Gospel Story Finder

“My husband’s family was very poor. His mother made rugs to sell at a store in a sparsely settled area, and his father tended sheep, cut firewood, and hauled water for the family,” explained the lovely young wife of this General Authority, while rocking a baby on her lap.
“There were ten in his family and they lived 24 kilometers from the nearest town in a remote desert area. There were no cars or running water. And the drinking water was often so bad that the people there would drink fruit juices and soda pop instead.
“When my husband was four years old, he became very ill and went into a coma. Everyone thought he had died. In fact, his body had been placed in a casket for burial. In a little while they heard a faint knocking on the inside of the casket. The child was alive! The casket was quickly reopened and the boy sat up. ‘I want a soda pop,’ he said.
Thereafter, he was known as the ‘soda pop child’. His parents have often said that after this experience he was a changed child. He was more responsible and would help tend the others in the family. He was concerned about others and seemed to be blessed with a special spirit.
“The main food for his family was fry bread made from biscuit dough, mutton stew, and often soda pop. Today, his favorite foods are anything hot and spicy that he can put pepper on.
“He herded sheep until the age of nine; then he was placed in boarding school. Since the people there could not pronounce his real name, they gave him an English one. The only problem was that they also gave three other children the same name. So there was a number one, two, three, and four with the same name.
“A Latter-day Saint missionary couple at the store baptized my husband when he was ten years old, and he attended Church services from that time on. He was selected to participate in the Church’s education program and was to be sent to Utah to live with a foster family and go to school. An hour before the bus was to leave, a friend, Brother Bloomfield, put a bowl on his head and gave him a quick haircut. All of his belongings were put into a shoe box—he had no shoes. There were more holes in the denim pants he was wearing than there was denim material. He was put on a bus at night, given two dollars by Brother Bloomfield, and told that he would arrive there by morning.”
At this point, I was thinking how difficult it must have been for that little boy to leave his family to go all alone on a bus to a place with a different culture where he knew no one. The only tie that he had with them was that he was a member of the Latter-day Saint Church.”
The General Authority’s wife continued: “On the first day at his new school in Utah the children all gathered around my husband. They had never seen an Indian before. ‘Where’s your war paint?’ they asked. ‘Where are your moccasins?’
“The new foster parents were concerned because their Indian son was so shy. In fact, the only words he spoke to them during the first three months were yes and no. At Christmastime they gave him some new clothes—two pairs of pants, four shirts, two pairs of socks, etc. The mother asked him to go upstairs and try them on. After quite a while he came downstairs with all of the shirts, pants, and socks on at the same time. It was difficult to get used to a new language and customs.
“Even though my husband is now very busy, he enjoys football and basketball. When he has spare time, which isn’t often, he loves to play the harmonica. Last Christmas he played for the General Authorities at their Christmas party.
“My husband believes that family home evening is a great time to train children to be leaders. He always has one of our children conduct. One of them will assign the prayers and choose the hymns. At the conclusion, the one conducting thanks all those who participated. Usually the person who gave the lesson is sincerely complimented. Then the closing song is announced and the name of the one to give the closing prayer.
“One morning the children’s father had to leave at 5 A.M. for an early meeting at the Church offices. Later he called when the children were just getting up and we all had family prayer with him on the telephone.”
His small children had these comments: “When Daddy comes home, he tells me that if I eat my dinner he’ll give me a ride on his back. Sometimes he’ll give my friend a ride too!”
“Dad is helping me to save money for my mission.”
“My daddy shows us how to clean. He always tells us to clean the counter after we wash the dishes.”
“He’s kind.”
“When he plays football with us, we all have to speak nicely.”
When asked about her husband’s favorite topic to speak on, she said, “He always says that we’re all God’s children, no matter what color we are, and that our church has no room for prejudice. When he speaks, he represents the whole Church, not just the Lamanite people.”

