Gospel Story Finder

Sister Mireille Van Tonder of Bordeaux, France, also speaks five languages—Afrikaans, French, Dutch, English, and German. She recently spoke with a young woman visiting from South Africa. Sister Van Tonder, who was born in South Africa, was able to tell the visitor about the Church in her native language. The young woman was surprised and excited to learn that the Church was in her own country and that she could be taught by missionaries when she returned home.

One of my pre-mission life goals was to graduate from college. While attending classes would have been difficult with my illness and the constant doctor appointments, my dad encouraged me to take online classes from Brigham Young University Independent Study. Not only was this an achievable horizontal goal, but I also realized that maybe I was capable of doing more pre-mission goals than I had previously thought possible.

One day at church, a sister walked up to my mom and said, “Do you know that Destiny can serve an online indexing mission?” This unexpected question was an answer to my prayers. I was able to serve the Lord for nine months as an indexing support Church-service missionary. This was a mission I could do!*
As I became better at managing my health condition, I began studying at a community college while doing my online mission. I was asked to teach mission preparation at the nearby institute. Teaching helped me realize that my enthusiasm for missionary work had not waned and that even my short mission had provided me with many experiences that could be valuable for my students.
After successfully attending a semester of college near my home, I moved to Utah, USA, to attend BYU. At first, I could hardly walk by the Provo MTC without feeling a rush of conflicting emotions. But I started volunteering weekly at the MTC and found that it was healing to meet the wonderful missionaries being sent to my beloved Hungary.
A Hungarian sister, Edit, who has prepared nearly 150,000 names for the temple asked me to take some of her names to the temple. It was a joy to do the saving ordinances for these Hungarians!
Serving a mission was my most important life dream and, understandably, I felt a loss when I came home earlier than anticipated. For a time, I struggled to talk about my mission. I had to work through feelings of failure. I had to learn how to judge the value of my mission by my desire to serve rather than the length. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, each of these steps toward meaning in my life also brought healing.
For years I was nervous that returning to Hungary would be difficult for me emotionally. When I eventually traveled there, it wasn’t until the second day that I realized that not only was I not feeling any pain, I was also feeling overwhelming joy to be back. I knew then that Heavenly Father had given me the opportunity to experience the healing power of the Savior’s Atonement. I now know that through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, all things will be made right in the end.
*Many early returned missionaries continue to serve as young Church-service missionaries. Meet with your bishop or branch president for more information.

There is a word in Japanese, mui, that, for me, captures this more faith-filled, contemplative sense of what it means to be still. It is comprised of two characters (??). The one on the left means “nothing” or “nothingness,” and the one on the right means “to do.” Together they mean “non-doing.” Taken literally, the word could be misinterpreted to mean “to do nothing” in the same way “to be still” can be misinterpreted as “not talking or moving.” However, like the phrase “to be still,” it has a higher meaning; for me it is a reminder to slow down and to live with greater spiritual awareness.
While serving in the Asia North Area Presidency with Elder Takashi Wada, I learned that his wife, Sister Naomi Wada, is an accomplished Japanese calligrapher. I asked Sister Wada if she would draw for me the Japanese characters for the word mui. I wanted to hang the calligraphy on my wall as a reminder to be still and to focus on the Savior. I was surprised when she did not readily agree to this seemingly simple request.
The next day, knowing that I had likely misunderstood her hesitance, Elder Wada explained that writing those characters would require a significant effort. She would need to ponder and meditate on the concept and the characters until she understood the meaning deeply in her soul and could give expression to these heartfelt impressions with each stroke of her brush. I was embarrassed that I had so casually asked her to do something so demanding. I asked him to convey my apologies to her for my ignorance and to let her know that I was withdrawing my request.
You can imagine my surprise and gratitude when upon my leaving Japan, Sister Wada, unsolicited, gifted to me this beautiful piece of calligraphy featuring the Japanese characters for the word mui. It now hangs prominently on the wall of my office, reminding me to be still and to seek the Lord every day with all my heart, might, mind, and strength. She had captured, in this selfless act, the meaning of mui, or stillness, better than any words could. Rather than mindlessly and dutifully drawing the characters, she approached her calligraphy with full purpose of heart and real intent.

