Gospel Story Finder

“Seemingly out of nowhere, this civilization sprang up sometime around 600 B.C.” Professor Terry’s words crackled like lightning on the girl sitting seven rows back in his History of the American Southwest class. She usually dozed during this period, but for the first time in her five weeks of junior college, Robin was totally awake. There! He was writing the date on the board—600 B.C. The figures looked like neon lights on a dark landscape. She looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. No, they all appeared completely nonchalant. I must be the only Mormon in the room, she thought. Her attention returned to Professor Terry who paced in front of his desk as he described various artifacts and their possible functions. “I wonder if he could be a member,” she thought, as the lecture drifted farther and farther from the subject of the appearance of the mysterious civilization. “Why wasn’t I paying more attention?” she continued, making a mental note to do better. When the bell announced the end of class, Robin gathered up her books and made her way to the front of the room where the instructor was marking some lecture notes.
“Professor Terry?”
He looked up, gave her a quick smile, and said, “Yes?”
“Is it just a coincidence that the date you’ve written there is the same one that figures so prominently in the Book of Mormon?” she began, gesturing toward the date still written on the board. “And the way that culture just sprang up out of nowhere. …”
The professor’s amicable expression dissolved instantly.
“Here we go again,” he said impatiently. “You Mormons try to explain all this in terms of another culture.”
“But sir, the date … I mean, it’s such a coincidence. …”
“I know, Nephites and Lamanites and all that. You people just refuse to acknowledge that the American Indians could have developed such an advanced culture without outside help, without inheriting it from somewhere else. It’s a racist notion!” He bristled with annoyance now. “Something tells me he’s not a Mormon,” Robin thought.
“Yes, uh, well, do you know of any more books I could read on the subject?” she asked in her most ingratiating tone. She knew she probably wouldn’t get around to reading them, but she thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask anyway. She was right. Professor Terry smiled condescendingly and wrote down some titles on a piece of paper.
“Here,” he said, handing the paper to her. “Now you’re a nice Mormon girl, and I certainly wouldn’t want to change that.”
“Thank you.” Robin turned and left the room. “I suppose I should have told him that I know the Church is true,” she thought, “but how could I with him going on and on like that? I think maybe I’ll look up some of those books that support the Book of Mormon with real evidence. Professor Terry doesn’t even know there is any evidence. Then the next time this happens, I’ll be prepared.”
That evening, Robin was resting in front of the television when her mother got home from Primary. “I guess I’d better go help her with supper,” she thought, when she heard pots and pans being rattled in the kitchen.
Just then her mother’s voice called above the noise, “Robbie, honey, did you have a chance to type those papers for me? I have to take them with me in the morning.”
“Oh, I forgot, Mom. I’ll do it after supper, okay?” It seemed like there was always something waiting to be done.
Later that night Robin lay down on her bed and started reading a novel for her English class. Halfway through the third chapter, her eyes began to close. She closed the book, switched off the lamp, and succumbed to her sleepiness. Then a faint tap, tap, tapping intruded on her oblivious slumber. She raised her head. There it was again. Tap, tap, tap. The typewriter! Oh no! Her mother was typing the forgotten papers. “Oh, Mom, I’m sorry,” she thought to herself. “I’ll remember next time.” She buried her head in her pillow but couldn’t escape the typewriter keys that hammered her conscience senseless.
Midterm exams came up very quickly. Professor Terry handed out the freshly mimeographed pages that still smelled faintly of ink. Robin took hers a little apprehensively and started on the first section. These questions were multiple choice, and she was sure of most of the answers, so she felt confident as she turned to the second page. At the top was an essay question that stopped her cold: Describe the possible origins of the American Indian, basing your answer on presently known facts. “Oh no,” she thought, “I forgot all about researching this.”
As she sat there, stunned, all of Professor Terry’s evidence and opinions kept running through her head. She could not think of one fact to support her own belief. The clock showed five minutes had passed, and still Robin debated. “If I don’t hurry up, I won’t get to the end of the test,” she thought. “Besides, if I show his viewpoint, Professor Terry will see that I really do know the material and that I can answer his way if necessary. After all, he knows very well what I really believe.”
Robin wrote a whole page, including everything from parallel evolution to the Bering Strait theory. With relief, she moved on to the rest of the exam, completing the last question as the bell rang. “Boy, what you have to go through to get a grade,” she thought, and she dropped her exam on the table with the rest.
Monday afternoon, a week later, Robin got to class a little early. Professor Terry had said that he would probably pass back the midterms today, and she was anxious to see how he had reacted to hers. As the other students came in and took their seats, she thought how few of them she really knew. “This isn’t like high school,” she mused. “There doesn’t seem to be much time to get to know people once you’re in college.” Just then the professor entered the room, carrying the stack of examinations.
“Good afternoon,” he said, placing the papers on the desk. “I am quite encouraged after correcting your exams because, on the whole, they’re quite good. Of course, some are better than others.” The class laughed nervously. “I would like to read a few of the better responses to the essay question.” As he began reading, Robin heard his words with disbelief. They were her own. Professor Terry’s voice resounded through the lecture hall. She wanted to stop him, but she couldn’t move. “Out of all of those papers, why mine?” she thought. She sat motionless and watched as 42 people listened to the wrong answer.