I was going to Arkansas to do one particular story. Period. But the flight schedules left me just enough time to do an additional story. So I asked Monty, my local contact, if he had any suggestions.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “since you asked—how about Rochelle Abram up in Bentonville?”
I had never worked with Monty before. Did he really know what kind of story I was looking for? I wasn’t completely sure myself.
What I didn’t want was to put some super-gifted super-achiever on a pedestal and make everybody else feel inadequate. Maybe I was just looking for an ordinary kid who has some qualities worth writing about.
I grabbed pencil and paper. “So tell me about Rochelle, Monty.”
He began, and mentally I responded to each point. “… multi-talented …” (The Church has lots of multi-talented kids.) “… state championships in gymnastics …” (We’ve done gymnast stories.) “… has done very well scholastically …” (That’s better, but—) “… a fine influence among the youth here …” (Okay. Now I’m listening.)
On the map, the road between Ft. Smith, Arkansas, and Bentonville looks fairly straight. In reality, it has more twists and turns than a soap opera plot, more bad grades than my fifth-grade report card. But since it winds among beautiful green hills, past some delightful little towns and villages, you don’t mind too much.
With Monty as guide, we found the Abram home, nestled among tall trees on Trail’s End Road, the driveway full of cars. This was Rochelle’s graduation night. Family and friends had started to gather, and it promised to be a little hectic.
Jerry Abram, Rochelle’s dad, greeted us warmly, pulled us into the house with a car salesman’s handshake, and introduced me to some of the family as we moved through the living room. A young woman approached from a hallway and he announced, “This is Rochelle.”
I doubted that boys had to be bribed to take her to the prom. Light blue-green eyes, warm smile and perfect white teeth, reddish-blond hair framing an oval face and fair complexion—Jed, my photographer, was going to have an easy time of it. But my anxiety about trying to do a story on a too-perfect girl had increased.
We discussed a few details, like what she would wear for the photographer and how much time we had before she had to go to commencement exercises. Then we went out onto the deck at the back of the house and sat down at a wrought iron table. It was after 5:00 P.M., and the tall trees that surround the house cast lacy shadows over us. I turned on my tape recorder, and we began to talk while Jed circled about, taking picture after picture.
First, just to break the ice, we talked about school and friends. I learned that Rochelle’s circle of friends includes LDS youth in the larger town of Fayetteville, 30 minutes away. “We just get together on weekends and do stuff and have a lot of fun.” Like what? “Just about everything. We like to hike and camp and fish and do all the tomboyish things,” she laughs. “We’ve also had dinner parties with the guys.” Pretty normal so far.
Before coming to Arkansas, I had talked some more to Monty and others about Rochelle, and everybody mentioned gymnastics. So I asked, and learned that she started in the sixth grade and began competing in seventh grade. “And you took state honors—first place,” I prompted.
“Yes, I got first place in uneven bars in the state high school competitions last year and this year.” She paused. “And I got first place in floor exercises in the USGF (U.S. Gymnastics Federation) competition this year.” Another slight pause. “I enjoy it; it’s a lot of fun.”
Fun? The closest I’ve come to a back flip was on an icy morning a few winters ago. But I know that even for the talented, gymnastics training is punishingly difficult. “What has it done for you?”
“It’s taken up a lot of my time, and it’s a lot of hard work, but it teaches you patience and endurance. It’s kind of hard sometimes because you want to learn a trick and be good, but you have to work at it. And it’s really discouraging sometimes. But it’s given me more confidence in myself because when you do well you feel better about yourself.”
As Rochelle talked, I studied her face and listened to the inflections in her voice. No hint of false modesty. Others confirmed that she doesn’t talk freely about her accomplishments, even to her parents. You get the impression that she does things for the joy of doing—not for the trophies and certificates, but for the satisfaction of tackling something tough and doing it as well as she possibly can.
She treats school the same way, taking the challenging advanced placement courses instead of going for the easy A. I commented on the fact that she would be attending BYU on a four-year academic scholarship instead of going to some college on a gymnastics scholarship. She just laughed. Gymnastics may be fun and challenging, but it isn’t her life. Rochelle will be studying things like biology and chemistry. “I want to pursue a career in a health-related field, probably in some area of research,” she said.
