Gospel Story Finder

One of my favorite stories concerns a woman named Sarah Edwards, wife of the famous Puritan preacher Jonathan Edwards. He was best known perhaps for his sermon that every early American schoolchild had read: “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” He told his audience:
The wrath of God is like great waters that are dammed for the present. . . .
The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you.
And, for the unregenerate, he continued:
When God beholds the ineffable extremity of your case, and sees your torment to be so vastly disproportioned to your strength, and sees how your poor soul is crushed, and sinks down, as it were, into an infinite gloom; he will have no compassion upon you . . . ; there shall be no moderation or mercy.
I cannot help but wonder how such excesses struck the hearts and minds of tender people everywhere and of Edwards’ own devout and loving wife in particular. It so happened that on one occasion when Edwards was out of town, another local preacher came to visit Sarah and her children. He offered to have a prayer with the family, and she agreed. Afterward, she recorded in her journal that while the Reverend Peter Reynolds was offering his prayer, she found herself feeling “an earnest desire that, in calling on God, he should say, Father.” She asked herself, “Can I now at this time, with the confidence of a child, and without the least misgiving of heart, call God my Father?”

In consequence of this reflection, she recorded, “I felt a strong desire to be alone with God,” and withdrew to her chamber. In the moments that followed, she continued:
The presence of God was so near, and so real, that I seemed scarcely conscious of any thing else. God the Father, and the Lord Jesus Christ, seemed as distinct persons, both manifesting their inconceivable loveliness, and mildness, and gentleness, and their great and immutable love to me. . . .
The peace and happiness, which I hereupon felt, was altogether inexpressible.

I recently had the opportunity to visit with Sister Yazzie of the Chinle Arizona Stake in her hogan. When she welcomed me into her home, the first thing I noticed was the variety of framed family and missionary photos on her walls and tables. So I asked, “Sister Yazzie, how many grandchildren do you have?”

Surprised by my question, she shrugged her shoulders. Confused by her response, I looked at her daughter, Sister Yellowhair, who answered, “She doesn’t know how many grandchildren she has. We don’t count. All children call her Grandmother—she is Grandmother to everyone.”

Sister Yazzie doesn’t limit her love and influence to her biological family. She understands what it means to expand her sphere of influence as she goes about doing good, blessing, nurturing, and defending the family of God. She understands that “whenever a woman strengthens the faith of a child, she contributes to the strength of a family—now and in the future.”9

During the next few months, I spent a lot of time at home and had plenty of time to think. I grieved for the loss of the person I thought I would be in my later years. I grieved for the future that my wife and I had previously envisioned. I endured days of discouragement. I prayed a lot as my symptoms grew worse. My need to find positive ways of coping increased.
Then the Lord provided an unexpected source of support. My wife and I were called to be our ward’s welfare and self-reliance specialists. As part of our calling, we facilitated a group meeting on emotional resilience. I had not thought about needing the class personally. However, by the end of the first meeting, I thought, “Wow! This is for me!” We talked about avoiding negative thought patterns, being positive, controlling our feelings. It gave me some practical tools that, over time, helped me—and my wife as well—to develop a healthy attitude toward my disease.

Many years ago, when I was on my mission, my companion and I had resolved to talk to everyone about the gospel. To open our mouths as the scriptures command. [20] One day, on the outskirts of the small Japanese town of Komatsu, we rode past a man on his bicycle. Although we had said we would talk to everyone, I had not thought to ride parallel to this man and yell out to him in Japanese, “Hello, we are missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” We passed by him without speaking to him. After completing a follow-up visit with a friend of the Church we continued down the same road to visit a member family that lived some distance away. We again passed by the same man on the bicycle without speaking to him. We were someway further down the road, and now in the middle of nowhere, with rice paddy fields everywhere when my companion, who was also my trainer, suddenly came to a complete stop. He said to me, did you see that man back there? I queried who he meant. By now we were so far ahead of the cyclist we could not even see him. He said we passed that man on the bicycle twice and I have felt that we need to speak to him. The Lord wants us to speak to him. I was nervous as we waited on the side of the road for this man, who had come into view on the long stretch of road, to approach us. But as he approached us, he had a smile on his face. We introduced ourselves as missionaries for the Church. He said, "Oh, I know who you are." He told us that many years earlier he had been taught as a young man and had wanted to join the Church but had lived with his parents who had not wanted him to do so. He wanted to be taught again. Only a short while later, he was baptised a member of the Church.

I learnt a great lesson that day from my missionary companion. He knew how to speak the language of the Spirit. He knew how to hear the voice of the Lord and be an instrument in the hands of God. When we learn how to speak the language of the Spirit, our lives are blessed, and God enables us to be instruments in His hands in blessing the lives of others.

On one of those dark, painful days during the divorce period, I was talking with my mother about how I hoped in the future I could find someone to love and be married to. She said, “You just do what you are supposed to do so that when the right person comes along you will be in a position to do something about it.” I knew she was talking about staying faithful in the Church and making sure that my life was in order. This was some of the most important advice that I have ever received. I am happy to report to you that I am dating an amazing woman and we are planning to be married in the near future. She is beautiful in every way and is everything that I could ever hope for. Our mutual love for the gospel of Jesus Christ is at the very center of our relationship. My love for her is beyond anything that I could explain to you.

