Gospel Story Finder

Recently I went on a soccer recruiting trip to an out-of-state university. I went to check out the school, the campus, the team, and the environment.
While I was there some of the girls on the team decided they would show the recruits what college life was like, so they took us to a party. This party was not the kind I was used to. Everyone there was drinking and smoking.
One guy at the party announced that all the recruits had to get in the middle of a circle and he would pass around a bottle of liquor for us to drink.
When I wouldn’t even touch the bottle, he said to me, “You’re not even going to taste it?”
“No thanks,” I told him.
He continued to harass me for a few minutes and then finally left.
Throughout the party I was very uncomfortable and wished we could leave. Finally we did.
The following day as I listened to general conference, I heard Elder Richard G. Scott say, “Be grateful that your righteous life molds you so that you don’t fit where you don’t belong” (Ensign, Nov. 1998, 70). I am thankful that I have lived my life in such a way that I was uncomfortable at the party. I felt that I was the odd one there, and I am glad I was. I am also grateful that I decided long ago that I was never going to drink, and that decision helped me in my time of need.

I first discovered the garage when I was seven years old and spending the day at my grandparents’ house. I quickly settled into my routine of playing with toys in their living room. Just as I jumped my toy car off of the armrest of the sofa, my grandpa walked through the den wearing a set of blue overalls covered in stains and his favorite “Ford Racing” hat. Opening the sliding door and stepping over the threshold, he looked back to find me staring at him wide-eyed. With a wink, he motioned for me to follow him.
As we walked across the backyard and came to the door of the gray garage, Grandpa reached into his pocket and retrieved his keys. Slowly and methodically, he fingered through the keys with his big, calloused hands that were the result of a lifetime of hard work. Finally, he found the old brass key he was looking for, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door.
After climbing over boxes and tiptoeing around engine parts and transmission pieces, we stood in the middle of the garage. Grandpa showed me around, pointing to various parts and explaining what they did in a way that my seven-year-old mind could understand. He pointed out the cars he was fixing and what they needed to run well again. One was a 1940s-era roadster that looked just like one of my toy cars. The other was a 1965 Mustang that was lying in pieces all over the floor. It was amazing how much my grandpa knew and how he could figure out exactly what was wrong with something so complex. His stories of growing up in a family of 12 and buying old cars, repainting them, and selling them to make money made me laugh and the stories of car crashes and real fiery explosions astounded me.
Over the years I’ve put in my share of elbow grease in Grandpa’s garage. I would change oil in the countless cars that rolled into the shop, driven by people asking for my grandpa to work on their vehicles. Grandpa would always smile and treat his loyal customers to at least a half-hour’s worth of conversation. I helped clean the brake drums and apply body filler to the Mustang, which soon became my favorite car in the garage. We spent many hours working in the crowded space. I treasured the time I got to spend with my grandpa working in the garage.
When I was nine, I moved away and no longer got to spend time in the garage with Grandpa. A few years later the distance multiplied when my grandparents were called to serve a mission in Hawaii. However, it was truly a blessing. My grandpa finally got the chance to serve the Lord as a missionary. Growing up in such a large family meant that money was limited, and a full-time mission wasn’t possible for him when he was young. While my grandpa had the desire to serve, a full-time mission involved a great deal of sacrifice. I had always wanted to serve a mission, and seeing my grandparents serve and the blessings that came from their service bolstered my desire. When my grandpa came back, the garage was waiting for him. The sounds of power tools and metal once again reverberated through the walls.
The years have raced by, and I am older now. But working with Grandpa is still special to me. Whenever I come back to visit, it seems like there is always a new project or something that needs to be done. The distance makes me treasure our time together so much more.
I recently visited during the summer, and Grandpa gave me that familiar wink as he motioned for me to follow him. Expecting a new job, I followed willingly. As he lifted the door to the garage, what I saw took my breath away. There stood a beautifully restored 1965 Mustang. The body filler had been covered with a beautiful copper metallic paint, and the brake drums were now masked by flawless new rims. Big white racing stripes flowed up the front of the car from the chrome front bumper to the chrome rear bumper, and the shiny running horse pranced across the front of the grill. He put the key into the ignition, and the huge V-8 engine roared to life. He looked at me and smiled, then he asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I quickly said yes, and with that, we backed the car out of the garage and took off down the street.
As I make preparations to serve a mission, I look forward to following in my grandpa’s footsteps once again as I serve the Lord. My grandpa has not only taught me many things about cars, but he has also taught me many things about life. From all the hours we spent in the garage, I’ve learned how to be patient and take pride in my work. Because of his incredible people skills, I’ve learned how to approach and talk to people. And above all, he helped me discover who I truly am. Just like the Mustang, I have been piecing myself together over the last 18 years, and now, with help from Grandpa, I am finally ready for the open road.

