Gospel Story Finder

For example, one prospective elder refused to come to church because he smoked. “I didn’t feel the Church was that important,” he says. But he and his wife decided to let their home teachers come by every week to teach them. There was no mention of smoking until the husband himself brought up the subject several weeks later. After three months they attended the temple preparation seminar, and now they attend church every week. He still struggles with his smoking, but he’s accepted a call to be a home teacher. He now understands that “the Church is ‘for the perfecting of the Saints’ (Eph. 4:12)” and “not a well-provisioned rest home for the already perfected.” (Elder Neal A. Maxwell, General Conference, April, 1982.)

I’d like to tell you about a woman who grew up in a room filled with darkness—I’ll call her Jane.

From the time Jane was three years old, she was repeatedly beaten, belittled, and abused. She was threatened and mocked. She awoke each morning not knowing if she would survive until the next day. The people who should have protected her were those who tortured her or allowed the abuse to continue.

In order to protect herself, Jane learned to stop feeling. She had no hope of rescue, so she hardened herself to the horror of her reality. There was no light in her world, so she became resigned to the darkness. With a numbness that can come only from constant and unrelenting contact with evil, she accepted the fact that any moment might be her last.

Then, at age 18, Jane discovered The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The joy and hope of the restored gospel penetrated her heart, and she accepted the invitation to be baptized. For the first time, light entered her life, and she saw a bright path before her. She left the darkness of her world and decided to attend school a great distance away from her abuser. At last she felt liberated from an environment of darkness and evil—free to enjoy the Savior’s sweet peace and miraculous healing.

However, years later, after her abuser had died, Jane was again troubled by the horrible events of her youth. Profound sadness and anger threatened to destroy the wonderful light she had found in the gospel. She realized that if she allowed that darkness to consume her, her tormentor would have a final victory.

She sought counseling and medical help and began to realize that, for her, the best path for healing was to understand and accept that darkness exists—but not to dwell there. For, as she now knew, light also exists—and that is where she chose to dwell.

Given her dark past, Jane could easily have become vindictive, venomous, or violent. But she didn’t. She resisted the temptation to spread the darkness, refusing to lash out in anger, hurt, or cynicism. Instead, she held fast to the hope that with God’s help she could be healed. She chose to radiate light and devote her life to helping others. This decision enabled her to leave the past behind and to step into a glorious, bright future.

She became a schoolteacher, and today, decades later, her love has influenced the lives of hundreds of children, helping them to know that they have worth, that they are important. She has become a tireless defender of the weak, the victimized, and the discouraged. She builds, strengthens, and inspires everyone around her.

Jane learned that healing comes when we move away from the darkness and walk toward the hope of a brighter light. It was in the practical application of faith, hope, and charity that she not only transformed her own life but forever blessed the lives of many, many others.

Night was falling as we approached the mesa. In the failing light, six ragged figures stood out against the orange sky, scarecrowlike with painted faces. Their shredded black robes blew in the wind. Tin cans hung from them, clanging dully. They were eerie and alien in the gathering dusk.
“I think we’re in over our heads,” I said to my companion. Turning the pickup around, I drove off across the empty reaches of the Navajo Reservation. As missionaries in the Arizona Holbrook Mission, we wanted to share the gospel with everyone, but maybe that didn’t include the man who had set up these weird manlike scarecrows.
During the next week, however, we felt an urging that we should return to the hut of the old sheepherder on his remote mesa. We tracted on foot a lot that week so that we could drive out and see him without exceeding the mileage limit set by the mission.
We found him on his mesa. A wooden staff was in his hand, and he wore a long black coat. He stood by a gnarly old tree, as motionless as one of his scarecrow men. Silently, he watched us get out of our truck and approach. His hair was white. His eyes were calm. There was no expression on his wrinkled brown face.
My companion was new and couldn’t speak any Navajo. I wasn’t a lot better. I introduced us in Navajo with a phrase that means essentially, “Hi, who are you? We’re the missionaries.”
He looked at me. I think he was impressed that I knew enough Navajo to greet him. He answered me in English. “I’m Baptist. No hear you.”
His words were harsh, but we felt something else behind them—a kindness, a welcome that was louder than his words. We didn’t argue, but we went on talking with him and before long we had an appointment to come back and see him.
During the months that followed we visited the old shepherd often. He wandered far with his sheep and sometimes we had to drive atop a mesa and scan the country for miles to find him. Every visit was precious because we had to make sacrifices and do a lot of walking so we could save up the mileage to drive to see him.
We had no place to sit and talk with him because his shack was too small. At first we would just sit on the tailgate of our truck. When the weather was too cold, we would crowd inside the cab. We started out very slowly. I knew just a little Navajo, and he knew about the same amount of English. Sitting on the tailgate, I would point to a tree and say, “Tree.” He would point to the same tree and say the word in Navajo. I would point at a dog and say, “Dog.” He would point and tell me the Navajo word. We would both repeat the new word. Little by little I learned enough Navajo, and he learned enough English for us to communicate.
We gradually got to know him. We found out that his name was Peter Wolley. The name had been given to him when he served in the army during World War II. After a number of visits, we began to teach him the gospel. I felt the influence of the Spirit very strongly as we talked. My Navajo was not fluent, yet at times I felt inspired to use certain Navajo words that I didn’t think I knew. Even though I couldn’t communicate clearly, he seemed to know the truth of the things I was telling him.
He was a very traditional Navajo, and he taught us many of the Navajo ways. I learned not to be so inquisitive, because this is considered bad form in the Navajo culture. When I stopped asking questions, and when the mood suited him, he would tell us about his life. He took us out to the river and his other favorite places. He showed us foxholes and where the coyotes had been. He taught us to herd sheep. He showed us how he built the tall, black-robed figures that had ended our first visit. They were not designed to terrify sister missionaries but to frighten away coyotes that might harm his flock.
He loved his sheep and would take them miles each day in search of the best grass. He took the lambs inside with him when the nights were cold. He was a very caring man.
He knew his sheep. He knew their names and he knew each of their ways. One day when we were searching for him and his flock, we saw one of his sheep separated from the rest.
When we found the flock, I said, “Peter, one of your sheep is lost. We saw it over on the other side of the mesa.”
He seemed remarkably calm about the news and said, “Oh I know. That’s Box. He’s the old one. He doesn’t have any teeth. He’s all right.” I was amazed. He knew all about that one particular sheep even though it was out of sight. Peter saw my surprise and smiled. He didn’t have any more teeth than Box.
I knew that I had really earned his trust when he began calling me his “tall white friend.” For a Navajo to address you as “my friend,” instead of by your name is a big compliment. The “tall white” part reflected my five-foot-ten stature and light blonde hair.
One time we made him a placemat. It was a piece of paper with the four steps of prayer on it. We had it laminated, and he kept it on his little table. He loved that little placemat, and I think it was because he loved prayer. He had plenty of time to pray while he watched his sheep.
We taught Peter for seven months before I was transferred. Some Navajo elders then taught him in his own language. He asked them, “Where is my tall blonde friend?” He was receptive to their teachings and joined the Church. I am proud to have helped open the door for my good friend to receive the gospel.
Peter couldn’t go to church very often because there was no one to stay with the sheep. He lived 60 miles away from a church and had no truck. He couldn’t walk that far, and few could go the 120 miles round trip over rough country both to pick him up and to take him home. But I didn’t worry too much about him because Peter was a good man who lived a good life. I knew that his Heavenly Father knew where he was just as surely as Peter knew where to find old Box. Even alone on top of his distant mesa, he was within the fold.
I think of Peter as my teacher. He taught me most of the Navajo I know. He taught me about sheep and coyotes and patience and silence and pasture in barren places. Better still, he taught me about good shepherds who love and know each sheep, even the old one with no teeth who is seemingly lost and far from the rest of the flock.