Aaronic Priesthood bearers from five stakes left a priceless gift to future generations of Washington State residents. They donated over 6,000 hours of labor to help build a 220-acre park in the quiet valley of the Snoqualmie and Tolt Rivers near Carnation, Washington. The more than 1,500 young Latter-day Saints and their leaders were among 20,000 Scouts from the area who worked with the United States Army, the Canadian Army, and Washington State officials in the largest youth Bicentennial project in the United States, the John MacDonald Memorial Park.
The young men from Bremerton, Renton, Seattle, Seattle East, and Seattle North stakes pitched tents among the dense fir trees and lived almost like pioneers for five consecutive weekends. They carried logs for shelters, cleared and raked meeting areas, built picnic tables, and nailed ramp separators for the suspension bridge that connects the two areas of the park. When they were finished, there were 40 hike-in campsites, hundreds of picnic tables, many log shelters, several rest room facilities, and five miles of trails through the park. “They were just ecstatic for the chance to do something permanent,” explained one leader. “They were busy every minute.”
They were tired, but happy Scouts who proudly carried their flag in the parade that marked the opening of the park several weeks later. All the town of Carnation and visitors from throughout the country gathered to watch as the Renton Second Ward Cub Scout pack led the parade through the small town and into the park.
“This park … is an honored tribute to our past. Scouts of today and tomorrow will use this beautiful land to learn … of yesterday’s greatness and tomorrow’s promises. The park will reinforce our customary spirit of using the heart, mind, and hands to live sensibly with nature’s rivers, forests, meadows, and mountains,” reads a plaque on display at the Memorial. These are the words of the man who was the inspiration behind the park, John M. MacDonald, a longtime volunteer leader with the Chief Seattle Council.
The proud smiles of the young men as they marched in the parade showed the plaque’s words coming true.

“Sister Sylvia Gaitan was in a four-car freeway accident last week,” explained my Young Men president. “She’s in the Westlake Medical Center, and we need someone to take her the sacrament.”
“Westlake?!” I thought to myself. That was at least a 20-minute drive.
I pleaded for volunteers. One hand went up. “I don’t have a car,” said Russell, “but I’ll go with someone.”
On the way to Westlake, I said to Russell, “Next week we’ll make someone else take this time-consuming drive.”
We arrived at the hospital and wasted a few minutes getting lost. When we finally found Sister Gaitan’s room, my heart fell right into my stomach. Not even five feet tall, she seemed even smaller lying in a giant hospital bed surrounded by medical equipment. Looking at her I immediately felt guilty for having complained.
“How are you feeling, Sister Gaitan?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m all right,” she said, “but I’ll be much better after they perform those two surgeries they keep telling me I need.” I was amazed by how upbeat she was.
Russell and I blessed the small piece of bread we had brought and then blessed the water in her hospital drinking cup. She was so grateful to us for coming. I smiled and said, “We’re just doing our priesthood duty.”
I decided that I would bring the sacrament to her the next week, too. I took Sister Gaitan the sacrament every week until she recovered. Seeing her always made my day brighter.
The brightest day was when I saw her back at church for the first time. I was happy, not because I no longer had to drive to the hospital each week but because she was finally able to take the sacrament with her ward family.
I’m grateful I was able to take Sister Gaitan the sacrament, but I’m even more grateful that she taught me to fulfill my priesthood duties with a smile and a happy attitude.