Excitement thundered through Mariano Palermo’s veins as he and his teammate rowed past the 1,000-meter mark in first place. They were halfway to his dream of winning the 2003 Argentine national rowing championship in men’s pairs and a shot at participating in qualifiers for the 2004 Olympics in Athens, Greece.
They had settled into a great rhythm—their strong strokes catching the water in perfect harmony and propelling them ahead of the competition.
However, a few hundred meters later, Mariano’s excitement chilled when fatigue began to slow his teammate’s pace.
Mariano eyed the second-place boat not far behind. Would the lead they had built up be enough to get them to the finish line first?
Mariano’s twin sister, Lucía, had her own doubles race to concentrate on a little later that day, but she made sure she was there to watch her brother compete. She was thrilled when his team leaped out to such a quick lead. But her heart sank when she saw their pace drop off.
The Palermo twins have always been very close. Being the same age and involved in many of the same activities, they have always spent a lot of time together.
“Mutual, seminary, school,” Lucía lists. “Now that we’re older, it’s a little different, but we still train together.”
The twins, members of the Pacheco Ward, Buenos Aires Argentina Litoral Stake, are also united by other interests. They both enjoy working with their hands—Lucía doing handicrafts or sewing and Mariano working on cars.
“I love to cook,” Lucía adds.
“And I like to eat, so we’re a good team,” laughs Mariano. “I like to cook with her. I’m not very good at it, but it’s fun.”
While the two get along really well—“We can talk about anything,” says Lucía—Mariano says most people don’t realize they’re twins. The two don’t look alike.
“And we don’t know what the other is thinking,” Lucía says, joking about how twins are sometimes portrayed. “But we’re very affected by what happens to the other, whether in school or in competition. We are very united. It’s a beautiful thing.”
When Mariano felt his teammate’s pace slowing, he knew it didn’t matter how strong he felt. If Mariano pulled his oar harder or faster than his teammate did, the unbalanced effort would send the boat off course.
He matched his teammate’s pace and watched as the competitors started gaining on them.
As twins, Mariano and Lucía share many things. Among them is a fierce drive to train hard and give their best individual effort to reach their goals. But in team rowing, individual effort alone won’t get you across the finish line first. The twins have learned that if you aren’t in sync with your teammates, you won’t win.
“The effectiveness of the boat depends on unity,” Mariano says. “We’ve got to be thinking the same, whether it’s a team of two, four, or eight.”
“If we’re not working together—” begins Lucía.
“Precisely,” Mariano interjects.
“—the boat won’t work,” she finishes.
It’s a principle the two understand not only as rowers but as twins and as members of the Church.
“When the team is focused on the same objective, it’s much easier to obtain,” Mariano says. “It’s the same with our family. We have the same goal to be together forever. That helps a ton.”
The two understand that working together is essential not only in rowing but in reaching our ultimate goal to become like Jesus Christ and return to our Heavenly Father’s presence. The Lord said, “Be one; and if ye are not one ye are not mine” (D&C 38:27).
Once we’ve learned that life is not a singles competition but a team event, each of us faces a very important spiritual decision.
As the second-place team pulled alongside Mariano’s boat, it took real discipline for him not to give in to the temptation to row as hard as possible. The finish line was so close. But Mariano knew that rowing at his own pace could be disastrous. At best it would only slow them down; at worst it would send them off course and possibly out of the race.
This choice to follow someone else’s pace rather than our own in order to reach our goal is an important principle when applied to life on earth. We cannot return to our Heavenly Father’s presence on our own (see Romans 3:23).
Fortunately, the Savior was willing to put Himself in our boat through the Atonement (see Alma 7:11–12), providing the way to the finish line, where our Heavenly Father is.
But as in rowing, in order to win the prize we must be willing to give up anything that would keep us from rowing in harmony with the Lord. Atonement means to be reconciled or restored to harmony. Achieving harmony requires being willing to give up all our sins (see Alma 22:18), put off worldly desires, and do the Lord’s will (see Mosiah 3:19).
That’s not always easy, but the Savior knows the “race that is set before us” (Hebrews 12:1), and He knows exactly what we need in order to return to our Father’s presence.
If we choose not to follow Him, preferring to do things our own way, we are out of sync and in danger of slowing our progress or even putting ourselves out of the race.
In life as well as in athletics, some would rather set their own pace, believing that individuality is the way to true freedom. They choose to row through life alone, not realizing that with Jesus Christ, they could achieve so much more (see Mark 10:27).
In the rowing world, it is well-known that “a team working together can go much faster than an individual,” Lucía explains.
On the standard 2,000-meter course, a good time for a single male rower at his best pace is under seven minutes (the world record is 6:35.40). On a team of eight, however, that same rower, even though he may be matched with slower individual rowers, could go even faster. The world record for a team of eight is 5:19.85.
Just as it would be difficult for a single rower to beat a unified team, without the Savior, we cannot obtain our eternal goals.
Mariano and his teammate refused to give up. But shortly before the finish line, they were passed, leaving them in second place.
Lucía was at the boat ramp when Mariano pulled his boat out after the race. She had her own race coming up to think about, but when she saw his disappointed tears, she broke down herself.
“I knew how hard he had worked,” she says. “I couldn’t bear seeing him so disappointed. I had never seen him like that.”
Together, the twins sorrowed in Mariano’s disappointment. Finally, Lucía’s coach separated them, worried that she wouldn’t be able to focus on her own race. But when the time came, Lucía and her teammate won their pairs race and later the South American championships, earning the right to compete in the 2004 Olympics.
And just as they had shared sorrow in Mariano’s disappointment, they rejoiced together in Lucía’s success.
“I was so excited when she won the opportunity to compete in the Olympics,” Mariano says. “She earned it.”
At the Olympics, Lucía and her teammate ended up ranked 17th. Like Mariano’s results, her finish wasn’t exactly all she had dreamed about. Still, their goals remain high. In the short-term, they want to qualify for an Olympic medal. In the long run, they want to qualify for eternal life.
Both goals will require sacrifice and a willingness to work as one with someone else.
But while the world rewards only one winner (see 1 Corinthians 9:24), no matter how united each team is, the prize the Lord offers can be obtained by all who qualify. Nephi said that “many of us, if not all, may be saved in his kingdom” (2 Nephi 33:12; emphasis added), but we must first “be reconciled unto Christ” (2 Nephi 33:9) by sacrificing our worldly desires in order to follow Him.
The Palermo twins are united in the hope that their faith and sacrifices will be enough to win the one race that matters most of all.