What does she see herself doing ten years down the road? “Hopefully a mission, marriage, and a family.”
We took a break for a few minutes. Jed needed photos in a different setting, and I wanted to talk to Rochelle’s parents.
Jerry Abram came out and sat down. “Rochelle is not a spectator; she is a participant,” he said when I asked him to sum up his daughter. “I don’t know what she’ll contribute to the Church—whether she’ll ever be a Relief Society or Young Women president—but I know what she’ll contribute to other people. She always has time for others.”
For example? “In our stake there was a young man, a ninth grader, who was not participating. So Rochelle went to his house every morning, woke him up if necessary, and took him to early-morning seminary. It wasn’t an assignment; she just did it. I asked her about it, and she said, ‘It’s there to do.’”
When Jerry Abram talks about his daughter, there is both pride and some wonder in his voice as he discusses her skills and accomplishments. But it was when we talked about her qualities that his eyes became moist, his voice slightly husky. Asked about Rochelle’s spiritual gifts, he said, “She excels in the same way. She craves spiritual knowledge.”
I asked Rochelle’s mother, Mary, what her daughter’s best quality is. Her first thought was, “She is a true, sincere friend.” Then, as she continued to speak about Rochelle’s relationships with others: “It’s her commitment to Christ and to gospel standards.”
Commitment to Christ. I thought back on something that everyone but Rochelle had talked about so far—the death of Rochelle’s fraternal twin sister, Rhonda, in an auto accident just 11 months earlier.
When Rhonda was killed, two other girls also died in the one-car rollover. Both of them, Kathryn and Michele, were also LDS and close friends of both of the Abram sisters. The tragedy shook the town. Yet the Christ-centered faith of Rochelle and her family not only carried them through, but became a blessing to many others.
Hundreds of townspeople attended the joint funeral for Rhonda and Kathryn that was held in the LDS chapel. Michele’s funeral was two days later. Many commented afterward that they had always been taught that Mormons are not Christians. Now they knew otherwise. And a dozen or so have since come into the Church after being fellowshipped by Rochelle and her family.
A little later in the evening Rochelle and I talked again. The shadows had lengthened further and a light breeze toyed idly with the leaves. Through the closed glass doors you could faintly hear the growing crowd of friends talking and laughing. But out where we were it was quiet enough to hear the calls of insects and birds.
“Do you mind if we talk about Rhonda for a minute?”
Her gaze was direct and open as she said that was fine.
I asked her how her sister’s death had affected her.
“It makes me want to be a better person. She was such a great example—almost perfect.”
Like many of her answers it was short and to the point. I guess I could have followed up, tried to draw her out. But her parents had commented on how deeply she has felt the loss of her sister and how private she is about her grief. What would be the point in prying further? Instead, after a short silence, for some reason I changed the subject and asked, “What do you fear most?”
This time she paused. Her soft voice took on a slightly different quality as she answered. “Not being accepted, I guess.”
The surprise must have registered on my face. She laughed at herself and at her answer, as though she realized how silly it might sound to someone else, someone aware of her accomplishments.
I sat back and looked at this young woman from a small town in the northwest corner of Arkansas. Rochelle Abram—who wins titles in gymnastics. Loves to swim in the creek with family and friends. Is graduating with high honors. Recently shot a hole in her brother’s bedroom window with a BB gun while trying to hit a slow-flying bug. Eats peanut butter and jelly for Thanksgiving dinner because she doesn’t like meat and vegetables. Needed two full days to clean her room before company came.
It was time for Rochelle to go into the house and finish getting ready for her graduation. I looked down at my tape recorder and notebook and thought about the story contained on tape, on paper, and in my memory. Monty was right. She is worth writing about. Hooray for anybody who has gifts, develops them as well as possible, and is modest about them. Three cheers for those who accomplish things for the sheer joy of doing.
But far more importantly, I decided Rochelle was worth writing about because she excels in some ways that everyone can excel in: commitment to Jesus Christ and his gospel, putting aside our own fears and tragedies and reaching out to others. Even a Rochelle Abram sometimes worries about acceptance. It’s a natural fear most of us have. But instead of holding back, afraid to stand out, she goes ahead and does when “it’s there to be done.”
Next time Monty recommends a story, I’m ready to listen.

