Gospel Story Finder

As I was walking back from a Preach My Gospel activity with my group at Especially for Youth (EFY), I saw a man at a picnic table all by himself. I was walking back to my room, and I felt prompted to go talk to him. Shyly I went over there with my friends. We talked to him for just five minutes. It was such an amazing missionary experience to share a little bit about the gospel with someone.
The rest of the week we saw him every day! We just talked to him and shared whatever we had talked about that day in our classes with him. We ended up giving him a Book of Mormon that we had all written our testimonies in. A year later I learned that the man was baptized! I am so grateful for the opportunity I had to teach the gospel to him with the help of my friends.

Clara groaned. “There’s nothing to do!”
There were lots of things she wanted to do. But she couldn’t. She wanted to go swimming. But the pool was closed. She wanted to play with her toys. But they were packed away. She wanted to play with her friends. But her family had just moved. Now they lived in an apartment where they didn’t know their neighbors.
“Why don’t you color a picture?” Mom asked.
“That’s boring,” Clara said.
But her little brother, Ben, jumped up. “OK!” he said. He ran over to the table and found some crayons. He drew a tree and a yellow sun.
“I want to give this to our neighbor,” he said.
Clara frowned. “But we don’t know our neighbors.”
“Then let’s go meet them!” Mom said.
Ben and Mom walked out the front door. They knocked on the door across the hall. Clara watched from the doorway.
A woman answered. Ben handed her the picture. The woman smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
Clara watched Ben walk back to the table with a big smile. Maybe coloring isn’t so bad, she thought.
Clara sat by Ben. They both colored a picture. Clara drew a rocket ship and lots of stars.
They gave their pictures to two more neighbors. Then they colored more. They gave out pictures for the rest of the afternoon. Some people looked sad when they answered the door. But when they saw the picture, they smiled. Clara and Ben even met a few kids who lived in the apartment building.
When they were done, Clara grabbed Mom’s hand. “That was really fun.”
Mom smiled. “When we do a nice thing for someone, it makes them happy. It makes us happy too. And best of all, it makes Heavenly Father happy.”
“Maybe tomorrow we can ask the other kids to color with us,” Clara said.
“That sounds like a great idea.”
Clara smiled. Coloring and sharing pictures had been fun. Her boring day had turned into a happy one!
This story took place in the USA.

All of the Authorities who are here tonight could testify that in the reorganization of stakes they have had remarkable and inspiring experiences. I recall being assigned to reorganize a stake about 40 years ago. The president had suddenly died. The Brethren asked me to go down and speak at the funeral and reorganize the stake. I had never done this before. I was new as a General Authority. I was to be all alone.
When I arrived, I was taken to another town, where I participated in the funeral service. I asked all of the stake officers and the bishops to remain after the service and announced that a reorganization of the stake would take place the next evening.
I asked the mission president to sit with me as I interviewed the brethren, none of whom I knew. We interviewed late into the evening. I soon discovered there were problems in the stake. There were divisive feelings. When we were all through, I said to the mission president, “I am not satisfied. Are there not others?” He said, “I know of only one man whom we have not interviewed. He moved here rather recently on a transfer in his company. He is the second counselor in a bishopric. I do not know him well. He resides in another city.”
I said, “Let’s go see him.” We drove and went to the hotel where I would be staying for the night. Here I was, having interviewed all of these brethren and having not found one that I considered worthy to preside and having scheduled the reorganization for the next evening.
We arrived late at the hotel. I called the man; a sleepy voice answered the phone. I said that I wished to see him that evening. I apologized for calling him so late. He said, “I’ve just gone to bed, but I’ll put on my clothes and come.”
He came to the hotel. The conversation that followed was most interesting. He was a graduate of BYU in petroleum geology. He worked for a big oil company. He had served elsewhere in positions of responsibility in the Church. He knew the program of the Church. He had served a mission. He knew the gospel. He was mature in the Church. And the territory for which he was responsible as an employee of the oil company was exactly the same as the territory of the stake. I told him we would telephone him in the morning and excused him.
The mission president went on his way, and I went to bed.
At about three o’clock the next morning I awoke. Doubts began to flood my mind. This man was almost a total stranger to the people of the stake. I got out of bed and got on my knees and pleaded with the Lord for direction. I did not hear a voice, but I had a very distinct impression that said, “I told you who should be stake president. Why do you continue to ask?”
Ashamed of myself for troubling the Lord again, I went to bed and fell asleep. I phoned the man early the next morning and issued to him a call to serve as president of the stake. I asked him to select counselors.
That evening when people gathered for the meeting, there was much speculation as to who would be the stake president, but no one even thought of this man. When I announced his name, people looked at one another for a clue to discovering who he was. I had him come to the stand. I announced his counselors and had them come to the stand.
Even though they did not know him, the people sustained him. Things began to happen in that stake. The people had known for a long time that they needed a stake center, but they had been uncertain and argumentative as to where it should go. He went to work and within 18 months had a beautiful new stake center ready for dedication. He unified the stake. He traveled up and down, meeting the people and extending his love to them. That stake, which had grown tired, came to life and literally bubbled with new enthusiasm. It stands as a shining star in the large constellation of stakes in this Church.

