Gospel Story Finder

My sister’s name is Buster.
There’s no need to adjust your glasses or blink your eyes. You read correctly. My sister’s name is Buster. Actually, her name is Anne Marie, but when she was five years old, she announced at dinner one night that she preferred to be called Buster because it was a good boy’s name.
“But you’re a girl!” my mother pointed out.
“That isn’t my fault,” retorted Anne Marie, now Buster.
“I rather like girls,” my father said.
“Sure, you can say that because you’re not a girl!” she pouted. “I want to be tough!”
“We are not calling you Buster and that’s that. Anne Marie is a perfectly lovely name. It was my great-grandmother’s name.” Mother thought the issue was closed.
It wasn’t.
My father gave in first. Frankly, he’s a sucker where daughters are concerned, and if Anne Marie wanted to be called Buster, he would call her Buster.
She wore me down next. She wouldn’t talk to me at all unless forced to: “Go ask Susan if she’s finished with the scissors,” mother would say to her. She would stare at me in the left ear and ask coldly if I had the scissors. I got tired of the snub. The day I began calling her Buster she beamed at me and said, “Thanks, kid.” I just about fell on my face laughing.
Mother was more determined. She thought the name Buster was a travesty. If Buster didn’t answer when mother called “Anne Marie,” mother would make her sit in her room for half an hour and then demand an apology. Buster apologized this way: “I’m sorry I disobeyed.”
“Next time will you come when I call?” mother would ask.
“Will you call me Buster?” Buster was brazen. I have seen my mother shake her fists at the air and in a strangled voice say, “What have I done to deserve this?”
After a long while, mother also succumbed and called her Buster. At first she hissed it to show her disapproval, but later she said it quite naturally as if she herself had chosen the name.
So it was that my mother, who grew up with ballet lessons and felt most at home with chintz draperies and delicate Queen Anne furnishings, had to raise Buster, who sat mostly in trees or on garage rooftops. Mother collected recipes. Buster collected bottlecaps and baseball cards. Mother wanted to own a hundred antique dolls. Buster said it would be nice to have eleventy Tonka trucks like Billy Weinberg.
One of the more unnerving events of the following few years was when Buster, unilaterally, cut off her two pigtails that had grown to her waist. I thought we’d have to give mother mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But mother learned patience and long-suffering and, like Job, waited for the right moment, hoping yet to instill in her daughter Buster some kind of feminine identity, however modest.
The “moment” came when Buster was 13. The bishop asked her to give a five-minute talk in sacrament meeting on one of her ancestors. Buster was disgusted.
“What a can of worms!” she exclaimed after telling my parents about the assignment. They were eating ice cream in the kitchen.
“Who are you going to talk about?” asked my father.
Buster shrugged and rolled her eyes back in her head as only she could do.
“Why don’t you talk about my Great-Grandfather Wheatley? He was a real pioneer and went on three missions for the Church. I don’t like looking at the whites of your eyes, Buster,” he said somewhat irritably.
“Sorry,” she returned laconically and clanked her spoon into her dish. “Everyone in the ward already knows about old Ezra Wheatly. You’ve talked about him before, and besides he’s a …”
Bore is, I believe, what she had in mind there but she evidently thought better of it and after a pause said, “He’s a pioneer. Everybody talks about his old pioneer ancestors. Don’t we have any ancestors who weren’t pioneering it all the time?”
I thought my father was going to roll his eyes back in his head, but he restrained himself.
Tactfully, my mother handed my father a plate of cookies and turning to Buster said, “Why don’t you tell them about your Great-Great-Grandmother Anne Marie McIlhenny. She wasn’t a pioneer.”
“She was a wrestler!” My father lost all cool.
“Was she? Was she really?” Buster was ecstatic.
“Not exactly,” corrected my mother, giving my father a try-not-to-help-me-look. “But she did set up an athletic program for the girls in her town. They competed in track events, arm wrestling,” she eyed my father, “and soccer.”
“Did she live around here?” Buster remained interested.
“No, in Nova Scotia, outside a city called Yarmouth.”
“Was she a professional athlete?”
“No, she taught school.”
Buster’s face fell.
“But she loved sports!” my mother continued anxiously. “She thought girls should be allowed to enjoy and participate in sports as much as boys. Wait a minute and I’ll get the book of remembrance. There’s a picture of her in there and a story of her life written by her daughter.” Mother left the room and returned shortly with a large black volume opened up to the picture of Anne Marie McIlhenny. She was a pretty woman wearing a lace dress.
“She doesn’t look like any athlete there!” complained Buster.
“Oh she was feminine, but she was strong.” My mother made a ridiculous looking fist. “Read her story,” she urged. “She did all kinds of amazing things, yet she remained feminine too!” Mother had to have her nickel’s worth of preaching. Her face reddened with excitement. Here, at last, was the opportunity to teach Buster that one could be feminine and enjoy tree climbing too. Maybe she would even drop the name Buster!
My father winked at me.
“You were named after her, you know,” my mother was saying to Buster. “Of course, we didn’t know you would be so much like her then—when you were a baby, I mean. See, you even look like her. If you had a lace collar like that, you’d look exactly like her!” There was a remarkable resemblance.
Buster was skeptical but took the book of remembrance to her bedroom.
On Saturday morning mother, armed with pen and pencil, went into Buster’s bedroom to help her with her talk. To her surprise, Buster didn’t want help.
“Are you sure?” mother asked.
“Positive,” Buster replied. “I know what I want to say. I can write it myself. Did you know,” she raised her eyebrows, “that Anne Marie McIlhenny finished building a barn with her own two hands after her husband broke both his legs?”
“Yes, I know.”
“She was sensational,” Buster muttered, forgetting mother was there. “Simply sensational.”
“She doesn’t want any help,” mother told father and me in the kitchen, “and she thinks Anne Marie McIlhenny was sensational!” She clapped her hands. “Maybe she’ll want us to call her Anne Marie again. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
My father laughed and shook his head. “Don’t count on it,” he grinned.
Mother went downtown to celebrate Buster’s “growth into womanhood” as she dramatically put it. Her celebration took the form of buying Buster a new dress to wear for her talk. Buster hated dresses, especially new ones.
“Did you know,” Buster began as mother unwrapped the box, “that Anne Marie McIlhenny had her own horse and rode bareback whenever she could? And she loved the wind.”
“I’d forgotten that,” said my mother. “How do you like this dress?” She held it up. It was, every inch, white eyelet. I kid you not.
I thought of Anne Marie McIlhenny in her lace dress.
Buster stared at the dress for what seemed an hour and a half.
“It’s okay,” she said finally.
Mother knew good luck when it clobbered her on the head like that and quickly hung the dress in the closed before Buster changed her mind. She hummed steadily through dinner. She was victorious. Here was Buster giving a talk all by herself and about her own great-great-grandmother and not her usual favorite—Goliath. And she was going to wear white eyelet doing it. Mother was sure that any moment now Buster would demand that we call her Anne Marie!
That evening Buster did not want to rehearse her talk for us. She said she could do it herself. She sat on the garage roof and practiced. I could see her lips moving from the kitchen window.
“Do you think it’s safe to let Buster give a talk without our hearing it first?” my father asked.
“I think she can handle it.” murmured my mother. “After all, she’s Anne Marie McIlhenny’s great-great-granddaughter.”
On Sunday I sat with my parents in sacrament meeting. Buster sat on the stand dressed in white eyelet, as feminine as orange blossoms, and looking for all the world like our great-great-grandmother. I noticed my mother’s foot swing back and forth in nervous rhythm. My father’s face was deadpan, but he swallowed frequently. Finally, the bishop introduced Buster as one of the prettiest Scouts in the ward. My mother winced slightly.
Buster stood behind the pulpit without any notes and in a clear voice began to speak. “I would like to tell you about my great-great-grandmother, Buster McIlhenny!” Then she looked down at my mother’s stricken face and said to her alone, “A lady as strong and fine as Great-Great-Grandmother McIlhenny deserves a good name like Buster, and since she shared her name with me, I want to share my name with her. And one day,” she added softly, “maybe I’ll even be as neat a lady as she was.”

