Gospel Story Finder

Before Elder Ethan Glines left on his mission to Concepción, Chile, he thought his video-editing talents would have to be put on hold for two years. But when he was reassigned during the pandemic to Omaha, Nebraska, USA, his new mission president asked him to bring his camera gear to create social media content for the mission. When Elder Glines returned to Chile, he was able to continue using his video-editing talents through his assignment in the new role of social media specialist. Elder Glines saw this as another witness that God truly is in the details of our lives and “wants us to use our talents because He gave us our talents.” Missionaries around the world are using their skills to further the Lord’s work.

One husband and father, who had been a dean of a college in his professional career, was then called to be a temple president and then a mission president. Upon release from his mission assignment, he suffered a severe and disabling stroke. Rather than turning to thoughts of complaint, self-pity, or rejection, his wife rose to the trial of this newest experience by drawing upon the strength of the gospel that had always been a part of their lives, as she lovingly reassured: “This is the time for which we have been preparing. We have the foundation of the gospel principles, and I am going to do all I can to make this the happiest time of our lives together.”

When David and I served a mission in São Paulo, Brazil, my Portuguese was limited at best. My testimony sounded something like, “You nice, me happy, gospel true.”

We gave many stake conference talks, and I always had my same trusty, dog-eared Portuguese talk ready to read. Then one Sunday morning, while sitting on the stand at a stake conference and preparing to step to the podium and read that talk, I was suddenly aware of a strong spiritual prompting. It went something like this: “Leave your talk on your seat and speak from the heart.” Oh dear!

I became all trembly and twittery! My focus on the Lord sharpened considerably! I turned my hope, thoughts, and feelings over to Heavenly Father, pointedly pleading for help in the name of His Son. I wobbled to the podium, stared out at the audience, and opened my mouth. My verb endings were surely mangled, and no doubt my pronunciation hurt every ear. As I directly focused and concentrated on the Savior’s love and mercy, I was able to share it. The Spirit used those broken Portuguese sentences to convey truth. Many hugs and tears came from members after the meeting.

The Lord will take our earnest, though ­meager, offering—be it two small fish and a few small barley loaves13 or weak Portuguese or a sincere though awkward attempt to mend a ­relationship—and turn it into a nourishing meal if we come with faith and focus to Him for help.

“Let me tell you of one of the goals that I made when I was still but a lad. When I heard a Church leader from Salt Lake City tell us at conference that we should read the scriptures, and I recognized that I had never read the Bible, that very night at the conclusion of that very sermon I walked to my home a block away and climbed up in my little attic room in the top of the house and lighted a little coal-oil lamp that was on the little table, and I read the first chapters of Genesis. A year later I closed the Bible, having read every chapter in that big and glorious book.
“I found that this Bible that I was reading had in it 66 books, and then I was nearly dissuaded when I found that it had in it 1,189 chapters, and then I also found that it had 1,519 pages. It was formidable, but I knew if others did it that I could do it.
“I found that there were certain parts that were hard for a 14-year-old boy to understand. There were some pages that were not especially interesting to me, but when I had read the 66 books and 1,189 chapters and 1,519 pages, I had a glowing satisfaction that I had made a goal and that I had achieved it.
“Now I am not telling you this story to boast; I am merely using this as an example to say that if I could do it by coal-oil light, you can do it by electric light. I have always been glad I read the Bible from cover to cover. …”

Lorenzo Snow was a great early missionary. He had been a member of the Church for less than a year when he set out on his first mission in 1837. He tells about his first experiences preaching the gospel in the following words:
“I … traveled about thirty miles [48 kilometers], and just as the sun was setting I made my first call for a night’s lodging, as a ‘Mormon’ Elder, and was refused; then another, and so on, until the eighth call, when I was admitted to a night’s lodging—going to bed supperless, and leaving in the morning, minus a breakfast.
“The first meeting I held was in the neighborhood of my uncle, by the name of Goddard, near the county seat of Medina County, Ohio. The people were notified and a respectable congregation assembled. It was a sore trial to face that audience in the capacity of a preacher, but I believed and felt an assurance that a Spirit of inspiration would prompt and give me utterance. … [It did, for] I baptized and confirmed into the Church my uncle, aunt and several of my cousins” (quoted in Eliza R. Snow Smith, Biography and Family Record of Lorenzo Snow [1884], 16).

Eddie and Christina (left) became friends with Brent and Jessica (center) and their family when they moved into the ward. Brent was later baptized by Eddie.
When a new family moved into their ward, Eddie and Christina Brouse decided to get to know them. After church, Christina approached Brent Vickers and struck up a conversation. Soon, Brent’s girlfriend, Jessica Espinoza, joined them. Because they both had newborn sons, Christina and Jessica instantly bonded.
Eddie said, “Brent is this tall guy that some people might find intimidating, but I just felt that he was such a nice guy. I remember thinking that this is someone that I really want to get to know better.”
As the Brouse and the Espinoza/Vickers families became friends, they often invited each other over for dinner. One evening, Brent and Jessica explained Brent’s history with the gospel. Brent had received the missionary lessons a few years prior because Jessica was already a member of the Church, and though he had enjoyed meeting with the elders, he decided not to be baptized at that time.
With the encouragement of Jessica and the Brouse family, Brent decided to meet with the missionaries again. He progressed far enough in the missionary lessons that he and Jessica decided that they needed to be married. The Brouse family was supportive of this decision and continued to support Brent as he met with the missionaries. Brent and Jessica were married in July 2019 by their bishop, Eddie Brouse.
Taking safety precautions during the COVID-19 pandemic, the families were able to get together again. Jessica mentioned to the Brouses that Brent thought that he was ready to be baptized. Brent’s smile confirmed this statement.
Christina said, “We immediately called the sister missionaries and told them that Brent wanted to be baptized. That was on a Wednesday, and by Saturday, he was baptized.”
She continued, “On the day of his baptism, Brent gave us the biggest hug. I remember being so grateful that they had allowed us to be a part of this journey with their family.”
Shortly after Brent was baptized, Jessica expressed interest in going to the temple. After talking with ward leaders and participating in their ward’s temple preparation class, Jessica was able to receive her endowment in the Orlando Florida Temple after COVID-19 restrictions lifted.
Jessica’s parents were also able to renew their temple recommends and be in the temple with Jessica. Jessica and Brent’s older son Eli was also able to receive the Aaronic Priesthood.
As Brent started taking the new-member lessons and participating in family history work, he was able to find the names of his family members to take to the temple. Brent’s father recently passed away, so Brent is preparing to do his father’s temple work.
Jessica prepared the family history work for her biological father and other family members to make sure they received their temple ordinances. Jessica’s son Eli was proxy for his grandfather’s baptism.
The Brouse family exemplified how natural it can be to share the gospel. The Brouses’ daughter Abbie said, “Being friends with them first was what helped us to share the gospel with them.” Christina agrees, “Talking to them about the gospel was so easy because we love them so much, and we wanted nothing more than to see them get closer to the Lord.”

