Gospel Story Finder

A faithful Japanese sister and her husband visited our mission in Korea. She didn’t speak Korean and was limited in her ability to speak English, but she had a willing heart to use her unique gifts and helping hands to do the Lord’s work. That’s what disciples do! She taught our missionaries how to do a simple piece of origami—a mouth that could open and shut. She then used the few English words she knew to teach the missionaries to “open their mouths” to share the gospel—a lesson they will never forget, nor will I.

Sturdy gospel roots that go deep into rich spiritual soil strengthen and steady us in times of trial and difficulty. One of the leaders of the Church once related to a group of religion instructors[8] that not long after he had been called as a General Authority someone planted a bomb at the door of the Salt Lake Temple. The bomb had exploded and knocked the large, heavy door off its hinges. He commented that the episode was chilling to him and created an anxiety and discomfort, a fear, that lasted all day. To his utter surprise, he noticed that all through the day, in the many meetings he attended with other General Authorities, no mention was made of this scary incident. Finally, at the end of the day, he asked one of the senior Brethren about the temple door, only to have his colleague remark, “Yes, we need to get that fixed, don’t we.” Then he added this important principle, one that will help each of us to be steadfast and immovable as we move into ever more troublesome days ahead: “We do not take counsel from our fears.”

I was frustrated and doubtful of my capacity to endure when I discovered Grandpa’s gift—a simple, three-paragraph account of an experience he had when he was just one year older than I was.
My grandpa, Gerald Craven, was 18 when he served in the 52nd-West Yorkshire England regiment during World War I. Before he left home, his father instructed him, “Never deny the gospel as taught by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Grandpa soon became sick when the flu epidemic of 1918 struck. He was forced to report to the military infirmary. While registering, he was asked what denomination he belonged to. The persecution of the Church was intense in England then. It would have been easy for Grandpa to claim he belonged to some other church. But remembering his father’s words, Grandpa announced he was a Latter-day Saint. The commanding officer immediately started harassing him.
Grandpa recovered and returned to his regiment. Because there were no LDS services on the base, he had been attending the services of another Christian church. On the first Sunday after he was well, as Grandpa was assembled to march to church with his battalion, the colonel commanded him, by name and number, to fall out. Grandpa was placed on a large box, and the colonel asked the rest of the soldiers what they should do with a Mormon boy who was trying to attend their church.
The cry went out to send him to the cook house to wash dishes. Grandpa couldn’t attend church and was forced to serve tables when the services were over. While he served the members of his regiment, they spit at him, called him names, and did everything they could to make him miserable.
That night Grandpa prayed for help. The next day he bumped into an old friend from home who had been assigned to form a regiment brass band. Remembering that Grandpa played the cornet, he asked Grandpa to audition. The piece Grandpa was asked to play was the last piece he had learned before entering the army.
The next Sunday Private Craven played hymns in a church he hadn’t been allowed to attend the week before. Being in the band may also have preserved Grandpa’s life, as he was never sent into combat.

At the end of each Sunday, 17-year-old Aimee Givens’s wrists and fingers ache. She spends a three-hour block of church meetings signing for hearing-impaired teenagers Matt and Leticia Nicholes.

First Aimee attends her meetings from 9:00 A.M. till noon at Fig Garden Ward in the Fresno West California Stake. Then she waits for Matt and his sister, Leticia, to arrive for their meetings at the Sierra Ward, which follows her ward. That means Aimee attends six hours of church each Sunday. And if there’s a youth fireside Sunday evening, Aimee signs for that, too. Little wonder her fingers and hands ache at the end of the day!

Aimee explains that she stands near the pulpit during sacrament meetings and signs the hymns and the messages of the speakers. She said she has to stand near the speakers so she can watch them and sign at the same time.

Since Matt and TC are both 16 years old (they are not twins; they’re adopted), they attend the same Sunday School class. Aimee attends with them and signs the lessons. After Sunday School, Matt goes to priesthood meeting and Aimee goes to Young Women with TC.

The teenagers also attend early-morning seminary together, but Matt and TC are not in the same class as Aimee. Their mom attends with them and signs for them, but when the classes meet together for special lessons or activities, Aimee does the signing.

Matt and TC are the youngest of Karl and Velyn Nicholes’s nine adopted children. Sister Nicholes says she is grateful that Matt and TC have Aimee as a friend. “I love signing. Going to church for six hours every Sunday has been beneficial, too. I really have to listen carefully to what is being said. It’s helped me grow.”

