Gospel Story Finder

In 2010, Andre Sebako was a young man seeking for truth. Though he had never offered a heartfelt prayer before, he decided to try. Shortly afterward he met the missionaries. They gave him a pass-along card with a picture of the Book of Mormon. Andre felt something and asked if the missionaries would sell him the book. They said he could have the book for free if he would come to church.1
Andre attended the then-recently created Mochudi Branch in Botswana, Africa, alone. But the branch was a loving, tight-knit group consisting of about 40 members.2 They welcomed Andre with open arms. He received the missionary lessons and was baptized. It was wonderful!

“Hey, pal, you got mail,” Dad said, tossing an envelope to Ryan.
“Thanks!” Ryan said. He never got mail, except for birthday cards from Grandma. Who could it be from?
“Looks like it’s from Sister Ray,” Dad said. He added that she was writing from a place that sounded like “the empty seat.”
“What’s the ‘empty seat’?” Ryan asked Dad, tearing open the envelope.
Dad smiled. “Not ‘empty seat’—‘M.T.C.’ It stands for ‘Missionary Training Center.’ It’s where missionaries go to learn different languages and how to teach people the gospel.”
Sister Ray had been Ryan’s favorite Primary teacher before she left for her mission. Ryan knew serving a mission was a good thing to do, but he still missed her sometimes. He read the letter out loud. Sister Ray told about the lessons she was learning and about her companion. At the end of the letter, she told Ryan to be a good missionary.
How can I be a missionary when I’m still a kid? Ryan wondered.
Later that day Mom asked Ryan if he’d come with her to deliver some invitations. She was a Primary leader and wanted to visit the kids who didn’t come to church or activities very often.
Ryan felt nervous. Sometimes he didn’t like talking to new people. But he knew helping out would mean a lot to Mom.
Before long the two of them were bumping along a dirt road on the edge of town. Soon they pulled into a gated area full of trailer homes.
Ryan followed Mom to a blue trailer and watched as she rang the doorbell. A woman opened the door and invited them inside. As Ryan walked in, he could see a boy sitting on the floor, playing a video game.
“This is my son, Jacob,” the woman said. Jacob turned to look at the visitors, and Ryan smiled and sat down next to him. Soon they were laughing and talking.
“Hey, thanks!” Jacob said as Ryan showed him a secret passageway that led his character to the next level of the game. “Let’s save this for later and go look at my pet iguana.”
“Cool!” Ryan said.
Ryan liked touching the smooth scales of the iguana while Jacob showed him other fun things around his room. When Mom said it was time to leave, Ryan made sure to give Jacob one of the invitations.
As they drove away, Mom turned and smiled at Ryan.
“You’re a natural missionary, you know that?”
Ryan’s eyebrows scrunched together as he turned to look at Mom. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I didn’t do any missionary stuff over there. I just hung out with Jacob. He’s fun!”
Mom nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean. You were a great missionary because you just wanted to get to know Jacob, and you weren’t afraid to be yourself.”
Ryan smiled as he leaned back in his seat. He felt good inside. He couldn’t wait to write to Sister Ray and tell her about his new friend—and what he had learned about being a natural missionary.