The stranger had a bushy beard as red as his hair. It was Christmas Eve when he knocked on the door, asking for food. We had not been outside all day. For weeks it had snowed almost every day, soft fluffy feathers that were fun to play in. Now the snow was up to the top of the fence and piled in high drifts, and the wind howled and sang around the corners of the house and under the eaves. Papa said it was a blizzard.
Mama had spent the day making the special food we had only at Christmas, and for days before that, she’d baked bread of all kinds, Christmas bread frosted with white icing, filled bird-shaped rolls, and cookies by the dozen. We had no gaily trimmed tree or other holiday decorations at our house, nor presents waiting to be opened. But the spirit of Christmas was in the air.
Besides Mama and Papa, there were four of us children. We were on our best behavior at this time of year. There was no arguing about toys or books or crayons—who could be grumpy or cross at Christmastime? All that day we watched Mama at the stove, our mouths watering as she fixed Christmas dinner. Christmas Eve was our big feast; there would be no cooking on Christmas Day. That was OK—the cupboard was filled with good things to eat already made.
Best of all was the candy. Instead of only one or two pieces, we could have almost as much as we wanted. There were hard candy that you could suck on for a long time, sweet raspberry-filled candy, candy canes, and homemade chocolate-covered nuts and raisins. In the evening we cracked nuts while sitting by the glowing red heater as the wind howled and slapped snow against the windows.
Grandma and Grandpa were across the ocean in Poland, so there was just the family at Christmas. When the knock sounded on the door as Mama was putting the food on the table, it was a big surprise. Who could be out in such weather on Christmas Eve?
The redheaded stranger stood at the door, and we hid behind Mama’s skirts. He had tattered clothes, and his hands and face were red with cold. Papa asked him to come in quickly and shut the door so as not to let in the cold. The stranger’s coat was covered with snow, and bits of snow clung to his beard.
It was easy to see that he was hungry. Papa told him that we were just getting ready to sit down to eat dinner and that he was welcome to join us. Mama pushed the chairs closer together to make room for him. The stranger’s eyes were watery, like he was crying.
Papa said the blessing, and Mama passed the bowls of soup. We were extra quiet during dinner. Only Papa and the stranger talked, but not very much. The redheaded stranger was busy eating and hardly looked up from his plate.
As I watched him, I wondered why he was out in a blizzard. Didn’t he have a family or a warm house? He didn’t live here, I knew. We lived in a very small town, and everybody knew everyone else, and this fellow was a stranger, for sure.
Papa said we were having a depression. We didn’t understand much about it except that many people had no food and no job. Men wandered from town to town, looking for work, and many passed by our house. We lived between the railroad tracks and the highway, and in the summer we saw them walking by on the road. Some came asking for food, and Mama always gave them something, even if it was only a piece of bread and jelly. She made the best bread in the world, and the jam was from the chokecherries we picked in the summer. They were bitter to eat, but Mama made jelly from the berries, and on pancakes it was better than syrup.
Although he scared me with his red hair and beard, I felt sorry for the stranger. So did we all. Just looking at him made me want to cry. Mama always said we mustn’t stare at people, and I tried not to. It was hard to do.
Our Christmas Eve dinner was splendid, the best food I could think of. After the soup came the boiled wheat—red Durham, grown on the prairie farms around us. It was my favorite part of the dinner, but we could have only one small bowlful. Papa said it would grow inside us if we ate too much. I was pretty sure he was teasing, but I didn’t ask for more, just in case.
Then we had fish—a whole one Mama had baked with stuffing inside. It took a long time to eat because we had to be very careful not to swallow any bones. Next we had stuffed cabbage rolls and small boiled dumplings filled with mashed potatoes. And we had pickles and beets, which had been preserved right from Mama’s garden. For dessert there was Christmas bread as sweet and light as cake.
After dinner, while the redheaded stranger talked with Papa by the stove, we children helped Mama clear the table. I asked Mama where the stranger would go. I knew that he couldn’t stay here overnight. We had a very small house, and when we slept, every corner of it was full. Mama looked at me sadly and said she didn’t know.
I finished helping with the dishes and was going over to sit close to Papa, when the redheaded stranger got up to leave. Papa gave him a pair of mittens for his hands. The stranger said, “Thank you. God bless you. God bless all of you.” I think his eyes showed even more than his words how he felt. Then he left.
I was glad to see that the storm had let up. Only a few snowflakes continued to gently fall. I tried to see where he went, but the windows were covered with frost and I couldn’t. “Where will he go?” I asked Papa.
“He has a cousin who lives on a farm on the far side of the next town. He hopes his cousin will let him stay and work on the farm until times are better.” I hoped so too.
The next day, Christmas Day, was Sunday. The storm was over, and the sun was shining so bright that it hurt your eyes. The snow sparkled like diamonds and crunched under our feet as we walked to church. Looking at the Baby Jesus in the manger in the foyer, I whispered, “Happy Birthday, Jesus.” Then I prayed, “Heavenly Father, thank Thee for a wonderful dinner last night. Please help the redheaded stranger find his cousin and have a good home there. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

My husband, Jason, has been working in the mining construction industry as a fly-in-fly-out worker for about 12 years. When Jason started this job, I was working full-time, and we had four young children. With Jason’s working away and my working full-time, I struggled to look after the kids, keep the house in order, and get the kids to church on my own.
We discussed if I should continue working or stay home with the kids. I worried about fulfilling my role as a wife and a mother, but I also worried about how leaving work would affect our family. Not knowing what to do, I got down on my knees and I prayed to Heavenly Father, “I actually need help because I can’t do this by myself.”
I decided to step away from work, but the Lord made sure that we were taken care of. So many people came to my aid to help around the house and with the kids. The Lord was always there in my struggles, hastening His angels who strengthened me.

