Gospel Story Finder

One night when our children were younger, we were having family scripture time. We read about the Savior and talked about how He never made any mistakes.
Later that night my wife tucked our three-year-old daughter, Susie, into bed. Susie looked up at her mother and said, “Mummy, Jesus did make a mistake.”
“What do you mean?” her mother asked.
“He broke something,” Susie said.
Somewhat puzzled, her mother asked, “What did He break?”
“Jesus broke the bands of death,” Susie answered.
My wife realized that she and Susie had sung the Primary song “On a Golden Springtime” many times, and Susie had learned the words “On a golden springtime, Jesus Christ awoke and left the tomb where He had lain; the bands of death He broke.”* Susie’s mother explained that breaking the bands of death means that Jesus was resurrected so that we can all live again after we die.
That conversation has given my wife and me many opportunities to teach our daughters, Lizzie, Susie, and Emma, about what the Atonement really means for each of us. Susie was right: Jesus did break the bands of death. But it wasn’t a mistake. It was the greatest gift He could give us! (See Doctrine and Covenants 14:7.)
The Savior died and was resurrected so that we can live again with our Heavenly Father and our families according to our righteousness. If we are worthy, we can enjoy the blessings of immortality and eternal life someday. I am grateful that Jesus broke something—the bands of death!

Matt is busy making posters for Mandy’s student council campaign when …
Hey, Matt, we just got an email for you from your cousin Max in Australia.
Oh, lemme see!
“… and I like soccer, but cricket is my favorite.”
Matt pictures the insect and is puzzled.
It’s a little like baseball, but also very different.
“… and I love meat pies.”
Not the kind of pie with ice cream on top, like you’re thinking.
And he loves something called “Lamingtons.”
It’s like we both speak English, but it’s not quite the same language.
Hey! Max and Mindy got baptized last month. And —cool!—his family’s going to be sealed in the temple next week!
That’s great!
We might have some different sports and foods and words, but we share the really important stuff.

After I learned to read as a child, I started reading the Bible. By the time I was 10, I wanted, like Joseph Smith, to find the right church to join. I started to investigate churches around my home. Then one day a friend of my mother invited us to a family home evening.
“This is it,” I thought. “This is the church!”
Two weeks later, we were baptized members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

A valiant mother courageously fighting a debilitating illness spent untold hours laboriously completing a large, challenging needlepoint work of art. It was a gift to a couple experiencing trials. For the couple it is a priceless treasure, a constant reminder of the precious fruits of resolute effort in the face of adversity, an enduring message of hope bound in the bonds of pure love and willing sacrifice.

It was a hot summer day, that day long ago. I sat listening to the snip, snip of the barber’s scissors around my ears, anxious to have him finish so I could get out of there. And it wasn’t only the heat that seemed oppressive. My barber was some kind of missionary for the Mormon church: a “stake missionary,” I believe he said—whatever that was. He had sensed my negative attitude to his church on previous visits.
“What church was it you said you belong to?” There it was, the subtle remark to pull me into a conversation on religion. Instinctively I knew what was coming, and just as instinctively came my reply. “Just cut my hair and don’t preach to me!”
The next week was a fun one. I hurried to my barber. “Give me a special haircut. I’m going to join the Church.” His mouth popped open, and he couldn’t speak for a short time. When he regained his composure, his reply, in all seriousness, was, “Which church?”
Then I talked with the barber and learned that he would be my first bishop after my baptism. To our mutual surprise and joy, we discovered that we had met once before, two years previously, when he was on a stake mission and a rude person had shut the door in his face and left him standing on the doorstep.

With his permission I would like to share a story a good friend recently told me. This friend was raised in the Church, and, while young, he was baptized, given the gift of the Holy Ghost, and ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood. During his teenage years he made some friends who had values dramatically different from those he had been taught in his home and at church. Over a number of years he made some poor decisions and became involved in behaviors that were deceptive, destructive, and not aligned with the teachings of the gospel. As a result he didn’t enjoy the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost and turned from much of the light available to him.

As he approached mission age he continued to be involved in these poor behaviors but also began to have questions about the direction of his life. One day while under the influence of an illegal substance, he had an experience—a very powerful spiritual ­experience—that he recognized as coming through the Holy Ghost. Although it came under surprising circumstances, that ­experience ­provided clarity for him and ultimately changed the course of his life. He repented, served a mission, and was married in the temple. He has a wonderful family and a powerful testimony and is an active and contributing member of the Church.

