Gospel Story Finder

My mother died when I was fifteen years old. That was twenty years ago. I have experienced all the feelings you have—the anger (at my mom and Heavenly Father), the frustration, the loneliness, the shock. All of these feelings are very real.
When my mom died, we did not talk about it. I think it took me years to work through her death because of that. Hopefully, your family can talk about your feelings and losses. Your mother still exists; that doesn’t end with death. Your mother is simply living somewhere else. She loves you very much.
If your family can’t talk about your mom, you need to find someone who can. Pray to Heavenly Father so that he can help you find a support group, a counselor, or a friend who will listen to you.
Something that helped me very much (although I didn’t realize it until years later) was staying close to the gospel, praying, and keeping the commandments. I allowed myself to be angry at Heavenly Father. I said so in my prayers. I think he probably expected that and allowed me to work through my feelings. In looking back, I can see that Heavenly Father surrounded me with his love. He protected me from myself and my grief.
You will always miss your mom. And finding peace might take a long time. For me, it took years. But I promise you that if you desire it, it will come. When you’re at peace, you feel watched over and warm.
I may never understand why my mother died when she did. But it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s okay. I wish you success.
Stephanie Ransom, 35West Valley City, Utah

A few years ago, Elder David A. Bednar asked the following questions as part of his remarks: “Do we only know about the Savior, or are we increasingly coming to know Him? How do we come to know the Lord?”
As I studied and pondered, I came to the stark realization that what I know about the Savior greatly outweighed how much I really know Him. I resolved then to put forth more effort to know Him. I am very grateful for the scriptures and testimonies of faithful men and women disciples of Jesus Christ. My own journey over the last few years has taken me down many roads of study and discovery. I pray that the Holy Ghost will convey to you today a message far greater than the inadequate words that I have written.
First, we need to recognize that knowing the Savior is the most important pursuit of our lives. It should take priority over anything else.
“And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.”
“Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”
“I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”
Second, as we are increasingly coming to know the Savior, scriptural passages and the words of the prophets become so intimately meaningful to us that they become our own words. It is not about copying the words, feelings, and experiences of others as much as it is coming to know for ourselves, in our own unique way, by experimenting upon the word and receiving a witness from the Holy Ghost. As the prophet Alma declared:
“Do ye not suppose that I know of these things myself? Behold, I testify unto you that I do know that these things whereof I have spoken are true. And how do ye suppose that I know of their surety?
“Behold, I say unto you they are made known unto me by the Holy Spirit of God. Behold, I have fasted and prayed many days that I might know these things of myself. And now I do know of myself that they are true; for the Lord God hath made them manifest unto me by his Holy Spirit; and this is the spirit of revelation which is in me.”
Third, an increasing understanding that the Atonement of Jesus Christ applies to us personally and individually will help us know Him. Oftentimes it is easier for us to think and speak of Christ’s Atonement in general terms than to recognize its personal significance in our lives. The Atonement of Jesus Christ is infinite and eternal and all-encompassing in its breadth and depth but wholly personal and individual in its effects. Because of His atoning sacrifice, the Savior has power to cleanse, heal, and strengthen us one by one.
The Savior’s only desire, His only purpose from the very beginning, was to do the will of the Father. The will of the Father was for Him to assist in “[bringing] to pass the immortality and eternal life of man” by becoming our “advocate with the Father.” Hence, “though he were a Son, yet learned he obedience by the things which he suffered; and being made perfect, he became the author of eternal salvation unto all them that obey him.”
“And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind. …
“And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death … and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, … that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.
“… The Son of God suffereth according to the flesh that he might take upon him the sins of his people, that he might blot out their transgressions according to the power of his deliverance.”
I would like to share a simple experience that illustrates the struggle we sometimes have to embrace the personal nature of the Lord’s Atonement.
Years ago, at the invitation of my file leader, I read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover and marked the verses that referenced the Lord’s Atonement. My leader also invited me to prepare a one-page summary of what I learned. I said to myself, “One page? Sure, that is easy.” To my surprise, however, I found the task to be extremely difficult, and I failed.
I have since realized that I failed because I missed the mark and had incorrect assumptions. First, I expected the summary to be inspiring to everyone. The summary was meant for me and not for anyone else. It was meant to capture my feelings and emotions about the Savior and what He has done for me so that every time I read it, it will bring to the surface wonderful, poignant, and personal spiritual experiences.
Second, I expected the summary to be grand and elaborate and contain big words and phrases. It was never about big words. It was meant to be a clear and simple declaration of conviction. “For my soul delighteth in plainness; for after this manner doth the Lord God work among the children of men. For the Lord God giveth light unto the understanding.”
Third, I expected it to be perfect, a summary to end all summaries—a final summary that one cannot and should not add to—instead of a work in progress to which I can add a word here or there as my understanding of Jesus Christ’s Atonement increases.
As a young man, I learned a lot from my conversations with my bishop. During those tender years, I learned to love these words from a favorite hymn:
I stand all amazed at the love Jesus offers me,
Confused at the grace that so fully he proffers me.
I tremble to know that for me he was crucified,
That for me, a sinner, he suffered, he bled and died.
Oh, it is wonderful that he should care for me
Enough to die for me!
Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me!
The prophet Moroni invited us: “And now, I would commend you to seek this Jesus of whom the prophets and apostles have written.”
President Russell M. Nelson promised that “if [we] proceed to learn all [we] can about Jesus Christ, … [our] ability to turn away from sin will increase. [Our] desire to keep the commandments will soar.”
On this Easter Sunday, just as the Savior came forth from His stone grave, may we awake from our spiritual slumber and rise above the clouds of doubt, the clutches of fear, the intoxication of pride, and the lull of complacency. Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father live. I testify of Their perfect love for us. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