After raising her children, Martha Paewai took classes through BYU–Pathway Worldwide and then started an online business.
Photograph courtesy of Martha Paewai
“Some people are surprised to learn that I began an online business later in life,” Martha Paewai notes. “Some friends said to me when I first began, ‘What does a Samoan woman with only casual work experience know about marketing?’”
There’s no age limit to learning, Sister Paewai likes to say. Besides, working from home now gives her more income and better working conditions than she had working as a domestic in New Zealand. It was hard to start a new business, but she learned as she went along and was willing to ask others for help when needed. “BYU–Pathway Worldwide gave me the confidence to try something new as well,” she says.

Elder Woodhouse and I were called to serve in the Dominican Republic as humanitarian missionaries from April 2019–2021. It was a dream come true for me and a complete surprise. There are no coincidences, and as Elder Gavarret reminded us during an interview, God is in the details.
My mother was born of Puerto Rican parents working in the sugar industry in La Romana, Dominican Republic in 1913. Both of her parents died in 1916 within months of one another when she was almost three years old. Puerto Rican neighbors raised her until she married and moved to Puerto Rico with her little family in 1930. My mother never found any paperwork on the birth or death of her parents or where they were buried. I felt this was my chance to do some digging and find what my mother could not find.
One Sunday we decided to visit a ward in La Romana. It happened to be Mother’s Day. I shared my story with the sisters in Relief Society with hopes that someone could help. A kind sister who happened to work in the civil registry of the town said she would research the archives for me. A few weeks later she said she could not find anything. An official registry was not kept, by law, until the 1930s. Some records were destroyed by floods or fire or just stored under poor conditions causing them to deteriorate. I gave her my sisters’ names and birth dates and the towns in which they were born. No records found. I was devastated. What do I do now?
With nowhere to turn I immersed myself in FamilySearch. I had found documentation on my grandmother in Puerto Rico before she left to La Romana in a census. I found a ship manifest that listed my grandmother traveling with a newborn (my mother) to Puerto Rico twice. The last time was within the year she had passed. I now knew the town she was from, my mother’s real birthday and who they visited. This was a real treasure. My mother was an orphan with no real information, and now I had a place to start.
Although I had not found what I was looking for, we took the time to visit all the places my mother talked about. I was able to get a feel for what life must have been like in the early days of the twentieth century living in a sugar cane industry town. This gave me renewed faith in continuing my search for more information.
As I continued to search further back through my grandparents’ lines, I found many wonderful treasures. I found that my family line in Puerto Rico dates to early explorers in the Caribbean. Some had served as governors in the Dominican Republic. Some were sea captains, farmers, and businessmen. Some were maids, seamstresses, and some of nobility. I was able to do the temple work for many there in the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple where we volunteered as ordinance workers once a week. I was beginning to feel a closeness to my ancestors that I thought I would never experience. My excitement and joy in the work I was doing carried me through times of disappointments. I knew that if I kept looking, I would be able to find many more, and I did.
My time in the Dominican Republic was cut short because of the pandemic, but not before finding my family and learning more about my rich Caribbean roots. The tapestry of my family lines is rich with stories of courage and faith. At one time, I thought I would not be able to complete my four generations with temple work, at least not in this life. But now I have gone well beyond four generations. Elder and Sister Soares said in the last RootsTech that one purpose of temple work was to unite the past with the present and the future. I have felt this each time as my grandchildren enter the temple to do the work for these sweet people I never knew existed. I can honestly say I now know them and love them. They are my family.

I would like to tell you the "rest of the story" about my mother, as there are several important lessons we can learn from her story, particularly you sisters. I'm sure my mother was looking for her prince charming when she was about your age. And she found him. He happened to be the young single minister in her church-a "man of the cloth." He was her prince charming! After their marriage he worked in his honorable profession, moving from place to place, providing the basic needs of the family even though times were tough in the depression years of the thirties. He was her true love, her provider, the father of her children, her friend; and they had a great relationship. And then he died at a relative young age, leaving her alone. We were living in Southern California at this time. So what does a mother do in these circumstances with a family to rear? It was her righteous desire to continue on as the nurturer in the home. She had no desire or plans to do anything else. But now things had changed drastically in her life. It fell on her to not only be the mother but to also be the bread earner.

To soften the blow of the possible loss of her husband, mom had invested in a "wonderful" insurance policy to protect her against such tragedies. However, it was not one that gave her enough money to raise her children. In fact, she barely got any money at all from the insurance policy and only a few dollars from the Veteran's Administration to help bury her husband as he had served in the military in World War I. Fortunately in her youth, between the time she completed her high school and when she got married, she had made some good choices. She had attended the University of North Carolina, Greensboro, at the time a women's college, and had completed her baccalaureate degree in education. Young sisters, pay attention to this next statement. Her degree was her insurance policy. As difficult as it was, she was able to go to work as a teacher, thus providing the basic needs of her small family as well as be the Mother. Again, young sisters, keep this in mind as you wonder if you should complete your education. You may be thinking that you want to always be in the home being a mom, however, you never know what may happen that would require you to do what my mother had to do. With her teaching skills she was also well trained to help her children in their homework-another great blessing to our family coming from her preparation.

Two years went by after dad's death, and Mom was adjusting somewhat to a routine of being the provider and the mother. My twin brother, Dick, and I, who are the youngest in the family, were 6 years old and in the first grade. She was teaching in an elementary school a couple of miles from our home. Attending that same school were four of her children who were still living at home. Then came another tragic trial in her life.

One day as school let out and we were boarding the bus, someone approach our bus and told us to get out of the bus as one of Mom's teacher friends, a wonderful Quaker lady, was going to drive us home quickly as there was an emergency. A neighbor had called the school to inform Mom that our home was in flames. My two brothers and I rode home in the rumble seat of the old Model A. As we approached our property, we could see no evidence of the home we had left that morning but could only see smoke rising into the sky where the home once had stood leaving only a pile of ashes. That image of the pile of ashes is indelibly etched in my memory to this day. Everything was gone. Nothing but ashes!

