Gospel Story Finder

I am the oldest daughter of a gung-ho Scoutmaster. My fond memories include being awakened at 3:00 in the morning by some 20 Scouts “quietly” getting ready for camp. Their soft, gentle sounds included trucks being loaded, backpacks getting a shakedown, the phone ringing off the wall (moms were already worried), and the bugle boy frantically practicing taps while a nonbugler echoed his attempts. These memories stretch on to include the scene a week later when the same troop was sprawled across the front lawn, exhausted, dirty, smelly, and somehow magically changed to men.

Once you make a decision concerning whom you would desire to marry, may you have the courage to move forward. After a stake conference in Tokyo many years ago, a young Japanese convert, perhaps 26 years of age, drove Sister Monson and me to the hotel where we were to stay. He was extremely neat and meticulous in all that he did. The car was polished to a brightness seldom seen. He even wore white gloves. I engaged him in conversation and as a result learned that he had a girlfriend who was a member and whom he had dated for some time. I asked him if he loved her. He replied, “Oh, yes, Brother Monson.”

My next question was obvious: “Does she love you?”

“Oh, yes, Brother Monson.”

I then suggested, “Why don’t you ask her to marry you?”

“Oh, I am too shy to ask.”

I then recited, for his benefit, the words of the hymn, “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” with emphasis on the phrase, “Fresh courage take. Our God will never us forsake.”4

Some months later I received a lovely letter from my Japanese friend and his new bride. They sent the wedding announcement. They thanked me for my urging and added: “Our favorite hymn is ‘Come, Come, Ye Saints.’ We took fresh courage. God did not forsake us. Thank you.”

Illustrated by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
1. Matt: Let’s play pioneers.
Mandy: OK. The tree house can be our covered wagon.
2. Mandy: There’s a herd of buffalo!
Matt: I’ll drive the oxen around them.
Mandy: We’d better pray for help too.
3. Mandy: There’s a river ahead!
Matt: We’ll cross it.
Mandy: It looks deep. Let’s say a prayer first.
4. Mandy: There’s a band of Indians!
Matt: We’ll make friends with them.
Mandy: Let’s pray that they’ll trust us.
5. Mandy: It’s time to make camp.
Matt: I’ll gather firewood, and you can fetch water.
Mandy: First, let’s thank Heavenly Father for a safe journey.
6. Matt: Boy, pioneers must have prayed a lot.
Mandy: Pioneers were smart people.

I would like to share a story of when I was able to give service to someone:

In 2011, two years after my Father passed away, my cousin, Tamara Mo’o Ulima Soliai’s husband passed away leaving five young children ages 6 to 17 behind. Our family was shocked and saddened by the ordeal. This time I could give back and help support my cousin with love. I could provide some comfort and peace that I knew she was going through because we had gone through it before. I was grateful that I could give of my time by being there for her. Because I received service from others it helped me to render service to her and her family. I didn’t do anything big or spectacular. I didn’t do anything that was physically strenuous or tiring. I was just there for her, in person, to offer a helpful hand and a shoulder to lean on or cry on.

It doesn’t take much to give service. Start with a kind word, a smile, a warm hello, a friendly text or just being there, are a few simple things you can do. Make your service genuine and with love. You should be “anxiously engaged in a good cause … For the power is in [you].”15 You have the power to help and serve others, you should take every opportunity to do so. When you serve remember, “God loveth a cheerful giver.”16

It was just an old board Kristen and I had found—maybe ten feet long and just wide enough to sit on. The desert sun had already started to turn the board gray, but even faded it was the perfect addition to our makeshift playground. In fact, other than a lot of sand and a few Tonka trucks, it was the only thing in our playground. Laid across a big rock sticking up in the backyard, that old board became a teeter-totter, kind of like the one at the park by Grandma’s house. Of course, our teeter-totter didn’t go as high as the one at the park. But it was ours.
One day we were teetering and tottering when a couple of men came to visit. I didn’t know what they wanted, but they talked to Mom in the kitchen for a while. Kristen, who was a year older than I was, said they were from church—the new one we had just started going to. One of them was young, and the other had white hair and a white beard. He was the oldest man I’d ever seen. As they were leaving, the old man walked over to us and watched as we went up and down on the teeter-totter.
“That’s a nice looking board you have there,” he said. “Would you mind if I took it with me for a while? I could sure use a board like that.”
We both looked at Mom, who was standing by the kitchen door. She told us to give the man the board. So Kristen and I got off our teeter-totter, and the man put the board in his truck. They said good-bye and drove away.
“Mom, what were those men doing here?” I grumbled.
“They’re our home teachers; the church we went to on Sunday sent them to make sure we’re okay.”
“I’m okay, but I was better when I had my teeter-totter.”
Mom ran her fingers through my hair. “I know, honey. It’s almost dinnertime. Go inside and wash up.”
Most kids would have probably put up a fuss when someone took their favorite toy, but we knew if Mom said it, we should do it.
That night, Mom said the old man’s name was Brother Andelin. My four-year-old mouth had to work to get his name right. Mom said Brother Andelin lived on the other side of town, but would come and visit again.
A few days later, I was on the porch when Brother Andelin’s truck came rattling up the drive.
“Hello, Bobby. Would you like to see what I built out of that board you gave me?” he said, getting out of his truck.
I ran behind him to the back of his truck where he pulled out the board, now painted green with a seat and handle at each end. In the middle on the other side were some steel rings. Also in the truck was a big, wooden, pyramid-shaped box, painted the same color as the board.
“Is your sister here?” Brother Andelin asked. “Run and get her while I set this up in the yard.”
I ran into the kitchen and down the hall. “Kristen,” I yelled, gasping for air. “Brother Andelin brought our board. But he, he—come see.”
Mom followed as Kristen and I ran outside. Brother Andelin had fastened the board on top of the box.
“It’s a real teeter-totter,” Kristen whispered to me. “Is it for us?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
“You ask him.”
“Brother Andelin,” I said, stepping closer, “is this for us? For keeps?”
“It’s your board, isn’t it?” he said. “Besides, what am I gonna do with a seesaw? My kids have all grown up.”
Kristen and I climbed on the new teeter-totter. It wasn’t like before. When we went up, we went off the ground way up in the air. Brother Andelin laughed as we played, his teeth smiling from behind his long, white beard.