It was September when they moved in. I remember because summer heat clung to the apartment house like honey to a spoon. I was watering my African violets and the sudden noise—feet racing, doors slamming, voices shouting—came through my open window. I slammed it down loudly and suffered with the lack of ventilation, hoping they’d heard the sound of my displeasure. If so, it had little effect on the noise level.
I stumped around the apartment, fuming as I thumped needlepoint pillows and moved china figurines away from the edges of shelves. This had been a quiet apartment house, mostly older folks who kept to themselves. Old Mrs. Sakovich had been the perfect upstairs neighbor—quiet, with hardly any visitors. When the family who’d never come to visit put her in the nursing home I’d held my breath, wondering what my new upstairs neighbor would be like. I’d never expected an invasion.
As the month went on I gradually sorted out the noises. The O’Meara family (their name was on the mailbox) had four children. Imagine—four children! And in a two-bedroom apartment! I tried complaining to the management, but they said I’d soon get used to the noise.
I didn’t.
Luckily three of the children were in school. Lucy, the teenager, escorted Brian and Todd down the stairs every morning at 8:00, loaded with backpacks, lunches, and (horrors) musical instrument cases. Their father followed at 8:30. A blessed silence was mine then, except when the baby was cross, until 3:10 when they’d all come roaring up the stairs, seemingly recharged by their encounter with education.
Then Lucy would be practicing the flute, or playing tapes of … well, I suppose she thought it was music. Sometimes the ceiling would shake over my kitchen, and I’d know she was dancing. Todd and Brian raced cars, making the appropriate sounds, and the baby screamed. Then pots and pans banged as Mrs. O’Meara encouraged family participation in preparing dinner. Even when Mr. O’Meara returned to the hubbub, the noise remained steady until bedtime.
When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I’d bring out the broom and thump on the ceiling. This usually earned me about 15 minutes of unfamiliar silence before the noise began to build again. Sometimes I’d tromp upstairs and pound on their door. Mrs. O’Meara would promise to keep the noise down, but I could see the doubt in my eyes reflected in her own.
I’m sure her children thought I was the wicked witch of the West, especially with the broom thumpings. Still, they always smiled when I met them in the hallway or on the stairs. It didn’t make any sense.
Mr. O’Meara smiled too. He insisted on bringing my garbage down to the dumpster every morning on his way to work. Lucy opened doors for me and helped me upstairs with my groceries whenever she got the chance. I suspect she was the one that left the cookies on my doorstep the morning after what must have been a teenage birthday party (or a demolition derby). Still, I would have given anything for a little peace and quiet.
Then came Christmas. Now, instead of one child at home there were four. So much for my peaceful mornings. The family bellowed carols at any opportunity, and when I met them in the hallway they giggled with Christmas secrets.
Bringing my mail up one day, I met Todd on the landing.
“Look!” he said, proudly. He was holding some unknown childish creation. “We made it in kindergarten!”
It was a lopsided thing of egg carton and foil, hanging on a long string.
“It’s the star of Bethlehem,” he explained earnestly. “For Christmas.”
“It’s very nice,” I said insincerely, stepping around him.
“Merry Christmas!” he exclaimed as I closed the door behind me.
I made my traditional sweet bread to give to neighbors. I even hauled two loaves upstairs to the O’Meara apartment on the day before Christmas.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, in a grudging display of holiday cheer as Lucy opened the door, letting a blast of sound and cinnamon loose in the hallway. I thrust out the loaves.
“Why, Mrs. Johnson, how kind! Mother’s bathing the baby, but I know she’d like to thank you herself. Won’t you come in?”
Hardly, I thought, looking past her at the whirlwind of activity going on. “No, thank you. I need to get back downstairs. Nice wreath.” I turned to go.
“Don’t you have a wreath?”
It was Todd, peeking under Lucy’s elbow. Before I could answer, he was gone. Seconds later he returned dragging a piece of green construction paper that had been folded into a tube, clipped, flattened, and adorned with red construction paper holly berries.
“For you!” He thrust it into my hand and dived back into the holiday turmoil.
I looked at Lucy. She was smiling. “You’d better take it,” she advised. “Todd thinks Christmas isn’t Christmas without sharing. He must really like you—that wreath is one of his prized possessions. He was going to hang it on the tree as part of our Christmas program tonight.”
A sudden idea seemed to occur to her. “Mrs. Johnson, how would you like to spend Christmas Eve with us? We always have a family program, and I know Mother would want to invite you.”
I made my excuses—too old, too tired—then, clutching my “wreath” I headed downstairs again.
Christmas program! It seemed that even on Christmas Eve I wasn’t going to get any rest!
My own family was grown and far away. They’d call tomorrow, but tonight they were busy with their own families. I usually went to bed early on Christmas Eve. Memories were depressing when there was no one to share them with.
Darkness fell and I looked out on streets abuzz with Christmas cheer. Everyone, it seemed, had a place to go. I longed for the oblivion of sleep, but from upstairs I could hear the sound of chairs being rearranged and children giggling.
Oh no. Now we’ll hear those noisy Santa Claus songs and the sound of over-stimulated children preparing for the next day’s toy frenzy. I got out the broom and braced for the worst.
When it began, I hardly recognized it—the silver sound of a single flute playing “Silent Night.” I stood, transfixed. On the second verse the flute was joined by soft voices, young and old.
The sound was so gentle. I pushed up the window, hearing it squeak in protest, and leaned out, looking up. I was afraid the sound would silence them. After all, I’d yelled up from the window often enough. But the singing continued.
Then the flute led them into “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful” and suddenly I knew how the shepherds felt that night long ago when unexpected joy came from above. I was startled to hear my own rusty voice joining in.
Then the star appeared. Yes, really. It was lopsided, made of egg cartons and foil, and dangling on a long string. Something was attached to the string.
I reached out and drew it in, removing the note. I read it and smiled.
Why choose the loneliness of old memories when there are new ones to be made?
I listened a moment longer to the angel voices from on high; then I released the star and saw it drawn gently upward.
Grabbing my wreath, I hurried out the door and followed the star.