In the meantime, however, Ed had set his sights on All-America status as a freshman in college. To be All-America, you have to finish in the top six among collegiate athletes at the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA) finals. It was an ambitious goal, but Ed’s times weren’t too far off, and, if he worked hard enough, he saw no reason why he couldn’t reach it.
He came close to reaching that goal, too, but another roadblock popped up. The finals were held in Austin, Texas, right in the middle of one of the severest heat waves on record. Ed, however, was paying more attention to the race than to the heat. He was running the 10K, which is 25 laps around the track, and about halfway through, he was in the sixth position, which is exactly where he wanted to be. Suddenly, one of the runners in front of him started to wobble, then passed out on the side of the track from heat prostration.
Ed was now in the number five position. If he could hold it, he’d be an All-American in his freshman year for sure. Then, with about three laps to go, Ed felt the two runners behind him begin to gain on him. He knew he couldn’t let them pass, and he exerted all the effort he could to stay ahead. But suddenly, “everything went fuzzy around the edges, and instead of running straight, I was running to the left and to the right. I was doing what the guy in front of me had been doing before he dropped out. I guess I was feeling the effect of the heat. I don’t remember much after that, but a half a lap later I was dragged off the track by my coach and a few teammates, and I remember waking up in the training room in a tub of cold water with some ice in it. I went back to my hotel room just thinking that I blew it,” he said.
But this time there was a hand outstretched, waiting to help him over that particular barrier. “One of my coaches came by to talk,” Ed relates.
The coach was also a rancher and said, “Ed, I’ve worked a lot with runners, and I’ve worked a lot with animals, and I just want you to know that today you ran like a horse.”
“I didn’t exactly know how to take that,” Ed confided, “but then the coach explained, ‘You can take a good mule out and work with it, and it will do what you want it to until it gets tired. Then it will just sit down. And you can kick it and beat it and do whatever, but until it’s good and rested, it’s not going to budge. But you can take a good horse, and that horse will work for you until it drops over from exhaustion. Today, you ran like a horse, Ed.’
“I learned a great lesson that can be applied in jobs or studies or any aspect of life, really,” Ed relates. He realized that the endurance to follow a job through and give your all is more important than the final outcome. It’s the ultimate effort you put into anything that makes it worthwhile.

Last October my mom told my siblings and me to listen to ward business that Sunday instead of drawing. So when sacrament meeting started, I paid close attention to the opening prayer and the hymn. Once that was over, the person conducting the meeting asked the bishop to stand up. Then he said the bishop was being released.
He asked my dad, who was first counselor at the time, to stand up. Then he announced that my dad was going to be the new bishop!
I was really worried that something about my dad would change drastically. I had always thought bishops were people who were formal and serious, most unlike my dad. That they had perfectly well-behaved kids who sat quietly on the bench every week. That was not my family.
But I realized that bishops aren’t men with perfect families. They aren’t men who are solemn and serious. They are men with the priesthood. Men with strong, good testimonies.
I don’t know why the Lord chose my dad to be the bishop, but I know that He has His reasons. And I know that my dad did change … but not into a stiff and serious man I didn’t know. I could tell his testimony grew.
And so did mine.