After a long and hard divorce, my mother decided to move our family from Germany to the United States—the home she’d left many years ago when she married my father. Even though my brothers and I were excited, it was a difficult time for us. We had to adjust to a new home and to a different country and culture.
Soon we found a house, and my brothers and I started school. We had moved to Massachusetts, where we attended a small ward. The members welcomed us warmly, and we quickly made many good friends.
Things weren’t going too badly, but my mother hadn’t been able to find a job as quickly as we had hoped. My older brother was serving a mission, and Christmas was coming closer, so money was tight. My younger brothers and I knew we wouldn’t be getting many presents that year. I often saw my mother sitting in her room, thinking of how to pay the bills and still have enough to buy presents and make this a wonderful Christmas. My brothers and I tried to convince her that we didn’t need any presents. But she knew we were just trying to make things easier and that we would be disappointed if we didn’t get anything at all.
Christmas Eve came, and we each had a couple of presents under the tree. Mother was completing the final preparations when the phone rang. She answered it. All she heard was, “An elf from the North Pole has left something for you at the front door.” Then the line was dead.
I stepped out of my room and saw my mother standing beside the phone. When I asked who had called, she slowly repeated the message she had heard. I quickly grabbed her, and we opened the front door. Outside were five big bags filled with presents. Each was carefully wrapped and had a tag.
I hurriedly woke my brothers, and with great excitement we opened the bags and placed the gifts under the tree. Long after going to bed, each of us wondered who might have called and left the bags on our doorstep. My mother didn’t go to bed for a long time. She just sat in the living room and looked at the Christmas tree with all its lights and the presents lying beneath it.
Christmas day came. We got up and opened our presents, which were all carefully selected to match our interests and needs. It was the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had.
We still don’t know who gave us the wonderful gifts, and we decided to stop trying to figure it out. But I will never forget that Christmas, not only because of the presents, but because of the lesson I learned. We are all saved because of Jesus Christ’s great love for us. He was born and died for each of us, and too often we forget the true meaning of Christmas. That year I was reminded of the love the Savior has for each of us and that he wants us to love and serve one another. I am so grateful for the Christlike example of our secret friend.

My mother passed away last November. For the last six years of her life she needed full time caregivers due to her cognitive decline. In her earlier years she was a middle school earth science teacher. It was hard to watch her struggle with memory loss and the inability sometimes to express herself or to even make simple daily living decisions. It was very hard for me, her daughter, to switch roles with her. It was hard for her too. I knew she was not going to get better. Sometimes our mortal bodies have done their work and they experience what they are meant to experience in mortality.

At my father's graveside service, six years before my mother's death, a friend brought about 20 homing pigeons whose wings had been dyed beautiful colors of the rainbow. They were released at the end of the service and we marveled at the beautiful ribbon of color they made as they flew in a beautiful pattern on their way home.

