Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago I had the opportunity to teach seminary at Timpview High School in Provo, Utah. I was excited to begin a new year and looked forward with great anticipation to what the future held.
I was somewhat apprehensive, however, about going to Timpview because it would be my first experience of teaching or attending school without spending my afternoons playing football or baseball or coaching. I knew I could do it, but I worried nevertheless. I suppose that is why I enjoyed pep assemblies so much. It was an opportunity to feel many of the same feelings I had had as a player and as a coach. You have probably had the same experience—chills running down your arms and the back of your neck when you enter the gymnasium while the band is playing and the cheerleaders are cheering. It’s exciting!
I remember one particular assembly before a big game. The cheerleaders had planned a special class competition involving cream pies. I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember that some of the athletes, you know the type, the ones who all sit together and won’t cheer except on rare occasions, got an idea to liven things up by throwing some of the pies at the cheerleaders. Somehow the activities the cheerleaders had planned were left in a barrage of pies being thrown, hairdos being ruined, and the student body cheering for the athletic culprits. I must admit, it was quite an experience.
Very little was said to these young men, that I am aware of, by the cheerleaders. Each girl allowed the boys to think they had really gained the upper hand and gotten away with a fast one.
The pies were soon forgotten, and another pep assembly greeted us a few weeks later.
This time, as we entered the gym, there were 12 caramel apples on center court. Big, beautiful, brown caramel apples, waiting for someone to eat them.
When everyone was settled down and the band had ceased playing, the head cheerleader walked to the microphone and began to explain that morning’s class competition. From the small piece of paper she read the names of six football players and challenged them to a candied-apple-eating contest. As each name was read the responding young man came down to the basketball court with confidence, raising his hands as if in triumph, knowing that he could eat an apple faster than any girl.
Myself and another teacher were called upon to judge this historic event. The cheerleaders explained the rules to me, and I then explained them to the young men. The young men, however, were not overly concerned because each was proficient in eating and eating quickly. The only two rules were (1) every apple on each team must be completely devoured and (2) the girls were to be allowed a ten-second head start.
After hearing the rules, the young men decided on a game plan: they would not chew—just bite, swallow, bite, swallow, until each apple was gone. With such strategy the contest began.
The whistle blew, and the girls began to eat with great care and deliberate actions. The boys, on the other hand, stood watching, waiting for their winning opportunity.
When the second whistle blew, each young man, without any hesitation or forethought, lunged toward the caramel apple before him. With no table manners evident, they began to devour them with great haste—bite, swallow, bite, swallow. Then suddenly, in unison, as if a light switch had been turned on inside each boy, heads raised in shock and disbelief as they realized they were not eating candy covered apples but candy-covered onions! The crowd roared when they realized what had happened. The cheerleaders, on the other hand, stood calmly, hands signaling the peace sign in recognition of their sly plan to deceive the football players.
By now these poor boys were looking as white as sheets and trying to get rid of the large bites of raw onion which were now floating throughout their systems.
I’ll never forget it! Those poor guys smelled like onions for quite some time, and it was not an easy task to rid themselves of the stench.

When I was seven years old, my mom and dad befriended a less-active family in our ward that consisted of a single mother and her two sons. My older brother, John, and I were the same ages as the two boys, Robin and Shannon, so it seemed appropriate that we extend a hand of fellowship.
The family didn’t own a car, so my father offered to pick them up at their home in a nearby city and give them rides to and from church. I remember the days Dad summoned my brother and me to accompany him to pick them up. I begrudged it at the time, but despite my groaning, Dad continued to give them rides until they were actively attending church and had their own car. Robin and Shannon were soon baptized and confirmed, and their mom began participating in Relief Society. I didn’t realize at the time the positive repercussions that would come from this act of service.
A few months before I began eighth grade, my dad passed away. To compound my grief, I was insecure about my physical appearance and lack of friends. I began to succumb to feelings of despair, and I spent my lunch hours walking to my house and back because I couldn’t bear sitting alone.