Many years ago, I had just graduated from BYU in mathematics. I was accepted into graduate school at Utah State University and was promised a teaching assistantship.
I moved my family to Logan and went to meet with a professor, who I will call Dr. Caldon. He was over the teaching assistants and would be my supervisor. When I walked into his office, the first thing he said shocked me. He said, “I don’t like you.”
I had never met the man in my life. He also said he would not give me the promised assistantship. He said if I still wanted to go to school there I could teach twice as many classes for half the assistantship pay. I accepted, feeling a prompting that was what the Lord would have me do.
Later that fall, there was a party for graduate students, faculty, and their spouses at the home of another professor I will call Dr. David Jensen. I knew little about Dr. Jensen except that he was an atheist.
I decided that it would be good to go to the party, and Donna, my wife, agreed to go with me. When we arrived at Dr. Jensen’s home, a sign on the door told the guests to go through the side gate into the backyard. Donna and I did this, and the first person we ran into was the only professor there—my supervisor, Dr. Caldon. He was drunk, and the minute he saw us, he started to mock me.
“Oh, look,” he called out to the other students who were already there. “The party is now ruined. We have a Mormon goody-two-shoes here, and we won’t be able to have any fun.”
He continued mocking me, and Donna, who wasn’t used to this, whispered, “What is he doing?”
I just told her to ignore him and suggested we go to the opposite corner of the yard. We moved as far away from him as we could, but it just made things worse. Instead of just speaking the things he had been saying, he now yelled them out across the yard to make sure everyone could hear him.
After he had mocked me for a while, a group of other professors entered the yard, led by Dr. Jensen. They were toting big coolers. When Dr. Jensen heard what Dr. Caldon was yelling, he told him to stop. Then Dr. Jensen made an announcement: “The coolers are all full of beer provided by the department. Everyone drink all you want.”
At that point, everyone else moved to the coolers, leaving Donna and me standing alone. Dr. Jensen came over. “Hey,” he said, “why don’t you come join us? Can I get you a beer?”
“Thanks,” I replied, “but we don’t drink alcohol.”
Dr. Jensen looked surprised. “Why not?”
“We’re members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I answered.
“You’re what?” he asked.
“People sometimes call us Mormons,” I replied.
Dr. Jensen stared at us for a moment in stunned silence. Then he asked, “Is not drinking alcohol a Mormon belief, or is it just yours?”
“It’s part of our church’s belief,” I replied.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know. What would you normally drink when socializing?”
“Well,” I said, “I like root beer, and Donna likes Sprite, but water would be fine.”
He shook his head. “Not at my party.”
He left the party and disappeared for about twenty minutes. When he returned, he had a root beer and a Sprite for us. Donna would never go to a department party again. But at every party I ever went to after that, Dr. Jensen always made sure there was a root beer and a Sprite with tape around them and my name on it.
The following year, I took a class from Dr. Jensen. One of the first things I learned was that he was close to my age, around 24 years old. He had graduated from high school at around 16 years of age, and he went quickly through college, getting a doctorate in mathematics.
Math was Dr. Jensen’s world. On our first day of class, he walked in and informed us that it was impossible to teach anything of value in a math class in one hour. So, instead of having class one hour, three days per week, we were moving it to Tuesdays and Thursdays from four to five-thirty. It was still three hours per week, and it fit everyone’s schedule, so we made the change.
But one problem with Dr. Jensen was he would get so wound up in the math that nothing else mattered. He never wore a watch, and the room didn’t have a clock. He would go and go and go, hardly taking a breath. And when he finally did, he would ask, “Anybody got the time?”
By the time he finally asked that, it was almost always around nine o’clock. He would gasp when we told him, since we were supposed to end at five-thirty, and he would say, “Is it really?” Then he would say, “Let me finish this one last thing, and then we’ll quit.” Then he would go for another hour. I always left exhausted.
The class was a full-year class, going from September to June. We were in the middle of May when something interesting happened. As we ended at the typical ten o’clock time that night, Dr. Jensen called me by name, asked me to stay, and said he wanted to talk to me.
I stayed, and he didn’t say anything until everyone else had left. Then he asked, “Will you please close the door?”
I closed the door and returned to my seat, feeling somewhat anxious about what he wanted to talk about. He sat on the edge of his desk at the front of the room, folded his arms, and the first words out of his mouth caught me by surprise. He said, “There are some things about you that really bug me.”
I was dumbfounded by this. I had thought that we had become friends over that year. After I regained my composure, I asked, “What is it, David?”
This was another unusual thing about Dr. Jensen. He insisted we call him by his first name. He didn’t care for titles, and since he was about the same age as we were, calling him Dr. Jensen made him feel old.
“Do you remember that party at my house the fall you first came here?” he asked.
“Yes, I remember,” I replied.
“Well,” he said, “when you wouldn’t drink alcohol with us because of your religious beliefs, I said to my wife, ‘I hope he never takes my class because he couldn’t be very logical.’ And this last fall, when you signed up for my class, I dreaded having you in it. But when I read your first test, I found your logic was impeccable. I even read it three times.”
“So, what’s the problem?” I asked.
“The problem is that those two things, logic and a belief in God, don’t go together in my mind. I keep thinking that your belief in God would gradually fade away, but if anything, it seems to have gotten stronger, as has your logic. I have watched you, analyzed you, evaluated every assignment you have written, and I don’t feel any closer to understanding you than I did when the school year started. I’ve reread each paper and assignment you’ve turned in at least three times, thinking that someday I will find something that will be the key for me to understand how this contradiction is possible. But I never found anything. I want to know what makes you tick, or I’m going to go crazy the rest of my life thinking about it. “
It was late at night, I was exhausted, and I had never had a question like this before. I didn’t know what to say. “David, can I have some time to think about this?”
He nodded. “Okay. But if you don’t help me understand, I’ll fail you.”
I agreed that I would do my best to answer his concerns. We set one week later after class to talk again.
As I drove home, I pondered the difference between Dr. Caldon and Dr. Jensen.
But how was I to academically explain an understanding of God to someone with no spiritual background?
I went home that night and told Donna what had happened. “He’s not trying to be mean,” I said. “He’s really sincere and wants to know. And you remember how kind he was to us at that party when we were first here.” I asked her what she thought I should do to answer Dr. Jensen.
“Pray about it,” she replied.
I sarcastically thought, “Thanks for the help,” but that’s exactly what I needed to do.
That was a Thursday, and when the weekend came, I fasted and prayed to know what to do. That Sunday morning, I had an unusual experience. Donna and I went to church, and she went in ahead of me to take our oldest daughter down to the nursery. I followed minutes later, carrying our baby and the diaper bag.
But everything was strange. Usually, the foyer would be full of people visiting, but this time, there was only one old gentleman there. I looked at my watch, and it was the usual time when the foyer should be bustling with people. My first thought was that it must be stake conference week and we were missing it.
As I stood there, feeling somewhat confused, the old man walked over to me and asked, “You’re a mathematician, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“I have something you need to read,” he said and handed me a paper.
He then turned and walked away. I looked at the paper, and it was a talk by President Dallin H. Oaks called, “In the Lord’s Way,” which I assume he had given at BYU when he had been president there.
In the talk, President Oaks said that there are things we learn in the ways of science and there are things we learn in the ways of God. To learn the things of science, we propose a hypothesis and test it, then adjust as necessary and test again. But to learn the things of God, we must do it in God’s way: faith, humility, prayer, obedience to commandments, repentance, good works, and scripture study. Neither understanding can be fully realized by only using the opposite method.
Speaking of learning by reason and by faith, President Oaks said, “Both are necessary. Reason comes first, so it can serve as a threshold check on authenticity. True revelation has the last and decisive word on the things of God, for ‘no man knoweth of [God’s] ways save it be revealed unto him.’” [3]
I thought a lot about the ideas from Elder Oaks’ talk and realized it was the answer I needed. I reread it multiple times. When the next Thursday came, Dr. Jensen let class out early—like nine o’clock—and invited me down to his office. When we got there, he sat in his chair, leaned back, and said, “Well?”
“David,” I said, “this is one of the hardest things I have ever done because you might not have experienced anything like what I’m going to try to explain. But I will do my best.”
I then shared with him the ideas from the talk by President Oaks about gaining knowledge in science versus learning in God’s way.
When I finished, I said, “Basically, David, it boils down to this. There are things I know with my mind because I have proven them with logic. But there are things I know with at least the same certainty with my heart because I have proven them in God’s way, and I do know them.”
Dr. Jensen leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for some time, deep in thought. Finally, he nodded and said, “That makes a lot of sense. My father was an atheist, as was my grandfather, and I have never sought to find God because I was taught that He doesn’t exist. But it makes sense that if He does exist, a person would have to find Him in a different way.”