One fall afternoon, we were playing in our friend’s backyard when we decided to take a shortcut through a neighboring pasture. That pasture held two valuable calves. As we crawled through the fence, the calves became excited, and the next thing we knew, the red calf had somehow jumped over the barbed-wire fence. We tried to get it back into the pasture but couldn’t. Two other neighbors couldn’t, either. We were scared.
The calves belonged to Sister Thomas, the second counselor in our Primary, and her husband, a very tall man. She was notified, and our hearts were beating wildly when she came. It took all our courage to tell her what happened and apologize. She told us that although we shouldn’t have been in the pasture, she was proud of us for our honesty in admitting that we were to blame.
Some of our dads made us go see Brother Thomas when he got home from work. He saw our tears and said he was glad that we told the truth and were growing up with integrity. He said that our parents were teaching us correct principles, and that we were to be commended for not being afraid to stand for the right. We learned from this experience to always take responsibility for our actions.
Meche Steele, age 11Marci Standsfield, age 11Samantha Newton, age 11Jessica Fridell, age 10Goshen, Utah

The darkness seemed to come out of nowhere. I started feeling anxious and depressed about all the unresolved issues in my life. I lost confidence in myself, I began questioning my faith, and the list goes on. It seemed like even small inconveniences were blown out of proportion, and my good life was suddenly catastrophic.
I felt like I was fighting an internal battle with demons inside my head.
Darkness seemed to engulf me. And as these feelings consistently got worse, I started asking myself things like, “What if I wasn’t here anymore? Would people even care?” And the demons in my mind would answer, “You’re just dust in the universe. No one would even notice if you were gone.”
These thoughts paralyzed me with fear.
But all while I was dealing with this in my mind, I acted normal. I talked to my family like everything was fine—out of fear, I locked my feelings away from others. I felt like I couldn’t share how catastrophic my mind was.
I was also in denial that something was actually wrong. I told myself I couldn’t have depression. I didn’t want to admit it that I needed help. I was so afraid that if people knew what I was thinking and feeling, they would reject me or think I was weak or crazy. I felt so ashamed for being unable to get out of the dark.
I went on like this until one day, I found comfort from Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s words. He said: “If you had appendicitis, God would expect you to seek a priesthood blessing and get the best medical care available. So too with emotional disorders. Our Father in Heaven expects us to use all of the marvelous gifts He has provided in this glorious dispensation” (“Like a Broken Vessel,” Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2013, 41).
This touching message helped me finally accept that I was facing the reality of mental illness and that there is no shame in needing help. Most importantly, I was reminded that I am not weak and that I could be healed.
That night, I said the most sincere prayer I have ever said in my life. Sobbing, I humbled myself and poured out my heart to Heavenly Father. I asked Him for guidance to know what I should do.
After that prayer, I felt prompted to talk to my bishop. He was kind and understanding—I shouldn’t have expected anything less. And he immediately helped me feel peace and great comfort from my loving Father in Heaven. He helped me know that the Savior understood all I was going through, even if I didn’t understand everything myself. He also helped me use the tools I needed.
I learned that mental health issues can be made lighter by faith and by the healing power of Jesus Christ, of course, but that healing sometimes needs to be supplemented by other resources too. I have felt strength and hope and light come from both spiritual and temporal tools. Here are a few practices that bring light into my life each day that you can try too:
Start and end your day with a sincere prayer—ask specific questions, seek guidance, and express gratitude.
Know and accept that it’s OK to be sad and cry sometimes, just don’t let sadness consume you! Talk to a trusted friend or a loved one to help lift you up on hard days.
When you go to bed at night, be proud of yourself for making it through another day! Remind yourself that you are strong.
Read scriptures and general conference talks or even uplifting self-help books to sharpen your mind and your faith in Jesus Christ.
Open up to your trusted friends, family members, or your bishop for support. He can help you find a counselor if needed.
Know there is nothing wrong with seeking professional help! Professionals can be very helpful in learning to overcome and manage mental health struggles. Taking advantage of the free counseling program at my university was very helpful to me.
Don’t be ashamed to see a doctor or of taking antidepressant medications—these are tools Heavenly Father has provided for us to heal.
Do family history and temple work to help you remember that others beyond the veil are praying for your healing too! Elder Dale G. Renlund’s talk, “Family History and Temple Work: Sealing and Healing” gives more insight into promised blessings of doing temple work.
For so long I didn’t think it was possible to hear the voice of the Spirit or to feel God’s love in the midst of depression. I felt like I was constantly floating in an abyss of darkness. But a little glimmer of light from the Savior helped me hold on to hope. And by opening up about my struggles, I’ve learned that many of my friends also experience mental health struggles—and we have helped assure each other that we are not alone.
Who I was before I turned to Heavenly Father for help and who I am today are two very different people. I wouldn’t have the faith and testimony I do in Jesus Christ today if it wasn’t for that period of darkness I went through. I am beyond grateful for the light that He brings into my life that helps me defeat the demons and fears in my mind. I know that He suffered for all our afflictions and that He understands exactly what we are going through (see Alma 7:11–14) and with Him, we can always hold on to hope and light.