Several years earlier, at the death of our infant son, I had blamed myself for the loss. An understanding doctor wisely counseled that this was common, but nonetheless wrong. A grieving person naturally searches for something he might have done to prevent tragedy. “Don’t give in to the temptation to blame yourself,” he advised.
Following the Church court, I found myself falling into this trap again. Gradually I realized I could neither control nor take responsibility for my husband’s actions. I began to concentrate on the things I could control and change in myself.
At the same time I tried to accept not only my situation, but my husband as well. I learned that comparing our spiritual progress to that of other couples was useless. When I read about exemplary fathers and husbands, I still struggled with discouragement. Yet I was able to tell myself, “Their situations are different. The Lord will help me with mine.” As I expressed gratitude for blessings I did have, a loving acceptance grew within me. Along with it, the attitude in our entire family improved. To my amazement, I discovered times when I was happier and more at peace than I’d been in years.
Sometimes I hesitated asking for certain blessings, fearing that my husband’s situation might prevent our receiving them. The Lord quickly dismissed my apprehension, however, and over the years presented us with material and spiritual blessings.
My self-esteem had been shattered by our experience with the disfellowshipment. I was busy many hours each week, serving as president of one of the ward auxiliaries. How could the Lord, or for that matter, the bishop, possibly expect me to continue in this calling? Emotionally and physically, I was drained. But nothing was mentioned concerning my release, and I stayed in that position. I later understood this to be the Lord’s way of demonstrating a need for my abilities. At the same time, our children continued to do well in and out of school. Here the Lord was assuring me that we weren’t failing as parents. These experiences lifted me and convinced me of my worth.
As the weeks, months, and years went by, the pain sometimes grew less and sometimes grew stronger. I got used to most people avoiding the issue in conversation. Few got past the fear of not knowing what to say, and so said nothing. I’ll always appreciate the friend who sincerely asked, “How are things going?” and listened patiently as I told her.
The Lord continued to comfort and teach me. Often I complained about my husband’s unwillingness to change. Without exception, Heavenly Father refused to accept my criticism. Through inspiration he referred me, in a loving way, to scriptures on tolerance. He also reminded me of my special role as a wife. I was convinced that parts of Doctrine and Covenants 25, where the Lord calls Emma Smith to aid and comfort her husband, applied as much to me as to Emma. Over and over I read this section, each time believing more in my husband’s worth.
I prayed regularly for an increase in love toward my husband. The Lord answered in unusual, but practical ways. I sought opportunities to give of myself, knowing those we serve become those we love. I didn’t have to look far, as my husband was hurt in three minor accidents within a year. During his short convalescent periods at home I provided emotional care and concern. I was rewarded many times over with greater love and appreciation for him.
I realized, too, that my service didn’t need to be a huge undertaking. Since my husband was away from home much of the time, I tried to make him the center of my attention when he was at home. Saying something positive or complimentary to him each day grew from a challenge into a habit. I also refrained from criticizing my husband, either to him or anyone else. These small efforts worked wonders. Like a dying plant rediscovering light and nourishment, our love regained vitality.
I drew great comfort and hope from the twenty-seventh chapter of Mosiah. Here an angel appears to Alma the Younger because of the faith and prayers of his father. (See Mosiah 27:8–17.) Through this scripture the Lord assured me that he answers prayers said in behalf of others. I have made it a point to never cease praying for my husband. More difficult, but just as important, is maintaining faith that one day his heart will change.
Charity, I’ve also discovered, is a gift from God. Shortly after the Church court, I was suddenly consumed with a deep affection and acceptance for my husband. I longed to help and support him in every possible way. This sweet sensation stayed long enough for me to realize that I wanted it always. I pray regularly, as Moroni suggested, “with all the energy of heart [to] be filled with this love.” (Moro. 7:48.)
My husband has now been reinstated into the Church. Though many changes for good have come, his gospel commitment and spiritual desire for activity have yet to return. I’ve accepted the fact, however, that only he can control those things. Instead of focusing on our failures, I can now express gratitude for the things we’re doing right. I’ve discovered, to my surprise, that it’s possible to be happy in any situation. I’ve also learned that through the most painful experience of my life has come my greatest growth.

Since my call to the Quorum of the Twelve, my assignments and travels have enabled me to become acquainted with faithful, courageous, and valiant Latter-day Saints all over the world. I want to tell you about one young man and one young woman who have blessed my life and with whom I have learned spiritually vital lessons about not shrinking and about allowing our individual will to be “swallowed up in the will of the Father” (Mosiah 15:7).

The account is true and the characters are real. I will not, however, use the actual names of the individuals who are involved. I use with permission selected statements from their personal journals.

John is a worthy priesthood holder and served faithfully as a full-time missionary. After returning home from his mission, he dated and married a righteous and wonderful young woman, Heather. John was 23 and Heather was 20 on the day they were sealed together for time and for all eternity in the house of the Lord.

Approximately three weeks after their temple marriage, John was diagnosed with bone cancer. Because cancer nodules also were discovered in his lungs, the prognosis was not good.

John recorded in his journal: “This was the scariest day of my life. Not only because I was told I had cancer, but also because I was newly married and somehow felt that I had failed as a husband. I was the provider and protector of our new family, and now—three weeks into that role—I felt like I had failed.”

Heather noted: “This was devastating news, and I remember how greatly it changed our perspectives. I was in a hospital waiting room writing wedding thank-you notes as we anticipated the results of John’s tests. But after learning about John’s cancer, Crock-Pots and cookware did not seem so important anymore. This was the worst day of my life, but I remember going to bed that night with gratitude for our temple sealing. Though the doctors had given John only a 30 percent chance of survival, I knew that if we remained faithful I had a 100 percent chance to be with him forever.”

Approximately one month later John began chemotherapy. He described his experience: “The treatments caused me to be sicker than I had ever been in my life. I lost my hair, dropped 41 pounds, and my body felt like it was falling apart. The chemotherapy also affected me emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Life was a roller coaster during the months of chemo with highs, lows, and everything in between. But through it all, Heather and I maintained the faith that God would heal me. We just knew it.”

Heather chronicled her thoughts and feelings: “I could not stand to let John spend the night alone in the hospital, so I would sleep every night on the small couch in his room. We had lots of friends and family visit during the day, but the nights were the hardest. I would stare at the ceiling and wonder what Heavenly Father had planned for us. Sometimes my mind would wander into dark places, and my fear of losing John would almost overtake me. But I knew these thoughts were not from Heavenly Father. My prayers for comfort became more frequent, and the Lord gave me the strength to keep going.”

Three months later, John underwent a surgical procedure to remove a large tumor in his leg. Two days following the operation, I visited John and Heather in the hospital. We talked about the first time I met John in the mission field, about their marriage, about the cancer, and about the eternally important lessons we learn through the trials of mortality. As we concluded our time together, John asked if I would give him a priesthood blessing. I responded that I gladly would give such a blessing, but I first needed to ask some questions.

I then posed questions I had not planned to ask and had never previously considered: “John, do you have the faith not to be healed? If it is the will of our Heavenly Father that you are transferred by death in your youth to the spirit world to continue your ministry, do you have the faith to submit to His will and not be healed?”

