Gospel Story Finder

A couple of weeks ago, I was riding in the car with one of my sons and he turned and asked me, "Dad, what do you think I need to do to be a better man?" I was humbled and was grateful that my son was asking for my advice and counsel. I was honored that he was following the pattern of Nephi in asking me, his Father, what I thought he should do. As I gave him advice and counsel, as a Father, I felt an overwhelming responsibility to follow the promptings of the spirit as we counseled together about his life.

When gold was discovered in California in January of 1848, men of the Mormon Battalion were there and participated in the discovery. Completing their contract, they came to the Salt Lake Valley to join their families. Some of them brought with them gold, and in the hard and desperate days that followed, particularly in the bitter winter if 1848–49, many wanted to go to California, where life was easier and gold was to be picked from the riverbeds. In that time of gloom, Brigham Young stood before the people in the old Bowery on Temple Square and said:

Some have asked me about going. I have told them that God has appointed this place for the gathering of his saints, and you will do better right here than you will by going to the gold mines. . . . We have been kicked out of the frying pan into the fire, out of the fire into the middle of the floor, and here we are and here we will stay. God has shown me that this is the spot to locate his people, and here is where they will prosper. . . . We shall build a city and a temple to the most high god in this place. We will extend our settlements to the east and west, to the north and south, and we will build towns and cities by the hundreds, and thousands of the saints will gather in from the nations of the earth. This will become the great highway of the nations. Kings and emperors and the noble and wise of the earth will visit us here, while the wicked and ungodly will envy us our comfortable homes and possessions. [Autobiography of James Brown, pp. 119–23, cited by Preston Nibley, Brigham Young, the Man and His Work (Salt Lake City: Deseret News Press, 1936), pp. 127–28]

What a remarkable statement under such circumstances!

My heart goes out to those who were cold and hungry that winter. I am sure there was much of grumbling and criticism, and understandably so. But how marvelous when a man looked beyond the winter and spoke as a prophet, under the power of the Holy Spirit, of better days to come.

Those days have come. Last year more people visited Temple Square in Salt Lake City than visited Yellowstone Park. This has become the great highway of the nations. Kings and emperors and the noble and wise of the earth constantly visit us here.

The annual crop of sugar beets isn’t the only thing that makes Sugar City, Idaho, a sweet place to be. A small group of boys in the senior class at Salem High School in Sugar City, who are all priests in the Sugar City Idaho Stake, decided that they would make Valentine’s Day special for all the girls at their school.
The boys got a red rose for every woman and girl in the school and arranged with the principal to present them at a special Valentine’s Day assembly during the last hour of school on February 14. Not a single girl knew about the assembly ahead of time, since all the boys talked about their plans in code, calling it “Project A.”
It’s an idea that the girls fell in love with.

For a first profile, I mention Jose Garcia from Old Mexico. Born in poverty but nurtured in faith, Jose prepared for a mission call. I was present the day his recommendation was received. There appeared the statement: “Brother Garcia will serve at great sacrifice to his family, for he is the means of much of the family support. He has but one possession—a treasured stamp collection—which he is willing to sell, if necessary, to help finance his mission.”
President Kimball listened attentively as this statement was read to him, and then he responded: “Have him sell his stamp collection. Such sacrifice will be to him a blessing.” Then, with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face, this loving prophet said, “Each month at Church headquarters we receive thousands of letters from all parts of the world. See that we save these stamps and provide them to Jose at the conclusion of his mission. He will have, without cost, the finest stamp collection of any young man in Mexico.”