That same year, the family we had befriended moved into our school district, and Shannon began attending my school. We became immediate friends. I felt accepted, and I was no longer so sad. Knowing that someone enjoyed being my friend boosted my confidence and self-worth. I no longer had to spend my lunch hour by myself.
Our friendship deepened during high school. When our older brothers left for college and missions, Shannon and I became surrogate brothers. We received our Eagle Scout Awards at the same court of honor, went to the same university, left on missions during the same summer, and became roommates afterward. We were both married in the Salt Lake Temple to wonderful women, and our first children were born within three months of each other.
One evening shortly before Shannon’s wedding, we began talking about our childhood. I told him how he had helped me overcome my insecurities and cope with the death of my father. It was his friendship, I added, that had helped me turn my life around. Shannon then told me that if my dad had not given his family rides to church, he would not have attended church, served a mission, and been sealed in the temple.
The Spirit touched me strongly during that conversation as I realized the blessings that a simple ride to church had on our lives. As I reflected on Shannon’s friendship, I realized that my father not only helped save Shannon’s family, but he also prepared a friend who helped save his own son.

As hosts, we had two styles. According to our agreement with the bank, we entertained “bank style” for business purposes when they paid the bill—the waiters, the caterers, etc. But there were many occasions when business friends would drop in unexpectedly and we would invite them to dinner. We would say, “You’re here as our friends, and we want to treat you as family.” We would serve them only what we were serving the family—no coffee, no drinks.
At other times, when it was a special affair of our own, such as a party for relatives or visiting Church dignitaries from Salt Lake City, we would tell our guests in advance that this was to be a “Mormon party” and they would understand what was expected of them. Nearly always, if some smoked, they had simply forgotten and would go outside when given a gentle reminder.

My boyhood home was surrounded by alfalfa fields. When I was nine years old, I cleared a small plot on the edge of the fields to plant a garden. In early spring, I planted a single pumpkin seed and cared for it each day, eager for it to sprout. Within days, to my delight, small green leaves pushed through the soil. Over the days and weeks that followed, I marveled at the rapid rate of growth of my small, single pumpkin seed. With divine components of seed, soil, sunlight, and water, my small seed miraculously transformed into multiple vines stretching out in all directions.
A short time later, green bulbs appeared where orange and yellow flowers had just bloomed. And over the course of the summer, the bulbs transformed into large, orange pumpkins. When the harvest arrived, I cut open my pumpkins. I was astonished! Each pumpkin had produced hundreds and hundreds of seeds.
You might be thinking to yourself, “That’s great, but what does this pumpkin seed have to do with me as a young adult?” Well, in observing the seemingly endless supply of seeds from my harvest, I suddenly understood how, with God’s help, the finite (one seed) could be transformed into the infinite and eternal. I saw that “with God nothing shall be impossible” (Luke 1:37). I experienced the truth of the scriptural words “by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).
Those who know me well know that I still often carry a pumpkin seed in my pocket to remind me of the important life lesson learned: Heavenly Father can take something as small as a seed of love in our lives and transform it into powerful, never-ending, and eternal love and service of God, neighbors, and self.

“A daughter made this comment: “Dad is a practical joker. I recall a story he relates about the time he and three other boys arrived at school early one morning. (Those were the days when everyone sat around one big stove in the room to keep warm.)
“The teacher was quite superstitious so the boys decided to play a little joke. They climbed up into the attic before school started. When all the others were assembled around the stove, one of the boys in the attic called down through the stovepipe in a ghostly voice, ‘I am the ghost of thy father come to haunt this room indefinitely.’ Well, needless to say, everyone ran from the room and the scene was one of total chaos.
“Later when the boys came down from the attic covered with dust and dirt, they were taken to the principal. He asked them some questions but couldn’t help laughing at their prank and their appearance.”

Heeding the prophet’s call at age 19, I prepared myself to serve a full-time mission. Soon, I received a call to the Mexico Hermosillo Mission.