To you who are bishops and stake presidents, how I wish you could have been part of the meeting I attended with a handful of regional representatives. We heard Elder L. Tom Perry as he compared those who are prospective elders and those who are not active—the future great-grandfathers—to a thermometer. We were reminded that there are many of those individuals who are more than just warm. They would come back if someone would just encourage and show the way.

I would like to tell you of a stake conference I was assigned to attend. It was a reorganization; the stake president and his counselors would be released, and a new presidency would be called. The stake president was young and had served wonderfully for almost 10 years. He was a spiritual giant, but he was also an administrative giant. In my personal interview with him, he told me how he had delegated much of the responsibility for the stake functions to his counselors and to the high council and had thus freed himself to interview those who needed encouragement. Individuals and couples were invited to come to his office. There he got to know them, counseled with them, and invited them to do better, to put their lives in order, and to receive the blessings available to those who follow the Lord. He helped them by putting them in the care of a capable leader, a teacher who helped them to understand the beauties of the doctrine. Then he told me that in these interviews he would often ask if they would like a blessing. “I have placed my hands on the heads of many members of the stake,” he said.
The next day in the general session of the stake conference, I doubt I have ever seen so many tears—not because they felt the president should not be released, but for the deep love of a young stake president who had blessed their lives. I felt prompted to ask, “How many of you have had the hands of the president on your heads?” I was amazed at the number of people who raised their hands. I thought to myself at the time, “How many of these people will bless the name of this great man, not only now but throughout the eternities?” Yes, these will be the great-grandfathers who will, because of this loving leader, leave a legacy of generations of thousands who will call him blessed.

When we see the effect one person can have on the lives of so many, it perhaps is no wonder that the Lord reminded us, “Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God” (D&C 18:10).

I pray we all might consider what we can do individually to assist those who will be the future great-grandparents, whether a little child, a teenager, or an adult, so that each will leave a righteous legacy of those who know and love the Lord. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“I’m just a man like you,” the voice replied. “I’m in an adjacent chamber. When I lived on Earth I was called Desmond Jeffress.”
“Desmond Jeffress?”
“My, but that is sweet. That’s the first time I’ve heard my name spoken in more than 300 years.”
“You’ve been in space that long?” I asked, gasping at so profound a claim. Only the reality of hyperspace would allow such a thing.
The voice simply answered, “Yes.”
Looking directly at me with soft, brown eyes, he said, “I’m dying. I’ve lived more than 300 years, and I’ve barely an hour left.”
“I’m sure,” he responded. “That’s why I sent the SOS. I didn’t want to die alone, and, more important, I didn’t want to have lived in vain.”
“Three centuries before you were born I began my chronicle of the universe. Though there are countless planets, stars, and galaxies that I have never approached, I have nevertheless chronicled a total of 237 galaxies with 100 trillion stars and 600 trillion planets. I was able to visit exactly 200,000 of those planets, if only for a moment. If it sounds like I’ve been busy, I have. Never for an instant have I been idle. My last wish was to see all that I have learned safely delivered into another human’s hands. Since that is now assured, I should be able to die knowing that my life was not in vain. Still … still, something is not right.” He paused a moment, wheezing slightly. “I should feel at peace, but instead I’m more anxious than before.”
“Do you know why?” I asked.
“I believe,” he said, “that my mind is still troubled on one matter, on one foolish little matter.”
“What is that?”
“I had,” the old man recalled, “before I went into space, been somewhat of an atheist. I’ve always been analytic and cannot accept anything as true until it has been proven by experimentation. Not long after my voyages began, I found myself believing in God. I had become aware of a pattern, of a design in the universe, and observing mankind’s potential to control it, I felt a relationship, a descendency if you will, with some remarkably infinite power, maybe even a living, tangible being.
“From then on all of my experiments and voyages, of which my journals and chronicles became but by-products, were whole-hearted efforts to prove the existence and nature of God. All my knowledge was continually applied to this single purpose. I was determined to prove God, so that I could know, and not just feel, that he lives.
“However, despite all of my efforts, the most powerful evidence was nothing more than a strong indication of what I believed. It always left room for doubt.
“I’ve been almost everywhere and seen almost everything, and still have no proof that God exists. I’m a scientist believing something with no definite proof of its validity. That is my anxiety.”
“Have you ever asked God?” I inquired.
“How is that done?” he replied.
I then proceeded to bear my testimony to him. My testimony of God, that he is the Creator, that he is everyone’s Father in Heaven, of the premortal existence, of the plan of salvation, and of the atonement of Christ, and that Jesus is the Only Begotten Son of God; my testimony of all these things fell from my lips with more power than it ever had before.
We talked. In the short time available, our conversation must have touched upon nearly every principle of the gospel.
I told him that I did not just believe the things I’d said. I explained that I knew them by the power of the Holy Ghost, through prayer, that being the only way that anyone could know.
He then prayed one of the most fervent prayers that I’ve ever heard. He ignored my presence in the room as the words of supplication rolled smoothly off from his tongue, and when he ended his prayer, he knew! One quick glance at his tear-washed eyes and it was clear: he knew!
He looked up, right at me, and he said, “Young man, contained in this spacecraft is knowledge accumulated from more than three centuries of constant research, as I traveled from one galaxy to another, and never has it meant more to me than it does now.”
His eyes held mine in a firm stare as he continued, “The knowledge that you have shared with me for the last hour is more important than all the rest of the knowledge I’ve gathered put together. Thank you,” he said.
The moment that he finished uttering those words his final breath wheezed from his lungs. Silence permeated the air.