Concerned for the youth of his ward, a good bishop in Bountiful challenged his young people to taste the sweetness of beautiful service. Reluctantly at first, they put aside their entertainment. One project was making quilts for the mentally retarded at the American Fork Training School. Upon completion of their quilts, the girls delivered them. They arrived at the school in time to help feed supper to the “children.” And that was an experience. As they left the school, with mashed potatoes, gravy, and assorted vegetables in their hair and on their outfits, one girl, touched by the sweetness of the “child” she had fed, said, “I’ll never forget Billy.”

Several months later my relationship with Jake (name has been changed) had progressed a great deal. But Jake’s parents had divorced years earlier, and their separation still affected him deeply. He was afraid that if we got married, things would end for us as they had for his parents.
I told him I was willing to give him time—lots if he needed it—to sort things out in his mind and his heart. We talked about making decisions based on faith instead of fear. We discussed the role of agency and the fact that he didn’t need to assume that his parents’ path would automatically be his fate too. And we talked about the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the Savior’s ability to heal our hearts.
Our conversations seemed to help relieve his anxiety some, and our relationship continued as usual. So when he called me one Saturday afternoon to break up, it more than surprised me. He told me that he couldn’t see himself being married to me—or to anyone. He just didn’t believe in marriage anymore.
For the next hour we rehearsed what we had already discussed, but I couldn’t persuade him. He whispered, “I’m so sorry,” and he hung up the phone. I sat silently on my bed, tears running down my face, absolutely stunned.
A while later my roommate knocked on the bedroom door. “Are you coming to stake conference?” she asked. I didn’t feel much like going anywhere or doing anything, but I put on a dress and got in her car.
When we arrived the first person I saw was the woman who had given that family home evening lesson months earlier. Neither of us said anything, but our eyes met, and in my mind, I heard a voice call my name and say, “Go back and get the plates.”
Somehow I knew all that the prompting implied. It wasn’t just about an ancient prophet returning to get a sacred record. It was also about me. It meant that even though Jake didn’t believe in marriage, I still could. I could hope for it and pray for it and work for it—not in a wishful, wistful way but in a believing, active, prepare-myself-daily-because-this-is-God’s-plan-for-His-children kind of way. It didn’t mean that I had to go back to Jake and be with him until I “wore him down” on the idea of marriage, and it also didn’t mean I had to start dating someone new right away. It was OK for me to have a time to grieve and heal.
But during that time I could avoid wallowing in self-pity. I could resist the temptation to be snide about Jake—or men in general. I could seek friends who believed in marriage and looked forward to it. And I could, like Nephi, trust in a loving Heavenly Father who gives no commandment—whether it’s obtaining ancient scriptural records or marrying and creating families—without preparing a way for us to accomplish it.
I’m still in the “accomplishing”—not the “accomplished”—stage. I’m not yet married, but I feel grateful for the good dating experiences I’ve had—experiences made richer by an improved understanding of the role persistence plays in righteous goals.