Brisbine Italian Chili
What do you do when there are chili beans and tomato sauce in the cupboard but no chili powder? The only spice in sight was Italian spice when Elder Ted Brisbine from Wenatchee, Washington, was making chili one night in Houlton, Maine. The answer was (you guessed it) Italian chili. He liked it so much that he made it that way from then on. People from New Mexico and Texas get upset when they hear this recipe, but don’t let that stop you from trying it.

When Uncle Palacios announced he had chosen Simon to live in Caracas with him, the Bolivar children looked hopelessly at each other. They knew now that other relatives would take Simon’s older brother and his two sisters. It was bad enough to be separated from each other, but they did not want to leave the white-pillared mansion in the beautiful Aragua Valley, Venezuela, that had always been their home.
Father had died when Simon was only six, but his mother had insisted that the children stay together on the large estate, where its cocoa trees, herds of cattle, and copper mines were taken care of by the thousands of slaves owned by the family. Now, three years later, their mother was dead too, and so the relatives had met to decide who should be responsible for each child.
The house of Uncle Palacios was stiff and formal, and the strictness of the cowled monks who came to teach Simon there was frightening.
Simon missed the river, filled with fish, that flowed through the green valley of his home. He missed the sloping hills and the cool little summer-houses hidden among the trees where he had played. But sometimes it seemed to him that more than anything else he missed having a horse and the freedom to ride it that he had enjoyed all his life.
Uncle Palacios was good to Simon and grieved over the unhappiness of his rich and lonely little nephew. So after a year or two he dismissed the stern monks and hired an exciting young man, Rodriguez Carreno, to live at the house and be a companion and a teacher to Simon.
Rodriguez threw away the dull books Simon had been studying and announced that together they would learn about life and living. He was quick to see the sparkle of interest on the boy’s face, and he caught the longing in Simon’s voice when he talked of the home and horses he had had to leave. The next day the new teacher said, “Among other subjects, I intend to teach you something about the anatomy of animals. We will include the horse. Therefore, we must have a horse stabled in the garden to study and to ride.”
Simon learned much from Rodriguez. He was shocked and hurt when he was told that, in spite of the Bolivar family’s wealth and their high place in Venezuelan society, they were looked down on by their Spanish rulers because they were people of native birth, even though they were of European descent.
He found this to be true when at sixteen he went to live with some of his wealthy and titled relatives in Madrid, Spain. One morning very early, as he was riding his horse on the hills outside of Madrid, he was surrounded by mounted police who told him that because he was a Creole, he would not be allowed to wear his costly jewels and fine clothing.
Simon left Madrid a few days later and went to France. There he was called Prince Bolivar by his friends, who with him enjoyed parties and pleasure. His old companion-teacher Rodriguez expressed disapproval of the way his former student was living and insisted that he and Simon go on a walking tour through Italy. They talked of many things as they walked—of governments, the French revolution, the needs of people, and the ideals of freedom.
One day they stopped to rest on the green hillside overlooking the ancient city of Rome. Simon Bolivar suddenly stood up, stretched out his arms, and said in a solemn voice, “On my life and honor I promise most faithfully not to rest until I have freed America of her tyrants.”
Simon gave up his carefree ways and returned to Venezuela.
The beautiful Bolivar estate outside of Caracas had been taken over by the government, and Simon was left without money or friends. But he had a magnetic personality and soon was able to persuade others to join him in the cause of freedom.
He gathered around him men of various nationalities, soldiers who had only ragged uniforms and odd bits and pieces of civilian clothing to wear. Their powder and bullet pouches were roughly made out of cattle hide, and their muskets and bayonets were almost worn out. Most of the men were bareheaded; on their feet they wore clumsy leather sandals. The discomfort of the humid heat of the jungles through which they traveled was equaled only by the shivering cold of the high Andes Mountains, where the half-frozen and hungry men gasped with exhaustion as they labored across the volcanic peaks and the mighty glaciers.
They met defeats that would have seemed complete disaster to most armies, but Simon Bolivar would somehow manage to hold his men together, to attract others to join them, and to almost miraculously secure funds. Because of his brilliance and his dedication, he was able to lead the army to startling and unbelievable victories. These men knew that they had to defeat the Spanish forces or die, and they did not want to die—nor to let their country remain in bondage.
Because of personal sacrifices and in spite of unbelievable odds, Bolivar’s army won independence for Venezuela and Colombia. On October 3, 1821, Simon became president of Colombia.
By the time he was forty-three many of his dreams had become glorious realities when he was also named president of Venezuela, Ecuador, and Peru. Soon afterward he learned that certain provinces in Peru wanted to break away from the rest of the country, so arrangements were made for them to do so, and Simon Bolivar became president of these united provinces too. They were named Bolivia in his honor.
Although there were many problems, heavy responsibilities, and much heartache, Simon never deviated from the vow he made to his old teacher on the hills above Rome. Twenty years later Rodriguez received a letter of appreciation:
“You may have followed with curiosity my steps in the path you traced out for me. You opened my heart to freedom and justice. You would hardly believe how deeply your teachings are graven on my heart.”