While I was waiting to enter the missionary training center in Mexico City, I became concerned about how I would share the gospel. I wondered, “What should I do to prepare?”
One morning before leaving for work, I put a new copy of the Book of Mormon in my bag. Then I prayed, “Heavenly Father, help me know how to give this Book of Mormon to whomever Thou dost send to me.” Then I left for work.
After work, I went to the institute of religion. By then, I had forgotten about the book in my bag. When I got on the bus to return home, however, I sat next to a young woman who was reading the Bible.
I felt a strong impression that said, “This is the person.” I doubted the impression at first, but then I felt it again.
“Pardon me,” I said as I pulled out my Book of Mormon, “this book is very special to me, and I would like to give it to you.”
With a look of contempt, she responded, “No, thanks.” Pointing to her Bible, she added, “This book is enough for me.” Then she stood up and left, leaving me alone on my row of seats.
As I sat there for a minute feeling rejected and foolish, wondering about my impression, the woman in front of me turned around and said, “Excuse me, do you still want to give away that book?”
Apparently, she and her husband had overheard my conversation with the young woman.
“Of course!” I replied.
As we talked, l learned that the couple had wanted to read the Book of Mormon. They also wanted to learn about the Church. I was excited to answer their questions.
That day I learned for myself that “the field is white already to harvest” and that “if [we] have desires to serve God [we] are called to the work” (Doctrine and Covenants 6:3; 4:3).
God had made me an instrument in His hands after all. Today, doing missionary work is the most cherished thing in my life.

Like big, black feet, the truck’s tires trampled the asphalt, bouncing thunder off a stone wall across the street. At the bottom of the hill, a yellow light flashed in warning, and the truck’s brakes squealed. In response to a glaring red “Stop!” the truck then paused, trembling—almost sweating. At the first flicker of green it lurched on, slowly building speed again.
Standing on a Tokyo street corner where a group of young Latter-day Saints was gathering, watching—and listening—to the traffic, it was quickly becoming clear that this would not be one of the quietest places to talk. Even though the group was gathering in one of the calmer parts of the city, there isn’t any street in Tokyo where there isn’t traffic, more or less constantly, even on a Saturday afternoon. The street next to the Tokyo Temple was no exception.
Next came the whine. Low pitched at first, like a whisper. Then higher in vibrato, intensity, and volume. Whine, whine, whine, pause. Whine, whine, whine, pause. WHINE, WHINE, WHINE, WHIIIIIIIINE. Slick around the corner, slicing air like a sprinting cheetah—motorcycle.
The tape recorder’s level indicator jumped hard enough to bend the needle. Great. A dozen Young Men and Young Women from stakes all over Tokyo just beginning to show up for interviews, and all the microphone would register would be trucks and motorcycles.
One of the young men standing nearby, an early arriver, had been watching my growing frustration with the noise. He approached another member who was acting as an interpreter. He bowed, then quietly said something. The interpreter turned to me and also bowed.
“He suggests that perhaps it’s too noisy out here in the street,” she translated. “Maybe you would care to go to Arisugawa Park?”
We only had to walk down the hill and around the corner to the entrance, and the entire group was happy to stroll through the gardens looking at flowers, trees, and young boys fishing from bridges spanning a man-made pond. Above the foliage the temple tower shone white and gold, as though its spire marked the most important building in the land. And of course the park was serene, a perfect place to chat and share ideas.
Relocating the interviews seemed like a minor incident at the time, but the members’ actions typified two traits common in Japan: the ability to sense the needs of others and put them at ease, and the ability to find a quiet place amid the rush, a skill the Japanese have developed through generations of seeking tranquility in crowded circumstances.

I couldn’t concentrate. The city library buzzed like a beehive under attack. In my irritation, I momentarily forgot just why I was studying here rather than taking advantage of the mature silence and concentration of the university library. Then my reason walked by.
