Everyone will move into temporary shelters,” Mom answered. “They will get food, clothes, and a warm place to sleep until this is all sorted out.”
“What about their things? Who’s going to help them save their things?”
“The fire is too hot and moving too fast for anyone to think much about saving things,” Dad said. “It’s more important to make sure the people are safe. Most things can be replaced.”
Too upset to finish her supper, Catherine asked to be excused and went to her room and knelt by her bed. “Girls just like me are going to lose everything,” she prayed. “Somebody has to help them. I want to help them, but what can I do?”
When she awoke the next morning, Catherine knew exactly what to do. She filled a large shopping bag with clothes, books, and games. Last of all, she put in Ginger. “Mom, I want to donate these things,” she said. “Can you help me?”
Mom looked through the bag. “You’re giving away some of your nicest treasures,” she said. “Are you sure you want to give away Ginger?”
Catherine tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “This is what I need to do,” she said. “I know that this will help someone feel better. Will you help me?”
Mom hugged her. “Of course. The Relief Society is collecting donations. I was going to take some blankets and canned goods over this afternoon, but I think we should go right now, instead.”
The missionaries had set up a large open trailer in the ward parking lot. Waiting in line with other people who were making donations, Catherine began to feel that giving away Ginger was just too hard. She thought longingly about keeping her favorite doll. The line inched forward, giving her time to think some more. When it was her turn, she handed her bag to the Relief Society sisters, Ginger and all. Silently saying good-bye, she watched as her bag was carried to the trailer. It was so hard to give up her things! She turned and walked quietly back to the car.
That afternoon, Mom collected blankets and canned goods. When she and Catherine arrived at the meetinghouse, the trailer was full of useful things.
Back home, a television report announced that four hundred homes had been destroyed. But there was good news, too. The fire was nearly under control, and no one had been hurt.
Catherine watched the reports every night. She was worried about the four hundred families without homes. She thought about her shopping bag of treasures and wondered if it had really mattered among the thousands of other donations. And she really missed Ginger.
Suddenly Catherine sat up and looked more closely at the television screen. Something looked familiar. A little girl in a shelter was clutching a doll that looked a lot like—no, it really was—Ginger!
Catherine jumped up and squealed with delight. Her prayer had been answered. Her donation really had made a difference.

As a young college student, Giuseppe Pasta found his belief in God constantly challenged by atheistic friends. He began intensive study of the Bible to strengthen his beliefs, and his study did indeed bring Giuseppe closer to God. But it also convinced him that the church of his forefathers was somehow incomplete. In it, he had learned basic moral principles, but he felt there must be more to the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Where was this additional truth?
When his prayers for further enlightenment seemed to go unanswered, he concluded that perhaps he was not righteous enough. He sought to humble himself in service to patients at a charity hospital, where “I found what the pure love of Christ is.”
Then one day he met two Latter-day Saint missionaries “street-boarding” (explaining the gospel with portable displays) outside the hospital. That meeting led, after a long period of study, to his conversion but he did not tell his family at first about his baptism.
When they learned of it, they were devastated. Friends presented him a petition, with hundreds of signatures, begging him to come back to the “true church.” An interview was arranged for him with the cardinal of Turin, in the hope that the cleric could persuade him to change his mind. They became friends. Convinced at length that young Giuseppe was sincere in his beliefs, the cardinal counseled him to be true to them.
Giuseppe Pasta has been a member of the Church for twenty years now, long enough to qualify him as a Latter-day Saint pioneer in Italy. He was an executive with the Fiat corporation for seventeen years before he was hired to open the Church’s first regional office in Italy. As a temple sealer, he has had the privilege of uniting many of his countrymen for eternity in the Swiss Temple. Currently president of the Italy Rome Mission, he directs some 150 young missionaries in bringing gospel truths to other Italians.
Like President Pasta, many Italian Latter-day Saints reordered their lives to join the Church after discovering gospel truths they had not known existed. Like him, many of them are pioneers in their families and in their country.

