Gospel Story Finder

My father was my best friend while I was growing up. He had a great influence on my life because of the way he treated my mother. I never, ever heard him speak a cross word to her. He treated me and the rest of our family with the same kindness.
He often took me fishing. We also worked together at our family’s sawmill. After working hard all day, we sometimes went on evening picnics. Spending time working and playing together created a real family bond.

Illustration by Allen Garns
After the first ultrasound, the doctor told us there was a chance that our new baby had Down syndrome. My husband and I didn’t expect to hear this, and my vision for the future changed immediately.
All through the pregnancy, I was filled with questions and concerns about what to expect. But we prepared carefully for our baby’s arrival. When the day finally arrived, I felt in my heart that someone beautiful and special was about to be born.
We named our baby boy Santiago, and shortly after his birth we learned that he had not only Down syndrome but also several serious health complications that affected his heart, liver, and lungs. Immediately, the doctors and nurses connected him to an artificial respirator and a heart–lung machine. As the days went by in the hospital, my husband and I began discussing how we were going to raise Santiago alongside his brothers. It was then we realized how much we needed our Heavenly Father.
Our little “Santi” improved enough to be disconnected from the artificial respirator. When he began to breathe on his own, it was as if he was saying, “Mom, I’m going to be strong and do my part.” He squeezed our fingers in his tiny hand. He was strong, but his heart could not hold up. He went into cardiac arrest, and a short while later, he returned to his Heavenly Father.
I never dreamed I’d go through something like that. To wait for your child to arrive with so much anticipation, to make so many plans for him, and then to watch him leave this life is one of the most painful things a father and mother can go through.
My husband and I went to the temple after Santiago’s burial. When we entered, we felt comforted. I knew someday I would know my baby and enjoy him as his mother. I’m grateful for temples and for eternal families. Now it is up to us to live in a way that we can be with our little Santiago again.

The youth I saw confined to a wheelchair was a startling contrast to the boy I remembered from the year before. I remembered him as a happy, 18-year-old Indian boy whose swift, strong legs had carried him up and down the basketball courts. But that was yesteryear. Today he was in a wheelchair. Today his dark eyes and handsome smile caused me to stand in awe of his youthful courage.
I first met Don a couple of years ago and learned that he was a convert to the Church. His widowed mother lived in a remote section of the Navajo Indian reservation, and he was a participant in the Indian student placement program. His school work was excellent; he played the piano skillfully; and with the same slim, brown fingers he could paint beautiful pictures or strum the guitar in accompaniment to his clear soft voice. Don’s personality was pleasant, his standards were high, his testimony strong. He was soon to graduate from high school, and his plans were to spend a short time with his people on the reservation before returning to live with his foster parents, where he would work preparatory to receiving his expected call to the mission field.
Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a pickup with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he poured out the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor broke this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he made his exit, he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was swarming with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and, when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He devoured the words of this book for three days and two nights, jealous of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with this new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps the lump from my throat.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble petitions to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known good-naturedly as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often lifted his voice in song as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for a hootenanny, and patients joined together with voices raised in song and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name. This new spirit extended into other activities as well.
One of the more dramatic examples was the organizing of a wheelchair olympics.
On the day agreed upon, patients wheeled excitedly from place to place as they marked out a course for the coming events. Wheelchairs were lined up at a starting line, while occupants leaned forward, intently waiting for the starting signal. The signal was given, and they were off in a flurry of wheels and laughter. After a breather and an untangling of wheels, patients were given a chance to challenge another wheelchair. Don looked around, and pointing his finger at one of the chairs, said, “I challenge that chair.”
“Don, you can’t do that,” the astonished attendant replied. “That chair has a motor!”
The competitive young man was undaunted and remained firm; so a course was set and an eager audience waited expectantly for the signal to begin this most unusual race. Soon the signal was given and Don’s hands fairly flew as he propelled his chair toward the finish line. When he had gained full momentum, he ventured a cautious look toward his opponent, only to discover that he was shifting to a higher gear! To complicate matters further, a woven wire fence was stretched a few short feet behind the finish line.
With the heart of a champion, Don ducked his head and gave it everything he had. He crossed the line only inches ahead of his opponent and crashed happily into the wire fence. He was picked up and dusted off amid excited expressions of admiration. He had won!
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to muster up enough courage to direct the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special hootenanny was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song rendered in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had touched the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the winds of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”

My angel mother, Jasmine Bennion Arnold, clearly understood her role to help in the rescue of our Heavenly Father’s wounded or lost sheep, including her own children and grandchildren. What a marvelous role grandparents can play in the lives of their grandchildren.

Mom was usually assigned to visit teach those struggling with their faith, the less-active and part-member families; however, her flock included several others that no one had assigned her to visit. Generally her visits were not just once a month, as she quietly listened, ministered to the sick, and gave loving encouragement. The last several months of Mom’s life, she was homebound, so she spent hours writing them letters, expressing her love, bearing her testimony, and lifting those who came to visit.

In 1982, because of my continued alcohol abuse, my wife, who had never failed in her faith, filed for divorce. At the time my family was living in Oklahoma, USA, but I had returned to Illinois, USA, where I had been raised. I had reached the point where I was about to lose the only thing that truly mattered to me: my family.
I began praying on my knees morning and evening to a God who I was no longer sure existed or, if He did, I figured He had long ago forgotten me. Yet for three months I prayed faithfully. Early one morning, while I was deep in prayer, a feeling of great relief came upon me and I knew that God lived, that He knew me, and that He loved me. I also knew I would never touch another drop of alcohol.
That very evening I received a call from my wife to let me know she was going to mail me the divorce papers to sign. During that conversation she suddenly said, “There is something very different about you. I don’t believe you are ever going to drink again, and I am going to tear up these papers.” We reunited, and two years later she gave birth to our third son.