I used to think I was an incurable procrastinator. Finally, things got so backed up that it was impossible, so I went to a teacher. We set up a program that would severely affect my grade if I didn’t keep up with it. I set deadlines for small portions of big assignments to force myself to start working on them before the night before they were due. Luckily for me, it worked.
I’m still working on it, but look, I got this letter mailed in on time!
Tami Anderson, 16Roanoke, Virginia

I lived in California, USA, with my family growing up. In the summer we harvested grapes at a vineyard. We had a big family, and we all worked together. I was young, but my father taught me to work hard.
We cut bunches of grapes off the vine. Then we piled the grapes on a metal tray. When the tray was full, we took it to my father. He spread the grapes out to dry into raisins in the hot sun. The owner of the vineyard paid my father for the raisins we made.
Each time we took grapes to my father, he told us, “Go forward and harvest on.”
So we went to the next vine to harvest the next bunch of grapes. We did this again and again. We focused on the next vine and the work ahead of us. We didn’t let ourselves get distracted by what was behind us.
Every week my father paid my siblings and me for our work. He taught us to take out 10 percent for tithing. We saved the rest. When we had enough, we each bought a wooden airplane or our favorite candy. We spent Saturday afternoons playing in the park with our airplanes and eating our candy.
My father’s saying to “go forward and harvest on” has become a tradition in my family. It teaches us the value of hard work. It is important for us to “go forward and harvest on” in all we do. When we work hard and follow what God asks us to do, we can find joy in life.

Last year, just before school started, the priests of the Ketchikan Ward were having a lesson on fasting. They started discussing how much easier it was for them to fast with a purpose instead of feeling like they were just starving. Russell Youngberg said, “We realized that school was about to start and a fast Sunday was coming up, so we sort of put the two together. The entire ward youth would fast for each other to be able to resist temptations and have a good school year.”

Forrest Allred remembers how they came up with the idea. “We were talking about how to make the youth stronger and more righteous. We were confident that fasting would work.”

The bishop also thought it was a great idea. He invited the Young Women to join in. Amanda Youngberg said, “The bishopric came into the Young Women classes and asked if we wanted to participate in the fast. We all did it together.”

They planned for the first weekend of September. They started their fast individually on Saturday afternoon. For some, having a distinct reason helped. Kaitlyn Skinner said, “Our parents could join us in our fast, but since the youth were fasting together, it was easier for me.”

The next day, fast Sunday, all the youth met after fast and testimony meeting in the seminary room. Adam Fitzgerald, one of the priests who talked about the original idea, described what happened. “I remember feeling the Spirit really strong. We all knelt, which was hard to do because the room was very full. The bishop gave the prayer for us. I remember him talking about us having a good year and that we would become bonded to one another and resist temptations throughout the year and continue our growth and development. Personally, as he was saying those things, I knew that it was going to be that way.”

Ryan Gray was on the student council at Ketchikan High School and noticed that the LDS students were more connected after their fast. “In this school, we’re small in number. We all have our own friends, but we’re all friends at the ward. We’ve got strength. Fasting for each other was a good way to start the year.”

This unity, these friendships, these positive choices are the very things the teens were fasting for.

Russell says, “I think our fast made a difference, at least it has to me. It seems whenever any member sees another member at school, we stop and talk on the way to class. It feels like there is a stronger bond in the youth group. As for the fast, my stomach did the same stuff as always when I fast, but we all had a purpose for fasting, and that made it a lot different.”

Here in Salt Lake City in 1985, Bishop Steven Christensen, through no fault of his own, was cruelly and senselessly killed by a bomb intended to take his life. He was the son of Mac and Joan Christensen, the husband of Terri, and the father of four children. With his parents’ consent, I share what they learned from this experience. After this terrible deed, the news media followed members of the Christensen family around relentlessly. On one occasion this media intrusion offended one of the family members to the point that Steven’s father, Mac, had to restrain him. Mac then thought, “This thing will destroy my family if we don’t forgive. Venom and hatred will never end if we do not get it out of our system.” Healing and peace came as the family cleansed their hearts from anger and were able to forgive the man who took their son’s life.

Now I haven’t taken it just on the basis of one testimony, because my mind won’t permit me that luxury, and I don’t think most minds will. I came back from that war and used my GI bill and went to college. First of all, what a struggle that was because of the void I’d created in high school. I happened to have married out of the Church, and while I was fortunate to convert my wife and see her come in and be one of the strongest Latter-day Saints you’ll ever know, what a risk I took, as I reflect back. Anyway, she came from a very strong Protestant family, and in order to handle myself effectively, or at least as effectively as I thought I should, I attended a Protestant theological school of their faith and graduated with their ministers, because I wanted to know, scripturally speaking, whether the Mormon Church could stand the test of the world. And how happy I am to report that not only did I get a testimony when I asked as Moroni indicates, but I put it to the test for years in one of the best theological schools on the west coast. And the gospel is true, brothers and sisters. Are you willing to invest the time and energy and the commitment in prayer to see if I’m right?