Mary Galuak, a refugee from South Sudan and mother of four children, soon to be five, learned tailoring through self-reliance classes held in late 2023 by the Eldoret Kenya District of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At successful completion of the training, she and other tailoring participants were each provided a Butterfly pedal-powered sewing machine, starter fabric, and thread. Participants were encouraged to start with small projects, such as pillows, to earn immediate revenue.
In early 2024, through her marketing efforts, Mary was invited to submit sample uniforms to a school in South Sudan. She recruited three other self-reliance class participants to assist in the work. Sample uniforms were designed, sewn, and shipped in early February.
Roughly 10 days after submitting the samples, Mary was notified that she had won the contract. The time frame to complete the uniforms was two weeks. Together with her three associates, Mary began earnestly sewing to meet the contract requirements.
Mary explained the significant behind-the-scenes challenges. “Starting a business is the most difficult process, but with perseverance and consistency, it is possible. Marketing to get customers has been so hard. I know God answers every prayer. Without Almighty Father’s help, I would have not won this contract. It has given me a lot of experience in patience and hope for something better. I have had unsuccessful attempts to get some contracts for sewing school uniforms, but I didn’t give up.”
The contract is sufficient to cover costs and pay participants, with monies left over to purchase additional supplies. It is not as lucrative as she would have hoped, but Mary bid the job low to get it.
Mary had other concerns amidst this project. Her fifth child was due in early April and she and her family had been patiently waiting for the green light from the Church’s Temple Patron Assistance Fund to travel to Accra, Ghana to be sealed in the temple. They hoped to complete their temple work before the airlines restricted her travel because of her pregnancy. Despite numerous delays before and after embarking, the Galuak family was sealed on 1 March 2024. Her tailoring team covered for her absence.
Due undoubtedly to the stress of the uniforms contract and traveling challenges, Mary delivered their fifth child, Blessing, in the early morning hours of March 12, three weeks early and just 8 days after returning from Accra and the temple. Blessing’s name honors Mary’s grandmother, who died just before Mary learned she was expecting her fifth child.
Mary said she was so happy to be part of the member-focused self-reliance program. She said, “Self-reliance has blessed me and my family with a lot of opportunity and experiences that allow us to focus on the gospel of Jesus Christ. I know the talent and skill and knowledge I have received from tailoring classes will bless the lives of my relatives, friends, and family members in the future. I am so grateful for all the blessings I am receiving from the self-reliance program.”

Clipper was a beautiful sorrel. He was half thoroughbred and a well-trained cow pony. When we turned him loose in the field after a hard day’s ride, he would kick up his heels and run and buck just like a frisky colt. One day I was trying to drive our cow home but to no avail; so I roped her, wrapping the rope around the horn of my saddle. Just as she came to the end of the rope, the cinch on my saddle broke, and both the saddle and I ended up on the ground under Clipper. He had been running hard and was excited, yet he stopped instantly and did not move a muscle until I was out of danger.

Mike was nervous. The bow tie made his collar tight, and he couldn’t get his finger to where it itched. His Primary teacher, Brother Thompson, looked at the squirmy nine-year-old and shook his head. He had often thought that Mike was more interested in soccer than the scriptures. Today Brother Thompson was right.

It wasn’t that Mike didn’t like the scriptures. It was just that the big game was a week away, and Mike was having trouble thinking about anything else.

“Mike,” said Brother Thompson, “can you tell me what Jesus did when He learned that His friend Lazarus had died?”

Mike hadn’t been listening. He had been staring out the window and thinking about the Pocatello soccer fields, where the league championship would be decided next Saturday.

Mike played in the league for nine- and ten-year-olds. His team had won all their games. But Mike’s coach had said that they had been lucky to win some of them, and half of them had been won by only one goal. Next Saturday would be the championship game. Mike’s team, the Eagles, would play the Lasers. The Lasers were also undefeated in their league, but they had won every game by at least four goals.

Mike thought about what his coach had told him the day before.

“Mike?” Coach Griego had asked, “Do you want to win next week?”

“You bet!”

“Do you think we will win?”

“I think the Lasers are gonna cream us,” Mike had answered truthfully.

“Well, I know one thing,” Coach Griego had said. “In order for us to have a chance at winning, you’ll have to play a good game. You’re our best player, Mike. You’re really going to have to take charge out there.”

Mike thought about what Coach Griego had said. He felt glad that his coach thought that he was the best player on the team. But it made him feel bad, too, because if the Eagles lost, it would probably be his fault.

Brother Thompson continued his lesson … “When Jesus learned that His friend Lazarus had died, He went to where His friend was buried. His disciples wondered why Jesus would leave His important teaching to go to someone who was already dead. But Jesus did what He knew was right. Jesus loved his friend, and one of the lessons he wanted to teach was that we should always do the kindest thing.”