Jerrison had made certain he read his English assignment: Ernest Hemingway’s “The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber.”
With any luck, Jerrison figured Mr. Hammel shouldn’t call on him to respond to the story about a man who wounded a lion in Africa, then ran from the beast’s charge—leaving guide and gun bearer to deal with it until later finding his courage again. There were over 30 students in the class. Three or four would be sufficient for enough discussion to do the Hemingway story justice, then move smoothly to the next author. At least that had been the pattern of Mr. Hammel’s literature challenges in past English classes here at Churchill High School.
But the law of averages wouldn’t prevail, Jer reasoned, because Mr. Hammel now suspected he was LDS. Jer was the only active Church member in his school, and his family was one of the few LDS families in the entire eastern Canada community. And hadn’t Jer just had the courage, or the gumption, or the gall, or whatever you call it, to disagree with the teacher just the week before? At issue was the presence or absence of deity in Mark Twain’s “The Mysterious Stranger” and whether there was any hope for an afterlife. Lars Hammel had been quite adamant about that. Jer had never seen his teacher so unyielding on any point. Perhaps Mr. Hammel deserved his reputation as an unrelenting atheist.
“Miss Cromar,” came Mr. Hammel’s inquisition, “What did you think of the lion incident in Hemingway’s Mr. Macomber?”
Dana smiled awkwardly. “He, well, he ran away from the lion. He was a coward.”
But Mr. Hammel would not let Dana off so easily. “Why is that being a coward, Miss Cromar? Wouldn’t any of us run from a lion suddenly charging directly at us from the tall grass? And wouldn’t we expect a professional guide who makes his living at this sort of thing to have the skills necessary for dispatching the creature?”
It wasn’t normal conversation, thought Jer. But then what English teacher speaks normally? Even a sympathetic one?
“I, I guess so, Mr. Hammel.”
“You’re easy to get along with, are you not?” The teacher looked down at her from his oak desk.
“Yes, yes,” she agreed.
“And Mr. Allred, do you concur with Dana here?”
“Macomber ran away. He was a nerd. Even his wife thought so.”
Mr. Hammel paused thoughtfully. “Well, let us see what Mr. Broman has to say about Mr. Macomber’s temporary lack of courage.”
Jerrison felt too tall in his seat now. He ran large hands through his dark hair. His mouth groped to synchronize with precisely the right words. “Relatively speaking, I don’t think the man was as much of a coward as some might think,” Jer heard himself say.
“Eh? Intriguing thought here. Why do you say that, Mr. Broman?”
“Well, he chose to go on the lion hunt. He didn’t have to go on a safari like that. And no one forced him to shoot at the lion, or wound it in the first place. And he did finally overcome his fears.”
Mr. Hammel waited. “And is that all there is to it, Mr. Broman?”
“It’s just that this is only an example of one-time courage. Physical courage.” Jer found that it came out easily. But then, “His greatest fault might have been talking so much about the whole thing.” Jer felt all eyes on him now, and he turned his heavy thumbs up above the desk. “I’ve seen greater examples of true courage in everyday life than shooting a lion, anyway.”
“An example, please?”
“Well, my aunt …” Did Jer have to go into all this?
“Your aunt?” It was true what they said about Mr. Hammel. Couldn’t he see that this matter was becoming more than Jer had intended it to be?
“I guess some would think she didn’t have much to live for each day. Robert, her husband, left her, and she has a Down’s Syndrome baby, and she has to work nights …”
“Is she not remarriageable?” Mr. Hammel said evenly. The class tittered.
“Not much chance of getting remarried right away. Not to just anyone, right now.” Jer squirmed.
“I see, Mr. Broman. And tell me, how would you compare this item of literature with what you read of Twain’s ‘Stranger’?”
“I liked Hemingway better. I like to read about courage.” Now he was warming up. “At least if it’s real courage. And if the author tries to honestly discover the full meaning of courage, not just an outside veneer.”
“Mm, Mr. Broman. Could you please see me after class? I’d like to talk with you privately if you don’t mind.”
When Jerrison appeared at the long oaken desk, Mr. Hammel was smiling only faintly. “I’m intrigued with your definition of courage,” he said. “Tell me more about your aunt, Aunt …”
“We call her Ren, Rennie.”
“Your Aunt Rennie. You say she has courage.”
“Every day. The child—and her job. They’re her lions.”
“And she handles this without lashing out at the world?”
“Ren … doesn’t usually talk about it.”
Mr. Hammel frowned. “Yet, what choice does she have?”
“She’s always smiling. But she knows Becky will always be dependent on her.” Jer felt an impatience stealing over himself now.
“Then there’s no reason to smile?”
“Some might say that.”
The teacher turned his head. For several minutes he did not speak.
Jer was about to say something, maybe “See you tomorrow” or now that he thought of it, a clever “Who’s next, Thoreau?” But then it didn’t seem so clever, and he heard Mr. Hammel speaking, low at first, then with more voice.
“Your aunt is a remarkable woman,” he said at last. “I know someone like her.”
“Who is that?” Jer said softly.
“Not really important. But you have not yet told me what it is that gives your aunt her courage.”
“First,” Jer said, “you must tell me your background. What is your feeling about God. Do you agree with Mr. Twain?”
“Yes, I see. That is a hard point. I don’t know. Jerrison, I would like to meet with you tomorrow, or the next day, after the last class.”
“Wednesday? I think I could do that. Right after school?”
The next day Jer thought he noticed a change in Mr. Hammel’s mood. The man appeared brisk and abrupt. He stood talking to another teacher, something about sophomores and assignments. “I’m in charge of the 10th graders’ get-acquainted party,” he was saying. “These kids are so glum these days about helping the new ones. Can’t get the haves to mix in and include the have-nots. No compassion.”
When the other teacher walked away, the two just stood there. Jerrison waited. Finally, Mr. Hammel looked directly into Jerrison’s eyes. “What is it that gives this woman the strength, as you say, to fight lions … every day?” He said it as a statement, not a question.
“Are you certain you want to know?” Jer asked.
“Yes, I would not have asked a year ago, or perhaps even a month ago. No, certainly, not even a month ago. Before I knew you. Now, go on, tell me.”
“The same thing which enabled Daniel to subdue his lions, the ones in the den.” Jer had not managed any eloquence. But he had said it.
Mr. Hammel studied him. “You are a Mormon, are you not?” he broke the silence.
“Yes.”
“And you … you’re saying …” he broke it off. “Yes, I see what you are saying. It is very clear.”
Two days later, Mr. Hammel again asked Jer to remain for a few minutes following class. “Mr. Broman.” His voice seemed again aloof and piercing. “I have a special assignment for you. For extra credit, of course. Would you write me a story about courage. What it means to have courage? Compare it with Mr. Macomber, if you will.”
That night, Jer struggled with the assignment. What did Mr. Hammel want from him? He had told him how he felt. What else could he say? He asked his father about it. “What do you regard as courage, Dad? True courage? It’s an English assignment.”
His father seemed slightly puzzled. Jer tried to help, without putting any words in his father’s mouth.
“Let’s put it like this. Is a man a coward for running away from a charging lion?”
“Yes, I think so. But wasn’t there anyone around to stand up to the lion?”
“The guide. An Englishman stopped the animal a few feet away. Stood there and pumped lead into a roaring lion.”
“I’d say that was an act requiring some courage. But who attacked whom in the first place?”
“The American. He shot the lion. Macomber. He hit it in the flank with a bad shot.”
“Oh. Sounds like the lion had a bit of courage himself, eh?”
“I told Mr. Hammel that there are many greater acts of courage, if an author wants to write about courage.”
“You said that?”
“Yes. I told him about Rennie.”
“You did?”
“I think she has courage.”
“You know what, Jer? I think you’ve got it. Courage.”
Later that night, on the assigned paper, Jer wrote:
“Many of us think of courage as a single act of dramatic proportions, with the world watching, reporters ready to describe in detail the slaying of the lion in our lives. But if the world was watching to give us a badge or a compliment, giving life our best wouldn’t be that difficult. The real test comes in rising to meet the challenge every day, and again, with no fanfare, when you are alone, and you know what you ought to do, and determine to do it with your full zeal and strength.”
On Friday Mr. Hammel asked Jerrison what grade he thought his paper deserved.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I wrote it because that’s the way I feel. Not for a grade. It’s the way my aunt is.”
“That’s why I’m giving you an A,” Mr. Hammel said. “For courage. And your aunt … I’m giving her an A, too.”
“I’ll tell her that.”
“Oh, and a … tell her I’d like to test her courage—helping me with the backward ones at the class get-together coming up. I haven’t reached them in a dozen years. Maybe your aunt can give me some clues. Anything.”
“And the baby?” Jer asked.
“My mother. Put up with me. I guess she’s got the courage to put up with your aunt’s baby for one afternoon.”