Missionaries sacrifice a lot when they serve. Education and careers are put on hold, they miss their family and friends, and some even experience major trials and challenges. Some sacrifices are not as dramatic, but still very meaningful. Let me share the story of Sister Kyla Erin de Dios from Mintal, Davao.
Sister de Dios is 19 years old. I first met her back in February 2022, and since I am Korean, she shared that she was a hard-core BTS fan. She became a BTS army in 2017, because the words of their songs inspired, motivated, and comforted her. She even had a twitter account with over 2,000 followers dedicated just to support BTS.
When I met her again recently, I mentioned BTS but Sister Kyla reacted differently. She said she has been preparing for a mission and has joined the Lord’s battalion, she is no longer a BTS army, but will soon be in the Lord’s army. She has submitted her mission papers and is excitedly waiting for her mission call.
What caused her mighty change of heart? The catalyst that jumpstarted her preparation was her FSY experience. In her own words, “I have always wanted to become a Servant of the Lord, ever since I was in primary. I realized how turning away from worldly things truly blesses you spiritually. At FSY I learned to ‘Focus on what you are building, not what you are leaving behind.’ As we start to focus on building our relationship with the Lord, by reading the scriptures and keeping the commandments, we are becoming the Lord’s battalion. We will become well prepared for the Lord’s battle.”
Sister de Dios still loves BTS, but she loves the Lord more. My dear young brothers and sisters, is there anything in your life that you are prioritizing over your relationship with the Lord? I urge you to examine your priorities and make sure that you are focusing on the things that matter most, on the things that have eternal significance.

Many years ago, on an assignment to the beautiful islands of Tonga, I was privileged to visit our Church school, the Liahona High School, where our youth are taught by teachers with a common bond of faith—providing training for the mind and preparation for life. On that occasion, entering one classroom, I noticed the rapt attention the children gave their native instructor. His textbook and theirs lay closed upon the desks. In his hand he held a strange-appearing fishing lure fashioned from a round stone and large seashells. This, I learned, was a maka-feke, an octopus lure. In Tonga, octopus meat is a delicacy.
The teacher explained that Tongan fishermen glide over a reef, paddling their outrigger canoes with one hand and dangling the maka-feke over the side with the other. An octopus dashes out from its rocky lair and seizes the lure, mistaking it for a much-desired meal. So tenacious is the grasp of the octopus and so firm is its instinct not to relinquish the precious prize that fishermen can flip it right into the canoe.
It was an easy transition for the teacher to point out to the eager and wide-eyed youth that the evil one—even Satan—has fashioned so-called maka-fekes with which to ensnare unsuspecting persons and take possession of their destinies.

The closer Christmas got, the heavier my heart became. In November, neither my husband nor I had regular work. I paid for rent, electricity, and the telephone out of my decreased earnings, and my husband paid the car payment from his diminished wages. The remaining money was barely enough to get us by. December brought more work and a return to normal, but we wouldn’t be paid until January. Under these circumstances, even a holiday dinner was out of the question.
“Everything will be all right,” I told myself. That summer my husband had picked a lot of raspberries, and we had made jam. We would have pancakes and jam and would make our own gifts. But when our three daughters (ages 6, 8, and 14) began happily decorating with garlands they had made, all the while talking about what their parents might give them for Christmas, I was sick at heart.
One evening my visiting teachers came by for an unexpected visit. I have no brothers and sisters of my own, so the Relief Society sisters in my branch—particularly my visiting teachers—have truly become my sisters. That night they shared an interesting lesson, then began to visit about the upcoming holiday. I assured them that everything was fine but said that it would be a rather “poor” Christmas for us. They assured me that they would be praying for our family.
One day when my husband came to pick me up from work, he said that everyone at home was impatiently awaiting my arrival. A sister from our branch had dropped off some boxes. When we opened them, they contained all the delicacies of the season: fruit, cookies, candy, other groceries, decorations, and lovingly wrapped gifts. My eyes filled with tears of gratitude. And that wasn’t the end. The family of one of my visiting teachers surprised us on Christmas morning with a box of gifts.
In the end our “poor” Christmas was a particularly joyful one. Our home was filled with not only the spirit of Christmas but also the warmth and love of my visiting teachers and other members of our branch. I came to understand that the Lord truly does meet our needs most often through other people—particularly those He has assigned and inspired to watch over and care for us.