It occurred when this most treasured, little son was nearly three years old. One day, suddenly and without warning, he stopped breathing and fell to the floor, apparently lifeless. My husband was not home, and I called my ten-year-old daughter, Nancy, to get help as I carried him to the bedroom. As I worked to revive him, I literally, cried out unto the Lord. I begged him to spare our only son. I promised that I would dedicate myself to training him up to be an instrument in the hands of God if he would be spared. The police arrived with their emergency equipment. I continued in fervent, vocal prayer to the Lord, petitioning him to restore our little boy. The doctor arrived. Just as a stimulant was to be injected directly into his heart as a final emergency measure, he cried. My prayers had been answered, but I was to receive further testimony of this in a most unexpected way.
The next morning, our son climbed on his daddy’s knee. “I was sitting on the lap of Jesus,” he said. Then he went on, “He looked into my eyes. I was so happy. I wanted to stay there with him, but he told me I had to go back home to you.” Even now, twenty-four years later, our son remembers vividly the reciprocal love he experienced during his brief “step out of time.” He is vigorous and well, living with his lovely wife and a little son of his own as he continues to serve the Lord.

In 1985, Elder Russell M. Nelson asked the Czech government to officially recognize the Church. He was told that a Czech citizen had to ask. He and Elder Hans B. Ringger went to the home of Brother Snederfler and asked him if he would make the request. Despite the possibility of imprisonment—or even death—Brother Snederfler responded, “I will go. I will do it! We will do whatever is needed. This is for the Lord, and His work is more important than our freedom or life.”** The members of the Church fasted and prayed for Brother Snederfler, whom the government brought in for questioning every month after he made the request.

On February 21, 1990, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was officially recognized. The members could now worship without fear. Missionaries returned to teach the gospel to the Czech people. And Elder Russell M. Nelson went to a wooded area near Karlstejn Castle and rededicated the land to the preaching of the gospel. It was a time of great joy, especially for the Czech pioneers who saw the long journey’s end.

During trips to Newcastle, 17-year-old Aidan and his mother went to see various shows. One of these was the Book of Mormon musical.
After leaving the show, they encountered some real missionaries standing outside. Curious to know more of the Church, Aidan set up an appointment for him to meet with them another day. Aidan has always believed in God, been interested in hearing about different religions and has been curious to find and meet with missionaries.
When the missionaries spoke of the plan of salvation, the restoration, and the Book of Mormon, Aiden felt that this was exactly what he had been waiting for all this time. It immediately made sense to him. In between the lessons, Aidan also did his own research into the beliefs of the Church. He quickly decided to be baptised.
Aidan’s mother has been very supportive of her son’s decision to join. From the beginning, she attended church with him in Alnwick, Northumberland to support his wishes. One local member said, “It has been great to watch them attend church together, and you can only admire the mother with the way she both protects and supports him”.
As the months have gone by, Aidan’s mother also decided she wanted to be baptised.
As people embrace their curiosity, seek out authentic sources, and explore their faith together, miracles can occur.

1. The Venice Project in Los Angeles. For the past two years Mormon students at UCLA have held successful Christmas parties for underprivileged children in Venice, near Los Angeles. First, they contact the California State Service Center and receive the names of seventy-five children between five and twelve years of age. The day of the party, all seventy-five children are gathered by the center at one locale. Merchants donate cookies, ice cream, and presents. Decorated trees are given to the children’s families after the party. Said one student leader, “We learned that many people outside our own group were anxious to help. We also learned that you need plenty of games to hold the interest of everyone.”

After recovering from three major surgeries which have prevented me from speaking in the past two general conferences, what a joy it is to be able to stand in this beautiful Conference Center today to teach and bear testimony to those who desire to hear the word of the Lord.
In the past two years, I have waited upon the Lord for mortal lessons to be taught me through periods of physical pain, mental anguish, and pondering. I learned that constant, intense pain is a great consecrating purifier that humbles us and draws us closer to God’s Spirit. If we listen and obey, we will be guided by His Spirit and do His will in our daily endeavors.
There were times when I have asked a few direct questions in my prayers, such as, “What lessons dost Thou want me to learn from these experiences?”
As I studied the scriptures during this critical period of my life, the veil was thin and answers were given to me as they were recorded in lives of others who had gone through even more severe trials.
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment;
“And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high” (D&C 121:7–8).
Dark moments of depression were quickly dispelled by the light of the gospel as the Spirit brought peace and comfort with assurances that all would be well.
On a few occasions, I told the Lord that I had surely learned the lessons to be taught and that it wouldn’t be necessary for me to endure any more suffering. Such entreaties seemed to be of no avail, for it was made clear to me that this purifying process of testing was to be endured in the Lord’s time and in the Lord’s own way. It is one thing to teach, “Thy will be done” (Matt. 26:42). It is another to live it. I also learned that I would not be left alone to meet these trials and tribulations but that guardian angels would attend me. There were some that were near angels in the form of doctors, nurses, and most of all my sweet companion, Mary. And on occasion, when the Lord so desired, I was to be comforted with visitations of heavenly hosts that brought comfort and eternal reassurances in my time of need.
Though my personal suffering is not to be compared to the Savior’s agony in Gethsemane, I gained a better understanding of His Atonement and His suffering.

