Gospel Story Finder

“It’s time for family prayer!” Dad called.
Jessie raced down the stairs to join her family in the living room. Kneeling down between her sister, Kayla, and her brother, Aiden, she reverently folded her arms.
Dad looked over at her. “Jessie, could you say it tonight?” he asked.
Jessie nodded and bowed her head. “Dear Heavenly Father,” she began, “we thank Thee for this day. We thank Thee for keeping us safe. Bless us to not have bad dreams tonight. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
“Amen,” the family echoed. But before anyone could stand, Dad stopped them. “Just a minute,” he said. “Mom and I want to talk to you about something.”
Mom looked around at them, smiling. “We love how reverent you all are during our family prayers,” she said. “But there’s more to prayer than just being reverent. The words we say are important too.”
Jessie wondered what Mom could mean. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked.
Mom pulled her into a hug. “Not at all, sweetie.” She thought for a moment. “When you kids come home from school, what do I have you do?”
“Tell you about our day,” Aiden said.
Mom nodded at him. “Prayers are like that. They’re a chance to tell Heavenly Father about the important parts of your day, like what you’re worried about or grateful for. That way you won’t have to say the same things over and over.”
“But the things I say over and over are the important parts,” Jessie said. “I’m always grateful for my day. And I’m always scared about bad dreams.”
“And that’s OK,” Mom said. “But I bet there are all sorts of other things Heavenly Father wants you to talk to Him about as well. Maybe you can try to think of some tonight.”
Later that night Jessie knelt by her bed. She folded her arms and bowed her head. “Dear Heavenly Father,” she began, “I thank Thee for this day. I thank Thee for keeping me safe …”
Jessie stopped. What else would Heavenly Father want to hear about? What had happened today?
She thought a moment. First she had gotten up. Then she had eaten breakfast. “I’m grateful that Mom surprised us with pancakes,” she said.
And then what? She thought some more. After breakfast she had gone to school. “And I thank Thee that I did a good job on my spelling test. And I’m sorry that I wasn’t very nice to Rachel at recess,” she added. “I’ll invite her to play with me tomorrow.”
Jessie continued to go through the rest of her day, telling Heavenly Father everything that had happened. By the time she was done, it was past her bedtime. Jessie yawned. “And please bless me to not have bad dreams,” she said. “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Crawling into bed, she fell right asleep.
The next morning Jessie was the last one downstairs for breakfast. “Did you sleep in?” Mom asked, pouring her a glass of orange juice.
Jessie shook her head. “No. I got up early to say my prayers.”
As Jessie started to eat breakfast, she smiled to herself.
There was just so much to talk about.

Not long after my call as a General Authority, I received a letter from an amazing, inspiring young woman. She told a powerful story of love, commitment, and missionary success. I’m fortunate to have contributed in small part to that success.

The letter is from Kendra Beesley Campbell, who was only 15 when the events described began. Let me share a portion of her letter with you:

“I don’t think you will remember me. I am from Columbus, Georgia, and when you were the mission president of the Georgia Atlanta Mission I had a brother leaving for a mission. Because I was at the peak age of peer pressure, my brother was concerned that while he was on his mission preaching the gospel to ’strangers,’ his sister (me) might choose to go the way of the world and lose sight of the purpose of our being here on this earth.

“Well, to assure my brother that I would be a ‘good girl’ while he was away, I made a deal with him that I would ‘go on a mission’ at the same time. Of course mine would only be part-time, but still it would be my ‘mission.’ So I told him that I would baptize one person for every five he baptized, since he would be full-time and I would be part-time. I felt good about this agreement.

“Then I spoke to you. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but you convinced me that I should turn the challenge around—I should baptize five to his one. And for some reason, I accepted your challenge, not knowing what the Lord had in store for me!”

Then Kendra noted that shortly after her brother arrived in the mission field, he and his companion baptized a family of four. That meant she now needed to baptize 20! Kendra said, “I began to work right away. I had the missionaries over every Thursday evening. But I fell short of my goal. Only 11 people were baptized. But at least two of them have served missions, and I can’t count the number of lives that have been touched by the Spirit.”

Eleven people! And two have served missions! And Kendra was only 15 at the time she began “her mission.”

I tracked her down. I found that she had moved to California.

She said my suggestion of turning the one-to-five baptism arrangement around caused her some fear at first, but she began taking the measures necessary to accomplish her revised goal.

Kendra’s missionary vigor helped 11 people join Christ’s true church and acquainted many others with its teachings. And Kendra herself grew tremendously while on her “mission.” She says it was the happiest time of her life because she cared so much about other people.

At the close of one of her letters to me, Kendra expressed joy that her “mission” really hasn’t ever ended. I sustain her in that thought. Though our callings in life may seem to change occasionally, their purposes remain the same—to help each other return to our Father’s presence.