Wilford Woodruff, as President of the Church, described his experience in the offices of the priesthood:
“I heard the first sermon I ever heard in this Church. The next day I was baptized. … I was ordained a Teacher. My mission immediately commenced. … I went through that whole mission as a Teacher. … At the conference I was ordained a Priest. … After I was ordained a Priest I was sent … on a mission to the southern country. That was in the fall of 1834. I had a companion with me, and we started out without purse and scrip. I traveled alone a good many miles and preached the Gospel, and I baptized a number that I could not confirm in the Church, because I was only a Priest. … I traveled some time preaching the Gospel before I was ordained an Elder. …
“[Now] I have been some fifty-four years a member of the Twelve Apostles. I have traveled with that and other quorums now for sixty years; and I want to say to this assembly that I was just as much sustained by the power of God while holding the office of a Teacher, and especially while officiating in the vineyard as a Priest, as I ever was as an Apostle. There is no difference in this so long as we do our duty.”1

Robert, an investigator in Canada, has attended a variety of LDS meetings and activities. He has researched various religions but continues studying the Church because of the inspiration he has found in its doctrine and the Book of Mormon. He attends institute to learn more and finds the social environment “refreshingly wholesome, friendly, with a really good vibe,” he says. “Mormons are the nicest people in the world.”

A self-described introvert, Robert wants to interact but says, “I tend to hug the walls, unsure of how to be part of the groups, some of them long-term LDS friends who don’t seem to need anyone else.” But it doesn’t take much to ease this sense of isolation. During an activity, he recalls, “someone came up to me after dinner and encouraged me to stay for the movie; otherwise, I would have left, but instead I had a great time. I just needed to know that someone wanted me there.”

Like Melissa, he appreciates LDS friends who explain doctrine but don’t get too specific about how to live it. Friends who listen more than they admonish are like “someone who walks beside you, as opposed to pushing from behind to make you go faster. Most of the time, you just trip and stumble.”

Robert has struggled to give up smoking. His discomfort illustrates how those who are new are deeply aware of their differences. “Not one member has ever said anything to me about smelling like smoke,” he says. “Yet if my clothes aren’t fresh out of the laundry, I will stay home from institute or church.”

About eleven years ago our twins, Max and Mia, were two years old and we were living in an apartment while I was in graduate school. To my wife’s horror we discovered that there was a mouse in our apartment. We bought a mousetrap, put some peanut butter on it, and placed it next to a baseboard on the kitchen floor where we had seen the mouse. Two-year-olds and mousetraps don’t coexist very well, so we took Max and Mia into the kitchen, pointed out the mousetrap, and explained to them how dangerous it was. We told them to stay away from it, to keep their fingers out, and that it would hurt them. We even used our scary voices: “No. Don’t touch. Danger.” A couple of days later, while most of us were sitting on the couch in the other room, we heard a snap and then a scream. We hurried into the kitchen and found little Mia with her fingers in the trap and peanut butter on her lips.

Brothers and sisters, there are many sources of falsehood in the world. Please don’t put your fingers in those traps. Don’t turn to them in your quest for a testimony. There have been, and always will be, intelligent and articulate people in the world who will try to convince you that the Church is not true, that God does not exist, and that anyone who believes that there is a God is foolish and naïve. Don’t go to those sources. Don’t turn to people on the Internet who are seeking to destroy your testimony. Like with our twins, I want to point at those traps and tell you how dangerous they are. I want to tell you to stay away from them, to keep your fingers out, and that they will hurt you. I want to use my scary voice: “No. Don’t touch. Danger.”

When I last spoke on this campus, in the fall of 2002, I briefly reviewed the circumstances which brought my father to these islands nearly 65 years ago. Today, I wish to speak of my patriarchal grandparents. My family is certainly no better than yours. I simply know our story and want to tell you of the heritage my grandparents provided their posterity.

They lived in small towns in Idaho and then in Salt Lake City and had two children, a son (my father) and a daughter. After my father established his family in Hawaii, my aunt, who lived in Salt Lake City, married and, in time, was expecting a child. It turned out she had twins; but tragically, she and the twins all died in childbirth in 1951.

As their only descendants lived in Hawaii, my grandparents moved to Oahu when my grandfather professionally retired in 1956. My grandparents were very devoted to one another; especially, my grandfather was particularly solicitous to the needs of my grandmother. He used to often comment that he never wanted to be away from her. He even said he hoped he would die first, and then he would find a way to bring his companion soon thereafter.

They were true Latter-day Saints, completely devoted to the Lord and His Church. They enjoyed decades of service as ordinance workers in the temple of this community. Both of them were physically strong into their mid-80s. Then they began to have health problems; first one and then the other. There came a point where their health would not allow them to travel to their beloved temple in Laie. Even so, they maintained current temple recommends as a symbol of their desire to be true to their covenants.

After a time, my grandmother went into a coma. My grandfather seemed to rebound for awhile, and then one Friday night he suffered a heart attack and died. After caring for the immediate needs of my grandfather, my father went to the bedside of my grandmother, still in her coma condition, with no apparent ability to communicate. He told her that her husband had gone. Immediately, her vital signs began to diminish, and within hours she was gone. After 65 years of marriage, they were blessed to never be apart.