I remember the terrifying words of my labor nurse: “I think he has some anomalies.” At the same time, the population in the delivery room escalated to allow for the resuscitation of my severely compromised newborn.
I had lived similar scenes many times before, but from the other side, as a nurse. I was supposed to be the one reviving the newborn. Now I was the mom reaching through an incubator door to touch the hand of my son, while a transport team waited to take him to another hospital.
The next morning I received a telephone call from the newborn intensive care unit (NICU), where my husband, Andrew, sat surrounded by doctors, as they explained the surgery Timothy would immediately require to remove giant abdominal tumors.
I clung to the hope that surgery would cure our child and that he would lead a normal, happy life. I envisioned him as a chubby toddler with a cute scar, a reminder of the short-lived scare he gave his parents.
Three weeks later in that same hospital conference room, a neurologist attempted to explain the brain malformation that would leave our child with significant cognitive delay, speech difficulty, and eventually seizures.
A few days after that, in the same room, the neonatologist said, “I can’t conceive that Timothy will go home without a feeding tube.” Our baby was an emaciated three pounds (1.4 kg) less than at birth, anemic, and virtually unresponsive to stimulation. When offered a bottle, his suck was weak at best, and he choked on its contents.
Expectations for our baby seemed reduced to nothing. My world was crashing down on me. I questioned the Lord’s promise that He will never allow a trial that is beyond one’s capacity to bear. I felt this burden was crushing me physically, mentally, and spiritually. During long daily hours at the hospital, I longed to be with my two older children and to resume our peaceful life. When I was at home, I obsessed over the welfare of my baby and, honestly, what I thought were our newly destroyed lives.
At my lowest point I pleaded with the Lord, letting Him know all the wonderful ways I would serve Him if He would just take Timothy back, let me mourn his loss, and allow me to get on with my life. Anything else was clearly more than I could handle.
While all of this was going on, my own personal miracle was beginning. Many members of our ward, along with several family members and friends, were fasting and praying for our family. One Sunday morning when I woke up, I had a strong impression that something great was going to happen that day as a result of all the fasting and prayers. I was hoping, of course, that Timothy would suddenly become alert and miraculously begin to feed. When I arrived in the NICU, Timothy was as nonresponsive as ever, and he still had no interest in bottle-feeding. Naturally, I was disappointed, but as I held him, an intense feeling came over me that he was going to be OK. I didn’t know what “OK” meant, but I had no doubt the Lord was in charge and was aware of our family.
A few weeks later my mother and I stopped by the hospital. In that quiet, dimly lit room, my mother held my weak little baby to her chest and rocked him as she sang the Christmas lullaby:
Oh, hush thee, my baby; a story I’ll tell,
How little Lord Jesus on earth came to dwell;
How in a far country, ’way over the sea,
Was born a wee baby, my dear one, like thee.
Lullaby baby, lullaby dear.
Sleep, little baby; have nothing to fear.
Lullaby baby, lullaby dear.
Jesus will care for his little one here.1
I knew peace would come through my Savior, who came to this earth to bring peace and eternal happiness for each of us. Surely He would care for this dear little one and lift those of us who were chosen to care for him.
A few weeks later Timothy was transferred to the special-care nursery where I currently work. There he miraculously learned how to eat. And I again experienced an incredible feeling that he would be OK. And although he has improved in so many ways, I still don’t know exactly what that means. But I have had such a comforting presence with me since that time. And whenever I find something that I probably should worry about, that feeling washes over me, and the message is the same: “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be OK. Just enjoy him.”
This Christmas season my thoughts turn to the beautiful gifts the Savior has given us. In so many ways He allows us to have peace here on earth. One of the most wonderful gifts of peace is the opportunity to prayerfully do all we can and then give our sorrows to Him.
By putting our trust in the Lord, we can give our worries to Him, and He in turn will lift us, giving special gifts to sustain us—often through other people. For me these gifts came in the form of babysitters for my two older children, meals from ward members, wonderful nurses and doctors, and loving support from family and friends. The most powerful gift, however, has been the peace granted by Heavenly Father as His Son has carried my sorrows and worries. Because of Him, I am free to love and enjoy baby Timothy and to celebrate all of the people and blessings that have been placed in my path because of his special life.

When Peggy told me her husband, John, after 31 years of marriage, was going to be baptized, I asked what had changed.

Peggy said, “John and I were studying the New Testament Come, Follow Me, and John asked about Church doctrine.”

Peggy said, “Let’s invite the missionaries.”

John said, “No missionaries—unless my friend can come.” Over 10 years, John’s ministering brother had become his trusted friend. (I thought, What if John’s ministering brother had stopped coming after one, two, or nine years?)

John listened. He read the Book of Mormon with real intent. When the missionaries invited John to be baptized, he said yes. Peggy said, “I fell off my chair and started to cry.”

John said, “I changed as I drew closer to the Lord.” Later, John and Peggy were sealed in the holy temple. Last December, John passed away at age 92. Peggy says, “John was always a good person, but he became different in a beautiful way after he was baptized.”

I remember sitting in the upper room of the Salt Lake Temple in March 1996 during a meeting of the General Authorities. The Church was preparing to dedicate its 50th operating temple after 166 years of this dispensation. At the end of the meeting, President Hinckley stated that he hoped there would be at least 100 temples operating before he completed his assignment on earth. I sat there stunned. The president was in his 86th year. It had taken 166 years for the first 50 temples to be built. I knew him as an optimistic man, but how could another 50 temples be built in the remaining years of his ministry?