I was heartbroken when my uncle passed away in a tragic accident. His loss weighed heavy on my mind, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I was saddened that he had not had the opportunity to learn about the gospel of Jesus Christ as taught by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. However, I realized that he might still be baptized vicariously through the ordinances in the temple.
A few months after his passing, I started having dreams about him. In my dreams, he always appeared in front of the Caracas Venezuela Temple. In one of the dreams, I had the impression that I was talking to him and explaining that I wanted to have his temple work done. At that moment, I saw him filled with happiness and it filled my heart with peace to see him so joyful.
Finally, I was able to have my uncle’s work done, and it felt like a significant moment in my life. I felt like I was a missionary, serving my family on the other side of the veil. This experience was deeply spiritual for me, and I felt the confirmation of the Holy Spirit, assuring me that my feelings were confirmed.
This experience tested my faith, but it also strengthened it. I know that Jesus lives, and because He lives, we will all live again.

When I received this call as a General Authority, on the last day before our travel to Salt Lake, all my children and their families were together in our home for a family home evening, where we expressed our love and gratitude. After the lesson, I gave a priesthood blessing to each one of my children. Everyone was in tears. After the blessings, my oldest son expressed words of gratitude on behalf of everyone for the great love that we had given them from the day they were born until then.

Clay Brimhall eased the Bronco into traffic and began weaving his way toward the interstate. He couldn’t resist a kind of sad, ironic smile, thinking that two weeks before he had been driving a BMW from Washington, D.C., to an elegant house in the Maryland suburbs. Now he was driving a Ford from Salt Lake City to a condo in Provo. Divorce changes things.
Was it a mistake, he wondered, coming back here to try to rebuild his life? Once Utah had been home, but that was years ago. Was this fair to Carrie, his only child? She had come willingly, foregoing her plans to attend college at Georgetown in D.C., but still he worried that it might not be the right thing for her. Carrie’s decision to come with Clay seemed neither to surprise nor disappoint her mother. “You were always the one who cared the most,” she had said, matter-of-factly. “It’s natural that she would want to go with you.”
Carrie was in the kitchen preparing dinner when Clay came in from work.
“Hi, Babe. How did you get along at the mall?” her father called from the hallway.
“Fine.”
Clay tossed his briefcase onto a chair, entered the kitchen, and gave his daughter a hug.
“Did you leave any clothes on the racks?”
“Not in my size,” she replied happily.
“Ah, good. I wouldn’t want to be accused of not spoiling my daughter.”
“I met a boy,” Carrie said.
“You did? Tell me about him.”
“Well, he works in the mall and goes to college. He’s studying communications and he’s funny.”
“Does this person have a name?”
“Jeff. He took me to lunch. And we’re going out Saturday night. With my father’s permission, of course.”
“He sounds like a fast worker.”
Carrie smiled. Then her face clouded a bit. “There’s one problem,” she said. “He’s a Mormon.”
Her father laughed. “So are you, Babe!”
“No, I’m not, Daddy. Not like he is. I’ve hardly been to church since I was little. I think he goes all the time. He was even a missionary in South America.” Carrie noticed a sadness in her father’s eyes; then she remembered. “You were a missionary, too, weren’t you Daddy? I’d forgotten.”
Clay nodded his head. “Yes, I was a missionary once,” he said slowly. “Long ago.” He turned to leave the room. “I’m going upstairs to change now.” At the doorway he stopped and caught his daughter’s eye. “Don’t burn the Jello,” he said.
As he walked deliberately up the stairs, Clay’s mind was suddenly flooded with memories of his time in the mission field. Memories of a young man full of faith and zeal. What had happened to that person? he wondered. Had he come back to Provo to look for him?
“I’ll get it,” Carrie called to her father, who was working in the garage. She opened the front door to Jeff, who was holding a bouquet of dandelions tied with a red ribbon.
“For me?” she said in mock delight.
He bowed. “A dandelion by any other name …”
“Would be a weed just the same,” Carrie concluded.
Jeff laughed. “That’s good. That’s very good.”
She smiled. “Come in while I get a vase for the flowers.”
“Be careful,” Jeff warned. “These are the long-stemmed variety. Very delicate.”
“Of course,” Carrie nodded, sticking the yellow weeds in a glass of water.
“In fact, they’re not indigenous to this area.”
“They’re not?”
“No. I had to go to a pasture on the edge of town where the moisture content and other stuff in the soil make the conditions ideal for long-stemmed dandelions.”
Carrie gave Jeff a skeptical look. “Did your parents have any normal children?”
Just then, Clay entered from the attached garage. “Hello.”