I can only guess the questions Mom had running through her mind. What was this mother to do who was still suffering from the loss of her husband? Where were the children going to eat their next meal, which usually was within an hour or two once they got home from school? Where were they going to sleep that night and the many other nights in the future? What about clothes as all they had was what they were wearing? I'm sure she had these and more questions come to her mind. Had the God whom she had worshiped all her life deserted her? Had he not known that she was widowed when she needed her husband the most? Why had He allowed that to happen? And now this. What should she do? She must have felt some of the same pain on a smaller scale that the Prophet Joseph felt when he was in the Liberty jail and prayed, "O God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place? How long shall thy hand be stayed . . ?" She was to learn in times to come the blessings of the promises of the Lord to the Prophet Joseph in answer to his prayer when he said, "My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment; And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all thy foes."[2]

As painful as those moments must have been for her watching the dying embers of ashes of the remains of her home and the uncertainty of the weeks and months of hardship that would follow; unbeknownst to her, there was looming a new dawn of hope because of this tragic experience that she was not aware of and wouldn't be aware of for years to come. Let me explain what I mean about this new dawn of hope. We were about to be introduced to some members of the Church who would have a great impact on the direction of our lives.

My older sister Jane had graduated from high school and worked in town in Blythe, California, at the time of our home burning down. While in high school, she would catch a school bus every morning to travel several miles to her high school. She was a shy girl and was befriended by another young girl, about her age, who also rode the bus each day. They would sit together on the bus and really became close friends. This friend was a member of the Church. Through this friendship and other members of the Church who also became her friends, she was taught the gospel and was baptized and was a member at the time we lost our home.

As Mom pondered what to do, she knew she had to make a quick decision, as the only transportation available to someplace for shelter that night was this teacher friend. Because the LDS family had been very friendly to us since Jane had joined the Church, she decided to go to their home for help. We drove the two miles it took to get to their home, and Mom went to the door and told them of the dilemma we were in. They opened their door and their hearts to us. They were angels sent from God that day to help us who were practically strangers to them. They remind me of the scripture found in Matthew: "Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: For I was an hungred, and you gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye come unto me. Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee?. . .or naked, and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and come unto thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."[3] Never have I known a better example of this scripture than this family.

We stayed with this family, the Art Lee family, for about a week and then were able to obtain two large army tents and cots used by migrant farm workers during the harvest time, which we sat up next to the pile of ashes. We started cleaning up the mess that was the remains of the home. Not being satisfied that they had done enough, the Lee family engaged the small LDS branch to come out to help us build another home. Such love and kindness to non-members was hard for us to believe. (Parenthetically, I might mention that, that small humble home, which was built more that 50 years ago, is still being used as my wife and I visited it a year ago when we went to visit my father's grave in Southern California.) Once we got into our new home, the Lees probably thought they had set the stage sufficiently to send the missionaries over, and they did. We were kind to the missionaries and listened but were not very interested. So later the Lees sent them again with the same results. But they never gave up on us and eventually, after wearing out several sets of missionaries, including stake missionaries, we finally became converted and all but one brother, who had left home prior to our becoming acquainted with the Church, were baptized. Dick and I were just turning 13 years old at that time. All six children to this day are active members. Mom passed away some 37 years ago, a very faithful saint. Brothers and sisters, let that be a lesson to you. Never give up in your missionary efforts. I am so grateful that the Lee family and my sister didn't give up on us. Furthermore, if you think you may have been a failure on your missions because you have baptized only one soul while serving your mission, don't be discouraged. The conversion of one shy girl has resulted in more than two hundred members of the Church, dozens of missionaries, many church leaders, and many more to come in the generations in the future.

One hot summer day, some workers were doing repairs to the street outside President Smith’s home. As the work intensified and the sun grew hotter, the workers started using obscene and profane words. Soon one of the neighbors approached and scolded the workers for their offensive language, pointing out that George Albert Smith lived nearby. Unimpressed, the workers began to swear even more.
Meanwhile, President Smith was in his kitchen preparing a pitcher of lemonade. He brought it out on a tray with some glasses and said to the workers, “My friends, you look so hot and tired. Why don’t you come and sit under my trees here and have a cool drink?”
Humbled and grateful, the workers accepted his offer, and after their welcome break they finished their work respectfully and quietly.3

One of my most memorable mission experiences increased my appreciation for the scriptures. While I was serving in the Philippines, my companion and I met a wonderful, gentle soul who gradually responded to the spirit and source of the message we shared. He became hungry to learn and to read the word of God. He didn’t understand English well and asked if we could watch for a copy of the Bible in his native language, Tagalog. We found one in a bookstore in Manila and took it to him. He reverently reached out with both hands to take that Bible (Ang Biblia) from us. With much emotion he said, “I have never before held a Bible in my hands.”
Following his baptism, he continued reading both the Bible and the Book of Mormon, but oh how much more quickly he went, especially with the Book of Mormon. With the help of the Holy Ghost, he could understand much more of what he was reading. He couldn’t seem to get enough. When we visited, he showed us all the things he had written in the margins, and shared the thrill he experienced first-hand while searching and pondering God’s books. Watching others’ desire to feast rather than simply read helped deepen my own desires to search the scriptures.