One day, when I was on the bus on my way home from work, I started to learn the truth. My friend Elaine’s brother, Liam, got onto the bus that day and, being a friendly type of person, sat beside me and started to talk to me. I offered him a cigarette. He said he didn’t smoke. He could have stopped there, but he didn’t. He told me why he didn’t smoke. He had joined the LDS church.
Liam told me a lot about the LDS church that day, and I was impressed. I was also impressed at the change it had made in his life. I wanted to know more. Unfortunately, Liam left two days later to work in Canada. So I waited and prayed and prayed and waited.
Roughly two months later, as I sat watching TV on a sunny May evening, out of the corner of my eye I saw two missionaries pass by my house on the street. I had no idea they were LDS. I just felt the urge to talk to them. I asked my mom if I could bring them in and ran to the door to call them. They were totally shocked! They hadn’t had an investigator for months, and here was one tracting them.
I totally wrecked their door approach. They walked up to me and said, “We’d like to share a brief message with …”
“Come in,” I said before they could finish.
They did and they taught me a spiritual first lesson. At the end of the discussion, I knew they spoke the truth. I loved hearing about Joseph Smith. I, too, had prayed for truth. I hadn’t had a vision, but like Joseph Smith, I had found the true church. I debated about asking if I could possibly join their church. During the second discussion, they challenged me to be baptised. I challenged them to stop me!
I had one problem. I had heard people talking about gaining a spiritual witness. I have to admit my prayers had racing stripes on them. I used to pray and hop straight into bed, put on some music, and go to sleep. The missionaries told me to pray and wait for an answer. That’s what I did. One night I prayed and didn’t close my prayer. I stayed on my knees waiting. Then I sat on the side of my bed waiting. Then I woke up at about 5:00 A.M. with an urge to read the Book of Mormon. I opened the book and began reading Alma 32 about faith. It was my answer! [Alma 32]
Of course, it wasn’t all easy sailing. My mom threw a fit when I told her, and the family stopped speaking to me. My mom even threatened to throw me out unless I “lost” the Mormons. I was scared of losing my family, and they knew it, so they put on the pressure. I knew the Church was true, so I took my chances on their love for me. My dad and mom and sister did everything they could to stop me from leaving the house on the day I chose to be baptised. But I left after trying once more to make them understand.
On the way to the church, I shook like a leaf and cried and cried. I was still shaking when I stepped into the font, but when I heard Elder Gooch say the words, “Ashley Catherine Moran, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ … ,” I forgot all my problems. Later, when I was confirmed a member of the Church and received the Holy Ghost, I lost all my fear and entered into the straight and narrow path.
My family still loves me. They have even befriended some members. I want them to know true happiness, to know as I do, that they are children of God. I am happier than I have ever been. I know who I am and I know that God lives. I love my Savior, and Joseph Smith is a prophet. We have a prophet on the earth today, and if I follow his counsel I will stay close to my Father in Heaven. The Book of Mormon is scripture for this last dispensation. It’s all true!