Some years ago, President Romney and I were sitting in my office. The door opened and a fine young man came in with a troubled look on his face, and he said, “Brethren, I am going to the temple for the first time tomorrow. I have made some mistakes in the past, and I have gone to my bishop and my stake president, and I have made a clean disclosure of it all; and after a period of repentance and assurance that I have not returned again to those mistakes, they have now adjudged me ready to go to the temple. But, brethren, that is not enough. I want to know, and how can I know, that the Lord has forgiven me, also.”

What would you answer one who would come to you asking that question? As we pondered for a moment, we remembered King Benjamin’s address contained in the book of Mosiah. Here was a group of people who now were asking for baptism, and they said they viewed themselves in their carnal state:
“… And they all cried aloud with one voice, saying: O have mercy, and apply the atoning blood of Christ that we may receive forgiveness of our sins, and our hearts may be purified; …
“… after they had spoken these words the Spirit of the Lord came upon them, and they were filled with joy, having received a remission of their sins, and having peace of conscience. …” (Mosiah 4:2–3.)
There was the answer.
If the time comes when you have done all that you can to repent of your sins, whoever you are, wherever you are, and have made amends and restitution to the best of your ability; if it be something that will affect your standing in the Church and you have gone to the proper authorities, then you will want that confirming answer as to whether or not the Lord has accepted of you. In your soul-searching, if you seek for and you find that peace of conscience, by that token you may know that the Lord has accepted of your repentance. Satan would have you think otherwise and sometimes persuade you that now having made one mistake, you might go on and on with no turning back. That is one of the great falsehoods. The miracle of forgiveness is available to all of those who turn from their evil doings and return no more, because the Lord has said in a revelation to us in our day: “… go your ways and sin no more; but unto that soul who sinneth [meaning again] shall the former sins return, saith the Lord your God.” (D&C 82:7.) Have that in mind, all of you who may be troubled with a burden of sin.
And to you who are teachers, may you help to lift that great burden from those who are carrying it, and who have their conscience so seared that they are kept from activity, and they don’t know where to go to find the answers. You help them to that day of repentance and restitution, in order that they too may have that peace of conscience, the confirming of the Spirit of the Lord that he has accepted of their repentance.

I remember a critical time in my life when a still small voice gave me direction to make an important decision. My family lived in Boston, Massachusetts, at the time. I had been with a retail firm for a number of years. To expand the business, we merged with a larger firm. Within a matter of months, I found myself in a very difficult situation. The new owners wanted me to violate a trust. I felt that I just could not do it. They continued to insist, and I continued to refuse. Finally, in order to solve the disagreement, I agreed to leave the company. The timing for me was devastating. I had a wife who was seriously ill and required a lot of medical attention, a daughter away at college, and a son on a mission. I spent the next year getting just enough consulting work to pay our expenses.
After struggling for about one year, a company called me from California and invited me to come out and talk to them about working for them. I went and was delighted with the opportunity. I told them that I had to return home and discuss it with my family before I could give them an answer. I returned home and convinced my family that it was the right thing to do. As I was calling the firm to accept the offer, a voice just as strong and powerful as I have ever heard came to me and said, “Say no to the offer.” I could not ignore the voice, so I turned the offer down, but I couldn’t understand why I had been told to do such a thing. I went upstairs to my bedroom, sat on the bed, and opened the scriptures. They fell open to the Doctrine and Covenants, section 111. These words in verses 5 and 7 jumped out from the page and met my eye: “Concern not yourselves about your debts, for I will give you power to pay them. …
“Tarry in this place, and in the regions round about.”
A great peace came to my soul. Within just a few days, I was offered a fine position there in Boston. A few months later, I had the great privilege of hosting a conference in which President Harold B. Lee, then First Counselor in the First Presidency, was the featured speaker. The following July, President Joseph Fielding Smith passed away and President Lee became the prophet. Three months later I was asked to come to Salt Lake, where I received a call to become a General Authority.