“Daddy, this is Jeff. Jeff James,” Carrie said. “Isn’t that weird? He has two first names.”
Clay smiled and extended his hand. “Please excuse my daughter’s rude behavior. Her mother and I failed in our attempts to teach her good manners.”
“She was probably a slow learner,” Jeff said.
Carrie gave him an indignant look and a little punch on the shoulder. “You two talk while I finish getting beautiful,” she said, heading up the stairs.
At the top of the landing, Carrie stopped and called down to Jeff, “Show my father the lovely flowers you brought me!”
Jeff looked a little embarrassed as he turned and followed Clay into the living room, but Clay was smiling as they sat down. It had been a long time since he’d seen his daughter so animated, so happy.
“Carrie tells me you’re a returned missionary,” he began.
“Yes, sir. I was in Argentina,” Jeff reported.
“I served a mission in the north central states,” Clay said.
“Oh? Where’s that?”
“That included Minnesota, the eastern Dakotas and Manitoba, Canada.”
“Big area,” Jeff observed.
“The Church was much smaller and the missions a lot bigger in those days.”
“It’s exciting to see the way the Church is growing,” Jeff said.
“Yes,” Clay said slowly. “Yes, I guess it is.”
“Did you read about the new stake in Nigeria?” Jeff inquired.
“No, I didn’t.”
“The work’s going great there. My folks are in Nigeria now on a mission.”
“Your father’s retired, then?” Clay asked.
“Uh huh. Well, he’s not really my father. I call them my folks because they sort of raised me.”
“I see,” Clay said. But of course he didn’t see at all. What did “sort of raised me” mean? Looking at Jeff, he suddenly found himself lost in thought. There was something familiar about him. He looked so … wholesome—so good. Wasn’t there a scripture about that? Clay searched his memory for a moment, but it wouldn’t come to him.
Jeff was a regular at the Brimhall residence for the next few weeks, and Carrie was soon attending church with him. There followed other changes in Carrie’s life. She began reading the Book of Mormon, and Clay noted her praying in her room before bed. Also, there was a subtle, almost imperceptible difference in the way she looked. It was nothing Clay could put his finger on, but it was real nonetheless. Clay felt both pleased and threatened by these spiritual stirrings in his daughter. Carrie was all that he had now. Was he going to lose her too? That possibility frightened him, and the feeling manifested itself in resentment toward Jeff. Clay tried to mask that resentment because he knew it was misplaced. One day, though, it spilled over when Carrie innocently repeated to her father something that Jeff had said.
“Well, isn’t your young man all wise and knowing,” Clay remarked sarcastically.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, looking both stunned and hurt.
“It means that when you’ve been around as long as I have, everything isn’t either black or white.”
“Who said that it was?” Carrie challenged.
“Jeff is 22 years old,” Clay went on, “and except for his mission, I suspect he’s spent his whole life here in this valley surrounded by Primary teachers, quorum advisers, and bishops. What does he know about the world?”
Carrie sat quietly for a moment, biting her lip. When she began to speak, she did so slowly, to keep her emotions in check.
“Jeff was born in Texas,” she said evenly. “His mother was an alcoholic, and he never knew his father. He lived dozens of places and had a lot of ugly experiences before he was taken in by a Mormon couple when he was 13. I think he’s seen a little of the world. I also think you’re jealous, Daddy. I think you’re jealous that Jeff found something special to guide his life. Something that you once had.”
Clay had no reply as Carrie rose and left the room.
The following Sunday afternoon Carrie returned home from church to find her father in the living room paging through an unfamiliar green book. Clay glanced up. “Jeff’s not staying for dinner?”
“No. We’re going to a fireside tonight though. What are you reading?” Carrie wanted to know.
“My journal.”
“What journal?”
“My missionary journal. I found it the other day when I was unpacking some things.”
Carrie peered over her father’s shoulder. He was looking intently at a photograph he’d found in the journal. A family of five, flanked by two missionaries, jumped out at him, and the memory of that day and the events that led to it brought the sting of tears to his eyes. Suddenly he remembered the scripture that had escaped him the night he met Jeff. It was from Alma in the Book of Mormon: “Have ye spiritually been born of God? Have ye received his image in your countenances?” (Alma 5:14). It was there, on the faces of those people in the picture—the image of God in their countenances.
Clay handed Carrie the photograph. “Recognize anyone?”
Carrie looked closely at the old photo. “How old were you when this was taken, Daddy?”
“Twenty,” he said. Then he asked, “Does that picture of me remind you of anyone?”
“Jeff,” she said without hesitation. Carrie walked from behind the chair and sat down on the couch, opposite her father. “Daddy?” He looked at her. “Do you still believe in the Church?”
Clay turned away and stared out the window. “Yes, Babe,” he said softly, “I do.”

