Gospel Story Finder

I remember when I was young, I had a stutter and had difficulty reading and writing, but my mother always expressed confidence in my ability to overcome these challenges. Her belief in me led me to enter a speech contest for youth held at church. To my surprise, I came in first place among the boys and second overall out of 14 youth in the contest. To this day, I still remember that speech. I was able to do this because I felt the confidence of my mother and leaders to do what was hard for me. I never would have imagined that I would be where I am today, speaking at conferences or writing articles for Church magazines. Our youth need us to believe in their ability to do difficult things as they turn to God and live in a higher and holier way.

I’ll never forget a lesson I had with a young woman on my mission.
She kept asking for physical or tangible evidence that the Book of Mormon was true. And I sat there, unsure of how to respond to her questions and accusations. I was a young, bright-eyed missionary, and all I knew was that the Book of Mormon was true. I felt discouraged because I didn’t know all the answers to her questions. But I realized, it wouldn’t have mattered if I had physical evidence to prove the Book of Mormon was true. Proof wouldn’t give her faith.

The young woman I taught on my mission would only believe the Church was true if my companion and I could disprove all her accusations. But the only thing I could ever prove to her was the reality of finding answers through personal revelation. 6

I ended our lesson with that young woman on my mission by testifying boldly of the Book of Mormon. I told her the only way she could truly find answers to all her questions was to ask Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon was true. Until she understood the basics of the gospel of Jesus Christ, she could put her other questions on the shelf and revisit them later with greater understanding and faith. But honestly, doesn’t that apply to all of us? We can actually increase our faith by acting in faith.

All Church leaders influenced me to some degree. A brother in my ward taught twenty or more of us in a Sunday School class. The whole class was socially and spiritually active, and we had great respect for our teacher. When my wife and I attended his fiftieth wedding anniversary many years later, most of the members of that class came to show their love and respect. Many of us felt that he had made a significant difference in our lives—not just because he was a good teacher, but because he took a personal interest in each one of us.

Illustrated by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Everybody get the prettiest leaf you can find. We’ll make pictures with them back in the classroom.
This is the best leaf in the park! It’s huge!
You mean it’s second best. Look at the color of this one!
Hah! Your leaf’s tiny!
Yours is ugly!
Oh yeah?
Yeah!
Don’t fight. Your leaves are both best. This one’s best for making a spaceship, and this one’s best for making a dragon.
Where did you learn to be such a good peacemaker?
Watching Mom make peace between Matt and me.

I worked at Disney Interactive Studios for about 13 years as an artist and producer, and one day when I pushed the elevator button to go up to work, I felt that I wasn’t supposed to be there. Well, I put that thought on a mental shelf and continued to work. How could I leave a stable and desired career? How could I leave the good people I loved and had worked with for the last decade or so?

But it pressed upon me, and I knew this feeling wasn’t going to go away. I tried to put together a plan so I had something in place before leaving, but no matter how I tried, it didn’t materialize. So I left without a job or opportunity in place. I cried and had many deep, heartfelt discussions with my Heavenly Father during this time.

What I learned was the plan was not to have a plan. I learned who I was minus any title, career, or status. Though painful as this change was, it was an invaluable space for me to learn about me and my relationship with my Heavenly Father. Just two months after I left, that studio that I thought was stable shut down out of the blue and without warning.

Throughout my experience in leaving Disney, I pondered and searched this quote from President Spencer W. Kimball: “Security is not born of inexhaustible wealth but of unquenchable faith.”1 Our true security and peace is born of faith in Jesus Christ. That faith in Christ is a choice we can make. I’m grateful He let me choose Him.

As a young teenager, David continued to work on the farm and later attended the University of Utah, graduating in 1897. During his years at college he played football, played piano for a dance band, and was elected president of his senior class. He had made his professional plans as graduation drew near, but shortly before receiving his diploma he received a letter from President Wilford Woodruff, calling him to serve a mission in Great Britain. It was a major decision—and he struggled with it, as must many young men and women today. He decided to set aside his plans and accept the call.
His first months in the Scottish conference, where his father had served years earlier, were not easy, as is the case for many missionaries. He describes this discouraging time and its resultant renewal of his commitment to the Lord in these words:
“I was homesick and a little discouraged on this day. …
“I had just left school. I loved school and I loved young people. I loved youth. And then to go over there and feel … [people’s] prejudice [against the Church] gave me the blues.
“As [my companion and I] were coming back into town, I saw on my right an unfinished dwelling, over the front door of which was a stone on which there was a carving. That was most unusual, so I said to Elder Johnston, ‘I’m going to see what that is.’ I was half way up the graveled walk when there came to my eyesight a striking motto as follows, carved in stone: ‘Whate’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.’
“I repeated it to Elder Johnston as we walked in to town to find a place for our lodgings before we began our work. We walked quietly, but I said to myself, or the Spirit within me, ‘You are a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. More than that, you are here as a representative of the Lord Jesus Christ. You accepted the responsibility as a representative of the Church.’ …
“That afternoon, by the time we found our lodgings, I accepted the message given to me on that stone, and from that moment we tried to do our part as missionaries in Scotland.”