About 18 months later, in another meeting in the Salt Lake Temple, President Hinckley announced the concept of the small temple. On a long summer trip, returning from the old Mormon colonies in Mexico, the manner in which these temples should be constructed was revealed to him. The temples would be of the same quality as the larger ones, they would be built of the finest materials, and they would be constructed to last for hundreds of years. Moreover, many of them would be built next to existing stake centers. The St. Paul Minnesota Temple was dedicated this past weekend, bringing the number of operating temples to 69. The 100th temple, expected to be in Palmyra, New York, will be completed within a few months. Brothers and sisters, we are witnesses of a miracle.

As I thought about Cindy’s question, I remembered that Dad had once said that the feeling of warning we get when we’re tempted is from the Holy Ghost as He tries to keep us from doing wrong. I should have had a lot more of that feeling the day I thought I had to have a piece of licorice. I’d helped myself to a dime from Mom’s purse without asking, and I’d hardly felt guilty at all when I handed it to the clerk at the store.
The very next day Mom said, “Little chickie, if you’ll run and post Dad’s letter, I’ll pop a peach cobbler into the oven for lunch.” Katie and Shauna had already gone to Aunt Shirley’s on an errand, so I was the only little chick left.
Then Mom looked in her purse and said, “Oh, oh. I was certain I had just the right change for a stamp, but there’s only a dime left.”
She took everything out of her purse and shook it. “Hmmmm,” she said, “it looks like I’ll have to write a check before I can mail Dad’s letter. We’ll have to forget about the cobbler, because while I’m out I might as well run my other errands.”
“Oh, Mom, you’ve already made me hungry for cobbler. Can’t the letter wait until tomorrow?”
“No. Daddy said we must get it in the mail this morning.”
“What’re we having for lunch?” I asked.
“Tuna sandwiches. Please stay close to the phone. Sister Heaton is going to call me. Tell her I’ll call her as soon as I get back.”
I felt awful as I watched her drive away.
That was last year. As I thought about it now that I was baptized, I knew it was important for me to tell Mom about it. I’d give her one of my birthday dimes, too, to help make things right.

I often find that I learn lessons the hard way. At the age of 14, I was given the chore of cleaning my room. As I did so, I stumbled upon my trusty bow, a gift from when I was around 8 or 9. Instead of finishing my room, I became consumed with a hunt for an arrow to match my bow. I failed to locate one at first, but I’m no quitter. Instead, I found a broken curtain rod. While much larger than an arrow, it was similar enough in shape to do the job. Without a second thought, I pulled back my makeshift arrow, and let it fly.
The unfortunate target happened to be the door that separated our living room from the garage. Much to my surprise, the rod punctured the door, leaving half inside the house and the other half in the garage. No cover-up was possible at that point, so I promptly confessed to my dad. He was surprisingly calm and only asked, “So . . . what did you think would happen?” That question was just enough for the tiny part of my brain in charge of “common sense” to wake up a little. The lesson “think before you act” was forever etched into my mind that day.

Let me illustrate through personal experience. Several years ago, my wife, Shelly, and I were called to preside over the Washington DC North Mission. Shortly after we began our service in June 2019, local Church members Brent and Meg Pratt invited us and our five children over for dinner at their home in Potomac, Maryland. Brent and I happen to be distant cousins. Before we sat down to eat, Brent showed us a painting that he had commissioned from the talented Latter-day Saint artist Julie Rogers. The painting features our shared great-great-grandparents, William and Rachel Atkin, pulling a handcart with all their worldly belongings and two infant children across the fast-moving Green River in Wyoming.

Julie Rogers’s painting kindled in me a desire to know more about the Atkins’ miraculous crossing of the Green River. But I had a mission to lead, so I pushed my curiosity to the back of my mind.

About nine months into our mission, the COVID-19 pandemic hit. Little did we know then how it would change our missionary service. Starting on March 16, 2020, our missionaries were confined to their apartments—an isolation that ended up lasting fifteen long months. Tracting and street contacting came to an end. Online proselyting and Zoom video conferences replaced in-person meetings and interviews. Spring turned into summer with no signs of the pandemic lifting. Our lives had gone almost entirely virtual due to COVID-19.

The first quarter of our three-year service (prior to the pandemic) was close to what we had anticipated. It was challenging, but these were all known costs. But the second and third quarters of our mission presidency, overlapping with COVID-19, exposed many unknown costs of discipleship. The divine invitation was to move from sacrifice to consecration.