Some years ago, I was afforded the privilege to serve as a mission president and became intimately acquainted with more than 400 missionaries. We had one young missionary who was very ill. After weeks of hospitalization, as the doctor prepared to undertake extremely serious and complicated surgery, he asked that we send for the missionary’s mother and father. He advised there was a possibility the patient would not survive the surgery.
The parents came. Late one evening, the father and I entered a hospital room in Toronto, Canada, placed our hands upon the head of the young missionary, and gave him a blessing. What happened following that blessing was a testimony to me.
The missionary was in a six-bed ward in the hospital. The other beds were occupied by five men with a variety of illnesses. The morning of his surgery, the missionary’s bed was empty. The nurse came into the room with the breakfast these men normally ate. She took a tray over to the patient in bed number one and said, “Fried eggs this morning, and I have an extra portion for you!”
The occupant of bed number one had suffered an accident with his lawn mower. Other than an injured toe, he was well physically. He said to the nurse, “I’ll not be eating this morning.”
“All right, we shall give your breakfast to your partner in bed number two.”
As she approached that patient, he said, “I think I’ll not eat this morning.”
Each of the five men declined breakfast. The young lady exclaimed, “Other mornings you eat us out of house and home, and today not one of you wants to eat! What is the reason?”
Then the man who occupied bed number six answered: “You see, bed number three is empty. Our friend is in the operating room under the surgeon’s hands. He needs all the help he can get. He is a missionary for his church, and while we have been patients in this ward, he has talked to us about the principles of his church—principles of prayer, of faith, of fasting wherein we call upon the Lord for blessings.” He continued, “We don’t know much about the Mormon Church, but we have learned a great deal about our friend; and we are fasting for him today.”
The operation was a success. When I attempted to pay the doctor, he countered, “Why, it would be dishonest for me to accept a fee. I have never before performed surgery when my hands seemed to be guided by a Power which was other than my own. No,” he said, “I wouldn’t take a fee for the surgery which Someone on high literally helped me to perform.”
Such is the house of God.

I love to give talks in Primary. One day my brother, Mack, was asked to give a talk. It was his first time giving a talk. I was a little mad and sad because he got chosen instead of me. So I said a prayer asking Heavenly Father to help me get rid of those bad feelings. Then I felt better and I wanted to help my brother. I told him, “Mack, if you get scared during your talk, look at me and see the smile on my face.” Mack gave a great talk and he wasn’t too scared, but I was smiling at him anyway. Heavenly Father helps me to be happy for others.

I became good friends with a girl named Julia. We decided to be “buddies” at girls camp. Even though I don’t like camping or hiking very much, I really enjoyed the entire experience. There was a different feeling at this camp. Our counselors made a special effort to see that we were having a good time and that everyone was included in all the activities we participated in. During the week, we had devotionals, a nature walk to learn about different plants, a first-aid class, and campfire skits. There was also a service project that everyone in the camp happily participated in. In fact, the service project table was always crowded with volunteers. All through the week there was a sense of organization, cooperation, and friendship.
On Saturday morning, the last day, everyone got together around the campfire, and whoever wanted to stood up and told the others of their testimony of the Church and expressed their gratitude for their family, friends, and what a great and memorable experience they had at camp. Most of them cried while they talked, and I cried along with them. I was surprised to see my sister go up on stage. She said how happy she was to come to this Church and how thankful she was for her family, especially me. That was one of the first times she had ever expressed her love for me as her sister. Once she sat down, I got up and sat next to her. I told her how grateful I was for what she said, and we cried together. We really made a special connection.