I was serving as my grandparent's bishop at the time. It was my privilege to conduct their double funeral. Each of the participants in the service were their grandchildren. It was not a time of sorrow, but one of profound gratitude for righteous ancestors who left their posterity an example of faith and devotion to those things that are eternal.

My great-great-aunt Laura Clark Phelps was the first member of the Clark family who joined the Church. She was a woman who uniquely demonstrated a faith in the Lord that stands fast, nothing wavering.
Laura’s legacy teaches much about the doctrine of faith as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” She received her patriarchal blessing from Joseph Smith Sr. In it she was counseled to be faithful and she would have an inheritance in Zion. She was further told to “call upon God in faith, and if thou wilt thou shall have all of the desires of thine heart.”
Laura and her husband knew the Prophet Joseph Smith. On one occasion, the Prophet and his brother Hyrum came running to their farm outside Far West, Missouri, where Laura hid them behind the clothes curtain. She calmly faced the mob leaders who rushed in shortly afterwards in search of the Prophet.
Laura experienced the joys and privations of the early Church members in this dispensation. Her faith deepened as she was driven from her homes and separated from her husband on various occasions. As an efficient midwife, she worked and traveled day and night in all kinds of weather to help provide for her family. This overexertion and exposure took their toll. She died at the young age of 34, leaving behind her husband and five children. She did not live to see her children, her grandchildren, or her great-grandchildren following her in faith. She did not experience the blessings of receiving her own temple endowment in this earth life, blessings I believe she would have cherished.
Laura’s faithful life bears witness of this verse from Hebrews: “These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth.” Faith lived in Laura, and Laura lived her faith.

Two months after our wedding I was called as ward Relief Society president. Later I became ward Young Women president. After seven years of marriage I was still filling executive Church positions.
So often in the Church it is the other way around with the husband well known and holding the time-consuming positions. Without complaint, my husband drove the old car so I could drive the more dependable new one; he stayed home evenings when necessary while I made stake visits and conducted leadership meetings; he sat in the audience while I spoke in conferences; he willingly paid for extra supplies for Church activities; and he would listen to any problem or idea or concern I had.
What does my husband do to show he loves me? He sustains me in the callings I receive. I know I couldn’t fill them without him or his love. I hope I support him as well in his present and future callings.

Let me mention one personal experience that stays with me, an experience with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, which I first heard when I was 13 years old. I visited Salt Lake City then with my mother, who was a good musician and who wanted to hear that great organ and the choir. The memory of that sound has stayed with me; it was overwhelming.

I had the great opportunity, through the kindness of the choir itself, to lead it once, on June 27, 2007. They were at the Ravinia music center in Highland Park, Illinois, outside of Chicago. A few days prior to the concert, I received a call from the choir’s music director, Dr. Craig Jessop, who asked whether I would consider assuming the conductor’s podium at the end of the performance and lead the choir in an encore number. Never had I been asked to do something like that! I seized the occasion, and, after a brief lesson from Craig at the dress rehearsal, I got up and faced the choir with a tremendous feeling of awe and power and great satisfaction. There was silence as this marvelous choir was looking at and waiting for me. If that doesn’t give you something of an ego trip, I don’t know what would! I paused for a moment, and then I gave the downbeat, according to Craig’s instruction. All of a sudden, that vacuum of expectant silence was filled with this magnificent, overpowering sound, all in unison, all in harmony. I thought to myself, “I’m doing better with the Mormons than I am with the Catholics!” I have a lot harder time getting them to sing together!

When I was eight, I chose to be baptized. As I was immersed in the water, I felt a special happiness that came from the Spirit. Shortly after my baptism, my mother passed away. I felt sad, depressed, and frustrated. No child should have to know how it feels to lose their mother.
However, three years later we went to the temple and were sealed as a family. The special feeling of the Spirit came back that day, and I felt that my mother was there by my side in the temple. I have faith that I will see her again someday.