Brothers and sisters, there may be times in our lives when we might feel alone and may not receive the cheers and encouragement of others. I had an incredible career here at BYU—playing four years at LaVell Edwards Stadium, where more than 60,000 fans cheered me on. Banners and signs were held up in my support, and fans chanted, “Give Jamal the ball!” That filled me with energy, confidence, and the motivation that I needed to give it my all. My confidence in my abilities grew immensely as I heard the cheers of the fans.

I carried that with me into my NFL opportunities until an injury came along that ended my career. I hit another dark place in my life. My dreams had come to an end.

One day I had the chance to come back to the LaVell Edwards Stadium, where I had once heard the cheers and felt the confidence. As I entered the stadium, I walked down that tunnel where I used to run out before every game and hear the chants of 60,000 fans. But now those cheers were no longer there, and the stadium was quiet.

There was no more cheering, no more “Give Jamal the ball.” My identity and self-worth were being challenged. As I gathered myself and all my emotions, I walked back up the tunnel and took a seat in the front row to gather my thoughts.

As I sat there, I remembered the moment I had had with God in my room. Once again I had the same reassurance from Him—that it was okay and that things would work out. I felt as if He was telling me, “Your playing days are over, but you have so much to give, so much to do! Stand up, press forward, keep going, be thankful and hopeful, and everything will work out. You are not alone.”

In that moment I did not hear the fans cheering me on, but, most importantly, I heard God—and an army of angels—cheering for me instead.

In Doctrine and Covenants 84, the Lord promises:

I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.

And that’s exactly what I felt in that moment. So even though my football career had come to an end and the fans were gone, I knew and trusted that God would always be by my side with these many earthly angels who He has given me in my life. They have stuck with me, believed in me, and supported me. They became my team.

I shivered to the very center of my bones as I watched the snow-packed Teton Mountains loom into view. All the fears of the past three months seemed now to be a reality. I was going to freeze to death in the middle of July.
I’d seen the snow unmelted on the peaks. I knew the lakes would be frozen over. We’d live in snow caves and melt ice for drinking water. We’d walk on snowshoes and try to light fires with wet tinder. It was enough to make me forget that it was my turn to be alone with Dad.
My father’s work requires him to spend a lot of time away from home. So each summer, he makes up for it by taking me or one of my two brothers on a trip. This canoe trip through Yellowstone National Park and the surrounding area was to be my turn. The anticipation of having Dad to myself for a whole week was wonderful. But it was overshadowed by my fear of freezing. Even though it was a roasting July down in the valleys, I knew it must be cold up in the mountains.
I was pleasantly surprised when we arrived at Camp Loll, our first night’s stop. Though the air was crisp, snow wasn’t flying everywhere. But my fear of freezing quickly returned when a guide met us in the parking lot and told us to get ready for a swim check.
Swim check! No one had told me anything about that. I didn’t think I’d be required to get into the water. I’d come to go hiking and canoeing, not swimming. What good would all my Scout training do me if I froze to death before my 14th birthday?
The lake fulfilled all my nightmares. Slippery black water sucked me down and forced the air from my chest. But somehow I made it to the edge of the dock. By then my body was numb, and finishing the swim check was a conditioned response.
Then, to add to my despair, the guide said we now had to paddle out, swamp a canoe, get all the water out, and paddle back to shore. What if a huge ice cube formed around me and I sank? But wait a minute—ice floats! Some consolation.
Luckily, Dad was my partner. He’s been a canoeing instructor, and he really knew what he was doing. The swamping exercise was over in a matter of minutes, and it was really quite fun.
As we walked back to camp, it occurred to me that even though we were up in the mountains, it was really pretty warm. Maybe my July wasn’t going to be frozen after all. Dad and I spent the rest of the afternoon hiking around the lake, then playing horseshoes.
Morning came as quickly as I had gone to sleep, and after breakfast and a short ride to Lewis Lake we were canoeing our way to our first campsite. Surprise! There were no icebergs floating on the water. We did break a paddle, and at one point we had to pull the canoe up the Shoshone River, but the scenery and the fishing more than made up for the work.
By the third and fourth days, the warm summer sun had taken all my fears of freezing away. Winter didn’t live perpetually in the mountains. In fact, with a little hard paddling I could work up a sweat. I was beginning to wonder if anything exciting would happen on our trip.
Many other things happened on that trip. We hiked over the continental divide, we saw geysers spout and hot pots bubble and fume. We saw an elk in velvet and swam in the Fire Hole River. And guess what—not once did we freeze to death. I never even saw an igloo!