When Mother told me her Aunt Grace was coming for a visit, I groaned. “Not again!” I complained, remembering her visit last year.
“Be nice, William,” Mother said. “Once a year isn’t very often.”
“It’s too often for me!” I declared.
Aunt Grace has orange hair and headaches. All she ever says to me is, “William, must you make so much noise?”
“William,” Mother warned, “I want you to behave yourself when she comes.”
I promised to behave myself.
When Aunt Grace came, I went to the door to meet her. My dog, Stubby, went with me. He growled at Aunt Grace because I hadn’t had him very long, and he didn’t know who she was.
Aunt Grace took a step backward. She looked as if she might turn around and go home.
“Oh, dear!” she cried. “Does that beast bite?”
I nodded my head. Stubby isn’t very big, but he sounds mean. For just a moment I thought I’d let her think that he bites people. Then I decided I’d better tell the truth. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “He only bites cats. Stubby hates cats.”
Aunt Grace looked huffy. “Well, he shouldn’t bite cats!”
I remembered then that Aunt Grace had a cat, and I wondered what I should say next. This visit wasn’t getting off to a very good start. But I didn’t have to say anything because just then Mother came hurrying to the door. “Come in, Aunt Grace, come in,” she said. “We’re so glad to see you.” She leaned close to me and whispered, “Take Stubby into the kitchen right now!”
She acted as if I had let him growl at Aunt Grace on purpose. I wondered if I had.
I took Stubby into the kitchen and shut the door so he would stay there. When I went into the living room, Aunt Grace had calmed down. She looked at Mother and said, “My, my, Lucille, it looks as though we’re getting a few gray hairs, doesn’t it?”
What she meant was that Mother was getting a few gray hairs. Aunt Grace patted her own thick orange hair so we would notice that she didn’t have any gray hairs.
For a moment Mother looked as if she would like to growl like Stubby. But she smiled instead. “Let’s put your suitcase in the bedroom. Then we’ll sit down and talk.”
I followed them into the bedroom, then back to the living room where we all sat down. I behaved myself.
“How are you, Aunt Grace?” Mother asked.
“Well, my head still aches a lot.”
“That’s too bad,” Mother said. “What does the doctor say about it?”
Stubby began yelping in the kitchen. He didn’t like to be shut up there alone.
“Oh, my!” Aunt Grace exclaimed. “Does that dog have to make so much noise?”
“Excuse me,” I said, standing up. “I’ll go see what’s the matter with him.” I didn’t want to hear what the doctor said about Aunt Grace’s headaches anyway.
When I got to the kitchen, Stubby was at the back door, barking furiously. Outside, the neighbor’s big orange cat was sniffing around our garbage can. Sometimes he tips it over. I wanted to get that cat away from it, so I opened the door. “Get him, Stubby!” I commanded.
Stubby shot out after the cat. The only trouble was, the cat ran right through the open door and into our house, with Stubby right behind him. The cat streaked into the living room and dived under the sofa where Aunt Grace was sitting.
“What was that?” Aunt Grace shouted. She leaned over to see what had run past her feet. Poor Stubby was confused because her hair was about the same color as the cat’s fur. He snapped his jaws shut, and Aunt Grace’s hair came right off her head!
Stubby thought he had the cat in his teeth, and he didn’t know what to do with it. When the “cat” in his mouth didn’t move, he dropped it, backed off a few steps, and started barking at it.
Mother leaped to her feet, looking as though she might faint.
“Did Stubby scalp Aunt Grace?” I whispered.
Aunt Grace really did look scalped—but not completely. Her head was covered with very short gray hair. She tried to shrink her head down into the neck of her dress, like a turtle.
That beautiful orange hair she was so proud of was a wig!
Suddenly I was ashamed of myself. I think I’d hoped the cat would run into the house when I opened the door. I guess I’d wanted to scare Aunt Grace. Instead I’d embarrassed her. Without her wig on, she looked kind of shrunken and wrinkled and old.
I ran over to where Stubby was barking at the wig. “I’m sorry, Aunt Grace. I’ll get it for you.” I picked up the wig, but when I did, Stubby grabbed it again. He sank his teeth into it and pulled. He growled when I tried to yank it away from him. Then he shook his head from side to side.
“Oh, my!” Mother agonized.
Now she really did look as though she might faint. I didn’t dare look at Aunt Grace again. Then all of a sudden, I heard her laughing. It really caught me off guard. Somehow, I didn’t think Aunt Grace laughed at anything. But she was laughing now as though she’d never stop. She laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes with a lace handkerchief she had pinned to her dress.
“Oh, dear,” she gasped finally. “I’ve never seen anything so funny in all my born days!”
“But your nice wig, Aunt Grace,” I said, dumbfounded. “Stubby’s ruined it!”
Aunt Grace slapped at the air with one hand. “Let him have it, William. I’m sure that thing is what makes my head ache. Maybe it’s time I gave it up anyway.”
“I’m really sorry, Aunt Grace,” I said again. “I hope you’ll still stay and visit with us for a while.”
“I want to, William,” she replied, smoothing her stubby hair as best she could. “You know what? Right now I feel like having an ice-cream cone. Why don’t you and I walk down to the store and get one? Maybe we can talk about how to teach that dog of yours some manners.”
It’s funny, I thought, how wrong you can be about people sometimes.
“Let’s go!” I said, offering her my arm and really behaving myself.

Wilford Woodruff set a standard of excellence in missionary work in England. Today, youth like Mark Pope, a 16-year-old from Haarlow, Essex, are doing their part to keep the missionary spirit alive.

Mark has always been what you might call a self-starter. He taught himself to play the piano, guitar, oboe, and flute. He taught himself Ninjutsu (a martial art) by reading about it in books. This kind of self-discipline comes in handy for all kinds of things, but especially when it comes to sharing the gospel.

“There was only me in the Young Men program for a long time,” Mark says, “so it seemed a good idea to bring in my school friends.” Mark works with the local missionaries during school holidays and after school. He also gives out copies of the Book of Mormon to teachers and has brought two friends into the Church.

Mark says his love of the gospel and his desire to share it with others comes from many places, including seminary.

“It’s a warm feeling being there with your friends, knowing they believe the same things as you,” Mark says. “Before I started seminary I was a bit nervous when talking to people about the Church because everyone has such different ideas. Now when they ask me questions it flows out. It’s really good.”