Soon after receiving the priesthood and becoming a deacon at the age of twelve, I also became a cadet in the Royal Canadian 52nd Air Cadet Squadron. It was a new and challenging experience adapting to the military method of things. I especially remember how difficult the first summer was. As a new cadet, it was my duty to attend basic training. So while my other friends from school were out-of-doors playing, I was learning how to march and to obey commands.
Unfortunately I wasn’t a very good marcher, and that’s all anyone there ever wanted to do. The sun shone fiercely, and the heat was unbearable in our dark green uniforms. I thought I would faint. The food was cold, and the mess hall avoided all the foods I liked. Military life certainly was different from what I was used to.
On our first Saturday night before bed, all the cadets assembled in the corridor of our barracks. When our flight sergeant came in, everyone snapped to attention.
“In the morning,” he shouted, “we are all going to church. There are only two churches on this base, Catholic and Protestant, so make sure you know where you want to go before tomorrow! Is that clear?”
The corps of young cadets shouted back in strict unison, “Yes, sergeant!” Then he left.
That night I had trouble sleeping. This would be the first time I wouldn’t be able to attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I didn’t know what to do. I climbed out of bed and began to pray again. I was desperate to know what I should do. I told Heavenly Father that I was really confused and scared. Would He please help me? As I crawled into bed the second time, I was still worried, but I began to feel that things would work out.
Bright and early the next morning, we lined up outside our barracks in the drizzling rain. The sergeant in his rain-tarp jacket gave the command I was dreading. “Catholics stand on one side, Protestants on the other!” After everyone had moved, I found myself standing alone between the two lines.
The flight sergeant glared across the square and shouted to me, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know, sergeant—I’m a Latter-day Saint.”
He looked at me with a frightful glare, shook his head, and ordered, “Follow me.”
I followed him to the chaplain’s barracks. Inside, the ministers were still preparing for their Sunday meetings. The sergeant gave a sharp knock, and a voice within called for us to enter. As we stepped in from the rain, a gentleman dressed in camouflage and wearing a Catholic priest’s collar around his neck met us.
“This one’s a Latter-day Saint,” the sergeant complained, then ducked back out into the rain.
The priest invited me to sit down, and he and another priest began to decide among themselves what to do in such an interesting situation. They finally decided that they didn’t know enough about the Church to make a decision and asked me what we believed. At first I wasn’t sure what to say, and then my mind suddenly cleared and I started quoting the Articles of Faith: “‘We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.’”
They both nodded in agreement.
I continued, “‘We believe that men will be punished for their own sins, and not for Adam’s transgression.’”
At this point, one priest suggested that it might be best if I went with the Protestant minister.
After the Protestant meeting, the minister found me in my barracks. He asked me how I had enjoyed the meeting. I told him that it certainly was different from what I was used to.
“What else do Latter-day Saints believe?” he asked, pulling up a chair. All the other cadets in my room drew closer to listen. It was exciting as I repeated all the Articles of Faith. Everyone seemed very interested when I spoke of the Book of Mormon, of how it was another testament of Jesus Christ.
Later that night I made a long distance call to my mother and told her how my difficult experience had turned into a missionary opportunity. I also requested that she send me a Book of Mormon so that I could give it to my minister friend.
The week went on, and finally the Book of Mormon arrived. On the inside cover I wrote my testimony and slid in the card containing the Articles of Faith that my mother had also sent me. The minister gladly accepted my gift and promised me that he’d read it.
I never was able to find out if that Book of Mormon changed the life of the minister, but as I look back, I can recognize how Heavenly Father taught me the importance of knowing the Articles of Faith.

Once I had a friend who was being mean to others. People started telling me that I was kinder before I was friends with him. I worried that they were right.
One day when we were playing soccer at recess, I noticed that people started to leave the game. Then more and more people left. I went to see what was happening, and I saw my friend calling people names and saying the Lord’s name in vain. When he said those things, it upset some of the other players. I told my friend to stop. He didn’t listen.
When we got back to class, I talked to him about it. I told him I didn’t like it when he was mean to other people or when he took the Lord’s name in vain. He agreed to stop.
I also repented and decided I wouldn’t let anyone change who I was or make me less kind. I wanted to be a good example. After I decided to do better, I had this warm, comforting feeling in my heart. I knew that it was the Holy Ghost saying I had done the right thing.
After that day, my friend stopped being mean. I know that Heavenly Father wants us to listen to the Holy Ghost and stand up for what’s right.

When President Conley returned from Salt Lake City, I told him I wanted to be baptized. As we drove to Gilmer, Texas, for my baptism on 19 October 1970, I asked him, “Do I understand correctly from what I have read in the scriptures that just because I’m being baptized, I’m not saved, but that I have to endure to the end?”
He said, “That’s exactly right.”
I cried all the way to my baptism. I felt very strongly that the Church was true. After baptism, I felt it ten times more strongly.