Ivan Lobanovitz was my enemy.
Not only was he my enemy, he was the enemy of my country—the enemy against whom my father was fighting somewhere in the Karelian Isthmus. Oh, I knew it wasn’t Ivan Lobanovitz’s bullets my father was dodging over there—at least not anymore—but somebody just like him. You see, Ivan Lobanovitz was a prisoner of war, a Russian prisoner of war.
The year 1943 was a horrible year for the little spunky country of Finland, which was making a truly valiant effort to fight an enemy 50 times more powerful. The war was dragging on. The years of fighting had left their marks. Even though all school children 15 and older were required to spend most of their summer vacation laboring on farms producing food, it was not enough. They could not replace the experienced farmers, and the situation had become very serious indeed. War is fought within the country as well as on the front lines, because the army that doesn’t eat cannot fight.
But sitting idly in prisoner-of-war camps was a large group of able-bodied men eating up the ever-dwindling food supply. Soon someone came up with the idea of using them as the badly needed farm work force. These prisoners were carefully selected—fanatics and extremists were weeded out—and the men were placed in larger and more productive farms where there was at least one man, however old, who could handle such a person. The plan was desperate, and even dangerous, but so was the situation.
When I first saw Ivan I told myself that he was an enemy. He might have killed many dads like mine and many brothers like my friend Eila’s. I wanted to hate him. The problem was, Ivan didn’t look like an enemy, or what I thought an enemy should look like. He was just an ordinary man. Not handsome, not ugly, just a man like any other. He was large with a nondescript face and sad eyes, and his hair was “any-color” brown. When he came to my grandfather’s household he was 32 years old.
Hating Ivan was difficult, and soon I gave it up. He didn’t know any Finnish, and none of us knew any Russian. Since he was a very quiet person our communication was almost nonexistent. My grandfather had been in Butte, Montana, years before as a mining boss and had learned to give commands without knowing the other person’s language, so he was well qualified to work with Ivan. Ivan did the work as best he could. He never said much. Soon he had blended in with the family and other farm workers so well that we all but forgot his “strangeness.” But he had to wear the hat and jacket of a prisoner, and the big V on his back reminded us that he was a vanki.
Ivan was always hungry. Farm workers are usually hefty eaters, but none of us had ever seen anyone with an appetite like Ivan. As long as it was edible, Ivan ate it. The food was always very simple. In the morning we had a huge pot of mush, often made of rye or barley flour. It tasted very good eaten with fresh milk and butter. There was always some left over, and at supper time that cold mush was given to Ivan. He ate that and then joined with the rest of us and devoured enormous amounts of potatoes and gravy, or thick stew, or whatever. Even today when any of us is very hungry, instead of saying, “I could eat a horse,” we say, “I could eat an Ivan’s portion!”
Ivan loved children and spent much of his limited spare time with my uncle’s little ones. In time he had learned a few Finnish words and was able to communicate to us that he had had a wife and two children of his own, but that they had all died in one horrible night when his small town in the Ukraine had been bombed. That explained the sadness of his eyes. We also learned that he had worked in a shirt factory and had hardly even seen a farm before.
I had long since stopped trying to hate Ivan. It just wasn’t possible to do so. “Faceless” people can be enemies, but once the enemy takes on a face the enmity often ceases to exist. Besides, Ivan himself had no hate in him. He slept in the main house with access to any room at any time of the day. It never occurred to any of us that he could be dangerous.
One day a man paid a surprise visit to check on the prisoners. Ivan was wearing his V jacket, but instead of his prisoners’ hat he was wearing a regular worker’s beanie which my grandfather had given him. The man grabbed that hat from Ivan’s head, threw it on the ground, and jumped on it screaming and hollering. I wanted to kick him, but I witnessed the commotion from the upstairs window too far to do anything about it.
It was a constant wonder to Ivan that the Finns were so “civilized.” His eyes had not been gouged out nor had any other such atrocities been inflicted upon him, as he had been told would happen if he was taken as a prisoner. He had been taught to fight to win or die but never to give himself up.
One evening Ivan found a little children’s book depicting the war. Brave little mice were chasing the cowardly and ugly rats and beating them easily. With the red star insignia on the rat’s helmets they were easily identified as Russians. Ivan studied the book with his normal seriousness, then suddenly burst into a roar of laughter. With his few words of Finnish and familiar gestures, he explained that they, too, had books like that—but, of course, the Finns were depicted as the rats.
In late July we were cutting hay in the fields several miles from Grandpa’s other lands and away from other people. We had worked there late the night before and left a large wagon full of hay in front of the big shed. Ivan was to come in the morning before the rest of the crew and fork it in. In those days the hay was not baled as it is now.
The next morning I was sent with Ivan to work in the shed, to push the hay further as it came in and also tread on it so it would be packed tighter. My family were not thoughtless, uncaring or even stupid; it just never occurred to any of us that we could have been asking for trouble.
We worked hard and fast that morning, because the faster we worked the longer we had before the rest of the crew arrived. After the hay was all in and trampled tight, we found a shady spot to rest and enjoy the food we had brought. I cut and buttered the bread and Ivan poured the milk. We ate in silence mostly. Occasionally I pointed to something and Ivan said it in Russian and I tried to repeat it to his amusement. But when I said it in Finnish and he tried to repeat it, it was my turn to be amused.
When we had finished and I had started to put the food away, Ivan asked for a knife. Without the slightest hesitation I handed the big leather-sheathed knife to him. I do remember the long look he gave me when he held the knife in his hand and slowly unsheathed it. Then he reached for the bread that was still on the cloth between us, cut a large piece, handed the knife back to me, and went to feed the horse.
I will never know what thoughts went through his head at that moment. I certainly didn’t think anything of it—then. But years later, after becoming aware of the harm that human beings are capable of doing to one another, I shudder inwardly at my childish trust.
I was a girl of 15 whose father Ivan knew to be an army officer fighting against his people. He could have killed me, taken the knife and the food basket, and run into the nearby forest. More than 2/3 of Finland is covered by thick forests. That late in summer they would have been full of wild berries so that even a man of Ivan’s appetite could have survived there for some time. By shedding his V jacket he would have looked like any other man. He would have had to be lucky and very clever, but it would not have been impossible for him to make it to the Russian border.
When the time came to exchange the prisoners of war and Ivan had to leave us, he cried like a child. He was afraid that all the prisoners would be shot at the border. We tried to reassure him, and he promised to write. He even said he would send us a boxful of Ukrainian apples, which were “big as human heads.”
I don’t know if he made it home. Maybe he just got busy with his life, because we never heard from him again.
I have often wondered why he didn’t take the chance to escape when he had it that July morning. I have come to the conclusion that Ivan was a truly good man. Having traveled a lot I know there are millions and millions of these quiet “Ivans” all over the world.
I believe that Ivan had that innate goodness that allows a person to embrace eagerly the gospel message. I wish I had known about the gospel then. Maybe someday, when the borders are open to our missionaries, someone will find Ivan and introduce him to the gospel. I hope so.
You see, although he was an enemy, Ivan Lobanovitz, wherever he is, is my friend.

After she had told us what happened, she seemed relieved and said she would go with us if we really wanted her to. We were impressed by her courage and agreed that she should come.
The evening of the discussion arrived, and my companion and I made our way up the dirt pathway leading to the Sanchez home. Sister Sanchez met us at the doorway, disapproval lining her face. “I do not want my daughter returning to that horrible place,” she told us emphatically. We didn’t know what to say, but Mirian did. We listened in silence as she bore testimony to her mother that she knew there was a special reason she must go with us. Reluctantly, Sister Sanchez consented, but only with our solemn promise that we would return immediately if there were any problems.
Unfortunately, it turned out that Rosa’s family was not interested in hearing about the Church. As we turned away, Mirian began to tell us about the other families in the neighborhood, including a man she had dated for a while. Although she hadn’t realized it when she started dating him, he was a very worldly person with some bad habits. The Spirit touched me, and I insisted that Mirian take us to see him. Even though she was extremely hesitant, she guided us down a path to the home where Luiz lived with his parents and son. Upon answering the door he seemed quite surprised to see us, but invited us in and listened intently to the message we gave him. After we completed the formal discussion, he told us of his recent desire to join the true church of God, but he did not know which one it was or how to find it. He had already been going through the preliminary steps of repentance but felt the need of something more. He declared to us that his heart was telling him we were indeed representatives of the Lord’s true church. He was baptized a week later.