Frequently in the scriptures, the Savior or His servants exercised the spiritual gift of healing (see 1 Corinthians 12:9; D&C 35:9; 46:20) and perceived that an individual had the faith to be healed (see Acts 14:9; 3 Nephi 17:8; D&C 46:19). But as John and Heather and I counseled together and wrestled with these questions, we increasingly understood that if God’s will were for this good young man to be healed, then that blessing could be received only if this valiant couple first had the faith not to be healed. In other words, John and Heather needed to overcome, through the Atonement of the Lord Jesus Christ, the “natural man” (Mosiah 3:19) tendency in all of us to demand impatiently and insist incessantly on the blessings we want and believe we deserve.

We recognized a principle that applies to every devoted disciple: strong faith in the Savior is submissively accepting of His will and timing in our lives—even if the outcome is not what we hoped for or wanted. Certainly, John and Heather would desire, yearn, and plead for healing with all of their might, mind, and strength. But more important, they would be “willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon [them], even as a child doth submit to his father” (Mosiah 3:19). Indeed, they would be willing to “offer [their] whole souls as an offering unto him” (Omni 1:26) and humbly pray, “Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done” (Luke 22:42).

What initially seemed to John, Heather, and me to be perplexing questions became part of a pervasive pattern of gospel paradoxes. Consider the admonition of the Savior: “He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it” (Matthew 10:39). He also declared, “But many that are first shall be last; and the last shall be first” (Matthew 19:30). And the Lord counseled His latter-day disciples, “By thy word many high ones shall be brought low, and by thy word many low ones shall be exalted” (D&C 112:8). Thus, having the faith not to be healed seemed to fit appropriately into a powerful pattern of penetrating paradoxes that require us to ask, to seek, and to knock that we might receive knowledge and understanding (see 3 Nephi 14:7).

After taking the necessary time to ponder my inquiries and to talk with his wife, John said to me: “Elder Bednar, I do not want to die. I do not want to leave Heather. But if the will of the Lord is to transfer me to the spirit world, then I guess I am good with that.”

My heart swelled with appreciation and admiration as I witnessed this young couple confront the most demanding of all spiritual struggles—the submissive surrender of their wills to God’s will. My faith was strengthened as I witnessed this couple allowing their strong and understandable desires for healing to be “swallowed up in the will of the Father” (Mosiah 15:7).

John described his reaction to our conversation and the blessing he received: “Elder Bednar shared with us the thought from Elder Maxwell that it is better to not shrink than to survive. Elder Bednar then asked us, ‘I know you have the faith to be healed, but do you have the faith not to be healed?’ This was a foreign concept to me. Essentially he was asking if I had the faith to accept God’s will if His will were that I not be healed? If the time were approaching for me to enter the spirit world through death, was I prepared to submit and accept?”

John continued: “Having the faith not to be healed seemed counterintuitive; but that perspective changed the way my wife and I thought and allowed us to put our trust fully in the Father’s plan for us. We learned we needed to gain the faith that the Lord is in charge whatever the outcome may be, and He will guide us from where we are to where we need to be. As we prayed, our petitions changed from ‘Please make me whole’ to ‘Please give me the faith to accept whatever outcome Thou hast planned for me.’

“I was sure that since Elder Bednar was an Apostle, he would bless the elements of my body to realign, and I would jump out of the bed and start to dance or do something dramatic like that! But as he blessed me that day, I was amazed that the words he spoke were almost identical to those of my father, my father-in-law, and my mission president. I realized that ultimately it does not matter whose hands are on my head. God’s power does not change, and His will is made known to us individually and through His authorized servants.”

Heather wrote: “This day was filled with mixed emotions for me. I was convinced that Elder Bednar would place his hands on John’s head and completely heal him of the cancer. I knew that through the power of the priesthood he could be healed, and I wanted so bad for that to happen. After he taught us about the faith to not be healed, I was terrified. Up to that point, I had never had to come to grips with the fact that the Lord’s plan might include losing my new husband. My faith was dependent upon the outcomes I wanted. In a manner of speaking, it was one-dimensional. Though terrifying at first, the thought of having the faith not to be healed ultimately freed me from worry. It allowed me to have complete trust that my Heavenly Father knew me better than I knew myself, and He would do what was best for me and John.”

A blessing was given, and weeks, months, and years passed by. John’s cancer miraculously went into remission. He was able to complete his university studies and obtained gainful employment. John and Heather continued to strengthen their relationship and enjoy life together.

Sometime later I received a letter from John and Heather informing me that the cancer had returned. Chemotherapy was resumed and surgery scheduled. John explained: “Not only did this news come as a disappointment to Heather and me, but we were puzzled by it. Was there something we did not learn the first time? Did the Lord expect something more from us?

“So I began to pray for clarity and for the Lord to help me understand why this recurrence of the cancer was happening. One day as I was reading in the New Testament I received my answer. I read the account of Christ and His Apostles on the sea when a tempest arose. Fearing the boat would capsize, the disciples went to the Savior and asked, ‘Master, carest thou not that we perish?’ This is exactly how I felt! Carest thou not that I have cancer? Carest thou not that we want to start a family? But as I read on in the story, I found my answer. The Lord looked at them and said, ‘O ye of little faith,’ and He stretched forth His hand and calmed the waters.

“In that moment I had to ask myself, ‘Do I really believe this? Do I really believe He calmed the waters that day? Or is it just a nice story to read about?’ The answer is: I do believe, and because I know He calmed the waters, I instantly knew He could heal me. Up until this point, I had a hard time reconciling the need for my faith in Christ with the inevitability of His will. I saw them as two separate things, and sometimes I felt that one contradicted the other. ‘Why should I have faith if His will ultimately is what will prevail,’ I asked? After this experience, I knew that having faith—at least in my circumstance—was not necessarily knowing that he would heal me, but that He could heal me. I had to believe that He could, and then whether it happened was up to Him.

“As I allowed those two ideas to coexist in my life, focused faith in Jesus Christ and complete submission to His will, I found greater comfort and peace. It has been so remarkable to see the Lord’s hand in our lives. Things have fallen into place, miracles have happened, and we continually are humbled to see God’s plan for us unfold.”

This story about John and Heather is both ordinary and extraordinary. This young couple is representative of millions of faithful, covenant-keeping Latter-day Saints all over the world who are pressing forward along the strait and narrow path with steadfast faith in Christ and a perfect brightness of hope (see 2 Nephi 31:19–20). John and Heather were not serving in highly visible leadership positions in the Church, they were not related to General Authorities, and sometimes they had doubts and fears. In many of these aspects, their story is quite ordinary.

But this young man and young woman were blessed in extraordinary ways to learn essential lessons for eternity through affliction and hardship. I have shared this episode with you because John and Heather, who are just like so many of you, came to understand that not shrinking is more important than surviving. Thus, their experience was not primarily about living and dying; rather, it was about learning, living, and becoming.