Three months after the isolation began, senior Church leaders met with all mission leaders over Zoom. After summarizing the very real challenges of missionary work at that time, President Dallin H. Oaks encouraged mission leaders to keep the life of Jesus Christ front and center:
Our Savior’s willing sacrifice is the example that guides us forward along the covenant path. As members and missionaries, we follow that example by sacrifices suitable to our own circumstances.
President Oaks then shared stories from Church history in which missionary work proved highly challenging to its participants:
Encourage [your missionaries] to ponder the fact that their disruptions and inconveniences in the current pandemic are not unique in the work of the Lord or in the lives of their ancestors or fellow members. Teach them to remember the heritage of faith of those who have gone before.
President Oaks’s invitation “to remember the heritage of faith” prompted me to revisit William and Rachel Atkin’s crossing of the Green River. I determined to create a documentary history of the day-by-day trek of their emigrant company. Beginning on April 7, 2021—exactly 162 years since the pioneers had left England for America—I shared their company’s daily “sail, rail, and trail” experiences with our elders and sisters. I felt that the trials of our spiritual forebears might better contextualize the missionaries’ current COVID-19 challenges.

Many of our missionaries have shared with me how meaningful it was to compare their daily pandemic experiences with the trail diaries of these handcart pioneers. The missionaries were both humbled and inspired—just as I had hoped—by “remember[ing] the heritage of faith of those who have gone before.”

While I looked to Church history for inspiration during the COVID-19 pandemic, my dear companion, Sister Shelly A. Neilson, took a different approach. Every six weeks we would meet with every missionary at zone conference—one of the few times we were able to gather in person. During one training, Shelly gave the missionaries a pep talk:
I keep hearing a troubling phrase from people. And it’s been bouncing around enough that I think we need to talk about it. So I’m coming to you as your mission mom to help me answer it. It’s a phrase that President Neilson and I have heard from missionaries [and] from missionaries’ parents. I [have] heard it from friends at home . . . who have children on missions right now and even from grandparents who have grandchildren out serving. You may have said it to your companions or written it in letters home, or you might have even said it through tears in the shower or on your knees in prayer.

Our missionaries were understandably anxious to learn what complaint Sister Neilson was referring to. She then clarified the point:
What is this phrase that has burned my ears, that keeps echoing in my mind, and that I’ve wrestled with how to respond [to]? Here’s the phrase: “This is not what I signed up for!”
I think President Neilson probably felt it as he was riding his bike in the snow and knocking on hundreds of doors of uninterested people in Hokkaido, Japan, as a young man. I know that my dear friend who served in Guatemala and walked unpaved roads between villages in the hot sun only to discover no one home despite an appointment felt it. Or missionaries who slept on the floor being eaten by bugs all night and who had to boil their water before they could drink it said it. . . . The list goes on with all the hardships and difficult parts of a mission. And the thought “This is not what I signed up for” comes out of our minds and mouths.

Watching the nodding heads of missionaries assembled in the chapel that day, I knew that Shelly was onto something significant. She then got to the heart of the issue:
When you put in your mission papers, when you sent in your signed acceptance letter to the First Presidency, when you entered the Missionary Training Center, what exactly did you sign up for? Did you list any conditions, limitations, or stipulations to your service?

Shelly then led a discussion on this question. The missionaries concluded that they had signed up to trust in the Lord, follow His prophet, invite others to come unto Christ, and endure faithfully to the end. Pandemic or not, this is what they had signed up for.

After the discussion, Shelly handed out specially made stickers for our missionaries to affix to their water bottles, notebooks, journals, or any other object to help them remember “This Is Exactly What I Signed Up For!” This hopeful phrase became a rallying cry across our mission both during and after the height of COVID-19. We all sought for more consecration and less grumbling. My heart was filled with gratitude for these faithful elders and sisters who persevered and learned so much about themselves and their Savior during these trying times. Our missionaries—like the apostle Peter and like my ancestors William and Rachel Atkin—were moving from living the law of sacrifice (or paying the known costs) to living the higher law of consecration (being willing to give anything the Lord required). As a result, they received unanticipated blessings that will ultimately surpass anything they gave.

My grandfather was a hero of mine throughout my life. He passed away a few years ago. I had watched his health decline from a strong former football and basketball star to a wheelchair-bound elderly man whose body had suffered the ravages of cancer, Parkinson’s disease, and other debilitating conditions. Through the years of his decline, what I remembered most was the strength of his testimony. Even when he could barely talk loud enough to be heard at family reunions, he would still bear his witness of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Restoration, and the true Church.
For years when I visited their home, I would notice my grandparents’ temple recommends sitting on the mantle above their fireplace. I knew that their health seldom allowed them to attend the temple, and eventually Grandpa was too weak to go at all. But still he kept a current temple recommend. He always wanted to be “ready.”
As a teenager and throughout my life, I have remembered Grandpa and Grandma’s example of always being ready and worthy to serve the Lord.