My mother remarked to me, "At my funeral, forget the flowers, I want those birds." So when it came time for my mother's graveside service we made arrangements for the birds. After the dedication of the grave, the birds were released. We watched them fly together against the dark green backdrop of the beautiful Koolau Mountains and then were shocked to see the birds form the shape of a heart. The funeral director was standing next to me and she said in a hushed voice, "Did you see that! The birds made a heart!" I wasn't quite sure I had seen it myself, but when she said that I knew that I had seen it. For me this was a message of renewal from my mother and my Heavenly Father. My mother was renewed. She was free.

On November 7, 1843, Joseph recorded that: “Mr. [Joseph M.] Cole moved the tables back into the hall, when [Willard] Richards and [William W.] Phelps called to report that the noise in the school disturbed them in the progress of writing the History. I gave orders that Cole must look out for another place, as the history must continue, and not be disturbed, as there were but few subjects that I have felt a greater anxiety about than my history, which has been a very difficult task, on account of the death of my best clerks, and the apostasy of others” (History of the Church, 6:66).

Shortly after I was baptized, I married a man who was not a member of the Church. He controlled all the money I earned and never let me pay tithing.
I suffered for 10 long, unhappy years, during which I could not progress. Eventually I was divorced and began to support my daughter and myself. However, what I earned was insufficient to pay for our rent, bills, food, clothes, and the other things we needed. If I had enough for one thing, I could not afford another.
One day I started to pay tithing anyway. As always I continued to plan my budget. And I began to realize that I had enough money for everything, even with the same salary. At first I couldn’t believe what was happening. Then I read the passage in the Bible where the Lord says, “Prove me now herewith … if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it” (Mal. 3:10). I knelt down and cried unto the Lord in gratitude. He has never forsaken me.

Recently a prominent family in my neighborhood suffered a great tragedy. Their troubled teenage son committed suicide. Under the influence of drugs and alcohol, he apparently sought peace in this desperate way. His fine family felt his loss intensely. Despite an enormous level of effort and outpouring of love to this son throughout his life, his parents agonized, wondering if they’d done everything. His siblings probably wondered the same. Neighbors and friends, in and out of the Church, responded with love, sympathy, and support.
The family sat together at stake conference just days after this tragic experience. The main speaker, who knew of this incident, gave a long talk about the problems families get into when they spend too much time on Church duties and not enough time with each other. Some members of the congregation visibly winced as they thought of this family and how the message might affect them. Right message. Wrong time. How we wished our speaker had taken off the blinders and seen the needs of our brothers and sisters.

Words fail to express the deep feelings of gratitude for the Lord and the missionaries He sent to our home. The Lord blessed me with the knowledge of the restored gospel, and I felt an urgency to share this knowledge with others. I wanted to be a missionary.
Within months, my sister Dina and I were called as local missionaries in San Salvador. This calling gave us the opportunity to go door to door to share the glad news of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and bring many people to the waters of baptism. In due time, we both served full-time missions in the Central America Mission.
My mission had a great impact on my life. I learned to rely more on the Lord, to seek the guidance of the Spirit, and to feel an overwhelming love for God’s children. My knowledge of the scriptures and my understanding of the doctrines increased. So did my desire to be obedient and to keep the commandments with exactness. My testimony of the Savior and His infinite Atonement was strengthened. My missionary experiences became part of who and what I am. Missionary work became my passion. It has impacted my life and that of my family more than anything else.