Mike was listening to his teacher now. So was the boy sitting next to him, Clint Price. Clint was on Mike’s soccer team, but Clint was as thin and wispy as Mike was strong and solid. They played a lot of soccer together at home during the week, but at team practice, Mike acted like he hardly knew Clint. All the kids thought that Clint was the worst player on the team, and Mike liked to be around the best players. Clint pretended that it didn’t bother him.

“When Jesus went to see Lazarus,” Brother Thompson continued, “He wept for His friend. Then He prayed to Heavenly Father and raised His friend from the dead. Surely He would have liked to have healed His friend so that he didn’t have to die, but if He had, He would not have shown that He had power over death. He knew that it was important to wait till Lazarus had died before He helped him. So remember how important it is to always do the right thing.”

During the week Mike sometimes pictured his team beating the Lasers by two or three goals. Then he’d think about what it would be like if the Lasers won by their usual four points.

“OK,” said the coach just before the game started. “They’re big, all right, but that means that they’re slow. We can beat them with speed and passing. Now, get out there and win!”

The Lasers soon had the ball sailing toward the goal. The Eagle goalie almost muffed the ball, but he managed to drop-kick it back toward the center of the field.

Mike knew at once that it would be a rough game. The Lasers knew how to use their size. Whenever they powered the ball downfield, several Eagles were knocked down in the process.

The Lasers scored first with a hard shot from just in front of the goal. This time the ball went into the net so fast that the Eagle goalie didn’t have time to react. The Lasers scored again just before halftime on a high kick that came down in front of the goal. A tall Laser player jumped up and butted the ball into the goal with his head. The Eagles walked off the field dejectedly at halftime. The score was Lasers 2, Eagles 0.

No one was more unhappy than Mike. He hadn’t played for most of the first half after he’d collided with a Laser player and hurt his leg. On the sideline he’d done the stretching exercises his coach had showed him. “Coach,” Mike said just before the second half, “those exercises really helped. I’m ready to go back in and play.”

“Good,” said the coach. “We need you.”

For the first five minutes of the second half, the Eagles played evenly with the Lasers. Then the Eagles got the break that they’d been waiting for. A Laser was called for a tripping foul in front of the Laser goal. The Eagles got a penalty kick, and they scored on a high shot that went just inside the net. The score was Lasers 2, Eagles 1.

Less than a minute later the Eagles scored again when the Laser goalie slipped while diving for the ball. Tie game.

The Lasers were angry now. Determined to win the game no matter what, they were called for several roughness penalties. But the Eagles just couldn’t capitalize on them. As the clock began to run out, the score was still 2–2.

Then, when a Laser missed an inbounds pass, the Eagles got the ball and forwarded it to Mike. He turned and looked at the goal, about thirty yards away. Gritting his teeth, he started upfield. Mike was not as large as most of the Lasers, but he was a lot quicker. He outran one defender, faked past another, and suddenly was in the clear, streaking toward the goal with only the goalie to stop him. Mike got ready to take his shot—then he saw something that changed everything.

Normally, Coach Griego didn’t play Clint if the game was close, but because of injuries, the coach had no choice. Clint didn’t like the Lasers’ rough style of play, but he had run near the sideline and slightly behind Mike, just in case …

Near the goal the Laser goalie charged at Mike and dived as Mike’s foot hit the ball. But the ball didn’t go toward the net. The words of Brother Thompson had flashed through Mike’s mind:

“Do the right thing.” Mike sent the ball to Clint, who dribbled just beyond Mike, then drew his leg back to make the kick, the biggest kick of the season.

The ball sailed up and over the top of the goal, missing the net completely. The referee blew his whistle, and the game was over, ending in a 2–2 tie. The Lasers and the Eagles were cochampions.

The Eagles kicked up clods of dirt as they left the field. Clint and Mike were still standing by the goal when the coach walked over. “Why didn’t you score?” he almost shouted at Mike. “The goalie was out of position, and we could have won the game.”

Mike was thinking about what Brother Thompson had said about helping a friend and about doing what’s right. “Clint was open,” Mike explained. “You told us that we’d win with passing, so I passed the ball to Clint.”

The coach shook his head and left the field. A moment later Mike felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Clint’s parents. “Mike,” said Clint’s mother, “I’d just like you to know how glad we are that you passed the ball to Clint. That was the first time that he had a chance to score a goal all year. And it almost went in; it really did. Thank you.”

Clint’s parents walked off the field with their son, their arms around his shoulder. On the sideline Mike’s family waited. His father was smiling. “Mike,” he said, “that was quite a thing you did out there. I’m proud of you, Son.”

“Clint was open,” Mike said simply as they all walked to the car. “It was the right thing to do.”