In 2023, Tuipulotu Tupou, known by her friends as Lotu, discovered PathwayConnect through her younger sister, a recent graduate, who spoke highly of the program. Encouraged by the possibility of scholarships that could help with tuition costs, Lotu decided to enroll. “I was glad to hear about this opportunity and to join this program,” she said.
Despite her enthusiasm, PathwayConnect was still a challenge for Lotu, due mostly to a language barrier. “The biggest challenge was writing,” she said. “I was bored, and English is my second language, but I had the courage to keep trying—no matter what—to accomplish my goals.” Determined to succeed, Lotu persevered and improved her language skills.
Her efforts paid off as she excelled throughout PathwayConnect. “I was happy to get an A grade every semester,” she said. “It’s a blessing for me, and [because of] our Heavenly Father, I know that I’m not alone. He lifts me up and helps me overcome [challenges].”
For Lotu, it’s not just about personal achievement; she aims to empower herself through higher education and entrepreneurship. “I’m looking forward to continuing my degree in business management so that I will be self-employed, not relying on someone but establishing my own business and helping other people that need my help.” This ambition aligns with the teachings of President Russell M. Nelson, who emphasized in a 2013 talk that, “Education is the difference between wishing you could help other people and being able to help them.”
A young mother with a growing family, Lotu’s full understanding of these principles was evident as she journeyed through PathwayConnect, improving her academic skills, growing spiritually, and preparing to advance her education at Brigham Young University–Idaho. It has been a dream of hers since high school, to one day obtain a bachelor’s degree so she can be self-reliant and take better care of the people in her life.
For anyone who is considering PathwayConnect as an option for them, Lotu has this advice:
“My dear friends and family, join this program. It will help you achieve your goals successfully, offer many opportunities, and allow you to be educated and independent.”

If you think your challenges are insurmountable, let me tell you of a man we met in a small village outside of Hyderabad, India, in 2006. This man exemplified a willingness to change. Appa Rao Nulu was born in rural India. When he was three years old, he contracted polio and was left physically disabled. His society taught him that his potential was severely limited. However, as a young adult he met our missionaries. They taught him of a greater potential, both in this life and in the eternity to come. He was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. With a significantly raised vision, he set a goal to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood and to serve a full-time mission. In 1986 he was ordained an elder and called to serve in India. Walking was not easy—he did his best, using a cane in each hand, and he fell often—but quitting was never an option. He made a commitment to honorably and devotedly serve a mission, and he did.

When we met Brother Nulu, nearly 20 years after his mission, he cheerfully greeted us where the road ended and led us down an uneven dirt path to the two-room home he shared with his wife and three children. It was an extremely hot and uncomfortable day. He still walked with great difficulty, but there was no self-pity. Through personal diligence, he has become a teacher, providing schooling for the village children. When we entered his modest house, he immediately took me to a corner and pulled out a box that contained his most important possessions. He wanted me to see a piece of paper. It read, “With good wishes and blessings to Elder Nulu, a courageous and happy missionary; [dated] June 25, 1987; [signed] Boyd K. Packer.” On that occasion, when then-Elder Packer visited India and spoke to a group of missionaries, he affirmed to Elder Nulu his potential. In essence, what Brother Nulu was telling me that day in 2006 was that the gospel had changed him—permanently!

On this visit to the Nulu home, we were accompanied by the mission president. He was there to interview Brother Nulu, his wife, and his children—for the parents to receive their endowments and be sealed and for the children to be sealed to their parents. We also presented the family with arrangements for them to travel to the Hong Kong China Temple for these ordinances. They wept with joy as their long-awaited dream was to be realized.

When enemies of the Church saw this increase in temple activity, they renewed their determination to drive the Mormons away. They obtained a warrant for the arrest of Brigham Young and eight other Apostles. On December 23, government officials went to the temple to arrest Brigham Young. Knowing that they were coming, Brigham knelt and asked for guidance and protection so that he could “live to prove advantageous to the Saints.”
Soon afterward he noticed William Miller in the hall. He proposed a plan to Brother Miller who was about the same height as President Young.
Brother Miller put on President Young’s cloak and left the temple in his carriage. The waiting marshals thought that he was Brigham Young and arrested him. They took him to the Mansion House, where friends and relatives of Brigham went along with the masquerade. Miller was then taken to Carthage and held until someone who knew Brigham told them that they had the I wrong man. In the meantime Brigham Young and the others had gone safely into hiding.

One day when they had very little to eat, Agnes’s mother sold a quilt and a bedspread and used the money to buy food. She often traded trinkets and gifts to the Indians for dried meat, which proved to be a great help, especially when the cold wind was blowing and they couldn’t build a fire. On such days, she would give each of her children a piece of dried meat and some bread. Sometimes she took a small piece of meat and made a stew, thickening it with a little flour and some salt. It tasted so good on a cold night!