Life’s challenges began at an early age for Joseph. His father, Hyrum Smith, and his uncle, the Prophet Joseph Smith, were martyred when Joseph was only five years old. Then, when he was nine, he had to drive his mother’s wagon across the plains to the Salt Lake Valley. And soon after settling in Utah, 13-year-old Joseph was orphaned when his mother died from overwork and malnutrition. But these trying experiences taught Joseph the importance of kneeling before his Father in Heaven and standing up for what he believed in.

Young Latter-day Saints on the outer islands of French Polynesia wanted to hold a youth conference. But they faced some challenges.
Challenge 1: Location. The islands are far apart, with no regular lines of communication or transportation between them.
Challenge 2: Law. The government requires any youth gathering to comply with approved standards, including supervision by a state-certified director.
Challenge 3: Food. Little edible food grows in the crushed coral soil of the atolls. The diet is based on fish, coconuts, and whatever is shipped from Tahiti.
Challenge 4: Water. There are no rivers or lakes. Rain provides the only source of drinking water.
Challenge 5: Lodging. There are no dormitories, barracks, or even hotels on the outer islands. Where would people stay?
Faced with so many obstacles, it might have been tempting to give up. But the Saints here knew that if they had faith, God would help them find answers. They continued planning their conference. And soon, solutions were found.
Solution 1: Stay close to home. Conference planners decided to hold several small conferences at local levels. This would allow youth groups to gather without lengthy travel or a lot of expense. The first conference was held on Takaroa, one of seventy-seven islands in the Tuamotu Archipelago. Takaroa is a stronghold for the Church in the area—270 of its 396 inhabitants are Latter-day Saints.
Solution 2: Find a willing supervisor. Brother Stanley Brodien, executive secretary in the Paea Tahiti Stake, was the answer. A school psychologist, he spends summer vacations organizing youth gatherings, summer camps, and outings. He already had the proper government certification and was happy to supervise the conference.
Solutions 3, 4, and 5: Use local resources. Takaroa had been blessed with an abundance of rain. Storage tanks were full and could supply needed water. Some food had to be brought along in coolers, but a baker from the nearby island of Manihi, branch president Pitori Faura, provided bread, and local members helped the youth catch fish and gather coconuts as needed. As for lodging, most of the youth stayed in homes with members. Some of the young men brought tents and camped on the beach.
And now, the conference! Most of the seventy LDS youth from the three islands attending the Tuamotu North Youth Conference are involved either directly or indirectly in the pearl industry. The youth are highly skilled in tasks like skin diving and scuba diving, which are required for pearl cultivation.
But besides the pearl farms, the focal point of the island of Takaroa is the century-old LDS chapel, built from coral, with its hand-painted moldings, red tin roof, and bell tower stretching ninety feet above bedrock. It is larger and taller than any other building on the island, symbolic of the Church’s importance in the small community, and a perfect place for the youth to gather.
After their arrival, some aboard a fishing vessel, some by speed boat, the youth were divided into four groups, each with a mixture of participants from various age levels and from the three islands of Takaroa, Manihi, and Takapoto. The youth chose Book of Mormon names for their groups: Ether, Nephi, Mormon—and a popular hero in these islands, Hagoth.
Cynthia Tufariua of Takaroa said, “At first I wasn’t excited about not being with my friends, but after the first day, I thought it was great to get to know kids from the other islands.”
Eric Hio of Manihi said, “I’ve never seen this many Mormons together in one spot.”
Set an example of service. The shining moment of the conference came in the form of service. Except for one very rainy morning, the youth spent several hours each day cleaning different areas of the island—picking up trash, cutting weeds and bushes, removing rocks, hauling away garbage. During the conference, they cleaned beaches along the dock area and tidied up the village cemetery, the church grounds and building, and the local soccer field, which had become little more than a garbage dump and an eyesore.
Mani Terooatea is a Laurel from Takaroa home on vacation from Japan, where she has been studying the technique of pearl grafting (placing tiny pieces of mussel shells inside oysters in order to cultivate pearls). Mani said, “It was super to clean up the field, to see everyone working side by side. It didn’t take long, and I’m glad we could leave the place cleaner than we found it.” Mani brought along a friend who is a member of another faith. The friend, Hina Dexter, developed a new appreciation for Latter-day Saints, as did several other non-LDS participants.
Start with the scriptures. Each morning started with individual scripture study, followed by breakfast and a devotional. Then came the service projects, followed by sports and group activities, including island games such as “The Crab and the Coconut Trees,” “The Dog and the Thongs,” and “The Thief and the Pearl.” To cool off after a hard day of work and play, the youth found that a dip in the pristine lagoon waters among some of the most beautiful coral gardens in the world, myriads of brightly colored tropical fish, and curious but harmless reef sharks, provided a refreshing change of pace.
Besides morning scripture study and devotionals, two firesides and a home evening emphasized spiritual topics such as faith, standards, scripture study, goal setting, enduring to the end, striving for excellence, mission preparation, and seminary attendance. One speaker gave a brief history of the Church in French Polynesia, speaking of sacrifices made by early missionaries and members and challenging the youth to be willing to make similar sacrifices to share the gospel.
End with a testimony meeting. As the conference closed, young people expressed gratitude for new bonds of friendship, strengthened testimonies, and their renewed desire to know and serve the Savior. One young man who had not been very active in the Church expressed his newly gained desire to serve a mission: “I want to get my life in order so I can share with other people the testimony I felt growing during this conference. I want to spread the joy the gospel brings.”
Like a pearl. The youth conference taught the outer islanders another thing as well. They saw that with patience, challenges can be turned into blessings. It reminded them of the black pearls they grow in their lagoons. A little bit of mussel shell is an irritant. But with time and care, the oyster transforms it into a thing of beauty.

This pattern can be seen in the life of Jasmine B. of Washington, USA, who received help in coping with a disease. Before contracting the disease, she was a healthy young woman who excelled on her high school track team and loved getting up early for seminary.
Then she started feeling ill. She lost 15 pounds very quickly, and no matter how much sleep she got, it became harder and harder to get up for seminary. She couldn’t run as well as she used to and was hungry, thirsty, and weak all the time.
Over a month went by before she started to pray for help. “I held off so long,” she says, “because the thought of praying for help was an act of submission, admitting that something was indeed wrong with me. It scared me.”
But because she humbled herself to seek the Lord’s help, answers started to come. She went to see a doctor, who discovered she had developed type 1 diabetes, which meant her body could not produce insulin to process sugar. Diabetes has lifelong consequences and must be carefully monitored. Even as the doctors developed a plan to help her manage her condition, she began to worry that she would not be able to continue running track.
“I never ceased to pray as I struggled to understand my new life and to control my disease,” she says. “I prayed for strength and understanding and that I would be able to accept this trial. I would not have made it through those hard days and weeks without prayer.”
Jasmine made incredible strides. Within two weeks of being diagnosed, she was back practicing on the track, and later that year she did well in state competitions. “I believe Heavenly Father has blessed me with a strong, healthy body,” she says. “Having diabetes was not the end of the world. With His help, I knew I could get through this.”
By the grace of God and through her dependence on Him, Jasmine is able to cope with her disease and have wonderful successes in her life.