Elder Renlund spent his career as a cardiologist, treating patients with heart failure. He saw many patients die. But after a patient named Chad died, the emotional distance he maintained in times of crisis as a physician shattered when Chad’s parents joined him in the emergency room. In that moment he saw Chad through their eyes.
Of this experience, Elder Renlund said, “I now realize that in the Church, to effectively serve others we must see them through a parent’s eyes, through Heavenly Father’s eyes. Only then can we begin to comprehend the true worth of a soul” (page 94).

Jason C. Jones turned up the collar of his wet coat. He tried to creep farther under the bush, but the chilling rain still soaked through and found him.
Will I ever be warm again? Jason wondered.
On this cold night in November 1833, Jason thought back to that hot day in July when it seemed to him their troubles had all begun.
Jason’s father said to him that morning, “I have to ride into Independence for supplies, Jason. Fix the broken fence. And remember you’re eleven now, and you’ll have to look out for your mother and Jane.”
Shortly after noon that day Jason was straightening a fence rail near the road when he heard the sound of running horses.
Shading his eyes, Jason looked down the road. Many men were coming toward him on galloping horses. Then he noticed that all the men had weapons of some sort. Jason saw several rifles and some pistols, but most of the riders carried whips or clubs.
The boy trembled in fright. Are they members of a mob? he wondered. He’d heard stories about men who threatened the Saints, and sometimes when his father and mother had thought the children were both asleep, Jason had heard them whisper about killings.
All but one of the riders raced past the boy. The one who stopped pulled his horse up near Jason and shouted, “You one of those Mormon boys?”
Jason nodded.
“Tell your folks to get out,” the man cried. “You’re not wanted in Jackson County, Missouri.”
Jason stood silent and the man rode away.
When his father came home, Jason told him about the men and then asked, “Why don’t the people want us here, Father? We’re not hurting anyone, are we?”
His father looked sad. He was quiet for a moment, and then he explained, “I guess folks feel there are too many Mormons coming to live here.”
Jason remembered that the rest of the summer was peaceful at their farm, but many other families had not been as fortunate. One night his father rode into Independence again. A meeting was being held so that some of the Mormon leaders and other men chosen from the area could talk over their problems.
Before he left, Jason’s father had smiled and said again, “Take care of your mother and Jane, son. I’ll be home soon.”
But two weeks passed and Jason’s father had not returned. Near nightfall that day Jason walked to the road. He peered in the direction of town, hoping he might see his father coming home. What Jason saw instead made him stiffen with fear. He raced back into the house and shut the door.
Before he spoke, he took a deep breath. “Mother,” Jason quietly said, “some men are coming.”
His mother jumped up. A shirt she had been mending dropped unnoticed on the floor. “Maybe we can get away through the back door, Jason,” she suggested in a shaky voice. “Let’s hurry and—”
Before his mother finished speaking, a huge man pushed the door open.
“You Mormons get out!” he bellowed. “We’re going to burn your house down!”
Jason could not believe what he heard the man say. Then there were sounds in the yard outside, and Jason knew the loud noises meant fences were being ripped down and the barn and other outbuildings torn apart.
Jason helped his mother find Jane’s shawl as well as her own. He snatched a wicker basket and began to throw food into it, but the big man grabbed the basket and shouted, “Go on! Get out before this place burns down around you!”
Jason and his mother and Jane ran outside and up the road. They stopped a few times to look back at the flames that licked around their home as it burned.
During the night they were joined by other homeless women and children. They crossed a burned prairie crusted with sleet. Whenever they tried to stop and rest, men on horseback drove them on.
The driven people moved northward to the Missouri River. They reached the river late one evening.
Crowded on its banks were household goods, boxes, provisions, animals, and many people waiting their turn to cross the river. Only one small ferry was available.
Shortly after dark Jason became separated from his mother and Jane. Now the rain began to fall in torrents, and Jason huddled under the bush. He was desperately miserable and lonely as he thought about all that had happened since that July day when the man on horseback had screamed, “You’re not wanted!”
Then Jason remembered what he could do. Kneeling in the mud, Jason prayed for help.
Finally he dozed. But cries from the people on the river bank soon awakened him, and Jason crawled from beneath his bush.
The rain had stopped, and everyone was looking up. Jason looked up too. The sight he saw filled him with amazement!
The heavens were a deep blue background for a wondrous spectacle of falling stars that streaked downward in bright flames. It looked as if the stars exploded in place and then began to tumble toward the earth.
To Jason, it seemed that every star in the heavens was about to land in the river beside the people.
As the magnificent display gradually stopped, Jason again remembered his troubles. He sighed and shivered as he pulled his coat about him. Just then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and Jason looked up and saw his father.
“Oh, Father,” he sobbed, “I’m so glad to see you!”
His father hugged him close. “I found your mother and Jane too,” he said. “Come.”
The man and the boy walked down the river bank together. A fire burned warmly in front of a tent, and inside the opening Jason could see his mother and sister.
“With our family together again, even a tent is a home,” Father said as he gently pushed Jason inside toward his welcoming family.