More than 230 youth from the Roswell Georgia Stake took part in a youth conference over the course of four days. The goals for the conference were to help the young men and women of the stake build integrity, improve face-to-face communication, and do good works within the community.
Many of the youth said their favorite part of the conference was the service day, where they had a chance to care for abandoned babies and do landscaping at an infant shelter, along with hammering, painting, and landscaping at local schools. “Each place looked so much better when we were done,” says Mitch Mills, of the Alpharetta Ward. “It made me happy inside that the kids would have a better place to go to school.”

The childlike faith of a follower of the divine Christ is a choice spiritual gift. It can be enjoyed by young and old. In the early days of the Church, a young boy by the name of Will Cluff, 10 years of age, living in Nauvoo, had a remarkable, pure faith. He had an experience to which many of us can relate.
His family was poor and had only one cow, which they depended on for food. In the spring of 1842 the cow strayed off. One evening in August his father came home very weary and discouraged. He and Will’s brothers had spent much of the summer looking for the cow. Will said, “Father, if you will let me take Charley (an old horse) I will go and find the cow.” His father reluctantly said he could.
Early next morning Will rode to the Big Mound, three miles east and in the prairie country. Here he had often herded cows with other boys from Nauvoo. He got off the horse and, holding it by the bridle, knelt down and fervently prayed the Lord to direct him which way to go to find the cow. He climbed back on the horse and rode south, a course he was impressed to take even though there were numerous bunches of cattle in every direction.
After traveling a few miles in the open prairie and passing hundreds of cattle, Will came to a fence. He dismounted and let down the stake, led his horse in, put up the fence, then rode three miles across the field. He again found himself in the open prairie with numerous bunches of stock in every direction. When he had gone about a quarter of a mile from the field, he rode right on to the cow, feeding alone some distance from any other animals.
Will started to drive the cow in the direction of the city. He arrived late in the evening, full of joy and thankful to his Father in Heaven.

During my investigation of the Church, my mom was against my joining. But Dad gave his consent to my baptism and sometimes sat with me during discussions. I’m very grateful to him for that. To all the Latter-day Saints out there whose parents are members, I want to say, “Count your many blessings.” When you don’t have a family to go to Church with on Sunday, or the privilege of experiencing the spiritual enlightenment that the family home evening program brings, or have the Melchizedek Priesthood in your home, you miss out on a lot of blessings. But one great blessing I do have is a father and mother and family who love me. Since I joined the Church we’ve drawn closer together than ever before.

Years later I read President Joseph F. Smith’s memory of a similar testimony and teaching by his widowed mother. In the April 1900 conference, President Smith shared this memory from his childhood:
“My mother was a widow, with a large family to provide for. One spring when we opened our potato pits she had her boys get a load of the best potatoes, and she took them to the tithing office; potatoes were scarce that season. I was a little boy at the time, and drove the team. When we drove up to the steps of the tithing office, ready to unload the potatoes, one of the clerks came out and said to my mother, ‘Widow Smith, it’s a shame that you should have to pay tithing.’ … He chided my mother for paying her tithing, called her anything but wise or prudent; and said there were others who were strong and able to work that were supported from the tithing office. My mother turned upon him and said: ‘William, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Would you deny me a blessing? If I did not pay my tithing, I should expect the Lord to withhold His blessings from me. I pay my tithing, not only because it is a law of God, but because I expect a blessing by doing it. By keeping this and other laws, I expect to prosper and to be able to provide for my family’” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1900, p. 48).

The Aaronic Priesthood quorums in a ward in Worcestershire, England, began the year like many others—setting goals. They came together to plan ways to do more to honour their priesthood and fulfil their personal duty to their Heavenly Father. Everyone generated ideas, and soon the blackboard was full of worthy endeavours.

The ideas were then grouped into three main goals:
Attend the temple at least twice to perform baptisms for the dead.
Work diligently on their current portion of Duty to God.
Increase the membership of each quorum by one, either through baptism or activation.

The young men recognised that the first two goals were things that were mostly down to them to achieve but that the third would require the Lord’s hand. They left that day excited and confident that these goals, though not easy, were definitely achievable through diligence and committed action.

As December approached, however, it looked like the third goal would not be achieved, although the young men had done their part. They had worked diligently on their Duty to God, attended the temple, and strengthened their quorum unity. They had also taken part in many different missionary challenges, like going out with the missionaries, inviting friends to youth activities and church, and placing copies of the Book of Mormon.

Little did they know that the Lord had been preparing people’s hearts to hear the gospel.

In November the Young Men president introduced the missionaries to his neighbours, Portuguese women whom he had spoken with about the Church as they had been introduced to it previously in Portugal. These women quickly saw what good the gospel could do for their sons, Patrick Pereira and Miguel Lima, and asked the missionaries to teach them.

Patrick and Miguel progressed very quickly and loved coming out to the youth activities as they felt great excitement and friendship whilst they were there. “It was quite exciting,” Miguel remembers. “I got to meet new people and find good friends.”

A baptism date of December 19 was set by the missionaries, who were not conscious of the young men’s goals. But the Lord was, and this was recognised by all the young men.

The Lord had been preparing the hearts of Patrick and Miguel, who were of deacon and teacher age, respectively. Together with Craig, their baptisms meant that each quorum had increased by one, which exactly matched the goal the quorums had prayerfully set. On their baptismal day, most of the ward members were there to see these two young men make a sacred covenant with their Heavenly Father.

“It felt right,” Patrick remembers. After being baptised, he says that he felt “like a blank slate, a new beginning.”

Matt Stobbs says, “It was amazing when I found out they were to both be baptised just before the end of the year. It made me feel that Heavenly Father really knows us and is watching over His children individually and is aware of our struggles and our goals.”