Years ago, my adventurous son Jeff and I were traveling on an old bus bouncing along on a dirt road in Central America at 1:00 a.m. We took the early, early bus because it was the only bus that day. A half hour later, the driver stopped for two missionaries. When they got on, we asked them where in the world they were going so early. Zone conference! And they were determined to do whatever it took to get there. At 2:00 a.m. two more elders boarded the bus and enthusiastically greeted their fellow missionaries. This scene repeated itself every half hour as the bus climbed the remote mountain road. By 5:00 a.m. we had 16 of the Lord’s finest as fellow passengers and were basking in the spirit they brought on board.
Suddenly, we screeched to a halt. A massive mud slide had buried the road. Jeff said, “What do we do now, Dad?” Just then, the zone leader shouted, “Let’s go, elders. Nothing is going to stop us!” And they scrambled off the bus! We looked at each other and said, “Follow the elders,” and we all sloshed through the mud slide, trying to keep up with the missionaries. There happened to be a truck on the other side, so we all hopped aboard. After a mile, we were stopped by yet another mud slide. Once again the elders plowed through, with the rest of us close behind. But this time there was no truck. Boldly, the zone leader said, “We will be where we are supposed to be even if we have to walk the rest of the way.” Years later, Jeff told me how those missionaries inspired and motivated him tremendously as he served the Lord in Argentina.
Although we overcame the mud slides, we were all spotted with mud. The missionaries were somewhat nervous about standing before their president on zone conference day when he and his wife would be carefully checking their appearance.

When Elder Don Ray Clarke was president of the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission, he transferred to mission headquarters an elder who made it clear he would have preferred to finish his mission in another area. Soon after, the elder met a woman looking for a daughter she hadn’t seen in 10 years. When she showed him a photo, this missionary recognized her daughter from a previous area. He played a key part in reuniting a mother and her child.
From this experience and others, “I’ve come to know that God cares deeply about people,” Elder Clarke says. He welcomes surprise transfers and new callings that allow him to help others. “I hope I can minister,” he says of his new calling, “and not just administer.”

Transportation was either difficult to obtain or nonexistent. Brother Krause reported that it was common to walk twelve or thirteen hours, for distances of up to fifty kilometers, to visit various branches of the Church. But many members, like Sister Elli Polzin, still had to be found and cared for.
“I came from Stettin [now in Poland] with our children and my mother in 1946. … One day two missionaries, one of them was Brother Walter Bohme from Groitzsch, came by to help us make contact with the Church once again. They encouraged us to move into Schwerin where there was a branch of the Church. I got a job there … and after much difficulty I was able to bring my family to Schwerin. … For years we lived in one room until we got an apartment. And then in December of 1949, one day before Christmas Eve, my husband came home from prison” (Schutze, page 18).

Illustration by Joshua Dennis
I had always thought of myself as a healthy person. So I was shocked when I woke up one morning feeling like my chest was being squeezed so hard it was about to explode. I was rushed to the hospital, but after hours of testing, doctors couldn’t find the problem. They sent me home, even though I still suffered excruciating pain. Thus began a seven-month-long ordeal of doctor’s appointments, hospital stays, and the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.
I started to become depressed. I had to drop my college classes and move back in with my parents. I couldn’t go out with friends. I hurt too much to do any of my hobbies. I felt that everything I cared about—my aspirations, my relationships, my talents—had been shattered, and now the pieces of my former self seemed impossible to put back together. And I started to wonder: How could Heavenly Father let this happen to me? Didn’t He love me?
After yet another disappointing and painful doctor’s appointment, all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry. But as I arrived home, I saw something strange on the porch: an old, tattered shoebox covered in tape and addressed to me.
A letter on the box revealed that the package came from one of my friends. She had heard that I was sick and wanted to cheer me up. When I opened the shoebox, I found that it was full of little pieces of Styrofoam. It was a homemade puzzle made especially for me.
As I put the puzzle together, I began to cry. The puzzle formed my name, surrounded by sweet messages of love and encouragement. I felt that the shattered pieces of myself were now being put back together as I assembled my friend’s gift.
A short time later, I started taking a medication that reduced my symptoms and helped the doctors make a diagnosis. I had a rare but treatable condition, and with the proper medicine, I could return to normal life.
Even as my body healed, I knew I would never forget what I had learned. Because of my friend’s sweet gift, I knew that I was loved and that Heavenly Father had not forgotten me. After months of feeling shattered, thanks to the kindness of a friend and the love of my Father in Heaven, I became whole again.

The Latter-day Saint youth of New Mexico know how difficult it is to detach themselves from a prickly cactus. They got some extra practice, though, as they cleaned the site where the Albuquerque New Mexico Temple will be built. Armed with shovels, rakes, and gloves, youth from four stakes assembled on a hot Saturday morning to rid the property of sagebrush, garbage, and cholla, so the weeds could be mowed and the ground made safe to walk on for those attending the temple’s groundbreaking ceremony.
“It was hard work, but it will be totally worth it for the temple to come,” says Robyn Sampson, age 15.
Despite the burrs on their socks and an occasional scare from a snake or lizard, the Albuquerque youth succeeded in clearing the future temple site of every spiny cactus and broken bottle they could find. It might seem strange, but the youth actually enjoyed pulling cactuses and loading trucks with sagebrush.