Andy Mair has heard many of the stories about sacrifices made in building the first Nauvoo Temple. He knows about the men and boys who cut stone by hand, hauled heavy loads with just horses and mules, went without good food and clothing, and spent every minute they could building a beautiful House of the Lord.
Andy has plenty to eat and wear and because he’s only 14 he’s not really allowed to work on the temple site. But Andy has made sacrifices. He willingly left his friends and home to come with his family to Nauvoo where his father would oversee the reconstruction of the Nauvoo Temple. “I am not sorry that I came,” says Andy. “I have been able to learn a lot more about the history of the Church and Joseph Smith. I can say that I have walked and lived where the Prophet Joseph and the early leaders of the Church did. As I see the temple workers, I notice that they all have shoes and shirts. They also have modern equipment like cranes, lifts, cement trucks, dump trucks, tractors, and power tools. I try to imagine how people in the 1840s built such a huge building without these things.”
Also, during the construction of the temple, Andy has seen what kind of man his dad is. “It means a lot to me to have my dad be able to oversee the construction of this temple, because I know I am one of a few young men who is able to participate so closely in such an historic event. My dad is a great example to me of hard work and dedication.”
Andy and his new friends in Nauvoo keep track of the reconstruction. One friend, Tally Smith, says, “It’s special to drive by and notice more stone going up or another window in place.”
Amanda Smith also has loved watching the temple go up. “It’s amazing to have a temple right up the road—a temple that’s really a part of your life because you’ve watched it and seen the changes.”
One unique event that took place at the start of the construction was the laying of all four cornerstones. For most temples built today the cornerstone laying is completed as the building is dedicated, but in rebuilding the Nauvoo Temple, the sequence of events from the nineteenth century was duplicated as much as possible.
On April 6, 1841, the members of the Church in Nauvoo gathered at the temple site for the laying of all four cornerstones. Under the Prophet Joseph’s instructions, each cornerstone was moved into place under the direction of the presidents of the various quorums of the priesthood. In those days, the Aaronic Priesthood quorum presidents were all grown men.
But on November 5, 2000, the quorum presidents of the Aaronic Priesthood—representing the deacons and teachers—were Jared Brown, 13, and Hans Smith, 15, both from the Nauvoo Illinois First Ward. They were surprised and honored to be asked to participate in the cornerstone laying.
“I had always thought it would be cool if the Nauvoo Temple were rebuilt,” says Hans. “Now it is happening, and I am going to be here to see it.
“One evening, my stake president, Durell Nelson, came over to my house and told me there was going to be a special cornerstone ceremony. He asked me if I would be interested in being part of this historic event since I was the teachers quorum president of the Nauvoo Ward, and the original teachers quorum president had helped at the original cornerstone ceremony. Wow!”
On the day of the ceremony, Hans was right there with President Gordon B. Hinckley and Bishop H. David Burton, the Presiding Bishop of the Church. Hans says, “I was humbled to represent teachers all over the world at this event. Because I have cerebral palsy, I needed help to scoop in the mortar and was grateful to have Bishop Burton help me. I was grateful that those in charge didn’t let my handicap stand in the way of my participating in this great event.”
As deacons quorum president, Jared also participated. “I felt really blessed because there are so many other young men who would have loved this opportunity. It was probably the best experience of my life. I got to meet the prophet. I also got to keep the trowel I used. It’s something I can always remember and someday tell my children.”

My father was called to preside over the East German Mission at the outbreak of World War II. At this time, he was also drafted into the German army. He directed the affairs of the mission from the battlefield through his two counselors.
One Sabbath before Christmas, he felt very lonely, stationed in Denmark away from his family, and wanted to worship God in sacrament meeting. He didn’t know whether a Church branch existed in Esbjerg, but he assumed there might be one somewhere in the city. He didn’t speak the language, but, dressed in his full military uniform, he hummed the tune of a favorite hymn as he walked on a city street. He hoped he would attract someone’s attention who could lead him to the Church.
Sure enough, as a little girl passed my father, she asked him in Danish, “Mormon?” and, seeing him nod his head, she led him to the branch meetinghouse.
My father risked his life, realizing that if he were discovered by Nazi officials among enemy people in their worship services, he could face a charge of treason, punishable by death. He also took a risk by surrendering his weapon belt to the branch president at the door and by accepting an invitation to deliver a Christmas message during sacrament meeting in another enemy tongue—English.
A young Danish girl who was a member of the branch wrote to my mother about the strange experience of having an enemy soldier in their midst:
Last night I visited the branch. There was a German there, your husband. Even though many Danish people hate Germans, we learned to love this man. He spoke to the congregation in English, and William Orum Peterson translated. Your husband related how only a month ago, he had lost everything he had, and the mission home had been destroyed. But he was thankful that his wife and children were safe. He then gave testimony of the truthfulness of the Church. It was wonderful to see a man in the uniform we hated speak with so much love for us. He was happy to be among the Saints.