Just before April conference in 1986, our missionary son David wrote home: “President Benson has been in Ohio. He’s pushing the Book of Mormon hard and wants us to use it even more in our missionary work. Our Regional Representative told us he’s going to ask the Church members to read the Book of Mormon daily. You’d better get ahead and start reading now! I’m doing great. I’ve never felt better in my life.”
How those words touched me! It had been 15 years ago that the Book of Mormon became an integral part of David’s life. I had read it to him as he lay in bed, at life’s edge.
“What are you reading, Mommy?” David asked in the faintest whisper of a sound. His delicate face closely matched the color of the snowy pillowcase. Deep red drops of blood, descending from a bottle suspended above, provided a vivid contrast as they dropped through a tube into his motionless white arm.
“The Book of Mormon,” I replied. It helped me through the endless hours of watching my son fight a seemingly insurmountable battle. It was supposed to be minor surgery to correct a small health problem, but the whole procedure had become a nightmare. Face to face with the fragile quality of mortality, I groped for an anchor with eternity.
“Read it to me,” David said.
“But you wouldn’t understand it, David,” I told him. “You’re too young. Later, when you’re well and at home, I’ll read you some stories from the Book of Mormon.”
Again the whispered words, urgent this time. “Please read it to me, Mommy.”
Not knowing what else to do, and not wishing to further upset him, I began in First Nephi: “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents, …” I intended to read a few lines while he drifted off to sleep, and then continue my silent reading. Every time I thought he was asleep, my voice quieted and quit. Then, from the hospital bed, again and again, I heard, “Read it to me.”
And so I read it to him. I read all during the hospital stay, and then at home, where he lay attached to two tubes that drained fluids from his body into bags, one on each leg. Doctors had discovered a congenital defect that gave him only part of one kidney.
I did not read stories from the Book of Mormon. I read from the book itself. One morning, after David’s two sisters had gone to school and his two little brothers were sleeping, we sat together reading as usual. I stopped and looked down at him. “David, do you understand this?”
His blue eyes looked thoughtfully into mine. “Not all. But some of it.”
When I continued reading he stopped me and said, “Mother, kneel down.” Startled by the request, I simply knelt, feeling his small body at my side. Then, totally trusting, he said, “Now pray for me. Pray that I will understand the Book of Mormon.”
By the time we finished the book, David had turned five and was able to recognize and read many of the words on his own. Eventually he read alone. His health improved and, by the time he was baptized, he had read the whole thing by himself more than once. By the time he was ordained a deacon, he was eagerly preparing for a mission.
But during his sophomore year in high school, his physical condition worsened. His one remaining kidney deteriorated rapidly, and a transplant became necessary to save his life. His father was the donor. The eve of the surgery brought our ward members together in prayer and fasting. David was the happiest one present. “I don’t know why everyone is so worried,” he said. “This just means that I can make serious plans for my mission.” And by this time, daily reading of the Book of Mormon had become a habit that sustained him through his recovery.