More than 300 adults from across India gathered in Hyderabad on January 17 to 19 to learn how to become more self-reliant, both temporally and spiritually.
“Our goal with this conference,” said John Gutty, manager of Welfare and Self-Reliance Services, “was to teach young people the principles of self-reliance, to encourage them to take charge of their lives, and to put themselves in a position to provide for themselves and to help others.”
Activities on Thursday and Friday were held at the Marigold Hotel and included personality assessment and development, resume writing, interviewing skills, managing personal finances, and setting and reaching educational goals. Saturday was devoted to workshops on spiritual development.
The group was diverse with as many dreams and challenges as attendees. Nagaraj Govindhraj, Naga Sai Kiran Gubbala, and Madan Govindraj all traveled from Chennai to the conference. Each found something that addressed their particular situation.
Nagaraj, 18, whose parents work as cooks, wants to go to college and plans on serving a mission. “We need to be self-reliant, to support ourselves and our families,” he said, “I earn money for my mission working as a cashier and bell boy in a hotel.”
Nagaraj found the workshop on budgeting especially helpful. “At the conference,” he said, “they taught us how to manage money, to think about what we need and how much we spend, and how to live within our means.” He added, “We also learned about how faith in Jesus Christ and obedience to His commandments can create happiness and stability in our lives.”
Gubbala, 27, is a returned missionary and works as a senior process assistant in a call center. He is thinking about looking for a new job. “I realized that I need to update my resume,” he said. “I also learned what to expect in an interview and how to present myself.” Gubbala also liked learning about the spiritual aspects of self-reliance, like finding the right partner to establish a strong and stable marriage.
Madan, aged 24, is working in Bangalore. He has a diploma in computer engineering and has been doing marketing for a nongovernmental organization while studying through BYU-Pathway Worldwide, an online certificate and degree program offered through Brigham Young University-Idaho. He hopes to eventually earn a master’s degree.
“At the conference, I learned how to go for a better job while studying and how to find jobs in sectors related to my field,” he said. “I also learned how to handle the stress of working and going to school at the same time, which was very helpful.”
Saturday’s sessions were held at the Hyderabad stake center and included presentations about missionary work, family history, institute, and choosing an eternal companion. Anjali Barunal from Delhi said, “I felt the Holy Spirit testify to me that I can do my family history and provide temple ordinances for my ancestors.” Her favorite workshop was the one on eternal marriage where she learned how important it is to date and marry a worthy priesthood holder.
Participants also learned that living a self-reliant life includes serving others. The conference ended with a blood donation drive organized in conjunction with the Indian Red Cross Society. Priya, aged 20, felt that this was a perfect way to conclude her experience in Hyderabad. “Donating blood is the best gift one can give,” she said. “I am happy to share the blessing of my good health with those in need.”