For a time, members traveled to the DDR (the former German Democratic Republic) to receive patriarchal blessings; since both nations were governed by Communist regimes, some travel between them was permitted. But when Brother Calvin McOmber visited Czechoslovakia in 1979, he gave Jirí the exciting news that he (Brother McOmber) had been authorized to give patriarchal blessings to the Saints in Czechoslovakia!

“I had been pondering this possibility during that year,” says Brother Snederfler, “and had prayed to know how to write about this to Brother McOmber so the secret police wouldn’t be able to read it in my letter. Finally, I had decided just to wait and talk to him about it when he came. And here he was giving me the news that he was now our patriarch! Righteous ideas are carried by the Holy Ghost from heart to heart—and do not need to be written or spoken.”

At the time, I was working and taking a full schedule of classes. My wife and I also had a small baby to care for. With all these demands on my schedule, I didn’t have much time for studying. I prayed every day for the companionship of Holy Ghost. I needed guidance to help me make the most of my time. I needed assistance understanding the material as well as remembering it later during exams.
One day during class, a professor was writing sets of advanced equations on the whiteboard to illustrate a point. These complex equations didn’t relate to that class, but he wanted to talk about them briefly. After a few minutes the professor erased the board.
My next class was computer science, and we had an exam that day. Those exact equations from the board in my previous class were on the test! What’s truly remarkable is that we had never studied these before in our computer science class. All that memory came back to me from the other class I had attended, and I was able to answer the problem.
When the computer science professor graded the tests, he was so sure nobody answered that specific problem correctly that he automatically marked it wrong for every student. But when I got my paper back, I showed him that the answer I wrote on the paper was correct. It was wonderful.
The Holy Ghost helped me make the most of all my studying opportunities throughout college. I was able to achieve high grades and earn scholarships, which helped me pay for school.

Illustrations by Alessia Girasole
“It’s scripture time!” Lila said.
Lila loved reading to her little sister, Ánika, and her baby brother, Svetan. Soon Lila would be getting baptized! To be ready, she wanted to read the scriptures every day.
Lila opened the scripture storybook to the first page. Ánika and Svetan snuggled close so they could see the pictures.
“Listen carefully because I’m going to ask you questions after,” Lila said. Then she started reading the first chapter.
“Before we were born, we lived in heaven,” Lila read. “We didn’t have bodies yet. We were spirits.”
Lila, Ánika, and Svetan looked at the pictures of people dressed in white.
“Ready for your first question?” Lila turned to Ánika. “Where did you come from before you were born?”
Ánika clapped her hands. “Heaven!”
“That’s right,” said Lila. “And where did Svetan come from?”
“He came from heaven too,” Ánika said. Svetan giggled and put his fist in his mouth. Lila and Ánika laughed. Svetan was the cutest one-year-old in Argentina!
“Our whole family came from heaven,” Lila said. “Jesus did too. He came to help us so we can live with Heavenly Father again.” Lila pointed to the picture of Jesus on the page.
After she finished reading, Lila kept thinking about what it must have been like to live with Jesus in heaven. She wanted to be like Him. She wanted to always choose the right!
The next day at school, Lila’s tummy rumbled as she waited in line for breakfast. She could almost taste the empanadas as Señora Ruiz slid them onto her plate. They smelled so good!
Then Señora Ruiz poured Lila a cup of milk. Uh oh, Lila thought. The milk looked darker than usual. Sometimes her school added coffee or tea to the drinks.
“Is there any coffee or tea in the milk today?” Lila asked.
Señora Ruiz waved her hand. “A little coffee,” she said. “You won’t even taste it.”
Lila thought for a moment. She remembered how she wanted to be like Jesus and choose the right. She knew drinking coffee was something the prophets said not to do.
“No, thanks. I won’t have milk today,” Lila said. She gave Señora Ruiz a smile. Then she sat down to eat.
That night, Lila helped Papi wash dishes in the kitchen. She was still thinking about the scripture story. She was thinking about the milk too.
“Papi?”
“Yes?” Papi said.
“Why did Heavenly Father want us to have bodies?”
Papi thought while he rinsed another plate. “Well, He gave us bodies so we could become like Him,” he said. “Your body is a home for your spirit. That’s what we mean when we say our bodies are temples.”
Lila nodded. She sang a song about that in Primary sometimes! “So that’s why Heavenly Father wants us to take care of our bodies?”
“Exactly,” Papi said.
“Today at school, they put some coffee in the milk,” Lila said. “I didn’t drink it, though. I’m trying to take care of my temple.”
“I’m proud of you,” Papi said. He dried his hands on a towel and gave Lila a hug.
Lila hugged Papi tight. She was happy to take care of the body Heavenly Father had given her.
The family in this story lives in Argentina. Turn to page 10 to learn more about their country.

Just before he started third grade, Jeff W. moved from South Korea to Columbia, Missouri, with his parents and his younger sister, Sarah. He didn’t speak English very well, so it was hard to make friends at first.
But that was before he met Will H., a boy in his class. Will noticed Jeff reading a book about a cartoon character that Will really liked too. Will asked if he could look at Jeff’s book, and that’s where their friendship began.
When Will invited Jeff over to play, Jeff’s dad brought a whole box of goodies from a bakery. He said it was the first time anyone had invited Jeff over to play in the United States.
Jeff and Will weren’t in the same class in fourth grade, but they still got together to play. Then Will started inviting Jeff to Primary activities. When the ward Christmas party rolled around, Will asked his mom if he could invite Jeff. Will’s mom said, “Let’s invite the whole family!”
When Jeff’s family came to the party, they felt a special feeling. Next they came to the Christmas program in sacrament meeting. They made friends in the ward and started learning more about the Church. At the end of fourth grade, Jeff and his whole family were baptized into the Church.