For David Wojnar, 22, from Springfield, Massachusetts, a good friendship played an important role in his conversion to the Church. Now a missionary serving in the Utah Salt Lake Mission, Elder Wojnar talked about the role of friendship in missionary work.
“When I graduated from high school, I decided it was time to move away from home. I got a job in Virginia and moved in with an old friend. One of my roommates was a Latter-day Saint. We soon became good friends. We did things together, and we could talk about anything. He had a sincere interest in me. We were friends first, and being friends probably helped more than anything else,” Elder Wojnar explained.
“Eventually he asked me to go to a young adult activity with him. They were putting on a play. The young people came up and made me feel welcome. They all were excited about meeting someone new,” Elder Wojnar said. “They were different from anybody I had run around with before. There was a different spirit.
“When I became involved in the activities and started attending church, the members made me feel special and important. They never put me down because I was a member of another church.”
At that time, Elder Wojnar still wasn’t ready to commit himself to baptism. “My other roommate, my friend from Massachusetts, was taking the discussions and was almost ready for baptism. When the missionaries came, I always found an excuse to leave. Most of the barriers I had were just fear and not knowing what would happen. I was determined to serve the Lord, and I just needed time. No one seemed excited or upset about the hesitancy that I was experiencing. My friend was patient and didn’t give up on me. He was still my friend, and eventually I did make the commitment,” Elder Wojnar said.

Let me share a personal story.
My wife and I learned to work better at being equal partners after one day when I decided to make an important decision without consulting her. My action surprised her, took her off guard, and put her in a very difficult situation. Afterward, she put her hands on my shoulders and firmly said, “Ron, please, never do that to me again.” We have pretty much been on the same page ever since.

Jeff and his wife, Melissa, were attending general conference for his first time. Jeff played professional baseball (he was a catcher) and is now a physician anesthesiologist. He told me, “Much to my surprise, I am moving toward baptism because it feels like the most authentic and honest way to live.”

Earlier, Melissa had apologized to Jeff’s assigned ministering brother, “Jeff does not want ‘white shirts’ in our house.” The ministering brother said, “I’ll find a way.” Now he and Jeff are good friends. At Jeff’s baptism, I met a congregation of Latter-day Saints whom Jeff, Melissa, and their daughter, Charlotte, love.

In December 2021 there was a huge fire near my home. The winds were fanning the fire, and it got out of control. It ripped through neighborhoods and stores.
When our family first heard about the fire, we were in the temple visitors’ center. We prayed and prayed that our friends and family would be safe.
We desperately had to trust in the Lord. It gave me peace and comfort to know that if we trusted Him, we could be OK, no matter what happened. That night, the wind calmed down and firefighters were able to control the fire.
Our house was safe, though nearby towns were wiped out. I know that all those wonderful people who lost their homes will be OK. The Lord will help them.
I could feel the Lord’s love for me and all of His children. Trusting in the Lord’s love is something incredible. Put yourself in His hands, and many blessings will come to you.
Corgan W., Colorado, USA

My grandmother was also at the temple that day. I recall her excitement at seeing the temple lights as we had arrived in Cardston. Years later, after retiring from her job in Calgary, she moved to Cardston and gave many hours of service in the temple. She loved to play the organ and help inspire reverence there. Her testimony and love for the Savior was evidenced through her kindness to everyone around her. She is to me an example of a strong Latter-day Saint woman.

Another set of choices has to do with selecting integrity over duplicity and virtue over vice. Our word should be as good as our bond. President Kimball taught that “one might be full of wit and humor; one might be dexterous in performance, but if he has not honor and integrity, he has little or nothing” (TSWK, p. 388). We must decide our direction. We must determine who it is that we would like to become. As President Benson said:
Most individuals do not intend to be dishonest, dishonorable, or immoral. They seem to allow their characters to erode by a series of rationalizations, lies, and compromises. Then when grave temptation presents itself, they haven’t the strength of character to do what they know to be right. [TETB, p. 367]
Cheating, defrauding, flattering, and deceiving do not establish a basis of trust for family life, friendship, or career. The student who, in the midst of egregious violation of Church standards and Honor Code expectations, tells himself, “Don’t think about being a BYU student, a temple-attending returned missionary who is employed by the Church, because if you do you will not be able to savor this moment, you will have to stop what you are now doing,” is absorbed in deeply deceptive behavior that cheats and defrauds self more than others. A total lack of sensitivity to the absence of personal integrity and the integrity of the institutions affected by the action seems clear.
On the other hand, a student who has violated Church and Honor Code standards, who accepts responsibility for what has been done, who is remorseful, who confesses the violation, and who takes every step within the range of possibility to make amends, now says, “I wish that every student could have experienced what I have experienced because the experience has blessed my life. We all take the gospel, our membership in the Church, our student status, and the Honor Code too lightly. But it is better to not have to learn this the hard way. I will do everything in my power to help others avoid doing what I have done.” This student has vigorously affirmed the desire to make integrity a central feature of daily living.