Second, you must have a purpose. Last December when we were in Israel with the Tabernacle Choir, the leaders of the choir, together with Brother Truman Madsen and I, were honored to have an interview with Mr. Shimon Peres, foreign secretary of Israel and former prime minister. He told us a story I shall never forget. He said that as a young boy he rode in a car from Tel Aviv to Haifa in the Holy Land with David Ben Gurion, the George Washington of the state of Israel. On the way up, without any explanation, Prime Minister Ben Gurion said, “Trotsky was no leader.” He was referring to Leon Trotsky, one of the architects of the Russian Revolution. A little while later he added, “Trotsky was brilliant, but he was no leader because he had no purpose.”
Everyone in life needs to have a purpose. As members of Christ’s church, we are to consider the end of our salvation (see D&C 46:7). Someone has said, “You must stand up for something or you will fall for everything .”

In Holland during World War II, the Casper ten Boom family used their home as a hiding place for those hunted by the Nazis. This was their way of living out their Christian faith. Four members of the family lost their lives for providing this refuge. Corrie ten Boom and her sister Betsie spent horrific months in the infamous Ravensbrück concentration camp. Betsie died there—Corrie survived.
In Ravensbrück, Corrie and Betsie learned that God helps us to forgive. Following the war, Corrie was determined to share this message. On one occasion, she had just spoken to a group of people in Germany suffering from the ravages of war. Her message was “God forgives.” It was then that Corrie ten Boom’s faithfulness brought forth its blessing.
A man approached her. She recognized him as one of the cruelest guards in the camp. “You mentioned Ravensbrück in your talk,” he said. “I was a guard there. … But since that time, … I have become a Christian.” He explained that he had sought God’s forgiveness for the cruel things he had done. He extended his hand and asked, “Will you forgive me?”
Corrie ten Boom then said:
“It could not have been many seconds that he stood there—hand held out—but to me it seemed hours as I wrestled with the most difficult thing I had ever had to do.
“… The message that God forgives has a … condition: that we forgive those who have injured us. …
“… ‘Help me!’ I prayed silently. ‘I can lift my hand. I can do that much. You supply the feeling.’
“… Woodenly, mechanically, I thrust my hand into the one stretched out to me. As I did, an incredible thing took place. The current started in my shoulder, raced down my arm, sprang into our joined hands. And then this healing warmth seemed to flood my whole being, bringing tears to my eyes.
“‘I forgive you, brother!’ I cried. ‘With all my heart.’
“For a long moment we grasped each other’s hands, the former guard and the former prisoner. I had never known God’s love so intensely, as I did then.”

I have often pondered what it means to have a “broken” heart. When I was a boy, my uncle allowed me to help him break wild horses. We roped them, placed a strong leather halter on their heads, and attached a heavy rope to it. Then we cinched the rope around a solid wooden post sunk deep in the earth. The young colts hated the rope and would fight it for days, setting their legs defiantly in the ground and straining with all their might against it. But they hurt only themselves. In time they learned to accept the rope, and then gradually we could approach them and teach them to be led. When my uncle could lay the rope loosely over his open palm, turn his back, and walk away with the horse following him, he would say, “This horse is broken.”

The branch in Plzen had only seven members. Later that year, Jirí was ordained a deacon and then a priest. The following year, when the Communists prohibited Church activity and closed the mission, 18-year-old Jirí and others tried to keep the branch alive. At age 20, Jirí became a counselor in the branch presidency. “We always tried to meet in the largest numbers possible in members’ apartments, but pressure from the secret police became so strong—it was very hard.”