As a boy I loved to play soldier. I imagined myself as a great hero, and my fantasies included ceremonies of pomp and grandeur during which my country decorated me for courageous feats. As I grew older, I graduated from college and from Army ROTC. I was commissioned as a second lieutenant. I began to realize I might actually be placed in situations that would demand courage, and my hopes of becoming a hero grew and grew.
I attended helicopter pilot training and won my silver wings. I served 22 months in Europe. Then I was assigned as a medical evacuation helicopter pilot in Vietnam. As I waited for the actual transfer orders, my desire for greatness became an obsession.
I soon learned that the real experience of war wasn’t anything like the battlefields of my childhood imagination. The sight and stench of combat made me ill. My inner courage wasn’t as strong as I had thought, and I often found myself scared beyond any fear I had previously known. I sought the Lord as a source of strength, promising that if he preserved my life, I would spend my remaining days serving him in whatever manner he desired.
I still retained a vain hope that somehow I might earn the coveted Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) without serious injury to myself or my crew. The DFC is the mark of an aviator’s display of valor above and beyond the call of duty while under hostile fire. I dreamed of having the medal pinned on my chest.
Three months after I arrived in Vietnam, just about dusk one evening, a radio call came in to the operations office requesting a patient pickup at an insecure landing zone (meaning our forces were still in contact with the enemy).
As our helicopter followed a river through the Tuy Hoa Valley into a mountain pass, we were enveloped in torrential rain. It was extremely difficult to locate the landing area. Soldiers on the ground directed us with a flashlight beam.
We wanted to land up the slope from the casualty to allow those transporting him more clearance from the rotor blade. Turbulent winds whipped across the uneven terrain, causing the chopper to fishtail wildly and aborting our first landing attempt. This also meant the enemy had seen our landing spot and would be preparing to fire on us. A lull in the wind allowed us to land, and enemy tracers ripped like fiery baseballs through the night.
Our friendly forces returned fire. We made a hasty pick-up of the wounded and asked for flares to be shot into the sky to illuminate the surrounding mountains as we departed through lightning, thunder, and heavy rain. A few bursts of enemy ground fire bid us farewell.
As a result of this action, I was recommended for a DFC. But the recommendation was reviewed and downgraded to an Air Medal with a “V” for valor. I was disappointed, but remembered my promise to the Lord and was satisfied that my life had been spared.
About a month later, my crew made another perilous medical evacuation, this time on the side of a 60-degree mountain slope under a double canopy of foliage. This meant that we had to maneuver our helicopter down through the first cover of branches and leaves and over to an opening in the lower canopy of foliage where a hoist could lower a litter for the wounded soldier. Our rotor blades were literally inches from the branches, and the rotor wash of air bouncing off the foliage made hovering critically unstable. Despite these obstacles, the mission was successful, and the crew felt it deserved special recognition. We were once again recommended for the DFC, but again it was lessened to an Air Medal.
I was furious! “Do those people know what it’s like to put your life on the line every day?” I fumed. “They must be crazy to think this kind of flying is part of normal duty!” But in the quietness of my quarters, I remembered the words of my patriarchal blessing, which reminded me that the Holy Ghost would guide me. I thought, “That’s right. The Spirit made this mission and all the other missions, as hazardous as they may have been, possible for me.” And I knew Heavenly Father had protected me. No crew members who had flown with me had ever been harmed. I realized I had a great deal to be thankful for.
With only three months left on my tour of duty, I was called on another hoist rescue. This time it was in the Ashau Valley. Two casualties had to be moved from a dangerous location in another double canopy area. Once again we hovered between the trees like a sitting duck, protected only by cover shots from our troops but threatened by incoming enemy fire. Things went well until we started to bring the second patient up through the lower canopy.
Rifle fire sprayed around us. The crew chief was going to cut the cable, dropping the wounded man back to the ground and to possible death. “No!” I yelled. “Tell me when he’s clear of the trees.” The crew chief kept the litter bearing the wounded man coming up and yelled, “Clear!” as soon as it got above the trees. I moved the helicopter up, then forward, while the wounded man dangled below, slowly being drawn into the cargo area. Finally the terrified soldier was inside and we were on our way back to the base. What an experience! What excitement!
Back on the ground, the crew hugged each other. We were grateful to acknowledge that we were delivered by the power and mercy of God. We also felt sure we would merit a DFC. The recommendation was written up and submitted with assurance that it would be approved.
The awards ceremony was scheduled for July 8, 1968, two days before my departure from the country. I didn’t have to fly any more combat missions, and I had been informed that the DFC had been approved. I was going home and would be a hero, finally receiving the award I had longed for for so long.
Since many of the officers were receiving decorations, the first sergeant was left in charge of the awards formation. Those of us who were recipients were out in front of the other men. I was second in line, next to the detachment commander, who was also receiving a DFC. This was the moment of glory I had been waiting for since childhood. This was the ceremony of grandeur envisioned in the dreams of my youth.
The commanding general’s helicopter touched down. His aide-de-camp scurried from the craft to talk to the first sergeant, as the first sergeant called us all to attention. The two men exchanged comments, then the sergeant took several steps and stood right in front of me. He saluted.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but your DFC has been downgraded. Take your place as fifth in formation.”
Pow! My dream was shattered. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. I had to bite my lower lip to make sure I was in the real world and not having a bad dream. I was angry and hurt. Was this the type of gratitude bestowed for dedicated service which I considered above and beyond the call of duty? I did an about face, took two steps forward, made a right face, and moved to my new location as fifth in formation.
As the detachment commander had his Distinguished Flying Cross pinned on his pocket, I had to fight back the tears. I was happy for my boss and his deserved recognition, but I was disappointed at my own situation. When the general came to me, I snapped a salute. He returned it and pinned another Air Medal with a “V” for valor onto my shirt, saying, “Captain, this represents a lot of flying. I respect you for your contribution and congratulate you.” My heart was filled with resentment. How could he do this to me? I choked out a half-hearted “Thank you, sir.” We saluted and he moved on.
As I stood there with those mixed up feelings, I asked the Lord why this had happened. Surely there must be a mistake! It wasn’t fair! Then my spirit became calm as the words of my patriarchal blessing came to mind once again, telling me not to let Satan keep me from growth and development, telling me that the Lord would try me to prove my worth. The Spirit spoke to my soul, telling me that God had kept his promise to me—I was returning to my loved ones unharmed, I still had work to do in this life, and God had preserved my life. “Seek not after your own heart,” the Spirit whispered, “for the praise and rewards of men.”
I have reflected upon these thoughts over the years as I have tried to keep my end of the bargain—that I would serve the Lord with all my heart. I realize that the Savior provided temporal and spiritual rescue for us all, and his reward was a wooden cross and a crown of thorns, with no “V” for valor. What right, then, did I have to feel disappointed that I hadn’t received earthly recognition for saving the lives of a handful of men and women? I am now satisfied that the opportunity to repent of my sins and work out my mortal probation is reward enough for anything I do in this life.

A fourteen-year-old girl I know has survived a serious bout with cancer. She knows now that she’ll never be able to bear children. She told me that the theme for the Young Women, which is “The Lord is the strength of my life” (Ps. 27:1), has helped her meet her test, and she is determined to become the very best teacher of children that Heavenly Father ever had. Find the principle, sisters. Live it! Reach for joy.