I’ll start with a small confession. I had never read the entire Book of Mormon until I was in the Missionary Training Center. Oh, I had made valiant efforts before—even using the seminary student manual to guide me. But I always lost interest or got bogged down by mid-Alma.
But in the MTC, I caught on fire when it came to the Book of Mormon. I used every free moment I had to read—sometimes 20 pages a day. For me it was all new and exciting. My patriarchal blessing had promised me that I would be “surprised at the satisfaction” I could gain from reading the scriptures, and I was beginning to see the fulfillment of that promise.
Several weeks later, I was in Penns Grove, New Jersey, with my first companion, Elder Rumsey. We had been teaching an older, single woman who always had the most unusual concerns, worries they don’t teach you about in the MTC. For instance, she wondered that if men changed and corrupted the Bible as they translated it, couldn’t Joseph Smith have done the same thing with the Book of Mormon? Her questions always kept us on our toes.
One day, she had been reading toward the end of 2 Nephi when she became disturbed by some of Nephi’s statements. In 2 Nephi 30:18 and 31:1 [2 Ne. 30:18; 2 Ne. 31:1], she had noticed Nephi had used phrases like “my sayings” and “my prophesying.” To our investigator, it sounded like Nephi was taking the credit for the marvelous things he had written instead of acknowledging that the Lord had inspired him. She declared that Nephi, therefore, must not be a true prophet.
“Let’s look at the end of 2 Nephi,” I said.
If you had asked me right then what was at the end of 2 Nephi, I couldn’t have told you. I had read 2 Nephi 33, of course, but not in several weeks, and I certainly hadn’t memorized any verses from it. I stepped out on a limb, but with amazing confidence. I wasn’t the least bit afraid that I wouldn’t be able to find an answer to our investigator’s problem. I know it was the Spirit that caused me to suggest looking there because I certainly wouldn’t have thought of it on my own.
As soon as we turned to chapter 33, a verse I had previously marked caught my attention. I read aloud the second half of verse 10. [2 Ne. 33:10]
“And if ye shall believe in Christ ye will believe in these words, for they are the words of Christ, and he hath given them unto me.”
There! Pow! Nephi gave credit to the Lord exactly as our investigator thought he should.
Doctrine and Covenants 84:85 [D&C 84:85] sayss to “treasure up in your minds continually the words of life, and it shall be given you in the very hour that portion that shall be meted unto every man.”
I know that through my study of the scriptures the Lord was able to bless me with the perfect answer to our investigator’s question. That day I was able to say, with Nephi, that my words were “the words of Christ, and he hath given them unto me.”