While living in Germany, Sister Condie and I became acquainted with a marvelous couple from Switzerland, Brother Georg and Sister Annaroesli Birsfelder, who were serving in the Frankfurt Germany Temple.* In February 1991, at the end of their temple shift, Brother and Sister Birsfelder were taking a stroll together down one of the little Friedrichsdorf streets near the temple. Suddenly a car driven by an elderly man swerved around the corner, over the curb, and onto the sidewalk. The car struck Sister Birsfelder and hurled her through the thick, plate-glass door of a store. She was rushed to the hospital, where she was treated for a double skull fracture, a concussion, and a severely injured eye.
For seven weeks she lay in a coma, unaware of her surroundings. Georg stayed at her bedside as much as possible, patting her hand gently and speaking to her in tones of love and encouragement. Finally she opened her eyes. Two months after the accident, she began to speak and to eat solid food. Later she was able to stand up and take a few steps and converse once again in English, German, and French. It was a miracle! Our prayers had been answered.
She still experienced considerable pain, and it was apparent that she had permanently lost the sight of her right eye. Three months after the accident, the driver of the car visited her in the hospital. Filled with anxiety and fear of legal reprisals, he asked, “Do you hate me for what I have done to you?”
He was not prepared for her reply: “Do you know who I am? I am a Mormon. In our religion we learn to love and forgive one another. No,” she said, “I don’t hate you. I love you and forgive you.” The elderly man had a heavy burden lifted that day.

Relief Society should be organized, aligned, and mobilized to strengthen families and help our homes to be sacred sanctuaries from the world. I learned this years ago when I was newly married. My parents, who had been my neighbors, announced that they would be moving to another part of the world. I had relied on my mother’s nurturing, wise, and encouraging example. Now she was going to be gone for a long time. This was before e-mail, fax machines, cell phones, and Web cameras, and mail delivery was notoriously slow. One day before she left, I sat weeping with her and asked, “Who will be my mother?” Mother thought carefully, and with the Spirit and power of revelation which comes to women of this kind, she said to me, “If I never come back, if you never see me again, if I’m never able to teach you another thing, you tie yourself to Relief Society. Relief Society will be your mother.”

Mother knew that if I was sick, the sisters would take care of me, and when I had my babies, they would help me. But my mother’s greatest hope was that the sisters in Relief Society would be powerful, spiritual leaders for me. I began from that time to learn abundantly from women of stature and faith.

Three different women held the calling of Relief Society president in my wards during the years my parents were away. Alta Chamberlain invited me to teach time management and home organization to the other sisters, perhaps because she saw that I needed to improve those skills. Jeanne Horne encouraged me to complete my first serious personal study of the Book of Mormon. Norma Healey gave me my first assignments at the cannery and taught me much about service. These wonderful women understood the purpose of Relief Society.

Years ago our daughter, who played the cello, participated in a cello recital. At the conclusion the teacher asked the parents if they had any questions. One parent responded by asking, "Does my child need to practice the cello every single day?" Of course we all knew what answer that parent wanted the teacher to give. To our surprise the teacher started out by responding, "No--your child does not need to practice the cello every day; she only needs to practice on the days she wants to eat."

That is the counsel that I would give with regards to reading the scriptures. You do not need to read the scriptures every day; you only need to read them on the days you want to eat, and if you ate that day physically, then you eat that day spiritually by reading the scriptures. How many of us go to bed at night, put our head on the pillow and have never thought of feeding ourselves physically the entire day. Yet how many go to bed at night, put their head on the pillow, and never fed themselves spiritually during the day. Our spiritual body needs food and sustenance on a daily basis, just as our physical body does. You cannot take the offense against Satan by tip-toeing through the scriptures; you must immerse yourself in them, and as you do so an inner strength and resolve to be clean will emerge.

We must learn what it means to truly worship God. My six-year-old son taught me the meaning of worship one day while I was preparing a lesson. He was playing when he noticed that I was underlining my scriptures. He dropped his toys, ran into his room, and returned with his own scriptures. He lay beside me on the bed, duplicating my exact position, and opened his scriptures.
During the next half hour, I was aware that he was underlining with my colored pencils. When I looked up, he showed me his work. Somehow he had found the page I was working on. There in his own book was an exact replica of my own work. He had highlighted the same words in the same colors. My arrows, lines, and numbers were there. He had even duplicated my marginal notes until his large handwriting forced him to stop. Apologetically and almost in tears, he said, “My lines aren’t straight like yours.”
This small incident helped me see a greater principle: true worship is imitation. It happens when we drop our worldly toys, study deeply the Savior’s life, and try to imitate the details of his character. In doing so, we also imitate the Father. Our lives are not sin-free, as his is, but the Atonement’s power is sufficient if our love and efforts are sincere and deep. The eventual result of our worship will be godhood, not to mention happier, more peaceful lives here and now.

My work as a chef was my life. I traveled the world cooking in luxury hotels and on cruise ships. I joined a team of great cooks that won many international culinary competitions.
Once, I was away from home for three years. My mother would often call me in tears and tell me to come home.
One day in Milan, Italy, where I had contracted to cook at a hotel, I met the full-time missionaries in a crowded subway station. They told me about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and shared some gospel principles. I especially enjoyed what they taught me about the family.
The missionaries gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon and asked me to pray about it. They also gave me a pamphlet with instructions on how to pray.
I returned to my hotel happy, went to my room, prayed, and began to read. The more I read the Book of Mormon, the more I desired to read. Unfortunately, work kept me from seeing the missionaries again. When my hotel contract ended, I returned home to Bari, where I began cooking for another hotel.
One day at the hotel restaurant, another cook, for inappropriate reasons, tried to get dates with some of the waitresses there. He was mad because the waitresses, who were Latter-day Saints, refused to go out with him.
Remembering the missionaries I had met in Milan, I told the cook that the waitresses had a right to turn him down.
“So, are you a Mormon too?” he asked.
Because I liked the principles the missionaries had taught me and because I felt justified in defending the waitresses, I replied, “Yes.”
The next time the cook saw the waitresses, he told them I was a Latter-day Saint. They were excited. When we gathered for lunch, they began asking me questions about the Church in Milan. I told them about the city and that I had met the missionaries there. When our lunch arrived, I reached for a glass of wine on the table.
“What are you doing drinking wine?” one of the waitresses asked.
“Is there something wrong with that?” I said.
“Are you even active?” another one asked.
“In what sense?” I said.
“How were you dressed the day you were baptized?” they asked.
“I don’t remember,” I told them. “I was only a month old.”
They were extremely mad because they thought I was making fun of them. I assured them I wasn’t. I admitted that I wasn’t a member of the Church, but I told them that I liked the Book of Mormon and the gospel principles I had learned. Then I asked how I could learn more about their church.
The waitresses soon introduced me to the missionaries. They could hardly believe it when I finished the discussions and got baptized.
Family photograph courtesy of the author
With my baptism, my life changed. I learned that you can’t have one foot in the world and one foot in the gospel. I learned that work is not the most important thing in life. I learned that the Lord and my family come first. Finally, I understood the sadness my mother felt in my absence, and I asked her to forgive me.
I quit traveling the world, got married in the Bern Switzerland Temple, started a family, and took a job cooking at a local hospital, where I used my talents to help sick people recover. Now I am in charge of human resources at the hospital. Working locally gives me time to dedicate to my family and Church callings.
From the day I went to the temple and received my endowment two years after my baptism, I have loved the sacredness of the temple and the work there. When my father died four years later, I was devastated. He was my hero. Thanks to the gospel of Jesus Christ, I know that he still lives.
When I entered the celestial room after doing my father’s vicarious work, I felt his embrace. At that moment, I knew that my father had accepted the gospel and the love the Lord has for His children.
We Latter-day Saints have the blessing to know the true gospel. I’m grateful for how it changed my life. The gospel is where I found true happiness. The gospel and my family are my greatest treasures.