Lunch period was the worst. Polly and I ate at different times, so we had to eat alone. It was also embarrassing to have to bring a sack lunch. Every day I sat by myself, reading a book so I didn’t have to look up.

One day a girl from one of the tough groups sauntered over on a dare from her friends. Her heavily made-up eyes jeered at me.

“Whatcha readin’?” she said.

I could hear the laughter of her friends. My heart pounded. Maybe if I kept reading she would just leave.

“Is it good?” she tried again, turning to look at her friends. Loud laughter. I kept reading.

“Man, are you dumb,” she said as she walked away.

I was too embarrassed to mention the incident to my parents. I don’t think they ever realized I had no friends at school. I don’t know if it was just the clothes we wore or that we didn’t know exactly what to say or do to be like everyone else, but we never did feel like we fit in.

I wrote in my journal, “I don’t know what to wear. White socks and shoes are out in the winter, and I have the wrong kind of coat and boots. Styles are so different here!”

Church and home were the only two places where I felt accepted. The kids at church didn’t seem to care about my eerie eyewear or my outdated clothing. I loved activity nights. An industrious seamstress, I modeled several of my creations in an MIA fashion show. Another time I participated in an impromptu speech contest and did terribly, but no one seemed to mind. Virginia Webb became a good friend, but she attended a different junior high.

I began to live for weekends and the hours after school spent playing with my brothers and sisters. In Hawaii we had had scores of friends and rarely played together. But here my brothers and sisters became my closest friends. They were there when that long-awaited snow finally fell. We frolicked in it like kittens in catnip. We held our mouths open as it fell. Each flake was a miracle, every snowball another excuse to giggle.

Eventually it dawned on us that we were the biggest kids on the sledding hill across from our home. In Michigan sledding was only for kids. But Alan didn’t care. At age 16, he was six feet, five inches tall, and he loved sledding. Every day after school, he went sledding alongside the grade schoolers. They gawked at him, but since he was so much bigger, no one ever said a word.

The rest of us, still trying to fit in, bought used ice skates. I’d been a good roller skater in Hawaii and ice skating came easy. With all the ponds and lakes in Michigan, we never had to settle for endless circling in a stale old rink. I loved the exhilaration of skating hard and fast across a frozen lake.

In the middle of the winter, a package arrived from my Grandmother Marsh in Los Angeles. I caught my breath when Polly and I tore off the brown wrapping. Inside were two outfits, breathtakingly in style. Mine had a pink flowered top with knee socks to match. Polly’s was identical, except that it was blue. This was our big chance to show the kids at Forsythe Junior High that we weren’t such misfits after all. Boy, would they be surprised!

I was a little nervous about the color because this was no ordinary pink. It was a sizzling, shocking pink. But the outfit was so definitely “in” that I squelched my fear. I slowly hung my oversized plaid coat in my locker and wondered what the kids would think of me appearing in such style.

A sea of eyes followed my dazzling pink presence from my locker to my homeroom. Then the whispering began—but not whispers of envy or admiration, as I had secretly hoped.

“Look what she’s wearing.”

“Didn’t we already have Halloween?”

All day the laughter continued. Resentment and frustration built within me. If only I had a friend to walk with, it would be so much easier. If only somebody who knew what was acceptable would give me some hints. Repeatedly I had tried to fit in and failed. And now even Grandma’s outfit had betrayed me. After that I stopped trying to live by other people’s standards. I warned Polly, and she never even wore her new clothes.

I wish I could say that there was some magic turning point, that we discovered a key that made us popular, that we found friends at our school, and that we became leaders and trendsetters ourselves. Of course we didn’t. In a year the sabbatical was over, and we returned to Hawaii, our scores of friends, our waves and mountain fruit, our mild weather and perpetually green foliage. Never was I happier than when we returned to our beloved island.

And yet now, 20 years later, when I think of Michigan, I smile. With fondness I recall Alan running barefoot in the snow. I grin at the memory of Philip and me raking autumn leaves. My heart soars when I remember skimming across a frozen lake with Polly or strolling through the farmer’s market with my father. Tears come to my eyes when I think about the whole family piling into our cream-colored station wagon, off for a picnic in Kalamazoo.

It isn’t easy to move when you’re in junior high school. It’s even tougher when you’re poor and you’re exchanging a provincial paradise for a bustling college town. There were times when I was sure I would never make it.

But now, given some time and distance, I know what the secret was. I leaned on my family. And because of them I survived.