I would like to share with you the example that I followed in learning how to work. In 1965, my father lived on a small farm west of Blackfoot and was busy raising a family and doing his very best at being a provident provider. He had six children at the time and already had many ups and downs in his career of farming and ranching. His wife was complaining of headaches and was soon diagnosed with a brain tumor. Radiation treatment was new for tumors and not very successful. She soon succumbed to the tumor and passed away. As you can imagine, my father was heartbroken, being a single father of six with a farm, a cattle operation, and a dairy, and no helpmeet. Through prayer and being humble before the Lord, he was directed to attend a singles dance, where he met my mother. After a very short courtship of just a few months, they were married in the Idaho Falls Temple. After a brief honeymoon, my mother jumped heart first from being single to being a wife of a farmer and mother of six children. Within just a few months, she invited three more of her own nephews to live with them. Caring for the children, the farm, and ranch hands as well as a few nephews was overwhelming at times. My sisters shared with me about a time when they got dropped off at school late, and they told the principal that they were late because Mom ran away and Dad had to go get her. She returned as instructed by a loving earthly father and soon found a happy medium in loving and caring for everyone and everything on the farm. I think it was because of the more frequent visits by her mother and father during the peak demands of farm life.

A loving marriage takes lots of love and lots of hard work. My father and mother never turned away from the gospel and never turned away from the hard work on the farm. Four more children were added to the mix, including me and my twin sister. My mother went to work outside of the home to help support my brother in the mission field and stayed employed after he returned to help keep the family farm prosperous. Farming had its good and bad years for my father, but his faith and teaching the gospel to his children made him very prosperous, and he was truly blessed by Heavenly Father. We were taught in the home that work was a blessing and to never turn away from doing something difficult. When my mother turned 62 years old, she approached me and asked for some council. My parents wanted to serve a mission but knew they did not have the financial means to provide for a mission and continue to pay a mortgage and all the expenses that come from owning a home. The family agreed that if they were willing to serve, we 10 children would help assist with the extra costs.

They were called to the Texas McAllen Mission and served faithfully until my mother was struck by a car and killed. On the day she died, she fed the office missionaries a good home-cooked Idaho meal of roast beef and potatoes and gravy and sent them back to the office in the care of my father. She prepared a salad and was walking to another senior couple's apartment to meet my dad when she was struck by a passing car. My mother never faltered in her testimony or her desire to serve the Lord and carry her burdens and work out her salvation here on the earth. She was a shining example of a faithful high-output, low-maintenance member of the Church. My father remarried and served three more missions with his new companion and still continues to be an example to me of a high-output, low-maintenance member of the Church. The same month I started working here at BYU-Idaho was the same month that my mother passed away. I am extremely grateful for the new coworkers and administrators that supported me during that time of my life; they are also examples of high-output, low-maintenance members that give so freely and lovingly.

I grew up in a comfortable environment in Logan, Utah. I had no childhood worries about food or shelter or education. But perhaps because life was easy, I needed something to hold on to that would anchor me.
For me that anchor was the priesthood of God. I was in an unusual situation when I was growing up. My dad was called to be the bishop when I was a year old, and he was my bishop for 19 years. His fatherly and spiritual guidance was a tremendous help to me.
I think that is mostly why I looked forward to receiving the Aaronic Priesthood on my 12th birthday. I remember the special day I felt my father’s hands on my head as he ordained me. After that, I advanced through the offices of the Aaronic Priesthood and received callings I enjoyed very much.
Passing the sacrament was very special to me. You could see people commit themselves to obey the Lord and keep His commandments as they partook of the emblems of His body and blood.
As time progressed, I graduated from high school, and then after a year in college, I was called on a mission. I enjoyed every minute of it and loved my companions. One in particular was a strength to me. I learned much from him as we fulfilled our responsibilities.
Because the country was at war, when I returned from my mission I joined the United States Marine Corps. When the war was over, I returned to college, married, and started a family. Successive professional moves took me to many places across the United States, where I learned much as I served in many priesthood callings. I finally landed in Boston, Massachusetts, where I served as a stake president. It was from there that I was called to be an Assistant to the Twelve and then, after 17 months, to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
What have I learned as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve?
I’ve learned that there is a guide, an anchor, and a protection in the priesthood.
The priesthood has always existed. Before Adam came to earth, he had the priesthood. As Adam’s posterity scattered with the priesthood, it became necessary to organize how the priesthood was administered. The Lord did that by calling Abraham to preside over his family of priesthood holders. This organization continued under Isaac and Jacob, whose name was later changed to Israel.
Centuries later, the children of Israel found themselves in captivity. The Lord sent Moses to deliver them, but when he did, they proved themselves not ready as a people for the Melchizedek Priesthood. So they were left with the Aaronic Priesthood until the time of the Savior.
I find it very interesting what the Savior did first as He began His ministry. He organized the Melchizedek Priesthood. He called twelve Apostles and taught them the laws and order of the priesthood. He called Peter to be the chief Apostle, establishing a line of authority in His Church. In that day and this, it is Jesus Christ who selects His chief Apostle to preside over the Church, and it is the Savior who directs him in his priesthood duties.
So the priesthood has a direct line from our Lord and Savior through the chief Apostle to the other Apostles and on to the other priesthood holders in the Church. Keys of authority are given to the Apostles, and as long as those keys are on the earth, we will be guided by the Lord Himself. This divine direction protects us and assures us that the Church will not vary from the truth. It will remain consistent because it is not directed by any earthly being. It is directed by the Lord.
The greatest advice I have for you young men is to study the doctrines of the priesthood, understand the power you have in exercising your priesthood, and learn how it can bless your lives and the lives of others.
I promise if you’ll learn the doctrines of the priesthood and fulfill your priesthood duties, the priesthood will be a sure anchor that will keep you spiritually safe and bring you great joy. Be a true priesthood quorum. Reach out to your friends and bring them into your quorum. Create a brotherhood in your quorum that will be a permanent foundation for your lives.