One Sunday morning, we were sitting on the veranda when my oldest daughter, who was three years old, asked me a question that caught me by surprise. She saw some of her friends going to church in their nice clothes. “How come we don’t go to church?” she asked. At that time we weren’t attending church because my wife and I belonged to different churches and neither wanted to join the other’s church.
My daughter’s question really made me think. I was troubled because before I was married, I always went to church. That night I was inspired to kneel and seek divine guidance. I recall even saying that I would offer my life to serve the Lord.
A few days later, two young men knocked at our door and introduced themselves as messengers of the Lord. When I saw their calling cards, I remembered some things I knew about their church. When I was young, I used to read western novels that referred to Mormon pioneers and settlements. I had also read about some members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in American magazines. When we started talking about the doctrines of the Church, I was surprised to find that I already believed most of its teachings. I had read the Bible and knew that God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost were three separate beings, and I felt that there must be prophets and revelation.
The elders continued to teach me for several months, but somehow I could not gain a testimony of Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. I had read the passages in the Book of Mormon that the missionaries marked for me, but I had trouble accepting their challenge to read the whole book.
I enjoyed having them in our home, but I had the feeling that they were getting discouraged with me. One day when they challenged me to read and pray, I felt that it would be the last challenge. I didn’t want them to stop their visits, so I decided to read. This time before starting, I prayed with a real desire to know if the book was true. A miracle happened: instead of getting bored as usual, I was so interested that I couldn’t stop reading.
That night, after reading many chapters, I knew that this was the word of God. Now that I had a strong testimony of the Book of Mormon, it was very easy for me to accept Joseph Smith as a prophet. When the missionaries returned and asked me if I wanted to be baptized, I said yes. I was baptized in November 1964. I felt the Spirit of the Lord so strongly during my baptism that I really felt reborn. Besides the covenant of baptism, I made a private covenant that I would serve the Lord all my life.
I am very grateful to be a member of the Church. I hope that you children of the Church will learn through prayer and study that the gospel and the Book of Mormon are true. My wife and I have eight children whom we have raised in the gospel. I am grateful my oldest daughter, when she was a small child, asked me that important question. Because of her, I began to seek the truth and to serve the Lord and others. You can help your parents and families remember the Lord, as my daughter helped me.

When I was a young boy, I went with my father to inspect a mine in Nevada. We each had flashlights, but took no extra batteries with us, for we did not expect to be in the mine very long. But the tunnel was longer, colder, and deeper than we anticipated. Before we got to the end of the mine, where the mineral was, father told me to turn off my flashlight to save my batteries. By the time father had finished inspecting the mine, his flashlight began to dim, and he suggested we had better turn back. Before long his flashlight gave out completely, and I can still remember—until I again turned on my light—the panic I felt to be in such cold and utter blackness. Although my own batteries gave out before we reached the mine entrance, we were by then guided by the dim light coming from the mouth of the tunnel. How good it felt to see the light increase as we made our way back to the entrance and found ourselves in warm, brilliant sunlight.

As a recently returned missionary, Brother Viwe Xozwa’s schedule was exhausting. The education-driven convert in Port Elizabeth, South Africa, attended school from 8 a.m. to noon, worked from 1 p.m. to 6 p.m., then studied until 8 or 9 p.m. on a regular basis.

Brother Xozwa was never bothered or upset by the busy schedule he maintained, though. In fact, he was grateful just for the opportunity he had to study and learn, which was made possible by others’ generosity.

Brother Xozwa is a recipient of a Perpetual Education Fund (PEF) loan, which made obtaining an education a more realistic possibility than it otherwise would have been. Now a 27-year-old computer engineer and the executive secretary in his stake, he attributes many of his blessings to the PEF.

“I would not be where I am right now in my life if that inspired program was not established,” he said.

While he always planned to attend college, Brother Xozwa and his mother lacked the funds to pay for school. A conventional bank loan was a possibility, though higher interest rates would have made it very costly and would have taken a long time to pay off. Instead, Brother Xozwa heard about the PEF from a Church Educational System couple in his area. He applied for and received a $1,150 PEF loan and enrolled in computer engineering classes at Damelin College in Port Elizabeth.

After about a year of study, Brother Xozwa was offered a job at an IT consulting firm. The company waited for him to finish up the school year and supported him in his continued studies. Because of his employment, he was able to pay off his loan the following year, and the company has sponsored his further studies for the past four years in disciplines such as labor relations, corporate governance, business administration and management, and advanced project management.

“The PEF program gave me the initial kick-start that I needed, and the rest I could do on my own,” he said. “It gave me an initial boost; everything else just opened up.”

Knowing where his loan came from made Brother Xozwa dedicate himself completely to doing well in school and paying off his loan. He wanted to use the generous donations the best way he could.

“I realized these were sacred funds. Others had made a contribution to my education, so it was my responsibility to show appreciation by studying hard,” he said. “The money that was granted me was not mine to play around with. I was given the opportunity to make something of my life, to kick-start a good future, and it was my responsibility to grab that opportunity with both hands and not fail.”

Brother Xozwa understood this principle and was motivated to help others receive the same opportunities he had.

“The Lord is giving you the opportunity to progress, but also to help the next person,” he said. “It was my responsibility to repay the money as soon as possible so that the next person could have an equally good chance to study and progress. Think of how many people you can influence if you use the funds correctly. You can do wonders not just for you but for other people.”

His experience has taught him leadership skills and independence in addition to self-reliance and the ability to keep commitments.

“It’s not just education. It’s not just getting a diploma or getting a degree. It’s not just a career. It’s so much more than that. It opens doors for you to grow individually,” he said.

Brother Xozwa said he will be forever grateful for the generosity extended to him that made a world of difference in his life.

“I would love one day to meet the person or the people who contributed to the program in the initial stages just to say thank you,” he said. “Maybe it was pocket change for them, but it changed generations. It has changed my family.”