The missionary bearing his testimony was on crutches; he had injured his knee in a bicycle accident. He wanted to tell the other missionaries how much he loved his companion, to tell them how he had learned of a new dimension in love from this companion. Two or three weeks earlier he had been in an accident. The doctor had said he couldn’t ride his bike anymore and must stay off his leg. The mission president had decided to transfer him so his companion could keep on working. What good could he do when he couldn’t even ride a bicycle? His companion pleaded with the mission president not to break up the partnership yet. They were having success. He loved his incapacitated companion. They would find a way. “Please let us try!” he said. The mission president agreed to let them make the attempt.

Then the elder on crutches told us how they had solved their problem. He said his companion had connected their two bikes with a rope, and had pulled him all over the city for two weeks as they did their work. He said he had really learned what it was like for one man to love another.

Meilian says that Value Experiences are great because they carry over into everyday life. “At school I’m in a fashion merchandising class, and for one of our big projects we produced a fashion show,” she says. “Because we’d already talked about modesty as part of Personal Progress, I chose to wear modest clothes for the whole thing. The experiences that go with each value help you have a better understanding of how to turn values into actions.”

On a recent trip to New Zealand, I met with a mission president who wore a beautiful tie tack with the inspiring CTR, or “Choose the Right,” emblem. “When I was a bishop,” he explained, “I had an interview with a good-looking young man who was to receive the Aaronic Priesthood. He told me a special story. He related to me how one day after school, he and some of his friends found a package of cigarettes. They decided to go down on the cliff alongside some large boulders and smoke them. They lit up, and the young man said that as he was looking down at the smoldering cigarette that he held between his fingers, he saw his CTR ring. He quickly put the cigarette out and made a very wise choice—to never, ever do such a thing again. He chose to choose the right, as he remembered what the emblem stood for. From this story I gained a special love for the CTR emblem.

Sometimes it’s difficult for new members to stay rooted in the gospel when they don’t have a complete assurance of what the future holds. Learning about this aspect of faith for Mei-ling, a homemaker in Taiwan, involved the gospel admonition to bring children into the world, a challenging step because “many in my culture have one child or have a pet instead,” she observes. Each pregnancy has required her to have faith to step into the unknown and ignore sometimes intense criticism from relatives and the culture at large.
Often, moving forward requires stepping into the unknown, which can be intimidating to those new in the faith. It requires developing trust that the Lord will help them along the path. Having unease and uncertainty, Elder Bednar assures, is a normal part of our learning and growing process, but sometimes our steps into the unknown—whether they involve forming a family or returning to participation in the Church—can be particularly daunting because the witness comes after the trial of our faith (see Ether 12:6). Mei-ling and her husband received such a witness after creating a family. “We are happy and so grateful for our children,” she says. “We’ve learned to live frugally, to help and love each other. I’m grateful we brought them into the world.”

I chose to arrange the next two family home evenings, focusing on faith. I started off by preparing the lessons and trying to learn the chords on the guitar for the songs we would sing.
The first lesson was on faith. I asked what we as a family could change to grow our faith. They replied, “Praying, studying scriptures, fasting, going to church,” and so on. We agreed that there are many things you can do to grow your faith, but the most important thing is to actually do them. It’s important that you act in order to strengthen your faith.
The second lesson was on spiritual gifts. We talked about what faith and spiritual gifts had to do with each other.
Our faith-themed family home evenings went really well. We improved some things in our family; we had fun and tried not to just get it over with. We felt the Spirit together as a family.
Riza S., 16, Roskilde, Denmark

Troy Jackson, Jaren Hope, and Andrew Allan are bearers of the Aaronic Priesthood who were called by an inspired bishop to team teach a family history class in their ward. These young men are representative of so many of you in their eagerness to learn and desire to serve.
Troy stated, “I used to come to church and just sit there, but now I realize that I need to go home and do something. We can all do family history.”
Jaren reported that as he learned more about family history, he realized “that these were not just names but real people. I became more and more excited about taking the names to the temple.”
And Andrew commented, “I have taken to family history with a love and vigor I did not know I could muster. As I prepared each week to teach, I was often nudged by the Holy Spirit to act and try some of the methods taught in the lesson. Before, family history was a scary thing. But aided by the Spirit I was able to step up to my calling and help many people in our ward.”