“All right, I’ll listen to your message,” I told the young missionaries when they asked if they could visit me in my home in Mexico City. “But just to share ideas. I already know what I believe, and I don’t want to be a member of your church.” I had met them when the Flores family invited me to their family home evening. I never imagined that the evening would end with my allowing them to come to my house. Oh, well, it’s only an hour, I told myself. Then I can forget about them.
The following week, at exactly the appointed hour, I heard their knock. At least they’re punctual, I thought, and opened the door to see two fresh faces, eager to begin.
At first I was defensive, expecting them to attack my beliefs. But instead they talked about our Father in Heaven, who has a body like me; about his Son, who had died for me and then was resurrected; and about the Holy Ghost, who can communicate with me. It was all very logical.
Then they went on to say that Jesus Christ had visited the American continent; his visit was recorded in a book—the Book of Mormon.
If they think they’re going to sell me their little book, I thought, they are mistaken. To my surprise, they said that someone had already purchased the book for me and that the only price was to read it. For that reason I accepted it, although I felt that only the Bible contained God’s word.
When the elders came a second time, they asked me if I would be baptized. “I’m already baptized,” I replied. “I was baptized when I was a baby, and it was good for life.” The missionaries stated that baptism had to be done by immersion and that it was for the remission of sins at the age of eight, when a child was old enough to be responsible for his actions. In my heart I knew that I had been sinless when I was baptized. And I hadn’t been submerged. I decided to take a closer look at their beliefs.
I began to visit their church, although I would leave the meetings early to attend my own services. I found that everyone there smiled and greeted me as if they had known me for a long time. They just want to convert me, I told myself. The atmosphere is nice, and the classes are interesting, but that is all.
Although I didn’t touch the Book of Mormon, I continued with the discussions. I learned about a young man named Joseph Smith who, in the year 1820, saw God the Father and his Son Jesus Christ. At that moment, a new era had begun—lost truth had again illuminated the world. Could this possibly be true? There was only one way to find out, the missionaries said, and that was to pray. They taught me how to pray in a very simple way. They said God would answer me if I would only ask him this question, with sincere faith. My heart softened for a moment, but then I was afraid. What if he did answer? What if it were true?
The next time they came, they explained that before we were born, we had all lived with our Heavenly Father in a spirit world (could it really exist? I wondered) and that we came to this earth to get bodies and to learn to choose between good and evil. If we chose the good, we began to become like God. Isn’t this blasphemy? I asked myself. How can I become like God, who is perfect? The missionaries also explained that I should take care of my body. They asked me if I would keep the Word of Wisdom and the law of chastity. I surprised myself when I agreed to live by these standards, even though I did not believe in their church.
This is too much, I thought, when during the fifth discussion they told me about tithing, about fasting, and about the offering I should give for the poor. Why should I help others when I am the one who needs help? But the missionaries explained that Latter-day Saints consider it a privilege to pay their tithing and fast offering. “The Lord gives you ten apples and asks for only one back,” they explained. “How generous he is!”
Well, I said to myself, if he’s going to give me ten apples and then want one back, let him just give me nine in the first place! But I had always had financial problems. Was it because I was unfair with the Lord?
At the last discussion, the missionaries reviewed everything they had taught and explained the mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Again they spoke of baptism, and again I told myself that they would not succeed in baptizing me. I began to argue vigorously with them. The evening ended with my assuring them that they were wrong about everything. They listened sadly, then tried to respond with readings from the scriptures. But I refused to listen and asked them to leave.
At last I was free of the missionaries. Certainly, they were pleasing enough as people, but I wanted no more to do with them as representatives of their church. So why did I feel such an emptiness inside?
One Sunday afternoon, about six weeks later, the missionaries came again. This time, one of the elders suggested that I would have a difficult time reading the Book of Mormon in a week. I felt a challenge in his words. Did he think I wasn’t capable of reading his little book? I will read it in even less time! I also accepted their suggestion that the three of us fast together the following Tuesday while I came to a decision about the book.
That night when I began to read the Book of Mormon, I found that despite my former reluctance, I could not put it down. I read steadily, with no desire to sleep, until three o’clock in the morning. Although I had to work the next day, I found myself reading the book at each free moment. And as soon as I came home in the afternoon, I went back to it like steel drawn to a magnet.
That very evening, I visited the Flores family, who had introduced me to the missionaries. I told them that I was considering baptism. Brother Flores questioned me, wanting to know if I were serious. I answered that I was. Then the Flores family said that they wanted to fast with me and the missionaries the next day. That night I read until the early hours a second time.
On Tuesday morning, each of us, in our own homes, began to fast. I was in good spirits all day and was not hungry or thirsty. In the afternoon, I read a scripture that shook me: “For after this day of life, which is given us to prepare for eternity, … then cometh the night of darkness wherein there can be no labor performed” (Alma 34:33). I knelt and asked my Father in Heaven if the church I was investigating was true and if I should join it. As I listened, I knew deep within my soul that this really was the church of Jesus Christ. I should wait no longer. That night when I ended my fast, I told the missionaries of my decision to be baptized. Happiness filled their faces.
Day and night I continued my reading of the Book of Mormon until, six and a half days after I started, I finished it. I had done it! I had met the missionaries’ challenge. I knew that I would never again refer to the Book of Mormon as the “little book.” It was now a great book, another testament of Jesus Christ. And although Satan tried to put obstacles in my path, on 19 February 1990 I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
After all was said and done, it was true! God loved us so much that he designed a plan of salvation for us and gave his Only Begotten Son as a sacrifice so that we could return to his presence. Joseph Smith saw the Father and the Son and was chosen by God to restore the truth. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints holds the authority of God to perform those ordinances and offer those covenants that help us obtain a celestial home, if we are faithful and true to those covenants.
Each night I thank God for the opportunity I had to meet the Flores family and the missionaries. They all served as instruments in the hand of the Lord so that I could receive and accept his precious gospel.