“A Blessing in My Life”
Blessing Nwakaego Okoronkwo felt drawn to the Gathering Place in her stake in Nigeria because she wanted to learn a skill—in particular, catering—that would benefit her financially.
“In the class, we learned amazing things,” she says. “I tried to take the class very seriously. I tried not to miss even once, and I always had my notebook and my pen.”
During one class in her Port Harcourt Nigeria North Stake, she and other students learned to make chin chin, a crunchy deep-fried snack popular in Nigeria, Ghana, and other West African nations. Blessing also learned to make peanut snacks.
“I decided to buy my ingredients and practice in my house what I had been taught,” she says. When she took her finished product to the school where she teaches, “Everybody was like, ‘Wow!’”
That prompted her to begin selling her snacks—in small quantities at first and then in larger quantities. Her little business quickly proved successful.
“It’s been amazing!” she says. “I’ve been really blessed by the Gathering Place.”
Blessing encourages others to take advantage of the opportunities that have blessed her. “Just put in your best effort,” she says.

Once, in talking with Ligia about charity, I happened to mention that I was a loving kind of guy. She agreed that I was loving with those who loved me back, but that was not the meaning of charity. I was taken back and argued with her. Later there came into my life those whom I would love. I gave them my love, my time, my energy and they loved me not. I gave service and of every resource I had and they never reciprocated. I proffered my efforts, my money, my heart and my home and on a good day they were disinterested and on a bad day they were simply apathetic. I sacrificed much for them and they never saw it.

Then one day, I had no more love to give, yet I had to love and I needed to love. No morsel of recognition of my sacrificial love was ever given and my love died, it failed me. That natural gift of mine was no more. I needed a spiritual gift to continue to love. And I discovered a deeper meaning to charity: what it has been to sacrifice for love and know very well that they shall never, ever love me. But I loved them then and I love them still. And I have caught a glimpse of a Christ-like love.

My late brother-in-law, Patrick Clarke, served a mission in Chile in the mid-1960s. One of his most memorable mission experiences happened during a two-week period when he and his companion traveled with the mission president and his wife and Elder Spencer W. Kimball and his wife, Camilla, on a 3,000-mile tour of Chile, holding branch and district conferences as they traveled.

They rode in a ’61 Chevrolet station wagon with three rows of seats along the Pan?American Highway, which was then a narrow cement road with no shoulder or painted lines to identify lanes. Many rivers and deep canyons crisscrossed the path of the highway, necessitating bridges to span them. Most of these bridges were very narrow.

Late one afternoon, after holding a conference in the most southern branch of the Church in Chile, they headed north along the Pan-American Highway. Patrick was driving. His companion was in the front passenger seat. The mission president and his wife were seated in the back row, and Elder and Sister Kimball were in the middle row.

As they drove along they approached a narrow bridge that crossed a deep canyon with a river gushing below. Elder Kimball suggested they pull over and stop.

Patrick questioned him, saying, “Do you want to stop here where there is no shoulder, or do you want to drive a ways and find a better place to stop?”

Elder Kimball repeated, “Stop here.”

Without further hesitation, Patrick pulled the car over and stopped. Then he realized a semitruck was approaching the opposite end of the bridge in front of them. As the truck moved onto the bridge, the front wheel came off, causing the truck to roll over. Patrick and his companion jumped out of their car and assisted the driver out of the wrecked semitruck.

After the truck was removed from the middle of the bridge and things settled down, they continued across the bridge and up the road. As they reflected on what had happened, it became obvious that if Elder Kimball had not told them to pull over, they would have arrived on the bridge at the same time the semitruck lost its wheel and rolled. They would have had nowhere to turn and would very likely have been killed in a collision.

Patrick asked Elder Kimball how he knew they were in harm’s way. Elder Kimball explained that the Holy Ghost had whispered to him, “Pull over. Pull over.” The young elders were impressed with his inspiration but also wondered why they had not been warned; after all, they were missionaries living close to the Lord. Elder Kimball explained to them that the Holy Ghost had not overlooked them but that they were not listening. They had not trained themselves to hear the still, small voice. Elder Kimball encouraged them to hone their senses to the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