Faith Nwaulu came back from her mission looking forward to a good life. She knew what she wanted, to be trained as a midwife. The only constraint that she had to achieve her dreams was funds required to take the training. When she participated in the returned missionary orientation program, she learned about the PEF loan and knew that was the resource to help her achieve her dreams. She applied for and received the loan to attend St. Philomena Hospital to be trained as a midwife. She has now graduated and is employed in the same hospital where she received her training. She is also happily married.

In the humid heat of a Thai morning, the newly ordained elder knelt on an old newspaper to protect his knees from the rough concrete floor of the hut. He was wearing a second-hand white shirt, an old tie, and sandals on his feet. Reverently, he broke bread and blessed it. Thach Khuong was not only grateful for the opportunity to participate in a sacrament service, but also for life itself. He had recently led his family through the dangers of war-ravaged Vietnam and Cambodia to the promise of freedom and safety in a United Nations refugee camp in Panat Nikom, Thailand.
When Brother Thach first arrived at the camp, he surprised Church welfare services missionary Elyce Jones by shaking her hand instead of giving her the traditional Cambodian bow of greeting. He told her that he was a member of the Church and that he held the Aaronic Priesthood. It was welcome news. Welfare services missionaries were assigned to teach refugees Western culture and English as a second language, but it was against United Nations’ policy for them to proselyte. However, with proper authority, refugee Church members were permitted to conduct Church affairs, including Sunday services.
At Brother Thach’s news, Sister Jones and other welfare services missionaries contacted Elder Marion D. Hanks of the First Quorum of the Seventy, then the Church executive administrator for Southeast Asia, and informed him that an Aaronic priesthood holder had arrived in the camp. Following a personal interview, Elder Hanks ordained Thach Khuong to the office of elder. “Brother Thach was our first priesthood holder in the camp,” says Sister Jones. “With his ordination, we were permitted to hold Sunday services.”

Hela lifted the large basket of produce to his head and took a deep breath, hoping the air would fill him with courage. It didn’t. It wasn’t so much that he feared the task before him as that he hated it. He just didn’t want to take the vegetables to sell in the city.
Tilling the soil and watching the rich black earth soften and crumble under the hoe always filled Hela’s heart with gladness. And watching the crops begin to send up green messages of life was exciting. Hela even enjoyed digging out the weeds as the plants grew.
But after watering and weeding and growing, the vegetables must be taken to market. That task had once been Hela’s favorite, but now he could barely force himself to go.
For more than five years—ever since Samuel the Lamanite prophet had stood on the city wall and called the people to repentance—the persecution had gotten worse. Each month, each week, each day, the nonbelievers became bolder in tormenting the people who believed that Christ would come.
Everyone at the marketplace knew that Hela, who bore the name of his father, was a follower of Nephi the prophet. And they knew that Hela’s father taught people about Christ’s coming. So they spat on Hela and swore at him. Sometimes they even beat him when he went to the marketplace. But Hela said nothing about his tormentors because he knew his family needed the money from the sale of the vegetables. He also knew that his father would probably take the produce to market himself to protect his son, and then his father would not be able to teach the gospel.
“Are you leaving for the market now, my son?” Hela’s mother asked.
“Yes,” Hela said, taking one more deep breath.
“Such a son!” his mother said, clapping her hands together. “Only twelve years old and doing the work of three men!”
Hela smiled. His mother always exaggerated about him. “Now, Mother,” he protested.
“Well, maybe only the work of two men. But still, such a son!” The twinkle in her eyes danced happily as she clapped Hela’s cheeks between her hands and kissed his forehead, almost causing the basket to tumble from his head. Hela blushed and hurried along the dusty road, expertly balancing the large basket without ever touching it with his hands.
As the sun began peeking through the trees in the east, the road became crowded with people and animals on their way to market. Hela moved swiftly through the noise and commotion until he neared the city wall. “Zarahemla,” he whispered to himself, “what will I find within your gates today?” Saying a silent prayer, he passed through the city gate.
By now the noise was almost deafening—people calling, shouting, bartering; animals bleating, cackling, barking. Swiftly he moved in and out of the crowd, balancing the basket with one hand now.
“He is here again!”
Hela heard the coarse grating voice of Laman and thought, Today will be no different from the others.
“We thought perhaps you would be joining your father in frivolous pursuits and daydreams,” the man taunted him. “But if a father must play away his time, a son must do the work. Is that not so, my friends?” Laman jeered, and the other men laughed loudly.
As Hela turned to go, someone threw a vegetable that hit him just above the shoulder blade. He didn’t look back or acknowledge that he had been struck, but from the smell he knew that the vegetable was rotten. Quickly finding a place against the wall, Hela set his basket down. He hoped the produce would sell fast so that he could go home soon.
“If it isn’t Hela, the dreamer!” Hela looked up to see Ammah, Laman’s son, a boy his own age, standing with both hands on his hips. “What is a dreamer doing in the marketplace? Can’t dreamers eat their dreams?” Ammah laughed as if this was the greatest of all jokes. “Are you still waiting for the Christ to come?”
Hela ignored the boy, but soon others gathered. Once when they were small, they had all been friends and had played in the marketplace while their fathers sold their wares. Hela felt the familiar stab of sorrow as the derision continued.
“If the Christ were coming, He would have been here by now!” Ammah shouted. “It is past the five years Samuel predicted.” Ammah laughed loudly, and the other boys joined him. “Yes, and why would He go to Jerusalem and not come here? Are we not a better people?”
Hela knew the boys were only repeating the things they had heard their fathers say, but he felt so helpless. What will happen to these boys, who used to be my friends, when the Christ comes? he wondered.
After a while the boys grew tired of their reviling, and they left. The produce finally sold, and with a sigh of relief, Hela picked up his basket and hurried away.
As he neared his adobe home, he was greeted by the bleating of the goat and the clucking of the chickens. Hela smiled. How nice they sounded, how peaceful after all he had heard in the marketplace. Suddenly he saw his father’s donkey tethered to the fence. Dropping his basket, he hurried to the house.
“Is something wrong?” Hela cried out as he threw open the door. Instead of finding his father hurt and his mother crying, Hela saw his parents sitting quietly at the table, their faces filled with a peace and joy that he had not seen for a long, long time. Confused, he shut the door and waited for them to explain.
“Come in, my son,” his father said quietly. “How did the marketplace fare today?”
“Fine, Father,” Hela answered.
“I cannot believe that,” Hela’s father said, adding with a heartwarming smile, “You are a good son, Hela. I know of the things that are said and done at the marketplace, and I know that you have suffered for me and for the gospel.”
Hela did not reply. All the while he had been keeping his secret, it had never occurred to Hela that his father must know.
“My son, I appreciate all you have done. If it had not been for you, I would not have been able to do my work.”
“Please, Father,” Hela said carefully, not wanting to interrupt but unable to contain his curiosity any longer. “Why are you home so early?” Hela knew from the look on his parents’ faces that nothing was wrong, but he wanted to know what had happened.
“Nothing is wrong. As a matter of fact, something is very right.”
“What is it?” Hela asked.
“Come, sit here,” his mother invited.
As Hela started for the chair, a great commotion sounded from the road. Hela and his parents ran to the window.
“Hela! Hela, the dreamer!” shouted a deep voice from a large mob of people. “We want Hela, the dreamer, the teacher of dreams and fables.”
“False dreams and lies!” someone else shouted.
Quickly Hela’s mother bolted the door while his father fastened the shutters over the windows.
The noise from the crowd became so loud that Hela could no longer make out what anyone was saying. But he could feel and hear the anger in their voices. His heart pounded, and his knees felt weak.
Slowly his father opened a little door in one of the shutters, then waited for the noise to die down. When it was quieter, he called out, “What is it you want?”
“We want you, dream teacher.”
“And what do you want with me?”
“We have decided that we have had enough of your tales and your lies. The five years Samuel spoke of are long past. We will give you only three days more. If the signs you teach of do not come to pass by then, we are going to rid ourselves of your company.”
Hela shuddered. He had felt their hatred; he had even felt the sting of a whip or a hand across his back, but he had not realized that the people hated so much that they would kill.
“If it is me you want, take me now. There is no need to harm my family,” Hela heard his father answer.
“No!” Hela whispered through clenched teeth.
Hela’s mother put her arms around him. “Do not be frightened, my son,” she whispered. “God will protect us.”
“It is not just you we want,” a man in the mob was yelling. “We want all believers in such lies. In three days Nephi will have no followers. We will be free of your false prophecies and teachings. We will kill all of you and put an end to this foolishness.”
“It is not foolishness. The Savior will come,” Hela’s father called back.
“For your sakes He had better!” The man laughed, and the crowd joined in.
Suddenly someone threw a rock against the house. The heated mob seemed to pulse with renewed anger as they all began throwing rocks and cursing. The small house trembled and echoed from the pelting, and the awful shouting seemed like a tremendous storm.
Hela covered his ears and hid his face against his mother’s shoulder. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of his father’s face. Despite all that was happening, the expression of peace and love on his father’s face was unchanged.
Suddenly the people began banging the walls of the house with cudgels. “Oh, Father!” Hela cried. “What more can happen?”
Hela’s father patted his son’s hand and said something to him, but for all the banging, Hela could not make out the words. Then he heard a great crashing, ripping sound over the din of the mob as the door buckled and fell onto the floor.
Framed in the broken doorway was Laman. “You would not come out to us, so we came in to you!”
(To be concluded.)