From the time he was a young boy growing up in Genoa, Italy, Christopher Columbus knew that he wanted to be a seaman. Coming from a family of weavers, however, it was expected that Christopher would follow in the footsteps of his grandfather and father. But the curious boy was more interested in the sea and the stars, and instead of weaving cloth as his brothers and father did, Christopher spent much of his time weaving dreams of adventure and discovery.
He listened to the tales of the sailors who came to the marketplace. They talked about exotic people of the Orient and of the great amounts of gold and spices in China, Japan, and India. Christopher dreamed of someday going to those strange, faraway places.
As soon as he could, he began working on ships. Studying hard, he learned as much as he could about sailing, maps, and navigating by the stars. At the age of thirteen, he left home to seek his fortune as a seaman.
He traveled throughout Europe and the Mediterranean and became an expert navigator. By the time he was 25, Christopher was made captain of a ship. It was then that he started to formulate a plan.
In the 1400s, many seamen were reluctant to go after the wealth of the Indies because it was thought that the only way to get there was by sailing a difficult, circuitous route around Africa. Christopher believed that there was another way. He thought that he could get to Japan by going west across the Atlantic Ocean.
Most people laughed at Christopher’s idea, and he had a hard time getting anyone to support his proposed trip. It took him six years to finally convince the king and queen of Spain, Ferdinand and Isabella, to provide him with ships and money.
On August 3, 1492, Christopher set sail from Palos, Spain, with three ships: the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. It was only after a long and difficult journey that land was sighted. October 12, 1492, was the happy day when he set foot on dry ground—not in Japan or China or India, but on an island in what is now called the Bahamas, in the western hemisphere.
It has now been five hundred years since Christopher Columbus made that trip, and modern history books all give an account of the famous journey. But long before Columbus was born, another historian wrote of this navigator’s future travels. The prophet Nephi, son of Lehi, had a vision of Columbus. He recorded the vision in 1 Nephi: “And I looked and beheld a man among the Gentiles, who was separated from the seed of my brethren by the many waters; and I beheld the Spirit of God, that it came down and wrought upon the man; and he went forth upon the many waters, even unto the seed of my brethren, who were in the promised land” (1 Ne. 13:12).
The scriptures indicate that Columbus’ voyages to the lands of North and South America were not made by chance but were directed by the Spirit. Columbus himself acknowledged several times that he was motivated by divine influence. In a letter to the king and queen of Spain, he wrote, “Our Lord unlocked my mind, sent me upon the sea, and gave me fire for the deed. Those who heard of my emprise [enterprise] called it foolish, mocked me, and laughed. But who can doubt but the Holy Ghost inspired me?”*
Weeks into their voyage, the crews that were with Columbus grew restless and fearful, and the captains of the Nina and the Pinta both wanted to turn back. Columbus would not give up, however, and he finally promised that if land was not sighted in forty-eight hours, they would turn back. That night in his cabin, Columbus “prayed mightily to the Lord,”* and on the very next day, October 12, land was sighted.
Because of his strong determination, courage, and faith, Christopher Columbus was able to make his dream of adventure and travel to distant lands come true. He didn’t discover a new route to the Indies, as he had hoped to, but his discovery of America was inspired by God.