“Now then, girls, as we visit the Art Institute, always carry your folding stool over your left arm, walk in pairs, and absolutely no gum chewing!” There were guilty looks as the gum quickly disappeared, and the Chicago Heights Illinois Stake Mia Maids grinned as they reminded each other that the stools were to be carried over left arms, not right. (Carrying them on the left arm avoids bumping valuable paintings as tour groups move down the right-hand side of narrow halls.)
Then the entire group hurried to keep up with the 81-year-old, but incredibly energetic, tour guide, Miss Marianne English. It was quickly becoming evident that this morning’s cultural activity at the Art Institute of Chicago was going to be as entertaining as it would be enlightening.
First stop: a valuable glazed pottery horse, a statue from the T’ang Dynasty, which ruled China in the seventh through ninth centuries. Eyebrows raised with new interest as the girls learned of the ancient Chinese custom that insisted a man be buried with not just his live horse, but with his wife as well! Then Miss English whisked the group on down the marble hallways lined with Roman vases and Greek statues. They paused at an Italian sculpture of Heracles wrestling Anteus.
“Does anyone remember the story of this myth?” the guide asked. One girl surprised even herself as she related most of the details. Anteus, a giant who received his strength by always touching the earth, was finally bested by Heracles in a battle of wits and strength.
The group moved on toward a collection of Buddha statues, but the guide slowed her pace to a stroll and chatted with a couple of the girls, who were on the tour as part of the first-ever Mia Maid conference in the stake.
“They tell me you girls are a religious group on some kind of a retreat. You’re the ones who don’t believe in Christ, right?” A girl with long, blond hair smiled as she reassured the guide that Latter-day Saints most assuredly do believe in Christ. She, like most of the other girls, seemed accustomed to such questions. After all, Chicago and its suburbs include 7 million people plus, and the missionaries haven’t reached all of them yet.
Other girls thought back to their morning’s activity. The first stop had been a 50-foot, metal Picasso sculpture that dominates the Civic Center Plaza in the heart of downtown Chicago. Elevators tunnel to the top of towering buildings around the courtyard, and of course, each girl clambered aboard one to rush with it up story after story for the reward of a look down. The Saturday-morning city was just beginning to allow slices of sunshine to sift through the skyscrapers.
The skyline was familiar to only a few of the Mia Maids, though some of them do occasionally shop downtown in enormous department stores with famous names like Marshall Fields, riding efficient commuter trains from their suburban homes many miles away. Members of the Chicago Heights Illinois Stake live anywhere from 50 blocks to 75 miles from the city’s “Loop,” the center downtown area encircled by elevated railways. In the cool early morning air on top of the building, Arlene and Carla had reminded each other about pigeons they had seen on Michigan Avenue and anticipated returning after the tour (when it would be warmer) to chase them. Then they had jumped back on the elevator, dropped back to the plaza, and gathered with the rest of the group.
“Put your stools down here, and we’ll look at Rembrandt’s painting Young Girl at the Open Half-door,” Miss English interrupted the young ladies’ reverie. “This painting is actually a design of circles. Look closely and you might see more than 20 circles.” Suddenly, for Pam and Brenda the painting became more than just a scene with a nice-looking girl. It became an intriguing puzzle.
Others were fascinated by the large brush strokes of El Greco or the loving smiles on portraits by Correggio, who reportedly learned his technique by studying the Mona Lisa.
The Art Institute’s collection is arranged chronologically, so a walk through the corridors is a walk through the centuries. The oldest painting dates about 1270 A.D., and the statues and other relics date centuries earlier still.
One of the highlights of the medieval collection was a series of paintings entitled The Ayala Altarpiece. The works were commissioned by a family of nobles in 14th-century Spain for the family tomb. Heavy with gold, the altarpiece depicts various scenes from the life of Christ, typical of the period when the major function of art was religious instruction (necessitated by the fact that only the priests could read).
“Medieval painters hadn’t yet learned to show distance,” Miss English explained. “The pictures look flat, with no sense of perspective, and the people have rigid, awkward bodies. Notice that it is essentially the position of the stiff hands that expresses the character’s surprise or sadness.”
Not far away, another Mia Maid was startled to meet the likeness of a young woman, cut in stone, atop a chiseled sarcophagus. “Actually,” Miss English confided, “the woman buried in this coffin was probably much older and not so beautiful as the lady you see lying here. It’s likely she had her likeness carved the way she wanted to be remembered.”
A short detour and the group jumped ahead to the 19th century, plopping down their stools in front of an impressionistic work by Claude Monet, The Beach at Sainte Adresse, one of his early paintings.
“Do you see here the careful shadings and detail we saw in Rembrandt?” the guide inquired. “Have the brush strokes melted into one realistic scene like the landscape of Venice we passed?”
A timid hand rose. “No. You see dabs of green and white in the ocean that aren’t blended in at all.”
“Right! The theory in impressionism is that the colors will mix in the mind. French artists like Monet, Renoir, and Degas broke the established rules and used less careful detail but lots of light, atmosphere, feeling, and color.” She described how the impressionists were at first rejected, but persisted in their scenes of rainbow colors without smooth shading. Details were lost, flowers became simply dots of paint, and reflections in water were favorite settings. American artist Mary Cassatt convinced many wealthy Americans to buy French paintings and bring them to the U.S. “I’m sure France wishes it had some of them back!” the guide said. “The people wouldn’t call them messy now, which is how they described them then.”
The girls didn’t realize how fast time was passing. They were amazed that art history could be so much fun. And the guide made it even more personal by pointing out things they could observe any time they went looking at art: “Learn to look for the color, shape, line, form, texture, and movement that always comprise a painting.”
—Colors may be bold, such as those in Delacroix’s The Lion Hunt, which underscore the deep emotions of the scene. Reds are fierce, dark clouds threatening. Or colors may be delicately shaded, as in the porcelainlike faces of Renoir’s women. Or they may be just flecks and spots, as in the “pointillism” of Seurat, who used tiny brush strokes of different colors to fill an entire picture. (For example, separate dots of blue and orange can be distinguished in the grass in Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, although when one takes a step back, the color appears as dark green.)
—Look for geometric shapes in the overall design. Are lines and forms sweeping or restful? The circles in Young Girl at the Open Half-door have already been described. In The Lion Hunt the oval arrangement of the characters ties together the animals and the hunters, intensifying the drama. In the Seurat painting just mentioned, the triangle shape of the island draws the audience back into the picture.
—The texture of the paint can be so smooth it is almost an unobservable part of the work or so heavy that it can’t be ignored. For example, in Picasso’s Place du Havre, Paris, there is such a heavy impasto (paint laid thickly on the canvas) that it’s almost like painting with candy. Especially in modern art, texture may be anything from smooth like a window pane to woolly like a sweater. The paint may not even cover all of the canvas.
—Some artists successfully create a sensation of movement. How? In On the Stage by Degas, skirts swirl, hair flies, and details in the foreground are blurred to give the illusion of captured motion.
“See what the artist is trying to tell you,” Miss English summarized. “Are the people realistic or only caricatures? Is he showing their character or only their costume? For example, look at the pitchfork-holding farmer and his wife portrayed in Grant Wood’s famous American Gothic, painted in 1930. What message about those two people do you find?
“Finally, if modern art baffles you, remember it encompasses all the elements of traditional art, except that the subject has been removed. Nature or the realistic scene serves merely as a jumping-off point. Some modern art, such as Picasso’s, is inspired by the medieval period. He has gone full circle back to the flat perspective.” Teenage heads nodded with new understanding, remembering the huge Picasso sculpture they had seen first thing that morning.
The tour was over. Later that night, traditional youth conference activities continued. There were workshops on dance, beauty, and grooming, and a spiritual discussion about testimonies, taught by Sister Jan Ryan, who joined the Church just 18 months ago. A court reporter, she compared witnessing the truth before a judge to testifying of the truth before one’s fellowman. There was also a testimony meeting.
The young ladies still recall the Friday evening group prayer, the games, the apple juice and doughnut refreshments, and the chatter before snoozing in sleeping bags. And, of course, the spiritual memories still linger, because they helped the girls see life through new eyes. In a different way, so did the art tour. By studying great artworks, the Mia Maids had, perhaps, gained some appreciation for the talent and love the Master Artist exhibited in creating the world, and they had learned to search for beauty where they hadn’t expected to find it before. That type of awareness may just be the true purpose of art.