By that time there was a blockade all over Nigeria, so I could not write any letter to the headquarters of the Church. At the removal of the blockade in 1971 I wrote a letter for instructions. Pamphlets, tracts, and a Book of Mormon were sent to me, including “Joseph Smith’s Testimony” about the restoration of the gospel. Brother LaMar S. Williams was in the Missionary Department at that time, and his instructions were that they had no authority to organize the Church in Nigeria then. I was totally disappointed, but the Holy Spirit moved me to continue writing. Many a time in dreams I saw some of the missionaries of the Church discussing matters about the Church.
Persecutions, name calling, and all kinds of abuses were rendered to me. I was persecuted in various ways but I kept deaf ears. I knew I had discovered the truth and men’s threats could not move me and my group. So we continued asking God to open the door for us.
Elder W. Grant Bangerter answered a letter I sent in the same way—that the Church could not be organized in Nigeria yet, but that the leadership had the desire to do so.
On 9 October 1976, I wrote to Elder Bangerter:
“I have received your letter of Sept. 24 with thanks. I have noted what you said therein. We are not discouraged anyhow but shall continue to pursue the practice of our faith which we have found to be true. …
“We are very optimistic that Our Lord Jesus Christ will make it possible in the future for the Church to take more direct action. We are well aware that our faith is being tried. We are doing everything we can to establish the truth among so many of Our Heavenly Father’s children in this part of the world.”
Brother Williams gave us a program to follow on Sundays. We continued praying always, until the 21st of November 1978, when the Church was officially opened for the black race (in Africa) with the authority to hold the priesthood and administer the ordinances thereof.

After Halloween, people’s attitudes toward me changed, and questions about my faith evolved into peers asking me for advice about their own lives. To my surprise, friends and acquaintances who had gotten over the initial shock of learning that I do not drink, smoke, or do drugs and that I am waiting to have sex until I’m married turned to me for guidance specifically on those topics.

I found myself reassuring friends who were feeling pressured into having sex that they had the power to choose, encouraging some to go to the school counselor to talk about mental health and addiction concerns, and even consoling someone who made a mistake that would likely lead to expulsion. I was baffled by the way many of my peers could transition from mocking me to seeking my advice.

Over time, I understood that being completely confident, open, and vulnerable about who I was drew others to me who were seeking a judgment-free space and a listening ear.

I am grateful for two of the many important lessons I learned that year. The first is that healthy laughter can dissolve apprehension and contention and is an excellent way to unify people. The second is that choosing to be confident in who you are brings remarkable opportunities to help others that would have never come otherwise.

There were many times when I wanted to hide my religion and be known for something else. But having a sense of humor and vulnerability about who I am allowed people to get to know me as Matteo, not just someone with different beliefs.

Christmas was coming soon! Amy could hardly wait.
“Do you have the box for Jesus?” Amy asked Mommy. “It’s almost time for His birthday!”
“I’m glad you remembered,” said Mommy.
Mommy put a red box on the table. It was shiny. It had a red bow on top. Each year for Christmas, Amy and her family wrote down kind things they did. They put them in the box.
“We follow Jesus when we help others,” Mommy said. “It’s our gift to Jesus.”
Amy wanted to fill the whole box with gifts for Jesus! She thought about kind things she could do.
At dinner, Daddy asked, “Does anyone have a gift for Jesus to write down?”
“I do!” said Amy. “I helped put away Ari’s boots.”
“That was very kind,” said Daddy. He wrote it on a piece of paper. Amy put the paper in the box.
Each day, Amy tried to do kind things. She wanted to follow Jesus.
She helped Daddy buy food at the store.
She hung up her coat.
She helped Mommy wash the dishes.
She didn’t fight with her brother.
Every day, Amy put something kind in the shiny box. Soon the box was full of kind things!
Finally it was Christmas Day. Amy got to open some presents. She also got to open the gift for Jesus! Mommy and Daddy took turns reading all the kind things in the box.
Amy felt good inside. Helping others made her happy. She knew it made Jesus happy too!

However, because of our conversion, my father changed and gave up his bad habits. He quit drinking, smoking, and leaving his family hungry on weekends. I was so happy and wanted to tell my father that I loved him, but I was afraid to. I also wished my father would express his love for me. I never heard him say how he felt about me as I was growing up.
Then I was called to serve in the Micronesia Guam Mission. While I was in the mission field, I received a letter from my father. He said, “Son, you have made me a very happy man serving on your mission.” At the end of the letter, he wrote, “Son, I love you. Keep up the good work of the Lord.”
My eyes filled with tears of joy. It was the first time he had ever said those words to me. I replied to my father’s letter and returned a gift to him. I said, “Dad, I love you too!”

