Gospel Story Finder

On several occasions different mothers have recounted a similar story to me. They were all survivors of sexual abuse. Forgiveness was a struggle for each of them. Then someone in their family was accused of abusing another—usually the accused was one of their children. Can you imagine what happens to a mother’s insides when her child is so accused, especially when she has personally suffered at the hands of a similar transgressor? Yet all of these women have told me that eventually they were able to see their own transgressors in a new light—children of God who had made a terrible mistake but who someday may repent and receive God’s forgiveness. Such transformation had allowed them to sacrifice fantasies of revenge and turn judgment over to God. They permitted Christ’s blood to surround their pain and cleanse their hearts with peace.

You may ask, “Do such things occur even today?” Let me share with you the beautiful account of a grandmother and a grandfather now serving a mission and the manner in which their little grandson was blessed. The missionary grandfather wrote:

“My wife, Deanna, and I are now serving a mission in Jackson, Ohio. One of our big concerns as we accepted a mission call was our family. We would not be there when they had problems.

“Just before we went on our mission, our grandson R. J., who was two-and-a-half years old, had to have surgery to correct a crossed eye. His mother asked me to go with them because R. J. and I are real buddies. The operation went well, but R. J. did cry before and after the surgery because none of the family could go into the operating room, and he was afraid.

“About six months later, while we were still on our mission, R. J. needed the other eye corrected. His mother phoned and expressed her desire for me to be there to go with them for the second operation. Of course, distance and the mission prevented me from being with him. Deanna and I fasted and prayed for the Lord to comfort our grandson during his operation.

“We called shortly after the surgery was over and found that R. J. had remembered the previous experience and did not want to leave his parents. But as soon as he entered the operating room, he quieted down. He lay down on the operating table, took off his glasses for them, and went through the operation with a calm spirit. We were very thankful; our prayers had been answered.

“A couple of days later, we called our daughter and asked about R. J. He was doing fine, and she related this incident to us: In the afternoon after the operation, R. J. awakened and told his mother that Grandpa was there during the operation. He said, ‘Grandpa was there and made it all right.’ You see, the Lord made the anesthesiologist appear to that little boy as though he were his grandpa, but his grandpa and grandma were on a mission 1,800 miles away.”

Grandpa may not have been by your bedside, R. J., but you were in his prayers and in his thoughts. You were cradled in the hand of the Lord and blessed by the Father of us all.

Jason Johnston’s family was more than 1,000 miles away from home on Christmas Eve three years ago. Jennifer, Jason’s older sister, was scheduled to have surgery in Salt Lake City, Utah, shortly after Christmas, and the family had traveled from Bartlesville, Oklahoma, so they could be near her.
As they gathered around the fireplace of a cabin in Aspen Grove, Utah, that night, everyone knew it would be a different kind of Christmas. But the real differences came unexpectedly.
“I went eagerly to my place in the circle as my parents handed us each a gift,” says Jason, who was 18 at the time. “I held my present close, so as soon as the story of Christ was told, I could open it.”
But Jason’s mother, Ann, started out the traditional family event with tears in her eyes and asked them to first listen to a song about Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ. She then expressed her own feelings for such a mother and child and asked that her children open their gifts right away, a task usually reserved for the evening’s finale.
Being the youngest in the family, Jason got to open his gift first. Jason ripped apart the paper and quickly opened the box. “I was dismayed to see a frame face down,” Jason says. “I picked it up, and, turning it over, I noticed it was a picture of Mary and the Baby Jesus.”
“I didn’t say anything. I just sat and stared at it as each of my sisters and my brother opened the same gift.”
Jason was, to say the least, momentarily disappointed. The same picture each child received was one his mother already had sitting on the table next to the Bible.
But then Ann told them the picture’s story:
It was the same picture she had been given more than 20 years ago by her mother on Christmas Eve. And just like Mary and her own mother before her, Ann wanted her children to know how much she loved them. She wanted them to know how she felt honored to raise each of them. How she worried about them as they went into the world. And how she once lovingly cradled each of them in her arms.
“At this point there wasn’t a dry eye in the house,” Jason says. His disappointment immediately changed to love and peace. “I don’t know why my eyes filled with tears. I guess it really didn’t matter. I was with my family, and that’s all I needed.”
The family finished their Christmas Eve festivities with a testimony meeting, and each child received a priesthood blessing from their father. They also sang carols and ate holiday treats that night. But the memories of carols and food aren’t quite as clear in their minds as are the words spoken by a loving mother and father on that night in a small cabin so far away from home.
Today that simple picture of Mary and her child still hangs on Jason’s bedroom wall in Oklahoma, many miles away from the cabin in Aspen Grove. But he will never forget that night. Nor will he forget the picture’s legacy and the meaning that comes from a Christmas centered around Jesus Christ.