Dr. William Ghormley served as president of the stake in Corpus Christi, Texas. He bought his gasoline at a particular station. Each time he filled his tank he would leave a piece of Church literature with the station owner. It might have been a tract or a Church magazine or the Church News, but he never went there without leaving something. The man who ran the station was converted by the power of the Spirit as he read that literature. When last I checked, he was serving as a bishop.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Martin walked along the path that led from his family’s summer home to the lake. A vivid splash of orange and pink streaked across the sky. This was a path he had walked many times before. It was all familiar to him: the trees, rocks, even the old boathouse at the end. He knew it all well. Often he had walked along this path to go fishing or swimming, yet tonight he had something else on his mind.
The wooden boards of the boathouse came into view as he came over a ridge in the trail. As a child he had played in its walls with his brother. It would become the fort as they were under attack from an imaginary enemy, or a stop along a spy trail. They had spent so much of their youth there. But tonight the memories of the past faded to reflections in the dirty windows. He and his younger brother had both grown, and those playful times were gone.
He stopped for only a few minutes to look through the dusty windows. He wiped the cobwebs away with his hand. Inside, the family rowboat sat, waiting for someone to come. Against the wall were several old fishing poles and boat oars. Several buckets and shovels were scattered across the floor. His mother had stacked all the life jackets in the corner, all but one that lay on the floor near the door. He moved around to the front and opened the door. The rusted hinges moaned with age and time. He pushed the buckets away and made his way to the pale orange life jacket. He picked it up and held it for a moment. His mind drifted back to those days when his father would say, “Don’t go in the boat without a life jacket!” So many times he had heard these words. He smiled and held the jacket close to his chest.
He walked from the boathouse toward the water’s edge. The tired sun cast long, golden arms upon the water in a final embrace. As he walked, Martin put the old, worn jacket on over his black school sweatshirt. As he reached the weathered dock, he stopped. Again memories crept into his mind. He had spent countless hours at this dock. Here, his father had taught him to dive. This was where he had looked for a sunken treasure chest with his brother. He smiled at the thought of so many summers. He bent down and gathered a handful of stones before strolling onto the dock. A single lamppost at the end greeted him with a dull yellow glow. The feeling of his first summer romance filled his chest. Here below this very lamppost, he had said his good-byes to the “girl of his dreams.” They had parted with a small kiss, and his summer had ended.
He sat on the end of the dock and removed his dusty canvas shoes. He then rolled his khakis up over his calves so that he could let his feet dangle in the water. He sat almost breathless as he marveled at the beauty of the evening. So many colors, so many pictures, all painted by God’s skilled hand. He let his feet down into the cool lake. A shock ran up his leg as he felt the cold mountain water surround his ankles. The sounds of evening seemed to float through the air around him. How peaceful it all was. He looked at his reflection in the water. Where had the messy-haired little boy gone? he wondered. The face of a 20-year-old young man looked back at him. He dropped a stone into the lake. He dropped a few more. He looked up toward the sky to find the sun had now slipped silently behind the mountains. Only the tattered lamppost cast out a few dim rays. He dropped another stone and watched as it sank quickly to the bottom.
Martin had been at the top of his class in high school. Nothing was standing in his way. His future was so bright. Yet something was blocking that light. He also felt as if he had to struggle to keep his head above water. He saw himself as the stones that quickly sank below the surface. He wondered why life was so hard. The words of his father again rang in his ears, “Don’t go in the boat without a life jacket!” That’s what he had wanted to find, a life jacket for life. It didn’t matter if he was with his friends or alone, he just hadn’t been able to keep that little bit above all the waves of life’s problems.
Martin remembered the summer when a girl from school arrived at the lake. Her family had purchased one of the homes nearby. He had seen her around but had never said much to her. At school, he had noticed that something was different about her. He was happy to have someone to talk to. His brother had found other friends, so it was nice to find someone to spend the long summer days with. Many times they would take a boat out on the lake, or go for long walks, or just sit on the dock and toss pebbles into the water. One afternoon, they had walked to a small store in the town and made their way back to the dock. “Sarah, may I ask you a question?” Martin asked.
“Sure,” came the reply.
“You always seem so … happy.” He paused to find the words he wanted. “How is it that you can always be so happy when everything around us is so depressing?”
The answer he received shocked him, yet it was something that would change his life forever.
Summer soon drew to a close and school began. Martin found it easier to stay afloat as he thought of the words of his newfound friend. He set out to learn all he could about this new idea he had been given. He talked with his family, friends, and others he felt could help him. Sarah introduced him to two others who shared with him the knowledge he desired. They gave him a book and asked him to read it. As he did, the answers he had been looking for became clear. His life began to change, and the obstruction to his bright future seemed to move aside. So much just seemed to fall into place. He learned that he had a Heavenly Father and an elder Brother, Jesus Christ, who loved him very much, in addition to his earthly family.
Two years had passed since the afternoon when it all began. Martin now returned to the very spot where it was started by a simple question. But this time he knew the answers. He pulled his feet out of the water and drew his knees up to his chest. He looked again at the man in the water. He laughed as he saw the reflection. There he was sitting with an old life jacket on. He marveled at how much his life had changed. Everything seemed so clear to him. As he looked out over the lake, his heart began to pound with excitement, knowing he too would be able to share his new knowledge with people. Much like the two young missionaries who had taught him so much about the life he should live, he would be able to give the same to someone else.
Martin rolled over onto his stomach. He rested his chin on his folded arms. He thought of the words and ideas that had saved his life—the ancient writings of men who provided the wisdom and counsel for which he had searched. He closed his eyes and offered a simple prayer of thanks. Martin thanked his Heavenly Father for sending his Son to make such a change in his life possible. Tears began to well up in his eyes. He focused again on the image in the water. Two tears broke the surface. It was almost as though he felt the warmth of a hand on his shoulder and knew his elder Brother was near. He sat for a moment longer; then he sat up and put his shoes on. He stood and removed the old life jacket. As it fell to the dock he smiled and spoke the familiar phrase, “Don’t go in the boat without a life jacket!”

When I held an online interview with Darlyn and she turned on her camera, she gave me the biggest smile. It was morning in Singapore, and she had gotten up early to meet with me before getting her three kids to school and herself to work.
Darlyn had always wanted to get a master’s degree, but at 36, she was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer. This upset her plans for further education and her plans for life.
As I listened to her story, I thought that if anyone had a right to be upset with difficult changes, it was Darlyn. But she pointed out the blessings and mercies she’d received and the people who had served her. Darlyn accepted the change of plans with grace. Instead of focusing on what she had lost, she focused on the experiences she had gained. Just as President Russell M. Nelson taught, “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.”1
Ultimately, Darlyn joined BYU–Pathway Worldwide because she wanted to keep her mind healthy. She told me she didn’t hate having cancer—she was grateful it led her to BYU–Pathway and to deepen her relationship with Jesus Christ.
I left that conversation wanting to change my perspective of change. Because Darlyn had put aside resentment and anger about her circumstances, she was able to take control of her life. Instead of challenges and change deterring her progress, they propelled her forward.