As a new convert and student at Brigham Young University-Hawaii, Elder Chi Hong (Sam) Wong gained much more than an education—he gained a sure knowledge that there is a God who knows “the details of our lives.”
A year later, on July 9, 1983, he married Carol. They moved to Laie, Hawaii, USA, so he could attend school. Because he was on a student visa, Elder Wong could work only 20 hours a week. “We had to really exercise our faith and prayers,” he said of what it took to sustain his family.
He worked hard to earn a scholarship, then he took as many credit hours as the university would allow. “It wasn’t easy,” he recalls. “Once we had that experience we knew we could always rely on the power of heaven.”
The Wongs were sealed in the Laie Hawaii Temple on August 9, 1984, and their first child was born; three more children would eventually join the family. “Those years were very special, very sacred,” Elder Wong said.

A woman whose marriage was threatened by her husband’s addiction to pornography wrote how she stood beside him for five pain-filled years until, as she said, “through the gift of our precious Savior’s glorious Atonement and what He taught me about forgiveness, [my husband] finally is free—and so am I.” As one who needed no cleansing from sin, but only sought a loved one’s deliverance from captivity, she wrote this advice:
“Commune with the Lord. … He is your best friend! He knows your pain because He has felt it for you already. He is ready to carry that burden. Trust Him enough to place it at His feet and allow Him to carry it for you. Then you can have your anguish replaced with His peace, in the very depths of your soul” (letter dated Apr. 18, 2005).

As an introduction to my topic, I would like to share a childhood memory. I was sitting on a bench with other children waiting for Primary to start. (I must have been about four or five years of age.) Admiring the brand new shoes I was wearing for the first time that day, I was not bashful about sharing my pleasure with the other children. A friend, Helene Jones (I still remember her name) could only take so much bragging, until she responded, "We don't like new shoes. We like our old shoes!" What a shock that was for me. How could anyone not like new shoes? Then it occurred to me that my new shoes looked different through Helene's eyes than they did through mine– a lesson in empathy. I was forced to borrow Helene's lenses and ask myself how I would feel if she were bragging about her new shoes to me.

My brother, sister, and I moved to a safer place, and for a short while we were all right, but the rebels eventually hit that town too. This time we didn’t have time to run away. My brother was taken and later killed. My sister and I were lined up outside with all the other women. The rebel soldiers were chopping off limbs of all the women in the line. We were all so frightened. Everyone was crying and praying—even people who had never believed in God before. I was not a member of the Church at the time, but I believed in God and prayed that His will would be done and hoped that He would find a way to save me.
My dear sister, who was several places ahead of me in line, had both of her legs cut off. But as the rebels reached the woman in front of me, our army came rushing in, and the rebels ran away. I know that I was not better than the people who were in front of me or behind me, but I thanked God that I had been spared and prayed that I might understand His plan for me.