My name is Job Abram Goldrup. When I was four years old and my older brother, Matt, was six and a half, Dad took us camping at a place called Blue Lake in northern California. It was in the middle of a very hot summer. Although most of the other lakes around there were very low and muddy, Blue Lake was filled with water.
We slept in sleeping bags on the ground that night, and Dad told us a story. I can’t remember what it was about, but I liked the soft sound of his voice and the feeling of being with him by the lake in the woods. I felt safe and loved and excited. The moon made silver, bouncy light on the water, and I heard an owl hooting in the dark trees, whose branches swayed back and forth in the dry wind. I looked a long time at the warm, bright glow of our campfire. It made the dark not too scary, just like Dad’s voice did.
In the morning Dad made hot chocolate and cooked hot dogs. The chocolate had a few twigs in it because he spilled the chocolate powder on the ground and some stuff got mixed up with it when he scooped it up. But that was OK because Dad said there was hardly any use being in nature if you didn’t get a little of it in you. "Besides," he added, "a little roughage is good for the system." We just laughed and drank it down. It was kind of a strange breakfast—what we ate should have been for dinner, and what we had for dinner we should have had for breakfast—that was part of the fun of camping with Dad.
After breakfast, we rented a rowboat and went out on the lake. Dad made us wear orange life jackets. That’s the only part that wasn’t much fun, because it was already getting hot and the life jacket made me hotter. But Dad said that just as the words of the prophets are meant to help keep us spiritually safe, life jackets are made to help keep us temporally safe.
I scrunched up my face something awful and fidgeted as if to shake that life jacket right off me.
"You have to plow your own furrow, huh, Joby?" Dad said, smiling and shaking his head.
I didn’t know what he meant. I scrunched up my face again and reached my hand down into the cool water. The water felt good. And, I have to admit, so did Dad’s counsel. Even if I didn’t understand it sometimes, I knew it meant that hecared about me and my brother.
We kind of went around in a few circles before Dad started rowing straight. Matt whispered to me that Dad was about as good at rowing as he was at cooking.
Dad heard us and laughed. "I’m just taking the scenic route," he joked.
After a while, we reached a small island near the other side of the lake. I felt like an explorer as Dad pulled the rowboat partway onto the pebbly beach. The island was covered with trees. A few big ones had long before fallen into the water along its edges, and there were logs on the beach.
There was only one problem: It was very hot! It helped to take off my shirt and shoes and wade in the shallow water along the beach, looking for rocks and small fish. It helped, but it wasn’t enough. "Dad," I begged, "can’t I take off my life jacket? It’s so hot, and the water isn’t deep here. It hardly comes up to my knees."
Dad, who was wading higher up the beach ahead of us, scratched his head and scrunched up his face. "I guess it would be OK, Joby," he said at last, "as long as you don’t wade out any deeper."
I promised I wouldn’t, and Matt helped me get out of the jacket. I threw it up onto the beach. It felt great to have it off! My brother and I continued to look for rocks and fish below the surface of the water, Matt poking and turning the rocks over with a stick he had brought from camp.
A few minutes later, Dad looked back to check on me and my brother and yelled, "Where’s Joby, Matt?"
Matt looked this way and that, then, bewildered, back at Dad. "I don’t know—he was right here a minute ago."
Dad raced up out of the water and faced the thick, tangly island trees. "Joby!" he yelled again and again, hoping I had decided to venture into the trees.
Matt was worried, too. "Where is he, Dad?"
Dad didn’t answer. He ran into the shallow water close to where Matt stood, scanning the water about him. Then he ran along the beach, first in one direction, then another. Suddenly he stopped, looked down into the shallow water by a fallen tree, and screamed, "Joby!" He threw himself beneath the surface and pulled me up!
A big gasp came from me as I breathed in air at last.
"Are you all right?" Dad looked at me with tears filling his eyes.
I nodded. "I guess I stepped into a hole. A feeling like a voice told me, ‘Stay calm; your dad will come for you.’ So I did. I just started looking around at the big tree roots, waiting for you to find me."
Dad started crying hard. He hugged me as though he would never let go. And for a moment, I didn’t want him to. I started to cry, too.
Afterward we all sat on a log up on the beach, and Dad explained what had happened. He said that I had stepped in a pothole and very well could have drowned. It was because of Heavenly Father’s loving, watchful care that I was spared. Dad said that the voice-feeling I had was the Holy Ghost telling me what to do. I know that’s true because of the special feeling I had while I was waiting for Dad to find me. "If you had panicked," Dad said, "you would have swallowed water and might have drowned."
I will always remember that day—listening to Dad’s story, sleeping by the campfire, eating those hot dogs, drinking twiggy hot chocolate, wading in the cool lake water on a hot summer day. But most of all I will remember my experience with the Holy Ghost that taught me how near he is to us—as near, Dad would say, as an amen at the end of a prayer.