I thought back to my first contact with Mormons. It was the summer of my second year in the junior high school, when President Kimball visited Sapporo. I had attended many other churches, but at that meeting, there was something new: a unity of all the members. It seemed strange at the time. At other churches, people came to meetings, sat and listened, and then returned home. At the Mormon church, they all seemed to be working at life, trying to love it and enjoy it in a way the Lord would want them to.
I thought of my second visit among the Mormons, too. That had been November 3 of the same year at the branch Thanksgiving party. My older sister invited me to tag along and told me all of the people there would seem like angels and we would be embarassed just to be in their presence. That’s exactly how they made me feel! I had never been part of such a spiritual, family atmosphere.
From then on I had attended church weekly and everyone welcomed me with outstretched arms and warm hearts. The missionaries taught me about restored gospel truths, and they taught me how to pray to know the truth for myself. No other church had taught me how to pray, but in this church even small children could pray. I read the Book of Mormon daily and prayed about it. Gradually I began to understand my purpose here on earth and what’s important in this life. But I did not feel, yet, that I had a testimony.
In April, the branch started a Young Women program. At first there was only one participant: me! Even when I didn’t go, the teacher would wait for me. That seemed strange, too. Why was she so patient? Why did she wait so long even when she wasn’t sure I’d show up?
About that time, the mission presidents changed and the Suzuki family came to Sapporo. There was a young lady in the family, Naomi, who was my age. We quickly became friends, since we were the only young women our age in the branch. She set a good example for me, and with her as a guide, I began to understand the patience of our teacher and the beauty of the gospel. Naomi’s example helped keep me going to church weekly and praying diligently. I was able to gain a small testimony and wanted from the bottom of my heart to be baptized.
I had talked to my parents once before about receiving that blessing, but they were against it. This time, armed with a tiny testimony, I tried again.
“Faith,” my father told me, “is not something that is grown in one or two days. It is the process of many years.” He felt that, to a student, school is more important even than religion, and he emphatically refused to give permission for baptism.
That had been a painful experience. But I got a grasp on myself, thought over what my father had said, and decided that one thing he had said was right. Religion should not be just a two-day spree, but a life-long adventure! I began attending seminary and studying the Old Testament in earnest. Fun lessons helped me gain insight into a subject that was new to me, and my knowledge of the gospel became fuller. However, I could not buy the home study manuals because that year was also the year for high school entrance exams, and my parents wanted me to spend time on school work, not religious homework.
I was overjoyed when the students in the class gave the manuals to me as a present! What could I give them in return? The best thing was to study those manuals hard. Even though my progress was slower than others, I was able to finish the manuals and turn them in to the teacher.
I also passed the high school entrance exams and felt relieved. My heart was lighter as I once again approached my parents about baptism, figuring I had proven I could be active in the Church and still succeed at school. Their response knocked me back into reality. “No,” my father said, “from now on school will be even tougher. You won’t have time for church and school too.”
My parents became increasingly upset by my diligence in attending Church meetings and would speak harsh words when I left the house on Sundays. After many months, however, they finally realized I wasn’t going to stop attending, and their resistance slackened somewhat. I continued studying seminary manuals, and my testimony grew more and more firm. But baptism still seemed impossible.
Finally, Naomi suggested that we should fast and pray about the situation. So every Sabbath day—for an entire year-we fasted. Naomi fasted and prayed right along with me. I could always feel God’s presence nearby, and my testimony became unshakable as we realized many other blessings that year. But my parents remained firm.—
Last of all, my thoughts drifted to the beginning of this school year-my last in high school, the year of preparation for the college entrance examinations. I knew I would not be allowed to join the Church until the exams were over. I also wondered if my parents would allow me to be baptized even after the tests. One thing was certain, though. If I failed the exams, my parents would say, “The reason you failed is because you spent so much time with that church!” I had to prove that what they were thinking just wasn’t right. Somehow I knew that passing those tests was the key to my baptism, but I couldn’t see how.
I studied harder than I ever had before. Schoolwork passed ahead of everything, even Church assignments. Seminary studies began to pile up, but I rationalized that in order to be baptized, it was worth neglecting seminary in favor of schoolwork. The lack of seminary study worried me, however, for it was there I had grown the most and felt the strongest testimony. Now that testimony seemed to be shrinking as 13 home study books cluttered my shelf. My conscience told me I wasn’t doing what was right, that even with school there should be time for Church work and seminary too. On February 25 I promised myself I would complete all 13 books by March 4, the day exams began. Sandwiched in between my other schoolwork, seminary workbooks became a welcome break. On March 2, I handed all of my assignments, completed, to my amazed seminary teacher.
“It’s time,” the teacher supervising the exam said. I looked at the clock and whispered a prayer. Like a squadron of robots, the college entrance exam candidates rose and entered the testing area. Reluctantly, I joined them.
I passed! I couldn’t believe it! I was so excited! But several days later, when the scores were posted, I was listed. I would be able to go to college! I rushed to my parents with the good news and also asked if now I could finally have my wish—to become a member of the Church.
“No,” my father said simply. He startled the words right out of my mouth.
But my mother, although she had never done so before, came to my defense. She reminded him that I had been true to my studies and true to my religion for four years. “That’s such a good church that I don’t think my daughter would be doing anything wrong by joining it,” she said. “It is such a good church. I can understand why my daughter wants to go to it all her life.”
The three of us talked for hours, and I slowly realized my parents weren’t against me but loved me. They were concerned for my welfare and didn’t want me doing something blindly. I’m grateful to have such wonderful parents. I think they realized, too, that I wasn’t joining the Church on a whim. They gave me permission to be baptized! I made that covenant and received that ordinance on the same day I graduated from the Young Women program. My friends from seminary helped plan the baptismal service, and most of my family attended.
Of the high school and college-age members of the Church in Japan, only about 5 percent have parents who are members. They may find that sharing the gospel with their families can be difficult and that parents of the Buddhist and Shinto faiths don’t always understand the joy that comes into someone’s heart through the knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ. But I truly believe that the Lord is mindful of us and will provide a way to help us. For me, it was through four years of patience that allowed my faith to grow strong.