As a young boy living on a small farm in Fielding, Utah, I always wanted a horse. When I was old enough to take care of one, my dad bought me a big black horse, and I named him Smokey.
I loved Smokey and took care of him the best I could. One morning when I went out to feed him, he was not in his corral. I hunted around and found him in the haystack, which was fenced off from the corral. He had been making a mess—tromping on the hay and ruining it. All the gates were closed; Smokey had obviously jumped over the fence. His manger had hay in it, so there was no reason for him to go into the haystack.
A few days later Smokey was gone again. This time I found him out in the pasture. Soon he started jumping out of both the corral and the pasture. I had to ride my bike all over town looking for him. Sometimes Dad and I drove for miles before finding him and bringing him back.
Dad decided to buy some hobbles for Smokey. Hobbles are like handcuffs for horses to keep them from running away. “That will fix old Smokey,” Dad said.
It didn’t even slow him down. Jumping fences became a game to him, and he wasn’t much fun anymore. He was wild. I couldn’t catch him, and I couldn’t ride him very much. Finally Dad said, “We’ll teach old Smokey a lesson.” We tied a heavy log-chain to Smokey’s hobbles so that wherever he went he would have to drag an eight-foot (2.5-m) log-chain between his legs. We thought surely this would stop him.
But that night Smokey tried to jump the fence again. The chain caught and tripped him. He fell into the fence and got cut up in the barbed wire. We got him out and called the veterinarian, who came and patched him up.
My home teacher, whom I called Uncle Claude, was a real horseman. He had an idea for Smokey, so he traded a gray horse to me for Smokey. Uncle Claude raced chariots, and he thought that if he could team Smokey with a horse that was a good chariot racer, he could break Smokey’s bad habits and they could win some races. So Uncle Claude hooked Smokey up to the chariot, and they practiced a few times. Smokey seemed to be doing just fine—until the race. All of a sudden he veered off to the right and tried to jump over the fence that ran alongside the track. It almost killed Uncle Claude, and Smokey hurt himself so badly that he had to be put to sleep.
I’ve thought about my old horse many times since then. He had no good reason to jump over the fence that first time he got into the haystack. He was like some young people who decide that they want to be disobedient. Once we jump that first fence, it becomes easier to jump other fences—breaking the commandments and the principles of the gospel—and before long we can destroy our lives through disobedience.

The story is told of a shy Latter-day Saint man who often sat on the back row of the chapel alone. When a member of the elder’s quorum suddenly passed away, the bishop gave priesthood blessings to comfort the elder’s family members. Relief Society sisters brought in food. Well-meaning friends and neighbors visited with the family and said, “Let us know if there is anything we can do to help.”

But when this shy man visited the family later in the day, he rang the doorbell and when the widow answered, he simply said, “I have come to clean your shoes.” In a couple of hours, all the family’s shoes were cleaned and shined in preparation for the funeral. The following Sunday the family of the deceased elder sat by the shy man on the back row.

Here was a man who was able to fill an unmet need. Both they and he were blessed by his empathy-guided ministering.

“I thought of an experience I had long, long ago. In the summer we lived on a farm. We had a little old tractor. There was a dead tree I wished to pull. I fastened one end of a chain to the tractor and the other end to the tree. As the tractor began to move, the tree shook a little, and then the chain broke.
“I looked at that broken link and wondered how it could have given way. I went to the hardware store and bought a repair link. I put it together again, but it was an awkward and ugly connection. The chain was never, never the same.
“As I sat … pondering these things, I said to myself, ‘Never permit yourself to become a weak link in the chain of your generations.’ It is so important that we pass on without a blemish our inheritance of body and brain and, if you please, faith and virtue untarnished to the generations who will come after us.
“You young men and you young women, most of you will marry and have children. Your children will have children, as will the children who come after them. Life is a great chain of generations that we in the Church believe must be linked together.”President Gordon B. Hinckley, “Keep the Chain Unbroken,” in Brigham Young University 1999–2000 Speeches (2000), 108–9.