When I was 11 years old, I learned that my Boy Scout troop would be going on an 11-day, 50-mile backpacking trip to Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico. I was four feet, eight inches tall and 80 pounds. My 40-pound pack was half my body weight. And I was two years younger than all the other boys in our troop. I was intimidated and didn’t want to be the weakest link in the group.
To prepare, my dad and I spent many early mornings at the local high school climbing bleachers and walking around the track. To practice hiking with extra weight, I would load my school backpack with every book I owned. So probably a whopping two or three books.
When we got to the Philmont base camp, I saw the foothills and mesas that led to the backcountry, and I got so pumped. All my work was about to pay off. But my initial excitement was quickly punched in the gut. The New Mexico monsoon storms had us hiking in the rain nearly every day. On the second day I came down with hypothermia after getting caught in a rain and hailstorm. By the third day, the hip strap on my backpack had bruised and rubbed my hips raw. My discount hiking boots that I got from the Payless shoe store, which went out of business in 2019, probably for making substandard quality shoes, left my feet with several blisters. On day four, we hiked nearly nine miles and climbed up what seemed like 2,000 vertical feet to a camp called Lookout Meadow. My legs were spent beyond what I thought possible.
On the seventh day, bruised, tired and sore, we camped at the bottom of Mt. Philips, the second tallest peak in the scout ranch, at 11,700 ft. The next day we were expected to climb the peak with full packs. To my little eyes, this mountain was insurmountable and well beyond my ability. Doubt and fear tempted me to quit that very night. I’m not exactly sure how I got to sleep, but it was a tender mercy.
The next morning, feeling a bit more rested, we got up and hit the trail before sunrise. Guided by the light of our mini mag flashlights, we hiked more switchbacks than I could count. Going back and forth had me dizzy and demoralized. But the sun eventually rose, and I was thankful for the warmth and energy it brought. We climbed to what I thought was the top of the mountain only to realize that it was a false summit and we had to keep climbing. This happened more than once. After hours of climbing, we crested the final ridge and stepped onto the real summit. The view took my breath away, and it wasn’t just from the thin air. I could see streams meandering through the valleys below with mountains all around climbing above the tree line. The world seemed to go on forever.
And it was at that point that I felt all the work was worth it.
However, as good as the view was, it was the entirety of the experience that has meant the most to me in these last 35 years. It was real adventure. Unfortunately, I didn’t come home any taller, but I did come home stronger [and] with the desire to climb taller mountains and tackle bigger challenges.

I am thinking of the kinds of confidence expressed by President Tanner in a story he told in General Conference several years ago. I will relate it in his own words:

Some years ago in Canada I was driving along and had two young men with me in my car, and a young man thumbed a ride with us. I asked the boys who were with me if we should take him with us, and they said yes. I picked him up, and after we had driven along a little way he said, “Do you mind if I smoke in your car?”

I said, “No, not at all if you can give me any good reason why you should smoke.” And I said, “I will go farther than that.” (I was stake president at this time.) “If you can give me a good reason why you should smoke, I will smoke with you.” Well, my two young friends looked at me and wondered.

We drove on for some distance, about twenty minutes, I think, and I turned around and said, “Aren’t you going to smoke?”

And he said, “No.”

I said, “Why not?”

And he said, “I can’t think of a good reason why I should.” [CR, April 1965, p. 93]

Not too many days later, I got a phone call from a member of the Church I knew named Dave. He asked if I wanted to come to his house on Saturday night. He also invited me to join his family for dinner the next day. It sounded like a lot more fun than I was currently having with no friends, so I agreed.
Dave and I had a good time together—and, of course, there were no cigarettes or alcohol. As I listened to Dave’s dad say the prayer at dinner, I felt so good. I began to think that maybe—just maybe—things were getting better.
Dave and I became best friends. We played football together, went to school together, helped each other go on missions. When we got back, we were college roommates. We helped each other find the right women to marry and kept each other on the strait and narrow path all the way to the temple and after. All these years later, we’re still good friends. And it all started with a simple phone call, right when I needed it.

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.

We need an eternal plan. Life’s plan and the challenge to be successful are demonstrated in an Aesop Fable, “The Man, the Boy, and the Donkey.” The objective of the man and the boy was to journey to the city marketplace and sell the donkey for winter provisions. As they started to town, the father rode the donkey. In the first village, the villagers said, “What an inconsiderate man, riding the donkey and making his son walk!” So the father got off the donkey and let his son ride.

In the next hamlet, the people whispered, “What an inconsiderate boy, riding the donkey and making his father walk!”

In frustration, the father climbed on the donkey; and father and son rode the donkey, only to have the people in the next town declare, “How inconsiderate of the man and the boy to overload their beast of burden and treat him in such an inhumane manner!”