“Here, kitty, kitty! Here, kitty, kitty!” Brandon called over and over again. Mother went to the back door. “Brandon, it’s getting dark now. Come inside.”
“But, Mommy, one of the kittens is missing from the box!” Brandon ran to the porch. “See?” he said. “One, two, three, four, five. They’re all here except Mandy.”
“But how can you tell which one is missing?” asked Daddy, joining them on the porch. “They all look alike.”
“Oh, no,” said Brandon. “They are all the same color, but each one is a little different from the others, and I know that Mandy is the missing one.”
“But you should come inside now,” said Daddy. “The kitten will be all right. She’ll probably come back during the night. I’ll check later to see if she’s here.”
“But I can’t go to bed until I find her,” insisted Brandon. “If I were missing, wouldn’t you worry about me?”
“Of course, we would!” said Daddy. “I’ll tell you what—let’s get the flashlight and look for the kitten together.”
They searched under the back porch, under the bushes, and everywhere else that they thought a frightened kitten might hide. But they couldn’t find Mandy anywhere.
“It’s getting very late,” said Daddy. “We really should go back in.”
“Wait, Daddy. Listen! Did you hear that?”
Daddy stopped and listened.
“I hear Mandy crying. Do you hear her, Daddy?”
Sure enough, there was a faint “Mew! Mew!” coming from somewhere.
“Up, Daddy—shine the light up.”
Daddy shone the flashlight above them, and there was the tiny kitten on a limb of the mulberry tree.
Daddy called, “Here, kitty, kitty! Here, Mandy!”
But the kitten only cried louder. “Mew! Mew!”
“I’ll climb up and get her,” Brandon offered. “I climb this tree all the time.”
While Daddy held the flashlight, Brandon climbed to the limb where the kitten was. But she pulled away.
“She’s very frightened,” said Daddy. “She needs to know that she can trust you.”
Brandon slowly stretched out his hand as he said softly, “Here, Mandy.”
When Mandy didn’t move, Brandon patted Mandy’s head. “Here, Mandy,” he said again. Then very slowly he slipped his hand under Mandy’s chest and lifted her to his shoulder. She clung tightly to his jacket as he climbed back down.
Later, when Mandy was safely back in the box on the porch and Daddy was tucking Brandon into bed, Daddy said, “You know, this reminds me of a story about Jesus.”
“You mean Jesus had a kitten that got lost?” Brandon asked in surprise.
“No,” said Daddy. “But he told a story about a shepherd who had many sheep. One little lamb got lost, and the shepherd didn’t rest until he found it and brought it back to be with the others.
“Jesus is called the Good Shepherd, and we are his lambs. The Bible says that he knows every lamb by name, just like you know each of those kittens. And just like you love those kittens so much that you wanted to make sure that they were all safe before you went to bed, Jesus watches over us and wants to keep us safe.”
“I like being called a lamb,” said Brandon. “And I’m glad Jesus loves me so much.”

