Gospel Story Finder

When I graduated from high school, I was an accomplished tennis player, and I was selected to travel around Europe on a great team. While in France, we often played on fast indoor courts. I played well the first month and won a lot of matches.
Feeling really good about myself, I left France with my team and headed for Austria. The first tournament was on slow red clay. Going from fast indoor courts to slow red clay was a dramatic change. For the first time—and the only time in my 40 years of playing tennis—I lost 6–0 6–0, a double bagel, we call it. It rocked my world. Unwisely, I dwelt on my deficiencies from the match for days. A week later I was still dwelling on the loss.
I began to constantly doubt myself. Every time I messed up, I told myself I wasn’t good at tennis. I would miss a backhand into the top of the net and say to myself, “Not again! Your backhand stinks. You can’t make a backhand. Why do you even play this game? You just stink.”
Then I had the opportunity to play tennis at Brigham Young University, and I thought it was the perfect time to reset. However, I quickly learned that the bad mental habit of self-doubt I had created wasn’t going away anytime soon. I was working hard physically, but I wasn’t working hard mentally.
The problem was that I didn’t know how to fix my habit. How could I develop the belief that I could improve when I constantly doubted my God-given ability to do so? And my doubts didn’t just relate to sports. I had often told myself I wasn’t a good student. As a result, I didn’t study well and therefore didn’t do as well in school as I could have. Receiving low grades just reinforced the cycle of self-doubt, negative talk, and negative performance. As I prayed and pondered about these things, the Lord taught me some valuable lessons that could apply in all areas of my life.
One of the most important things I realized is how dangerous self-doubt is. When it gets into your mind, it hinders your ability to fulfill your potential and undermines confidence. However, confidence and fear, or positive and negative thoughts, cannot occupy your mind at the same time. To break my habit of self-doubt, I needed to fill my mind with the belief that I could excel.
I started working on thinking more positively. President James E. Faust (1920–2007), Second Counselor in the First Presidency, said, “We develop our talents first by thinking we can.”1
But positive thinking by itself isn’t enough. I realized that because I have a divine nature and destiny, I can trust in God to help me improve in all areas of my life. And as I listen to the Holy Ghost, I can make good choices, develop my talents, and work to reach my divine potential.
What’s more, God wants me to become my best self as I strive to become like Him. As Elder L. Tom Perry (1922–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “It matters not the size or the quantity but the effort we put forth to develop the talents and abilities we have received. You are not competing with anyone else. You are only competing with yourself to do the best with whatever you have received. Each talent that is developed will be greatly needed and will give you tremendous fulfillment and satisfaction during your life. …
“… We are instructed not to idle away our time nor bury our talents and not use them. We are expected to make our lives better through our own initiatives and efforts.”2
As I exercise faith in God, ask Him for guidance and help to fulfill my divine potential, and trust that He will help me, I gain trust, confidence, and a growing sense of self-worth.
Of course, that doesn’t mean things always work out the way you or I hope—you may not always win the game, the girl may not say yes when you ask her on a date, and you may not ace or even pass the test—but trusting God does sustain us through those circumstances.
The Lord also taught me that increasing confidence has a lot to do with how you talk to yourself. Every time I caught myself thinking or talking to myself in negative, reactive ways like, “Your backhand stinks” or “Don’t miss that backhand,” I would stop that thought and immediately replace it with thoughts such as, “I love my backhand” or “I am going to rip it down the line.” And instead of saying to myself, “School is tough; my classes are too hard for me,” I started telling myself, “I’ve got this; I can get good grades.”
It took some time, but everything started to change. I was playing amazing tennis (at least for me), and I was studying and getting better grades. More importantly, it chased out fear. This change in thinking was a continual work in progress, and I constantly battled to apply what I had learned. As my fear disappeared, my confidence grew.
The Lord also taught me that it was important to remind myself of my worth and potential when I started doubting or talking negatively about myself. I started thinking of short phrases that would remind me of my divine worth when I am under pressure or discouraged. Doing this is a lot like using a scripture or hymn to lift you up when you feel down or want to stay strong in the face of temptation—only personalized to your particular situation. When used at critical moments, doing this can flood the mind with positive, strong thoughts and instantly squeeze out any negative thoughts and emotions.
As an example, when I applied this process to my coaching, I was amazed by the dramatic increase in performance from the athletes I worked with. One was a U.S. Olympic mogul skier who was not ranked very high.
As I worked with her, she worked hard on training her thoughts to be positive and on using positive phrases to purify her thought patterns. As her thoughts improved, so did her performance. Eventually she was selected to join the World Cup touring team.
After the prequalifying races, this athlete was in fourth place. She told me after the event that when she had gotten on the chairlift to go up for her finals run, doubt had gotten into her mind. She began to accept her doubt, thinking, “It’s OK. No one expected me to do this well. My family will still love me.”
But then she caught herself and said: “No! Today is my day! I am making it happen today!”
And guess what? She ended up skiing faster than she had ever skied before and finished tied for first place.
Here’s the really cool thing: This doesn’t just work for skiing. You can think of personalized, positive reminders to replace negative thoughts when you struggle with grades or feel like you don’t fit in or that you are not worth much because you aren’t popular.
Dwelling obsessively on what we do wrong prevents us from maximizing our potential. It is one of the adversary’s greatest tools. But using language to build confidence and trusting in God to help you do your best no matter the result builds confidence in your abilities and chases away doubt. That concept has changed my life.
When we trust in God, we achieve our greatest potential because we become who He wants us to be. We can replace fear with confidence and pessimism with optimism as we strive to do our best.