I would like to share a spiritual experience. I was at someone’s house who had a steep hill. My little sister was at the edge of the hill, playing. I felt impressed that I should go over and watch her so she wouldn’t get hurt. When I got there, she was just about ready to fall down the hill. I felt that because I was there, I saved her from getting hurt. I feel that the Spirit helped me save my little sister.
Jessica Jones, age 7Copley, Ohio

Well, you may well understand, the second day I stood up to bat, I was not so confident as before. The same bowler stood opposite me and began that mind-bending warm-up. He threw a fast ball with a spin so wild that it hit the ground and bounced off, knocking me over to the left of the wicket with a force so hard I almost fell down.
The next thing I knew, everybody was yelling “Howzat?” to the umpire—the standard query for an umpire decision. Unless that is said, the umpire will remain silent the whole game. As far as I was concerned, he should have kept quiet, for I saw, unbelievably, the letters “L.B.W.” come to his lips. I was next to him in a minute to argue the decision.
It was then that I learned another important lesson about the game and the British character. It was Trevor who rushed to my side to inform me, “No player ever disputes an umpire’s decision once it’s been made.”
“You mean you can’t beef about a lousy decision?” I complained.
“Of course not,” Trevor said in a matter-of-fact voice. “That just wouldn’t be cricket.”
I had to admit he had me there. As I hobbled off the field (suspecting that the name of the game came from that grasshopperlike animal, the cricket, which is the only creature physically equipped with the muscles necessary to avoid getting hit with a L.B.W.), I vowed that never again would I make fun of something I knew nothing about.
The next day I was as cheerful as ever and persuaded the boys to play a game of rounders—from which, of course, I arose the hero. However, I was quiet about my laurels. After all, no sense in becoming a sticky wicket about it.

Before this calling I was a financial consultant in Houston, Texas. Most of my work was with multimillionaires who owned their own businesses. Almost all of them had created their successful businesses from nothing through lots of hard work. The saddest thing for me was to hear some of them say that they wanted to make it easier for their children. They did not want their children to suffer as they had. In other words, they would deprive their children of the very thing that had made them successful.
By contrast, we know a family who took a different approach. The parents were inspired by J. C. Penney’s experience where his father told him when he turned eight years old that he was on his own financially. They came up with their own version: as their children graduated from high school, they were on their own financially—for further education (college, graduate school) and for their financial maintenance (truly self-reliant) (see D&C 83:4). Happily, the children reacted wisely. All of them are college graduates, and several also completed graduate school—all on their own. It wasn’t easy, but they did it. They did it with hard work and faith.

In 1982, Elder Hugo E. Martinez and his wife, Sister Nuria Alvarez de Martinez, were both in their medical residency training in Mississippi, USA, when an unexpected knock came at their front door.
There stood two Mormon missionaries.
“We opened our home to them, but we knew nothing about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We didn’t even know about the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,” Elder Martinez says, smiling.
Still, the gospel lessons shared by the elders immediately resonated with the young couple. They soon accepted the missionaries’ invitation to be baptized.
“And we have not looked back ever since.”