A few months back I was writing to a friend, and I felt a distinct prompting that I should bear my testimony. This prompting confused me, because my friend was an active member of the Church whom I looked up to. But despite my doubts, I followed through with my prompting.
I’m not certain what effect my testimony had on my friend, but I’m sure I did the right thing, because I know I listened to the Spirit. I have faith that Heavenly Father must have known there was some part of my testimony that my friend needed. As we listen to the Spirit, we can all receive revelation from Heavenly Father by the gift of the Holy Ghost.

Competing in fiddling competitions has been good for the girls. (Jesse is only four and does not yet compete.) They have made some good friends at the competitions. When Vanessa and Joanna competed in the same age group, occasionally Joanna would beat out her sister. Linda comments about Vanessa’s reaction, “I think Vanessa would rather that Joanna didn’t beat her, but when it happens she’s good about it. She says, ‘I’d rather have my sister win than someone else.’ “

Often their best friend beats them both. They honestly say, “Who could you want to win it more than your best friend?”

The competition, instead of creating a “killer” instinct in the girls, has taught them to value a person for what he is, not for how he does in a contest. They have learned to take the ups and downs of competing in stride. They know that when they come off the stage, all their friends will be talking and having fun no matter how they did in the competition. They get to know and like people as individuals, not whether they come in first or last.

Hey, Sam!
What’s wrong?
I can’t find Floppy, my elephant from Great-Aunt Alice!
I’ll help you look.
We’ll never find him.
Let’s say a prayer for help.
Heavenly Father, please help us find Floppy.
Hmm …
Sam! Look!
You found him!
Let’s say a prayer to say thank you.
Heavenly Father, thank you for helping me find Floppy.
Now there’s one more thing we should do.
Can I play too?
Heavenly Father cares about what we care about! We can pray to Him anytime, anywhere, about anything.

How grateful I am for the power of example. The New Era truly sets a good example for the youth of today—our leaders of tomorrow. I’m thankful to a friend of mine who set an example for me four years ago when I was 18 by asking me if I would listen to the missionaries. I did and was shortly thereafter baptized. Now I am on a mission serving the Lord—supported by my non-LDS family. I hope I am setting an example for them. Thank you, Mike Johnson, for sharing the gospel.
Elder Chris D. AxentyIdaho Pocatello Mission

I vividly learned that same lesson. When I graduated from college, I was commissioned an officer in the United States Army. I was an infantryman. After completing some training, in early 1965 I was assigned– with my bride of a few months– to an infantry battalion of the 25th U.S. Infantry Division at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. My wife and I were thrilled with this assignment and looked forward to three years of life amidst the sun and the surf and the wonderful people of Hawaii. We rented a little duplex right on the beach on the North Shore of Oahu. You could step out of our back door onto the sand; it was literally like something out of a movie.

In October of that year, our battalion received a new commander, Lt. Col. Thomas U. Greer– “Tug” Greer, as his peers called him. Tug Greer was a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point, Class of 1951. In 1951, the Korean War was raging. Most of the West Point class that year was assigned immediately to the combat zone. Many of Tug Greer’s classmates died on the rugged slopes of that land. But Tug had survived and remained in the army. And now, 14 years later, he was assigned to command our battalion.