When I was getting married, I felt anxious. My family still chuckles at how I tapped my fingers on my knee (a nervous tick of mine) as the temple sealer spoke to us. I wasn’t afraid to marry my husband—I loved him! But I was worried about the future because I was making such an important covenant. I silently prayed when I entered the temple to know what I could do to keep our marriage strong in a world that was growing increasingly turbulent.
A few moments later, the temple sealer told my husband and me to remember that every ordinance in the temple points us to Jesus Christ. The Spirit helped me recognize this message as an answer from Heavenly Father, and the temple sealer’s words deepened my testimony that as my husband and I consistently turned to the Savior, especially through temple work, we could strengthen our marriage through eternity.
This experience reminded me that Heavenly Father cares about the questions in our hearts and can provide comforting wisdom to us in the temple in personal ways. As President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) taught: “When I have been weighed down by a problem or a difficulty, I have gone to the House of the Lord with a prayer in my heart for answers. These answers have come in clear and unmistakable ways.”3

Carter snarled and growled in the backseat of the car. He could see his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked just like a Tyrannosaurus rex! Carter held up two fingers like claws and turned to his brothers.
“Are you excited to see the dinosaurs?” he growled.
McKay and Stockton raised their fingers like claws and roared, “Yes!”
Carter’s family was going to the museum to see the new T. rex fossil on display. Carter and his brothers were excited to see the skeleton of a real dinosaur. Carter was especially excited because he wanted to get a dinosaur T-shirt from the museum gift shop.
When the family arrived at the museum, Carter, McKay, and Stockton looked at everything, sometimes twice. They pushed buttons that roared different dinosaur roars. They stacked wooden dinosaur eggs into dinosaur nests. But best of all was the T. rex fossil.
The skeleton was huge! The dinosaur’s clawed toes were bigger than Carter’s whole head. Carter couldn’t decide between smiling because he was so happy or snarling like a dinosaur.
On the way out of the museum, Dad took Carter into the gift shop. “I can tell you liked seeing that dinosaur,” he said. “Pick out a T-shirt to share with your brothers to remember the fun we had together today.”
Carter looked through all the shirts carefully. He chose a black one with a T. rex skull baring its teeth, just like the one in the museum.
In the car, Carter was so excited that he put the T-shirt on over his regular shirt right away.
“You picked the best one!” McKay said.
“It’s for all of us to share,” Carter said. He leaned back so McKay could see the T. rex’s teeth better. “But I really want to wear it tomorrow so I can show my friends at school.”
“Sure you can,” McKay said. “I know how much you wanted a T. rex shirt.”
Carter settled back in his seat and thought about all the things he could tell his friends about the museum. He thought about how much he and his brothers had liked the dinosaur. Then he thought that McKay would probably want to wear the shirt to school too so he could tell his friends about the great day they had.
Carter decided he would love to see McKay happy, so as soon as they got home he took off the shirt and handed it to McKay. “You wear it to school tomorrow, McKay!” he said.
“Really?” McKay asked.
“I know you like T. rex too. I can wear it the next day.”
“Wow, thanks!” McKay hugged Carter and bounded out of the room to try on the shirt.
Carter felt warm and happy knowing he had made McKay so happy.
“I was happy at the museum, and I was happy wearing the T. rex T-shirt,” Carter thought. “But now I’m the happiest of all!”

There’s a little more to the story about McKay Hatch and his No Cussing Club (page 33). McKay’s father, Brent, sent us some information about his son and the club he started. The club really took off but not without some kids making fun of McKay and giving him a hard time. One guy who started out hassling McKay eventually changed his way of talking, joined the club, and became one of the officers.

An incident in the life of President Joseph F. Smith bears out this point. In the fall of
1857, the nineteen-year-old Joseph F. was returning from his mission in Hawaii, and in California he joined a wagon train. It was a volatile time for the Saints. Johnston’s Army was marching towards Utah, and many had bitter feelings towards the Church. One evening several hoodlums rode into camp, cursing and threatening to hurt every Mormon they could find. Most in the wagon train ran and hid in the brush. But Joseph F. thought to himself: “Shall I run from these fellows? Why should I fear them?” With that, he walked up to one of the intruders who, with pistol in hand, demanded, “Are you a Mormon?” Joseph F. Smith responded, “Yes siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.” At that, the hoodlum grasped his hand and said, “Well you are the [blankety-blank] pleasantest man I ever met! Shake hands, young fellow. I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.”