Mother Lucy later shared her experiences with a neighbor, Sally Bradford Parker, who wrote: “I asked her if she saw the plates. She said no, it was not for her to see them, but she hefted and handled them and I believed all she said for I lived by her eight months and she was one of the best of women.” Though she never saw the plates uncovered, Lucy was certain of their authenticity and the validity of their translation. She remembered being visited by a deacon from one of the local churches who asked to see the plates. When she refused to produce the record, he asked her to stop talking to others about it. Lucy replied, “If you should … burn me at the stake, I would declare that Joseph has got that record.”

Let’s go, guys. Time to get up,” a loud voice said, unconcerned that my exhausted body needed more rest. “Yeah,” I moaned in my most convincing tone. I rolled 90 degrees and half opened one eye to see what time it was. The illuminated digital clock read 4:35 A.M. in bright red. Dad’s portly figure towered at the bedroom door. The hallway light surrounded him, giving him the aura of a heavenly messenger dressed in white. Dad’s message, however, was not exactly prophetic: “We’ve got cows to milk. You guys awake?”
“Okay, okay,” Steve said slightly annoyed.
I closed my eyes, then felt my nose with my hand. It must have been ten degrees colder than the rest of my body, which was warmed by a stack of six blankets. I snuggled, eyes closed, listening to the wind howl outside the bedroom window. I heard the bathroom door open. “Let’s go, Steve,” I said to my brother as I slowly rolled to the edge of my bed. I flipped back the covers, sat up, and quickly pulled my pants over the insulated socks and long johns I wore all night. I grabbed one flannel shirt and slipped it on, then imitated the procedure with a second.
I heard the back door close as I headed downstairs. Steve was right behind me. In the coatroom I donned another pair of pants over the ones I had on, then two more flannel shirts of a quilted style, and a dirty green army jacket. Snowmobile boots, a heavy winter cap over my ears, a thick scarf, and sheepskin gloves completed the outfit. I took a deep breath and looked at Steve. He glanced back, in almost identical clothing. We pulled open the door and stepped out into eight inches of swirling, drifting snow.
Steve’s voice was muffled by the scarf over his mouth, but I detected a sarcastic tone as he talked, “Sure is a lovely morning.”
“Yeah,” I replied, pointing to the thermometer by the milk house. “Let’s check the temperature.”
Out of habit, we walked single file, stepping in Dad’s boot tracks. The barn lights shone brightly through the windows. I could see Dad’s reflection and knew he was throwing hay to the cows. Half asleep and shivering I was barely aware of what I was doing. Dad, however, was bustling around feeding and checking each cow to make sure she had made it through the night okay. We both stopped at the telephone pole, and Steve scraped the ice off the thermometer as I adjusted my view of the mercury. “It’s only twelve below,” I mumbled, “five degrees warmer than yesterday morning.”
As we stepped in the barn and untied our scarves, the warm air penetrating our nostrils was filled with the sweet aroma of oat straw and alfalfa hay. Johnny, our dog, ran to greet us. We each took a second to say good morning to him. Then, without speaking to each other, we moved to do our preassigned chores. In sleepy silence Steve and I prepared to milk as Dad fed the cows. The clanking of neck chains and hooves on concrete was drowned out when I turned on the radio.
As we milked I watched Dad and wondered what it would be like without him. He never missed a morning in the barn. He was never late, and he never complained. No matter what happened (and things inevitably would go wrong, especially in cold weather) he always handled it with cool, efficient professionalism. I wished I could be as patient as he was. He always shared a positive attitude, explaining that things were never as bad as they could be.
The next words were spoken half an hour later when Dad said he needed to check the heifer barn to make sure the water wasn’t frozen. We heard on the radio the wind chill outside was about 55 below. He left but returned in five minutes. We watched as he got the propane torch. “Not too bad,” he shouted cheerfully on his way back out the door.
“I’ll bet that water is frozen solid. He just doesn’t want us to get perturbed at the cold.”
“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “that’s Dad.”
At 6:45 Steve and I were almost done milking. Dad returned. “Took you awhile, Dad. Everything okay up there?” I asked.
“No problem. Everything’s fine,” he said reassuringly.
I looked at Steve in disbelief. His face said without words exactly what I was thinking. “Right, Dad!”
We assembled in a circle and made sure each one knew what needed to be done before breakfast. After deciding who would do what, we dispersed. It took an extra 30 minutes on cold winter mornings to make sure every water line, calf, cow, tractor, and truck was safeguarded from the elements. I took some shortcuts while cleaning the feeder, hoping Dad wouldn’t check. It was a dumb thing to hope, but my fingers were numb and my nose resembled a circus clown’s. Of course Dad checked and discovered my slothfulness. As I refroze my fingers finishing what I hadn’t done before, I imitated Laman and Lemuel and murmured against Dad’s thoroughness.
At 7:20 we sealed up the barn and braved the bitter cold again on our way to the house. Around the breakfast table we discussed the things to do today and decided who would be responsible for each. The list seemed long, especially when I thought of the icy cold weather.
I expressed my disgust at the arctic conditions and complained to Dad about all the trivial things he wanted done. He smiled and explained the importance of each of the “trivial” jobs. I nodded in agreement, my face indifferent. Strangely, I looked forward to the next eight hours. I didn’t realize it then, but Dad was teaching me each day invaluable lessons about responsibility and preparedness. I was in the eighth grade.
Twelve years have passed since that cold January morning. We don’t milk cows anymore, but Dad hasn’t changed a bit. He still shares a positive attitude even after a crippling accident that has left him disabled. The lessons he taught us surface in my conversations and experiences all the time now. At last I understand what he has taught me by his example. I love my dad.