No sooner did he assume command, than Col. Greer took the battalion on a week-long training exercise in the rugged Kahuku Mountains of northern Oahu. For those of you who have not been to Hawaii, let me describe these mountains. They are steep slopes of volcanic rock with little topsoil and covered with thick, green vegetation. For five days, we struggled up and down those slopes in one infantry maneuver after another. Finally, it was Saturday morning, the last day of the exercise. All of us looked forward to returning early to our battalion headquarters, turning in our equipment and hitting the beach. After all, we were young, and what was the point of being stationed in Hawaii if you could not go to the beach! I remember gazing down early that morning from my perch on the side of one of those mountains at the shimmering sand and sparkling ocean. I could hardly wait!

About that time, Col. Greer came to our rifle company’s position. To our company commander, Capt. Jim Andrus, he said, “As the last exercise of this training, I would like Charlie Company (that was us– “C” Company) to establish defensive positions. Now, among other things establishing defensive positions meant digging foxholes. You know what a foxhole is. It is a hole in the ground where a soldier can seek shelter from enemy fire. But this was volcanic rock! And we were only equipped with those little folding shovels (which the army calls “entrenching tools”)! So, as Capt. Andrus gathered us platoon leaders around to give us the orders for establishing defensive positions, he said, “Since we want to get this over with quickly, we won’t actually dig foxholes. Instead, we will simply do “simulated foxholes”– we will just mark out on the ground where we would put the foxholes.”

So, that is what we did. A little while later, Col. Greer came around to inspect our “defensive positions”. I remember it like it was yesterday! As he came to the first of these “simulated foxholes”, he asked Capt. Andrus, “What are those?” Clearing his throat a little nervously, Capt. Andrus responded, “Well, sir, those are simulated foxholes.” “Simulated foxholes!!” roared Col. Greer. “I ordered this company to prepare defensive positions, and that means digging foxholes! This company is going to stay out here and dig until it learns how to dig foxholes that look like the came out of the training manual!” And so, as the rest of the battalion packed up weapons and equipment and headed back to the base and an afternoon at the beach, Charlie Company remained out on that hillside. And we dug, and we dug, and we dug. Col. Greer’s name was on every one’s lips that afternoon, and I can tell you that he was not winning any popularity contests that day! But by evening, we had foxholes that really looked just like they came out of the training manual.

But, you see, there was something that we did not know that beautiful Hawaiian Saturday. When Col. Greer had been given his orders assigning him as our battalion commander, he had also received some other orders that he could not share with us– top secret orders– sending our battalion to Vietnam. We did not know it at the time, but this would be our last training exercise. And Col. Greer, with his vivid memories of his fallen classmates on the rugged hillsides of Korea was determined to do all that he could to save the lives of those men entrusted to his care. In a manner of speaking, Hawaii was the “season” for learning those skills that would save our lives. Vietnam would be too late.

What happened next I did not personally observe, arriving in Vietnam a few days after the rest of the battalion; but it was reported to me by my comrades-in-arms. They reached the spot in the division’s defensive perimeter assigned to our battalion late in an afternoon. Col. Greer’s order went out: Establish defensive positions. Our men dug in because that is what you did in Tug Greer’s battalion. Another battalion next to ours, arriving at the same time, only scooped out some shallow cavities in the ground– not unlike our Hawaiian “simulated foxholes”– planning to dig real foxholes the next day. But that night, the Viet Cong enemy launched a ferocious mortar barrage into the green troops. Our men were safe and secure in their foxholes; but the men of that neighboring battalion were not so fortunate. I am told that the next morning Tug Greer’s name was again on everyone’s lips– but this time with reverence and respect. I still regard him as one of the great men I have known. From him I learned one of life’s most powerful lessons: There is indeed a “time for every purpose under heaven”– even a time to learn to dig foxholes.