Paul Stobbs, bishop of the ward, says, “I can only describe the events that led to the young men’s goals being met as miraculous. I know that Heavenly Father recognised their faith and dedication to the gospel and subsequently blessed their efforts. Being witnesses to these events has inspired all members of the ward to show more faith.”

You can do this, you can do this, Sydney thought as she walked into the stake Primary activity. She saw the girls from her ward and thought about what Mom had said in the car. Maybe things would be easier once she got to know them better.
She took a deep breath and smiled. “Hi, guys!” One of the girls shot her that look—the look that screamed you don’t belong here.
Sydney’s smile wavered. Then she noticed what Libby, the leader of the group, was wearing. “Hey, we have the same hat!” Sydney exclaimed.
“It’s not a hat. It’s a beanie,” Libby said slowly, like Sydney wasn’t smart enough to understand. The girls giggled. “Or don’t you know that word? You were held back a grade, right?”
Sydney turned and walked away, trying not to cry.
Why were they always so mean to her? Ever since Sydney had moved here a few months ago, Libby and the other girls had made church and school miserable. They’d been especially horrible since finding out that Sydney had been so sick last year that she’d had to repeat a grade.
She glanced at the clock. Maybe she could call her mom and just go home.
“Want to sit in our row?” Sydney looked up to see a tall girl from another ward grinning and patting the chair beside her. Her nametag said Lauren.
“Sure.” Sydney sat down and kept her eyes glued to the ground. That was how she noticed the socks.
Cool socks. Crazy socks. Socks decorated with purple polka dots, pink stars, lime zigzags, blue smiley faces, and everything in between. Every girl in the row was wearing them.
Lauren noticed Sydney’s gaze and stuck out her foot. “Like them? They’re our mascot!”
“Mascot?” Sydney asked.
“Yup! We’re Sisters of Courage, Kindness, and Service—S.O.C.K.S.,” Lauren explained. “We made these at an activity and wear them to remind us who we should be.”
Being one of the S.O.C.K.S. sounded pretty amazing to Sydney. “Can I be one too?” she whispered.
“Of course! Anyone can join the S.O.C.K.S. That’s the best part!”
Sydney smiled and settled back in her chair as the stake Primary president started speaking.
From that day on, Sydney was a S.O.C.K.S., whether she was by herself or with the other S.O.C.K.S. girls. She made a pair of her own crazy socks, and they reminded her to be a Sister of Courage, Kindness, and Service, no matter what.
A few weeks later, she was put to the test. She and Libby were standing outside, waiting for rides home after a Primary activity, when Libby’s cell phone buzzed.
“Dad! I can’t wait to see you this weekend!” Pause. “Oh.” Longer pause. “Are you sure you can’t come?” Long pause. “OK. Bye.” Libby’s voice quavered.
Sydney knew that Libby’s parents had split up, but she never thought about how hard that must be. Libby, so cool and popular, had hard times too.
“So I guess now you’re going to tell everyone that my dad doesn’t want to see me, huh?” Libby scowled down at the sidewalk.
This is a perfect chance to get back at her! Sydney thought. What should I say?
Sydney glanced down at her socks and knew the answer.
“Of course not. I’m sorry you can’t see him this weekend.”
Libby looked up, surprised, just as both of their moms pulled up.
“I’ll see you at school,” Sydney said.
“OK. See you then.”
That night Sydney put her crazy socks away extra carefully. Today she had proved that she was a true S.O.C.K.S.—a sister of courage, kindness, and service—no matter what.