In compliance with the dissident voices and mocking fingers, the father and son both got off the donkey to relieve the animal’s burden, only to have the next group of onlookers say, “Can you imagine a man and a boy being so stupid as to not even use their beast of burden for what it was created!”

Then, in anger and total desperation, having tried to please all those who offered advice, the father and son both rode the donkey until it collapsed. The donkey had to be carried to the marketplace. The donkey could not be sold. The people in the marketplace scoffed, “Who wants a worthless donkey that can’t even walk into the city!”

The father and son had failed in their goal of selling the donkey and had no money to buy the winter provisions they needed in order to survive.

How much different the outcome would have been if the father and son had had a plan to follow. Father could have said, “I’ll ride the donkey one-third of the way; Son, you ride the donkey one-third of the way; and we’ll both walk the last third of the way. The donkey will arrive at the marketplace fresh and strong, ready to be sold.”

Then, as they received confusing advice while traveling through each hamlet and village along their way to the city, they could look at each other, give a reassuring wink of the eye, and say, “We have a plan.”

A letter was given to me, written by a young man whose twin brother had been killed while on an activity in Big Cottonwood Canyon east of Salt Lake City. His quorum leader grieved over the loss of one of his boys whom he had been called to serve, to teach, to inspire, and to motivate. He received comfort, as an adviser, in the help our Heavenly Father provided him in the answers to his prayers. He was asked to speak at the funeral of the deceased boy. It was a difficult assignment, but he fulfilled it. Then he received a letter from the surviving twin. The letter is the finest letter he has ever received in mortality. With his permission, I’ll share it:
“Dear Brother Cannegieter:
“I’d like to thank you for the talk you gave at Brian’s funeral. You told about all those wonderful times we had with Brian that I had almost forgotten. Brian and I both thought you were the best adviser and the best teacher we ever had, because you really cared about us and gave us your time. You taught us very important lessons and provided us advice from your own experience in life.
“We are going to miss Brian very much, and we will never forget the example of living life to its fullest and of courage and of dedication that he gave to us.
“I love you, Brother Cannegieter, and I hope I can be as smart and understanding and caring as you are. I hope I will really listen and get to know people like you do.
“I’d like to thank you for everything you have done for us.”
This is the comfort that comes to the heart of a person who loves his neighbor as himself. The same comfort will come to the heart of the person who loves God.

“My other grandmother, my dad’s mother, was a visiting teacher to a family during a flu epidemic after World War I. The whole family was sick with the flu; three of them had already died. My grandmother went into their home and took care of them and even dressed the bodies of the dead members in preparation for their funeral. I have always been impressed with what a faithful visiting teacher she was.

“I myself came down with smallpox, a deadly disease in those days. I was isolated in the granary, which had a stove. Pillows were tied on my hands so that I couldn’t scratch the big pox that covered my body. The Lord blessed me so that today I don’t have any pockmarks. I also had diphtheria, another deadly disease, and the Lord spared my life then too.

“I loved school and had some wonderful teachers. One of them was ElRay L. Christiansen, who later became a General Authority. He would tell us about different pieces of music and make them live for us. I still have a great love for opera and classical music.”

Elder Reeve believes that children must be acquainted with Heavenly Father. If He is the center of their lives and they love Him and talk with Him, then He can take them through any trial or problem. It might not all be pleasant, but they can survive.

“God is real. He lives, and He loves you. He loves every child; He doesn’t have favorites. He is as close to you as you will let Him be by how you live, how you mind your parents, and how you keep His commandments.”

In an effort to create replicas of the golden plates for the Museum of Church History and Art, historians have studied and compiled all the accounts from those who saw or felt the plates and then used that knowledge—and some educated guesses—to create three sets of golden plates for display. Each set varies a little in color, weight, and dimensions. The plates were created as part of the celebration of the 200th anniversary of Joseph Smith’s birth.

With all these descriptions, historians have little more than a general idea of what the plates look like. But they’ve done the best they can with the information they have.