This is the world Mike Lee stepped into at age 16, when his father sent him out to learn about work.
Now, before you start picturing Mike’s father as some sort of hardhearted Captain Bligh, let’s set the record straight. His father’s act may have seemed at the time almost cruel, but in truth it was an act of love.
It was 1979. “I’d been having a lot of trouble in school, a lot of trouble in everything,” Mike explained. “I wasn’t a bad kid. I just didn’t know what I wanted to do.”
Mike’s father, W. Boyd Lee, was serving at the time as president of the Norfolk Virginia Stake. He loved his son and worried about him a lot. “Mike’s mother and I prayed constantly. I kept feeling that Mike should work on Spencers’ boat.”
Ira Spencer, Jr., a good friend of Brother Lee, was the branch president of the Manteo (North Carolina) Branch. Ira owned a fishing trawler that his son Duke piloted out of Wanchese, a little town near Kitty Hawk, where the Wright brothers first flew a plane. Ira and his wife Shirley also ran a seafood restaurant in Nags Head, and maybe Mike could help out in the kitchen when the ship was in port. Ira and Duke enjoyed having LDS crew members, because they had proven to be honest and dependable, and they didn’t use foul language or smoke on the ship.
“Still, he was only 16, and I didn’t want to impose on the Spencers,” Brother Lee explained. He talked the idea over with Ira.
“Mike seemed like a good boy,” Ira said. “Sometimes you’ve just got to give a boy incentive, and on his own he’ll move from where he is to where he should be.”
So Mike became a fisherman on the War Cry, a boat named after a line in the hymn “Hope of Israel”: “Sound the war cry, ‘Watch and pray!’” (Hymns, no. 64).
“It’s the hardest work I’ve ever done,” Mike said. “It’s not only skill that’s involved, but also a strong stomach and a desire to keep going. A lot of people can work hard for eight hours, but when you’re working almost twenty-four hours a day over a long period of time, you learn about endurance.”
At first Mike was in charge of small but important details. He had to make sure tools were always returned to the right place. He helped push trash fish overboard when the sorting was done. When the boat went after scallops, he learned how to cut the shells open and slice out the edible muscle.
“He was kind of timid at first, but pretty quick he showed us all what a good worker he was,” Duke said. “It got to where we’d trust him to run anything. He knew the gear and could do anything the rest of us could do.”
The basic crew included three returned missionaries, two others just getting ready to leave, a recent convert, captain Duke (who served a mission in Brazil), and an inactive prospective elder. “Working together, we developed quite a camaraderie,” Mike said. By the end of the summer the inactive member wasn’t inactive anymore, and Mike was ready for school again.
“Working on the boat gave me a chance to sort out my life,” Mike explained. “Even though you’re working, you’ve got plenty of time to think, and I thought a lot about the future. I thought about college, about a mission, about my family.”
He also said that being out at sea “made me love the ocean, made me respect its power. It helped me appreciate what God has created, the same way that getting out in nature helps you. It’s just a different kind of nature. The sea makes you appreciate the world that you’re a part of.”

I want to mention one other experience. Laurie said that I love being a grandfather, and that’s absolutely true. We just got back from a two-year stint at the Church Office Building at the Commissioner of Church Education office, and right after we relocated to Utah, our oldest daughter had her first child, which is our first grandchild. We were in the hospital, and after the baby was born, we were invited in. I had just finished four years as a young single adult ward bishop, so I had had a fair amount of experience with the issue that you might expect would come across the desk of a YSA ward bishop. As I walked into the room and saw my daughter and her husband holding this new baby, so fresh from our Heavenly Father’s presence in this perfect little body, ready to start her eternal journey here on the earth, the Spirit whispered to me, “This is why the Law of Chastity.”
It was a powerful experience for me. It’s so wonderful to watch two loving parents take a child and make efforts to teach them about the Gospel, the Savior, and Heavenly Father’s plan for them. Evie, our granddaughter, just turned two last week, and Erin told us that they were talking in Family Home Evening about the Savior. Evie stopped what she was doing for a moment and said, “Jesus. I like that guy.”
It’s wonderful to see you brothers and sisters making faithful decisions to have children and teach them the proper way so that they can return to their Heavenly Father. You will be so blessed, I promise, by making these sacrifices.

Fortunately, there are seldom-reported but marvelous-to-consider stories of great patience. Recently I attended the funeral of a lifelong friend. His son told a beautiful story of parental patience. When the son was in his youth, his dad owned a motorcycle dealership. One day they received a shipment of shiny new motorcycles, and they lined them all up in the store. The boy did what every boy would like to do, and he climbed up on the closest one. He even started it up. Then, when he figured he had pushed his luck far enough, he jumped off. To his dismay, his dismount knocked the first bike down. Then, like a string of dominoes, they all went down, one after another. His dad heard the commotion and looked out from behind the partition where he was working. Slowly, smiling, he said, “Well, Son, we had better fix one up and sell it, so we can pay for the rest of them.”

I think my friend’s response personifies parental patience.

Last year, as some of you baseball fans may recall, we almost had another .400 hitter in Rod Carew of the Minnesota Twins; he was there for most of the season and tailed off near the end. Do you know that the last .400 hitter the Major League has produced was Ted Williams in 1941? At the beginning of the final week of that season—and I remember it well because I followed it very carefully—Ted’s batting average was over .400, as it had been for several weeks. His manager asked if he wanted to be excused from playing ball the last week in order to protect the .400 average, and Ted replied—and I have always appreciated that great champion—“If I am going to be a .400 hitter, I am going to earn the honor fair and square.”