Discussing Church activities, Arda Gallete announces casually, “I’m the Junior Sunday School chorister and teach the four-to-nine-year-old class. I’m president of the Laurel class. I’m on the scripture chase team, and I’m in a folkloric group that promotes missionary work in Chile.” Then, reflectively, she adds, “I’ve undergone many tests, and I wouldn’t be here working in the Church if I didn’t know that God is really my loving Father and that I am one of his warriors who must try by every means to combat Satan. A fine nonmember dancer came to our group and asked about the Church. I explained a great deal to him and so did my bishop. He was able to help us with our dances too. He went on a stake camping trip and in the testimony meeting he said he felt something he had never felt before. He cried when he stood up to speak, said we had been a great help to him because of the love and acceptance we gave him, and told us that what we taught him by example was something very special. He is now a member.”

When I was a child, my high school–age older sisters were involved in after-school activities, and both of my parents worked. I was shy and did not like attending Primary, which was held on Wednesday afternoons in those days. I shall always be grateful to La Rae Reynolds, the ward Primary president, who lived just a few houses away. When it came time to leave for Primary, I would hide in the backyard beneath a tree or bush. Sister Reynolds would come looking for me and not give up until I was found and taken to Primary, where I belonged. I suppose I could have come up with a better place to hide, but, you see, I really wanted to be found. Most people want to be found.

I love reading the Friend! I’m excited every time it comes in the mail. I like reading Matt and Mandy, and the stories make me happy.
My family was discussing how we could help my little sister be kinder. There was a lot of contention, and we wanted the Spirit in our home. I read an article called “Firecracker Charlie” (March 2013). It taught me that for her to be nice to us, we needed to be super kind to her. I’m grateful I can feel the Spirit while reading the Friend.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music.”
This phrase from a Broadway musical certainly rings true in the quaint, mountainous city of Otavalo, Ecuador. Strains of music can be heard from the homes and chapels of the Latter-day Saints from early morning to late at night.
So why is this such a unique thing? Because until just a short time ago, only one person in the 3,500 members of the Otavalo Ecuador Stake could play the piano. Only one person could accompany the Saints with their hymns. Today there are several who can provide this service, and among those are three talented youth: David Arellano, Blanca Campo, and Franklin Saavedra.
Each of these young Latter-day Saints had always wanted to learn to play the piano. But you need a piano to learn, right? Well, they didn’t own one. Also, don’t you need someone to teach you how to play? There wasn’t anybody. That all changed when Elder Alfred and Sister Phyllis Heywood, a missionary couple from Mesa, Arizona, began serving in that area. They also began to teach piano lessons to the eager Otavaloans.
At first, the Heywoods fashioned keyboards from cardboard with the names of corresponding notes written in place. Later real keyboards (called teclados in Spanish) arrived from a generous benefactor in Utah. The students had to share but willingly took turns.
Soon David, Blanca, and Franklin began to see a lifelong dream fulfilled—they could now play the songs of their hearts and share them with their families and fellow members of the Church.
David Arellano was 13 years old when he shyly entered the room full of people and stood behind everyone to take his first piano lesson by memorizing the cardboard keyboard. Within three weeks after David began practicing on a teclado, he was accompanying the congregation of his Cotama Ward with simplified versions of the hymns. He was so overjoyed, he wept.
During the next summer, David traveled with his father to New York City, New York, on a trip for the family merchandising business. David’s shyness did not interfere with his desire to play the piano in front of strangers. In fact, at the ward they were visiting, he bravely made himself acquainted with the organist and, as a result, he was given opportunities to play while he was there. Later, he was also asked to share his talents at a ward in Las Vegas, Nevada. However, the most thrilling moment came when David was invited to play the organ in the tabernacle in St. George, Utah. He returned home with wonderful memories of sharing his budding talent.
Blanca Campo, a 17-year-old at the time, was one of the first piano students of Elder and Sister Heywood. She was unable to attend the regular weekday classes because she spent six days of the week in another town marketing products for the family business. So the Heywoods scheduled Sunday afternoon classes just for her.
Blanca purchased her own teclado so she could practice the hymns during her spare moments at market. After three weeks of practice, she was prepared to play in a Christmas sing-along with other new piano students.
Soon after, Blanca was called by her father, Bishop Rafael Campo, to serve as the Paguche Ward pianist. As he set her apart, Bishop Campo was impressed to call Blanca as a teacher of music for their ward. She still serves in this capacity, sharing her talents with her family and ward members.
When Blanca accompanied a stake youth choir later that summer, and she heard a recording of herself playing “Carry On,” she humbly smiled and exclaimed, “I can’t believe that I am the person playing that music!”
Franklin Saavedra, also a 17-year-old at the time, was one of the first piano students to quickly use his talents to serve in his branch (now the Carabuela Ward) as pianist. He, too, accompanied a stake event—the priesthood session of one of the Otavalo stake conferences—only a few months after he began to use his newfound talent.
The Heywoods say that Franklin is very teachable (he practices until he can play a hymn to perfection), and he is a teacher (giving lessons after Sunday meetings to his family and ward members). Sister Heywood says, “Franklin is another example of the faith and dedication that are found among the sons and daughters of Lehi who are growing in the gospel in Otavalo, Ecuador.”
David, Blanca, and Franklin are aware that “every man is given a gift by the Spirit of God” (D&C 46:11), and they continue to use their gifts to edify and uplift others. The hills of Otavalo, Ecuador, will indeed continue to be alive with the sound of music, a gift given to each of these faithful young Ecuadoran Latter-day Saints.