The week after Brian’s sister Kathy went off to BYU to begin her freshman year, he was summoned to Dad’s study.
“I want you to write to Kathy once a month,” Dad said in his no-nonsense voice.
Brian, who never wrote anything to anybody if he could help it, was horrified. “Why?”
“For three very good reasons,” Dad said. “First, if you write to your sister now, she just might communicate with you when you’re on your mission, and letters are very welcome to missionaries. Second, I would like you children to keep in touch with each other after you leave home. And third, writing letters might improve your English skills.”
“But, Dad—”
“No buts. You can start now.” Dad handed Brian a pen, a sheet of paper, and an envelope. “I assume it won’t be necessary to check the letter before you mail it to make sure that you’ve actually written something?”
Brian, realizing he had no choice in the matter, shook his head. “But what can I write about?”
“School.”
Brian walked down the hall to his bedroom, grumbling inwardly all the way, and sat down at his desk. He had never enjoyed writing. Mom had to bribe him to write thank-you notes for birthday and Christmas presents. And now to have to write to Kathy, of all people! Brian didn’t think it possible that Kathy would be at all interested in anything he had to say. But when Dad made up his mind that something would be done, there was no getting around it. Brian sighed and thought about school.
“Dear Kathy,
“I don’t know how they worked homerooms when you were in high school, but this year homeroom period is between 1st and 2nd periods for ten minutes. I guess they figure that the tardy kids will be at school by then and the attendance will look good. Last Thursday I went from algebra (1st period) to English (2nd period) without thinking of homeroom at all. Suddenly I noticed that the halls were really quiet, and when I looked into my English room I saw all these strangers. “Homeroom!” I yelled and ran all the way to mine—on the other side of the building, of course. I got there just after the bell rang. Miss Holik said “Tardy,” and everyone snickered. I had to bring an excuse from Mom. How stupid can you get?”
Brian stopped writing and wondered how to end the letter. “Love, Brian” was too sissy. “Sincerely yours” was too formal. Finally he just wrote “Brian.” Brian folded the letter and put it into the envelope, which Dad had already addressed and stamped. He took it back to the study.
“Well, now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” said Dad.
Brian said nothing. He was calculating the number of months left before Kathy graduated from college and wondering how he could possibly think of things to fill up that many letters.
In October Brian conveniently forgot about Kathy’s letter until Dad reminded him by handing him paper and an envelope. “But Kathy never wrote back!” he protested.
“That makes no difference,” said Dad.
“But what can I write about?” groaned Brian.
“Neighbors.”
“Dear Kathy,
“The Miners next door went to Hawaii two weeks ago. Paul said the weather was gorgeous. He got a neat tan. It rained here all the time they were gone, and he’s really rubbing it in. For the last week all everyone has heard on the school bus is Hawaii, Hawaii, Hawaii and how wonderful it was and how great Paul’s father is for making so much money that he can take his family places like that. It’s enough to make you sick.”
In November Brian thought that he might as well get the letter writing over as soon as possible and went to the study to get his supplies early in the month. Dad was pleasantly surprised.
“You seem to be taking to this,” he commented.
“I just want to get it out of the way,” said Brian.
“What can I write about this month?”
“Church.”
“Dear Kathy,
“We had the road shows last week. I wasn’t going to be in ours, but Sister Fiedler talked to Mom and she made me. We did the story of David and Goliath set in the Wild West. Howard Brighty was Goliath, and you know how tall he is, and Keith Wertz was David, and you know how short he is. Keith had all these fake guns hanging on his belt, and in the middle of the road show they fell off. It looked good, even though it wasn’t supposed to happen. I was an Israelite cowboy. I had to square dance with Debbie Vandercook. We didn’t win any awards, but it was OK.”
In December Brian was excused from letter writing since Kathy was home for most of the month on vacation. She said nothing to him about his letters and Brian felt that the whole project was worthless. In January, though, it began again.
“What can I write about now?” moaned Brian.
“The weather.”
“Dear Kathy,
“If someone took a movie of what it looks like outside and showed it to someone else and said, ‘What month is this?’ they would probably say March. It’s been rainy and warm and slushy, just like March. The Scout skiing trip and the Ski Club trip (high school) had to be canceled. In March it will probably be cold and snowy like January is supposed to be. It’s disgusting.”
Two weeks later when Brian came home from school, Mom met him at the door.
“You got a letter,” she said.
“A letter?” said Brian. It wasn’t his birthday, and that was the only time he got letters. “Who from?”
“Kathy,” said Mom, handing it to him.
Brian took the letter into his bedroom to read. It felt very strange to get a letter from Kathy. Probably telling me she thinks my letters stink, he thought. He somewhat reluctantly opened it.
“Dear Brian,
“I must admit I was surprised when you started writing me letters, but I want you to know that I really enjoy getting them. They’re always fun to read, and they often bring back happy memories. In addition, they always seem to come at a time when I’m feeling a little homesick or depressed, and they really cheer me up. Keep up the good work!
“Love, Kathy”
Brian sat back in his chair with a feeling of total amazement. I guess I am doing something worthwhile after all, he thought. Kathy likes my letters! She likes my letters!
Brian carefully put Kathy’s letter back into its envelope and then rummaged around in his closet until he found an old shoe box. After dusting it off, he wrote “LETTERS” on the top and put Kathy’s letter inside. Then Brian headed down the hall to the study for his writing supplies. There was no harm in getting Kathy’s February letter done a little early. Perhaps, if he didn’t run out of things to say, he could even write to Grandma.