Jessica paused by the weed-tangled, paintless picket fence to gaze with uneasy wonder at the old, hauntingly still, two-story house. It stood in the scorched summer field just off Banberry Road.
She knew nothing about the old woman who lived behind those chipped gray walls except what had been told her by the townspeople of the whistle-stop town of Dogwood. In fact, she had only seen Emma Murphy once since she moved here with her parents the summer before, yet she still remembered the woman’s pale, weathered face eroded with furrows that seemed almost as deep as the ones in Papa’s field. She had wondered then how a woman so old could ever have been a little girl. And Jessica remembered every word the woman said: “Get away from here, you nosy little scamp!” She also remembered how anger elbowed its way past her own uncertainty when she yelled back, “You don’t scare me, you mean ole … snippety snap!”
Jessica turned and stomped off that day, small puffs of dust exploding about her feet. She was doubly certain that the tales spun about Mrs. Murphy were true—tales about her never coming out of that house unless it was to chase some poor child away with a big stick and stories about her howling and bellowing at everyone.
And if the accounts about the old woman weren’t enough to make Jessica a firm believer, the sight of the house was! Its walls, wrapped in heavy vines, rose eerily skyward. The old swing on the buckled wooden porch was blanketed with dust, leaves, and a gauze of ancient webs; and it creaked in the slightest breeze like something alive.
Today Jessica was on her way to the creek, another half mile down Banberry Road. It was mid-July, and the sun that rolled and burned its way across the hot creek bed had sucked up all but a few isolated pockets of water. She felt sorry for the small fish trapped in the puddles and had taken upon herself the task of catching and transporting them by bucket to bigger ponds upstream.
She studied the old house a final moment from behind the tall yellow weeds that hedged the fence. Never once had she seen the musty curtains drawn open. It must be awfully dark and gloomy in there, she imagined, dark as Papa’s eyes were the day I poked fun at old Mike Kelsay’s long braided beard.
“A body’s different only to the extent that he’s himself and not anybody else,” Papa had sermoned. “If it’s in Mike Kelsay to braid his beard, then it’d be unnatural, maybe even wrong, for him not to. A body can’t be dishonest in his feelings and ever hope to come to terms with himself.”
Papa had a way of saying things that one just couldn’t argue with. Somehow he always sounded so right that all a good Christian heart dared do was store it away with other pearls of wisdom.
But does that make Emma Murphy’s wild stick waving and unfriendliness fine and proper? Jessica wondered. Her face twisted in confusion, and she was just about to turn her back on it all and start down the dirt road when she saw the old woman a second time. The ancient claylike face suddenly peered between the tattered curtains and stared out from behind dirty windows into the yard, glancing in both directions up and down the road. Then it disappeared, reappearing a moment later in a patchwork of light that filled the open front door. Mrs. Murphy stepped out onto the porch, and Jessica cowered behind the weeds.
She didn’t want to be caught staring—not again. Just to be caught by Emma Murphy was a fate that could put white hair on a twelve-year-old girl. Uncertainty pulled at the coattails of calm and dared her to feel at ease. She would have to wait out Mrs. Murphy, who was starting down the crooked path toward her. Jessica gasped and glanced quickly over her shoulder. Banberry Road was empty—not a wagon, buggy, nor single soul in sight. She was alone.
Jessica’s eyes shifted back toward the old woman, who hobbled closer still. The girl scrunched into a ball like a little dead spider and shut her eyes tighter than two pages in a closed book, expecting the worst.
After a moment of tense, sun-blistered silence, Jessica heard the old woman’s grating voice and dared to open one eye a slit, just enough to see Emma Murphy bent over a little grave marker in a tangle of briers just a few feet inside the fence. “Picked you some bluebells by the side of the house this morning, John.” The quiet reverence of the voice stunned Jessica so that her eyes popped open round and wide.
Mrs. Murphy placed the small wad of flowers atop the crude tombstone. “Not too regular I get out here, John,” she went on, “what with the way folks stare at me, like I was something out of a bad dream. Haven’t come by a kind word from anybody as long as I can pain to remember. Just the sound of rocks thrown against the house and people whispering things could turn a God-fearing woman into the hardest human being that ever took a breath. Folks call a body mean long enough, he’ll start believing it.”
Emma’s chin quivered and emotion stumbled her words. “Been downright choreful to act Christian of late, John.”
Jessica watched Emma brush away a tear, cock her head, and gaze darkly off down the empty road, her explosion of white hair rivering in the hot wind.
Up close, Jessica observed something that distance had hidden before. It was more than the corroding of time that had set the shadows so deeply upon Emma’s face. And it was something more than the scowl she wore like a tiresome chore. It was a look of loneliness every bit as sad as was Jessica’s when she had first moved to town and had not known a soul. But children and grownups alike had talked to her and made her feel at home. Soon the loneliness had pleasantly vanished like a late winter day filled with sunshine.
Mrs. Murphy’s eyes glanced back to the grave, and her knotty hands pulled feebly at the weeds around it.
Jessica rose slowly, rigid as an old field oak. She wasn’t sure where her courage came from. Maybe it was something Papa had said, or maybe guilt had pushed it out. Whatever the cause, it was a hair ahead of fear. Suddenly she realized there was something she had to do.
Mrs. Murphy’s eyes took hold of the girl in the rustling weeds. They widened with surprise and then narrowed with the old hardness. “What do you want here?” she snapped.
“I—I want to help you,” Jessica declared meekly.
The old woman stared, disbelieving her ears.
Jessica managed a smile. “Maybe I could help you pull some of those weeds, Mrs. Murphy.”
“You want to help me?” the voice scratched out with puzzlement and suspicion.
Jessica nodded. Emma Murphy straightened, her eyes still narrowed with distrust, but she was too dumbfounded to speak. And since she didn’t lift her voice or raise a stick to Jessica, the freckle-faced girl pushed through the rickety gate and started pulling weeds.
Emma continued to stare, completely taken aback by the girl’s friendliness and grit. Finally she said, “Nobody wants to help me.”
“I’m not ‘nobody,’” Jessica declared, “I’m Jessica Goodhue. I live a few miles down the road.” She twisted off a prickly brier twig, then squinted at Emma Murphy’s withered shape, shadowed against the sun. “Can we be friends, Mrs. Murphy?”
The old woman’s silent stare was unbroken.
Just as Jessica thought that perhaps she had made a horrible mistake by coming through the gate, Emma hunkered down beside her and eyed her so deeply that Jessica felt her very soul had been seen for the first time since Heavenly Father had told her good-bye and she was ushered down to earth!
A smile slowly faltered across Emma Murphy’s face like a young baby trying to walk. She extended her hand to Jessica, and a moment later a smooth, youthful hand was enfolded in one old and worn. Winter was suddenly gone from the old woman’s eyes, and warm tears meandered down a furrow in her cheek and disappeared into the folds of her neck.
For a long while the two just sat there, lost in the magic of the other; then they turned to pulling weeds together.
Two days later when Jessica walked by the old house with some friends on their way to save the last of the fish in the creek puddles, they noticed the curtains pulled back in Emma’s room. For the first time in their recollection, Emma Murphy had let in the light!