After the play, it was time to eat. And there’s no better place than a pioneer town for an old-fashioned barbecue followed by a square dance. A cowpoke in a big black hat manned the grill and fed the crowd; then everyone paraded to the grandstand for some do-si-dos and Virginia reels. Along the way, many of the volunteers (who had now changed work clothes for pioneer duds) stopped to explore the shops and museums. Even though most of the shops weren’t manned yet (the tourist season was still a month or two away), the artifacts and architecture were interesting.
The square dance continued until desert winds whipped up a dust storm that flipped the record from the turntable and sent the crowd scurrying for cover. When the breeze softened, however, and the fury turned to a mild rain, the dancing continued despite the weather.
“There are a lot more people at Young Adult activities than there were in my Mutual class, and I haven’t known most of them all my life, like I have the kids in my Mutual class,” 17-year-old Gregg Tunney of the Ninth Ward commented. “It’s challenging to try to meet everyone, but it’s a great opportunity to make new friends.”
“Now that I’m in college, I can look back at my first experiences with the Young Adult program and see what a difference it made for me,” Reuben said. “It helped me adjust to a new time in my life by giving me an anchor in the storm. It helped me look at life in a new way, to be more aware of the spiritual side, to get ready to go on a mission. A lot of kids come out of high school worried about their future. One of the best things to help them sort it all out is to get involved with Young Adults.”
The fellowshipping, it seemed, had gone well. When a heavier rain finally halted the dance, a large portion of the volunteers regrouped at a local seminary teacher’s home just to relax, and the group included both brand-new and seasoned Young Adults.
The evening began with guitar playing and song singing, shifted to story telling, then evolved into a discussion of the day’s activities. Then the mood became even more serious, and an impromptu testimony meeting began. Each person wanted a turn to express gratitude, not just for a fun day’s activities, but for the fellowship of the gospel. Each person in turn stood and bore testimony of Jesus Christ, of the fact that he lives, and of a desire to serve him and love him.
“They spoke of Christ as if they knew him, because they do,” the seminary teacher, Brother Kent Rappleye, said.
“What a wonderful way to end a day of service,” said Trudy Ivie, 17, of the 31st Ward. “I can see a lot of things I need to do to get closer to my Father in Heaven. And I believe activity in Young Adults will help me.
“I made a lot of friends today through the freedom and friendliness they shared. Doing a lot of things together helped—the seriousness with the fun, the work with the play, the service. Each one at the right time. Seeing people under different conditions, then sitting down and talking with them, made you feel like part of a great big family.”
There were many successes that day in Phoenix. Pioneer Arizona put on a new face for tourists. A couple of people initiated or renewed interest in the Church. But also important was the warmth of friendship felt by new graduates from high school and seminary as they continued the rough transition from adolescence to adulthood. They knew they had found a place where they belonged.

When I was 16, most of my friends at school weren’t members, but they knew that I was a member of the Church. They started to smoke and do other things I wouldn’t do. So things began to change between us; our types of conversation were very different, and our thinking and activities weren’t compatible.

One day my father asked me, “Why aren’t you thinking about your friends’ effect on you?” He counseled me to be careful and think about the necessity of changing my friends.

When I started at the university, I became very busy and didn’t spend a lot of time with my friends, but one time when we were together, they decided to do something bad. We were in a car, and they drove really fast. A policeman pulled us over, and I was scared. I remembered the words of my father about taking care of the future. That experience helped me make a decision about the kinds of friends I wanted to have.

I became very involved in Church activities. Attending Mutual was wonderful because I decided to have those kinds of friends. I learned that my father was right—that I should take care of my relationship with good friends. I needed friends who would help me prepare for a mission.