When I was about three or four years old, my mother was the ward Relief Society president. Part of her responsibility, it seemed, was always to have a quilt in progress in our home. At any given time, sisters would filter in and out of our basement to quilt for a while. Often my mother would thread a needle for me and let me “quilt” with the sisters. (My clumsy stitches were patiently removed when I was not around.) I relished these moments and learned at a young age to love quilting and Relief Society.
My mother died suddenly when I was only five. It wasn’t until years later that I found out she had left me a great gift of love. The Christmas of my 19th year is one I will always remember, for that was when I received this most precious gift from my mother, although she had passed away 14 years earlier.
I hadn’t known it, but before my mother died she had pieced together two special quilt tops, one for my older brother and one for me. She had used little pieces of fabric from our dresses and shirts. But she had passed away before she could put the quilts together and do the quilting.
When I turned 19, my older sister felt it was time to complete the quilts for my brother and me, and she asked the ward Relief Society to finish them. The sisters sewed the intricate stitches without knowing how much it would have pleased my mother.
On Christmas Day when I received the quilt, I loved the gift with all my heart. But I had no idea how much more it would yet come to mean to me.
Years went by, and I married and started a family of my own. I kept my quilt wrapped in a plastic bag in a drawer to protect it from damage and wear. One day I took it out and was carefully admiring it when one of my little boys came into the room and asked me where I got the quilt. I explained to him that his Grandma Brown had made the quilt for me before she died.
“Who is Grandma Brown?” my young son asked.
How it pained me that my children had never known the mother I cherished. It hurt that she could not put her arms around them and tell them she loved them in her tender, gentle way. I explained to my son once again that Grandma Brown, my mother, was someone special in heaven who loved him.
“Why do you have that quilt, Mommy?” he asked.
Suddenly it came to me. I knew exactly why I had the quilt. I unfolded it and wrapped it around his little body. “I have this quilt so Grandma Brown can give you hugs even though she is in heaven,” I said.
A big smile spread across his face, and I could see that this was the best answer I could have given him.
Since then the quilt has made its way out of the drawer much more often. Whenever a family member is hurt, sad, or in need of extra love, the quilt is a great source of comfort. I love touching the quilt, knowing my mother’s hands have touched it also.
Many years have passed, and I can now quilt correctly. My sisters and I have spent many hours around quilting frames, talking about our mother. Since I am the youngest, my sisters tell me stories about her to help me know her better. Yet no matter how many stories I hear, nothing has helped me or my children turn our hearts to my mother more than the quilt I got for Christmas the year I turned 19.

Two years into his work at Exxon Chemical Co. in Houston, Texas, USA, Elder Steven D. Shumway learned that his parents had been called to preside over a mission in Bolivia and needed help with the family business in Arizona.
“I don’t want to put pressure on you to come back,” his father said to him. “But if you don’t come back, I worry about what will happen to the business.”
It was a difficult decision to make, said Elder Shumway.
He and his wife traveled five hours to the Dallas Texas Temple and spent the day there without receiving an answer. Afterward, they visited a bookstore and spotted the biography of President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008), Go Forward with Faith.
“Both of us felt the Lord say, ‘You need to go forward with faith in my way, not in your way,’” Elder Shumway said. “And so we moved to Arizona, which has turned out to be one of the most significant and beautiful changes in our lives.”
One of the best things they have learned in their marriage, Elder Shumway said, is that “when you accept [the Lord’s] invitation, you prosper. You progress. Things are better than if you try to do things your way.”

The LDS students try to be good examples, and some of their fellow students can’t help but notice and want to know more. “I was always associating with them,” said Erika Redfield. “It was the example I noticed. Mormons seemed to always be sensitive to other people’s feelings. They were never fake or dishonest.”

When Erika was thinking about her future, planning her education and what she wanted to do, she felt a hole in her religious life. She called one of the LDS girls she knew at school and started asking about things her friend believed. Soon she was investigating the Church with the missionaries. Erika said, “My testimony came really slow at first, but every time I read something, I prayed about it. I had the feeling that it was true. Whenever I found the truth, I wanted to hear more.” But it wasn’t easy. Friends and acquaintances made sure she was well supplied with anti-Mormon literature. “I don’t know how I stood up to it all.” But Erika had found what she was looking for and was baptized.

Now Erika feels very much a part of the LDS group. “The peer group at school is awesome. They try hard to make you fit in. I could never repay them,” Erika says pausing, “but no one asks for anything in return.”

When I went to preschool, we had a concert that was planned to be on a Sunday. My mom told me that if I want to be like Jesus Christ, I should do what the prophet says. She also said that the prophet told us that we need to go to church on Sundays but that I could choose.
I had learned a lot of songs for the concert and had worked hard at preschool.
The last day of school, my mom asked me if I wanted to go to the concert. I told her that I did really want to go, but it was on a Sunday and I wanted to go to church and follow the prophet.
My mom gave me a big hug and said that I had made a good choice. I felt really good inside because I followed the prophet’s teachings.

My parents joined the Church when I was young. We were in a small branch in Australia. My mother played the piano at church. But she could play only a few of the hymns. I was learning the piano too. When I was seven, the branch president asked me to play at church.
When I played the piano, I made mistakes. And when I made a mistake, I used to cry. I was very shy and nervous. But I kept practicing. I wanted to play the hymns well. Now I love to play the piano! I can play all the hymns. On my mission in New Zealand, I served in another small branch. They didn’t have anyone to play the piano. So I played the organ and the piano for a year. Working through my fear was a blessing for me. It allowed me to bless others.