The Thomas family lived on a farm about ten miles from town. Although Tommy and Mary loved the trees, the stream where they swam in the summer, and all the animals and chickens, they were often teased about their plain clothes and country ways by their city-bred schoolmates.
Tommy, in the fifth grade, wasn’t bothered much by the teasing, but Mary, only a first grader, almost cried whenever her best friend, Cathy, asked her why she always wore plain cotton dresses and sturdy walking shoes.
One day, when Mary came home from school looking very sad and thoughtful, Mama asked, “Why the long face, Kitten?”
“Mama, why don’t I have any frilly dresses or shiny shoes?”
Mama sat down at the wooden kitchen table. “Honey, sit down, and I’ll try to explain it to you.”
Mary slid onto a chair and propped her chin on her hands.
“Your papa and I both grew up on farms, but we went to the city after we were married. When you were just a baby, Papa and I decided that it would be better for all of us to move from the city, so we bought the farm.”
“Why did you and Papa leave the farm in the first place if you liked it?” Mary asked.
“Remember last week when you went to Cathy’s birthday party and you told me how new and fancy Cathy’s house is?”
“Yes, Mama,” Mary answered.
“That’s why Papa and I went to the city. We thought that people in the city had nicer things than we had. But we found out that the ‘nicer things’ weren’t as important to us as the life-style that we could have on a farm. Papa earned a good salary in the city. I got a job there, too, but that meant that I couldn’t be home with you and Tommy. It costs more money to live in the city and buy all the things that people there tend to think are important to have.”
“But what does that have to do with why I can’t have pretty store-bought dresses?”
Mama continued patiently, “On the farm Papa doesn’t make as much money as he did in the city. And I don’t have a regular, paying job. We have plenty to eat, but the money we make has to go for equipment, mortgage payments, seed, and other necessities. Maybe when we’ve finished paying for some of the equipment, we can buy more things, but we just don’t have money for extras now.”
Mary understood better, but how she longed for some of the things her classmates had! Looking up at Mama, she asked wistfully, “Would Heavenly Father be upset if I prayed for a frilly dress?”
“I don’t think so, Kitten. But remember that Heavenly Father only promises to give us what’s best for us. He doesn’t always give us what we simply want.”
“I understand, Mama,” Mary answered with a smile. “May I go out and play now?”
“OK,” Mama said as she hugged Mary before the little girl scampered outside.
Tommy had come in during the conversation and had stood quietly listening.
“Mama, do you really believe that Heavenly Father will make a way for Mary to get a dress?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Tommy,” Mama said slowly. “But I know that she’s still too young to completely understand why she can’t have one.”
“I understand, Mama,” Tommy said as he banged out the door. “I’m going to help Papa till dinnertime.”
Mama lowered her head and prayed, “Heavenly Father, we thought that we were doing the right thing to come here, but children can be cruel to each other. It hurts me to see Mary and Tommy teased and ridiculed. Please help us. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Mama quickly rose from her chair. There was baking to be done. On Saturdays people in town gathered at the community center, where baked goods, handicrafts, and other things were brought to be sold. Mama had learned years ago that she had a talent for baking. And the small amount of money she earned with her baked goods was needed for necessities. Last year’s drought had hit the farm hard.
Papa had often said that she sold her wares too cheaply, but she always replied that she made a fair profit. Papa knew that she gave away a loaf of bread or a cake or a pie when someone looked hungrily at the goods and Mama knew that he couldn’t afford to buy anything. Papa was pleased that Mama did it and that she always masked her charity by saying that the item wasn’t selling well or that it would become stale at home. In that way she made the recipient feel that he was doing her a favor.
That night, as Mama heard the children’s prayers, tears came to her eyes when Mary timidly asked, “Please, Heavenly Father, may I have a frilly dress?” Mama was to hear this plea repeated many times during the next few weeks, for Tommy always included Mary’s request in his own prayers.
Spring planting began, and soon school would be out. Mary was confident that Heavenly Father would provide a fancy dress for her to wear on the last day of school. Mama had racked her brain to find a way to get a dress for Mary, but all the available money had gone for seed and fertilizer. Then, one lovely Sunday afternoon as the family sat in the living room after church, they heard a thump outside the front door.
“What’s that?” Papa asked as he rose from his chair. He opened the screen door. “It’s a big sack of something,” he called to the others. They crowded around him as he untied the cord and opened the sack. “Pecans!” he exclaimed. “Why would anyone leave a huge sack of pecans at our door?”
Mary, who had watched the sack-opening expectantly, wailed, “I didn’t pray for pecans.” She went back into the house.
“What are we supposed to do with them?” Tommy asked. “They’ll go bad before we can eat them all.”
Mama knew what to do with them. If I can only make my idea work, she thought. Aloud, she said, “Please take them into the pantry, Tommy. I’m sure that whoever left them knew that we would find a use for them.” Her eyes gleamed with hope.
The next morning at breakfast, Mama tried to keep her excitement from showing as she said to Papa, “I’ll need the truck for a while this morning, honey. I’ll be back to help with the planting as soon as I can.”
“OK. What’s up?”
“It’s a surprise,” she answered with a happy smile. “If it works out, you’ll all know soon enough. Right now it’s time for school, kids.” Mama gave them a hug and scooted them and Papa out the door. She was impatient to get her plan under way.
Finally she was on her way to town. She went directly to the small bakery on Main Street. Half an hour later she emerged with several boxes, which she loaded into the truck. Back at the farm Mama hurriedly stored the boxes in the pantry, changed clothes, and headed for the fields, humming a tune.
Papa looked up. “You got back quickly,” he commented. “From the look on your face, I’d say that things went your way. Are you going to tell me about it?”
“Not yet,” Mama replied, grinning. “I won’t be able to help you as much on the farm for a couple of weeks, though, and I’ll need the truck for about an hour every day.”
Each morning, as soon as the children left for school and Papa went to the fields, Mama worked in the kitchen. And each afternoon she put things in the boxes she’d obtained, loaded them into the truck, and went to town, always returning with a happy smile.
Finally, one Saturday morning Mama announced, “I must go into town by myself for a little while, but when I come back, I’ll have a surprise for each of you.”
“Well, Mary, Tommy, let’s get our chores done,” Papa said. “Working will make the time pass faster.”
With everyone helping each other, time did indeed pass quickly. They were setting the dinner table when Mama bustled in with several packages. She handed the first one to Papa, who quickly opened it.
“The new LDS editions of the scriptures!” he exclaimed. “I’ve really needed them in teaching my Sunday School class. Thank you, honey.”
Mama held out a second package, saying, “Tommy, here’s your surprise.”
Tommy’s present was a catcher’s mitt. “It’s just what I’ve been wanting. How’d you know, Mama? I tried not to let on.”
“You’ve been a regular Spartan about it, Tommy,” Mama told him. “But mothers have ways of knowing such things.”
Mama handed the last, and biggest, package to Mary, who had been sitting quietly all this time. “Here’s yours, Kitten.”
Mary slowly opened the box, then squealed with delight. In it lay not one, but two beautiful, frilly dresses—one blue, the other a soft, pale green. “Mama, oh, Mama! Heavenly Father does answer prayers!” she exclaimed as she hugged the dresses to her. “Thank you, Heavenly Father! And thank you, Mama!”
“Now, dear,” Papa said, “tell us how you managed all this.”
“Well, I bake a really good pecan pie, and when Heavenly Father provided that big sack of pecans, I made a deal with the bakery. They furnished all the ingredients except the pecans and ran a special the rest of the month on pecan pies. I did the baking for a percentage of each pie sold, and they sold very well! Even after tithing, I was able to buy these gifts.”
“But, Mama,” Tommy interjected, “where is your gift? You got us what we wanted. What did you get for yourself?”
“I got the best gift of all,” Mama replied.
“What’s that?” Mary asked, puzzled. “I don’t see any more packages.”
“My gift is seeing the pleasure on your faces. I got the joy of giving.”
“I didn’t pray for pecans,” Mary said, “but Heavenly Father knew what we needed and gave us much more.”
“He always does, honey. He always does,” Mama said softly.