In our own family, we have had such an experience with wonderful, watchful priesthood leaders. When I was first called to the Seventy some years ago, we were assigned to move to Solihull, England, to serve in the Area Presidency. Sister Rasband and I took our two youngest children with us on this assignment. Our daughter was a young single adult and our son a 17-year-old who liked American-style football and played it very well. We were very concerned about them. No friends, no extended family, and no American football! I wondered, “Would this exciting new experience prove to be a serious trial for our family?”
The answer came in an early assignment I received. I had been asked to speak to the missionaries at the Missionary Training Center in Preston, England. I called President White of the center and was pleased to hear that he knew of my family situation. He suggested we include our children on our visit to Preston. Once we were there, he even invited our daughter and son to speak to the missionaries! What a thrill for them to be and feel included and share their testimonies of the Lord’s work!
When finished and after tender good-byes to those missionaries, we visited the beautiful Preston England Temple, which was close to the Missionary Training Center. As we walked near the front door, there stood President and Sister Swanney, the temple president and matron. They greeted us and welcomed us into the temple with, “Elder Rasband, how would you and your family like to perform baptisms for the dead?” What a wonderful idea! We looked at each other and gratefully accepted. After performing the ordinances and while my son and I were still in the font with tears of joy in our eyes, he put his hand on my shoulder and asked, “Dad, why haven’t we ever done this before?”
I thought of all the football games, all the movies we had attended together, all of the good times we had shared—certainly happy memories and traditions that are so important to build.
However, I realized we had an opportunity to add more meaningful spiritual experiences with our children like what we had experienced in Preston that day. Thanks to those caring and observant priesthood leaders, I knew then that our family was going to do fine in Europe. How grateful we are for the many priesthood and Young Women leaders who have always been watchful and loving to our children and yours.

Elder Falabella learned early that gaining a testimony begins with a desire to know the truth and a willingness to live it.
Born on May 9, 1950, to Udine and Leonor Falabella, Elder Falabella was 12 when missionaries knocked on his family’s door in Guatemala City, where he was born and raised. The oldest of four children whose mother had died several years earlier, Elder Falabella recognized that there was something different about the missionaries. He saw it in the love they showed and the power with which they taught.
“I wanted to know what they knew,” he recalls. That desire and his willingness to do what the missionaries asked led to his conversion.
“Very early on I learned to appreciate the Savior’s words: ‘If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself’ (John 7:17). If we will live gospel principles, the Spirit can touch our hearts, and we will learn that they are really true.”

In closing I want to share a special moment in the history of these united institutions. 1966 was very important in the history of the Polynesian Cultural Center. Since the opening of the PCC in 1963 great efforts had been expended to make the Center well known. These efforts seemed to lead to a grand pinnacle with a mainland tour of the Night Show in late summer of 1966. The PCC student performers toured Southern California and Utah. The show, titled, "Festival Polynesia," consisted of 175 performers.

After months of dedicated rehearsing the two-week tour began at Hollywood Bowl on August 31, 1966. Almost one hundred thousand people attended the four performances, the largest audiences of the season. Newspaper and magazine reviews were nearly ecstatic. Robert Riley, music critic of the Los Angeles Times, wrote, "In the 50 years of its history, it is unlikely that Hollywood Bowl has ever been the scene of a more uniquely beautiful spectacle than 'Festival Polynesia,'" and that the show was providing "nights of never-to-be-forgotten gifts on Los Angeles. " One critic said the presentation of the fire-knife dancers was "utterly spectacular, with flaming torches tossed about recklessly and men with seemingly asbestos skins rivaling Indian fakirs in their disregard of danger as they leaped over the flames and smothered them with their bare bodies." Portions of "Festival Polynesia" were taped during the day at the Bowl for showing on September 18, on the "Ed Sullivan Show. " For the PCC this was all a smashing success.

For a group of Latter-day Saint students from the islands the tour would have been disappointing without a visit to the center of the Mormon Church. After a train trip to Salt Lake City, the group performed six times at the Highland High School auditorium. The performances were extremely well accepted, but for the Church College of Hawai'i students, their visit in his office at Church headquarters with President David O. McKay, the founder of the College and the PCC, and again the next day with him at his home in Huntsville, Utah, were the highlights of the tour. Ninety-two-year-old President McKay and his wife, Emma Rae, greeted the Polynesian students on the front porch of their country home. Having visited in 1921 all of the island groups represented, and again during the 1950s, President McKay had a special attachment and affection for the farewell songs of the islands. Among the farewell songs sung that day in Huntsville was Samoa's "Goodbye My Feleni," goodbye my friend. The words, "Oh, I never will forget you," touched every heart. As Craig Ferre wrote, "Having never lost sight of his goals for the Polynesians, [President] McKay had been instrumental in making possible, in a sense, for them to be there. Now at first hand he was able to witness the fruits of his labors. And surely all those assembled there never forgot that experience. As they were about to leave, President McKay told them: 'This is marvelous. I never will forget you. You make this spot more hallowed.'"