“It was a good message, boy,” Bill called to me as I climbed out of his ancient, army-green Plymouth and pulled my coat more tightly around me to protect me from the icy night. Bill stared down the street into the darkness, his cracked, calloused, grease-stained hands clasping the steering wheel. It was always hard for me to know what Bill was thinking. All his secrets were locked behind the wide, leathery face topped by his graying, short-cropped hair.
“I’d sure like to know the scriptures like you, boy,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But,” he added with resignation, “I figure I’m too old for all that now.” He cleared his throat, and a hoarse chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I could tell you plenty about diesel engines—I’ve worked on them for over fifty years—but I never had much time for the Bible and that sort of thing. Yeah,” he added with a sigh, “it was a mighty fine message, boy.”
I coughed nervously into my fist and muttered a short good night. I didn’t ever know what to say around Bill. I had known him all my life—at least I had lived down the street from him—and yet, I still felt uncomfortable when he was around.
Slamming the car door, I started up the front walk. I glanced about me. The porch light was encased in a misty haze of snow. I ducked my head further into my collar and leaned against the white wintery onslaught.
“Well, Daniel, you’re back early,” Dad greeted me. I pulled my coat off and shook the melting snow from it. “How did it go?” Dad asked.
I shrugged. “Same as usual,” I grumbled, dropping down on the sofa and closing my eyes.
“How’s Sister Rencher?”
“She says she feels a lot better. At least she can get up and around with her walker.” For a while both of us were quiet, and then I said, as much to myself as to Dad, “Well, there’s one advantage of home teaching with Bill. When he’s not in a talkative mood, which is most of the time, we can visit all three widows in about thirty minutes. That must be some kind of record.”
There was a rustle of paper and I opened my eyes. Dad had dropped the newspaper he had been reading into his lap and was staring at me. “What’s wrong with Bill?” he asked.
I heaved a sigh. “Nothing. I guess. That is if you don’t mind doing everything yourself,” I added sarcastically. “All he ever does is show up and beep his horn. The second Wednesday of every month. There are some things that never change: Bill’s beeping horn is one of them. No appointment. We’re just supposed to know that he’s coming. But all the rest is my job. I do the talking, give the lesson, everything.
“Why does Bill home teach anyway?” I asked, suddenly curious.
“What’s that?” Dad asked.
I shrugged and shifted my weight. “Well, ever since the bishop assigned me to Bill three months ago, I’ve wondered why he even goes. Has Bill ever gone to church?”
Dad dropped his paper on the floor. “He used to go some. Before his wife, Tillie, had her stroke. But even then he always seemed more at home in his garage dressed in a pair of dirty coveralls with grease to his elbows.”
“I can believe it,” I grinned. “He always smells like an old engine. He’s never able to get all the grease off his hands.” I hesitated. “Bill smokes, doesn’t he?”
Dad looked over at me and shrugged. “I’ve never seen him.”
“You don’t have to see him. All you have to do is look at his yellow-stained fingers. And he sucks those awful green lozenges to kill the tobacco smell. That’s why I can’t understand Bishop Clark letting him be a home teacher.”
“Those three widows never complain,” Dad said.
“But a home teacher is supposed to set an example. And don’t tell me this is my chance to get Bill to come to church. You and I both know that’s not ever going to happen.”
“I suppose the Lord knows that home teaching is one place where Bill can do some good,” Dad answered somberly.
“Do some good?” I gasped. “But he’s totally inactive!”
“You can learn something from Bill.”
“I don’t want to be a diesel mechanic.”
“Maybe you can learn something about the gospel.”
“From Bill?” I asked incredulously. “I’ll bet he has never read a scripture in his life!”
“I don’t think you know Bill. When he stands before the Lord, I doubt the Lord will be looking at his greasy hands and tobacco-stained fingers.” Dad cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Can you deliver newspapers for your brother again in the morning? He still has that bad sore throat and cough.”
The next morning I was up a little before five o’clock, tossing bundles of the Herald onto the back seat of the car. During the night the snow had stopped, and the world was buried under its wet cottony mass. I glanced down the driveway and wondered if I should take a few minutes to push some of the snow away before pulling out. Blowing on my numb fingertips and stomping the snow from my feet, I shook my head. I didn’t have time, I reasoned. And I was sure I could get out without getting stuck.
The first stop I made was at Sister Rencher’s. With most people, I didn’t make the effort to set the newspaper inside the front door. I just tossed it in the general direction of the porch. But with Sister Rencher I made an exception because it was so hard for her to get around. I snatched a paper off the back seat, stepped from the car, and sprinted for the front steps. I stopped at the end of the walk and stared in disbelief. The front walk and steps were shoveled completely clean of snow. I glanced at my watch—5:15 A.M. “Boy, somebody’s sure been up early this morning,” I muttered, hurrying up the clean walk and setting the paper inside the storm door. “Maybe Sister Rencher can get around with that walker better than I thought,” I grinned.
“That was quick,” Dad called to me as I burst in from the cold ninety minutes later. He was just putting on his coat and stuffing papers into his briefcase before heading out the door for work.
“There’s a ton of snow out there,” I remarked. “It must have snowed another four inches after we went to bed.”
“I guess you cleaned off our walks and driveway,” Dad joked.
“What did you want me to do, get up at three o’clock?” I grinned back. “I was lucky to get the papers delivered. But somebody was sure up early. Sister Rencher’s walks were completely clean.”
Dad smiled. “What about Sister Hatch’s and Sister Ballard’s?”
“Dad, I was delivering papers, not home teaching. I don’t go over that way.”
The following Tuesday, a week before Christmas, I was in my room getting ready for a Young Adult Christmas party. We were going caroling and then to Tracie Heath’s for food and fun. As I pulled on my heaviest socks and stomped my feet into my boots, a car horn began beeping out on the street. I ignored it until Mom called down the hall, “Daniel, were you going home teaching tonight?”
“Tonight? No, I’ve got a Young Adult caroling party.”
“Looks like Bill’s out front waiting for you.”
“Bill?” I gasped, coming down the hall. “We’ve already done our home teaching this month! You sure it’s him?”
“That’s his black Ford truck, isn’t it?”
I rubbed the steam from the kitchen window and peered out. It was Bill’s truck all right. I thought his ‘63 green Plymouth was ancient, but his black Ford truck was an antique, something from the early ‘50s. “If anybody thinks I’m going with him tonight—” I glared out the window again. “What does he think I do, just sit around waiting for him to pick me up to …”
“Daniel,” Mom cut me short, “you don’t even know what he wants.”
“Mom, I’m almost late!”
“Just tell him,” she said. “Surely he’ll understand that you had other plans.”
Grumbling to myself, I stepped out into the icy evening in my shirt sleeves and trotted out to the black Ford. Bill opened the door and leaned across the seat to talk to me.
“Did we have an appointment tonight?” I asked before he could speak. I flapped my arms and shuffled my feet against the biting cold.
“Christmas is next week,” was Bill’s simple explanation as he rubbed the bristle on his chin. “I had a couple of things for the ladies,” he added. “Would you like to come?”
“I have a Young Adult party. I didn’t know we had planned anything.”
“It should take only a minute,” Bill said. “You’d better grab a coat, though.” He chuckled. “This old truck ain’t got much of a heater. But I had to bring it instead of the Plymouth.” He nodded his head toward the back. “Got a little something extra for Vivian Rencher.”
I glanced in the back of the truck. A bulky object lay under a ragged canvas tarp.
“I’ll get you back for your party,” Bill went on when he saw my hesitation.
“Did you have an appointment?” Mom asked as I banged the front door and went to get my coat.
“No,” I sighed, “but that doesn’t make much difference to Bill. And I’m going to freeze in that black heap of his. No heater and the door on my side doesn’t close. Dang! Of all nights!”
Bill and I didn’t speak as we drove to Sister Ballard’s place. And as I expected, I almost froze.
When we stopped in front of Sister Ballard’s place, Bill grabbed a brown paper sack from under the seat, and the two of us started up the walk to the front door. I knocked once and, almost immediately, Sister Ballard pulled the door open and peered out at us. It was a moment before she focused, and then a huge smile burst upon her face and she pushed the storm door open and greeted us cheerfully. “I wondered if you would come tonight. Well, come in.”
We took our usual places on the worn couch with the afghan draped over it. Before Sister Ballard could drop into her chair in front of us, Bill held out the brown paper sack and announced gruffly, “Some walnuts. Off my tree.”
“Why, thank you, Bill. I used your last ones at Thanksgiving. I guard them all year. I keep them in the freezer to keep them fresh.”
“They’re shelled and cleaned and everything,” Bill added, looking down at his rough, cracked hands. He rubbed them together, and I could hear the dry chaffing sound. I studied them for a moment, remembering the message I had given last month on the Word of Wisdom. Though the Word of Wisdom had been only a small part of the First Presidency Message that month, I had emphasized it pretty heavily. I really hadn’t needed to, not for the sisters. I suppose it had been a cruel attempt on my part to dig at Bill’s bad habit.
“Why, Bill,” Sister Ballard exclaimed, bringing me back to the present, “there must be five pounds of shelled nuts here.”
Bill shrugged self-consciously and pulled on his nose.
“It must have taken hours to do all this work,” she said. “Thank you so very much.”
Bill wasn’t one to accept praise or compliments very well. Any fuss over him seemed to make him nervous, self-conscious, and tight-lipped. His only escape was to turn the focus to someone else. He jerked out his red handkerchief, blew his nose, and then to my surprise announced, “The boy’s got a Christmas message for you.”
Startled, I glanced over at Bill, who began rubbing his hands on his pants and tapping his right foot. I wanted to protest, but any protest at this stage would have been futile. With no further notice or preparation, the only thing that seemed appropriate was the Christmas story.
When I finished my choppy Christmas account, having forgotten some parts and mixed up others, I ducked my head, my ears and neck bright red with embarrassment. Bill pushed himself to his feet and said, “That was a mighty fine Christmas message, boy.” He coughed and added, “The boy can say a prayer before we go.”
Sister Ballard nodded her consent and I prayed. As we were leaving, Bill stopped by Sister Ballard’s woodburning stove as though remembering something. Turning back to Sister Ballard, he asked, “Them deacons did bring you your load of wood, didn’t they?” She smiled and nodded. “And it’s split, ain’t it?” he asked.
Sister Ballard hesitated. “Oh, I can take care of that fine.”
“You mean they didn’t split it?” Bill burst out, almost angry.
“Don’t worry about it, Bill. I can manage fine. I don’t use the stove that much anyway. Bishop Clark keeps telling me I shouldn’t fuss with my stove, that I should just turn on the furnace. I do most of the time, but on cold nights I surely do enjoy putting my feet up next to that warmth. …”
“But they didn’t split the wood?” Bill broke in.
“Oh, the neighbor boy comes over sometimes and …”
“Me and the boy will split the wood,” Bill cut in. “I’ve got my ax in the truck if the boy can borrow yours.”
I couldn’t believe that Bill was really offering to split wood! Tonight! I had my good clothes on. And if we split wood, I would never make it over to Tracie’s place before everyone left to go caroling. But Bill was already halfway to the truck.
A few minutes later the two of us were in Sister Ballard’s backyard splitting wood in the dim yellow light from a weak bulb on the back porch.
“What good’s a bag of nuts?” Bill muttered as he swung his ax furiously. “She can’t get warm with a bag of nuts, can she? I shouldn’t have forgotten. I usually don’t forget, boy. I usually check up better. I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t know what. Then I saw that cold stove. She usually has a little fire going in it. That ain’t much to ask for. These widows need to be taken care of. A sack of nuts and all the talk about angels and shepherds and mangers is fine, but on cold nights Martha Ballard likes wood to burn.”
I stopped chopping and stared over at Bill. I forgot my good clothes, my cold hands, my wet feet. I studied Bill for a moment, this time looking past his chapped, cracked, stained hands. When I resumed chopping, the caroling party seemed so insignificant.
Thirty minutes later, all the wood was split and piled next to the back door. As we were leaving, Bill warned Sister Ballard, “Now don’t you go splitting no more wood. There’s them that can do it for you, that should do it for you.”
Then we drove to Sister Hatch’s home. She seemed to be waiting for us and opened the door after the first ring, her face lighted up with a smile. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. “I just knew this was the night,” she laughed, pumping Bill’s hand and leading us both into her living room. “I even have hot chocolate and fruit cake.”
“These are for you,” Bill said, holding out another sack of walnuts.
“Oh, Bill,” she gasped as she took the sack, opened it tenderly, and peered inside. “You never forget, do you, Bill?”
Bill’s nervous agitation started again, and he jabbed a thumb in my direction and said hoarsely, “The boy’s got a Christmas message, and then we’ve got to be on our way. The boy’s got a party.”
Our last stop was Sister Rencher’s. The door opened before I even had a chance to knock, and Sister Rencher, grinning and hobbling along with her metal walker in front of her, welcomed us inside. Once more, Bill went through his ritual with the walnuts. He and Sister Rencher chatted about the weather, her new great-grandson, and the horrible condition of the city’s streets. I was rapidly reviewing the Christmas story in my mind, getting ready for the moment when Bill would turn the time to me.
Suddenly Bill stood and said, looking at the floor, “I’ve got a little something else for you.” Turning to me he asked, “Want to help, boy? You can hold the door for me.”
Bill went to the truck, tore the canvas tarp off some kind of chair, dragged the chair from the truck bed, and brought it up the walk. He staggered into the house, lugging a huge oak rocking chair, crafted and polished to near perfection. He set it down gently in the middle of the room, stepped back, and smiled proudly. Sister Rencher just stared, unable to speak. She looked first at the chair, then at Bill, and finally back at the chair.
“When your other one broke last spring,” Bill explained shyly, “I figured I’d make you another one. I used to make them all the time, you know, my daddy being a carpenter and all. I don’t figure this one will break on you. It’s not like them store-bought things.”
Bill was finished. The smile disappeared, his words dried up, and he dropped down on the couch beside me.
Slowly Sister Rencher pulled herself to her feet and crept over to the rocking chair. She touched its smooth, hard, glossy finish with the tips of her fingers. She pushed on its high back, and it began to rock rhythmically. Slowly she eased her frail body into it and leaned her gray head against its solid back. For a moment, she sat very still. Then she began to rock, ever so slowly. And as she rocked, a smile came to her lips and huge crystal tears welled up in her eyes. “Thank you, Bill,” she whispered. “Oh, how I’ve missed my other one. But this,” she added, touching the curved arms, “would put my old one to shame.”
Bill coughed and announced suddenly, “The boy’s got a bit of a Christmas message for you.”
“Let’s have a prayer first,” Sister Rencher suggested.
“The boy can pray, too,” said Bill.
“I’ll pray tonight, Bill,” Sister Rencher said softly.
The three of us bowed our heads. As Sister Rencher prayed, I understood why Bill Hayward had never been released as a home teacher.
“And, Father in Heaven,” Sister Rencher prayed, “I thank thee so very, very much for Bill and his kindness. I thank thee for the many times he has pushed the snow, raked the leaves, tilled and weeded the garden, and cared for my every need. He has truly been an instrument in thine hands. Oh, Father in Heaven, please bless and keep this great man.”
As soon as the amens were said, Bill nervously turned and stammered, “The boy’s got a mighty fine message for you.”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. I had a lump as big as my fist in my throat, but it wasn’t the lump that stopped me. My mind went blank. I, who had thought I knew the scriptures so well, especially compared to someone like Bill Hayward, couldn’t seem to remember anything, not even the Christmas story—at least not well enough to give it right then. The thing that did come to mind was a strange, strange parable. And it wasn’t even one that had anything to do with Christmas—or so I thought.
I wet my lips and rubbed my hands on my pant legs. “I guess I’d like to explain what Christmas means to me,” I stammered hesitantly. “At least what it means tonight.” I looked down at my hands.
They were clean. The nails were clipped, the palms devoid of callouses. “There were two men that went to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a publican,” I began. “The Pharisee was clean and educated and thought himself so very wise. The publican was a laborer, with dirty, calloused hands. Both men went to the temple to pray, and the Pharisee …” (See Luke 18:10–14.)
When we reached my home, Bill clasped the steering wheel and stared down into the blackness beyond the piercing glare of the headlights. “It was a mighty fine message, boy,” he said. “But I don’t recall ever hearing the part of the Christmas story you gave at Vivian Rencher’s—you know, about the two fellows going to the temple.”
He paused. “I’m not even sure I figured out the meaning. I guess that’s what happens when a fellow studies diesel engines more than the scriptures.”
“Oh, but I think you do know the scriptures, Bill,” I answered quietly. I turned to him and held out my hand. I had shaken hands with Bill before but never unless he had offered his first. “Thanks, Bill,” I said huskily. “Thanks for your message,” I continued, shaking his rough hand. “It was a mighty fine message.”