The Gordon-Smith family’s cosmopolitan story begins more than twenty years ago in Prague, Czechoslovakia, where eighteen-year-old university student Rostya saw little hope for a future in her native country. Her parents were divorced. Her mother had escaped to Austria, and her father was in prison. Upon his release, “I told him I couldn’t live in Czechoslovakia any more,” she says. “I had seen a glimpse of freedom.” That “glimpse of freedom” had come during a student demonstration, when she and others of her generation had determined to live the ideals of liberty and equality, in spite of the opposition they faced.
Rostya obtained a visa that would allow her to leave for England, ostensibly to study English. “It was a sad and lonely time for me,” she recalls. “I arrived in London unable to speak English, with one suitcase and five American dollars.” Before leaving Czechoslovakia, she had arranged for a job as a maid with an English family in London. But after a year with the family, Rostya felt she wanted something more out of life.
With the encouragement of friends, she applied for admission to the University of London. “To pay for my studies, I sold newspapers at a railroad station from 5:00 to 10:00 A.M., attended classes in the afternoon, worked again from 6:00 to 11:00 P.M., and then returned home to my attic room to study and sleep.”
Two years later, she met Simon, also a student. A week after they met, he proposed marriage to her. At first, Rostya was hesitant. “I told him that I wanted to have a career and that I was not interested in marriage or children. But he persisted.” They were married eighteen months later. Both graduated the same year, Simon in civil engineering and Rostya in Eastern European studies. Simon’s first job was in Scotland.
Two years later, Simon came home from work and asked Rostya if she would like to move to Brazil on a company assignment. “When?” she asked.
“Tomorrow,” he replied. They were soon in Santos, Brazil, where Simon began work on an oil pipeline along the coast. They knew they had opened a new phase in their life. But the real change was yet to come.
The young couple soon joined a club for expatriates, where Rostya was attracted to a group of women that seemed enthusiastic and open. When Rostya introduced herself, one of the women said, “‘Gordon-Smith’ sounds English enough, but ‘Rostya’ certainly doesn’t.” “That’s because I’m Czech,” Rostya replied. To Rostya’s surprise, the women started speaking in Czech. Rostya had just met Zaza, a native Czech raised in Brazil, married to an American, Don Clark.
The Clarks and the Gordon-Smiths soon became friends, attending movies together, playing tennis, and just visiting. One day, two Latter-day Saint missionaries called at the Clark home while Rostya was there. “I did not know they were missionaries at that time,” Rostya says. “They were just two young men with short haircuts, dressed in shirts and ties. I asked them who they worked for, because I presumed any foreigner was working for a company. They gave me a very vague answer: they were working for a church, they said, and they were visiting people and reading scriptures with them in their homes. I thought it sounded very strange at the time.”
Don and Zaza Clark, who were members of the Church, began to talk to the Gordon-Smiths about the gospel. Soon, the Clarks invited their friends to attend a Church meeting with them. It was a fast and testimony meeting. “It was a shocker for me,” Rostya says. “All I could see was that everybody wept: men, women, and children. I was very, very embarrassed, and my husband was, too. When Don Clark asked me what I thought about the meeting, I looked at him and said, ‘I think it’s mass hysteria.’”
A short time later, Don and Zaza invited Simon and Rostya to an area conference in São Paulo, where President Spencer W. Kimball announced the building of the temple in Brazil. Rostya was impressed by the affection the people showed for the prophet. Following the conference, the Gordon-Smiths agreed to take the missionary discussions.
Nothing much happened until the lesson on repentance. “I was good at justifying any of my actions,” Rostya says, “but somehow the process of repentance seemed logical to me.” She found herself thinking about repentance, even writing letters of reconciliation. “But when the missionaries asked me to pray about the principle of repentance, I said, ‘How can I pray if I don’t believe in the existence of God?’ ‘How will you know if anyone lives on the tenth floor,’ they asked me, ‘if you don’t ring the bell? Ring the bell and see if anyone answers.’
“I was thinking about what they said while I was doing the dishes one day. I decided to follow their suggestion. I knelt down and said, ‘Heavenly Father,’ and a wave of warmth enveloped me. I started again, ‘Heavenly Father,’ and the warmth intensified. I felt enveloped in love and protection for the first time in many years. I asked all the questions: ‘Is this the true church?’ ‘Is Joseph Smith a prophet?’ ‘Is the Book of Mormon true?’ ‘Do you love me?’ My answers came in the affirmative by the power of the Spirit.
“I telephoned my friend Zaza Clark. ‘I’ve got it! I’ve got it!’ I cried. ‘What have you got?’ she asked in alarm. ‘A testimony!’ I exclaimed.”
Rostya and Simon were scheduled to be baptized after a stake conference. During the conference, Elder James E. Faust of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles called on members of the congregation to bear their testimonies. He motioned for Rostya to come to the podium. With Don Clark translating into Portuguese, she bore her testimony in English. When she finished, tears were running down her cheeks. “At the end, when I said, ‘Amen,’ Don Clark turned to me and smilingly said, ‘I don’t understand. What is all this mass hysteria about?’”
Before they left Brazil, the Gordon-Smiths introduced their friends Richard and Sally Hardwick to the Church. When Richard sustained a serious injury that required surgery, the Gordon-Smiths accompanied Sally to the hospital. Rostya said, “Simon, I wish you would give Richard a blessing.” Sally asked, “What is a blessing?” The blessing was given and fulfilled. The Hardwicks joined the Church.
From Brazil, the Gordon-Smiths moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, where Simon worked on another pipeline project. When construction ended in 1985, the way opened up for Simon to move his family to Hong Kong and work for the Church. Simon supervised the construction of meetinghouses for the Asia Area—Hong Kong, Thailand, Indonesia, Singapore, and Malaysia. He also provided management support for Japan and Korea.
During this time, political changes in Czechoslovakia made it possible for Rostya to return home for the first time in twenty-two years. “I cannot describe my feelings,” she says. “I know that the new wave of freedom and enlightenment will bring the gospel into the lives of the people and then they will achieve real freedom.”
As for the four boys, they enjoy traveling and have learned to adjust well. Rostya calls them “citizens of the world.” “We found they are learning tolerance and acceptance of other people, cultures, and beliefs,” she says. David sings and plays piano. He loves soccer and swimming. He wants to be a lawyer or businessman. He bears his testimony of the gospel almost every testimony meeting. George also sings and plays piano. He is a gymnast. He wants to be a doctor and serve a mission in Czechoslovakia. He gained a testimony of the gospel for himself by praying after reading from the Book of Mormon. Richard draws and excels in mathematics. He also plays piano and is a gymnast. He wants to be an architect. Henry tries to emulate whichever older brother he is with.
Rostya says that their many experiences in all parts of the world have helped her family understand better who they are. “I am raising my sons with the idea that we are all equal to each other,” she says. “It does not matter what sex or what nationality you are. I firmly believe that. I am teaching them that the world is a very small place, and that with love and with the gospel, we can conquer all the evil.”