Alan Shaw shifted his pickup into second gear as he turned off the highway and began the long climb up the mountain road. The narrow dirt road threaded its way between the boulders, the white crashing water of the creek, and the trees of the forest.
He glanced over at his son Todd who had been sleeping for the past two hours but now, because of the jarring as they went over the large chuck holes, was beginning to stir.
“He looks so young when he sleeps,” Alan thought. “Like when he was four or five and I’d come home late at night from the computer center and peek in to see him; he could never keep a blanket on him. Now he’s 12. I’m growing old,” he smiled to himself, imagining his wife would say to him, “Yes, you are, but I’m not.”
It had seemed like a great idea when he first thought of bringing Todd back to Montana to spend a few days at the lake where Alan had spent time with his father as a boy. It meant that the family vacation would be cut short, but there was something to be sorted out.
Just a week before Todd had been ordained a deacon. It had caught Alan off guard.
“He’s growing too fast. What can I tell him about becoming a man?” Alan thought. “What patterns for manhood exist? Can I teach him which pattern to follow?”
Todd was awake now. Alan pulled over and stopped. They got out and looked around. Alan opened a sack and got a couple of tuna sandwiches for them. They climbed up on a boulder and while they ate watched the water dancing down the mountain.
“Dad, do you think there are any fish in here?” Todd asked.
“Sure. Plenty. It’d be hard to get ’em this time of year though. You’d have better luck later on in the summer when the water’s down. Your grandfather and I used to come here in August to fly fish.”
They got back in the pickup and started up the road.
A few minutes later as they rounded a curve, they saw a deer in a small meadow. It bounded off into the safety of the trees.
“Bang! I gotcha!” Todd shouted, his hands holding an imaginary rifle sighted on the fleeing deer. “Dad, did you ever hunt in these mountains?”
“Almost every year when I was a boy.”
“Dad, I can see the lake,” Todd said, causing Alan to return to the present. Below them was the small mountain lake. They drove down the switchbacks to the dam, crossed over, and made their way to a campsite.
After they’d set up the tent and stashed their sleeping bags in it, they took a few minutes and picked up the empty beer cans someone had strewn around the campsite.
Alan and Todd assembled their fishing rods and divided up some of the worms to get ready for the afternoon fishing.
“What are you going to use, Dad?”
“I think I’ll try a spinner first.”
Alan worked the spinner, varying the depth and the speed of recovery, all with no strikes. Todd cast, retrieved, moved a few feet, and tried again.
He’s a persistent fisherman, Alan thought. I hope he’s like that when he’s a fisher of men.
“There’s so much to learn, Todd,” Alan thought to himself. “I hope I can teach you.”
Todd by now had worked his way around to the other side of the lake. He had switched to a fly on the end of a bubble.
Alan looked at his watch. It was 5:00. “Sherry will be getting home from Primary with the kids about now,” Alan thought, wishing a little he had brought the whole family. He was missing Sherry already.
“Todd, I hope you find a wife as wonderful as your mother,” Alan thought.
Alan’s thoughts were diverted by shouting. Todd, across the lake, was holding up a large fish and yelling to Alan. Excitedly, Todd picked up his gear and began running around the lake toward Alan.
When he arrived, he proudly showed the trout, a two-pound rainbow. “I got it on a fly, Dad. Maybe you should change too.”
They cleaned the fish and placed it in a cooler until they could fix it for dinner. Todd munched on a candy bar and talked about his success.
“Todd, before dark could you get us some firewood for tonight? Get plenty because there are some things I want to talk to you about. So we’ll need plenty of wood for a campfire.”
“Okay,” Todd answered, placing the last piece of candy bar in his mouth as he started up toward the trees.
“Oh, Todd,” Alan asked, “what would you think about me giving you a father’s blessing tomorrow morning?”
Todd turned around, “What for, Dad?”
“You get the firewood and tonight I’ll try to tell you what for.”