I went to the bishop to get a recommend for my patriarchal blessing. Through that experience, I learned that God had a plan for my life. That knowledge helped me form my own plans for the future. My grades improved, and I started getting involved in clubs and activities at school. I was assigned to be a home teacher with a neighbor, who taught me about service and how a priesthood holder should live.
Despite the changes I made, my life wasn’t easy. In some ways it became more difficult. Going to church meant more conflicts with my family over the kinds of activities we engaged in on Sunday and the kinds of movies we watched. Most of the time I went to church by myself. I missed out on dinners, movies, and visits to amusement parks. But that was more than made up for by the Spirit I felt. The Holy Ghost comforted me in difficult times and taught me as I read the scriptures.
When I graduated from high school and seminary, my grandma gave me the promised check for $100. I thanked her and told her I didn’t want it, but she insisted. The testimony I had gained of a loving Heavenly Father, the Savior, the Holy Ghost, the restored Church, and prophets who lead us today was worth far more than any amount of money.

A few months later, time became harder to find, and scripture reading became shorter and shorter. I soon found myself with my compass cloudy. My sister wrote me this note:
You know, Trish, I feel like you are in a major war for your soul, and as much as I would like to be there on the daily battlefront and as much as I talk about fighting for you, I realized last night when I was thinking about you that you are the only one who can win your war. You are the only one who can put on your armor every day by reading the Book of Mormon.
Once again I turned to the scriptures, increasing my reading to 30 minutes a day. And again, things turned around.

Jessica stood on the sidewalk outside Sister Richards’s house, straddling her bike and staring with uncertainty at an open side gate that led to the Richardses’ backyard. Planting a summer garden wasn’t at the top of her list of fun things to do on an already-too-hot Saturday morning. In fact, it wasn’t anywhere on her list!
Besides, she told herself, she had never gardened in her life and had rarely attended Sister Richards’s Valiant 9 Primary class. She barely knew the others in the class, and when she did go to church, one of them—Karlie—never seemed to want to even be seen with her.
She wondered why she had said yes when Sister Richards invited her to help plant the vegetable garden. It was to be a service project, and what was grown would be shared with others in the neighborhood.
“If only it was something other than planting and tending a garden!” Jessica thought as she started to turn her bike around. She liked to help others, “but there will be other chances to—”
Jessica saw Karlie approaching. Karlie’s eyes avoided Jessica’s as she rode through the side gate.
As Jessica again started to turn her bike around, something else stopped her. This time it was her Primary teacher’s voice. “Jessica! I’m so glad you’ve come. We’re just about ready to start planting.”
“If only Sister Richards’s smile wasn’t so kind and genuine,” Jessica thought, “I could tell her I’ve changed my mind about wanting to help.”
“Everyone is here, dear,” her Primary teacher went on. “Tyler, Karlie, Daniel, Joseph, Allie, and Michael. For a couple of them, Jessica, it’s a first—the first time they’ve come to a Primary activity.” She winked as if sharing it in confidence. “I think they’re curious.” As Jessica hesitated, Sister Richards added, “All you need for our project is a caring heart and willing hands, and I happen to know that you have both.”
In the backyard, Jessica saw a nicely cultivated, rich-soiled plot of earth surrounded by children. She found herself recalling other words Sister Richards had said: “The Savior spent his whole life helping others. He even died for us. His message is as simple as the sacred hymn that declares it: ‘As I have loved you, Love one another’ (Children’s Songbook, 136).”
One afternoon a few weeks later, Jessica and Karlie found themselves on their knees side by side, thinning and weeding the tender, sprouting plants. Jessica came across a large weed that stubbornly held its place among young cornstalks. Try as she might, she could not pull it out. Suddenly Karlie grasped it, too. With one united tug, they jerked it out of the ground.
They giggled as they fell backward, their laughter dissolving into quiet, affectionate looks as they suddenly understood why they had avoided each other before. They simply had not known enough about each other to feel comfortable. Jessica flicked a piece of dirt off Karlie’s face, realizing as she did that they might become good friends. She smiled at Karlie.
“Are you going to Primary this Sunday?” Karlie asked.
“Are you?”
Karlie nodded.
Jessica smiled again. “Me, too.”
As the two girls brushed dirt off each other, Tyler stopped and blinked sweat from his eyes, and Michael paused to examine a blister. Sister Richards winked as she paraphrased a Book of Mormon scripture, “God will consecrate our afflictions for our gain (2 Ne. 2:2).”
Tyler grinned as he said, “Some cold lemonade would also help our afflictions. Hint, hint.”
“I’ll show you affliction!” Daniel playfully flung a handful of weeds at Tyler. Tyler tossed a few thinned carrots back at Daniel, but they missed and rained on Michael instead. By the time Sister Richards began to sprinkle them with a hose, everyone else had joined in.
As Jessica laughingly stepped back from the fun-filled fray to catch her breath, she found herself thinking back to that first, uneasy Saturday when she had straddled her bike in front of Sister Richards’s house. “So much has changed since then!” she thought. “Lots of things have grown, not just the vegetables. Our group has grown, too, because we’ve invited our other friends, and some of them aren’t even Church members. …”
“Are you all right, honey?” Sister Richards joined Jessica. “You look so far away.”
Jessica smiled at her Primary teacher. “I’m very all right, Sister Richards. I was just thinking. I didn’t know I could ever feel this good about what we’re doing.”
“You mean about taking time out for a little fun?”
“No—about planting and growing a sharing garden. And all our friends coming, too, and not just here but to Primary! And do you know what? That feeling keeps getting bigger, just like that corn over there.”
Sister Richards pulled Jessica close to her. Jessica looked up and saw that Sister Richards was crying.
Tyler and Lindsey, who was a longtime friend of Jessica’s and who was not a member of the Church, stopped playing upon seeing Sister Richards wipe her eyes. “We’re sorry, Sister Richards,” Tyler apologized. “We’ll stop horsing around and—”
“No, no, Tyler, it’s not that.” Not wanting to break Jessica’s confidence, Sister Richards simply said, “Haven’t you ever gotten anything in your eye before?”
A few short weeks later, as they picked, cleaned, and placed ripe vegetables into baskets for neighbors, Daniel paused to fan his hot face with a towel. Sister Richards told him with a grin, “The seeds of service are watered by the sweat of labor.” Daniel rolled his eyes and then grinned back.
Jessica smiled, thinking, “Yes, Sister Richards really does have a way with words.”
The group placed their produce in two worn red wagons and started down the street. At one stop, they made their way up a little flowered walkway to the door of an elderly widow. The house was small and seemed forlorn. When the door opened, Jessica and the others offered the old woman a small sack with several different vegetables in it. The smile of sweet surprise that rippled across her wrinkled face squeezed tears not only from her eyes but from some of the children’s as well.
As they started back down the walkway, Tyler told Joseph, who had playfully poked him, “What’s the matter, haven’t you ever gotten anything in your eye before—like ‘the sweat of labor’?”
One afternoon after giving away that day’s harvest, the empty wagons rattling behind them, Sister Richards started to sing, “‘By this shall men know Ye are my disciples—’”
The children helped her finish it, “‘If ye have love One to another.’”
Sister Richards asked them, “So how do you feel?”
Michael fanned his face with his hand. “It’s hot, but I still feel good.”
“Doing good makes you feel good,” Allie reasoned aloud, “no matter what else doesn’t.”
“And right now”—Tyler grinned at his Primary teacher—“I believe some of your cold lemonade will make feeling good feel even better!”
Sister Richards grinned back at Tyler as she ruffled his hair. “Such wisdom for one so young!”