I got my first real job when I was about 13 years old. I was a newspaper delivery boy. I still remember riding my bike around my neighborhood in Salt Lake City every evening, throwing papers onto my neighbors’ front steps. I didn’t make a whole lot of money at it, but each month when I received my wages, there was no question that I would pay tithing. My parents had set the example of paying tithing, and I knew it was a commandment from the Lord (see D&C 119:3–4).
I remember attending tithing settlement as a youngster with my mother and father. It was such a natural thing to me to visit with the bishop and to declare myself a full-tithe payer. Even as I got older and started earning more money, I always paid tithing first.

I take you back to the general conference of October 1856. On Saturday of that conference Franklin D. Richards and a handful of associates arrived in the [Salt Lake Valley]. They had traveled from Winter Quarters with strong teams and light wagons and had been able to make good time. Brother Richards immediately sought out President Young. He reported that there were hundreds of men, women, and children scattered over the long trail from Scottsbluff to this valley. Most of them were pulling handcarts. They were accompanied by two wagon trains which had been assigned to assist them. They had reached the area of the last crossing of the North Platte River. Ahead of them lay a trail that was uphill all the way to the Continental Divide with many, many miles beyond that. …
The next morning [President Young] came to the old Tabernacle which stood on [Temple Square]. He said to the people:
“… Many of our brethren and sisters are on the plains with handcarts, and probably many are now seven hundred miles from this place, and they must be brought here, we must send assistance to them. …
“That is my religion; that is the dictation of the Holy Ghost that I possess. It is to save the people.
“I shall call upon the Bishops this day. I shall not wait until tomorrow, nor until the next day, for 60 good mule teams and 12 or 15 wagons. I do not want to send oxen. I want good horses and mules. They are in this Territory, and we must have them. Also 12 tons of flour and 40 good teamsters, besides those that drive the teams.
“I will tell you all that your faith, religion, and profession of religion, will never save one soul of you in the Celestial Kingdom of our God, unless you carry out just such principles as I am now teaching you. Go and bring in those people now on the plains.”1
That afternoon, food, bedding, and clothing in great quantities were assembled by the women.
The next morning, horses were shod and wagons were repaired and loaded.
The following morning, Tuesday, 16 mule teams pulled out and headed eastward. By the end of October, there were 250 teams on the road to give relief.
Wonderful sermons have been preached from this pulpit, my brethren and sisters. But none has been more eloquent than that spoken by President Young in those circumstances.

Monday evening the family went to the chuck wagon races at the Calgary Stampede. President Benson watched with the keen eye of a lifelong horseman as the chuck wagon teams careened around the track in a cloud of dust and tangle of wagons, horses, and outriders. A constant stream of LDS Scouts who were visiting from the nearby international jamboree came to shake the Apostle’s hand, and he graciously turned away from the spectacle to greet them warmly. Afterward there was a stage show honoring Canada, and then the night became noon as fireworks blossomed in new constellations overhead. The family laughed and joked and cheered. The best part of the evening was just being together.