Elder Edward Dube was introduced to the gospel in 1981 by an employer in whose home he worked. The man gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon. He did not read it until 1983 but then was so impressed with Joseph Smith’s testimony of the visitation of Moroni that he responded to an invitation to attend a fast and testimony meeting at the meetinghouse in Kwekwe, Zimbabwe.
He felt uncomfortable at first, feeling that he was in a servant relationship to most of those in attendance.
“But as they bore their testimonies about the Book of Mormon, I felt some connection with these people,” he recalled, “and I was able to share my feelings about the Book of Mormon.”
He would later receive missionary lessons, be baptized, and eventually serve in the Zimbabwe Harare Mission.

Others, like Brother Thach, risk capture and death by traveling from Vietnam in the south, northward through Cambodia to neutral Thailand. With Brother Thach was his wife, Minhdan, three-year-old daughter, Minhvan, and a nephew, eight-year-old Khaivien. Brother Thach says, “Khaivien’s father was unable to pay the price to get his wife and six children out of Vietnam. He asked me to take the boy. Even though it meant giving up their oldest son, he and his wife felt that at least one of their children should have a chance at freedom.”
The journey through Cambodia was arranged with the help of a “guide” who charged Brother Thach one and one half taels of gold, approximately equivalent to his entire earnings for eighteen months. Brother Thach worked hard to save the money, accumulating the funds secretly so as not to arouse the suspicions of the authorities. Finally prepared, after selling the family’s meager possessions to relatives and friends, the group left on a moonless night in March, 1981, praying that they would be successful in their venture.
Brother Thach knows that their prayers were answered. Although they were Vietnamese citizens, he and his wife shared a Cambodian heritage and assumed the identity of Cambodians for their journey. “We were not always successful,” he recalls. “For instance, my wife dressed like a Cambodian woman, but one day we were questioned by someone who wondered why her sarong looked Vietnamese and not Cambodian. Even though the two countries have the same cultural background there is a difference in the style of sarong and in the way that it is worn. We gave some excuse or other, and we were allowed to go on our way.”
They were stopped several times by soldiers, but each time a small miracle occurred and they were free to continue. “One time,” says Brother Thach, “we were stopped at a checkpoint where there were two soldiers on guard; one of them Cambodian and the other Vietnamese. For some reason the Vietnamese soldier turned away and didn’t talk to us. The Cambodian soldier asked to see our identification papers. I decided to tell him the truth—where we were from and where we were going. He let us go. I’m sure we would have been detained had the Vietnamese soldier challenged us.”
The family also escaped other potential dangers—being attacked by robbers or getting caught in military skirmishes—as they made their way by overloaded and ancient buses, bicycles, ox-drawn cart, and railroad train to Batdambang south of the Thai-Cambodian border.
The train carrying them had to make frequent stops while repairs were made to railroad tracks damaged by land mines. Brother Thach explains, “To clear the tracks, the train crew would unhook the locomotive from the passenger cars and use it to push ahead a weighted freight car to set off any unexploded mines. Then they would repair the track. This took so long to do each time that all of us on the train were afraid we would be stranded without food.”
Brother Thach says that at one repair stop, “I left the train and prayed that the Lord would help me find food for my family. They had not had anything substantial to eat for some time. After walking for about two kilometers I came to a village. I went to a house at the edge of the village and asked a lady if I could buy some food from her. She cooked a pan of rice, packed it in a banana leaf, added a pinch of salt, and gave it to me.” He paid her and took the rice back to his wife and the two hungry children, not forgetting to thank the Lord.
The family finally arrived at the refugee camp in Batdambang, but because it was located in Cambodia, Brother Thach requested that they be transferred to safer refuge at Panat Nikom, Thailand, where they arrived in May, two months after leaving Vietnam. From Thailand, they relocated to the United States where Minhdan Thach was baptized. She now serves as a Relief Society counselor in the Taylorsville 40th (Vietnamese) Branch, Taylorsville Utah Central Stake. Brother Thach, second counselor in the branch elders quorum presidency, is now an electronic test technician with a national engineering and research company with a manufacturing plant and offices in Utah.

When I was in grade four, some of the kids in my class said that every recess they would play a game in the school field, but only a few kids were allowed. A bunch of kids, including me, were left out. For a couple of days I was bored because the friends I usually played with were playing with the kids in the school field. During those days, I played with some of the other kids in my class I didn’t know very well. I got to know them better, and I even became good friends with one of them! One day, one of the kids who played in the school field invited me to play with them. I asked her if my new friend could play too. She said my friend wasn’t allowed. I told her I couldn’t play with them. At recess I played with my new friend. I felt good inside, and I knew I had made the right choice.