My mother says we came from Dublin, Ireland, with a bundle of clothes, a well-read Bible, and each other. And in our hearts we brought love and hope.
When I was barely ten, we moved to a small cottage with a plot of land near the junction of the Susquehanna and Juniata canals. Father, who was tall and muscular, pulled our plow. And Mother, small but determined, guided the prong as it turned the soil. They sang as they worked, and I was happy to follow behind and shove potato eyes into the rich black earth. Sometimes we gathered berries by the river in pails.
“I watched the canal boats today, Father,” I said, smiling. “They were full of all manner of goods.”
“Aye, it’s a wondrous land we’ve come to, Michael,” Father agreed.
Although we sold the potatoes and berries in town, we never seemed to have enough money. When I was nearly twelve Father left for a time to look for work. Before he went, he kissed Mother and, smiling at me, led me to my cot where he raised the mattress and pinned a dollar to the ticking. “There,” he said quietly. “I’m off to find work. I don’t want to go, but a man must feed his family. Take care of your mother while I’m gone, and if there’s ever a need, remember the dollar.” Father patted the mattress and asked, “Do you understand what I mean, Michael?”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “I understand, Father.”
Mother and I stood near the fence and waved until father disappeared along Old Post Road. Then she wiped her eyes and turned back to the house. “While your father’s gone, Michael, we’ll plant potatoes and pick berries just as before.”
I nodded and went to the head of the plow, determined to do my part. But no matter how hard I tugged and pulled, the furrows never looked deep enough.
Time passed—mules pulled the canal boats, potatoes sprouted, I picked berries and chopped wood. But Mother no longer sang.
Then one afternoon I saw a canal boat loaded to the brim being slowly pulled along. The mule driver cursed and beat the lead mule, but the mule balked and brayed.
“You lazy mule!” the driver shouted, and he whipped the poor animal till it struggled forward. When they neared a bend, I saw the mule drop to its knees and move its head wearily from side to side. I thought of myself behind the plow and ran to where the driver was unfastening the mule’s harness.
“Lazy, no-good mule! You’ll be sold for glue now! That’s a fact!” the driver roared.
“Oh, no!” I pleaded. “Please don’t sell him for glue. He tried the best he could.”
“Go home, boy!” the driver growled. “I can’t leave a dead mule to block the path!”
“He’s not dead yet!” I cried, “Only tired.”
“He’ll be dead soon!” the driver barked as he reached for his gun.
“Please!” I begged, raising my hands.
“Out of my way, boy!”
“I’ll buy him,” I stammered quickly.
The driver threw back his head and laughed.
“I—I have a dollar.”
The driver stopped laughing and rubbed his chin. “A dollar, huh? I suppose that’s all I’d get from the glue factory. All right,” he nodded. “Done!”
I ran home and lifted my mattress, wondering if Father would think it a foolish waste. I glanced toward the canal and thought of the mule. Surely any life is worth a dollar! I decided.
The driver laughed as he grabbed the dollar, then waved me away as he guided the mule train along the path. “Mind,” he shouted over his shoulder, “he’s your problem now! It’s up to you to get him off the path!”
I watched the canal boat disappear around the bend, then knelt and coaxed, “Come on, boy, you’ve got to come home.”
The mule rolled its big brown eyes up at me and my own eyes clouded as he stood and tried to walk, then fell into the high grass. After dinner I put a few carrots in a gunnysack and hurried back to the weak animal. Looking at me sadly, he ate but one carrot.
“It’s all right,” I sobbed. “Rest, old mule; I’ll not beat you.” I tried to cover his bony back with the sack and hurried home.
A week passed and I tended the mule in secret, praying he wouldn’t die. Then one day as I turned to go home, the mule stood on wobbly legs and brayed. I turned in surprise. “Come on, boy,” I urged. “Come on home.”
The old mule pointed its ears, took a step forward, then stopped. I hugged its neck and whispered, “It’s all right, boy. Rest.”
I hurried home to plow a plot of land, and as I slipped my arms into the traces, Mother stood between the handles. Suddenly I heard the mule braying and looked up to see it coming straight across the field toward me! Gently it shoved me aside with its nose and took my place in front of the plow.
“Well, I never!” Mother said, taken aback. “Whose mule is that, Michael?”
“He’s ours, Mother!” I laughed. “I bought him for a dollar!”
The mule plowed all morning—one straight, deep furrow after another—and never got tired. Mother smiled from the cottage window as she baked bread while the mule and I plowed.
Then one evening as we sat down to supper, we heard a knock at the door. Mother opened it, and the mule driver stood scowling. “You have my mule!” he shouted, wagging a finger at me. “I’ve come to fetch him back!”
“I bought him for a dollar!”
“That’s when he was dying!” the driver growled. “Someone saw him well and plowing! Here’s your dollar!”
“Mother,” I pleaded through my tears.
“My son does not want his dollar back,” Mother declared. “A bargain made is a bargain kept!”
The driver’s face turned purple and he threw the dollar on the porch. “I’m takin’ my mule!” he shouted.
I raced to the shed and latched the door, but the driver shoved me aside and flung it open. He grabbed the mule’s halter and raised his whip, but the mule braced its feet and balked. Then from out of nowhere, I saw a tall shadow come round the house and a powerful hand twisted the whip from the driver’s grasp.
“Who threatens my family and home?” my father’s voice boomed angrily.
The driver looked at my father, then released the harness. “Ah,” the driver mumbled, “that ol’ mule never would work anyhow!”
Father stood with his arm about Mother’s waist as the driver stumbled toward the canal. “Is it a useless mule, Michael?” Father asked.
“No. He’ll work for me,” I explained.
“Then you’ve used the dollar well,” Father assured me. “I worked and have only two weeks’ pay in my pocket, but I sorely missed my little family. I’m home to stay. We’ll make it somehow,” he said, smiling hopefully.
“We’ll make it just fine,” Mother agreed, beaming happily. “The mule does most of the hard work, and the garden’s bigger so there will be more potatoes to sell. I can bake pies with the berries, and you can build a cart for the mule to carry our goods to town.”
“Hold on,” Father laughed. “First I want a hug from my family.”
There was still barely enough money, but we were together again. I knew for sure that all riches aren’t to be laid upon a table for counting, or carted to town for selling and trading. Some riches, like the love and honest work of my parents and the loyal, faithful work of my mule, are not for hire. They are precious gifts, freely given when earned. And if the riches of the heart could be counted, then all the world would know how very prosperous we were as my mother and father sang and as I grew to be a man.

Within the week, I listened to one of the brethren who has just returned from the mission field. He has been out nearly five years, and he told of some of the experiences in the field. He told of people that had illness and the doctors did everything they could for them, but they could not heal them. But the humble missionaries, the humble men who held the priesthood, placed their hands upon the heads of those who were afflicted and rebuked their ailments, and they were healed.

There are some things that form a common bond between Santosh and other teenagers all over the world. One of those things is the gospel. Santosh was introduced to the gospel via his uncle, Dr. Edwin Dharma Raju, who joined the Church in Samoa when he was on assignment from the government of India.

When Dr. Raju returned to India, he wanted his family to hear the gospel message, and he wrote to Church headquarters for missionaries to be sent to his family. Instead, Dr. Raju and his wife went on a short-term mission to teach the family themselves.

Santosh was eight years old when he and several family members accepted the gospel. The water tank on the roof of his Uncle Henry’s building was scrubbed and painted to serve as a baptismal font. The men and boys who attended the baptism were dressed in traditional white, loose-fitting Indian jackets and trousers. The women were dressed in white saris, the standard dress of Indian women, consisting of a long piece of cloth draped over the shoulder and wrapped around the body. The newly baptized family was to form the nucleus of the branch in Hyderabad.

Santosh is now a teacher in that branch. He and his brother Sanjay, 12, and sister Sunitha, 16, are the only youth there, but they take a very active part. Santosh arrives at the mission home, where church services are held, a half hour early each Sunday to prepare the sacrament. He is always ready to give a talk or teach a lesson to any age group. Sunitha is the branch chorister and teaches a Primary class, and Sanjay takes on various assignments and is often the first one to bear his testimony on fast Sunday.