Susan seemed afflicted with a similar ailment. But hers came when she looked in the mirror.
“Oh my gosh, I look so awful. Other girls have bad hair days—I have bad hair seasons. Why can’t I be thin, tall, blonde, and from Sweden? Is that asking too much?”

And here’s Susan, back in front of the mirror, but with a new attitude:
“Wow, that ribbon Mom gave me really does look good with my hair! It matches my dress, too. Maybe Jennifer would like one. It would look really good with the T-shirt she wore to Young Women last week. Whoah! Look at the time! I’d better hurry. I promised I’d make my famous Swedish meatballs for Mutual tonight!”

Champion Koruea Kaburara estimates that she and her husband assist about 100 people every month. She is very careful to help those she gives her seedlings to by providing instruction and supervision.
Sometimes she helps them by giving them soil or compost that she produces.
Koruea gives her tender plants to those who are serious about following through. “Many members come to me and so do people at my work and in my community. I feel like I want to help both. They are happy to get the plants.”
Koruea is able to feed her family and to generate some extra income through her skillful management. Her neighbours are grateful to be able to purchase the fresh vegetables from her. The creative system benefits all involved and can be sustained.

Let me tell you briefly about a wonderful brother down in New Zealand by the name of Hoko Whitu. Hoko Whitu no longer lives; but many years ago he lived out on the seacoast well off the beaten track in New Zealand—so far off the beaten track that the missionaries were only able to visit perhaps two or three times a year. He lived in a little fishing hut. He loved to fish, and that was his livelihood and his means of earning a living. He lived alone in this little fishing hut because he was old and his children had all gone or moved to the big city. When the missionaries came on one occasion, Brother Hoko Whitu was very pleased to see them. He could not speak English but greeted them in Maori, took them in his little hut, went right over to a particular place, took out an envelope, and presented them with it. The missionaries found it bulging with money.

The elders took a letter out of the envelope; it was written in English. Brother Whitu could not read the letter, but he could recognize the Church letterhead. He recognized the signature down at the bottom as that of Matthew Cowley, his mission president. He could also read numbers, and he knew that in the middle it talked about a certain amount of money. Upon receiving the letter, he had said to himself, “My mission president needs some more money to run this mission.” And he had saved that money in the envelope for the elders to take back. The elders read the letter to him, translating it into Maori:

Dear Brother Whitu:
This letter will serve as a receipt and an acknowledgment for all the tithing you paid last year. May the Lord bless you in it.

This brother was ready to pay the whole amount all over again, because he thought the Church was in trouble. That is the kind of Polynesian faith that you and I need.

People I’ve counseled who seem to have the first problem—they can’t stop feeling guilty even after repenting from a transgression—usually have another problem: that of very low self-esteem. They feel that there’s nothing they can do to gain control over their lives because they’re such worthless people. For instance, one woman I know made an unsuccessful suicide attempt after months of feeling desperately lonely and isolated from her family. She blamed herself for this isolation (“If I were a better mother, we’d be a closer family”) and after her attempted suicide simply switched the blame to another aspect (“How could I have committed such a terrible sin?”). Even though her husband, her bishop, and her stake president worked with her in a sustained and loving way to assure her of the Lord’s love for her, she refused to stop feeling guilty because she really didn’t believe she was worthy of forgiveness. In a way, feeling guilty was her reason for living because it enabled her to keep on punishing the “worthless” person she had become.
The solution for both the sister and this brother was basically the same. They started making plans and carrying them through. As they saw that they could make decisions, their self-esteem rose, their guilt decreased, and they were able to see their guilt in perspective.

Randy Herrman terrified me.
It wasn’t that he was bigger than I was. He was kind of puny for his age. And he certainly wasn’t smarter, or funnier, or more creative. Nope. What intimidated me about Randy Herrman was his attitude. He wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.
Like a villain in a melodrama, Randy appeared at school while we were all registering for the seventh grade. There were about a hundred of us in line outside the principal’s office when Randy walked up wearing a black motorcycle T-shirt. He stopped for some reason beside Travis Duncan. Then, with a little sneer, Randy reached into Travis’s open backpack—that was still on Travis’s back—fished around and pulled out a Ding Dong. Without a pause Randy bit the chocolate cake clean in half, wrapper and all.
Travis stood there for a second, in complete shock, then started yelling—a high-pitched wailing that was way too-over-the-top for a bitten Ding Dong. Finally, Mr. Squires came out of his office to see what all the commotion was about. Then the principal grabbed Randy by the shirt collar and led him down the row of kids to the detention room. As he passed, Randy looked at me with his gray eyes and smiled. It was an unspeakably cold smile that sent a shiver up my spine.
I couldn’t sleep for a week.