Exactly one year ago today, my sweet mother quietly slipped through the veil into the hope-filled embrace of countless ancestors and other family members—including my oldest brother and dear father. What a marvelous reunion that must have been! Just 10 days prior to her passing, mom experienced a collapsed lung due to a large cancerous mass. When the young doctor suggested treatments for the cancer, my nearly 91-year-old mom laughed and quickly countered, “No, it’s my turn. I’ve waited a long time to see all my people.” And that was it! Her decision was made and she’d been provided a ticket “home.” Without question, mom felt completely at peace with the work she’d been called to perform in mortality and knew she had more work to accomplish elsewhere.
Like Nephi of old, I will forever be grateful for “having been born of goodly parents”[1] who loved and taught me the things that would be most important in my life—including the value of good, honest, hard work.

The two missionaries serving in the Philippines San Fernando Mission are walking side by side, making their way up the stairs. This is no easy trick, and going up and down stairs is not an afterthought. Elder Dominador Sabit III takes his companion, Elder Michelangelo Benigno, by the arm and they begin their ascent. Elder Benigno struggles, and Elder Sabit patiently helps his companion along. It’s slow going, but there’s no other way. Elder Benigno suffers from Guillain Barre syndrome, a muscle disorder that he contracted when he was three. For as long as he can remember, his legs have never worked right. The braces he wears on both legs help him maneuver, but they’re made of iron and are plenty heavy.

Elder Benigno shows similar enthusiasm. He remembers the day his mission call came. “I was so happy I was almost jumping. I wish I could jump,” he says smiling.

Preparing to serve a mission had always been a part of Elder Benigno’s life. He had read the standard works by the time he was 11. “I could just watch my playmates chasing around while I was sitting down observing them,” he says. “That is why I read. I just focused on the books I read, and it helped me a lot.” Before leaving on his mission, Elder Benigno taught the youth in his ward about missionary service as Young Men president.

“I told myself, if I didn’t have this disability, I wouldn’t serve as an inspiration to others. I want to serve as an example to the young men in my home ward and to the people that I am teaching on my mission,” he adds.

“I just have to accept that my study time is going to be short and full of interruptions. I often have a child on my lap or on the chair next to me as I study. I give them something to scribble on and read out loud to them from the scriptures or manual. Sometimes I explain what the verses mean and ask them questions from the book. Some days are better than others. Often I can’t even remember what I studied, but I feel blessed for at least making the effort.” —Emily J.

President Hinckley also tells of such a defining moment. When he was first on his mission, he found the work discouraging. I'm sure you have heard the story. He wrote to his father saying he was wasting time and money. His father wrote back:
"Dear Gordon, I have your recent letter. I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work." Earlier that morning my companion and I had read these words of the Lord: "Whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel's, the same shall save it" (Mark 8:35).
Those words of the Master, followed by my father's letter, went into my very being. I went into our bedroom and got on my knees and made a pledge to the Lord. I covenanted that I would try to forget myself and lose myself in His service.
That July day in 1933 was my day of decision. A new light came into my life and a new joy into my heart. (Friend, June 2006)

Born 9 July 1936 in Grass Valley, Oregon, to Merrill and Mal Berg Oveson, Stephen was the third of four children. He grew up in Oregon, then attended Brigham Young University before serving in the Northern Mexican Mission from 1956 to 1959. Upon his return to BYU to study finance and banking, he met Dixie Randall of Tempe, Arizona. On 7 September 1960, they married in the Arizona Temple. After they graduated from BYU in 1961, they moved to Tempe.

Brother Oveson spent the first 10 years of his career in finance and banking. In 1970, he went to work for the founder of Granada Royale Hometels—the first all-suite hotel chain in the United States. This chain eventually became Embassy Suites. In 1985, Brother Oveson started his own hotel development and management company—Suite Thinking, Inc.

Now residents of San Juan Capistrano, California, the Ovesons are the parents of six children, all sons, and grandparents of 15. With a family of boys, the Ovesons have always enjoyed sports and outdoor activities. Among their favorite memories over the last 25 years are yearly family vacations at Lake Powell and skiing trips to Utah. All of the boys have served missions.

No strangers to heartache, the Ovesons lost a two-and-a-half-year-old son to death. Today, still aware of the suffering of little children, Brother Oveson has found time among his many activities to be involved with Pathway, a center for disadvantaged children in Madras, India.