Before Aryn C. from Arkansas was born, her father, Steve, seriously injured his back and shoulder in an accident while serving in the U.S. Navy. He endured many surgeries while she was growing up, and he still is in nearly constant pain. Aryn became his “little nurse” as she held his hand while his bandages were being changed. When she was little, she walked on his back to help ease his pain.
As Aryn grew up, her dad was concerned she would be embarrassed when he was in a wheelchair or used crutches or a cane. Steve comments, “Aryn always said, ‘Dad, you’re not embarrassing me. I’d rather have you here.’ She definitely helps me cope with my disabilities. I’m lucky to have a strong family; all six of our children have helped me get through the hard times.”
Although it’s hard to see her dad in pain, Aryn loves being able to help. She says she’s learned compassion and respect, especially for those who are disabled. “The gospel helps me keep a bigger perspective on life. Everyone is different, and everyone has challenges, but we can overcome them with faith in Jesus Christ,” she observes. “It’s nice to know that.”
Her mother, Sonja, says, “Her father had to miss a lot of Aryn’s activities while she was growing up because of his surgeries and health problems. She played the flute in her high school’s marching band, so he tried his best to go to as many games as he could and enjoyed watching Aryn march in the band.”
Aryn understands that there are some things her father can’t do. “We find ways to work around the disability, such as video recording programs and events that he can’t go to.”
One of the challenges their family faces comes from the emotional ups and downs that are part of her father’s disability. Aryn says they learned to be patient with one another, and when a problem comes up, they talk it out. She advises, “Don’t argue. If something is just a little irritating, think about whether it needs to be addressed or not. If it isn’t important, don’t cause unnecessary upset by bringing it up.” Her dad adds, “Forgiveness is an important part of working together. I have also found that humor helps big-time.”
Both Aryn and her dad agree that attending church, praying, and reading the scriptures help them through hard times.
“I have discovered that the gospel helps me see more clearly how to handle challenges,” Aryn says. “I admire how my dad keeps going, even through the pain. He keeps his testimony strong by going to church and doing his callings, even when it’s hard for him. He reads his scriptures and gains strength from them.”
In return, her dad admires Aryn’s devotion to the gospel. “Watching her choose good friends and seeing her testimony develop helps me gain a stronger testimony,” he says. “She sets the example for me.”
Through the years, Aryn has been there as her father has had many priesthood blessings. He says the counsel given in blessings helps him keep a positive attitude. “The priesthood blessings I have received and reading the scriptures help me keep the faith. I have also learned that when people want to help you, let them. At first I didn’t want others’ help, but then I discovered that it makes a difference to me, and it’s good for them too. We all benefit.”
Aryn appreciates her parents’ examples and love. “They have their hard times, but they work it out. And I like how they stay strong with their testimonies.”
For her senior writing project, Aryn wrote about why her father is her hero. Here’s part of what she wrote: “I am so proud of my dad. He helps me when I need it. He is humorous, knowledgeable, and easy to talk to.” Aryn adds, “When I was about four years old, I made up a word for love that just my dad and I say to each other. We still use it.”

I had always wanted a dirt bike. Both of my brothers-in-law had bikes and went riding a lot. I wanted to go with them. I bought my bike during the winter, so I didn’t have a chance to ride it right away. While the snow was on the ground, I would go out in the garage and sit on it and dream about riding.
I had heard a lot of horror stories about people getting hurt while riding. As I sat on my bike in the garage, I thought about difficult situations I might get into. I decided that as much as I loved that bike and as nice looking as it was, if I found myself in a situation where it was a choice between my life or saving my bike, the bike would be gone.
Summer came and I had the chance to go riding. My brother-in-law and I went biking in a gravel pit that was near a local reservoir. It had some nice hills. I was playing follow the leader with him. I was down below watching him as he went up a hill. He stopped at the top and was kind of looking off in the distance. He didn’t turn around and say anything, so I started up the hill much faster than he had taken it. When I got to the top, I gunned it and got a little air. The problem was that about as soon as I made it to the top, I could see that there was a drop-off. I had a split second to act. As soon as my front tire hit, I laid the bike down. The bike skidded over the cliff. The momentum carried me over as well, but I was able to grab on to the edge. My legs were dangling, and I was running in air, but I was able to pull myself up.
After my heart slowed a little, I looked over the edge and there was my bike, 30 feet down. I thought it was going to be demolished. I went down and picked it up. I kick started the engine, and it seemed fine. The only damage was bent handlebars and a broken mud flap. But when I looked back up the little cliff, I realized that if I had tried to stay on my bike, I could have been seriously hurt.
That really drove home to me how grateful I was for having made my decision ahead of time. I had already visualized what I would do in the safety of my garage. So when the moment of danger came, I reacted just as I had imagined. I let the bike go and saved myself from injury.

Ancient One saw, with the eyes of his mind, his boy-self walking with his father in the bright sunshine of a day many years gone. His father was tall and muscular, the boy small and thin, his bare feet dusted with soft, orange sand. How he had loved his father, so strong and handsome!
The boy and his father were walking side by side, heads bent, eyes searching the ground. Father stooped and picked up a small black stone. He showed it to the boy, then stowed it in a leather pouch that hung from his waist by a thick strap. They walked on. Now the boy crouched to pick up another stone. He showed it to his father, who nodded approval. They kept searching until there were seven black stones in Father’s pouch.
One night in the midst of the long, cold winter, Father took the stones from the pouch and sat cross-legged in front of the fire, chipping away at them. Flickering flames made his shadow dance behind him as he worked.
The snows finally melted. The grass grew green, the trees budded, and the flowers showed their young faces. Father presented the black stones to the boy as part of the celebration of his seventh spring of life. But the stones had changed. Father had shaped them into seven sleek black arrowheads, which he had attached to seven straight shafts of wood and feathers. Father also gave the boy a bow that his own father had fashioned for him from the willowy branch of an ash tree.
Filled with happiness and excitement, the boy ran toward the woods, his bare feet kicking puffs of dirt behind him. It was a warm day, but in the woods the air was cool and damp. Sometimes mud squeezed up between his toes. Birds sang in the trees, and insects buzzed. Leaf shadows from hundreds of tall trees played on the ground. The boy vowed to stay in the woods until he could shoot his arrows straight and far. He would earn the look of pride in his father’s face and be a step closer to manhood.
When he came to a meadow deep in the woods, the boy placed the first arrow on his bowstring and tried to remember all his father had taught him.
Facing a dead tree that stood alone in the meadow, he pulled the string back and let the arrow fly. It stuck in the ground well to the left of the tree. The boy frowned. He quickly shot another arrow. It skittered along the ground to the right of the tree. Anger boiled up inside the boy. Gritting his teeth, he quickly shot the five remaining arrows, missing the mark farther each time.
Fiercely blinking back angry tears, he ran to the closest arrow and jerked it from the ground. He grasped it in both hands, ready to snap it in two. But as he looked at the arrow, he remembered his father sitting patiently by the fire straightening the shaft, sighting along it with a critical eye and then straightening it again and again and again. To become a great hunter and warrior like his father, he would need not only strength and courage but also patience and wisdom.
He gathered the arrows and returned to his shooting spot. This time he took a deep breath and tried to make his mind as quiet as the feet of a stalking hunter. He shot again and missed but let his anger drift away like smoke in the wind.
Again and again he shot, growing calmer each time. At first he still missed badly, but gradually the arrows began flying farther and straighter. When one finally hit the tree, he whooped and danced with joy.
The boy returned to the meadow every sunny day. Time after time he shot and retrieved the arrows. Gradually his arms began to feel at one with the bow. His eyes began to see, his mind began to know when and how to let the arrows go. By late spring most of the arrows he shot sliced swift and true through the air.
One day the boy hit the tree dead center with every arrow. His heart beat strong with pride and joy. As the sun sank and the light of day began to fade, he shot each arrow into the sky—seven arrows for the seven springs of his life. Each one sailed up, higher and higher. Glossy black feathers rippled in the wind; a bright black arrowhead pointed at a cloudless sky. When the arrow had soared as high as the highest tree, it turned toward the earth and began to fall. Diving faster and faster, it became a blur in the boy’s large black eyes. Each arrow landed, taking its place in line with the others. The boy tipped his face to the sky and laughed out loud. He gathered his treasured arrows and raced home, his heart full of happiness.