Ted’s batting average that last week went down. Then came the final afternoon of play, and Ted’s average stood at .399955 on the last day of the season—not quite .400, but the statistics rounded out would show him as a .400 hitter. Sportswriters, baseball fans, and the manager of the team advised him not to play that afternoon. They did not want Ted to take a chance of missing out on becoming the ninth member of that wonderful club. He replied—and I remember it well—“If I’m going to be a .400 hitter, I want more than my toenails on the line.”

The baseball park in Philadelphia was jammed. Each time Ted Williams came to bat the huge crowd sat in tense silence, almost afraid to breathe for fear of upsetting him. At each hit he made, the crowd roared its approval. The noise almost rocked Philadelphia when the final game ended and Ted’s batting average registered .406. How is that for stretching a little bit further? What a great quality!

Our family recently acquired a personal computer, and I enthusiastically set about learning to use it. Having artistic interests, one thing that I found fascinating was a paint program. The first day I had great fun using circles and lines of varying sizes to create simple pictures. The magic of computers was mine!
A couple of days later, as I was exploring the various functions of this same program, I discovered a wealth of type styles and sizes that I could call up and reproduce on the screen. Then I found some preset designs and borders. Now I could make signs and posters. I had arrived!
Eventually, I found in the manual some detailed pictures that could be created with my program. I tried but found it impossible to reproduce them because of the clumsiness of drawing with the mouse attachment. I decided that I must lack some basic coordination gene and resolved to stick to what I already could do.
Then I learned about a command that would magnify an area of any picture so that it could be added to or taken from one small dot at a time. With this knowledge I finally, painstakingly created a picture that was the equal of any example in the manual.
I am still learning new ways to use my computer. But, more importantly, my experience with it has convinced me of the need to continue daily in learning new ways to make the gospel a living, directing force in my life.

The challenges that face us and our families as disciples of Christ are somewhat different than those of Joshua’s Israelites. Let me illustrate with an experience. Our family lived for many years in the state of Florida. Because Florida has a high concentration of sand, lawns there are planted with a large broadleaf grass we call Saint Augustine. A formidable enemy of a Florida lawn is a small, brown insect called a mole cricket.

One evening as my neighbor and I stood on the front steps, he noticed a little bug crossing my sidewalk. “You better spray your lawn,” he warned. “There goes a mole cricket.” I had sprayed the lawn with insecticide not too many weeks previously, and I hardly felt that I had the time or money to do it again so soon.

In the light of the next morning, I examined my lawn closely. It was lush and beautifully green. I looked down into the grass to see if I could see any of the little bugs. I could see none. I remember thinking, “Well, maybe that little mole cricket was just passing through my yard on the way to my neighbor’s yard.”

I watched my lawn for more than a week, looking for signs of invaders, but none was evident. I congratulated myself that I had not overreacted to my neighbor’s warning.

The story, however, has a sad ending. I came out the front door one morning, about 10 days after the conversation with my neighbor. Shockingly, as if it had happened overnight, brown spots covered my lawn. I ran to the garden store, bought the insecticide, and sprayed immediately, but it was too late. The lawn was ruined, and to return it to its former state required a new crop of sod, long hours of work, and large expense.

My neighbor’s warning was central to my lawn’s welfare. He saw things I could not see. He knew something I did not know. He knew that mole crickets live underground and are active only at night, making my daytime examinations ineffective. He knew that mole crickets did not eat the leaves of the grass but rather found nourishment in the roots. He knew that these little inch-long creatures could eat a lot of roots before I would ever see the effect above the ground. I paid a dear price for my smug independence.