They are the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of 95-year-old Arthur W. Andersen and his wife Clara, from Provo, Utah. They all began coming to the library in 1972 when Arthur’s oldest daughter, Lyona, had what she considered an inspired idea. For years Lyona had taken upon herself the responsibility for continuing genealogical research for the Andersen family. She had obtained funds from family members (all 15 of Arthur’s children) and had hired professional researchers to help her carry on the work.
One day the thought came to her, “Why not organize things so that all the young cousins in the area can join in and assist us in this important work?” She approached her researcher specializing in English records, Wilma Adkins, and asked if she would be willing to delegate work and supervise all the youth in doing research. Wilma willingly agreed, and since that time the Andersen family has held monthly workshops.
These workshops give many teenagers and adults in the family the opportunity to actually do firsthand research in the Salt Lake Genealogical Library. They have become familiar with how to operate the microfilm machines and how to track down the various microfilms they need. They have struggled over the elaborate and often foreign-looking handwriting contained in these records. And perhaps most important of all, they have felt the joy that comes from discovering a name that others have hunted for for hours, weeks, and sometimes even years.
Lyona recalls an incident with a young cousin, not yet in his teens, who was faithfully poring over census records for a name Wilma had given him. All of a sudden he jumped up and ran to Aunt Lyona, excitement mirrored in his face. “Come look,” he said. “Is this really the name I was looking for?” Lyona quickly conferred with Wilma. It was the very name Wilma had unsuccessfully been seeking for a long time.
Many hugs and congratulations followed, as Wilma and Lyona took special pains to praise and thank him for his unexpected discovery.
Other researchers in the library on these Saturdays, if they took the time to eavesdrop, would hear such boastful comments as, “Hey, Nina, just think! Because of me, John and Mary Stafford can get married in the temple and be sealed for all eternity! What if I hadn’t come today and had gone swimming instead?” Or, “Wilma told me I can read that awful handwriting as well as the people who work here!”
Since 1972, 70 members of the Andersen family have participated at one time or another in these genealogy workshops. Ages range from eight years to 95, the majority in their teens. The 95-year-old helper is Grandpa Andersen himself. Although he can’t actually search (because of failing eyesight), he often shows up, nonetheless, with his wife Clara. Their enthusiastic spirits and encouraging words make their presence as valuable as though they were doing the research themselves. Their grandchildren know how important they consider this work and how pleased they are with each person’s effort.
Through these Saturday workshops, the Andersen family has truly taken seriously the admonitions to do genealogical research. And they are busily engaged in turning “the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers.” (Mal. 4:6.)

Like any self-respecting teenager in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I attended seminary for four consecutive years. This meant long hours of gospel learning in addition to Sunday and family study hours. It was sometimes a difficult and trying experience.
I began seminary in 2017 in our Pare Ward of the Arue Tahiti Stake. I was in 9th grade in school at the time, and I was eager to be part of this youth group.
During my first year, I woke up before 5 a.m. every weekday to get to seminary on time. I did my readings, and I was very attentive in class. I realized seminary contributed to deepening my relationship with God. Without Him, I would not have been able to successfully pass my school’s National Certificate Exam at the end of year 9.
Over the next two years, I gradually became lax in my duties, missing seminary or arriving late more often. I lost my desire to attend seminary, so I was less consistent in my efforts.
Accordingly, my 10th year in school was difficult, but I was unaware at the time of how this was related to my performance in seminary.
In year 11, I started going out with classmates who dabbled in things our Church doesn’t recommend, like alcohol and cigarettes. I even felt a little ashamed of not being like these friends and not hanging out more with them.
Consequently, my annual grades were low and if I had to take the bachelor exam that year, I doubt I would have passed.
Then, the COVID pandemic changed our daily lives, which I thank God for. When seminary classes started up on our smartphones, it was as if to counteract the evil that is also rampant on there.
Although I still had moments of weakness, I decided to hang in there and tried to sincerely follow the lessons of seminary, to benefit from God’s help in my studies.
I am grateful for my parents. Without them, I would have dropped out of seminary and followed the same path as my nonmember friends. As my favorite seminary teachers, they watched over me, making sure I stayed connected to God.
Then, healthy social relationships with the youth of the ward became my lifeline. Our activities together renewed me each time I was not in the mood. Among these friends was Corail Sommers, who never judged but always listened and encouraged and raised me up by her example.
In their own ways, they each contributed to my personal balance.
The discipline of daily immersion in the scriptures paid off in my last year of seminary, which was also my 12th and final year of school.
My seminary study habits allowed me to be better organized. While I’m not a fan of reading, I strove to read daily. It allowed me to maintain my relationship—even a fragile one—with Heavenly Father.
That year, I passed my bachelor diploma with honors. I got my driver’s license on my first try. I received my call to serve a mission in Paris. All in all, the hand of God was in my life the whole time I was in seminary and at school.
Looking back, I testify that God will always help because He loves us.
Seminary is exactly what we need as young people to help us to trust God and to let him prevail in our lives. He always trusted me.