Frank Siedel (Si) Peterson of Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, is a typical young Latter-day Saint.
He studies; goes to institute of religion classes; attends his church meetings; does his home teaching; and goes to ball games, concerts, and movies. He is six-foot three-inches tall, brown-haired, blue-eyed, slender, and modest. He is even the coach of the ward softball team. How much more typical can you get?
But although Si may be typical, no one would ever accuse him of being average. He is an acknowledged superstar in the difficult field of lifting spirits and touching hearts. His talent is relating to people, and he does not hide his talent.
“Si definitely has an exceptional effect on people,” says Russ Brailey. “He’s also a most reliable home teaching companion. Mind you, I had to get accustomed to having his mother go with us.”
“Right. I know what Russ means,” states Glen Hudson, captain of the men’s softball team. “When Si first became our coach, it seemed strange to always have his mother there.”
Si is not tied to his mother, but somebody, usually his mother, Anita Begieneman, always accompanies him because he has been almost totally paralyzed since March 1,1975, when he fell from a gymnastics high bar. He can only see, hear, think, mouth words, and smile.
Prior to his accident, Si had been a fairly typical Latter-day Saint teenager. Almost 17, the oldest of six children, he loved all sports; didn’t mind school too much; played the piano; and teased his brothers, his sisters, and his mother. His one big goal was to go on a mission as soon as he turned 19.
In one instant Si went from full healthy activity to total paralysis. He lost all movement. He could not breathe, speak, or eat. He was on a life-supporting respirator 24 hours a day.
Usually when people are suddenly handicapped they experience denial, anger, resentment, and even bitterness before they finally accept their condition. Si’s medical team was amazed because he did not experience anger, depression, or a sense of hopelessness and panic.
He did get pneumonia, however, and his mother called Si’s former bishop and good friend, Robert S. Patterson, to give Si a blessing. Brother Patterson said, “Your accident has a definite and important purpose. You are to become an instrument in Heavenly Father’s hand to help bring many people who do not presently believe in God to a knowledge of him. This is to be your mission. You agreed to it before you came to the earth, and if you fulfill it well, you will thank your Heavenly Father for it every day throughout eternity.”
Si’s mother also received a witness of the Lord’s love. Si remembers, “Mom asked me what I would do if I could never again walk, talk, play the piano, or participate in sports. It was something that I had thought about a lot. I said, ‘It’s okay, Mom, I did those things the best I could when I could do them, and now I’ll learn to do something else.’
“She told me that the day after my accident she had gone down to my room, sat on the bed, and cried, ‘Heavenly Father, why? Why did this happen to my son?’ In answer, thoughts flooded into her mind. She realized that it was the Holy Ghost, so she grabbed a pencil and paper off my desk and recorded what came to her: ‘This life is a training ground for godhood. How we meet the trials that come and how we let them affect our lives are very important. We must see them as instruments of growth. All things can be for our good if we but let them. This life is the time to prepare to live again with our Heavenly Father, to grow in spirit and character and strength to meet the challenges and tremendous responsibilities of the celestial kingdom. This time of Si’s life will be exciting and challenging as new experiences come to him. None of the talents he has developed will be lost. They are just temporarily set aside while he develops others.’”
As the months passed, Si learned that he did not have to live a passive life simply because he could not move. There was still much he could give. He even learned that one way of giving was to accept help from others with love and gratitude. And he has received from many, many people.
To mention a few: His mother visits his hospital room each day and spends many hours with him. Other family members also show their love and support. Doctors and nurses at the hospital provide constant care. The Primary children of his stake raised $2,000 to buy a hydraulic lift to raise his wheelchair into his van. The Edmonton Singles Ward produced a musical comedy, and his four talented stepsisters presented a musical program to raise funds for a personal computer.
Brother Bob Layton, a news reporter for a local radio station, produced a two-part documentary on Si. It is the station’s policy to never play a documentary more than once, but the listener response to the Si Peterson story was so overwhelming, that they had to repeat it many times. Eventually the soundtrack from the documentary was combined with a series of photographic slides to form a sight and sound presentation. Brother Layton has, on request, taken this presentation to firesides, schools, and community organizations many times. The letters of response, many from school children, are evidence that Si has truly been an instrument of bringing people to God. One girl wrote, “Your faith and your acceptance of your accident help me to believe too.”
Some gifts Si has received were not altogether welcome at first. One day in 1977 a young man named Duane Simpson walked into Si’s hospital room, turned off the television set, and demanded, “What are you doing with your life, Si? Why are you wasting your time watching television? There’s nothing wrong with your brain—Why aren’t you using it?”
Si was amazed. His mother was very angry. But Duane continued, “Si, I’m here to help you any way I can.” He explained that he had been assigned to Si as a tutor.
Beginning then, Si’s life changed dramatically. “I guess I needed Duane to help me change my attitude. I wasn’t doing anything because I never really thought there was anything I could do.”
Since then Si has worked toward completing his high school education. He now aims to enroll in a university and obtain a degree in social work.
How does someone in his condition study? He listens to cassette tapes and his tutor. The tutor then reads him the questions. Si gives the answers “orally”. But because Si cannot make any sounds, his tutor has to read his lips, write down the answers, and send them to the correspondence school to be graded. It is a slow, tedious way to study, but Si jokes, “I’m getting better marks than I ever did before.”
While Si has learned to receive graciously, he has also learned to give unselfishly. He has counseled with many depressed and troubled people who are struggling to face their own handicaps and difficulties, and all have gone away lifted in spirit.
His deep empathy for the feelings and problems of others has also helped him reach out and bring people into the Church or back into activity.
One of them, a nurse in the hospital where Si lives remembers, “I first heard about the Church during my 3 A.M. discussions with Si. He gave definition to many basic feelings I’d had all my life. Then he asked me if I’d be willing to listen to the missionaries, and I did. I was baptized in August 1983.”
David McTavish is another of the many whose lives Si has touched. “Coming back from inactivity, at first I felt uncomfortable with Si. But the example of his acceptance of the Church and his faith, plus my many discussions with him, have helped me to handle the obstacles between me and the Church. He has also given me a freedom not to be afraid of the kind of person I am.”
Mrs. G. Von Busse, a tall, blonde grandmother, is Si’s physiotherapist and good friend. “I have watched Si grow from a teenager to the very fine young man he is today. With Si I have a friend. Nobody really knows me at the hospital but Si. We talk about everything—my youth, music, finances, politics, my family—everything. And when I go to Germany to visit my family there, they ask, ‘How is Si?’ And when I come back, Si has my favorite record playing. He is a very good person, highly intelligent and healthy—only that he is paralyzed, that’s all.”
If you were to stop by Si’s room unannounced, you would probably find him working on his computer or with his earphones on, listening to one of his many cassette tapes: the standard works (he’s listened to them all at least four times), conference talks, recorded books, school lessons, or music ranging from the Tabernacle Choir to classics to popular.
Si’s independence was greatly increased by the electronic control unit which the Alberta Rehabilitation Council installed for him in 1978. By touching the control lever with his lower lip, he can turn on or off everything that is connected to the system. He can even call a nurse with it. Now he has a modified personal computer that can be merged with the unit and allows him, for the first time in ten years, to write his own messages. “This opens up lots of things that have been closed to me,” he says. “I can use it to work on my education. Then I’ll write a book about my life. Also, after more training, maybe I’ll compose some music.”
Undoubtably much of Si’s strength comes from the gospel. He has been an elder since November, 1977. And on June 22, 1982, he traveled more than 300 miles to the Alberta Temple to receive his endowments. Temple President Vi A. Wood, who years before had given Si his patriarchal blessing, helped him through the endowment session.
Si calmly accepts his paralysis, but it is not easy to live as he does. Aside from the obvious discomforts and limitations, he also endures the side effects of it all. For example, because he is constantly on the respirator, his blood gasses get out of balance, causing him severe hallucinations. He has had many, many near-fatal moments when his respirator has failed. He has suffered cardiac arrest, pneumonia again and again, kidney stones, stomach ulcers, and strokes. But his faith in his Heavenly Father is unshaken.
So is his sense of humor. There is usually a smile on Si’s face, and he loves a good practical joke. When his mother went to the hospital once for her daily visit, she was in for a shock. Two hospital orderlies with very serious faces were sitting near Si’s room, and his door was closed. She opened the door and went in.
Si’s room was darkened, and he was covered with a white sheet. Anita’s heart faltered. She walked over and pulled back the sheet. Si was laughing! Then the orderlies came in, and they were laughing too.
Si is an inspiration to his whole family. His youngest sister, Barbie, reflects, “I was only five years old when the accident happened, so to me having Si like this is just a part of our way of life. It’s not a burden for us. I guess it would be if Si made a big fuss about it, but he doesn’t, so neither do I. Sometimes I wish I could make him better, but then I think no, because he’s blessed so many people’s lives. I do hope that sometime he’ll be well again. He’s really a great guy.”
Si’s father, Dr. Frank Peterson, concludes, “It’s unfortunate that he’s immobilized, but everything else about this has been positive. I’m proud of him.”
Si has a firm testimony, and he bears it frequently. His mother reads his lips and then gives voice to his feelings to the accompaniment of the rhythmic hum of his respirator.
“One of the main purposes of this earth life is to be tried, to prove ourselves worthy to return to our Heavenly Father, and so trials that come to us are an important part of our lives. Every one of us will be tried in one way or another. The important thing is how we accept our trials and grow from them. They can be stumbling blocks or stepping stones.
“I am grateful for my membership in the true and living Church, and I am grateful for the priesthood that I hold. I am grateful for my family who loves and supports me, and for the many others who help me so much. I know that my Heavenly Father lives and that he hears and answers my prayers. I am grateful for my Savior, Jesus Christ, and for his sacrifice for me. I know that my accident had a special purpose in my Heavenly Father’s plan for me.
“I feel fortunate that the trial I have been given is so obvious that I receive a lot of encouragement and help from many people. Your trials may be just as difficult as mine, but perhaps not as obvious, and so I pray that you will be able to accept them and have the strength to endure and grow from them.”
This thought is typical of Si Peterson. Trapped inside the prison of his own motionless body, with every possible excuse to turn his thoughts bitterly inward, his mind reaches out to others in prayer and service. Even lying flat on his back, he is a giant. Si Peterson—a typical young Latter-day Saint and a unique human being.