One extraordinary example of sharing comes from LDS history. We frequently hear of the faith and determination of the members of the Martin and Willie Handcart companies--more than 1000 poor immigrants who fought all sorts of hardships to make it to the Salt Lake Valley in fall 1856. As most of you remember, they were caught in early snowstorms, and having a horrible time crossing the plains. After hearing of their plight, President Brigham Young stood up in October general conference and told the members there "Go and bring in those people now on the plains."[8] He didn't stop to ask, as we often do: Have they worked hard enough? Do they really need my help?
And the Saints in the Salt Lake Valley heeded the call to help. Right there in general conference, people volunteered to go get the immigrants stuck on the plains. Within three days, sixteen wagon teams had set out and within three weeks, there were 250 wagons.[9] Here's the thing to remember. The people in the Salt Lake Valley weren't having an easy time. The harvests of 1854 and 1855 had been horrible, followed by an even worse winter. One historian put it this way: "The famine of 1855-56 had impoverished [Utah] Territory in its agricultural resources; the handcart emigration had brought to the country several thousand poor people, destitute, after their terrible journey, of even the barest clothing."[10] Remember, that same year three handcart companies full of the poorest saints had already arrived to the Salt Lake Valley, needing help. And there wasn't a lot to go around. Heber C. Kimball wrote to his son that they were rationing food in early 1856. By fall, things weren't much better. By early October, when the call came to help those stuck on the plains, some people didn't even have their own harvests in because winter had lasted so long into the spring.[11] And yet when hearing that there were saints in trouble--somewhere on the trail between Utah and Nebraska--they didn't even know where--they just went.
And what supplies did they take? Their own. Their own food, their own clothes, their own blankets, their own wagons and teams. They took things from their own kids to give them to people they'd never even met. They left their families to get someone in trouble--someone they didn't even know.[12] And those who went traveled from the Salt Lake Valley for Eastern Wyoming. They went back 350 miles. In fact, from Winter Quarters, Nebraska to Salt Lake is 1000 miles. The members of the rescue party made that 1000 mile journey for their families. And then they 700 more miles--350 there and 350 back, in an early winter, to go get people they didn't even know.
When I think of the story of the handcart companies, I think about the people who went back. They risked their own lives and really the lives of the own families to help others. Can you imagine doing that?

As prepared as we may be, there will still be challenging times in every marriage and every home when you simply will not know how to proceed. At those times, you need to be able to live by the Spirit. If we are worthy and prepared, those are the moments when the Holy Ghost "will show unto [us] all things what [we] should do." In the past twenty years, I have benefited from the Spirit's guidance over and over again. When my worry over a child is so great that all I can do is fall to my knees and beg for the Lord's help, more often than not I receive an answer before I even finish asking the question. On one of these occasions, the answer I clearly received was that we needed to give our son a dog! This was not the answer I wanted. I am not really a dog person, but it was a wise answer, and it made a meaningful difference at a critical time.

As a small boy in grammar school, I had a teacher who made King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table come alive. She caused me to become so obsessed with stories of knights that I played and dreamed that I was one.
One evening I dreamed that I was a white knight on a white horse riding over the greens of England. Suddenly, without warning, a knight dressed in black armor and mounted on a black horse appeared at the edge of the forest. We measured each other carefully, lowered our lances, and charged at full gallop. The lances struck target and both of us were knocked off our steeds.
I scrambled to my feet knowing that swords would be drawn and that hand-to-hand combat was imminent. Fear gripped my heart as I saw my opponent rushing toward me flashing a long, gleaming sword. Instinctively, I reached to my side and drew forth from the scabbard my weapon. That is when the dream turned into a nightmare! For in my hand was a small, dinky dagger—not a long, gleaming sword. I woke up in a cold sweat screaming for help.

When Student Association president Mike Peterson of Santa Maria, California, learned that the local library had only one book published by the Latter-day Saint Church and that it was a Book of Mormon, he knew something had to be done about it. Mike and Garry Moore consulted with William O. Bradford, stake president, and thirty volumes of books about the Church and a subscription to the New Era were presented to the library.

But even with this divine help, all of us face times of doubt and weakness. Sometimes we can feel inadequate and even mired in despair. That was true of me 25 years ago, when I was a young father of three children, each of them now BYU-Idaho graduates. As you may have heard me say before, the year 1996 was an emotionally and spiritually challenging time in my life. Frustrated in my professional ambitions, I let distress get the better of me. And I failed to hide that distress, as was manifested in my hair, which fell out from head to toe, including eyelashes and brows.

Blessedly, Sister Eyring came to my spiritual rescue. I asked her to seek Heaven’s guidance in coming out of my spiritual and physiological funk. I expected that she would return with a new career plan for me. However, several days later she privately said, “I have received a clear answer. I was told, ‘Henry should keep a journal.’”

That, of course, wasn’t the message I’d hoped for. I wanted a solution to my professional and personal struggles. But I knew that Kelly was speaking for Heaven when she said, “Henry should keep a journal.”

So, I resigned myself to obey. Here are a few paragraphs of my revived journal, dated July 24, a Pioneer Day:

It has been more than 12 years since I made a journal entry. The last time I wrote was the night before my mission ended; a Friday late in March of 1984. I had made an independent record of every day of the mission.