In contrast to the southern Idaho summers I had grown accustomed to during my growing-up years, the summer spent at Awaji Island was almost unbearable with its penetrating stickiness and massive humidity, which without reprieve permeated the enchanted Oriental island. The air not only carried too much moisture, but as if to remind me of the incomparable differences between my Idaho background and my new Japanese home, the humidity stuck to my body like a thin coat of glue. The nights offered little escape from the intense, humid air, and sleeping was often difficult because of the heavy, steamy blanket that seemed to embrace me. Being a young missionary endeavoring to conquer the Japanese language and understand the evasive Japanese culture, I found to my chagrin that I tired easily during my first months under the large, summer sun of Japan.
Awaji Island is a small island, lying a short distance from the Kobe and Osaka ports. According to Japanese legend, when the Japanese gods commenced painting the country’s topography upon the watery Pacific canvas, the first drop to fall from the over-saturated paint brush solidified into the rugged island of Awaji. Sumoto, the largest town on the minute island, is defined with streets which reek of Japanese odors, sounds, and sights. This culture, unlike that found in neighboring Osaka and Kobe, has received only minimal influence from the far-distant countries lying to the west. Even though the island is faintly within sight of Osaka, one of the more metropolitan areas of Japan, it is virtually isolated from the Japanese populous except for the daily speedboat and ferry which make a thin line of interaction between the sleepy island and its neighbor, the Land of the Rising Sun. Because of its water-bound isolation from the mainland of Japan, Awaji escapes the busy life of neighboring Osaka, yet as if a merit for its separation, many conveniences found in the urban areas of Japan are sadly lacking.
The early-morning light found me seated by my desk, carefully balancing my chair on its back legs with the Doctrine and Covenants propped on my lap. I commenced reading the 105th section [D&C 105]. My eyes skimmed over the first two verses but stopped in the third verse. I reread: “But behold, they have not learned to be obedient to the things which I required at their hands, but are full of all manner of evil, and do not impart of their substance, as becometh saints.” Wondering what exactly was meant by “as becometh saints,” my attention wandered from my book. Suddenly, my weight shifted backwards, causing me to lunge forward just in time to save myself from falling backwards. Falling backwards on the tatami mat that covered the floor in the Japanese apartment would probably not have been too painful, but as a proud, young missionary, I was happy not to disturb my senior companion by falling on top of him and his bedroll which lay behind me. Outside, a cheery cricket greeted the morning rays, while the insects in a neighboring rice paddy orchestrated a lively production of a summer serenade.
After my companion and I ate breakfast, I began studying the priesthood discussion which I was to teach later that week. I slowly began to vocalize the sentences. It was always amazing how much harder it was to vocalize the Japanese language compared to the rapidity I prided myself in when I merely ran the phrases through my head. The humidity seemed to intensify as I strained to remember the words necessary to explain the restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood. As I carefully tried to recall the perplexing sentence structure, I heard the door slide open from the outside of the large Japanese house that we proudly used as a church house. With no cheerful greeting coming from the intruder, I realized that Brother Shinooki, the new deaf member, had come to pay one of his frequent visits.
Brother Shinooki was a small, thin man, who rode his antiquated bicycle on his daily rounds. His house was a small, humble shanty at the end of a precariously steep path which carefully crept up a small, rugged hill outside of Sumoto. His life of solitary living must have enhanced his eagerness to make friends, which was not quelled by his deafness. Brother Shinooki had met the missionaries previous to my arrival in Awaji and had become attached to the friendly, Christian foreigners. With the help of a member from Osaka who knew sign language, Brother Shinooki was taught the restored gospel and received the blessings of baptism. Even though my ability to communicate with the deaf was lacking, I did enjoy my attempts to communicate with my deaf friend. By charade-like hand motions and simple pictures, we were able to acquaint ourselves to an amazing degree. Still, since he was unable to vocally communicate and considering Brother Shinooki’s simple mind, I often wondered about the depth of the testimony and understanding of the gospel principles which lay behind his big, warm smile.
It was an extremely hot day. Realizing that study possibilities were diminished by Brother Shinooki’s jubilant presence, my companion and I decided to walk with him to the neighboring store for an ice cream bar in order to fellowship the deaf member and also to give ourselves an extra boost before braving the humid island in search of souls prepared for our cherished message. The three of us each bought a bar and took cover in the shade of an old wooden building with its heat-singed front offering small protection to its three unusual guests. The bars did not even taste exceptionally delicious, but they were inexpensive, and this made them irresistible. If one were lucky, after eating the ice cream substitute from his stick, he would find the Japanese symbols “atari” impressed on the stick and this would allow the proud owner to exchange the naked stick for another ice cream bar at no extra cost. The chance of finding one of these coveted sticks became more and more enticing as the temperature rose higher and higher. As if following an instinctive ritual, I ate the frozen substance around the stick leaving a thin white ice cream covering over the area of the potential “atari.” The last important bite always informed me whether or not the next ice cream bar would be free or come out of my money supply. As I gave the last, important bite, my tongue slid over the smooth stick. My eyes only reconfirmed that the stick was indeed smooth, without any Japanese symbols engraved in the wood. My companion, I noticed, shared the same fate, having no magic word on his bare stick. To our amused dismay, Brother Shinooki was luckier than either of us. The “atari” characters proudly adorned his ice cream stick. As my companion and I covetously eyed the stick held by Brother Shinooki, we glanced at each other as if to share our condolences.
Our deaf friend was happy to find his uncovered treasure. Brother Shinooki’s face glowed, and he smiled at my companion and me. Without a second thought, Brother Shinooki decisively took the stick, jumped into the narrow street, and handed the cherished stick to a young boy who was lazily passing on his bicycle. As if our deaf friend’s smile was contagious, the small boy’s face burst into instant delight as he grabbed the stick and headed to the store to claim his frozen treat. Brother Shinooki returned to his two humbled missionary friends. Though not realized by our friend, he had become the teacher of the moment, teaching true unselfishness. Sharply, I realized that Brother Shinooki understood what was meant by imparting one’s substance “as becometh saints.” We realized that although a person may be unable to vocally bear his testimony, he is not impaired in his ability to live it. Quietly, the communication barrier melted, and the three of us shared a moment of total communication—a moment which cannot be described by words, but can only be understood through the heart.

After she was no longer eligible for college competition, she decided to go on a national professional tour. Diane knew her gymnastics career was mostly over, but she just wanted to hold on to the thrill of the spotlight and the fun of the sport for as long as she could.

During training for the tour Diane was practicing a vault she’d done thousands of times. She ran toward the vault just like she had done every other time. She jumped on the springboard like all the other times and flew up and over the vault—just like all the other times. But this time was different. This time she turned her body just a little too far. This time when she landed, she broke her neck. The accident put her in the hospital for almost six months and in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.

That was on December 15, 1981. Diane spent that Christmas and the next five months in the hospital, trying to imagine her life without gymnastics. After so many years of loving the sport, it was difficult for Diane to adjust.

“I hated being in the hospital, and I felt like I was in prison,” says Diane. For one month of the five she was in the hospital, she was in traction and couldn’t move at all except when the nurses came in and turned her a few centimeters every two hours. Diane had no idea she’d be in the hospital for so long. “In fact, when I was first injured I thought for sure that in a month I’d be back on the tour. I thought, ‘If I have enough faith and believe in God and in myself, I’ll be okay.’ And I just knew it.”

Recovery wasn’t quite so easy though, and things seemed to get worse. “I was a horrible patient,” says Diane. “In the hospital I was really miserable because I was so restless. I was really impatient with people.” Finally Diane came to a turning point.

“One day I was in the depths of despair. I just felt like I couldn’t bear it anymore,” Diane says. She asked for a priesthood blessing. She knew the power to heal her was present, “but I only wanted that to happen if it was Heavenly Father’s will. I had this blessing and I felt the greatest sense of peace. It was like I knew that no matter what happened it would be okay. If I didn’t walk away from the hospital there would be a reason for it. I knew that I had always tried my best to live the gospel and do what I was supposed to do, so if anybody was worthy to have that blessing, I was. But from that point on I was a different person. I was totally comforted.”