So, the next step is finish school. You don't want to be a professional student. My father always told me that I should be a man in a hurry to finish my education and get on with my life's work. While you are finishing your education, you need to already have a plan developed for what you are going to do with your degree. It is a matter to be prayerfully considered and a joint decision if you are married. Once you make the plan, you need to stick with it. When we got married, our plan was that I would work a year after graduating from BYU-Hawaii and then go to law school. As I was ending my year off from school, I told my wife that maybe I should just continue to work as it seemed that I was making pretty good money. I will forever be grateful to my wife for encouraging me to stick with our original plan and not delay going to law school. It was probably the most important family decision we made.

Earlier this year I was on assignment visiting a stake in the western United States. It was a normal Sunday, a normal meeting, with normal members of the Church. I watched as people entered the chapel and reverently moved to available seats. Last-second, whispered conversations echoed throughout the hall. Mothers and fathers tried—sometimes in vain—to quiet energetic children. Normal.

But then, before the meeting began, words inspired of the Spirit came into my mind.

These members had not come just to fulfill a duty or listen to speakers.

They had come for a deeper and far more significant reason.

They had come to worship.

As the meeting progressed, I observed various members in the congregation. They had an almost heavenly expression, an attitude of reverence and peace. Something about them warmed my heart. The experience they were having that Sunday was something quite extraordinary.

They were worshipping.

They were experiencing heaven.

I could see it in their countenances.

And I rejoiced and worshipped with them. And as I did so, the Spirit spoke to my heart. And on that day, I learned something about myself, about God, and about the role of true worship in our lives.

When I reflect back on what began as a normal Sunday morning, in that normal meetinghouse, in that normal stake, even today I am moved by that extraordinary spiritual experience that will forever bless my life.

The sound of dogs yipping, howling, and barking fills the crisp air. Their harnesses tug back and forth as some dogs excitedly jump in place. People line the sides of the snow-covered trail, craning their necks to get a view of the mushers (dogsled drivers) and teams. The announcer on the sideline yells out a name—“Spencer!”—as a 16-year-old boy in a giant parka steps onto his dog sled.
Finally, the timekeeper gives a countdown. Three, two, one … and then all barking and howling stops.
“The instant we take off, the dogs go dead silent,” says Spencer. “All you hear is them breathing and their paws hitting the snow. Everyone else fades away, and it’s just this tunnel vision of focus.”
Spencer is used to this kind of focus. He’s been a musher (dogsled driver) for the past six years, and he knows that keeping focused and managing his adrenaline is essential, no matter how exhausted he feels.
Often, Spencer and his dogs will run 200–to–400–mile dogsled races that last three to four days. During those races, he and the dogs have to run day and night in freezing temperatures, stopping only three times to down some food and fit in two or three hours of sleep.
Spencer has had to stay awake for three days straight. He even got hypothermia once. So, if it’s so difficult, why does he keep coming back to dogsledding again and again? Well, part of it is because of his skinny leg.
Photographs courtesy of Suzette Bruggeman
For Spencer, dogsledding came about in an unexpected way. “I was born with a birth defect in my left leg that causes the veins in my leg to be atrophied, so not enough blood goes to that leg,” he explains. “There’s not a lot of growth and muscle mass, so my left leg is shorter and skinnier than the right.”
Growing up, he could walk and run, but some things were still difficult for him. “I grew up in a family and community of athletes. My two older brothers, Chase and Brandon, are both big football players, which led me to want to pursue football too.”
However, after playing football for two years in elementary school, Spencer soon realized the other kids were just too fast and it was too difficult for him to keep up. “I was sad. I struggled because I felt like I couldn’t have something to work toward.”
Then one day as he was reading The Call of the Wild by Jack London, an idea popped into his mind—what about dogsledding? “I was fascinated by the idea of dogsledding. I was with my mom after school one day when I piped up and said, ‘We should start dogsledding!’ My mom stopped dead in her tracks and retorted, ‘You’ve been talking to your dad!’ It turned out that my dad had been thinking about getting a dogsled team too! It was destiny.”
Spencer’s family held a meeting and agreed that dogsledding would be the perfect sport for Spencer. He says, “I figured it would be good for me because it doesn’t involve a lot of leg strength and speed, but it does require endurance, both physically and mentally.”
Pulling everything together for a team took a lot of work, though. “My dad and I researched the sport and talked to several mushers who helped us get started,” Spencer says. “We got our Alaskan Huskies a few at a time until we had enough for two teams—one for me and one for my dad.” They affectionately named their team of dogs the “Skinny Leg Sled Dogs,” after Spencer’s skinny leg.
Spencer’s dad supports him and races with his team of dogs.
Of course, the work didn’t stop there. Spencer and his family now take care of 51 dogs at their home in Montana, USA, not to mention their other pets (two falcons, two cats, and some canaries).
Spencer works hard to take care of his dogs.
“We spend an hour each day feeding the dogs, giving them water, and scooping up poop,” Spencer says. “In the winter, we make 70 pounds of meat stew each day to feed them enough calories. We also do our own veterinary work, like vaccines and stitches. We train them for two to three hours every day during fall and winter. And during the winter weekends, we’ll run about 100 miles. Then, of course, all of that culminates in the races, which are a lot of work.”
Obviously, dogsledding is challenging and time-consuming. But Spencer says it has blessed his life in many ways, especially when it comes to his family. “Everything involved in dogsledding has taught me and my family to work hard. It has united us. It takes all of us to care for our dogs and run long races. My mom and my brothers are like my pit crew. They handle all the dogs during my races. And my dad and I work together to run it all.”
More than that, Spencer has realized why it is important for families to work hard. He says, “If you don’t put in the effort and nurture your relationships with your family members, you won’t be a real family—you’ll just passively be a family. You’ll miss out on the blessings of being a family.”
Spencer with his brothers, Brandon (middle) and Chase (right).
Dogsledding also gives Spencer the motivation to move forward and achieve more. “I’ve learned to push myself mentally and physically through bitter cold, darkness, fear, and sleep deprivation to achieve my goals. It’s given me the skills to stay alert and strong.”
Similarly, he thinks it’s important to learn how to endure spiritually in the gospel. “When the going gets tough, you’ve got to be tough. In dogsledding, you can’t stop trying or the dogs will stop trying, and then you won’t do as well. It’s the same in the gospel. To endure well, you must always be diligent by reading the scriptures, praying, and turning to family and Church leaders.”
Spencer also notes that progression and enduring well require effort. “You can’t just passively believe in the gospel. You have to work at it. All the best things in life come from work. To get a testimony, you have to show your dedication by doing things like praying and studying the scriptures. You have to show dedication in your calling and your family.” Though it may sound tiring, Spencer says, “Everything goes more smoothly with work.”
In the end, Spencer keeps coming back to dogsledding because he’s being strengthened—physically, intellectually, and spiritually. “Dogsledding is the coolest sport in the world. It has given me the motivation to achieve my goals. I have learned to push myself and be mentally engaged in what I do.”
And the remarkable thing is, Spencer is where he is today because of a supposed weakness. Who would have guessed a skinny leg would lead to training dogs and racing them hundreds of miles through the snow? “If it weren’t for my skinny leg, I wouldn’t be a musher. I think it was the Lord helping me turn my weakness into a strength [see Ether 12:27]. Not only has dogsledding made my body stronger, but because of my birth defect, I have developed a strong work ethic. The Lord has turned my weakness into something amazing.”