Anciently, Laie was considered a Pu'uhonua or a place of sanctuary and refuge. In more recent history, Elder Scott D. Whiting said, "Laie is a gathering place and has been since the mid-1800s".[2] I believe it is still today. It's a place that gathers in people like Yee Yee Mon – otherwise known as Olive. Who is from Myanmar
Myanmar is a country of over 55 million people. In spite of this large population, the Church is still emerging, and proselytizing is not allowed. Olive was baptized 17 years ago as one of the first members ever baptized in Myanmar.
Her initial interactions with the missionaries were centered around free piano lessons, but she felt like she should oblige their invitations and listen to their missionary lessons. After one meeting, Olive was given President Hinckley's book entitled "Way to Be." She could not stop reading it. She was impressed by the morals and values covered in the book. It opened her mind, and she was led to answers to her prayers - linking every question she had about the Church, Book of Mormon, and Joseph Smith with the answer that they all had to be true.
Olive was the first Sister to serve a mission from her country, despite her mother's apprehension. But it was Olive's persistence and her display of faith by saving her own money and surviving on noodles for months that influenced her mother to support Olive's desire to serve a mission. Olive served in the Pocatello Idaho mission. It was there that further miracles unfolded.
Olive was born with a severe case of Scoliosis. Not only was her spine S-shaped, but it was also twisted. Her life expectancy was projected to be significantly shortened. However, while on her mission, she was able to see specialists and receive corrective spine surgery and therapy, which greatly improved her quality of life.
After returning from her mission, Olive helped with the translation efforts of Church materials and the Book of Mormon into Burmese. She also learned about BYU–Hawaii and worked hard for admission. She majored in Social Work and was known by many for her work ethic and academic success. She turned down an offer to intern with the UN in New York to instead accept an internship in Salt Lake City at the Burmese Refugee Center, where she could work with her people. While a student, Olive not only worked as a carver at the Polynesian Cultural Center but with the Admissions, where she could help and influence others in Myanmar. Because of her efforts, four others from Myanmar are now studying at BYU–Hawaii.
While at BYU–Hawaii, she met and married her husband, Dustin. They now have a baby girl and another on the way. This is a miracle considering doctors told her that she would likely never have children of her own. She is currently getting her Masters in Social Work at BYU in Provo and intends to return to Myanmar to utilize her degrees to help others.

“If choosing the right is supposed to bring you blessings,” I thought to myself, “then why am I sitting alone in the hall of my new junior high?”
I didn’t know many people in my new school. My music class was where I felt most comfortable because I like to sing. After weeks of being the new kid, it was nice to feel like I fit in. Today, however, was different. Mrs. Wyler (name has been changed) had brought a recording of a popular Broadway musical, one my stake president had cautioned us to avoid. Mrs. Wyler turned to the class: “Any comments before we start?” she asked.
I squirmed in my chair. Everyone was looking eagerly toward Mrs. Wyler, the disc in her hand. I thought perhaps I could sing Church songs in my head to drown out the lyrics she would play, but I knew that would be hard for me in this situation. I looked at Mrs. Wyler as my hand slowly went up in the air.
“Yes, Jill?” she said as she inserted the disc into the player. I couldn’t think of what to say. I couldn’t say that my stake president told me not to listen to this musical, because she wouldn’t know what a stake president was. I had no idea how to explain, especially in front of the entire class.
“I have religious objections to this musical,” I said, knowing it sounded lame. The class was now watching me in silence.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Wyler, glancing at the clock, “Why don’t you just take your chair and sit in the hall this period.” As the door swung shut I could hear the wave of laughter as the music began. Sitting in the hall was miserable. “So much for making friends in this school,” I thought.
A couple of weeks later in English class, my teacher passed out copies of some new poems. One student raised her hand. “I have religious objections to these poems,” she said. I glanced over at her quickly, thinking she was making fun of me, but she looked back at me and smiled a real smile.
Instead of having people think I was stupid for having standards, it became the popular thing to do. Sometimes you have to show where you stand by where you are willing to sit.