I’d have to say that it all started with a bad attitude. When I was about ten years old, I formed the opinion that most people around me weren’t as “good” as they thought they were. This feeling of disillusionment grew as I grew.
While there were other youth in the ward, even others my age, who enjoyed church and got something out of it, my friends and I became the group that caused so many problems for their Sunday School teachers that the teachers would quit. And we were proud of making them quit.
The members of the ward really didn’t approve of our attitude toward them and toward life, and some of them just gave up trying to help us. Some did not. We had a very patient bishop and some great leaders. Most of them, however, we considered to be hypocrites, and we used what we saw as their weaknesses as an excuse for our own behavior.
In my early teenage years, this same group of boys and girls excelled in scholarship, athletics, and popularity. We had a lot of fun and decided we didn’t need and didn’t want the Church. When “forced” to enroll in seminary, most of us managed to get ourselves expelled.
We didn’t really give in to peer pressure—we exerted it. We were among the first of our age group to start drinking. We were the first to smoke marijuana and experiment with other drugs. We saw the chance to make some money in it, and so we involved others to increase our own profits by dealing in drugs. We were living a life of luxury. Immorality also became a part of our lives.
Some of my friends resisted. They said we were stupid, that there was no way they’d get involved. But by the time we got out of high school a few years ago, only one hadn’t given in. He took a lot of verbal abuse and pressure, but he remained strong. I have more respect for him than for any other guy my age.
We went to more parties than anyone else in the school. The scriptures say, “Ye shall know them by their fruits” (Matt. 7:16). I don’t know all the fruits of our behavior, and I’m thankful for that. I do know many of them, though. Many of my friends that I grew up with, even some top students, leaders, and athletes, quit school. One committed suicide. Most have spent time in court, and some in jail, for a variety of things. I knew a lot of girls who had babies or abortions while in high school. Others became prostitutes.
I quit taking drugs when I had some serious health problems. I almost died a few times—many times actually, both from overdosing on drugs and driving while I was unable to control my actions. One night I was bored, so I took every kind of stimulant I could find and then I sat and watched television while my pulse dropped to 20 beats per minute. I forced myself to stay awake, because I felt that if I went to sleep I wouldn’t wake up.
In order to take control of my life, I had to leave my friends. Afterwards I tried to help them quit too. A few of my old friends came with me, but most really didn’t care anymore.
After I quit drugs, I turned to alcohol. I can honestly say I was a high school alcoholic. When I decided I wanted to quit, I couldn’t—at least not by myself. I didn’t care enough about myself to do what I knew I needed to do.
Then I became close friends with a good, active Latter-day Saint girl. She couldn’t understand what I was experiencing, but she did know I was honestly trying to get out of the mess I was in. It hurt her when I slipped back into my bad habits. I finally quit drinking because I knew it hurt her, and I knew I couldn’t lie to her.
Keeping my morals straight was so hard under my weakened condition that I avoided any social contacts with girls except with ones as good as my Latter-day Saint friend.
I hadn’t prayed for years, but I finally had to go to my knees. I was afraid to, because I knew my guilt. That first time, honestly wanting to change and repent, was the biggest turning point in my life.
I tried to pray, but I couldn’t. I started to cry, the first time in years, and I felt like I was being torn apart inside. I fell over, still in a kneeling position, and my body went into convulsions. I kept praying in my mind, “Please help me!”
I almost fell unconscious. Then the physical pain passed, and I just lay there crying. I had a long way to go to clean up my life, but I knew that the first step was the hardest. I didn’t understand the Atonement, but the feeling of peace and comfort that engulfed me left no doubt that it was real.
There was a lot more. You see, chemical substances that are used to cover or bury emotions tend to cripple a person emotionally, because you stop growing. I recovered pretty well physically and mentally. I started progressing spiritually. But emotionally I was a mess. The girl who helped me so much for so long didn’t understand that, and I lost her as a friend while trying to overcome the scars of the past. She saw the outward changes and thought that was the hard part. The hardest struggle was inside me, emotionally. My pride was a fierce adversary, and the painful memories sometimes sent me into depression.
I still have a long way to go, and a lot of work to do. I am now trying to help other people with similar problems. It has taken a few years so far to get to where I am, and I’ve done a lot of fasting and praying. When I look back, the memories hurt. I know now that we learn through experience, from our successes and our mistakes. I just wish I could have learned more without the burdens and scars that came with my method of learning—mostly from my mistakes.
I put myself through a lot of pain, and my spirit cries out in pain when I see others following me. Young men, young women, think about yourselves and your friends. Before you give in to temptation—and believe me, pride and a bad attitude are temptations—think about the effect your actions will have on others, and on yourself in the years to come.
It is always possible to repent and come back. But it is so much better not to begin. Please, please, don’t give in. You will never regret staying pure, keeping the Word of Wisdom, coming home on time—the rules are there for a reason. I have seen the results of ignoring the rules, of saying, “That won’t happen to me.” My friends and I knew that no matter how clean a girl was morally, if we could get her drunk or get her to use drugs, she would eventually give in.
The first step down is the easiest, and the first step back is the hardest. When you’re on your way down, there are a lot of people who are eager to help you, but the farther down you go, the more alone you will be when and if you start back.
I have gained a strong testimony of the truth of the gospel. My fellow Latter-day Saints are still not perfect, but I finally realized that their imperfection doesn’t make the gospel any less true. It just shows that they, too, are human.
I know the power and reality of the adversary, but now I know the power and reality of the Lord and of the priesthood, and I know that “they that be with us are more than they that be with them” (2 Kgs. 6:15–17).
Never be ashamed to be innocent. I admire and envy people who still have their innocence. Once innocence is lost, it is gone. Please, be strong. More people than you will ever know are counting on you—your friends, family, and unborn children. Don’t disappoint them.