When Daniel’s daughter turned eight, he knew she would want to share her baptism day with friends who were not members of the Church. So their family decided to extend invitations for Allison’s baptism to friends from school and the neighborhood. These friends were asked to bring favorite Bible verses to the baptism. After the baptism, Allison underlined the verses in her new set of scriptures and wrote her friends’ names in the margins.
“Of course, as her family, we were very involved in that day. But we also let her just be with friends a while afterward and talk to them about what she felt,” Daniel said. “It was a really tender moment to see our child set an example.”

I had recently gotten divorced from my husband and still had an unhealthy relationship with him. I had also just given birth to a baby girl, but after praying and pondering about my unique circumstances, I made the difficult decision to put her up for adoption because I felt like I wouldn’t be able to raise and support her on my own.
Grieving the loss of my marriage and baby girl at the same time was almost unbearable. I believed in eternal families, but my divorce and adoption placements were final, and there was no hope of being a family with these two people in the eternities. The pain felt truly overwhelming.
As for the grief I experienced after placing my baby girl for adoption, I’ve learned that Jesus Christ can truly heal us from anything when we rely on Him. That was one of the most heart-wrenching experiences of my life, but the Savior healed my heart as I immersed myself in studying His gospel. When the grief was hard, I would ask myself, “Do I trust that Heavenly Father wants me to be happy eternally?” And my answer would always be yes!
I always held on to hope and faith, and the truth stated in Doctrine and Covenants 122:7, that “all these things shall … be for [our] good,” has been my reality. As I have relied on Christ and Heavenly Father during deep challenges, I have learned and grown so much. And I’m grateful to know that the girl I placed for adoption is happy, successful, and part of a wonderful eternal family.

President Gordon B. Hinckley mentioned in a talk that he sometimes wished “every girl had access to a sewing machine and training in how to use it. She could then make her own attractive clothing” (“Stay on the High Road,” Ensign, May 2004, 114).
The Young Women of the Hayden Lake Idaho Stake decided to take the prophet’s words to heart and started sewing. Every ward organized the resources, expertise, and time to help each young woman complete a sewing project. Most of the girls made skirts, but some chose to sew capris, aprons, quilts, sweats, even pajamas.
Before this year’s Young Women meeting, the stake held a fashion show where the girls showed off their projects and talked about the experience. Bethany Wise, a Mia Maid in the Hayden Lake First Ward, said her favorite thing about the project was learning she could do something she’d never done before. “Having my grandma and mom help me was really fun,” she said.

My father was a professional pilot and also served in the armed forces in World War II instructing pilots. He was well respected for his ability to fly the many different types of planes that were being used at the time. He had many close friends in the aviation field who also respected his flying ability.
On one occasion, a friend of his from California asked him if he would fly his newly built plane back from the East for him. On this particular trip he asked me to accompany him as his copilot. To me, a boy of 12, my father was a hero. I was so elated that he had asked me to be his copilot. I felt that he trusted and had confidence in me.
It was on the second day of our flight that my father, having done all of the flying so far, started to feel the fatigue of the trip. My dad had been giving me flying lessons for quite a while. He decided that I could navigate the plane while he slept for a few minutes. As a wise parent, and one knowing the dangers involved, he gave me some instructions which were plain and easy to understand. He pointed the way along a straight path in which I should fly the plane. He said that I should never vary from that path. Off in the horizon was my goal, a big rugged yet majestic mountain. In addition, he showed me compass and map bearings and even pointed out Omni beacons which aided pilots when they flew at night or in stormy weather. Then before going to sleep, he reassured me that if anything should happen he would be nearby so I wasn’t to hesitate to wake him. As he began to drift asleep, the excitement of being able to navigate the plane equaled the great responsibility that was placed in my hands. I took comfort in the fact that my father wasn’t too far away if I needed his help.
I wanted to do a good job so that he would be proud of me and let me fly again. My eyes were constantly scanning the horizon for other planes and evaluating the many instruments that decorated the front panel of the cockpit. About 30 minutes had gone by, and my father still slept. I felt so sure of my ability to navigate the plane that I decided not to wake him. The mountain that he gave me as a goal had long since passed. I then discovered a roadway some 10,000 feet below. The cars resembled my little brother’s matchbox cars. The road appeared to be going in the same direction so I decided to follow it.
This was fine for a little while, but then I became bored with following the road and decided to do some experimenting. I began by turning the plane from side to side, then moving the rudder back and forth causing the tail of the plane to go from side to side. I was completely engrossed in my experimenting when I began to realize that I did not know where I was or in which direction I should be going. I was anxious to get back on the proper course and feared being caught in my mistake. I tried to use the map and compass but could not find my bearings because of my lack of knowledge of that area. I tried to recollect my father’s instructions, but I couldn’t remember.
While in the dilemma, I was confronted with another problem. Seemingly out of nowhere two United States Air Force jet fighters flew up and positioned themselves on either side of me. The predicament I was in now was so desperate it caused me to lay aside my guilt and embarrassment. I quickly woke my father up to this awful situation feeling a great need for his help. He took immediate control of the plane, quickly got our bearings and guided the plane back to the proper course. He chastised me for not obeying his instructions and told me that I had been flying over a restricted zone, the site of an underground test launch area for missiles. The jets had been sent up to check us and escort us out of the area.