Ironically, one of the biggest aids to her recovery was gymnastics. “I don’t know if I could’ve gotten up again if I hadn’t had that training in gymnastics,” she says. “I had a lot of serious injuries when I was a gymnast that I just had to deal with. It was always down, up, down, up in gymnastics and this was just one more down I had to get up from. Gymnastics taught me to get back up so I could be a champion again.”

On the day she finally realized she would never walk again, Diane made the decision to return to school to work for her degree. She was lying on her bed with all her scrapbooks filled with souvenirs and photos of her performances. Tears dripped down her face and splashed on the scrapbook pages. “I just realized right then that things weren’t going to get any better. As I lay there crying I thought, ‘I can either give up or get on with my life’ and that’s when I decided to go back to school and get my degree.”

Now Diane teaches a class full of seven-year-olds who are just the right height to look her in the eye. “The kids will do anything for her,” says Marie. “They just love her.”

Her students aren’t her only fans. Diane also gives fireside talks to teenagers who listen intently as she tells her story. And her message is one of hope and perseverance, without bitterness for what has happened.

Her personality hasn’t changed at all. Just listen to her speak and you’ll hear the exuberant, happy girl who used to charm arenas full of people. Now her charm is just aimed at another audience. Her voice seems to smile at every person in the room and her own laughter frequently interrupts her stories.

“I think telling my gymnastics stories and sharing my experiences opens up the communication between us. They soon forget that I’m in a wheelchair. When they do that, the youth can see that I’m just a regular person and we have a lot in common, even though, in a wheelchair, I look a lot different than they do,” Diane says.

Her main message is one for potential champions: don’t give up, no matter what happens. “When I was a young gymnast I met a girl, an athlete named Nancy Thies. Nancy was a member of the U.S. Olympic team and one of the finest gymnasts in the country. I have never forgotten some very important things that Nancy taught me. I remember the first thing she said was, ‘Don’t be afraid to lose.’ She said, ‘If you fall down and you stay down, you’re a quitter and a loser and you will never win. But if you get back up and you try one more time, it will be your turn to be the champion, so just don’t give up.’” Diane says she made a promise to herself that she would remember that advice and never give up, no matter how many times she fell.

Once she faced the hardest fall of her life, not giving up was difficult, especially because of her wheelchair. The entire time she was a gymnast, whether she was swinging high above the uneven parallel bars of just doing handstands for fun, her only fear was of being blind or paralyzed. “I had such uneasy feelings about wheelchairs that I would never talk to anybody in a wheelchair or go near a wheelchair. I would avoid people in wheelchairs. I was afraid that I’d end up in a wheelchair if I got too close to one. It was almost like having thought about it so much somehow prepared me for a wheelchair,” she says.

It was probably Diane’s unconquerable spirit that prepared her more than anything else. It’s a spirit that is evident in both her funny stories and her powerfully quiet testimony about the importance of an eternal perspective and God’s love for each of his children. It’s a spirit that Diane has always had. “I’ve never met anyone, except my father, who has a stronger testimony than she does,” says Marie. “There’s no doubt in her mind that what she’s doing is right and that the Church is true. She has always been a great example.”

The lights are turned down in the room as she finishes her message, and a slide show featuring Diane, the fun-lover and gymnast, lashes on the screen in time to some fast, contemporary music. When the presentation is over, young people surround her excitedly.

Diane says, “It makes me feel really good when people tell me they’re going to try harder after they’ve heard my talk. One girl came to me once and told me she’d heard me speak four different times. The first time, she decided not to commit suicide. The second time, she decided that she didn’t have to drop out of school. The third time, she made a goal to become one of the best students in her class, and the last time she was on her way to that goal.”

Diane just shrugs her shoulders and laughs a little when someone tells her she’s wonderful. She even looks a little embarrassed, which is rare for this experienced performer. “People always think, ‘You’re so amazing, you’re so incredible,’ but I’m not. People will say, ‘If that happened to me I could never handle the situation,’ and the thing I have to say is, ‘Either you handle the situation or you die.’ You have to take whatever life gives you and deal with it, even if you might not want to. You know, if somebody dies in your family, you have to live with it. If you break your neck you have to live with it, but you just learn and that’s what’s so great about time and the healing process. You don’t have to be miraculous.”

You just have to be as willing as Diane was to get up again, so that someday it will be your turn to be the champion. For Diane, the victory is especially sweet, because she has won back what she thought she’d lost.

She is a champion again.

• Moscow, Russia, Monday, June 24: The third “Music and the Spoken Word” performance is videotaped during this evening’s Bolshoi Theatre concert before 2,400, seated three-deep in the five circular balcony tiers of this renowned hall. For many, another rich, emotional evening occurs, the same as at all concerts in the former Eastern Bloc lands. Hope and the Spirit of the Lord seem to press everywhere!
The first encore, “Hospodi Pomilui” (meaning “Lord, have mercy on us”), a hymn during which that phrase is repeated seventy-seven times, seems this night to be as a great prayer of national penance in this land that has been seen by many as a symbol of oppression. The choir’s great, emotional pleading of the words powerfully moves the entire audience.
At the dinner of state held after the concert, the vice president of the Russian Republic announces that on May 28, less than a month ago, this largest of the fifteen republics in the Soviet Union has given official recognition to the Church throughout the entire breadth and depth of the republic, which covers three-quarters of the land mass of the Soviet Union and holds approximately 150 million people.
Elder Dallin H. Oaks of the Quorum of the Twelve joins the choir entourage, enlarged this day by the hundred or more Utahns joining Brother Jon M. Huntsman in the dedication of a factory in Armenia that will produce high-tech concrete to house homeless Armenians suffering from a 1988 earthquake. In appreciation for the service the Church rendered to quake victims, a plot of land in the city of Yerevan is given to the Church by officials of the Armenian Soviet Socialist Republic. Elder Russell M. Nelson and Elder Dallin H. Oaks of the Quorum of the Twelve and Elder Hans B. Ringger of the Seventy express gratitude for the gift. The site will be used to construct a multipurpose building containing offices, a Church meetinghouse, and residences for Church volunteer workers helping to train Armenians in home construction.
• St. Petersburg, Russia, Thursday, June 27: How is it possible for the emotional, spiritual, and musical highs to keep on going! Tonight six encores are performed to a cheering, crying audience! For the second time, an audience will not stop clapping until the last choir member has walked offstage, audience and choir members poignantly waving good-bye to each other.
“Wonderful! Wonderful! Spiritual! Spiritual! Leningrad is happy again! This is a holiday,” calls out a man in strongly Russian-accented English. The concerts are now over. But a day remains for visiting new Russian friends and tomorrow’s closing fireside of choir music and the testimonies of Russian converts. Elder Nelson tells the choir: “You have been totally successful in all we expected you to do.”