Pepito turned and looked back at the rancho. His eyes were filled with tears. All his worldly belongings were inside the small burlap sack slung over his shoulder. How hard it was to leave the only home he had ever known and the horses he had loved and tended.
It was really his love of horses that had cost Pepito his job and home. To break a stallion’s spirit, Garcia, a cruel groom, had tied him in his stall and left him without food and water. When Pepito had smuggled food and water to the horse, he had been caught and fired without being allowed to explain what had happened.
An orphan, Pepito had no choice but to walk along the hot, dusty road toward the nearest town, a good day’s ride away. To find a stable master there who was in need of a good groom was his only hope.
Pepito trudged on, not stopping until midafternoon to take even a sip of water from his goatskin bag or to eat even one of the corn tortillas the kindly cook had given him. Wearily he sat in the shelter of a large boulder. His head began to nod.
Pepito awoke to the cool night air blowing across his face—and had he just dreamed that he’d heard slow, heavy steps? Suddenly he heard the low but unmistakable whinny of a horse! He scrambled atop the boulder and peered through the darkness. There! Something was moving through the brush not far away.
Pepito’s heart beat wildly. His one dream had always been to have a horse of his own. If he could catch this horse, he could ride it into town. And if it had no owner, he could claim it!
Pepito moved carefully through the brush. He had no rope and could only hope to take the animal by surprise. Closer he crept, and in the pale moonlight he finally saw it. Pepito gasped. She was the most beautiful mare he had ever seen! Her features were small and dainty, and she looked fleet of hoof. Her color was of the palest gold, and her mane and tail were as white as flax.
Pepito stood motionless and stared. The mare turned and regarded him with soft, liquid eyes. She showed no fear, and Pepito’s heart went out to her. Such a horse must surely belong to a princess, he thought. She must be lost in this wild country. He could see now that her coat was caked with mud and brambles. There were sunken places around her eyes. And she was heavy with foal.
Pepito knew that the mare needed food and water badly. She could not hope to give birth and survive alone in such rough country. He would have to help her! He quickly ran back and got his sack, poured water from his water bag into his sombrero, and, holding it before him, walked slowly toward the horse.
The mare sniffed the air. Her ears pricked, and without hesitation she came to Pepito and began drinking the water from his hat. When the water was gone, Pepito rolled up his few remaining tortillas and fed them to her one by one until they were gone. The mare’s eyes were filled with trust and gratitude. She nuzzled Pepito’s hand, and both of them knew that each had found a friend. Princesa, I will call you, Pepito decided. My Princesa.
Pepito knew that the mare’s time was very near. He worked quickly to clear a soft, sheltered place for her to rest. The mare seemed to understand his intent, for when he was done, she lay down at once.
Pepito kept watch nearby, afraid that some enemy would find her—a snake, or perhaps a scorpion. He drank the last of his water and ate a few nuts. Tomorrow he would have to find food and water for them both somewhere among the sagebrush and mesquite.
Pepito awakened with a start. The warm morning sun was in his face. He leapt to his feet! He had not meant to sleep. Had it all been a dream? But no, there lay Princesa; and nuzzling by her side was a tiny reddish colt! Pepito studied the foal. He was as finely built as his mother, built to run with the wind. Vientito, I will call you, he decided. Little Wind.
Pepito set off immediately to find water for the mare. If the colt was to survive, its mother must have strength to feed him. The boy scrambled down into a deep arroyo and began to dig with all his might. His face and clothing were soon caked with dirt and sweat, but finally his effort was rewarded. The sand grew moist, moister, till at last a small pool formed.
Pepito filled his sombrero again and again and carried it to the mare. Only when her thirst was slaked did he stop to rest and to drink. Then he went out once more to gather all the coarse grass he could find. It was not corn or oats, but it was the best that he could do. No matter where he looked, he could find no food for himself. He had only a handful of nuts left to sustain him until the mare and her foal were well enough to travel.
By afternoon Pepito was exhausted. He lay in the shade of the boulder, feeling weak and dizzy. The mare was stronger now, and she struggled to her feet and nickered encouragingly to her colt. The foal struggled and fell, struggled and fell, till finally his spindly legs supported him, and he wobbled to his mother and began to nurse. Pepito’s heart sang. Soon they would ride with the wind, the colt galloping after them!
Two days passed, and the bond between them grew, but the mare again weakened. Her ribs showed, and her coat was lusterless. Pepito soothed and groomed her the best that he could, but he began to despair. There was so little grass left, the water hole was beginning to dry, his nuts were gone, and vultures could be seen circling above them.
Pepito had no strength left; his skin was parched, and he could barely walk. He fell to the sand, dimly aware of a sound like distant thunder. Horses! He struggled to his feet and stumbled toward the road. He must get help! If there were horsemen, too, they would probably realize Princesa’s value and take her from him, but it was better than watching her die!
He reached the road and waved his sombrero wildly. As the riders slowed and came to a stop, Pepito collapsed in the dirt in front of them.
Pepito opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed, in a huge room with white walls! Standing at the foot of the bed was a handsome young man and the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her hair was the color of the mare’s, her eyes as soft and brown, and her features as finely chiseled.
The girl smiled at him. “We found you; and we found my Estrellita (Little Star) and her foal. I can never thank you enough for saving her,” the girl said. “We saw how you had cared for them. They are well. Come and see!” She took his hand and helped him to the window.
Pepito gasped. Here was a rancho bigger than any he had seen. A small river ran through green pastures, and trees dotted the hills. Cattle and horses were everywhere, and a huge stable crowned the highest hill. There in a paddock near the house was Princesa, well groomed and contented; by her side was the frisky foal.
Happy-sad tears stung Pepito’s eyes. The mare was safe at home, which made him happy, but she had no further need of him, which made him sad. But what was the girl saying?
“… and she will still need great care and a good groom—one for whom she has affection.”
Pepito turned and stared at her, hope making his heart beat quickly.
“Devotion and courage such as you have shown are rare indeed,” she continued softly. “Will you stay and be my Estrellita’s groom and train her foal for me? It would please me greatly.”
Speechless, Pepito clasped her hands and nodded ecstatically. He could stay with his Princesa—no, Estrellita! He would train Vientito! And he had found a home!