As a returned missionary, busy with a young family and my own company, I was called to be the president of a good-sized branch with many faithful and mature members. Did I feel prepared, trained, and educated to start serving? No! I had good counselors with whom I could discuss issues. But was their help enough? No!
Thinking back on that calling and on other callings, I realize that in addition to the Holy Ghost and the scriptures, what really helped me were the Church handbooks! They were a treasure of information—as a guide to my initial learning and as a valuable reference along the way.

I continued to travel each weekend to various parts of the world. Many months later, I was assigned to a conference in a city noted for its particularly flagrant violations of God’s laws. The Saints there were wonderful, but oh, the decadence and debauchery that seemed to be all around them.
As I returned from the especially hectic weekend, I began reading in the scriptures. I thought about Sodom and Gomorrah. Could they have been much more wicked than this? And yet the Lord promised to spare them for fifty righteous souls—or even down to ten—but they were not found.
I let my imagination go and seemed to see a band of destroying angels loosed from heaven—thundering across the land. And even before I had time to think about the situation, I seemed to see myself standing in front of these determined destroyers, declaring, “Hold, hold, hold”; and they held. “Go back,” I said: and their horses reared, their eyes flashing in impatience. The destroyers’ anxiousness showed, but they held.
The leader looked me squarely in the eye and challenged, “By what right do you ask us to hold? Have you not seen the evil of the land?”
I replied, “Yes, I know of the sordidness of the world. I see the constant mocking of God’s laws, the merchandising on his holy day, the constant breaking of his commandments. I see the evil that exists almost universally. Yes, yes, all these things are true, still …” Then I became concerned. What right had I to ask them to hold?
My eyes began to fall from his penetrating gaze, but something inside kept searching, searching, until finally a laserlike beam locked onto a misty memory made many months ago and faithfully filed away for such a time as this. A vista of a beautiful green valley passed before me and moved to the front of my consciousness.
I raised my eyes and met his as he again said, “What right do you have to ask us to hold?”
Then with the confidence of sure knowledge and spiritual direction, I replied, “You must hold, for you see, I have been through Cache Valley on a Sunday afternoon.”
There was no hesitation, no anger, no look of surprise, no disappointment, only obedience; and he turned and rejoined his group, and they left.

Life was rough for Viktor Russo. As a boy he was scrawny. Other boys beat him up. Out of resentment, he made a mistake. He joined a gang when he was 15. “I wanted the others to be afraid of me,” he says, looking back.

And that’s what started to happen. He became one of the “bandits,” as he calls them. But before he got in too deep, he discovered the Church. His aunt, a Latter-day Saint, invited Viktor and his mother to attend Sunday meetings.

“Right from the opening prayer there were tears in my eyes,” Viktor explains. “They didn’t just recite words. They spoke with their Father in Heaven. I felt a great love overpowering me, an understanding that I also have a Father in Heaven who loves me.” Viktor was so impressed that he continued to attend. And he began discussions with the missionaries.

“I had always wanted to know if there really is a God,” he says. “So I prayed, ‘Please tell me if what I am learning is true.’ The same powerful feeling I had during sacrament meeting surrounded me again.”

He was particularly impressed as he learned about the priesthood. “I felt this love among the men, something I had never felt in the gang. Then during one of the missionary discussions I remember thinking, ‘I can’t be in a gang and serve God, too.’ From then on, I tried not to meet with my old associates. I tried to be only with good people.”

And what happened was remarkable.

“I was amazed. Some of my former ‘friends’ teased and taunted me, but most of them just said, ‘All right then, go. We’ll leave you alone.’” Enemies didn’t retaliate. True friends took an interest in his new religion. Some of them even met with the missionaries, but Viktor is the only one so far to be baptized.

“I had a lot to repent of first,” he acknowledges. “But I knew it was the right thing to do.”

Today Viktor is 17. He’s been a Latter-day Saint for almost two years. He spends his time with other Aaronic Priesthood holders, helps with the sacrament, and goes home teaching. He looks forward to a full-time mission and foresees the day when there will be a temple in Ukraine. Day after day you’ll find him with the elders when they’re teaching. “I like to share my testimony of Jesus Christ,” he says. “I like to tell people they need to believe in Him.”

Honesty is a moral compass to guide us in our lives. … I would like to tell you a story of an excellent athlete—a young man with superb character. He never went to the Olympics, but he stands as tall as any Olympian because he was honest with himself and with his God.
The account is told by a coach in a junior high school. He states:
“Today was test day in climbing the rope. We climb from a standing start to a point 15 feet high. …
“The school record for the event is 2.1 seconds. It has stood for three years. Today this record was broken. …
“For three years Bobby Polacio, a 14 1/2-year-old ninth grade … boy, [trained and worked, consumed by his dream] of breaking this record.
“In his first of three attempts, Bobby climbed the rope in 2.1 seconds, tying the record. On the second try the watch stopped at 2.0 seconds flat, a record! But as he descended the rope and the entire class gathered around to check the watch, I knew I must ask Bobby a question. There was a slight doubt in my mind whether or not the board at the 15 foot height had been touched. If he missed, it was so very, very close—not more than a fraction of an inch—and only Bobby knew this answer.
“As he walked toward me, expressionless, I said, ‘Bobby, did you touch?’ If he had said, ‘Yes,’ the record he had dreamed of since he was a skinny seventh-grader and had worked for almost daily would be his, and he knew I would trust his word.
“With the class already cheering him for his performance, the slim, brown-skinned boy shook his head negatively. And in this simple gesture, I witnessed a moment of greatness. …
“… And it was with effort through a tight throat that I told the class: ‘This boy has not set a record in the rope climb. No, he has set a much finer record for you and everyone to strive for. He has told the truth.’
“I turned to Bobby and said, ‘Bobby, I’m proud of you. You’ve just set a record many athletes never attain. Now, in your last try I want you to jump a few inches higher on the takeoff.’ …
“After the other boys had finished their next turns, and Bobby came up … for his try, a strange stillness came over the gymnasium. Fifty boys and one coach [watched] breathlessly [as] Bobby Polacio … climbed the rope in 1.9 seconds! A school record, a city record, and perhaps close to a national record for a junior high school boy.
“When the bell rang and I walked away, … I was thinking: ‘Bobby, … at 14 you are a better man than I. Thank you for climbing so very, very high today.’”