She was the assistant librarian and was easily the most beautiful girl ever to walk the earth. Her name tag told me she was Miss Burton, but that was all I knew about her. She was the motive that had driven me here for the last three nights just hoping for a chance to learn her first name. So far I hadn’t even gotten a “Sh-h-h, you’re in the library” out of her, much less a “hello.”
But I kept coming back, hoping that this night would be better than the last. With zero enthusiasm, I turned to my books, but it was impossible to study. I pushed American History to the side, folded my arms, and gazed at Miss Burton busily working at her desk. Occasionally she would cast a furtive glance in my direction. When she did, I would grin broadly and wink at her. She’d quickly duck her head to hide her crimson cheeks, but at least she knew I existed.
I admired her beauty and grace, but I was equally impressed by her modesty. Instead of wearing washed-out denim jeans and a sleazy blouse, so typical of my friends, Miss Burton was wearing a dress. One that actually came down to her knees! Her make-up was not heavy; in fact, unless you looked closely, you couldn’t even tell that she wore it. Her long hair adorned her head and shoulders like a veil. Her clothes, her actions, her very appearance declared that she was a lady!
It was weird that I should be so attracted to her. I could have passed for her exact opposite. My hair and beard were both shoulder length; I wore an old pair of faded jeans, an embroidered denim vest, and well-traveled sandals; I looked like the king of rebellion—she was the epitome of virtue and conformity.
I had chosen my way of life; she had chosen hers. Our differences stood as an impregnable barrier between us. To penetrate that barrier, I knew I would have to cut my hair and conform to the norms of society. No, I would not put on a suit and tie again, not even for her!
The pencil snapped in my hand. Why was I so uptight over a prudish librarian? Because something in her eyes, in her smile, in her very essence affected me deeply; in spite of myself, I felt I was beginning to care about Miss Burton, and I still didn’t even know her first name!
I wondered if she could ever adopt my life-style. As she stood replacing books on a nearby shelf, I tried to imagine her with kinky, frizzed hair, but it was futile. The Mona Lisa would adjust to that more readily than Miss Burton!
She finished replacing the books and turned to walk toward the desk. Her eyes caught mine; slowly, a smile crept to her lips. As she walked by me, I pushed back my chair and unfolded all 6 feet 4 inches of me. I stood at attention, tipped a make-believe hat, and whispered loudly, “Howdy-do, ma’am!” It was a whisper, but my voice rasped loudly enough to echo through the library, causing her face to turn a glowing crimson. A ripple of laughter flowed through the library, and I sat down with a wide grin on my face.
Shortly after Miss Burton had returned to her desk and the color in her cheeks had returned to normal, a freckle-faced girl, probably about 13 years old, approached her. The girl obviously had not asked the usual “where do I find” question, because Miss Burton looked deep into her eyes and placed her slender hand over the girl’s chubby one. I caught the word rebellion as they spoke with each other.
Quietly, I moved to a table closer to the desk; I was interested in what Miss Burton had to say on the subject. Holding an open magazine as a guise, I leaned back in the plastic chair as far as I dared. I strained my ears to catch every word.
The girl spoke: “I need books on rebellion so I’ll know how to act when I go to high school next year.”
I started to laugh, but Miss Burton’s serious tone told me that she did not think it was funny.
“And you think you’ll stand out in the crowd if you don’t rebel, is that right?”
“Sure! Everybody rebels! Like my sister: she’s at a sit-in tonight at the university because the president won’t make it legal to smoke pot on campus. And my brother. Mom and dad are always yelling at him to cut his hair, and he won’t do it even though it’s almost as long as his.” I could feel her pointing in my direction.
She continued: “My dad is on a strike, and Mom’s always away fighting for women’s lib. That’s rebelling, too, isn’t it?”
Lines of concern wrinkled Miss Burton’s smooth forehead. She seemed deep in thought. At length she spoke:
“When we rebel, we’re being selfish. We want things done our way, and if others object, we rebel. It’s like throwing a temper tantrum. We refuse to listen to the other side of the argument because it might prove that we are wrong.