The process to create the replicas of the plates was long and a little complicated. First, thin copper plates were created and coated in black acid-resistant paint. More than 150 volunteers, many of them youth, then used sharp metal tools to scratch characters into the black surface, exposing the copper beneath. The museum provided examples of what the characters might have looked like.

“This isn’t as much work as the ancient prophets did,” said April Rowbury, 15, of the Provo Eighth Ward, Provo Utah East Stake. “It was hard, but it wasn’t as hard as it was for them, because they had to engrave on the actual metal.”

“This is all very speculative,” says Kirk Henrichsen, a senior exhibit designer for the Church museum. “We’ve made them as accurately as we could with the information that we have, but I’m sure if Mormon came to look at them he would just laugh!”

After the volunteers engraved the characters in the black paint, the next step was to soak the plates in a copper etching solution. The solution ate away at the exposed copper, leaving the surfaces beneath the black paint intact. The solution was then rinsed off, and kerosene was used to clean off the remaining black acid-resistant paint. Soapy water cleaned off the kerosene, and then the clean copper plates were electroplated.

Electroplating coats the plates in a thin layer of a golden colored alloy of gold and silver, called electrum. Electrum is not as heavy or as precious as gold. Black ink will then be rubbed into the etched characters to make them more visible.

A recent letter from some concerned parents is typical of some others I have received. It illustrates some of the problems to which I refer. This letter reads:
Dear President Smith:
Some time ago we received a phone call from our daughter. She is in the army. She was crying over the phone. In fact, she was almost hysterical. She felt she had not one friend on earth. Those she thought were her friends had deserted her and were in fact persecuting her unmercifully—for one reason, because she is a Mormon. To say “we were in despair” is an understatement.

A second letter was enclosed with the letter from these parents, and let me read it to you in part:
I am your daughter’s Relief Society visiting teacher. My companion and I were at first unable to locate her. When we did, we found a depressed and mixed-up young lady. I’m not connected with the military, and I soon had my eyes opened to the unfortunate circumstances in which young girls in the military may find themselves. How very difficult it would be to keep gospel standards in my mind when one was continually subject to the rowdy, cigarette-filled barracks, the regimentation of being dumped into a job for which one is neither suited nor trained.

Since that initial visit, and on following visits as she became aware of the Church here, a distinct change came over her. As far as her work would permit, she attended many ward functions, and all were aware of her friendly presence. One could almost measure the light that came back into her lovely eyes. She began to smile as she realized that people cared.

You’re going to be welcoming home a very special daughter, and I shall miss her because she is my friend. I shall always be grateful to her for showing me the change that can come into one’s life when he grasps firmly the iron rod.

As we grow, everything we learn can be used by the Lord to bless someone, somewhere.
As a Scout I learned Morse code. Years later, while I was on my mission, an investigator came into sacrament meeting, and I felt inspired to write him a short note in Morse code which said something like, “Welcome to sacrament meeting. Happy to see you here!”
It turned out he was a radio operator, and it was a great delight to him to have somebody write him a note in Morse code. Imagine how happy I was when this investigator, with a big smile, said, “I’m so glad that you wrote me this message in Morse code!” I was amazed that something I had learned years earlier could help me on my mission to reach a certain individual in a particular way.
As we are open to new things and to learning in our lives, the Lord knows what we have learned and can use us to bless others. Morse code is a specific example, but if we are willing, the Lord can use us as instruments to bless the lives of others and bring joy to their lives and our own.