Kelly is entirely responsible for my beginning again. Yesterday, after Henry Christian and I returned from a night at an aquatic scout camp at Bear Lake, she informed me that inspiration had come to her about my professional and spiritual struggles. The answer, she said almost sheepishly, was journal writing.

Two things made me believe her. One was her tearful look; the wonderful, remarkable one she gets when the Spirit has touched her. The other was the ridiculousness of the suggestion. In my current state of morose malaise, journal writing seems nothing short of repugnant: unpleasant for me to write, unpleasant for others to read.

As it turned out, over many years, journal-writing became my emotional and spiritual salvation. In the beginning, the writing was sporadic and mostly woeful. Yet, if only to avoid digging myself further into a dark emotional hole, I began to recognize signs of hope and even small miracles in my daily activities. Life still seemed to be serving up more challenges and disappointments than victories, but the win-lose ratio began to shift.

Slowly but surely, as I tried to focus on the good experiences rather than the disappointing ones, my perception and attitude improved. I still felt a sense of falling and failing spiritually. However, the rate of falling was slower.

After I got thinking about it, I realized that I had my own devo date almost 30 years ago while attending BYU. I asked a girl with whom I had been on several dates to go to devotional with me. I don’t remember anything about the date, but I do remember that as we were walking back across campus after devotional, we had an interesting conversation. My daughter also told me that this specific conversation is what is known as a DTR—a “define the relationship” conversation. Now, I didn’t know what a DTR was, and I wasn’t the one to start it. It certainly wasn’t a very long conversation. In fact, it was very one sided. It went something like this: “I wish you wouldn’t hold my hand in public. People might think we’re dating and not ask me out.” I said, “Okay,” and that was that.
Now, I shared this experience with you because I think I was a good example of someone who didn’t understand where he stood in a relationship. The DTR I had was needful for me to have a correct understanding of where I stood with this young woman. It was a little hard on my ego, but it was necessary for me to be able to put the relationship into proper perspective.
Honestly, I think it’s a good thing to have an occasional DTR.

I have been putting off this letter for almost a year now, and I feel it is time for me to finally write and tell you the feelings I have for the Church and the New Era. I first met a member of the Church a year ago. Before then I had never heard of the Church. In his own silent way, mostly through his example, this brother brought me to a better understanding of myself. It was all too soon (about two weeks after we met) that I left him and Cape Town to go on a holiday.
I asked my friend to give me something to read on my two-day train ride. He arrived at the station with a whole folder of New Eras, pamphlets, and a copy of the Book of Mormon. For two days on the train I read the New Era. I read every one (there were about 12) from cover to cover, and then read the pamphlets. Something very exciting was being opened up to me, and I could feel it. I spent that whole three-week holiday in constant prayer and reading. Let’s not forget the crying and laughing either. Before the holiday was over, I knew without a doubt that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true church of God.
Unfortunately, my parents aren’t as enthusiastic as I am, so I still have to wait six months to be baptized. But I couldn’t be happier than I am, just having the knowledge that I do. It is so refreshing and filling.
I think the New Era is the greatest magazine ever published. I find it the most comforting and most spiritually moving work of art in the world today. Thank you, New Era, for giving me the beginning of the most precious eternal gift of truth, and also for filling my life with such precious, beautiful words I could ask for nothing more. I am studying at a university where I am the only Latter-day Saint, and I can truly say, New Era, you are my best friend.
Annie GroblerCape TownRepublic of South Africa

A story is told that during the bombing of a city in World War II, a large statue of Jesus Christ was severely damaged. When the townspeople found the statue among the rubble, they mourned because it had been a beloved symbol of their faith and of God’s presence in their lives.
Experts were able to repair most of the statue, but its hands had been damaged so severely that they could not be restored. Some suggested that they hire a sculptor to make new hands, but others wanted to leave it as it was—a permanent reminder of the tragedy of war. Ultimately, the statue remained without hands. However, the people of the city added on the base of the statue of Jesus Christ a sign with these words: “You are my hands.”

The story is told of a professional driver who applied for a job driving high level government officials to their various destinations often on dangerous winding mountain roads. The interviewer asked each applicant the following question: “How close can you drive a car to the edge of a dangerous mountain road and remain safe?” The first applicant responded, “I can get within ten centimeters and still be safe.” The second said, “I can get on the edge and still be safe.” The third driver stated, “I can get one wheel over the edge and still protect the passenger.” Finally, the last driver said, “I will stay as far from the edge as possible.” It is he who got the job.