“I have a strong conviction that Heavenly Father’s plan for me is the one that I need to follow,” says Elder Oveson, who has served as a bishop, a stake missionary, a stake high councilor, and a temple ordinance worker in the San Diego Temple. “I look upon this calling as another blessing and opportunity from the Lord, and I plan to fulfill it to the best of my abilities.”

“Brother Jacobs told us about the actual people the play was based on. They left their family behind in Armenia because they knew the Church was true. They decided to come to Utah. After they left, their family was killed. It makes you realize how important this play is. It gives you an appreciation for what people went through,” says 16-year-old Shae Dunkley.
Armenia of the 1890s may seem an unlikely place to find a missionary story, but the play “And They Shall Be Gathered,” written by Martin Kelly, is exactly that. Based on the true conversion story of husband and wife Arzuman and Akaby Tavoian, the play explores not only gospel principles but the love of a family as well.
Arzuman and Akaby (named Sarkis and Arick in the play) learn about the gospel individually, and each decides to be baptized—without telling the other person. (Because of their common last name, the missionaries are unaware that they are married.) When they discover they are both members of this new religion, they realize they must leave the country and go to Utah in order to fully live and practice their faith.
Just as they are preparing to leave, another young family member is killed in an accident. The family is severely saddened by the death and doesn’t understand why he was taken so young. Sarkis and Arick are able to leave with their family the gospel message of hope and the knowledge of life after death.
They then bid their family a fond but teary farewell and set out for Utah.
Sadly, Sarkis and Arick never hear from their family again. It is assumed that they were killed by invading Turks just after Sarkis and Arick left the country.

As a child in the ‘70s, I learned many things: how to ride a bike, jump rope, and write perfect cursive, and that Donny was my favorite Osmond. I also learned to be afraid.

Afternoons spent watching The Brady Bunch flowed into evenings when the nightly news flickered images of far-away wars in Vietnam. A highly publicized kidnapping case caused me great distress, certain I would be the next innocent girl snatched from her home. In school, I learned that teachers like children who are quiet, obedient, and who color in the lines. It was also clear that my worn, little desk with its spindly legs, pencils, carefully colored pictures, and Elmer’s paste would never provide enough protection to keep me safe from a looming nuclear threat.

Summer evenings were filled with neighborhood children gathering under the streetlamp at the end of our cul-de-sac to play night games. While these were often thrillingly scary, they occasionally took a mischievous turn. One evening under the cover of dark, my childhood best friend and I followed our older siblings to the doorstep of a woman who lived nearby. Imagine our surprise when the older kids rang her doorbell and then dashed down the street. Stumbling along behind, not quite sure what had just happened, I remember feeling dread that I was certainly going to get in trouble for this one. And I did. The policeman from my sleepy little town who was dispatched to answer the call found me hiding and crying in my friend’s basement. The officer kept me from a certain life of crime as he described the horrors that befall little girls who are thrown into the slammer. I was effectively scared straight that night, and I have never been tempted to doorbell ditch since.

Another time, I was riding behind my father on his snowmachine as he and several friends and family members adventured in the snow-covered mountains near our home. The group congregated in the bowl of a large, natural basin and my dad thought it would be great fun to climb his sled up the steep slope. Much to my parents’ disappointment, I definitely did not want to go on that ride as the hill looked much too steep and scary. After a bit of fussing on my part, my father conceded, lifted me off the back of the machine, and gunned the sled for the top of the hill. To my relief, all went well with his climb. However, as he crested the rise and turned the machine to head back down, he quickly lost control. From my childhood perspective, my father looked exactly like the characters on Saturday morning cartoons who tumble down a mountain gaining speed, momentum, and snow—all while losing bits and pieces along the way. It was difficult to spot my dad amongst the white powder and flying machine parts as the snowmachine rolled, flipped, and tumbled down the hill. Luckily, he escaped that adventure with only minor injuries, but his machine was not so fortunate. As the snow settled, I looked about the chaotic scene and knew with certainty that my course was best. Danger, accidents, trial, hardship, and trouble must be avoided at all costs.