Some youth face different but equally difficult challenges.
Exavier R., 15, has been raised by his mother. “I saw other people with fathers in their lives, but I never had one in my life.” While Exavier’s mother works to support their family, he helps take care of his two little sisters. He wakes up every morning and helps them get ready for the day. He takes them to school before heading to his own school. After school, he picks them up, takes them home, and helps them with whatever they need. That takes a lot of strength and maturity, but people around Exavier “think I’m weak. I’ve seen a lot of bad things and been through a lot of hard things in my life, and people don’t know the real me,” he says.
Exavier and his mother joined the Church when he was 14. When he was baptized, his Young Men leaders became like fathers to him. “They guide me in the right direction and help me make the right decision,” he says. Most importantly, Exavier learned that he has a Heavenly Father who believes in him and expects him to do his best every day.

Stephen Smyth, a 16-year-old priest in the Londonderry Branch, Scotland Glasgow Mission, recently finished second in the “Superyouth” athletic competition open to all schools in Ireland. Stephen competed in six events—high jump, swimming, 100-meter race, 1,500-meter race, basketball, and overall fitness.
Preparing himself by an hour of intensive road work and general fitness training each morning before seminary (of which he’s president), Stephen was able to rank nationally over 100 other young men from across the country who competed in the section for 16- and 17-year-olds.
“My parents have been a great influence for good in my life,” said Stephen. “They’ve always set the standard and been the perfect example for me.”
Stephen is preparing to serve a mission and is looking forward to attending BYU eventually. He is currently assistant branch clerk, assistant to the president of the priests quorum, and branch music director.
To celebrate his success, the Young Men of his branch held a fireside at which he was the guest of honor. In addition, the members of the Londonderry Branch presented him with a copy of a one-volume history of the Church.

Hironui Johnston, 16, and his sister Merirani, 15, spend a lot of time at the Papeete Tahiti Temple.
They aren’t performing baptisms for the dead, except for a couple times each year. They aren’t even inside the temple. They’re on the temple grounds—not gardening or doing some other service project—just sitting or walking around. But always looking.
“I love to see the temple,” says Merirani. “We have a lot of good memories here.”
Hironui and Merirani go to the temple grounds because of how they feel there. It’s a place where they can get away from the world.
“Our neighborhood isn’t bad, but there are some bad kids there,” says Hironui. “So we spend time here. It feels so good to be on the temple grounds.”
Sometimes their whole family comes, whether for a family home evening activity or just to spend time together.
“Sometimes when we aren’t getting along, we come here to put things right again,” Hironui says. But even when the Johnstons aren’t at the temple, the temple is part of their lives.
“I think we have a picture of the temple in every room in our house,” Hironui says. “It’s beautiful. It reminds us that our family can be together forever. Seeing it helps us feel the same peaceful spirit.”
Hironui and Merirani are part of the first generation of Tahitian members who don’t know what Tahiti was like without the temple, which is now more than 20 years old.
“We watch our parents go to the temple,” says Hironui. “We see them living worthy to go. We see how their temple attendance blesses us, and we choose to follow them.”
That love for the temple, which began with the Johnstons’ parents, has been passed on to Hironui and Merirani. And it won’t end there. Their actions can pass it on to the next generation.
“I want to have children someday,” says Merirani. “I want to teach them that the temple is the house of the Lord and that if we are faithful we can be together forever because of the temple.”
“The Lord has given us a real blessing by building His house in our land,” Merirani says. “But the greatest blessing is that through the ordinances of the temple, our ancestors and families can be sealed together, and we can all live with our Father again. I would do anything for that blessing.”