There were people everywhere—doctors and nurses in white coats, tired and crying children standing in line to get shots, anxious foster parents searching for their Indian children, and other families happily reuniting. Eight-year-old Rose Begay had been so excited to come on the Indian placement program this year with her older brothers and sisters that she’d hardly slept the night before she was to leave. But during the long bus ride from Arizona she began to realize how far away she would be from the world she knew. She had loved the twinkling lights of the Salt Lake Valley she’d seen the night before from the bus window, but the harsh lights in the building stabbed at her tired, scratchy eyes. When Rose was finally introduced to her new family by her caseworker, Brother Hall, she was so exhausted that the people blurred before her eyes.
“Rose, this is Brother and Sister Robbins, and Julie, Jason, Eric, Scotty, and Susan,” he was saying. They all had blue eyes, freckles, and big smiles. Rose peeked at them through a curtain of black hair, then quickly lowered her eyes and looked at her toes.
The Robbins family lived in a brown house on a quiet circle. Rose gazed in wonder at the large, comfortable rooms and the shiny kitchen with a sliding glass door looking out onto the lawn and garden. In the distance she could see snow-covered mountains. She touched the pink gingham curtains edged with wide white lace in the bedroom she would share with Julie, and her eyes were drawn to the matching bedspreads.
When it was time to be tucked into bed, Sister Robbins had wanted Rose to wear the pajamas she had ready, but Rose shook her head no. How could she explain that the clothes she had on were her only link with home? She looked so tired and ready to cry that she was allowed to get into bed in the clothes she wore. But the bed still felt strange, and she couldn’t get comfortable. She longed for her goatskin rug on the hard floor at home. She squirmed and squiggled. Finally, after Julie had gone to sleep, Rose took a blanket, curled up in a corner on the floor, closed her eyes, and thought about her desert home. She could almost see the piñon smoke drifting through the clear air and feel the gentle touch of a smooth brown hand. At last she slept.
During those first weeks with her new family, Rose had many things to get used to. It seemed strange to be allowed to have cookies and popcorn after school. At the small reservation boarding school Rose had attended for a few months, children could eat only at mealtimes. And, with a twinkle in her eyes, Julie would often remind her, “Oops, you left the fridge open again, Rosie.” Sometimes Rose would eat until she felt like bursting, and still the ache of strangeness was inside her.
One morning there were pancakes for breakfast—crisp and brown on the edges—with hot maple syrup. Rose was just about to pour herself a glass of milk when she noticed that her foster mother didn’t have any and that there was only enough for one glass. “I don’t feel thirsty for milk today,” she said.
Sister Robbins looked at Rose strangely, then glanced down at her own empty glass. “Rose, I don’t want milk this morning,” she said. “I’m going to buy more milk at the store as soon as you go to school.” Rose filled her glass and drank the good cold milk with the hot pancakes.
“Will you vacuum for me today before you go, please, Rose?” Sister Robbins asked after breakfast. She plugged in the vacuum cleaner, turned it on, and showed Rose how to use it. Rose pushed it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth …
Jason grabbed his jacket and hollered, “Hurry up, Rose. You’ll be late for school.”
In desperation, Rose turned to Eric and whispered, “How do you stop this thing?”
Vacuum cleaners and refrigerators weren’t the only strange new things in Rose’s world that gave her problems. She was having trouble in school.
“Why don’t you look at me when I talk to you?” Miss McBunn asked Rose. “And why haven’t you been turning in your assignments?” Rose turned her eyes to the floor and retreated even farther behind the curtain of dark hair. She was embarrassed to tell her teacher that Navajos consider it rude to look right into peoples’ eyes when they are talking to them. Her assignments were all completed as well as she knew how, but she feared turning them in. What if they are all wrong? she thought. I would be ashamed.
The bell rang for their next class.
“Saved by the bell,” Rose’s friend Angie whispered.
“OK, girls, we’re going to run the forty-yard dash today,” the gym teacher announced. When the girls had lined up, the teacher put her whistle to her lips and BLEW!
Rose streaked across the field, her hair flying behind her. She glanced back and saw that she was far in the lead. Her feet went slower until most of the others were even with her.
“Why did you slow down? Why didn’t you try harder to win?” Angie wanted to know.
Rose shrugged her shoulders shyly and said nothing. She didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t the Navajo way.
After school Hank Holton walked by Rose and poked her with something sharp. He made an imitation of an Indian war whoop and taunted, “Where’s your tomahawk?”
Rose’s heart felt heavy, and her feet carried her home in slow, plodding steps. She felt much better when she got home and discovered that everyone was making preparations for family home evening.