I was 18 when I received my national service call-up papers. They instructed me to report for my medical. At the time, I was working as an apprentice cooper, had a great group of friends and was surrounded by a close-knit, loving family.
Although I had known that it was only a matter of time before I was called up, when it came, I was very apprehensive, being concerned about the expectations of army life, and sad about leaving my family and friends. However, it gave way to excitement at the thought of going abroad, making new friends, and learning new skills.
After being found medically fit, I was immediately required to report to the Royal Fusiliers barracks at the Tower of London, where their training unit was based. A four-month military training course followed, with about 80 other recruits, to prepare us for active service, anywhere in the world. We were then transferred to a transit camp in Kent to await our orders to be shipped to the battalion located in Khartoum, Sudan. This was subsequently changed and instead a group of us were transferred to the Queen’s Royal Regiment. They were serving in Malaya (now Malaysia) assisting the Malayan Police in combatting raids by insurgent groups. These groups were carrying out attacks on the local civilian population, including farmers, rubber plantation workers, and others.
At the end of World War II several British colonies were seeking for independence. In the case of Malaya, the Communist-influenced Malayan National Liberation Army initiated armed guerrilla insurgencies. As a result, Britain, along with other Western allies, sent military personnel to Malaya to act as an anti-insurgency force. Hence our deployment to Malaya. On 13 December 1954 we set sail aboard HMTS Asturias, heading for Singapore. We arrived on 1 January 1955 after a wonderful three-week journey, though military training continued throughout.
During this period, I gained a greater realisation of what it meant to be on active service, namely carrying a rifle and possibly being engaged in gun battles. That made it a little scary, but I was mindful that my personal safety and that of my comrades was paramount. Overnight we travelled by military train from Singapore to an area called Negri Sembilan in the west of Malaya. We were required to take anti-malarial medication daily, failing to do so being a disciplinary offence. Carrying our rifles was also compulsory.
At base we commenced the next part of our intensive training. This included four weeks of acclimatisation to the Malayan weather and jungle training, where the heat averaged 90-95F at midday. This was essential given the hostile environment in which we would be working. I was also detailed to begin training as a signaller, responsible for military communications, which meant carrying a military 68T radio wireless set on all operations.
During the remainder of my service in Malaya, approximately 18 months, I worked as part of a 200/300-man ambush unit. Our role was to protect the civilian population from insurgents who got into their kampongs (traditional villages), often to steal food. On other occasions, for about ten days each time, our duties involved patrolling specified areas deep in the jungle. In hot, humid, and wet conditions, while carrying our rifles, ammunition and ration packs of food, a path had to be cleared by chopping down trees and bushes as we walked. My load was heavier due to the 68T wireless set, to send situation reports back to headquarters.
There were many highs and lows, especially when two members of our unit were killed, but we had to remain strong and focussed. These activities continued until I was demobbed in 1956. I returned home with mixed emotions, sorry to be leaving fellow soldiers behind, but very elated to be reunited with my family and friends.
Within a week of my return, my mother organised a party. It was wonderful. I eventually settled back into civilian life. I worked as a labourer until I was employed as a wood worker; I continued doing this for the next 46 years, until I retired. Undoubtedly, the dedication, loyalty, and discipline I had learnt in the army influenced my work ethic.