When I was in the sixth grade, my class went to the Marin Headlands (California) State Park for a weeklong field trip. After a long drive on the bus, we unpacked our belongings and settled in to our bunk beds. We started talking excitedly about what activities lay ahead of us over the next week. Slowly, the conversation changed, and somehow the subject of religion was brought up. One person after another briefly stated what faith they belonged to. I didn’t want anyone to know that I didn’t go to church and was different from them. However, they noticed that I wasn’t participating in the discussion.
“What are you?” my friend asked curiously.
“I don’t go to church, so I guess I’m nothing.”
“You can’t be nothing. You have to be something!”
I decided to ask my mom what she was, because I thought that whatever she was, I must be the same. “Mom, everyone in my group at camp goes to church except me. They told me what religions they were and when they asked me what I was, I told them that I was nothing. I’m nothing, right?”
“Yes, I guess that’s right,” my mom said assuredly.
“But they said I have to be something,” I complained.
My mom repeated herself, “If you don’t belong to a particular church or religious group, then you are no religion at all.”
Two years went by, and I didn’t think too much about religion or the religious discussion we had had until my best friend invited me to attend a camp with her during the summer. After getting my parents’ approval, I excitedly told my friend that I could go. There were a lot of fun activities but also classes about principles and stories in the Bible that were brand new to me. I enjoyed learning about them, and I learned how to look up scriptures in my new Bible given to me by my friend. By the end of the week, I was “saved.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but there were other people that were “saved” too.
I asked my parents if it was all right if I went to church with my best friend’s family every Sunday. They agreed. Unfortunately, something came up the next Sunday, and I wasn’t able to go. One week after another went by, and for one reason or another I did not go to church. The good feelings from camp slowly faded away. My freshman year of high school began, but my best friend and I drifted apart. Now I knew there was no chance of going to church with her family.
“Mom, can we go to church?” I asked several times, but I never really got the answer I was looking for. One day was different. Instead of the usual reply, she answered, “Well, I do know of a church we can go to. I know that they teach good things, because I used to go when I was little. I can take you to that church—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” That was the first time I learned she ever went to church, even though I knew my grandparents went to church.
I was more than satisfied with this answer. I was finally on my way to becoming something.
My mom, sister, brother, and I were finally going to church! My grandmother helped by locating which church building to attend in the area where we lived. Looking back, I do remember feeling welcomed.
Over the next few Sundays, I was welcomed like a friend that hadn’t been seen for some time. When people noticed that I was new, they smiled and extended their hand to greet me and introduced themselves. I went to Young Women with the girls. I was 15 and belonged to the Mia Maid class. I quickly made friends despite my shyness. Everyone made me feel comfortable. My sister was in the Beehive class. Being four years old, my brother went to Primary. He didn’t like going by himself, so he always made my mom go with him. I think she enjoyed it. She sang children’s songs and relearned stories from when she was younger.
The missionaries came to our house and taught us the lessons. I was delighted when they came over. Even though they were around 20 years old, they knew a lot about the scriptures and the gospel of Jesus Christ. They had a special presence and a warm glow about them. I soon found out that other members of the Church had that glow as well, including my Young Women teacher, who always let me know how happy she was to have me in her class.
I became good friends with a girl named Julia. We decided to be “buddies” at girls camp. Even though I don’t like camping or hiking very much, I really enjoyed the entire experience. There was a different feeling at this camp. Our counselors made a special effort to see that we were having a good time and that everyone was included in all the activities we participated in. During the week, we had devotionals, a nature walk to learn about different plants, a first-aid class, and campfire skits. There was also a service project that everyone in the camp happily participated in. In fact, the service project table was always crowded with volunteers. All through the week there was a sense of organization, cooperation, and friendship.
On Saturday morning, the last day, everyone got together around the campfire, and whoever wanted to stood up and told the others of their testimony of the Church and expressed their gratitude for their family, friends, and what a great and memorable experience they had at camp. Most of them cried while they talked, and I cried along with them. I was surprised to see my sister go up on stage. She said how happy she was to come to this Church and how thankful she was for her family, especially me. That was one of the first times she had ever expressed her love for me as her sister. Once she sat down, I got up and sat next to her. I told her how grateful I was for what she said, and we cried together. We really made a special connection.
We continued going to church and taking the missionary lessons. As the weeks went by, I learned much more about the Church. I wanted to do the right things. I began reading the Bible and the Book of Mormon, praying, eating good food, dressing modestly, and trying to live a Christian life. After trying all these things, I felt good about myself.
My mother, who had not wanted to go to church, continued to participate in the missionary lessons and continued to take us to church every Sunday. We made the decision to be baptized, and my mother, sister, and I became members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on June 3, 2000. This was a decision that has changed all of our lives. My brother was too young to be baptized, and my stepfather did not share in our beliefs, but he always supported all of us in our Church-related activities and meetings.
We now have numerous friends that we would not otherwise have if we had not gone to church. We participate in many community service projects and have become happier people. I went on to receive my Young Women in Excellence award and attend community college. After high school, I became active in the single adults ward, where I met a wonderful returned missionary. We were married and have now had our first child.
Through all these experiences in the Church, our family has grown closer, and we are striving to become an eternal family. Seven years after our baptism, both my stepfather and my little brother made the decision to join the Church and were baptized together on January 20, 2007.