My daughters, ages 8 and 10, seemed to be growing farther and farther apart. As their mother, I ached inside to see the bickering between them and the mean looks they often directed at each other.
During this time I was praying earnestly to the Lord to help me with my own weaknesses. I prayed that He would help me learn what I needed to learn about charity, and I was led to some beautiful passages of scripture.
One night things came to a head with my daughters. I lost my temper and, after ranting and raving at them, stormed outside to cool down and think. After a few minutes, the Spirit began to soften my heart, prompting me to go inside and apologize to my eldest daughter, who had caught the worst of my temper.
As I entered her bedroom, I saw my 10-year-old daughter kneeling beside her bed, weeping. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I don’t know what to do.” She told me she wanted to pray and read her scriptures so she would feel better, but she couldn’t because she felt so bad.
When she told me how sorry she felt for her part in our quarrel and then said I was not to blame, oh, what shame I felt. We talked a while and then turned to the scriptures, where I read to her about charity, “the pure love of Christ” (Moroni 7:47), and shared some of the things I had learned. At that point her younger sister looked in the room, and we invited her to join us. I then explained, in words an eight-year-old could understand, what we had read about charity.
After I had finished, both girls turned to me with big eyes and expressed a desire to be filled with this great love spoken of in the scriptures. We then knelt and, as Mormon counseled, humbly asked the Father to fill us with this love (see Moroni 7:48).
Touched by the Spirit, we could not help but weep. We rose from our knees, embraced, and expressed our love for each other. At that moment I saw an eternal sisterhood and friendship begin to bloom between my daughters, and I was comforted.
Their relationship has continued to grow since then. They have a greater desire to work out their differences, show more patience, and share their belongings. I am grateful for their righteous desires and efforts.
I will always treasure that experience, and I pray that there will be more like it as we continue to strengthen the bonds of charity and love in our home.