Paula Reed had told herself that she was just another passenger as she boarded the bus and squeezed into a window seat. Just another college freshman, anonymous as the snow-covered fields and opaque sky that seemed to hold the bus in limbo, though she heard the wheels skimming over the wet freeway.
Only an occasional glance at her slender gold wristwatch told her that the miles were slipping by. And she looked at the bright digital numbers only in response to the anxious query of the elderly woman seated beside her as she hurriedly crocheted one last baby bootee for the family she was visiting this Christmas.
“Takes me months to get ready for the holidays, you know,” she sighed happily in between stitches. “I have 36 grandchildren. And then there’s the birthdays!”
At first Paula had followed the work of her plump fingers, noting that one of them bore a dull silver wedding band. Then the woman had glanced at her questioningly, and she turned a hot cheek to the window.
A nagging weariness eventually stung Paula’s eyes so that she closed them gratefully. Her secretarial job and a heavy load of classes had kept her mind occupied until now, though she was never able to push her parents’ divorce to a completely comfortable distance. Huddling deeper into the folds of her parka, Paula realized how unprepared she was to even contemplate her last phone call to Dad without opening her eyes to a burning stare.
“Dad? This is Paula.”
The long silence on the other end of the line had been broken too heartily as he answered, “Well, how are you doing?”
He tried to speak matter-of-factly, as if he took it for granted that she planned to spend the Christmas holidays in Virginia with her mother and 16-year-old Jeffrey. Paula had finally broken through the strained overtones of his monologue, surprising even herself by saying, “Dad, I want to come home for Christmas—please.”
At first he had protested that his celebration would be “minimal” because of the new print shop opening in Brookside. Yet it was the awkward silence with which her father accepted her decision that rang tauntingly through Paula’s mind, surrounding even the pleasant memories with reverberating pain.
A quivering hand patted her sleeve again and Paula checked her watch mechanically, before the woman could complete an inquiry. It was well past four o’clock. Centerville was less than an hour away.
Frowning ruefully at the nervous anticipation that knotted her stomach, Paula slipped a paperback volume of Don Quixote from her travel bag, then leaned forward slightly, into a comfortably studious pose. She stared at the pages in an effort to read thoughtfully, but wryly recalled a resolution to finish the book by the end of the year.
At one time an efficient daily planner had been the only key to her unruffled composure, but now she found herself measuring all that others did not perceive. As she considered the changes brought on by the past eight months, Paula felt her face settle into a rigid mask.
She tried to recall the expression on her father’s face when she received notice of her academic scholarship to Eastwood College nearly a year ago. Just before supper she had shown him the letter; it was the last time she saw his heavy black brows lift with a smile as he waltzed her around the dining room table, their laughter spilling a bit of chaos around the immaculate room.
They had not noticed her mother’s straight-lipped smile until their excitement subsided into the tense pause that sometimes preceded family prayer and the blessing of the food.
While she pretended to discern the scenes that passed beyond the steaming window, Paula questioned herself mercilessly as to why she had blithely over-looked those silences, the hollow exchanges that must have passed between her parents for months before they quietly announced their pending separation. Her few close friends had envied the relationship she shared with her father and brother. Jeff, though, had seen the break coming, or so he told her later, his dark eyes narrowing with unfamiliar accusation.
Paula had promised herself that she would never reflect on the delicate spring afternoon that had suddenly gone cold as her parents sat, waiting for responses, in the heavily shaded living room. Yet her own determination could not withstand the shock of it all; the image of her father’s trembling face remained trapped in her thoughts, alien and struggling for release. She had never seen him so uncertain before, yet when she felt his eyes searching her face, finding nothing, and searching again at another unexpected moment, Paula knew that her own expression closed abruptly. Her mother seemed less complex, isolated somehow in her discreet coolness. Paula’s graduation and the first weeks of summer were a blur of smiles and poses that she quickly assumed just to cope, while the divorce proceedings were being finalized.
It was all a hopeless masquerade, she concluded, as her finger traced an aimless design on the foggy window and the book slid shut in her lap. She could never know how long her family had sat together in church as shells of what they felt and understood; for a time it did not matter that they moved and spoke on the most fragile of surfaces.
Paula dropped her hand with a sigh. Perhaps Jeff was the most honest about the situation after all. During those last months she had dimly observed his struggles while his grades dropped and he stopped attending church meetings. Then the confrontations began, and she rehearsed his quarrels with Dad until the ache in her throat became unbearable. It was a relief to gather the travel bag and pillows into her lap when the bus pulled into the parking lot of the old Bluebird Motel and Cafe.
Christmas carols drifted fuzzily from the outdated speaker that Mattie Hall always placed above the front door of the lobby; the same rotund Santa beamed in red and white neon from a side window as Paula emerged in the cold gray air and inhaled deeply.
The sky had darkened by the time the family station wagon pulled up to the curb. Paula moved forward hesitantly as her father slid out of the driver’s seat and greeted her with a brief squeeze around the shoulders.
“I see you made it all right,” he said, more softly than usual, as he loaded her suitcases into the backseat. “I heard that a storm was coming in.”
“It was a long ride,” Paula answered, fingering the white fur of her mittens. “But you know the bus. It always comes through. Even when it’s loaded with grandmothers and college freshmen.”
She had hoped that he would laugh at that, but nothing more was said during the two miles home.
Only the headlights penetrated the dark quiet of the front yard as the car swung into the driveway. After her long absence, Paula allowed her eyes to seek mutely for familiar things—the rope swing, her mother’s rock garden, and the cluster of aspens where Jeff used to string lights to form a Christmas star each December. Daylight had faded completely, however, softening distinct forms with shadows and mounds of half-melted snow. The aspens laced black and silver above her head as she stood shivering on the lawn. Dad’s boots cracked an icy puddle as he approached the front door and she turned to follow him, noticing how the porch light accentuated the harsh new lines between his brows and on either side of his mouth.
He opened the door abruptly, causing Paula to catch her breath in a wave of cold blackness.
“I haven’t been home since yesterday morning. Sorry it’s so cold in here.”
“But where … ?” Paula’s question echoed away as her father hurried into the living room to build a fire.
“The new office in Brookside. I told you about it over the phone, remember? We’re doing good business there, but some equipment malfunctioned and I had to get it fixed on the button. Christmas rush, you know.”
The kindling began to snap softly, and he carefully added two logs to the blaze. They remained motionless in the frail warmth for a moment, watching the firelight play over the sooty hearth. When they removed their coats, Paula noted a slight lag and heaviness in his posture. His mouth drew down to one side self-consciously.
“I haven’t played much raquetball since my partner quit town.”
“What about Bobby Benson down the street?” Paula asked brightly, glad for a chance at conversation.
Dad shot her a cautious glance.
“I haven’t seen much of the boys since I asked to be released from the Young Men presidency.”
Paula turned away from the sight of his large slender hands smoothing the varnished surface of the baby grand piano. Last year the rowdy laughter of teenage boys—and Dad had laughed like a boy—dispelled the emptiness of this room as they played football together in the backyard. After an hour they had gulped root beer floats enthusiastically—even when he announced that they weren’t leaving behind a mess for her mother to clean up.
A curious anticipation enveloped Paula as she sifted idly through a stack of sheet music. The front window lacked a Christmas tree, and there was no porcelain Nativity set to arrange. Yet it was not the lack of festivity that teased her spirits.
Paula sat down at the piano without speaking. Dad’s hand dropped to his side as she painstakingly chorded the first measures of “Silent Night.”
Then, visualizing the ease with which her mother had filled the room with music, Paula played more softly until she stopped mid-phrase. She had not heard her father move in front of the fireplace where he stooped, hands clasped over his knees, as if he were listening to another late evening.
Suddenly, Paula felt smothered by the impact of undiscriminating change; she stared hotly at his profile as the hymnbook slapped the keyboard.
“Paula—don’t.”
She became vaguely aware of the unsteady hands cupping her shoulders.
“I guess I forgot—the piano will be gone in a few days. Your mother wants it, now that she’s found a bigger place—”
Paula waited intently, with her eyes straight ahead, as he looked down at her, then away, then back again. He sank down beside her, sighing, and said, “How about a cup of hot chocolate—or something to eat? It’s early yet, but you look tired.”
Almost against her will, Paula flung herself from the piano bench, took a deep breath and shouted, “You won’t tell me anything, will you? I’ve never understood anything since it—since Mom left. Jeff blamed me for not knowing. What am I supposed to do?”
She paused for a moment, instantly regretting her words.
“I know, Paula. I’m sorry.”
Dad sat down in his recliner, his expression dulled by the slanting shadows. When his fingers pressed tightly together, she realized, incredulously, that he had nothing more to say.
Hours must have passed, but Paula had seen only the rectangular light of her digital clock shift occasionally in the darkness. At one time she heard the soft rush of sleet against her window, but now the house and the wind settled into complete stillness.
Lying warm in her narrow bed, she could not help but relax in the subtle comfort of old books and pictures, the dusty gleam of her cherry-wood desk. Her bedroom afforded pleasantly dreamlike memories of hours spent reading or playing her guitar, conversations with Dad or her brother. With the remembering came a yearning to reach back, back—to restrain a passing innocence or a transient moment that could only be cupped in reverent hands. For the first time in weeks, Paula gave way to quiet prayer, her fingers clenching until they throbbed and trembled against her wet cheeks.
She did not know when she awoke to see her father bent over the bedside lamp, his hand poised on the tiny gold switch. As she sat up sleepily, Paula saw that the sagging vulnerability had eased from his face. He was looking at a miniature gilt music box that she always kept on the dresser, perfectly positioned on a round mirror.
“I’m sorry—about tonight.” Her hands brushed slightly to one side.
“I thought you’d gone to sleep …”
His voice deepened, then trailed off as he sat down on the rumpled bedspread. After a moment his eyes lifted to meet hers.
“I know you want to understand—you’ve put your whole mind to it.”
His gaze wandered over the pastel wallpaper and the grayish Priscilla curtains until it returned to her, helplessly.
The pain came to her again as she watched him. Then she remembered how emptily her thoughts had recaptured moments such as this and she settled back, waiting patiently, as her father studied his hands.
“I wish I could explain,” he continued at last. “But there is something that I can’t …”
He lifted his chin abruptly, then carefully picked up the music box. Paula watched, wonderingly, as he balanced it in his fingertips.
“You bought it for me in England, remember? The Christmas I was seven.”
She was surprised at his quiet smile that came with the words.
“You were frightened, almost, to keep such a thing. Then you made me tell you—over and over again—how I asked the tough little Scottish shopkeeper to find something for a ’brown-eyed bonnie lass,’ so that it would be just the right thing.”
Paula’s lips parted numbly as he placed the music box in her hand. She wound it up thoughtfully, then tilted her head to one side as they listened to the sparkling melody.
“There was no one quite like your dad then, was there?” He chuckled tightly and stared at the fringe of the matted rug. “I could do it all perfectly when it was near impossible for anyone else to even try. Makes a fellow feel pretty good …”
His eyes grew wet as he squeezed her hand.
“But sometimes it—can’t be—much as I try, or you. Sooner or later you have to see things differently. But you learn.” He nodded, musingly. “You’ll learn.”
He crossed the room and raised the window shade, staring into the darkness with slightly drawn brows. Paula felt for her robe, the fabric gradually warming as she went to his side.
“I love you, Dad,” she whispered.
The moon became a diffused glow, riding high beyond the cold glass. Something in her heart drew inward—his features looked suddenly worn, and he drew her closer. Her world would never again be the simple, secure place it had once seemed. But she knew that in spite of all they had lost, their love, at least, would endure. Huddled together, they peered out, apart from the fog-heavy night.