Considering the horrific event that took place in Littleton, Colorado, in April of this year, you may wonder why we are writing about a shooting that took place in an Oregon high school in May of 1998. We had just finished this story and scheduled it for publication when the tragedy took place at Columbine High School. We knew then that this story needs to be told more than ever. This story is not about violence; it’s about the comfort and perspective the gospel offers. Here are thoughts and experiences shared by those who know both the pain and the healing firsthand.The Editors
It’s been just over a year since a tragic shooting occurred at Thurston High School in Springfield, Oregon. Two students were killed and 23 others wounded when a fellow student opened fire in the crowded school cafeteria.
Some 60 seminary students were in school at Thurston on the day of the tragedy—one of whom helped to stop the shooter. Of course, the seminary students wish the tragedy had never happened. But they also say they’ve learned priceless lessons they’ll never forget.
Although they’ve been reluctant to talk with the media about the shooting, the students were eager to share their testimonies with the youth of the Church through the pages of the New Era.
More than anything, the students talk about how they’ve come to know just how much they love—and are loved by—their families. Just after the shooting, students were instructed to go to enclosed rooms of the school until the situation was secured. In that long period of waiting, teens with brothers or sisters at Thurston found themselves consumed with thoughts of their siblings.
“When I thought that the last thing I said to my little brother was, ‘Don’t be late to class today’ instead of ‘I love you’ … You never understand how important someone is to you until you think they are gone,” says Lacy Stockwell, 18. Lacy had spoken to her freshman brother, Taylor, in the cafeteria just seconds before the shooting erupted. As she ran from the cafeteria, she’d been unable to find him.
Like Lacy, Melissa Piepgrass was also terribly concerned for her brother. “We were taken into the gym, and all of a sudden I was really scared about my older brother, because I know he goes into the cafeteria a lot. I was crying and praying for him.”
After what seemed like an eternity, the students were released. All around the school, emotional reunions took place as students found their siblings and their parents who had gathered outside. Melissa found her brother in a park across the street. “I ran over and gave him a big hug.” Her voice trembles as she says, “That’s the first time I ever really felt how much my older brother loves me.”
Of her reaction at finding her brother safe, Lacy says, “It was incredible when I saw him. We yelled each other’s names and ran down the hall to each other and hugged. I can’t express the emotions I felt.”
Kawika Lawther, 17, describes the reunion that took place between worried parents and their children. “When they let us out into the parking lot, I looked around and saw people hugging their parents. When I saw my dad I ran to him and gave him a big hug. The men in my family don’t really show their emotions, but when he hugged me my dad started to cry. I really felt how much he loves me.”
Adam Buchanan, 15, remembers a similar experience. “I didn’t realize the extent of what had happened until I saw my mom and dad in the parking lot. They were praying for me.
“That really stands out in my mind because it’s one of the very few times I’ve seen my dad cry. It’s meant so much to me that he loved me so much and that they were so worried about me.”
Perhaps Lacy speaks for all the students when she says, “I’m so grateful for an eternal family, because now I realize they are so essential to my life!”
The seminary students say they’ve also felt the love of their Heavenly Father. After 15-year-old Chad Durfee ran from the cafeteria to his classroom, he became even more frightened when he learned that his father, who teaches at Thurston, was in the cafeteria. “I realized then that I wanted to talk to my Heavenly Father. I dropped to my knees in front of everybody and prayed. I was so comforted and I felt the Spirit so much even after what had just happened.
“I probably prayed about 500 times that day. It totally strengthened my testimony of prayer,” says Chad. “Every time I’ve had a problem from that time on, the first thing that comes to my mind is talking to my Heavenly Father. It makes me feel so good to know He lives and loves us and wants us to be happy.”
Like Chad, many students talk about the comforting influence of the Spirit in their lives. Fourteen-year-old Kirk Blair was at his junior high school when he heard about the shooting at Thurston, where his sister, Katie, is a student. “We were worried for her, but I knew through the Spirit that she was okay.”
The Holy Ghost helped Tiffany Austin, 16, regain her sense of security. Several days after the shooting, “I was sitting in the pew at youth conference and felt the Spirit come over me. Then I knew that Heavenly Father wasn’t going to leave me alone no matter what happened. I finally got my security back.”
The example of the Savior and the power of His Atonement have helped students forgive and become whole again after such a trying experience.
“I was so mad that someone could do something like this, and I couldn’t make it go away,” says Alisha Stott, 16. “Forgiving is really hard, but I’m working on it. Being around others going through the same process and watching them forgive makes me feel that I can also. And remembering that Jesus Christ forgives our sins. He forgave people who wronged him, so I should be able to forgive also.”
“No matter what we go through, Jesus Christ knows how to heal us,” says Corwin Lewis, 17. “He can do that because of the Atonement.”
Many students gained stronger testimonies of the power of the priesthood. “The day they let us go back to school, I was afraid to go, so my uncle gave me a blessing,” says Jena Johnson, 16. “It gave me a sense of peace that I knew we were going to get through this. Then I had the confidence to face my fear.”
Adam tells how he felt as he watched his father administer a priesthood blessing. “My dad and I are the Rogerses’ home teachers, so Brother Rogers asked my dad to help him give his daughters a blessing.
“The Spirit was so strong. It was a really humbling experience. I was thinking, I’m going to be 19 in a few years. Will I be ready for the Melchizedek Priesthood? It’s such an awesome responsibility, but I think having it would be the best thing in the world.”
The seminary students also talk about their deepened appreciation for each other, for their ward families, for the scriptures, and for the gospel.
Fortunately, most of us will never experience the kind of tragedy the youth in Springfield have. But from their experience we can learn what matters most in life, and know that a loving Father in Heaven can bless us no matter what the trial.
“I had always taken things for granted before,” says Chad. “I went to church but didn’t really think about it. But now I’ve started to get very spiritual. I love the Church, every aspect about it. Sometimes at night I look up at the stars and think how wonderful it is to know our Father in Heaven lives.”
Melissa remembers, “On the night of the tragedy, I saw the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen. I just knew that Heavenly Father was showing his love for us, telling us that everything would be okay.”
After the tragedy in Littleton, Colorado, the Springfield seminary students wanted to do something to help. They wrote letters to the seminary students in Littleton, sharing their testimonies and messages of hope and encouragement.
The Springfield youth weren’t the only seminary students to give their support to Littleton. Letters, e-mail messages, and posters have poured in to the Columbine High School seminary from seminaries and Church members all over the world.
“It’s helped the kids to see that there are people all over the world who care about them,” says Rob Hildebrandt, seminary teacher at Columbine. “It has really hit them that in this Church we are truly a worldwide family.
“With every new poster, the first thing the kids want to know is where it’s from. When I tell them, they say ‘Wow! They know about us there?’ They’re overwhelmed at the people who love them whom they don’t even know.”
Brother Hildebrandt says the students have also felt the many prayers of support that have been offered for them.

A 14-year-old sister was all dressed up to go to a Young Women activity at a time in her life when she felt very unsure about herself. She was quietly and self-consciously inching her way toward the front door, hoping not to be noticed by all the young men in the living room who were visiting with her older brother Russell. She was given a life-changing boost when her older brother interrupted his conversation and said to her in front of all his friends, “My, Emily, you look pretty tonight!” A small thing? No. There are young women who claim that they would not have made it through those growing-up years without the encouragement and support of their older brothers.