It took me a lot of years to reach rock bottom, and having arrived, seeing only loneliness, feeling only emptiness, I thought in despair of giving up. Then my mother came to visit me and asked if I would like to receive the New Era. I used to find them lying around the house and read them from time to time, and I recalled how much I enjoyed the stories, so I told her to order a subscription for me. I received my first issue in January, have just finished reading February, and am looking forward to next month. The articles introduce me to Latter-day Saints with strong testimonies and reflect such courage, faith, and hope that I find I no longer despair. I no longer see only loneliness or feel only emptiness. I find that I have taken heart, drawing strength from the words of the leaders of the Church.
I soon found myself talking about the Church to my cell partner, reading interesting passages from the New Era out loud and answering his more and more frequent questions until he finally picked up the January issue, which led to more discussions, more questions. Today when the guard brought me my February issue of the New Era, my cell partner took it and read it before I did. Afterward we spent a couple of hours discussing what we had read, getting farther into Mormon beliefs and history. He asked me if I’d get him a Book of Mormon and help him to become a member. I can’t tell you how that made me feel. I haven’t led an exemplary life, but I have never passed up an opportunity to proclaim that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true church of God. The New Era has provided me with an opportunity to do so again and to present the gospel to another and see him embrace it. For this, and for the many hours of reading enjoyment, I want to thank you.
Name WithheldNebraska State Penal Complex