Close to the home where I lived as a child was a large house. It was located on beautiful grounds, enclosed by what was to me a towering fence made of wood paneling, probably six feet in height. I recall peeping through holes in the panels where knots of wood had dropped out. It was like looking through a telescope into a different world. The beautifully manicured lawns, the well-kept flower gardens, and a small orchard provided an idyllic setting for the distinctive dwelling. Unfortunately, the opportunity to enjoy the view was always brief due to the vigilant British bulldog that patrolled the gardens and was immediately attracted to anyone standing close to the exterior of the fencing. Even though the fierce dog was confined in the garden, the sound of his sniffing as he approached the fence caused me to retreat in fear as my vivid imagination conjured up a variety of possibilities.
Mr. and Mrs. Lyons, who lived in the home, were schoolteachers. They had a dignified demeanor and seemed to enjoy the privacy that the house setting afforded them. To add to the intrigue, Mr. Lyons had no right hand, using instead a steel hook that protruded below the cuff of his jacket. In my boyish mind, I could imagine Mr. Lyons pursuing me, catching me by the collar with the hook, and taking me captive.
I recall an August morning when I was 10 or 11 years old, following a night of unusually strong winds, being greeted by friends as I left my home. They were obviously excited by something and inquired, “Did you hear the wind last night?”
When I said that I had, they proceeded to tell me what they had discovered—that the wind had blown down sections of the fencing surrounding the Lyonses’ home. I could not understand why this would cause so much excitement and asked them to explain the significance.
They responded with even greater enthusiasm: “We have access to the apple trees!”
I was still very cautious and asked, “But what about Mr. Lyons?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Lyons are not at home; they are away visiting relatives.”
“Where is the dog?” I probed.
“The family has placed him in boarding kennels,” came the reply.
My friends had certainly carried out detailed research. So, reassured by their words, we headed for our target with all haste. Entering the grounds, we climbed trees and hurriedly plucked fruit, filling our pockets and also the space between our shirts and our bodies. My heart was pounding and my pulse racing since I feared that any moment the dog or Mr. Lyons, or both, would appear in the garden and apprehend us. We ran from the scene of our trespass to a secluded place in a nearby wooded area and, after regaining our composure, began to consume the apples.
It was August, and the apples were not yet ripe enough to eat. In fact, they had a very bitter taste, but the tartness of these green apples did not deter us as we enthusiastically consumed our spoils, acting out of a compulsion I cannot now explain. After devouring a significant number, I contented myself with taking a bite out of each remaining apple and throwing the remnants of the fruit into the nearby bushes. The frivolity diminished as our bodies began to gradually react to the invasion they had experienced. The chemical reaction between my gastric juices and the unripe apples caused me to experience stomach cramps and to feel nauseated. As I sat regretting what I had done, I realized that a feeling within me was producing even more discomfort than the unripe apples.
The greater discomfort resulted from the realization that what I had done was wrong.
When my friends had proposed that we invade the garden, I had felt uncomfortable but lacked the courage to say no and so suppressed my feelings. Now, after the deed had been accomplished, I was filled with remorse. To my regret, I had ignored the promptings warning me of the error of my actions.

Wednesday’s 26-kilometer walk to Chinaman’s Bay and back was tougher than the hike up Bishop and Clerk. Everyone brought their bathers (swimming trunks) and a towel, plus lunch. It took several hours slogging along the soft sandy road that followed the shoreline to reach the white beaches of Chinaman’s Bay. The boys showed amazing stamina as they not only kept up but often overtook their leaders.
As four young Scouts passed him, Brother Pash described the feelings of many of the adults when he said, “It’s disgusting, it is, to see little blokes catching us up that way.”
After some very icy swimming (the Tasman Sea carries too much of the Antarctic chill for the less hardy souls), everyone began the long walk back to camp in time to hike down to the ferry dock, meet the afternoon boat, and buy a fizzy (soda pop).

Third, let’s evaluate how reliance on faith alone could mislead. In 1984 a world-renowned eye surgeon, Ronald G. Michels, joined the Church in Baltimore, Maryland. I was serving as his bishop. He was absolutely converted to Jesus Christ and His restored Church. At the height of his career, Ron developed a life-threatening cancer. His physicians prescribed chemotherapy. His prognosis was bleak—even with treatment, it was unlikely that he would survive for more than six months.