After my experiences over the past few years, I think I understand what Paul might have felt. Like Paul, I now have a “thorn” that slows me, and like him I have prayed countless times for it to be taken away.
As I lay on the operating table, the surgeon’s voice broke through the fog of anesthesia, firm yet gentle: “Stacy, move your left arm. Now your left leg.” He repeated the request, but as my mind desperately sent signals to my body, nothing happened. My left side remained unresponsive, lifeless. In that moment, the fear that had loomed over me—of being paralyzed after brain surgery—became my reality. I remember thinking, “This is it; the risk I dreaded has come true.”
As I fully awakened, I told the surgeon I was trying to move, just as I had for the past 49 years. But my body, once so familiar, was now foreign and terrifying, refusing to obey.
Weeks in hospital rehabilitation turned into months, and months into years of grueling physical therapy. I needed help with nearly every movement. The sadness I felt during those years was overwhelming, far greater than anything I had ever experienced. It wasn’t just the physical weight of my new reality that crushed my spirit—it was the emotional toll. It was like I had been walking down a clear, well-worn path for nearly 50 years, only to find it suddenly overgrown with thick roots and towering trees. The way forward was obscured, and navigating it seemed impossible. Each day brought a new battle with sadness, fear, and anger as I fought to regain even a fraction of the physical ability I had once taken for granted.
Eighteen months after the surgery, my husband and I were invited to speak at a religious conference. The topic? “What accessing the grace of Jesus Christ daily looks like.” As we prepared, we immersed ourselves in studying Christ’s grace and how it operates in our lives. Grace, as defined in the Bible Dictionary, is “divine means of help or strength, given through the bounteous mercy and love of Jesus Christ.”
One week before the conference, I went on a bike ride with a friend. I rode my recumbent trike, which gives me the freedom to move, while she pedaled beside me on her bicycle. We talked as we rode, and as usual I cried. Sadness had become my constant companion, something the medical world might label as situational depression. I opened up to my friend about how lost I felt, about the overwhelming sadness that shadowed my days.
She asked me a question that has stayed with me ever since: “Stacy, what exactly are you sad about? What do you feel like you’ve lost?” I didn’t have an answer. I knew I was sad about my loss of movement, fearful that I would never regain my strength or the ability to do the things I once could. But the source of my sadness remained elusive.
A few days before the conference, the answer I had been searching for came to me, seemingly out of nowhere. I woke up in the middle of the night, a time when my anxious thoughts usually kept me company. But that night, a phrase echoed in my mind: “Graceful—full of grace.” As I drifted back to sleep, I thought to myself, “Yes, that’s a good point. Being graceful means being full of His grace. I’ll include that in my presentation.”
When I woke again in the morning, the same phrase was there, clear and insistent: “Graceful—full of grace.” I realized then that this message wasn’t just for the people at the conference—it was for me. That was the source of my sadness. That was what I had lost: my physical gracefulness.
As a young girl, I had been a ballerina, dancing through much of my adolescence and into college. I had never thought of myself as graceful, but years of training had ingrained in me a certain physical poise—a way of standing, moving, and balancing. Even after I stopped dancing, that grace remained. And now, in the quiet of those early morning hours, the Lord was redefining the word for me. I no longer needed the physical grace I once had. I had His grace to lean on in my moments of weakness. His grace was sufficient to help me smile, to shift my focus from my limitations to His strength.
Heaven’s message to me was clear: “You no longer need to rely on the physical grace you’ve learned. My strength is made perfect in your weakness.”
Graceful.
It’s a word I now carry with me, not as a reminder of what I’ve lost but of what I’ve gained. It’s not about my grace anymore—it’s about Christ’s grace, filling my heart and mind.
Graceful. It’s a word I now carry with me, not as a reminder of what I’ve lost but of what I’ve gained.
At the conference, I found myself in a room packed with people, needing to cross to the other side. There was no clear aisle, no easy path to navigate. As I stood up, I whispered to myself, “Graceful.” His grace, not mine. That simple word gave me the courage to move, to weave through the crowd without fear.
The more I let go of my old grace and embraced His, the easier life became. I found the strength to do what I could never do alone. His grace allowed me to see myself as a beloved daughter of God, to give my all, knowing He would fill in the gaps where I couldn’t. His grace brought gratitude even for my weaknesses.
I still wrestle with frustration and fear every day. My “thorn” hasn’t been removed. But now when those dark thoughts creep in, I have a powerful tool: the Savior’s grace. I repeat the word graceful to myself and move forward with Him. I don’t know when or how physical healing will come, but I trust that He knows, and that’s enough.
Like Paul, I am grateful for my infirmity because it has opened my eyes to see Him more clearly in my life. I place my trust in Him, and in return He gives me peace and joy and the assurance that He will deliver me.
The author lives in Utah.

When I was about seven years old, my Primary president wanted to help the children be more reverent in our Primary. She made a large bulletin board shaped like a lamb. Whenever a child was reverent, she put a lamb-shaped sticker on the bulletin board next to his or her name. I really wanted one of those lamb stickers.
So one day in Primary, I sat quietly with my arms folded and stared at the Primary president so she would notice me being reverent. A taller boy sat in front of me, so I slid down the bench so she could see me.
Then, as I sat there quietly, the pianist started playing a sweet, quiet Primary song. As I listened, a peaceful feeling came over me, and tears started to come down my cheeks. I didn’t know why I felt so happy and peaceful inside.
After Primary I told my mom about what I had felt, and she told me that it was the Spirit. That day, I learned what the Spirit feels like. Whenever I need to make important decisions and need guidance from the Spirit, I remember how peaceful I felt that day, and I can recognize how the Spirit speaks to me.