When President Russell M. Nelson worked as a surgeon, many young people asked him how long it takes to become a medical doctor. He told them that after four years of undergraduate work, they needed four more years of medical school and then another five years to become a specialist.
“That’s too long for me!” some responded.
Then President Nelson would tell them: “Preparation for your career is not too long if you know what you want to do with your life. How old will you be thirteen years from now if you don’t pursue your education? Just as old, whether or not you become what you want to be!”5

One snowy night in January when I was in high school, I was at a friend’s birthday party. Giggling girls were sprawled all over the living room, chatting and eating cake. I sat in the middle of the group with my back against the couch.
“My sister moved out of the side house this week,” one girl remarked with a grin. “From now on it’s going to be the perfect spot for the weekend! I think our class would become so much closer if we all partied together. Like Jeremy. He is so much fun to be around when he’s drunk.”
I stared at the girl, shocked to hear those words come out of her mouth. To my great surprise, everyone else joined in, offering names of other people it would be fun to party with. I looked around in disbelief. An icy feeling crept into my heart. Already? My friends? Drinking? I had known that some in my group of friends drank, but all of a sudden everyone seemed to be in on it. I lowered my head, feeling isolated among my best friends.
“Of course I’ll be there,” said a friend between bites of cake. “But I think I’ll just be the designated driver. I don’t really want to drink.” She smiled at me. “Gillian, you can come too. We’ll keep each other company!”
I relaxed a little. That sounded okay. “I could go,” I thought. “I could make sure all of my friends got home safely. I could just be there and not drink or do anything wrong. I could still be included.”
“Sounds great!” I heard myself say. “Sure! I’ll be there. We’ll get everyone home safe and sound.” Everyone nodded enthusiastically, and the conversation shifted to other subjects.
The next evening I attended a stake youth fireside. The stake president spoke. “My young brothers and sisters,” he began, “you are at a stage in your life where you are under tremendous pressure to succumb to temptation. My best advice to you is this: Don’t even come close to the edge. Don’t go to the party and say you won’t drink. Don’t go to the party as a designated driver. Don’t even put yourself in that situation. Once you walk in the door, you are vulnerable. I have never counseled with someone who suddenly became an alcoholic or suddenly had a huge morality problem. It comes bit by bit, step by step. Don’t take the first step. I guarantee that you will never have a problem with the Word of Wisdom if you never put yourself in a situation where you might be tempted to take your first drink.”
I sat stunned by his words. He had spoken directly to my problem. Then I knew that it was not enough to go to a party and say I wouldn’t drink. That evening I decided I would never set foot in a party where alcohol was being served.
Through this experience, I learned that the Lord understands our problems and that one of the ways He guides us is through our leaders. Perhaps if I had gone to parties without drinking alcohol, I would have made it through high school okay. But I know the Lord blesses us when we keep His commandments, and I was able to follow His guidelines by staying away from the edge.