Mango season had arrived in Retalhuleu, Guatemala. The heavy costal rains had ended, and the heat of the dry season settled over the Guatemalan pueblo. My missionary companion, Sister Coronado, and I didn’t mind the rising temperatures—at least not too much—because during the heat of the day we would gaze overhead at the mangos ripening in the sun. We loved mangos. We practically lived on them. Our generous investigators and members would fill our backpacks with them, and when it was too hot to eat anything else, Sister Coronado and I would feast on them and laugh at each other as the juice dribbled down our chins.
Hermana Coronado and I were good friends. As we walked around our area each day we would talk about everything. One of Hermana Coronado’s favorite topics was what I call “everyday miracles.” As our time together progressed, Hermana Coronado taught me to recognize these little miracles. Things like meeting someone who was feeling lonely, or running into an investigator that we hadn’t been able to contact were often miraculous blessings.
One day Sister Coronado and I were disappointed to find that a family we had an appointment with wasn’t home. Just outside the family’s home, we spotted the most beautiful mangos we had ever seen. This tree was loaded with what promised to be perfect fruit. We found ourselves drawn towards the makeshift family store that was propped up against the base of the tree.
“¿Hay Maria?” From the counter of the deserted store we called out the traditional Guatemalan greeting.
“Si, ahorita vengo,” a teenage girl replied that she would be right with us.
We asked the smiling girl if we could buy two of the mangos, but she explained that they had sold the entire crop of mangos to a company from the capital city, so they were only allowed to eat those mangos that fell from the tree naturally. We must have looked terribly disappointed because she apologized profusely that there weren’t any mangos lying on the ground. She assured us she wouldn’t charge us for the mangos if we came back another day when more had fallen from the tree.
“Oh, it’s okay,” we sighed and began to turn away. The girl watched as we pulled out our weekly planners and decided what to do next. Then all three of us heard a big thump from behind the store.
“Wait!” the girl called out and ran around the back. She came back with two beautiful, ripe mangos. They had fallen together and were still connected at the stem. We wondered if Heavenly Father had sent us a thank-you note in the form of two mangos to let us know our work was appreciated. It was a small thing, but that day in the Guatemalan heat, recovering from the disappointment of not being able to teach the family we had an appointment with, it was a small miracle.
Sister Coronado gave me an invaluable gift—the ability to recognize the hand of God in my life.

In another service project titled “Light the world by helping one person help another”, missionaries identified an area in the George metropolitan area that needed upliftment.

“We identified a local neighbourhood park that was in bad need of upgrading, interviewed patrons of the park and a neighbourhood volunteer who helped clean the park,” Elder Miller said.

“We then kept track of what facilities were being used and what was in need of repair. We contacted and met with local government officials and presented a comprehensive plan to them and demonstrated our willingness as a Church to help fund the initial upgrade needs to get the project rolling. They approved our initial proposal and we ordered some facility upgrades.” the Millers said.