Some members of the Church told him that he shouldn’t take the medicine and that he should instead rely on faith alone. These members told him that taking the medicine would demonstrate to God that his faith wasn’t absolute.

Ron invited me to his office in the hospital. Spread over his desk were ten to fifteen pills. He told me his situation, the advice of his doctors, and the advice of some Church members. He said, “Dale, you are my bishop. If you tell me to take the pills, I will. If you tell me not to, I won’t.”

As I struggled to formulate a response, I remembered what my wife and I had recently read from the Book of Mormon: the letter Captain Moroni wrote to the governor of the land, Pahoran. In encouraging Pahoran to give more support to the armies that were fighting for freedom, Moroni wrote:

Behold, could ye suppose that ye could sit upon your thrones, and because of the exceeding goodness of God ye could do nothing and he would deliver you? Behold, if ye have supposed this ye have supposed in vain.4

Moroni repeated himself for emphasis:

Or do ye suppose that the Lord will still deliver us, while we sit upon our thrones and do not make use of the means which the Lord has provided for us?5

I asked Ron to read these verses, and then I asked, “What do these verses teach you?”

He replied, “I think it means that I should take the pills and continue to exercise my faith.”

He took his prescribed medicine, followed the advice of his doctors—making use of the means that the Lord had provided—and exercised his extraordinary faith. He lived much longer than expected, approximately eight years. Both he and I were confident that the outcome would have been worse if he had relied on faith alone.

A friend of mine received an invitation to the temple wedding of a young man she had taught in Primary. When she responded to the invitation, she asked, “David, you moved away, and I haven’t seen you for years. Why did you think of me?”
“Sister McMullin,” he said, “you taught us about being clean and worthy to receive the priesthood. You taught us about scrubbing our hands and wearing clean clothes when we would pass the sacrament. You taught us about being clean inside too. When I was faced with temptations and decisions in my dating years, your voice would come into my mind: ‘A deacon is clean inside and out.’ I am worthy to go to the temple because of you. That’s why I want you to come with us.”

When I was a junior in high school, I had a seminary teacher who changed the course of my life. He was able to look past my fashionably long hair and mildly rebellious attitude and somehow instill in me a desire to start reading the scriptures. Because of his influence, my life literally changed as I became converted and committed to the gospel of Jesus Christ. I was invited to participate on the seminary council the following year and, because I admired him so much, was looking forward to working closely with him.
Near the end of the summer, but before school began, the new seminary council gathered for our first meeting of the year. This teacher was fanatic about starting class on time and would often good naturedly embarrass any latecomers. When the entire council arrived on time and he did not, we could hardly wait to let him have it. After about a half an hour, there was still no sign of him. I called the seminary principal to see if we had misunderstood the date. The principal apologized for our inconvenience and then told us that this teacher would not be teaching again. I learned later that during the summer, he had been unfaithful to his wife and excommunicated from the Church.
You can imagine that this was very disturbing to me. I could not understand how this good man could have done such a thing.

It was the spring of 1864, and the fruit trees and fields were promising an abundant yield to the Navajos living in the Canyon de Chelly. Bright Morning was herding her mother’s sheep on the mesa above their village when a sudden change came into her life.
The story Bright Morning tells of the Spanish slavers, the army soldiers, Indian family life, and her friendship with Tall Boy, who is strong and proud, makes fascinating reading. Many changes come to Bright Morning and her people. Many spirits are broken. Bright Morning is one of the few who possess an inner strength based on hope. She will survive.
Scott O’Dell won the coveted Newbery Award in 1961 for Island of the Blue Dolphins. His Sing Down the Moon was the runner-up for the Newbery Award in 1971.