“Mondays are my favorite times,” she commented to Julie as they put the best red glasses on the table with the good dishes and two tall candles. They were especially excited tonight because Grandma was coming for the evening.
“Be sure to pick all the toys up off the steps so Grandma won’t stumble on them,” Sister Robbins warned Scotty and Eric. But they ran off to play, and the toys were still there. Rose carefully gathered them up and put an extra cushion on Grandma’s chair so that she would be more comfortable. Then Rose went to the kitchen to check on the good smells. “What are you cooking tonight, Mom?” she asked.
“Oh, a special treat,” Sister Robbins replied, “shrimp and french fries.”
Rose had a funny look on her face.
“What’s the matter?” Sister Robbins asked.
“I don’t know whether to be a Navajo or a billigona (white person) tonight. Navajos aren’t supposed to eat fish, but oh, it smells so good!”
“Why, I didn’t know that Rose. I guess you will have to decide.” Sister Robbins gave her a hug.
“Why do white people touch each other all the time—hugging and kissing?” Rose asked with a puzzled look.
Sister Robbins laughed. “I guess it’s just a way we have to show our love for each other. Besides, I think it’s kind of nice, don’t you?”
Rose sat deep in thought for a while, then said, “Yes, I guess it is. One time my grandfather and I were going for a walk together. He held my hand so that I wouldn’t stumble in the holes. It was nice.”
After dinner Julie played the piano and Jason played his flute. Baby Susan clapped with everyone else and cooed.
As Rose watched Susan pick up a toy and play with it, all the lonely, homesick feelings and the strangeness of her new experiences seemed to swell inside her. She wanted to be as carefree as Baby Susan again. Rose reached over and snatched the toy from Susan so quickly that the baby lost her balance and tumbled over backward.
“Why, Rose!” Sister Robbins exclaimed in a shocked voice, “You mustn’t treat the baby like that! What’s gotten into you? Please go to your room and stay there!”
A while later Rose’s foster mother came into the darkened room to find the young Indian girl sobbing in a corner. Sister Robbins gathered Rose into her arms and carried her—even though she was eight years old—to the big rocker. Rose huddled on her lap choking on sobs that wouldn’t stop. “My Indian mother loves me,” she said brokenly again and again.
Sister Robbins stroked the damp hair from Rose’s hot face. “Oh, Rose, I love you, too,” she said soothingly.
Rose looked up and saw tears on her foster mother’s cheeks.
“You have become part of my heart. I don’t know what we would do without our little Rose. You bring a special gift to our family. Tonight I noticed how you cleared off the steps for Grandma and fixed her chair. None of my other children have ever watched to see that I had enough milk like you did this morning. You understand about peoples’ feelings in a special way.” She pressed her cheek against the smooth dark hair on the top of Rose’s head.
“Rose, I raised my voice at you tonight, and I’m sorry. I know that your Indian mother always speaks softly. Many of our ways must seem strange to you. Apples and bananas are not alike either, but they are both good. The gospel in our lives can be a bridge to cross over our differences.
“When I was only a few years older than you are now, I was baptized and became the only Mormon in my school in South Dakota. Some kids called me names like ‘Seagull’ and teased me because they thought I was different. But it didn’t matter because when I read the Book of Mormon, it seemed to fill a longing that had always been inside me. It seemed familiar to me, like my mother’s kiss, warm and comforting, as I drifted off to sleep at night. Your people helped to write that book, Rose. It is a great gift and blessing they have shared with us.”
“It is?” Rose looked up in wonder, her eyes still wet with tears.
“Oh, yes, my little Rose. Long years ago your people wrote that the time would come when we would care for you as nursing mothers and carry you on our shoulders—teach you the gospel. The placement program is part of the fulfillment of that prophecy. Saturday I will take you to Temple Square. You can see how Jesus came to your people long ago and how they gave us the Book of Mormon.” Rose snuggled deeper into her lap. She felt loved and safe as she drifted off to sleep.
On Saturday Rose felt special and important as she and Sister Robbins visited Temple Square. She enjoyed the stories and films about her people. Her grandfather liked to tell stories just like the Indian grandfather in one of the films. Grandfather had taught her to walk in beauty, to see the good and beauty in everything around her.
During the film, she heard the words of the Savior, “And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring, and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd” (John 10:16).
Rose thought, I know about sheep. I’ve spent many hours tending sheep, finding them shade and water. I may be different from Julie and the others like apples and bananas are different, but I am one of His sheep.
Rose felt a comforting warmth, as familiar as snuggling down under her own goatskin rug or hearing her grandfather telling her stories. She had felt an ache and hunger inside that food could not satisfy, but it was beginning to melt away like the dew fades from the unfolding rose petals reaching for the sunshine.