Ever heard of a do-it-yourself musical? The Young Men and Young Women of the Kinston North Carolina Stake have. To help celebrate the sesquicentennial year, they organized, wrote, directed, and performed their own musical drama. First a youth drama specialist was called from each ward and branch in the stake, with a ward adult specialist to assist. Two workshops were held on the stake level to teach how to develop the production. Then each ward and branch selected a different time period of Church history, researched it, and wrote a script for that period. The stake drama specialist tied all the ward scripts together with narrative and musical interludes, and the musical was born! Every youth in the stake who wanted to participate either appeared on stage or helped backstage. Even moms and dads helped, and all had a terrific time.

This celebration was so special that I traveled more than four thousand miles to return to my Samoan village of Faletele.
The village was already bustling with activity. Crowding in with the few hundred villagers were more than a hundred of my relatives from many parts of Samoa and scores of honored guests from other villages.
I started walking through the malae, heading toward the big, dome-roofed fale. There in that fale, visiting with the most honored guests, sat my beloved cousin Sama. Suddenly I was filled with pride and pain and love as I remembered when I first came to know Sama—Sama the Thumb.
I was a little girl then, just five years old. Sama was ten. His parents had gone to New Zealand for the dedication of the Mormon temple there, and Sama had come to stay with us.
I was sitting on the edge of the malae, watching the young men and boys play Samoan-style cricket, with dozens of players on each side. The spectators were shouting and cheering and singing and dancing to a rhythm beaten out on an old, empty kerosene tin. A bus stopped on the road, and one of my aunts got out, followed by a boy who struggled to carry a heavy basket. When they went to the Tuita‘ua’s fale, I followed them.
Tuita‘ua Ioane was the main matai in our family. Hundreds of relatives honored and obeyed him. Tuita‘ua is one of the great titles in Samoa, and the Tuita‘ua is respected by all Samoans.
“Go get Tofo and Malini,” Tuita‘ua Ioane ordered me.
I ran back to the cricket match to fetch my cousins. They weren’t happy to give up their places in the match, but they obeyed the Tuita‘ua’s orders to fix fried corned beef and baked bananas and lemonade for him, our aunt, and the boy—who we learned was our cousin Sama. They bowed low and showed great respect when they served Tuita‘ua Ioane his food on a leaf-covered tray. But I saw them scowl at Sama when they placed his food in front of him.
In the days that followed, scowls were replaced by smiles and laughs. Sama won us over with his stories and jokes and his sense of humor. Even though most of the cousins were much older than Sama, they soon accepted him not only as a cousin but also as a good friend. I tagged along when they gathered coconuts, chopped the grass with bush knives, played cricket, went inland to plant taro in the family taro patch, and sang songs while strolling through the village after evening prayer services. When Sama was with us, whether we were working or playing, we laughed and had fun.
Then on Saturday the boy cousins went spear fishing in the lagoon. Sama caught an octopus and was treated like a hero.
After the cousins had cooked the evening meal of fish, taro, palusami, and, of course, octopus, two of the cousins grabbed Sama’s arms and held him while another cousin beat out a solemn rhythm on a log. Tofo marched up to Sama carrying a tray of food, including the best parts of the octopus. Tofo’s face was stern.
“We honor Sama, the great octopus hunter,” Tofo said. “As long as you are here in Faletele, you, Sama, will have the honor of serving the Tuita‘ua.” Then Tofo smiled and handed the tray to Sama, and Malini put a necklace of fragrant buds around Sama’s neck and a red hibiscus flower in his hair.
On Sunday morning I couldn’t find Sama. All day I asked the people of the village if they had seen him, but nobody knew where he was.
Finally, in the late afternoon, long after our church services and our after-church meal were over, Sama came walking through the village in his white shirt and white lavalava. Tuita‘ua Ioane called him into the fale. “Where have you been, Sama?” he asked.
“In Fuapa‘epa‘e.”
“You walked eight miles to Fuapa‘epa‘e? And back?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Why?”
“Because that is the closest village where I can attend my church.”
Tuita‘ua Ioane took off his wire-rimmed reading glasses and laid them on the Bible, which he’d been reading. “Sama, the matai has made a decree that there will be only one church in Faletele and that all the people in Faletele will attend that church. Do you understand? You are part of my family, Sama, but you are also a guest in this village and you are under my protection. You know our rule.” He leaned forward and looked Sama in the eyes. “You do what you have to do.”
The following week none of the cousins mentioned Sama’s trip to Fuapa‘epa‘e. They continued to joke and laugh together as they worked in the taro and helped harvest a truckload of bananas that would go to New Zealand. On Saturday we all hiked to our secret waterfall, where we splashed and swam and lay out on the big rocks to be warmed by the sun. On our way home we caught prawns in the stream for dinner.
Trouble started on the second Sunday. I woke up to the sounds of arguing. Malini and Tofo were chasing after Sama, who was dressed in his white shirt and lavalava.
“Sama, you know what the village rule is!” Tofo shouted.
Malini grabbed Sama’s arm. “How can you show such disrespect to your matai?”
Though Sama was shorter than the two older boys, somehow he seemed taller as he stood boldly in front of them. “Tuita‘ua told me to do what I have to do. And this is what I have to do!”
As he started walking again, Malini shouted after him, “Sama, don’t embarrass your family like this!”
At the end of the day when Sama came walking back into Faletele, a woman made fun of Sama, calling him a bad name. All the cousins were angry at Sama and wouldn’t talk to him—all of them, that is, except me. I was glad to see Sama, and it was the first time that I had him all to myself. It was wonderful as we talked and sang and he told me stories.
In the morning the cousins took their long poles and went up the hills to gather breadfruit. Sama and I hurried after them.
We talked and joked as we knocked the breadfruit from the trees. It was almost like before, and all the cousins were starting to have fun together again. Then a group of villagers came by and called Sama “Mamona” and said mean things about Sama and our family.
There was no more joking among the cousins. For the rest of the week the cousins refused to include Sama in anything that they did. Tofo told me not to talk and play with him, but I did anyway whenever I could find him. Mostly he went off by himself into the forest.
“Maybe tomorrow you will remove our family shame and come with us to the village church,” Malini told Sama on Saturday night.
But on Sunday morning Sama was gone again. Next to each of our sleeping mats was a gift that Sama had made—octopus lures for Tofo and Gutu, a flute for Malini, toy fishing canoes for ‘Ene‘ene and Pisa, and a top and a pale for me.
When Sama returned that evening, I put on my pale and ran out to greet him. He was happy and eager to see the others—until he stepped on something in the grass. He looked down and saw one of the canoes he had made, now smashed and broken. He looked around and saw that his other gifts had also been broken and discarded.
“The villagers got them mad,” I explained. “But I kept mine. I like my presents very much. Thank you.”
Sama smiled at me, then went off by himself until it was time for the evening meal. As Sama got a tray of food ready for the Tuita‘ua, Tofo grabbed the tray away and shouted, “You are a disgrace to your family! You no longer get the honor of serving the Tuita‘ua!”
“And find someplace else to sleep,” Malini yelled. “You’re no longer welcome in the boys’ fale.”
‘Ene‘ene pushed Sama down, and Gutu raised his fists to hit Sama. “Because of you, our friends are calling us dirty names!”
I was afraid that the cousins were going to hurt Sama, so I ran to get Tuita‘ua Ioane. But he had heard and had already come to the edge of the fale. “You boys, stop it now!” he commanded. “All of you, come in here!”
At the sound of his voice, the boys immediately stopped. They walked meekly into the fale and sat down across from the old matai.
“Look at my hand!” Tuita‘ua Ioane held out his hand. “See how these fingers are bunched here together? And how the thumb is out here all by itself?”
We all looked at his hand.
“We have a saying here in Samoa: ‘The thumb stands alone, but it is the strongest of all the fingers.’”
Tuita‘ua Ioane pointed at each of the cousins. “You boys are the fingers. But Sama is the thumb!”
Even though I was very young, I learned many things that night. Tuita‘ua Ioane taught us about integrity, about standing up for what you think is right no matter what other people say, about being true to yourself and valiant in your beliefs. His words and Sama’s example changed my life.
As I stood on the malae thinking back to those days, a small girl came up to me and handed me a pale.
“Thank you.” I smiled at her and put it on. Then I walked up the steps of the big fale and removed my shoes. Sama saw me immediately. I made a thumbs-up sign. That had always been my secret sign to him. None of the other matai in the fale seemed to notice, and even if they did, it wouldn’t mean the same thing to them. They were there for just one reason—to honor the new Tuita‘ua. Tuita‘ua Sama.
But to me he would always be Sama the Thumb.