Only six days before the accident, the Volkmans became members of the Church. Sage was only five then, but she anxiously awaited the time when she could be baptized. Her parents had investigated the Church for many years and found it hard to be baptized. “Sage is responsible for our baptism,” says Sage’s dad, Michael. He says she kept asking questions about God he couldn’t answer, and she wanted to go to church to find answers. He took Sage to a nearby LDS church because he had received a testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon 10 years earlier when a friend had given one to him.
When Michael took Sage and her brother, Avery, camping that weekend after his family joined the Church, he had no idea how his family would be changed. He and Avery went fishing early one morning, and Michael had gone back to the camper to check on Sage, who was asleep. Five minutes later, the fishermen saw smoke rising from their campsite and they raced back. Sage’s dad had to pull her out of the burning camper from under melting sleeping bags. He resuscitated her, but he was so frantic he broke one of her ribs as he pumped on her chest. Michael was badly burned and had his hands and eyes in bandages as the ambulance rushed Sage to the hospital.
Sage had numerous third- and fourth-degree burns, and her nose and one ear were melted off. Doctors had to amputate her fingers because they were so badly burned. She was in a coma. One lung had collapsed. But, to the surprise of all the medical staff, Sage survived the night.
A few days later, Sage was moved to the burn unit of a New Mexico hospital. Again, there was little hope she’d make it through the night—only a 10 percent chance—but she survived and improved over the next two days. Then pneumonia struck. Sage’s condition deteriorated, and two weeks later she was flown to a burn institute in Texas, still in a coma. The doctors there said her survival through the night was a “big if.” They also said if she survived she would have vision loss, hearing loss, brain damage, chronic lung problems, and she would be unable to walk. Anything short of that would be a miracle.
Sage pulled through again with the help of numerous priesthood blessings. She also had the aid of loving parents and skilled doctors. One priesthood blessing she received promised full recovery and that she would be safe with her Savior until she was better. After a six-week coma, the blessing was fulfilled, and Sage was finally well enough to go home on December 23, 1986, after three months in hospitals.
Hundreds of letters, posters, stuffed animals, and lots of love came pouring in from all those who had been touched by Sage’s story. Sage’s life and positive attitude have touched many for good. Many of those who wrote told of how the story of Sage in the August 1989 Ensign had comforted or converted them. One missionary in Spain wrote, “I have nothing to be sad about. I now realize how small my trials are.”
Thirteen years, 64 surgeries, and lots and lots of friends later, Sage is doing better than ever. Defying all the doctors’ expectations, Sage walks, talks, sees, drives, and does so much more than that. She’s even going to take a kick-boxing class. She says it was her constant reliance upon the Lord which has allowed her to become who she is.
Sage doesn’t think her trials have been too hard to handle. “There’s tons of kids who have it worse,” she says. “It humbles you to see other people with problems.” Sage tries to help those who have it worse than she does. She volunteers at a camp for children who are burn victims and is on the board of directors of the Phoenix Foundation, an organization which helps burn victims.
A lot like many other LDS teens, Sage worries about school, works hard, plays hard, and has trouble waking up for early-morning seminary. She attends a high school where she is the only LDS student; she has lots of friends from her ward and her school.
Sage’s goal is to become a doctor. She plans to go to Ricks College in Idaho after she graduates from high school and then go into medicine. “It’s something that fascinates me,” she says. Why else would she read that huge medical book before she goes to sleep each night?
Despite, or perhaps because of, all she’s been through, Sage’s motto is “Never forget who you are, but always remember what you could become.” She says, “You shouldn’t deny what you are. If you do your best, then who knows the possibilities of what you could be and who you could be.”
“That’s kind of like me,” Sage adds, “because I could try to become someone else and deny this whole ordeal that I’ve been through, but I haven’t. I want to strive to be the best that I could possibly be. And I want to be a doctor. And there’s nothing that I can’t do so far.”
Sage knows she can do it with Heavenly Father’s help. She also wants to help as many people as she can along the way. “That’s all I can offer—my help and my testimony,” she says. “This is the true Church, and I know I wouldn’t be here today without it. I couldn’t even begin to count how many blessings I’ve received.”
Sage may still have physical scars, but her bishop, Bradley Greer, says, “Sage has got this personality about her, and you become oblivious to how scarred she is.” Many surgeries have restored Sage’s skin, nose, and ear, though not her fingers, since the accident 13 years ago. But the gospel has done its part in healing her pain too, she says, and it continues to uplift her each day.

One Saturday morning I was on my way to fulfill an assignment on a welfare farm. We were to clean the weeds out of an irrigation ditch. My route took me past the home of an elderly widow in my ward, who was weeding her front yard. The temperature was already in the mid-eighties and she looked like she was near to having sunstroke. For a fleeting moment I thought I should stop and lend a helping hand, but my conscience allowed me to drive on by because, after all, I had an assignment on the welfare farm. I wonder what would have happened if I had followed the spontaneous prompting of the Spirit and unleashed the genuine compassion I was feeling. I wonder what would have happened to her; I wonder what would have happened to me. But I couldn’t do that because I hadn’t been assigned. We need more spontaneous acts of compassionate service.

Until I was in my thirties, I thought the Atonement was basically for sinners—meaning that it allowed us to repent. But then I suffered a heartbreaking personal loss and began to learn that there was so much more to this sublime doctrine.

My solution initially to my heartbreak was to exercise so much faith that the Lord would have to give me what I wanted—which was a husband. Believe me, if fasting and prayer and temple attendance automatically resulted in a husband, I’d have one.

Well, the Lord hasn’t even yet given me a husband; but He did heal my heart. And in doing so, He taught me that He not only paid the price for sin but compensated for all of the pain we experience in life. He taught me that because of His Atonement, we have access to His grace, or enabling power—power that frees us from sin; power to be healed emotionally, physically, and spiritually; power to “loose the bands of death” (Alma 7:12); power to turn weakness into strength (see Ether 12:27); and power to receive salvation through faith on His name (see Mosiah 3:19). It is because of the Atonement that, if we build our foundation on Christ, the devil can have no power over us (see Helaman 5:12).