Santosh is also preparing for a mission. “I have thought a lot about a mission,” he says. “I used to dream of going to a very remote island or a place where I could convert and baptize everyone. Now that they are calling Indian youth to serve in India, I would like to serve a mission here.”

His dreams also include medical school, which is extremely difficult to get into in his country. Of the 50,000 students who take examinations each year to apply, only 2,000 will be accepted. Only those with the highest grades can enter medical school.

Santosh, like many Indian children, has been going to school since he was three. He will graduate from “college,” the equivalent of American high school, at 17. In the meantime, he carries a stiff academic load.

His day starts before 6 A.M., when he hurries off for an hour session with a tutor. Since his classes at the private Christian school contain anywhere from 40–70 students, the time he spends with his tutor and four or five other students is essential.

He then comes home, prepares for school, reads the paper, and hops on the school bus. Once there, he attends eight classes, among them math, physics, biology, and three different language classes.

Santosh is in the 10th class, where it is crucial to be at the top. He has even had to give up most of the sports he likes so well, like cricket and badminton, in order to excel. He has to take major tests every month and exams every three months to determine his position in college.

After school, Santosh does homework and a little recreational reading until it’s time for the evening meal at 8:00 P.M. Then at 9:00 he’s off for another hour and a half with the tutor.

Although school takes up a major portion of his day, he still finds time for the Church and for scripture study. “I have a very strong testimony,” he says. “I thank my Heavenly Father for it. I know that the Book of Mormon, the Holy Bible, the Doctrine and Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price are companion scriptures and the word of God.”

That knowledge, plus the support of his family, are enough to sustain him in his minority status. “I hope I will have the strength to resist the temptations,” he says. “I love this church, and don’t ever want to go away from it.”

1 In his Sermon on the Mount, Jesus taught: “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.”
2 I can’t do it, Sister Simon. Jason Edwards makes fun of me every day. How can I love him? I hate him!
3 Joshua, every commandment is given to us for our own good. Hate is a heavy burden to carry, and Jesus is inviting you to lay it down. But you’re trying to do the hardest part of the commandment first. Do you think you could start out by just praying for Jason?
I’ll try.
4 Please bless Jason, Heavenly Father. Help him stop being so mean. I mean, if he’s hurting somehow, please help him feel better.
5 Hey, Miller! Is it painful being that ugly?
Actually, I feel great, Jason. Thanks for asking, though.
6 What’s gotten into him?

When I was 10, my mother moved us from New York to Utah, away from my father and the rest of our extended family. What was meant to be the two of us quickly became just me, as I rarely saw my mom due to her extensive work hours.
I grew accustomed to being alone. Although I was sometimes lonely, I often preferred solitude to my mom’s company. Behind closed doors, she was very controlling, and her emotions were unstable due to mental illness. I did my best to avoid upsetting her. She often had sporadic outbursts of anger where I endured harsh yelling and hurtful words.
During this time, church and seminary were places of refuge. I looked forward to those moments where I felt the Spirit, because they sustained me the rest of the week.
At times, my mom’s words challenged my faith. She was supposed to teach me what was right. But if I was doing what was right, then why was I suffering?
The Spirit reminded me that the gospel is perfect but people are imperfect. I couldn’t let her influence my thoughts and testimony of the gospel. Even so, I let my doubts get the better of me for a time.
When I went to college, I wondered what would happen if I stopped going to church, reading my scriptures, or praying. It was the worst experiment of my life! After two months, I felt like Heavenly Father was telling me, “Never do that again!” Feeling the light of the gospel return to my life really helped me realize how much Christ had been with me through my difficult, lonely childhood.
As I strengthened my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, I realized that things with my mom needed to change. I knew then that He had been with me throughout my childhood and that He would be with me as I tried to mend my heart and forgive my mom.
My mom and I decided to attend counseling, but she soon stopped coming. Once again, I was left alone, wondering if she even cared about me. But once again, Christ did not leave me alone.
As I continued to attend, He helped me change my expectations for my mom. I knew that I couldn’t change her, but I could forgive her while establishing boundaries to protect myself from further harm.
Elder Gerrit W. Gong of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said: “When hurt and pain are deep, repairing our relationships and healing our hearts is hard, perhaps impossible for us on our own. But heaven can give us strength and wisdom beyond our own to know when to hold on and how to let go.”
By far the most important part of my healing has been putting the Savior first in my life. I try to keep myself as close to Him as possible, and I’ve seen how strong His power really is.
To me, true happiness is a relationship with Jesus Christ. He can bring light and joy to even the darkest of places.
And, to my surprise, happiness is now also family. I’m married and have a daughter of my own, and I do all I can to be a good example to her and to help her feel the power of Christ in her life. Although my family relationships used to be a source of pain, Christ has helped me realize that I can have happiness in my family when He is part of it.
Elder L. Tom Perry (1922-2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Family is the center of life and is the key to eternal happiness.”
If you are currently experiencing hardship in your family or are trying to heal, lean on Christ. He’s the only person who truly understands, and He can help you forgive, heal, and know how to move forward with those relationships.
As you build a relationship with Christ, He will be your foundation.