Let me recall for you the story of Mary Ann Baker. Her beloved and only brother suffered from the same respiratory disease that had taken their parents’ lives, and he left their home in Chicago to find a warmer climate in the southern part of the United States.
For a time he seemed to be improving, but then a sudden turn in his health came and he died almost immediately. Mary Ann and her sister were heartbroken. It only added to their deep grief that neither their own health nor their personal finances allowed them to claim their brother’s body or to finance its return to Chicago for burial.
The Baker family had been raised as faithful Christians, but Mary’s trust in a loving God broke under the strain of her brother’s death and her own diminished circumstances. “God does not care for me or mine,” said Mary Ann. “This particular manifestation of what they call ‘divine providence’ is unworthy of a God of love.” Does that sound at all familiar?
“I have always tried to believe on Christ and give the Master a consecrated life,” she said, “but this is more than I can bear. What have I done to deserve this? What have I left undone that God should wreak His vengeance upon me in this way?” (Ernest K. Emurian, Living Stories of Famous Hymns, Boston: W. A Widdle Co., 1955, pp. 83–85.)
I suppose we have all had occasion, individually or collectively, to cry out on some stormy sea, “Master, carest thou not that we perish?” And so cried Mary Ann Baker.
But as the days and the weeks went by, the God of life and love began to calm the winds and the waves of what this sweet young woman called “her unsanctified heart.” Her faith not only returned but it flourished, and like Job of old, she learned new things, things “too wonderful” to have known before her despair. On the Sea of Galilee, the stirring of the disciples’ faith was ultimately more important than the stilling of the sea, and so it was with her.
Later, as something of a personal testimonial and caring very much for the faith of others who would be tried by personal despair, she wrote the words of the hymn we have all sung, “Master, the Tempest Is Raging.” May I share it with you?
Master, the tempest is raging!
The billows are tossing high!
The sky is o’ershadowed with blackness.
No shelter or help is nigh.
Carest thou not that we perish?
How canst thou lie asleep
When each moment so madly is threatening
A grave in the angry deep?
Master, with anguish of spirit
I bow in my grief today.
The depths of my sad heart are troubled.
Oh, waken and save, I pray!
Torrents of sin and of anguish
Sweep o’er my sinking soul,
And I perish! I perish! dear Master.
Oh, hasten and take control!
Then this beautiful, moving refrain:
The winds and the waves shall obey my will;
Peace, be still! Peace, be still!
Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea
Or demons or men or whatever it be,
No waters can swallow the ship where lies
The Master of ocean and earth and skies.
They all shall sweetly obey my will.
Peace, be still! Peace, be still!
They all shall sweetly obey my will.
Peace, peace, be still!
Too often, I fear, both in the living of life and in the singing of this hymn, we fail to emphasize the sweet peace of this concluding verse:
Master, the terror is over.
The elements sweetly rest.
Earth’s sun in the calm lake is mirrored,
And heaven’s within my breast.
Linger, Oh, blessed Redeemer!
Leave me alone no more,
And with joy I shall make the blest harbor
And rest on the blissful shore.
(Hymns, no. 106.)