Church ball was my chance to make up for being cut. Our ward team was the best church team I’d ever played on. Brother Sid Rogers was our priests adviser and coach.
During the season we went undefeated. The only team that came close to us—and we still beat them by seven points—was Jeremy James’s ward. They had a couple of decent players, but Jeremy was really the team.
In the stake tournament the championship game was between us and Jeremy’s ward. During warm-ups I watched Jeremy. He was a quiet, reserved kind of guy. And even though he was the best player on the team, he didn’t make a big deal of it. He passed the ball around and shouted encouragement to his teammates. And he was good. Oh, was he good!
The game was close throughout. We took the early lead when Joel Preston made a three-pointer. But Jeremy’s ward kept it close. Jeremy couldn’t miss, it seemed. When we double-teamed him, he managed to get the ball to a teammate who would score. It was frustrating. Things looked bleak when we went down six with two minutes to play.
Then we started battling back, finally taking a one-point lead with ten seconds to go. And we had the ball. But then I bobbled a pass and Jeremy stole it. He began driving toward the basket and drew up for a quick jumper from ten feet as I lunged to block the shot. He grimaced even before I hit him. It was as though he knew I was going to bat away his shot. As I reached my hand to swat the ball away, I slapped his forearm. The whistle blew, and the ref pointed at me.
Then something happened. Jeremy, still grimacing and shaking his head, intervened. “I traveled before I went up for the shot,” he explained, the disappointment and anguish heavy on his face.
Jeremy’s coach fired off the bench, a look of shock pinching his features. “Let the refs make the calls,” he hollered, turning to the officials. “I didn’t see the traveling. You didn’t see it, right?”
“If he said he traveled,” the ref said apologetically, nodding at Jeremy, “I can’t just ignore that. He called traveling on himself.”
Every eye was on Jeremy. Everybody was wondering what he was going to do. But more than anyone I knew what Jeremy would do. I had seen him sacrifice more than the last two points in a church ball game. I wanted him to stand by his call, but not so we could win. I suppose I wanted reaffirmed to me that someone could actually guard his integrity more intensely than he guarded his team’s chance to win.
Jeremy shrugged and shook his head. “I traveled.” Turning to his coach and teammates, he muttered a quiet, “I’m sorry.”
Jeremy’s coach, obviously frustrated, put his arm around Jeremy. Ever since my experience with Coach Angelo I had packed an annoying pocket of guilt in the pit of my stomach. Many times since I had reflected on the decisions I had made to earn a varsity spot. I had come to know that to experience the comfort of clear conscience sometimes demands the sting of public disapproval. As my team celebrated, I felt a deep-down empty sickness born of disappointment. For a moment I wondered what it would be like to lose on principle instead of winning in spite of it.
“We ought to play it over,” I blurted out. “That would be the fair thing to do. Jeremy would be hitting free throws right now if …” I stopped and glanced at Jeremy. I detected surprise in his look. “If we’re going to win,” I continued, “we ought to win without a questionable call at the end.”
“C’mon, Dave, we’ve got it won if the ref calls traveling on James,” Joel said.
It was now my turn to feel the pressure of the crowd. Then I remembered that Sunday afternoon when Coach Angelo “complimented” me by saying I went with the flow without making waves. He hadn’t meant to, but he had labeled me a coward.
“We can replay the last ten seconds of the game,” I explained. “This is a church game. We ought to do that. They get the ball where Jeremy stole it and we play from there.”
There were protests and arguments, each team struggling for the advantage. But the referees went along with my suggestion. We were ahead 68–67 with ten seconds on the clock.
Joel and I double-teamed Jeremy as he brought the ball up court. Jeremy made a move, and Joel slipped and fell. It was Jeremy and me, one on one. I knew I couldn’t foul him. My only chance was to block the shot. I expected the crucial moment to come under the basket as Jeremy drove the lane. But as soon as Jeremy reached the three-point line, he pulled up for a jump shot. The ball hit the bottom of the net as the buzzer blared.
Jeremy’s team went crazy, slapping high fives, hugging, laughing, and shouting. We stared in disbelief, and then my teammates turned away, some of them grumbling, all of them shunning me.
I made my way to the dressing room, more to be by myself than to shower or dress. Dropping down on the bench, I held my head in my hands. I had wanted to win. Yet there was a quiet, tranquil peace inside me. I had no regrets.
“Hey, Bluth.” I looked up to see Jeremy standing there. We stared at each other a moment before he spoke. “It was a good game. I just wanted to say thanks. I wasn’t sure … I just wanted you to know that …”
He smiled and shrugged, words escaping him. He swallowed and tried again. “Thanks for playing tough and hanging in there.”
Neither of us knew what to say after that. We both stood there silently. And then Jeremy held out his hand and I took it, feeling a lump squeeze into my throat. We shook hands firmly and looked into each other’s eyes, and I knew that between the two of us there was nothing more that needed to be said.