The Prophet’s promise was fulfilled in 1845, when Dan and his wife, Jane, were called to serve in Wales. Dan used his talent for speaking to teach the gospel with great conviction. He was fluent in Welsh and English, and witnesses recorded that he spoke so captivatingly that he could hold his audience’s attention in either language for hours.
While in Wales, Dan published Latter-day Saint periodicals, tracts, and books in Welsh. Under Dan Jones’s direction, missionaries in Wales established 29 branches and baptized nearly 1,000 people each year of his first mission. He was called on a second mission to Wales in 1852, and despite growing persecution of the Church, some 2,000 people were baptized in four years.

I conclude with another story from my experience at Harvard. While there I unofficially audited a class jointly taught by three Harvard professors: a lawyer, a theologian, and a scientist. The title of the course was intriguing: “Thinking About Thinking.”

The format of the class was to introduce subjects of societal interest, such as Religion and Violence or The Role of Dissent, and then examine each subject rigorously from the perspective of each of these three disciplines. In each session one of the professors would introduce the subject, and then each professor would explain the perspective of his discipline on it. The three professors would engage one another directly, often pointedly criticizing the lack of relevance or outright error he found in the other disciplines. These exchanges sometimes spilled over into the several hundred students gathered in the amphitheater classroom. I found it a remarkable experience.

One such session focused on the sources of authority in law, religion, and science—especially on matters of morality. Following the introduction by the theologian, the scientist simply observed that science creates moral dilemmas; it doesn’t answer them. He noted, for example, that without science there would be no transplanting of human organs and therefore no black market for such organs. He had little to say thereafter.

The lawyer then stood and declared that there are only three sources of knowledge or authority: revelation, discovery (of something already existing), and invention. He then began a vigorous line of questioning, wanting to know from the theologian, in essence, the difference between religion and philosophy. The theologian’s reply was, frankly, anemic. He acknowledged the contributions of philosophers and defined religion as a belief system and a body of believers. The lawyer was not satisfied, and with great animation he questioned why he or anyone else should consider religion’s voice any more authoritative than philosophy’s voice. He also demanded to know where there was any religious voice on earth even claiming to speak authoritatively in the name of God.

A few moments of awkward silence ensued as the theologian considered how he might respond. His next words were, for me, both unexpected and remarkable. He said, in essence: “Well, there was a man by the name of Joseph Smith who lived in the 1800s and claimed that God spoke to him, and he printed a book entitled the Book of Mormon that he claimed came from God and contains God’s word for the world today. And the church that he founded, the Mormon Church, is directed today by those who claim to be prophets and apostles to whom God speaks.”

The lawyer was momentarily silenced as he attempted to process what he had just heard. He then asked, in essence, “Well, is there anyone else?”

The theologian responded, “No.”

The lawyer then continued his critique of religion, essentially ignoring what had just been “placed in evidence.”

Although the response of this capable theologian was inconsistent with his own belief, in the press of the moment he had unwittingly identified the singular place where revealed truth and the preeminence of spiritual enlightenment in learning are found and taught. He had also affirmed their validity.

Surprising though this interchange was, especially in the environment in which I sat, the significance of what I had just witnessed was not lost on me. Nor was it lost on my nonmember colleagues, who, following the class, wondered why the lawyer had not engaged the response more directly. Not knowing the mind of the lawyer, I could only surmise that he was attempting to not give added attention to the one voice that directly and authoritatively refuted his premise.