A dear friend shared how she gained her precious testimony of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. She grew up believing sin always brought great punishment, borne by us alone. She pleaded to God to understand the possibility of divine forgiveness. She prayed to understand and know how Jesus Christ can forgive those who repent, how mercy can satisfy justice.
One day her prayer was answered in a spiritually transforming experience. A desperate young man came running out of a grocery store carrying two bags of stolen food. He ran into a busy street, chased by the store manager, who caught him and began yelling and fighting. Instead of feeling judgment for the frightened young man as a thief, my friend was unexpectedly filled with great compassion for him. Without fear or concern for her own safety, she walked straight up to the two quarreling men. She found herself saying, “I will pay for the food. Please let him go. Please let me pay for the food.”
Prompted by the Holy Ghost and filled with a love she had never felt before, my friend said, “All I wanted to do was to help and save the young man.” My friend said she began to understand Jesus Christ and His Atonement—how and why with pure and perfect love Jesus Christ would willingly sacrifice to be her Savior and Redeemer, and why she wanted Him to be.

From his early teens, Wilford Woodruff searched for the true church. Once he gained a testimony that Joseph Smith truly was a prophet of God, Wilford tried to do everything the Prophet asked. When Joseph counseled the Apostles to keep a history of their lives, Wilford wrote daily in his journal. “Whenever I heard Joseph Smith preach, teach, or prophesy,” Wilford said, “I always felt it my duty to write it.” In the Church Historian’s office are stored seven thousand pages of Wilford Woodruff’s journals. The record he kept was invaluable for himself, his family, and the Church.

We were living in a small town in Georgia, USA, when my father died at just 55 years old. Most of our family lived in another state. Never had the 2,000 miles (3,200 km) between us felt greater than at that time.
My husband was the bishop and I the organist of our small ward. With all the emotions and stress of helping with funeral plans, I was feeling especially weary that Sunday when it came time for our sacrament meeting closing hymn: “God Be with You Till We Meet Again” (Hymns, no. 152).
Halfway through the second verse, my grief overcame me. Somehow I played through the end of that verse, but my hands were shaking and my eyes so full of tears that I had to stop with an entire verse left. I couldn’t stop crying.
A brief pause followed as the congregation realized the organ had stopped. But then ward members started singing a cappella. The singing wasn’t perfect. We were few, after all. But the Spirit made up the difference. Through my tears and embarrassment, I could feel the love of many as they sang.
God be with you till we meet again;
Keep love’s banner floating o’er you;
Smite death’s threat’ning wave before you.
God be with you till we meet again.
When the hymn ended, the music leader held me as I sobbed through the closing prayer. Several people then came up to the organ with tears in their eyes to say how sorry they were about my father.
Later, I told the music leader I would be playing the piano at the funeral. It probably seemed like a bad idea after what had just happened, but my dad so enjoyed hearing me play the piano. I wanted to play for him. I realized then how close he had felt during the closing hymn.
I am so thankful for the hymns. I testify that music can teach and comfort us in ways that words often cannot. As the First Presidency wrote in the preface to the hymnbook, “Hymns … comfort the weary, console the mourning, and inspire us to endure to the end.” I am also thankful for the love of a good ward when I was so far away from my own family. I know that my father and I will indeed meet again.