In 2011, while I was serving with my husband as mission leaders in beautiful Curitiba, Brazil, my phone rang during a meeting. Rushing to silence it, I noticed the call was from my father. I quickly left the meeting to answer: “Hi, Dad!”
Unexpectedly, his voice was filled with emotion: “Hi, Bonnie. I need to tell you something. I’ve been diagnosed with ALS.”
My mind swirled with confusion, “Wait! What is ALS?”
Dad was already explaining, “My mind will stay alert while my body slowly shuts down.”
I felt my whole world shift as I began to wrestle with the implications of this grievous news. But on that unforgettable day, it was his last sentence that found a permanent place in my heart. My dear father said with urgency, “Bonnie, never give up an opportunity to testify of Christ.”
I have pondered and prayed over Dad’s counsel. I have often asked myself if I fully know what it means to never give up an opportunity to testify of Jesus Christ.
Like you, I have occasionally stood on the first Sunday of the month and borne a witness of Christ. Many times I have testified of gospel truths as part of a lesson. I have boldly taught truth and declared the divinity of Christ as a missionary.
Yet this plea felt more personal! It seemed as though he was saying, “Bonnie, don’t let the world overtake you! Stay true to your covenants with the Savior. Seek to experience His blessings every day, and be able to testify through the Holy Ghost of His power and presence in your life!”
We live in a fallen world, with distractions coaxing our eyes and hearts downward instead of heavenward. Much like the Nephites in 3 Nephi 11, we need Jesus Christ. Can you imagine yourself there, among people who had experienced so much chaos and destruction? What would it be like to hear the Lord’s personal invitation:
“Arise and come forth unto me, that ye may thrust your hands into my side, and also that ye may feel the prints of the nails in my hands and in my feet, that ye may know that I am … the God of the whole earth, and have been slain for the sins of the world.
“And … the multitude went forth … one by one … and did see with their eyes and did feel with their hands, and did know … and had witnessed for themselves.”
These Nephites eagerly went forward to thrust their hands into His side and feel the prints of the nails in His hands and feet so they could witness for themselves that this was the Christ. Similarly, many faithful people we have studied in the New Testament this year had anxiously awaited Christ’s coming. Then they stepped from their fields, workbenches, and dinner tables and followed Him, pressed upon Him, thronged Him, and sat with Him. Are we as anxious to witness for ourselves as the multitudes in the scriptures? Are the blessings we seek less needful than theirs?
When Christ physically visited the Nephites at their temple, His invitation was not to stand at a distance and look upon Him, but to touch Him, to feel for themselves the reality of the Savior of humankind. How can we draw close enough to gain a personal witness of Jesus Christ? This may be part of what my father was trying to teach me. While we may not enjoy the same physical proximity as those who walked with Christ during His earthly ministry, through the Holy Ghost we can experience His power every day! As much as we need!
The young women around the world have taught me so much about seeking Christ and gaining a daily, personal witness of Him. Let me share the wisdom of two of them:
Livvy has watched general conference her entire life. In fact, in her home they traditionally watch all five sessions as a family. In the past, conference for Livvy had meant doodling or drifting into the occasional unintended nap. But this past October general conference was different. It became personal.
This time, Livvy decided to be an active recipient. She silenced notifications on her phone and took notes of impressions from the Spirit. She was amazed as she felt specific things God wanted her to hear and do. This decision made a difference in her life almost immediately.
Just days later her friends invited her to an inappropriate movie. She reflected, “I felt the words and spirit of conference return into my heart, and I heard myself declining their invitation.” She also had the courage to share her testimony of the Savior in her ward.
After these events she stated, “The amazing thing is, when I heard myself testify that Jesus is the Christ, I felt the Holy Ghost confirm it again for me.”
Livvy did not skip like a stone over the surface of conference weekend; she dove in, mind and spirit, and found the Savior there.
And then there is Maddy. When her family stopped attending church, Maddy was confused and not certain what to do. She realized something significant was missing. So at age 13, Maddy began attending church alone. Even though being alone was sometimes hard and uncomfortable, she knew she could find the Savior at church and she wanted to be where He was. She said, “In church my soul felt like it was at home.”
Maddy held onto the fact that her family had been sealed together for eternity. She started bringing her younger brothers with her to church and studying scriptures with them at home. Eventually her mom began joining them. Maddy told her mom of her desire to serve a mission and asked if her mom could be ready to attend the temple with her.
Today Maddy is in the MTC. She is serving. She is witnessing of Christ. Her example helped lead both of her parents back to the temple and back to Christ.
Like Livvy and Maddy, as we choose to seek Christ, the Spirit will witness of Him in many different situations. These witnesses of the Spirit occur as we fast, pray, wait, and continue forward. Our closeness to Christ grows through worshipping frequently in the temple, repenting daily, studying scriptures, attending church and seminary, pondering our patriarchal blessings, worthily receiving ordinances, and honoring sacred covenants. All of these invite the Spirit to enlighten our minds, and they bring added peace and protection. But do we honor them as sacred opportunities to testify of Christ?
I have attended the temple many times, but when I worship in the house of the Lord, it changes me. Sometimes while fasting, I find myself simply going hungry, but other times, I feast on the Spirit with purpose. I sometimes have mumbled prayers that are repetitive and routine, but I have also come eager to receive counsel from the Lord through prayer.
There is power in making these holy habits less of a checklist and more of a witness. The process will be gradual but will grow with daily, active participation and purposeful experiences with Christ. As we consistently act on His teaching, we gain a testimony of Him; we build a relationship with Him and our Heavenly Father. We begin to become like Them.
The adversary creates so much noise that it can be difficult to hear the Lord’s voice. Our world, our challenges, our circumstances will not get quieter, but we can and must hunger and thirst after the things of Christ to “hear Him” with clarity. We want to create muscle memory of discipleship and testimony that will bring into focus our reliance on our Savior each day.
My father has been gone for over 11 years now, but his words are alive in me. “Bonnie, never give up an opportunity to testify of Christ.” I invite you to join me in accepting his invitation. Look for Christ everywhere?I promise He is there! True joy rests on our willingness to come closer to Christ and witness for ourselves.
We know that in the last days, “every knee shall bow, and every tongue confess” that Jesus is the Christ. I pray this witness will become a normal and natural experience for us now—that we will take every opportunity to joyfully testify: Jesus Christ lives!
Oh, how I love Him. How grateful we are for His infinite Atonement, which has “made eternal life a possibility and immortality a reality for [us] all.” I testify of our Savior’s goodness and great glory in His sacred name, even Jesus Christ, amen.