Across from me a woman sat sobbing. With tear-filled eyes, she told me, “I don’t know what I believe anymore.” She spoke of having struggled and prayed many days to know how to make a vitally important decision in her life, without success. She anguished, “I don’t know what to do. If you’ll tell me what to do, I’ll do it.” With her hand on the scriptures, she said, “God told us He would help us. He answers everybody else’s prayers. Why won’t He answer mine?”
She said, “God told us He would help us. He answers everybody else’s prayers. Why won’t He answer mine?”
When one is caught in a whirlpool of emotion, it is difficult to find a way out alone. My prayer is to help you who have similar feelings.
When answers to urgent prayer don’t seem to come, it can be that we don’t understand some truths about prayer or because we don’t recognize answers when they come.
Communication with our Father in Heaven is not a trivial matter. It is a sacred privilege. It is based upon unchanging principles. When we receive help from our Father in Heaven, it is in response to faith, obedience, and the proper use of agency.
It is a mistake to assume that every prayer we offer will be answered immediately. Some prayers require considerable effort on our part. True, sometimes impressions come when we have not specifically sought them. They generally concern something we need to know and are not otherwise able to find out.
We are here on earth to gain experience we can obtain in no other way. We are given the opportunity to grow, to develop, and to gain spiritual maturity. To do that, we must learn to apply truth. How we face challenges and resolve difficult problems is crucially important to our happiness.
To better understand prayer, I have listened to the counsel of others, pondered the scriptures, and studied the lives of prophets and others. Yet what seems most helpful is seeing in my mind a child approaching trustingly a loving, kind, wise, understanding Father, who wants us to succeed.
Don’t worry about your clumsily expressed feelings. Just talk to your Father. He hears every prayer and answers it in His way.
When we explain a problem and a proposed solution, sometimes He answers yes, sometimes no. Often He withholds an answer, not for lack of concern, but because He loves us—perfectly. He wants us to apply truths He has given us. For us to grow, we need to trust our ability to make correct decisions. We need to do what we feel is right. In time, He will answer. He will not fail us.
I have described the absolute reality of our relationship with our Father. There is nothing about us He does not know. He is conscious of our every need and could provide all of the answers. Yet, because His purpose is our eternal happiness, He encourages us to make the correct choices.
Like many of us, Oliver Cowdery did not recognize the evidence of answers to prayers already given by the Lord. To open his—and our—eyes, this revelation was given through Joseph Smith:
“Blessed art thou for what thou hast done; for thou hast inquired of me, and behold, as often as thou hast inquired thou hast received instruction of my Spirit. If it had not been so, thou wouldst not have come to the place where thou art at this time.
“Behold, thou knowest that thou hast inquired of me and I did enlighten thy mind; and now I tell thee these things that thou mayest know that thou hast been enlightened by the Spirit of truth” (D&C 6:14–15; emphasis added).
If you feel that God has not answered your prayers, ponder these scriptures—then carefully look for evidence in your own life of His having already answered you.
To help each of us recognize answers given, the Lord said:
“If you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things.
“Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter?” (D&C 6:22–23; emphasis added).
The Lord provides further insight by counseling us to study a problem out in our mind and then to ask if it be right:
“If it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right.
“But if it be not right you shall have no such feelings, but you shall have a stupor of thought” (D&C 9:8–9; emphasis added).
It is vitally important to recognize that the Lord also responds a third way to prayer by withholding an answer when the prayer is offered. Why would He do that?
He is our perfect Father. He loves us beyond our capacity to understand. He knows what is best for us. He sees the end from the beginning. He wants us to act to gain needed experience:
When He answers yes, it is to give us confidence.
When He answers no, it is to prevent error.
When He withholds an answer, it is to have us grow through faith in Him, obedience to His commandments, and a willingness to act on truth. We are expected to assume accountability by acting on a decision that is consistent with His teachings without prior confirmation. We are not to sit passively waiting or to murmur because the Lord has not spoken. We are to act.
Sometimes answers to prayer are not recognized because we are too intent on wanting confirmation of our own desires.
Most often what we have chosen to do is right. He will confirm the correctness of our choices His way. That confirmation generally comes through packets of help found along the way. We discover them by being spiritually sensitive. They are like notes from a loving Father as evidence of His approval. If, in trust, we begin something that is not right, He will let us know before we have gone too far. We sense that help by recognizing troubled or uneasy feelings.
Illustration by Brian Call
Nephi’s efforts to obtain the plates of brass show how the principles work (see 1 Nephi 3:6–7). After two unsuccessful attempts, Nephi remained confident. He crept into the city toward the house of Laban without all the answers. He observed, “I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do,” significantly adding, “nevertheless I went forth” (1 Nephi 4:6–7; emphasis added).
Nephi was willing to try time and again, using his best efforts. He expressed faith that he would be helped. He refused to be discouraged. But because he acted, had confidence in the Lord, was obedient, and properly used his agency, he received guidance. He was inspired step after step to success, and in his mother’s words was “given … power [to] accomplish the thing which the Lord hath commanded” (1 Nephi 5:8; emphasis added).
Nephi knew he was required to confide in God, to exercise faith, and to act so that he could receive help, step by step. He did not murmur nor ask for a full explanation. But, observe particularly, he did not wait passively for help. He acted! By following spiritual law, he was inspired and given power to act.
Sometimes answers to prayer are not recognized because we are too intent on wanting confirmation of our own desires. We fail to see that the Lord would have us do something else. Be careful to seek His will.
I confess I don’t know how to make a correct decision except where there is righteousness and trust in a Heavenly Father. The principles simply will not work when agency is intentionally used at variance with the will of God. If there is unrepented sin, we are left to our own devices to flounder and struggle on our own. We can be rescued through our own repentance.
When we seek inspiration to help make decisions, the Lord gives gentle promptings. These require us to think, to exercise faith, to work, to struggle at times, and to act. Seldom does the whole answer to a decisively important matter or complex problem come all at once. More often, it comes a piece at a time, without the end in sight.
I have saved the most important part about prayer until the end. It is gratitude! Our sincere efforts to thank our beloved Father generate wondrous feelings of peace, self-worth, and love.
Why is it that the most impoverished seem to know best how to thank the Lord? In the highlands of Guatemala, members barely subsist. Going to the temple requires great sacrifice. A visit takes a year of preparation. There is hard work, sacrifice to save money and food, the spinning, dyeing, and weaving of new clothing. There is the long, barefoot walk out of the mountains, the crossing of Lake Isabel, the bus rides with little food. Tired and worn, they arrive at the temple. They scrub until they shine, dress in their new clothing, and enter the house of the Lord.
Reclothed in white, they are taught by the Spirit, receive ordinances, and make covenants. One highland woman was greatly touched by the spirit and meaning of the endowment. Entering the celestial room, she saw others seated, with heads reverently bowed. Innocently, she knelt at the entrance to the room, oblivious to others. She bowed her head, sobbed, and for twenty minutes poured out her heart to her Father in Heaven. Finally, with her dress soaked with tears, she raised her head. The sensitive temple matron asked, “May I help?” She responded, “Oh, would you? This is my problem: I’ve tried to tell Father in Heaven of my gratitude for all of my blessings, but I don’t feel that I’ve communicated. Will you help me tell Him how grateful I am?”
This counsel about prayer is true. I have tested it thoroughly in the laboratory of my own personal life. I have discovered that what sometimes seems an impenetrable barrier to communication is a giant step to be taken in trust.
If you seek His help, be sure your life is clean, your motives are worthy, and you’re willing to do what He asks—for He will answer your prayers. He is your loving Father; you are His beloved child. He loves you perfectly and wants to help you.