A cry from his mother rolled Black Beaver out of his warm bed furs. She stood outside the tepee, facing the mountains and pointing. There on the highest slopes of the tallest mountain, the one that his people considered sacred, was the sign they had waited to see—the wind and sun had shaped the snow into the form of a giant dove in flight. It meant that today he would climb up to search for White Horse, his grandfather, who had been trapped by a late spring blizzard. But how could the old one have survived up there alone for almost two weeks? the boy wondered. There seemed little hope of finding him alive now.
Black Beaver appeared calm as he prepared for the dangerous mission, but his heart hammered and his hands were moist and slippery. Was it the fear of failing, a dread of the unknown, or a combination of both? His younger brothers and sisters watched big-eyed and solemn as their mother handed him a backpack containing food, furs, and a coil of rope. “I—I wish you did not have to go alone,” his mother murmured, touching his dusky cheek.
Black Beaver wished, too, that it were not so. He had told no one, not even his family, about his fear of heights. He felt sure that White Horse had never understood why his eldest grandson refused to climb to the summit to fast and meditate as his ancestors had always done when they were troubled. “It is a place of incredible beauty and peace. It soothes the turmoil in a man’s spirit. Don’t you have faith in the ways of your people? Why do you turn away from the old ways?” his grandfather had asked.
The miserable youth had not replied. There were no words. How could he explain that he was both drawn and repelled by the mountain? He had seen his father and other relatives return from the summit renewed in spirit, a look of awe and serenity on their faces. How he envied them! The experience was one he yearned to share, but he always failed to reach even the timberline. He was not cowardly about other things, but he could not fight the choking panic that tightened his throat and shut off his breath. But could he now, to rescue his beloved grandfather? He wished that he had that much courage!
The youth had hunted on the lower slopes all his life, so he was familiar with the trails and made good time. He had not looked back to wave to his family, wanting to appear braver than he felt. The rising sun was warm on his back, but he dreaded the numbing cold and fierce winds that raked the mountain above the trees. He had heard about the trials necessary to reach the top, including the thin air that made the lungs ache. He pushed back the fear with thoughts of White Horse and climbed faster.
It was noticeably colder as Black Beaver stopped to rest his aching leg and shoulder muscles. He stared up at the snow and remembered his grandfather’s warning, “Never climb the mountain until the melting snow forms an outline of a soaring white dove, or you may be caught in a slide or some bottomless crevasse where the ice never melts. Always skirt the snow and follow the handholds and footholds around the bird’s left wing and you will be safe.”
Safe, the youth thought yearningly, trying not to look down. But it hadn’t been safe for White Horse even though the dove had flown when the old man climbed up for what he expected might be the last time. The raging blizzard had swept across the heights and trapped him. The dove was not visible on the morning they had waited for his return, and it had remained hidden until today. Suppose the bird vanished again in the night!
Black Beaver was hours above the timberline when he made his camp between boulders that blocked winds that tore at him. He looked down at the floor of the valley, hoping to see his family’s cooking fire, but it was too far away. He knew how anxiously they must have watched the mountain all day and it made him feel less lonely. This was the highest he had ever been and he was too numb and too exhausted to be frightened. He fell asleep in the heavy furs that had been too hot during the first part of his climb. Above him the giant white dove seemed to stir its wings as the snow glistened in the light of a full moon.
It was almost noon the next day when Black Beaver saw fresh moccasin tracks edging the snow. Grandfather has survived the blizzard! White Horse lives! thought the boy. Then he shuddered, remembering how many times he had dangled like a spider twirling on its web, out over the sheer drop to the bottom. Despite ancient notches carved in the stone face of the mountain, Black Beaver knew that without the rope he would not have made it to the top. The thin air made him drowsy and confused so that he often lost sight of the footholds his grandfather could follow in the dark. But he had done it and survived, and, somehow, White Horse had survived too.
The dove was disappointing up close. It was nothing more than a huge expanse of deep snow trapped in a vast fissure.
Black Beaver decided to rest for a moment. He was startled a short time later by his grandfather’s voice gently chiding, “Are you going to sit there and doze within just a few feet of the most soul-stirring sight you will ever see?” As the boy moved, White Horse cautioned, “Careful! Don’t leap up or you will go tumbling down into the valley.”
“You look well, Grandfather—for one who has been trapped up here for so long,” Black Beaver said boldly, as the thought occurred to him that he might have been tricked into the climb. He sniffed the air. “I smell food cooking!” he added incredulously. “Or have the heights made me delirious?”
White Horse arose stiffly and motioned his grandson to follow. The old one lumbered along like a bear in heavy fur garments Black Beaver had never seen before. Were they kept here for the final part of the climb? he wondered.
Black Beaver stopped and stared. “A cave! And it is stocked with many supplies. You were never in any real danger!” the boy accused grimly, thinking of his hazardous and needless climb. “You could have survived here for many more weeks or even climbed down, once the blizzards had passed!”
“Yes, but then you might never have seen the world from this mountain height as you longed to do,” White Horse said softly. “This one fear might have remained throughout your life and would probably have led to others. I had to trick you and force you to conquer the fear as my father tricked me so many years ago. I understood your fight more than you realized. I experienced all the same agonies and self-doubts as a youth. Now you have won. Come and eat with me.”
“No. First I must stand on the summit and feel the same beauty and awe as my ancestors,” Black Beaver said decisively. “Now that fear is no longer knotted around my throat like a rope, I am free. I will climb this and many other mountains throughout my life—thanks to the wisdom of White Horse.”

In 1907 a wealthy Englishman named George Herbert, the fifth Earl of Carnarvon, moved to Egypt and took up an interest in archaeology. He approached a well-known Egyptologist, Howard Carter, and proposed a partnership. Carter would oversee their archaeological excavations, and Carnarvon would provide the funding.
Together they successfully explored a variety of locations. Then they received permission to excavate in the Valley of the Kings, located near modern-day Luxor, where the tombs of many pharaohs had been found. They decided to look for the tomb of King Tutankhamun. Tutankhamun had ascended to the throne of Egypt more than 3,000 years earlier and reigned for 10 years before his unexpected death. He was known to have been buried in the Valley of the Kings, but the location of his tomb was unknown.
Carter and Carnarvon spent five years unsuccessfully searching for Tutankhamun’s tomb. Eventually Carnarvon informed Carter that he was finished with the fruitless quest. Carter pleaded for just one more season of excavation, and Carnarvon relented and agreed to the funding.
Carter realized that the entire floor of the Valley of the Kings had been methodically excavated—except the area of their own base camp. Within a few days of digging there, they found the first steps leading down to the tomb.
When Carter eventually peered into the antechamber of Tutankhamun’s tomb, he saw gold everywhere. After three months of cataloging the contents of the antechamber, they opened the sealed burial chamber in February 1923—100 years ago. This was the most famous archaeological find of the 20th century.
During those years of ineffectual searching, Carter and Carnarvon had overlooked what was literally under their feet. Some five centuries before the Savior’s birth, the Book of Mormon prophet Jacob referred to taking for granted or undervaluing what is nearby as “looking beyond the mark.” Jacob foresaw that the people of Jerusalem would not recognize the promised Messiah when He came. Jacob prophesied that they would be a “people [who] despised the words of plainness … and [would seek] for things that they could not understand. Wherefore, because of their blindness, which blindness [would come] by looking beyond the mark, they must needs fall.” In other words, they would stumble.
After Carter and Carnarvon excavated elsewhere in the Valley of the Kings looking for Tutankhamun’s tomb, they realized their oversight. We do not need to labor unsuccessfully, as they did for a time, to find our treasure. Nor need we seek counsel from exotic sources, prizing the novelty of the source and thinking such counsel will be more enlightened than that which we can receive from a humble prophet of God.