My freshman year at university, I was sitting in Relief Society when someone shared an experience where she felt impressed to write down how she thought God felt about her.
This struck me.
When I got home, I felt impressed to do the same thing. But after 10 minutes of sitting there with nothing written down, I burst into tears. I felt like a fraud. So much of my testimony was based on God and His perfect love for us. And yet I couldn’t even write anything down.
I knew that God loves all His children, but for some reason I felt like the exception.
How could that be?
When I began attending therapy the following year, I was able to start working through my thoughts. My therapist pointed out that I had a tendency to be an all-or-nothing type of person. I believed that either I had to be perfect at keeping the commandments or I wasn’t strong enough. And I realized I had decided that because I couldn’t feel God in my life, He didn’t exist. But looking back on my life, I knew that couldn’t be true. And so I realized the issue was me, not God.
Ever since I was little, I had engraved into my mind this idea that if I wasn’t perfect, I would never be good enough. Of course, because no one is perfect, I found myself swimming in a sea of insecurities. I was uncomfortable with the idea that I could be worth something. It was because of this that I always felt like I didn’t measure up and didn’t deserve anyone’s love—including God’s.
For a while, I had tried to combat my loneliness and feelings of inadequacy by trying to be everything. I busied myself with every activity I could find to keep my mind off the real issues in my life. And I spent an excessive amount of time considering others’ needs as a way to avoid having to focus on my own. I tutored, played tennis, baked for all my friends and neighbors, and became a teaching assistant. I also worked part-time, took a lot of classes, and was the president of multiple clubs and groups on campus.
To those looking from the outside, I was the girl who had it all together. What they couldn’t see was that inside, I was desperately searching for something to make me feel good enough. But always trying to do more and more only brought added confusion into my life as to who I was and who I wanted to be.
Toward the end of my freshman year I realized how badly paralyzed I had become by my feelings of worthlessness. I had allowed myself to be so overwhelmingly insecure that I denied myself all the amazing things life offered and was becoming numb to my own life.
I stepped back and wondered why, despite doing so much, I still felt nothing. This sent me into a dark depression. What do you do when you feel absolutely abandoned by God?
Anxious to move forward but feeling empty as I wondered how God really felt about me, I realized that something inside of me needed to change. This realization started me on the path to feeling God’s love for me.
At first, I didn’t know how to start; that task alone felt daunting. But over the next year, I relied on the Lord and His infinite goodness to get me through each day. I found so much strength and peace of mind in reading the messages of prophets, pondering the temple covenants I had made, setting even just 10 minutes aside each night to read the scriptures, and communing with Heavenly Father in prayer throughout the day.
As I did these things, I began to see His hand in my life. I didn’t know who I was or what path in life to choose. I didn’t know what path could ever make me feel good enough. But I soon realized that what I really needed was to know who I was to God.
I am now in my last semester at university. Among all the stresses of being a student, employee, daughter, sister, and friend, I have realized that knowing my worth and understanding how God feels about me are vital to my success in all that I do.
There are still many unknowns about my future, and that’s OK.
For me, knowing that I don’t have to be perfect right now helps get me through each day. I know that God is aware of me. I also know that even when I can’t feel His love, He still is patiently working with me.
Over the past few years of this struggle, God has helped me discover qualities and talents in myself that I would have never noticed before. Most importantly, in time, through personal revelation and daily efforts to understand God’s will for me, I’ve learned how He feels about me. I’ve been able to draw liberally on the Savior’s power and the blessings of His Atonement in my life. This has helped me to feel God’s love and know that I am His beloved daughter.
In reading the messages of the prophets, I was touched when I read these words from President Russell M. Nelson: “Feelings of worth come when a woman follows the example of the Master. Her sense of infinite worth comes from her own Christlike yearning to reach out with love, as He does.”
He also noted, “[A woman’s] self-esteem is earned by individual righteousness and a close relationship with God.”1 From this, I have come to understand that who I am is more than the combination of the things I do or say. I am an eternal being with an extraordinary calling to lead with love and compassion, just as the Savior did. And that understanding transcends anything my depression may try to tell me.
Even now, I still find myself sometimes forgetting what God’s love feels like and what lasting joys there are in the smallest and most ordinary moments of life. But the miracle of Christ’s Atonement is that it is not only for repentance; His grace also enables us to get through each day and to love ourselves. I forget that fact a lot, but it is still true.
There is no escaping that we are prone to human nature and that these moments of divine clarity and inspiration may not always feel so true. So to help us, we can write down and look back on the times when we have felt God’s love. We can keep trying to seek ways to feel that love. Our daily worship and continued efforts to deepen our personal holiness will not only strengthen our relationship with our Heavenly Father but also increase our personal happiness and self-esteem. Christ can magnify these efforts to help us become who our Father in Heaven wants us to be.
I am determined to keep trying because I have hope in Christ. I know that life will continue to get better and that I will grow as I rely on Him. Once I discovered how infinite God’s love for me was, I was able to find greater strength each day to push past heartbreaks and overcome my feelings of inadequacy and my need for perfection.
When I find myself falling back into my insecurities, I remember that God thinks that I am funny, kind, giving, and beautiful. Most of all, I remember that He sees me trying.
President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) declared: “God’s love is there for you whether or not you feel you deserve [it]. It is simply always there.”2 I am so grateful for this truth. In our deepest struggles, we can see God’s glory in helping us move forward. He is always cheering us on.

After graduating from high school, I entered boot camp in the United States Marine Corps. One of the reasons I chose the marines was their declared respect for honor and integrity. I soon learned that just because an organization claims to support integrity, it does not mean each of the individuals involved chooses to do so.

My favorite drill instructor was a man of integrity. He held to his beliefs with unshaking courage. The problem for me was he believed members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints hated people like him. He was determined to save me from my misguided upbringing and took special care to provide me with additional training and physical rehabilitation opportunities. One day he found a chance to challenge my religious beliefs and we faced off during noon chow.

He sat the platoon in formation and ordered us to get out our MREs (or meals ready to eat). He then told us to open our accessory package and take out the coffee. This had never happened before, and I quickly understood where he was going. I had to make a decision. I determined to obey his orders until doing so would be a clear violation of my religious beliefs. I took out the packet and heard the drill instructor walking my way. We were only allowed to look straight forward so all I could see were those two big legs turning and stopping right in front of me. He ordered us to open the coffee packet, and I did. He then took the packet out of my hands and ordered us to tip back our heads, and I did. He ordered us to open our mouths and pour in the coffee, and he assisted me by pouring it into my mouth. Then he ordered that we eat the coffee. I could go no further. I tilted my head forward and spoke out in the only way we were allowed: “Sir, this private cannot eat or drink coffee, it is against this private’s religion.” As I spoke, a great cloud of powdered coffee sprayed out and covered his dress slacks. As his muscles began to twitch, I wondered if those would be my last moments. Unknown to me, another drill instructor had caught on to what was happening and stepped in. He ordered me away for punishment, but instead, he gave me a chance to spit out the instant coffee and wash it out of my mouth.

Weeks later, I was cleaning in the barracks and my favorite drill instructor, he was still my favorite, walked up beside me and stopped. I held the broom tightly, wondering what unique activity he had planned for me, but to my surprise, he just leaned in and said, “Adams, I have been reading that book of yours. There’s lots of good marines in that book. You been taught since you was a baby to be a marine, so if you mess up it's twice as bad as someone else messin' up.” With that profound apology and threat, he walked away. I didn’t have another verbal exchange with him until after graduation when he congratulated me for my integrity. It was one of the great honors of my life, and it demonstrated his integrity. He had made a mistake, and as best he could, he had made it right.