I have seen that same heart in the Saints of the Pacific. In a small village on one of these islands, an older man and his wife accepted the invitation of the missionaries to sincerely ask the Lord if the lessons they were being taught were true. In this process, they also considered the consequences of the commitments that they would need to make if the answer that they received led to their accepting the restored gospel. They fasted and prayed to know the truthfulness of the Church and the veracity of the Book of Mormon. The answer to their prayers came in the form of a sweet but ringing affirmation: “Yes! It is true!”

Having received this witness, they chose to be baptized. This was not a choice without personal cost. Their decision and baptism carried with them a high price. They lost employment, they sacrificed social standing, important friendships dissolved, and the support, love, and respect of family were withdrawn. They now walked to church each Sunday, exchanging awkward glances with friends and neighbors who were walking in the opposite direction.

In these difficult circumstances, this good brother was asked how he felt about their decision to join the Church. His simple and unwavering reply was “It is true, isn’t it? Our choice was clear.”

These two newly converted Saints truly had the heart of the widow. They, like the widow, “cast in all” that they could give, knowingly giving of their “want.” As a product of their believing hearts and enduring faith during those hard times, their burdens were lightened. They were aided and surrounded by supportive and ministering Church members, and they were personally strengthened by their service in Church callings.

After they cast in their “all,” the greatest day came when they were sealed in the temple as an eternal family. Like He did the converts under Alma’s leadership, “the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord.” Such is the heart of the widow exemplified in this wonderful couple.

In April 1973, my parents and I traveled from our native Argentina to be sealed in the temple. Since there were no temples in all of Latin America at the time, we flew more than 6,000 miles (9,700 km) each way to be sealed in the Salt Lake Temple. Although I was just two years of age at the time and do not recall the entirety of that special experience, three very distinct images from that trip were fixed in my mind and have remained ever since.

First, I recall being placed close to the airplane’s window and seeing the white clouds below.

Those beautiful, bright clouds endure in my mind as if they had been gigantic cotton balls.

Another image that has remained in my mind is that of a few funny-looking characters at an amusement park in the Los Angeles area. Those characters are hard to forget.

But of much greater importance is this brilliant and unforgettable image:

I clearly remember being in a sacred room of the Salt Lake Temple where sealings of couples and of families are performed for time and for all eternity. I remember the beautiful altar of the temple and recall the bright sunlight shining through the room’s exterior window. I felt then, and have continued to feel since, the warmth, safety, and solace of the gospel light of truth and love.

Similar feelings were reaffirmed in my heart 20 years later, when I entered the temple to be sealed once again—this time as my fiancée and I were sealed for time and for all eternity. However, on this occasion, we did not need to travel thousands of miles because the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple had since been built and dedicated, and it was just a short drive from our home.

Twenty-two years after our wedding and sealing, we had the blessing of returning to the same temple, but this time with our beautiful daughter, and we were sealed as a family for time and for all eternity.

As I’ve reflected upon these very sacred moments of my life, I have been overwhelmed with profound, enduring joy. I have felt and continue to feel the love of a compassionate Father in Heaven, who knows our individual needs and our heartfelt desires.

William Borrowman never forgave his son for joining the Church. He made sure that the family members never referred to John as brother or uncle. However, John’s stepmother, Helen, corresponded with John through the years. In 1857 she wrote to tell him that his father had died and that he had directed that John be given—as his total inheritance—one halfpenny (the equivalent of a nickel in American coin).

A few years ago my rugby team participated in a weeklong tournament. This meant seven days away from home, parents, and Church leaders. Because we attend a Church school, everyone on my team was a member of the Church. Almost every evening that week, the other teams in our hotel would party in their rooms with loud music, dancing, drinking, smoking, and screaming harsh words at each other. Our team gathered in a room for our tradition of scripture study and evening devotionals. It felt good to do the right thing without being instructed by our parents. After the other teams observed us with surprise, we gained their respect. They were silent when they knew we were having evening devotionals. They seemed to be interested in what we were doing, and some even joined with us to read the scriptures and pray together.
We didn’t win the tournament that week, but we won in another way. We were able to shine our light, and through our examples, change hearts and minds.
Elisara E., 20, Samoa