As a youth he decided early to read the scriptures. According to his sister Edith, he had read the Book of Mormon twice by the time he was ten.

“When I was a small boy, too young to hold the Aaronic Priesthood,” President Smith remembered, “my father placed a copy of the Book of Mormon in my hands with the request that I read it. I received this Nephite record with thanksgiving and applied myself to the task which had been assigned to me. There are certain passages that have been stamped upon my mind, and I have never forgotten them.”

My great-grandparents, Orla and Roger, died in their 20s, leaving my grandfather and his brother in the care of Roger’s family. After Orla’s death, her father, Robert, died of appendicitis. A short time later, her mother fell, cracked her skull, and suffered several strokes, becoming bedridden. Orla’s oldest sisters, Thelma and Ena, then carried the full burden of supporting the family—a difficult task for two young, unmarried women in the late 1920s.

It was all so fascinating to learn about people I felt connected to but had never met. I was amazed by the trials my family had faced. Hearing it all made my own problems seem so small in comparison.

Several months later, with my mother’s story crowded into the recesses of my mind by school and work, I received an assignment in one of my classes at Brigham Young University to find 8 to 10 primary documents containing the name of one of my ancestors.

My genealogical training to that point consisted of singing the Primary song “Family History—I Am Doing It,” but grades weren’t negotiable in my mind, so I began at the only place I could think to start—Orla’s family. I looked her up on a pedigree chart and traced her line back until I found her grandfather, Joseph Argyle Jr.

One afternoon, I made the trek across the BYU campus to the library and into the family history library. I explained to a worker who Joseph Argyle was and the little information I knew about him.

For the next two hours, that worker guided me through a treasure hunt, which took us all over the library. We searched records of Mormon passengers on emigrant vessels, discovering that Joseph and his family crossed the Atlantic on a ship. Later that year, he traveled to Salt Lake Valley with the Ellsworth handcart company, which we found in a record book of handcart companies. We looked through the Endowment House records (found where he received his temple ordinances), the Utah death index (he lived to 84), and old Church membership records (there he was).

In an online database of Utah newspaper archives, I found a front-page obituary for my great-great-great grandfather. Published in the Davis County Clipper in February 1927, every sentence contained an interesting fact, such as Joseph’s contribution to the building of the Salt Lake Temple.

“He has the credit of having hauled the largest stone put in that building which weighed 13,000 pounds,” the article read.

I began to get a glimpse of the impact we can have on future generations when I discovered he had 88 descendants at the time of his death, a number which increased exponentially in the past 79 years.

Every time I found another document with my ancestors’ names on it, I felt a little tingle of excitement run through my body. It was like a mystery novel, putting all the pieces together, little by little beginning to understand who this man was. I became so immersed in learning about my ancestor, I didn’t leave until late in the afternoon, almost missing work!

I completed the assignment and received an A, but even more importantly, I created a tangible connection with one of my relatives. Joseph Argyle left his home, sailed across the ocean, traveled to Utah and helped build the temple, all because he believed in the gospel of Jesus Christ, a legacy which I inherited and which gives me the strength to fight my own battles in the 21st century.

I am a link in the chain of Joseph Argyle, and I can pass on his example to strengthen my children and their children. There are others I can help as well. The temple work for the vast majority of my ancestors has yet to be completed, and hundreds, even thousands, of my ancestors are waiting for me to do my part.

For more information on how to get started on your family history, visit your local family history center or go to www.familysearch.org.