Many of you are aware that a short time after October conference, my dear wife, Frances, suffered a fall, which left her with a broken hip and a broken shoulder. After two successful surgeries and several weeks of hospitalization, she was able to return home. She is doing well and continues to make progress toward a full recovery. She was able to attend the general Young Women meeting last Saturday and plans to attend a session or two this weekend. In fact, at the last minute she said, “I’m going today!” And she’s here! She joins me in expressing our deep gratitude to our Heavenly Father and to all of you for your prayers and your well wishes in her behalf.

They started to raise their family from a very humble single attic-room apartment in the heart of Amsterdam. After several years of washing their clothes by hand, they had finally saved up enough money to purchase a washing machine. Just before they would make the purchase, the bishop visited them, asking for a contribution to build the meetinghouse in Amsterdam. They decided to give all they had saved for the washing machine and continued to do the laundry by hand. As a family we went through some hardships, just like any other family. These have only made us stronger and have deepened our faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, just like when Alma was sharing his story with his son Helaman, where he told him that he had been “supported under trials and troubles of every kind” because he had put his trust in the Lord Jesus Christ. How did two people who experienced so many trials in their younger years become the very best parents I could ever wish for? The answer is simple: they fully embraced the gospel and live by their covenants to this very day! After more than 65 years of marriage, my mother, who suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, passed away in February. My father, at the age of 92 and still living at home, visited her as often as he could until she passed away. Some time ago he mentioned to my younger siblings that the dreadful experiences in the camp in Indonesia during World War II had prepared him to patiently care for his wife for so many years as she fell ill and deteriorated from this horrible disease and also for the fateful day he had to entrust her primary care to others and could not be by her side anymore. Their motto has been and still is to “Just carry on,” having a perfect hope in Christ to be raised up at the last day and to dwell with Him in glory forever.