Recently, I attended a stake conference and heard a story of member activation that moved me deeply. The bishop of one of the wards in the stake took a keen interest in arousing inactive brethren to Church activity. He knew that the first step was one of communication, that he must have a meaningful visit with each inactive brother.
So he began by telephoning one of them. The wife answered the phone and said, “Bishop, I surely appreciate your call. My husband is outside, but I will have him come to the phone.”
When the husband heard that it was the bishop that wished to speak to him, his reaction was as expected. He attempted to sidestep this phone call and responded, “Tell the bishop that I’m out sawing logs,” and with a humorous touch, “Tell him I’m dead.”
The brother spoke the truth more literally than he realized. It was true. He was sawing logs, and tragically, he was dead to the spiritual things of his life.
A good wife, however, is a mighty force in any man’s life, and, in a kindly manner, she persuaded her husband to come to the phone.
Then the bishop, using the power of suggestion and in a friendly voice, said, “I should very much appreciate having a visit with you for a few moments this evening in my office.” The brother couldn’t refuse so warmhearted an invitation, and a meeting took place.
The testimony of the bishop and his deep concern kindled a fire in the heart of the inactive brother, and he agreed to join the temple preparation class that was about to begin.
Each session, taught by a tactful teacher with a great knowledge of the truth and an inspiring testimony, motivated the inactive brother. He resolved to strengthen his family and bind them together eternally through the blessings of the temple.
This good brother may still be sawing logs, but there is now much more. He has added for himself an indescribable dimension of happiness, as well as joy to the lives of each and every family member.

I first heard about the Church while babysitting. The children I was watching asked me to read out of the Friend magazine with them. We read through a few stories together, but then it was time for bed. Once they were asleep, I returned to the brightly colored magazine on the table. The children inside were so happy and lovingly talked about a Heavenly Father.
When I was finished reading, I noticed “The Living Christ” hanging on the wall behind me and beautiful prints of temples in the kids’ rooms. I had such a great feeling in my heart looking at everything, but after I went home, I forgot about my amazing discovery.

“Sister Brimley, could I talk to you for a minute?” I asked after Primary.
“Of course, Sara. Let’s gather up the pictures and fold the chairs while we talk.”
I stacked the pictures, but we didn’t get to the chairs for a while.
“Lots of people must know about that lesson you gave today on giving,” I began. “And since my dad’s been out of work, people are always bringing us things. Mom and Dad get tears in their eyes when they talk about how good everyone’s been to us. But now I’d like to give someone something. You always say it’s more blessed to give than to receive. How do you think it makes me feel to always receive? I’d like to take food to someone who’s hungry, but Mom says we don’t have any extras.” I couldn’t control the tremor in my voice. “I hope I can be rich when I grow up.”
Sister Brimley sat across from me and took my hand in hers. Her eyes looked deep into mine, and she gave me her special warm smile. “Sara, you don’t have to be rich to give of yourself. Jesus wasn’t rich, and look how much He gave.”
“I’m not Jesus. I can’t do miracles to help people.”
“Will you do something for me, Sara? Will you look for one person this week who needs something you can share? Will you, like Jesus, give of yourself?” Sister Brimley continued to look me straight in the eyes. I had to say yes.
Monday at school, I looked at the other kids. They had better clothes and shoes than I did, so I couldn’t offer them mine. Anyway, I didn’t have any extras. Everyone had a lunch, so I couldn’t share my sandwich. I was afraid that the whole week would be like this and that I’d have to tell Sister Brimley that I hadn’t found anyone to help.
At afternoon recess, the spring sun warmed my back. There must have been a hundred birds singing among the tiny yellow-green leaves on the big tree in the playground. I forgot about giving and Mrs. Brimley, took a jump rope, and walked towards Maria. Maria just moved here last week, and she doesn’t speak English very well. She mostly stands by herself on the playground.
“Maria, want to jump? Like this.” I jumped a few times. Maria’s dark eyes sparkled, and the shadow of a smile tickled her bronze face. She nodded. As I swung the rope over my head, she jumped in with me. We were laughing together by the end of recess.
When the bell rang to go home, Mrs. Hansen, our teacher, put her arm around me and whispered, “Sara, thank you for playing with Maria today. That’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh since she came.”
Suddenly I understood that this was what Sister Brimley meant when she said for me to give of myself. I really did have something to give! I determined right then and there to find someone every day to share with.
The next day, I asked Maria to come with me. We went to Mrs. Smith’s house after school. She was sitting in an old chair on her front porch, rocking with her cat. I asked her if she’d like me to read her a story.
“Why, Sara, I’d love that, but I gave all my books away when my eyes got bad.”
“That’s OK. I brought one from school.” I sat on her top step with Maria and read her my favorite Dr. Seuss story. Mrs. Smith and Maria laughed until the tears rolled down their cheeks. I think it must be their favorite story too. Mrs. Smith asked if we could come again next Tuesday. This giving of yourself was wonderful. Mrs. Smith and Maria looked really happy, and I hadn’t felt this great in ages.
On Wednesday Maria and I helped Brother Swenson plant petunias. It’s hard for him to stoop that low, but Maria and I planted his whole bed in a half hour. He told us to come back in the summer and pick a bouquet for our moms.
By the weekend, I had started giving to my family. I cleaned the kitchen one evening for Mom, I played a game of checkers with Dad, and I helped my little brother, Jason, with his puzzle.
On Sunday I couldn’t wait until Primary to talk to Sister Brimley, so I met her at the chapel door. “Sister Brimley, you won’t believe this! I found six people to give of myself to this week.” I told her about each of them. “But I can’t think of anyone for today.”
Sister Brimley stooped and put her arm around me and spoke in a tiny, low voice. “You’ve already given of yourself, Sara—to me. You see, I was very, very discouraged. I felt as though I wasn’t doing a good job as a teacher. You showed me that I can make a difference. Sometimes we may need things, but often we just need people to just give of themselves, as Jesus did and as you have. I think that He must be very pleased with you.”
Both Sara and Sister Brimley felt good about themselves as they went into the chapel together.