How would you like to live in a schoolhouse? Minna and her family live in the countryside of southern Sweden. Their home used to be a schoolhouse many years ago. She says the best part is that the house has a room big enough for lots of people. In December, Minna’s family invites neighbors, friends, and family over for a special “sing-in.” About 80 people come to sing Christmas carols together. Then they enjoy treats before everyone goes back out into the cold Scandinavian winter weather.

Seeking to walk in the Lord’s footsteps recently brought me in contact with a young man and his father. The young man and a friend were up hiking in the lower foothills near Cody, Wyoming. The friend jumped across a high-power line that was down, but the young man got tangled in it and was electrocuted. The friend turned and ran all the way back down to where the father lived—and it wasn’t a short distance—and told the father that his son had been electrocuted and that he was dead. The father, who was not a young man, ran all the way back up, taking about fifteen minutes. When he got up to where the boy was lying across the wires, he somehow removed the boy from the wires with a board or a large branch. Then he picked his son up in his arms and held him, saying, “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power and authority of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood, I command you to live.” The dead boy opened up his eyes in his father’s arms and was taken to the University of Utah Medical Center, where he recovered.

In 2019 I was called to the Philippines Quezon City Mission. Serving there was like living a dream—I’d always loved the Filipino culture and really wanted to learn Tagalog. But my missionary experience also taught me the true nature of our heavenly parents, and when I returned home to Samoa last year, I felt a strong desire to see my family sealed to each other for time and all eternity.
We have some work to do before we can achieve that goal. My parents are still new to the gospel and continue to learn. My brother is still finding his path, exploring if a mission is in his future. Fiasili and I continue to persevere. We are determined to “press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men” (2 Nephi 31:20), as we strive to help deepen our family’s conversion.

Not long ago, while riding in a plane, I talked with a young man who was seated beside me. We moved from one subject to another, and then came to the matter of religion. He said he had read considerably about the Mormons, had found much to admire, but that he had a definite prejudice concerning the origin of the Church and particularly Joseph Smith.

He was an active member of another religion, and when I asked where he had acquired his information about the LDS church, he indicated it had come from publications of his church. I asked what company he worked for. He proudly replied that he was a sales representative for IBM. I then asked whether he would think it fair for his customers to learn of the qualities of IBM products from a Xerox representative. He replied with a smile, “I think I get the point.”

I took from my case a copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and read to him the words of the Lord expressed through Joseph Smith, words which are the source of those practices my friend had come to admire in us while disdaining the man through whom they had come. Before we parted, he agreed to read the literature I would send to him. I promised him that if he would do so prayerfully he would know the truth not only of these doctrines and practices which have interested him, but also of the man through whom they were introduced. I then gave him my testimony concerning the prophetic calling of Joseph Smith.