Each instance of prophecy is of great interest to Latter-day Saints. Two of these can serve as examples. In 1830, the year the Church was organized, an aged patriarch named Arama Toiroa, who lived in the area of Mahia, gathered his children, grandchildren, and relatives together and gave them some advice. (At that time most of his descendants had joined the Church of England.) His people, who considered him a seer, listened carefully to what he said:
“‘My dear friends, you must leave that church, for it is not the true church of the God of heaven. The church you have joined is from the earth and not from heaven.’
“Upon hearing this his people asked, ‘Where then can we find a church where we can worship the true God?’
“Arama Toiroa answered, ‘There will come to you a true form of worship; it will be brought from the east, even from beyond the heavens. It will be brought across the great ocean and you will hear of it coming to Poneke (Wellington) and afterwards its representatives will come to Te Mahia.
“‘They will then go northward to Waiapu but will return to Te Mahia.
“‘When this “Karakia,” form of worship, is introduced amongst you, you will know it, for one shall stand and raise both hands to heaven.
“‘When you see this sign, enter into that church. Many of you will join the church and afterwards one will go from amongst you the same way that the ministers came even unto the land from afar off.’”
Fifty-four years passed before Arama’s words were fulfilled. In 1884 Elders Alma Greenwood and Ira Hinckley brought the gospel to the Wellington area and then made their way to Hawkes Bay. There they were joined by President William E. Stewart, and together they traversed the path Arama had predicted. It was at Korongata, however, and not at Mahia, that Arama’s descendants first accepted the gospel. Brother Whaanga described the day when the gospel was first preached to Arama’s people:
“In journeying northward they reached … Korongata, where many of us were assembled on the Sabbath day.
“Amongst the people who were there was a grandson of Arama Toiroa whose name was Te Teira Marutu.
“The meeting was conducted by Elder Stewart and his friends. The services were opened with singing and prayer, and a Gospel address was delivered, after which they sang again, and Brother Stewart arose to dismiss with prayer. In doing so he raised both hands and invoked God’s blessing upon the people.
“As soon as the grandson of Arama Toiroa saw this he arose and declared that this was the church of which his forefather prophesied which would surely be firmly established amongst the Maori people.
“He and his wife applied for baptism, and they and their children were thus initiated into the Church by Elder Stewart.”3
Subsequently the missionaries returned to Mahia and held meetings with other descendants of Arama Toiroa. After seeing the sign, these people said, “This is indeed the church for us, for did not our revered forefather, Arama Toiroa, prophesy about it?”
Largely as a result of this prophecy, every person in Korongata joined the Church, and a large number of Maoris in Mahia entered the waters of baptism.

Let me give you an example at the opposite end of the spectrum. It involves a boyhood hero of mine, Ted Williams, one of the greatest baseball players of all time. A. Thomas Young, president and chief operating officer of Martin Marietta Corporation, who observed that “ethics will continue to be the issue of the 90s,” reports Williams’ experience as follows:
More than 30 years ago, Ted Williams was closing out his career with the Boston Red Sox. He was suffering from a pinched nerve in his neck that season.
“The thing was so bad,” he later explained, “that I could hardly turn my head to look at the pitcher. “
For the first time in his career he batted under .300, hitting just .254 with 10 home runs. He was the highest salaried player in sports, making $125,000. The next year, the Red Sox sent him the same contract.
When he got the contract, Williams sent it back with a note saying that he would not sign it until they gave him the full pay cut allowed.
“I was always treated fairly by the Red Sox when it came to contracts,” Williams said. “Now they were offering me a contract I didn’t deserve. And I only wanted what I deserved.”
Williams cut his own salary by 25 percent, raised his batting average by 62 points and closed out a brilliant career by hitting a home run in his final at bat.

At the funeral services for a remarkable daughter of God, someone shared that this sister, as stake Relief Society president, worked with others in her stake to contribute quilts to give warmth to suffering people in Kosovo during the 1990s. And like the good Samaritan, she went out of her way to do more as she and her daughter drove a truck filled with those quilts from London to Kosovo. On her journey home she received an unmistakable spiritual impression that sank deep into her heart. The impression was this: “What you have done is a very good thing. Now go home, walk across the street, and serve your neighbor!”
The funeral was filled with additional inspiring accounts of how this faithful woman recognized and responded to the extraordinary and pressing calls—and also the ordinary occasions—of those within her sphere of influence. For example, she opened her home and her heart to help struggling young people at any hour—day or night.