Since this was all back in the '60s, there were no computers, and until I could take a typing class in high school, my mother had to type all of my term papers and book reports. She taught me another principle that I have used many times in my life with my children and many other people with whom I have been associated.

It is “ Do not let your lack of planning become my emergency.”

In other words, if she was going to type my book report, she would not be doing it late the night before it was due. I had to allow her several days to fit in the time to type it for me. It took pressure off both of us when I took a typing class and was old enough to type my own reports. Let’s hope all of us never let our lack of planning become someone else’s emergency. As a child and a teenager, my parents truly taught me to organize myself and “prepare every needful thing” as the scripture says.

Countless were the reports we heard of those who were touched in some way—either directly or indirectly—by the events of that day. Rebecca Sindar was on a flight from Salt Lake City, Utah, to Dallas, Texas, on the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Her flight, like all others in the United States at that time of tragedies, was interrupted; the plane was grounded in Amarillo, Texas. Sister Sindar reported: “We all left the plane and found televisions in the airport, where we crowded around to see the broadcast of what had happened. People were lined up to call loved ones to assure them we were safely on the ground. I shall always remember the 12 or so missionaries who were on their way to the mission field on our flight. They made phone calls, and then we saw them huddled in a circle in a corner of the airport, kneeling in prayer together. How I wish I could have captured that moment to share with the mothers and fathers of those sweet young men as they saw the need for prayer right away.”

The morning is quiet. On his way out of the house to feed the horses, Brother Gines glances at the shelves of trophies and stops. He stands there, silent, silhouetted against the early morning light, looking at Neal’s basketball trophy and remembering the long hours Neal practiced to prove that he wasn’t clumsy. As he stands there, he recollects the times he and Neal have spent together.

“Back when Neal was younger, we milked the neighbor’s cows. It was Neal’s job, but I went anyway, figuring that it was important to be with him. We talked about horses and football and bulldogging and the Church. We grew closer together, understanding each other, becoming best friends.

“When Neal started bulldogging, I became the hazer (the one who guides the steer in a straight line). It’s kind of symbolic, both of us coming out together, with me hazing to keep the steer from running wild so Neal can grab him and throw him to the ground. We work well together, we’ve done it for so long. I can tell if Neal is hurt, how bad it is, whether it is just another scrape to add to his scars, or whether the horns have dug deeper this time. I never say much, but I’m right there.

“As Neal grew older, we didn’t stop doing things together. My wife teases us about being inseparable, but a father likes to know that his son wants to spend time with his old dad,” Brother Gines adds with a smile.

On cool fall nights they work outside together, joking, trying to hurry and get the wood stacked so they can go in and eat. They spend long hours hauling hay; taking trips to the saw mill to gather shavings so the animals can have the “softest beds”; walking quietly through the just-fallen snow, tracking down pheasants; going downtown to get a malt. They are still inseparable, still best friends.

“Need some help feeding the horses, dad?” Neal asks as he walks into the room.
Brother Gines turns to see Neal all dressed, ready to help. “Sure,” he replies.
Together they walk out into the bright morning.

Often the price paid for membership in the Church was great. Jesucita Mera de Monroy was a widow and mother of four children. In 1902, after the death of her husband, she moved to the town of San Marcos in central Mexico, where she worked in a governmental position and operated a small grocery store. In March of 1913 Elders W. Ernest Young and Willard Huish visited San Marcos to conduct a funeral service for the only member in the town, Jesús Sanchez. After the funeral Señora Monroy approached the missionaries and asked them to come to her home and teach her family the gospel. After close to three months of studying, she and several members of her family, including her adult son Rafael, were baptized. This family became stalwarts in the Church, and they were influential in the development of a strong branch in the region.

Mexico was then in the midst of a civil war in which its citizenry, including members of the Church, often became innocent victims of violence. Two months after the baptism of the Monroy family, the American missionaries left Mexico because of concern for their safety. The members were left on their own. Rafael was put in charge of the small San Marcos branch. Unfortunately, in July 1915, because of a misunderstanding concerning his political activity, Rafael Monroy; Vicente Morales, his first counselor in the branch; and three of Jesucita’s daughters—Natalina, Jovita, and Guadalupe—were imprisoned by one of the revolutionary groups in the region. Their religious affiliation with the Church played a part in their arrest.

Jesucita was frantic as she tried to satisfy the demands of the leaders of the group and convince them that her children were innocent of any crime. After two days of interrogation and torture, Rafael Monroy and Vicente Morales were executed by a firing squad. Jesucita had the terrible and lonely task of recovering the bodies and organizing their burial, since most in the village, including members of the Church, distanced themselves from her and her family. Her trials continued, and she found it necessary to move from the town for a while. Her letter to Rey L. Pratt, then president of the Mexican Mission, shows her strength and faith in the gospel: “Our sorrows have been grievous, but our faith is strong, and we will never forsake this religion” (quoted in Walter Ernest Young, The Diary of W. Ernest Young [Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 1973), 121). Her promise was kept, and she and most members of her family remained faithful to the Church. (See Mark L. Grover, “Execution in Mexico: The Deaths of Rafael Monroy and Vicente Morales,” BYU Studies 35, no. 3 (1995–96): 6–28.)