While I was a student here, I met someone who changed my life forever. My husband, Sione. He was kind, funny, steady, full of love, and extremely good-looking. Together, we built a beautiful life and were blessed with three incredible children: Lose, Aisake, and Eveline. Shortly after my husband and I got married, we moved back to Tonga.

And something interesting happened. I began to see my own BYU–Hawaii experience differently. I started meeting young students who were preparing to leave Tonga for the very first time to attend BYU–Hawaii. And every time I talked to them, I saw myself.

I saw the fear. The uncertainty. The excitement. The homesickness they did not even know was coming yet. I remembered what it felt like to arrive here not knowing how to navigate life in a completely different culture.

So, I felt strongly that we needed to prepare students before they ever stepped on a plane. Not just academically. But emotionally, socially, and spiritually.

I remember one of the first groups I worked with in Tonga. At first, they were so shy. I could barely get anyone to talk. You would ask a question and get complete silence. I thought, “Oh no… how are these students going to survive in classroom discussions, let alone how are they going to be able to ask someone on a date when they can’t even speak?”

So, we started doing activities together. Instead of preparing individually, we started preparing as a group. I intentionally grouped students traveling during the same semester together because I hoped they would build relationships before arriving on campus.

In many ways, we were trying to create the same kind of community many of us found at the Aloha Center. We spent time together. We laughed together. We talked about fears and expectations. But more importantly, we created trust.

And slowly, things started to change. The quiet students began opening up. Friendships began forming. Confidence began growing. We were building unity because I knew there would be moments when they missed home. Moments when they questioned themselves. Moments when they felt overwhelmed. And when those moments came, they would not have to face them alone. They would turn to the group they came with from home, their family away from family. And it worked.

A few months after one of those groups arrived at BYU–Hawaii, I returned to campus to visit, and one of the first places we went was the Polynesian Cultural Center.

It was my first time back at PCC after several years, and I will never forget the overwhelming feeling of watching each of these students excel in their different roles.

Some were at the luau, bussing tables with big smiles on their faces; some were tour guides interacting with groups and guests from all over the world; and many were dancing in the villages and at the night show.

They were all incredible.

The same students who once sat quietly in Tonga, unable to introduce themselves, were now confidently performing in front of thousands of people. They were no longer hiding. They were becoming. That moment was one of the sweetest and most rewarding experiences of my life.

Mother had been living with me for almost five years. In love and gratitude I was glad I could care for her just as she had cared for me for so many years. But I missed her smiles and humorous comments. I longed to have her experience again the joy and excitement she had once felt when she went on rides with me. It hadn’t really mattered where we went. Mother never missed pointing out the flowers, the birds on the telephone wires, or the children playing.
I missed the companionship we had enjoyed as we peeled potatoes, snapped beans, or read together. I longed to share childhood experiences with her and tell her news about my siblings and her grandchildren. She had always enjoyed family dropping by, especially the grandchildren. But now her dementia had changed things. She really wasn’t sure anymore who I was, other than someone special who cared for her.
It had been a particularly difficult day with Mother. She gave me the usual blank stares when I tried to make conversation and distrustful looks when I tried to assist her. I was exhausted and frustrated as I sat down on the couch to think. I began to read aloud one of Mother’s journals in hopes that she might be entertained by it and perhaps remember a little. My efforts proved futile, but as I continued to read to myself, the memories surfaced in me.
In those pages Mother repeatedly expressed the joy she had felt when her family would visit and the void she had felt when they left. She wrote of how hard it had been for her when my father became ill and, after a long struggle, had left her a widow at the age of 59. She wrote of how she missed Father and of how she worried about my older brother, who was stricken with the same disease.
Mother wrote of happy, fulfilling experiences like teaching Church classes and participating in single adult activities. She wrote of the satisfaction she had received in going to Dilkon, Arizona, to teach the gospel once a week on the Navajo Indian reservation. This brought to my mind how she had always emphasized the importance of being dependable when someone was counting on you. Sometimes her entries were short because she had been helping someone; they reminded me of how she often took food or gifts to anyone she thought needed help or cheer. Many times in her entries she bore her testimony of the gospel.
I was especially touched by how she expressed the sorrow and worry she had felt when my daughter was born with Down syndrome and associated problems. Had she really spent almost a whole month feeding and caring for our other children as my husband and I went back and forth to the hospital while Debra Sue underwent open-heart surgery and related complications? Yes! And she had done it at age 70!
I remembered how she had always been there for me when I needed her. Through the years I learned that if she could not be with me in person, her faithful letters and prayers would sustain me.
That night, as I sang hymns to Mother to calm her to sleep, I had an overwhelming surge of love for my brave, always-sacrificing mother and deep gratitude for the words of her journal that had brought her back to me.