I used to work at a camp where I helped campers rappel (or abseil) down a 100-foot cliff, a difficult and terrifying task for some. Most of them struggle with it for one reason: they lack trust. When rappelling, you need to trust your partners, the gear, the rope, the belay, and the carabineer. But most importantly, you need to trust yourself—or nothing can be accomplished.
Many people who approach the cliff come with wide eyes and shaking hands. But before they can scramble away in fear, I look at them and say, “Everything will be OK. I know you can do this. And I’m holding you up the whole way.” And when they make it to the ground, everyone cheers and hugs them, celebrating that they were able to conquer their fears.

Allie was so happy that she felt bouncy!
She got in the car to ride home.
“Today was great!” she told Mom. “We drew pictures. And I met a new teacher. Her name is Miss Gregg. Now I have two teachers!”
Allie had been in kindergarten for three weeks. She loved everything. Activities. Projects. Lunchtime with friends. Her teacher, Mrs. Coleman. And now she had another teacher, Miss Gregg. It was perfect!
“Wait,” Mom said. “You aren’t going to have two teachers. Just one. Miss Gregg is your new teacher. That’s why you went to her class today.”
Allie frowned. “What?” Her bouncy feeling popped like a balloon.
“Mrs. Coleman’s class was too big,” Mom said. “The school chose you for a new class.”
Allie thought about her friends in Mrs. Coleman’s class. “I don’t think the class was too big.”
“You’ll have fun in your new class,” Mom said.
But Allie didn’t want a new class. She would miss Mrs. Coleman and her new friend Caitlin. This morning school was perfect. Now it was ruined.
At bedtime Allie kneeled to pray.
“Why don’t you ask Heavenly Father to help you in your new class?” Mom said.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” Allie said, “please help me have fun at school.” She started to feel a little better. But she was still nervous.
The next morning more worries filled her head. Will I like my new class? Will I see my friends? But new thoughts came too. I can be brave. Heavenly Father will help me.
After school, Allie was happy.
“How was your day?” Mom asked.
“Great!” Allie said. She climbed into the car. “Miss Gregg is really nice. I saw Caitlin on the playground. And I got to make a goody bag!”
“That does sound like a good day,” Mom said.
Allie smiled. “Heavenly Father answered my prayer!”

Most of us know of instances where the Church and its members have been persecuted, criticized, or misunderstood. But perhaps we are less aware of individuals and groups who have risen to defend the Church. One of the best known of such people is Colonel Thomas L. Kane, a Pennsylvania military officer whose influence assisted the Saints after their expulsion from Nauvoo and during their travails across Iowa and at Winter Quarters, the trek west to the Great Basin, and the early years in the Salt Lake valley. He traveled by sea from the East to the West Coast and then cross-country to Salt Lake City to help avert war and bloodshed as Johnson’s army approached the Great Basin.

Long sympathetic to the Saints and their cause, Colonel Kane shared his feelings before the Historical Society of Pennsylvania in 1850. In a lengthy discourse, he reviewed his acquaintance and association with Church members over several years, noting their suffering and endurance; their industry and enormous accomplishments while destitute; their order and discipline; their happy, cheerful natures; their devotion to their families, to each other, and to their God; their hope and faith in the future because of their religion; the injustice of their persecution; and their loyalty to the government that had turned its back to them. He closed his discourse by stating that he had never “heard the single charge against them as a community—against their habitual purity of life, their integrity of dealing, their toleration of religious differences in opinion, their regard for the laws, or their devotion to the constitutional government” that he did not know to be unfounded (see Thomas L. Kane, “The Mormons,” in Daniel Tyler, A Concise History of the Mormon Battalion in the Mexican War [Salt Lake City, 1881], pp. 64–106).

Based on trust and the strength of personal conviction, Colonel Kane and the Saints forged friendships and genuine understanding that culminated in Brigham Young’s designation of Colonel Kane as “our constant friend.”

The scriptures say the Sabbath day is a holy day, a joyful and delightful day, a day of rest, a day to celebrate.1 But a few years ago, while in my late teens, I found Sundays miserable. Instead of peace, I felt stress. Instead of joy, sadness. Instead of hope, guilt. I had a full-on case of the Sabbath blues.
Each Sunday morning, after an embarrassing amount of time hiding under my covers, I’d finally admit it was indeed Sunday and get dressed for church. At church, I’d review my past week. During the sacrament, I would add up all my failures, never finishing before the first speaker got up. The rest of church became a battle of staving off tears as the guilt intensified with the new regret of feeling so rotten at church.
The afternoon was much the same. I’d feel guilt about past choices, stress about future choices, and sadness about present circumstances. Without school and extracurricular activities to distract me, I would spend my time dwelling on negative thoughts.
After listening to, reading, and then re-reading President Russell M. Nelson’s April 2015 general conference talk about how the Sabbath is a delight, I prayed for peace on and love for the Sabbath rather than the misery I currently felt.2 And an answer came.
I felt prompted to shift my focus from my woes to my relationship with Heavenly Father and the Savior. Rather than ponder my failures, I took time to ponder Their involvement in my life.
When negative thoughts came, I repeated to myself what I knew and believed about God and Jesus Christ: I am a child of God. He loves me. Jesus Christ is my Brother, and He atoned for me. They want me to be happy and return to Them. The Sabbath is a gift from God.
I began to exercise faith in this testimony.
Changing my focus led me to also reconsider how I approached the sacrament. For so long I had treated the sacrament as time to punish myself. But that’s not its purpose. The sacrament is a sacred ordinance to renew our covenants. It is a chance to become clean again through the atoning power of Jesus Christ. Focusing on the ordinance and the covenant with faith and a repentant heart, I realized that the sacrament offered peace as I accepted the gift of forgiveness, kept my covenants, and received the Lord’s Spirit (see D&C 20:77, 79).
Thinking of Christ’s Atonement during the sacrament brought another gift to my mind. Not only could I be forgiven, but I could also receive healing because my Savior took upon Himself my pain and infirmities (see Alma 7:11–12). Through His Atonement and the sacrament, I could find peace and strength on the Sabbath—or on any other day—rather than stress and sadness.
And I found that peace. My Savior is there for me on Sundays and always!
This wasn’t a one-week fix. It was a struggle, and it took time. “But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it” (Romans 8:25). I kept working on my focus and praying to feel love for the Sabbath.
In time, I did find peace and delight on that holy day, but I couldn’t quit there or I’d again slide into the Sabbath slumps. Each week requires diligent focus on the Savior and the purpose of the Sabbath, but I know the promise of peace and joy is true.