“Come on, Sam,” Jeremy said as he walked along the old dusty roadbed with his friends. “Nobody will know but us.”
Lagging behind the group, I thought about the conversation Jeremy and I had had that morning. He had told me about his plan to steal watermelons from Brother Vargas. I knew stealing was wrong, but I thought if I did what he wanted, we would be friends. So when he had finished talking, I told a lie. “I know all about stealing. It’s easy. I’ve done it before.”
“You have!” he had exclaimed, looking surprised. “Wait until I tell the other guys.” After he had told everyone in the group, they looked at me with renewed interest. I liked that, but now I was in trouble. I didn’t want to steal anything, especially Brother Vargas’s prize watermelons.
Brother Vargas was as old as my grandpa, but he had been my only friend when we first moved to Fawn Creek. He knew I was lonely and needed a friend. And I knew that the money from his melon field made up most of the income he and Sister Vargas lived on.
“Hurry up, Sam,” one of the kids called over his shoulder. “Brother Vargas will be back soon to pick up another load of melons. If we don’t get to his field before he does, we’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
Oh, well, I thought, walking faster, I need friends my own age. Jeremy’s in my Primary class and my Scout troop, and all the guys like him. If we become friends, I’ll have a lot of guys to hang around with. Besides, Mom thinks he’s a good friend. So did I—until now.
When I caught up to Jeremy, he began making plans. “Clint, you be the lookout. If anyone comes, whistle. Brett, you take Sam and head for the nearest row of melons. Jeff and I will be right behind you. Remember, we won’t have much time, so don’t be too choosy. Just get the biggest ones you can carry.”
“Yeah,” Clint agreed, licking his lips. “We already know how good they taste.”
“What if we get caught?” I asked.
“Getting nervous?” Brett questioned.
“Not me,” I lied for the second time in a half hour. “You’re right; we’d better hurry.”
The real reason I wanted to hurry had nothing to do with taking melons. The truth was, I didn’t want to see the way Brother Vargas would look at me if he caught me robbing him. We were friends, and true friends take care of each other. I was starting to feel awful.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” Jeremy said. “No one will find out.”
How did I get into this situation? I wondered. I needed someone to blame. So I blamed Mom. It’s her fault we moved after Dad died.
“Yeah, sure,” I muttered under my breath. “And look at what you’re doing.” I knew why Mom had sold the house. She didn’t want to go to work and leave me home alone. She’d loved that old house, and I knew she didn’t want to move away from her friends any more than I did.
“Sam, you’re dragging your feet again,” Jeremy said.
“Yeah, I know,” I said, as I sent a rock flying across the road with the side of my foot.
When we finally reached Brother Vargas’s melon field, I knew I had made the worst decision of my life. But I didn’t know how to get out of it. Then the words to a song we were learning in Primary popped into my head. I began to sing softly:
“Choose the right when a choice is placed before you. In the right the Holy Spirit guides; And its light is forever shining o’er you, When in the right your heart confides” (“Choose the Right,” Hymns, number 239).
When I got to the chorus, all the boys began to sing with me. When we finished, I knew I had to say something. “We can’t do this!” I declared looking first at the guys and then at the melon field. “This just isn’t right.”
“But you said you’ve stolen things before,” Jeremy said accusingly.
“That was a lie,” I admitted. “I’ve never stolen anything in my whole life, and I don’t want to start now.”
“Neither do I,” Clint said, walking over to stand next to me.
Surprised, I turned to Clint. “I thought you had stolen before. You even said you knew how good Brother Vargas’s melons are.”
“We lied, too,” Brett admitted. “Brother Vargas gives my family watermelons from his field every year.”
“Yeah, and they sure are good!” Jeff said, almost drooling. “He gives melons to anyone who wants them.”
“Then why were we going to steal them?” I asked, almost shouting.
“We thought it would be fun,” Clint said as he dug the point of his shoe into the loose dirt.
“Yeah,” Jeremy agreed, his voice a whisper. “But it sure doesn’t seem like fun now.”
When Brother Vargas drove up, we were sitting in the shade of the big metal shed still talking about his watermelons.
“Hi, boys,” he called. “It’s good to see you. I could sure use your help putting another load of melons on the truck.”
Feeling a little guilty, we asked him how we should do it so we wouldn’t damage the melons. Two hours later, after the truck was loaded, he offered us jobs for the rest of the summer. Then he said, “Each of you take a watermelon home to your families.”
“My family is going to love this!” Brett said excitedly. “Just yesterday Dad said his mouth was watering for a taste of Brother Vargas’s melons.”
“Mine, too,” Clint said with a big grin.
After Jeff, Clint, and Brett headed for home, only Jeremy and I were left.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I guess I just got carried away.”
“I’m sorry, too, Jeremy. I’m glad we finally made the right decision.”
Jeremy’s whole face lit up. “So am I! Now we can eat watermelon without feeling bad—and we have jobs, too! It doesn’t get much better than that!”