I will always be grateful for the wonderful example Margaret's father, John Steele, provided in this regard. We had been away at graduate school only a few short months when Margaret dropped me off at school one morning but then on the way home had an accident. Knowing how little money we had in our budget, she was in tears and went to the nearest phone and called her father. I can still remember his response: What are you calling me for? Steve's your husband. Don't call me, call him! Thus while he loved his daughter dearly, he was wise enough to know that Margaret and I needed to trust and rely on each other, whatever the situation. We needed to cleave unto [each other] and to none else.

Some mothers, some fathers, some children, some families are called upon to bear a heavy burden here in mortality. Such a family was the Borgstrom family in northern Utah. The time was World War II. Fierce battles raged in various parts of the world.

Tragically, the Borgstroms lost four of their five sons who were serving in the armed forces. Within a six-month period, all four sons gave their lives—each in a different part of the world.

Following the war, the bodies of the four Borgstrom brothers were brought home to Tremonton, and an appropriate service was conducted, filling the Garland Utah Tabernacle. General Mark Clark attended the service. He later spoke with tenderness these words: “I flew to Garland the morning of June 26. Met with the family, including among others the mother, father, and two remaining sons, … one a lad in his teens. I had never met a more stoic family group.

“As the four flag-draped coffins were lined up in front of us in the church, and as I sat by these brave parents, I was deeply impressed by their understanding, by their faith, and their pride in these magnificent sons who had made the supreme sacrifice for principles which had been instilled in them by noble parents since childhood.

“During the luncheon period, Mrs. Borgstrom turned to me and said in a low voice, ‘Are you going to take my young one?’ I answered in a whisper that as long as I remained in command of the army on the West Coast, if her boy were called I would do my best to have him assigned to duty at home.

“In the middle of this whispered conversation with the mother, the father suddenly leaned forward and said to Mrs. Borgstrom: ‘Mother, I have overheard your conversation with the general about our youngest. We know that if and when his country needs him, he will go.’

“I could hardly contain my emotions. Here were parents with four sons lying dead from wounds received in battle and yet were ready to make the last sacrifice if their country required it.”

It is the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ that touched home and heart that ever-to-be-remembered day.

A few years ago, my dad’s appendix burst, which was a tender mercy.
Most people wouldn’t say that getting appendicitis and having emergency surgery is a miracle, but it was for my dad.
When the doctor removed my dad’s appendix, he found cancer in it.
Luckily, after some testing, doctors found the cancer hadn’t spread. With his appendix removed, he was cancer free.
When we had time to process this situation, my family felt grateful that my dad’s appendix had burst.
The cancer in his appendix was subtle, and without the emergency surgery, it’s likely it wouldn’t have been noticed until it was too late.
Some people may consider my dad’s story a lucky coincidence, but my family and I know it was a miracle from God.
We may not notice God’s involvement in our lives until we reflect on past experiences. In the moment, my family didn’t think appendicitis was a blessing. We didn’t realize the importance of my dad’s emergency surgery until after the doctor found cancer.

When Princella was looking for a Personal Progress project, she didn’t have to look far. In her own branch was a humanitarian aid missionary, Sister Thompson, struggling to teach English to the town’s adults. Since most people in Nsawam don’t speak any English and Sister Thompson doesn’t speak the local Twi dialect, she was having a difficult time communicating with her students.
Enter Princella, who learned English in school and speaks the four regional dialects, including Twi. She was perfect for the job. She could communicate with everyone.
“The project of helping in the literacy class came to my mind when I got to the knowledge value,” said Princella. “At first I felt it was too much to go stand in front of my mothers and fathers [the adults of her town] and teach them English. For the first and second week, it was not easy because they felt I was there to make a mockery of them, but then I had the opportunity to explain myself.” After that, things went smoothly, and communication between the teenage teacher and adult students was much more effective.
After completing her project, Princella considered leaving the class but decided against it. She says, “The literacy class is very interesting, and I never want to leave.” Princella continues to serve with love, remembering that those who serve others also serve God.

The New Era always seems to arrive at the time I need it most. I’d been through a particularly tough test one day, and when I arrived back at the house, there were three issues waiting to be read. You can’t imagine the happiness I felt. I immediately sat down and read all of them. It was like water to a thirsty soul. Being 8,000 miles from home, I enjoy the New Era more than ever. It is my “mission magazine.”
Elder William R. NelsonColombia Cali Mission