One Sunday while I was serving as mission president in Vladivostok, Russia, a rather amazing thing happened. I had gone to my office to gather some materials when a 13-year-old young man, Vladimir, whose friends call him Vova, knocked on the door. Vova is a deacon in the Vladivostok First Branch. He asked to visit with me in my office. He was accompanied by Sister Olga Vyachyeslavna Dryagunova. This sister speaks wonderful English, and the boy had asked her if she would act as his interpreter. Vova speaks no English, and I speak only a little Russian.
Vova had been an orphan, abandoned at birth because he was born with a cleft palate. The birth defect has since been partially repaired, leaving a scar. He was adopted by a wonderful woman who has treated him as her son. The boy is always happy. He has a smile on his face and a wonderful countenance when he passes the sacrament. He wears the mantle of a deacon as well as any boy I have ever known. He regularly bears a sweet and brief testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. He is everything that a deacon ought to be.
At our meeting Vova spoke Russian and Sister Olga interpreted. She told me that Vova had come to fill out his application to serve as a full-time missionary. I asked, without a hint of a smile, “How old is he?”
She asked and he answered, “Nearly 14.”
Retaining my composure, I said, “Does he understand that he needs to be 19 before he can serve a mission?”
She responded, “He does, but he does not want to be tardy in getting his application in.”
I assured them that there was still time before we needed to send his missionary application to Moscow and then on to Salt Lake City. Neither the branch president nor I would forget when it was time for him to fill out his forms. I walked to the wall displaying pictures of the 44 missionaries then serving in the Russia Vladivostok Mission. I told Vova I was worried that the missionary papers might be returned if it appeared that I was recommending a 13-year-old boy for a mission.
Then I explained that since he was in my office where I conducted interviews with the missionaries, I thought it appropriate to ask him the questions that will be asked of him when he is 19, just to make sure that he was currently worthy to serve a mission. I then went through all the worthiness questions as though Vova were one of my full-time missionaries but tactfully passed over the boy-girl questions, thinking them premature. Besides, I didn’t want to embarrass Sister Olga.
Vova answered all my questions with the appropriate responses and with the wisdom of a boy twice his age. Upon further reflection, I guessed that he may have even asked one of the elders what interview questions he might anticipate from the mission president. I then told Vova that he could come back every six months, and we would repeat the interview process.
He then asked with some concern what he should say to let me know he was ready for another interview six months from now. I said to him, through Sister Olga, that it was time for him to have his first English lesson. I then said slowly, “This is what you should say to me, ‘President, I am ready for my missionary interview.’”
He repeated the important words he needed to know three times.
As I was ready to end the interview, Vova asked Sister Olga to ask me one last question. “President,” he said, “what advice do you have for me to prepare for my mission?”
I was a bit taken back. Few of my mature elders would have the wisdom to ask such a timely question. I pondered for a moment and then told him to do three things: First, I told him to read the scriptures each day. Second, I suggested that he pray to his Heavenly Father each morning and evening. Third, I told him to practice his English.
I confess the last suggestion was a little selfish on my part, as I was thinking how I would enjoy speaking with him in English and asking him questions about the things of his heart. I suggested he attend the free English classes taught by the missionaries, but he said his mother would not allow him to be out after dark. We agreed that he would work harder each day in his English class at school.
Later, when I saw the deacons in the hall after church, I asked Vova if he would like to repeat the phrase he needed to use to ask for his next interview. This he did in a fine manner. Then to my great surprise, I learned that each of the other deacons in the branch had also learned the magic words. Each one repeated while looking right at me, “President, I am ready for my missionary interview!”
Oh, the power of example! The joy of one willing to open his mouth and share the things he had learned with another was something I was trying to get all of my missionaries to experience! These Russian deacons were on the road to perfection.

A student at our school, Becca (name has been changed), was scheduled to undergo surgery to remove a cancerous brain tumor. My friend Fede and I wanted to find something special the whole school could do for Becca. I remembered a Japanese tradition involving the folding of 1,000 origami cranes to show support for people in need, and I thought it was something we could do for Becca. We went to the headmaster for approval and then picked up piles of multicolored paper.
We had only two days until Becca’s surgery, but we didn’t let that stop us. That night I learned how to fold origami cranes and started to cut paper squares—hundreds of them!
The next day we announced the project to the school and invited everyone to make a crane for Becca. The entire school, including the faculty, came together to contribute. It was incredible to see.
After two days, we had over 1,000 paper cranes. We threaded them on strings and packaged them in a box, which Fede and I took to Becca at the hospital. She could feel the happiness and love that had been put into making each crane.
While leading this project, I learned that even a small gesture can show people you’re thinking about them and can make a difference. And when many people stand with you, the impact grows exponentially. I also learned that if you have a purpose, those around you can help you reach your goal. When we raised our voice and asked for people to lend a hand, many jumped at the opportunity.
Clara H., Nova Scotia, Canada