“It takes courage to do what’s right, especially when it’s easier to do what’s wrong. Remember this: cowards rebel; brave men and women obey the laws and do what they know is right. When something is wrong, though, they have the courage to speak out against the wrong doing.”
I was incensed! I felt personally attacked by the girl I was beginning to care for. With effort, though, I managed to reign in my emotions. Maybe she hadn’t said what I thought. I’d keep listening, and maybe she would clarify or retract her statement that cowards rebel.
The little girl was puzzled. “But were George Washington and Thomas Jefferson cowards? They rebelled against England, didn’t they?”
“No, honey, they weren’t cowards, and they didn’t rebel against England. You see, Great Britain was being unfair to the new colonists. She taxed them heavily, but then she wouldn’t give them a voice in government. Had she been fair to them, there never would have been a Revolutionary War.”
This is madness! I tried to stand up. I had forgotten I was leaning back and fell crashing to the floor—pulling my books down with me. Before I realized what had happened, Miss Burton and half of the library’s occupants were surrounding me.
“Are—are you hurt?” she stammered, quickly surveying the disaster area.
“Nah, just a little shocked,” I muttered.
As I untangled my legs from the wreckage, Miss Burton ushered the crowd away. Much to my surprise, she remained.
“Did I say something that surprised you?” she asked.
“You sure did!” I blurted, a little too brusquely. I quickly scanned her face to see if I’d offended her. More gently, I added, “Miss Burton, you’ve got some pretty far out ideas about rebellion!”
She nodded. Her silence urged me on.
“I don’t understand how you can say that rebels are cowards! And then you say that the forefathers of this country didn’t rebel against England! You—a librarian!” I consciously restrained myself from saying any more.
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you …” Her voice trailed off. Walking toward us was a gaunt-looking man who could have been Ichabod Crane’s twin.
“It’s the head librarian!” she whispered. She mouthed the word later, squeezed my arm, and quickly returned to her duties at the main desk.
Sitting down again was a painful experience, but the thought of talking to Miss Burton after the library closed served as a local anesthetic to my bruises. I mulled her words over in my mind: “Cowards rebel; brave men and women obey laws …”
She’s wrong! I argued. Just like all the others. It takes courage to be different and to rebel against the mores of society! A coward wouldn’t dare be a “longhair” and storm administration buildings! It takes fortitude to stand up for what you believe in!
An unbeckoned thought crept into my mind and whispered, “But, Dan, what do you believe in?”
“Freedom!” I retorted.
Again it whispered, “Freedom from rules, obligations, and ties that bind?”
I fell silent. I was unable to answer these queries from within. I knew that I had not displayed courage by rebelling; rather, I had taken the easy way out. Home and religion had been too restricting. I wanted to have fun, my way, with no strings attached.
I remembered how upset Dad had been. Mom cried. I hated myself for hurting them, but still their disappointment was easier to bear than the scoffs from my friends. I grew further and further from my family. I acted like I didn’t care, but it really had torn me up, deep inside.
“Cowards rebel! Could she be right?” I asked aloud. I smiled and breathed deeply. I felt as though a heavy yoke were being lifted off my weary shoulders. For the first time in years I felt really free.
I sensed the presence of someone near and turned around. Miss Burton smiled radiantly.
“It sounds like you’ve been having an interesting conversation with yourself,” she said.
“I have, but I’d rather have one with you!”
She smiled again.
“Could I give you a ride home?” I asked.
“I live just a few blocks from here, so I usually walk.” Pause. “But if you’d like to walk me home …”
I responded instantly to her cue, and soon we were outside enjoying the crisp autumn twilight. We walked in silence for a minute or so.
“Miss Burton,” I said at length, “do you have a first name?”
She laughed. “Why, yes, I believe I do. Before I started to work at the library, people used to call me Rebecca.”
“Becky Burton” I blurted. “That’s cute!”
“Rebecca—not Becky.” We fell silent. Then, as if to pick up the strands of the conversation again, she added, “Rebecca was the wife of Isaac in the Bible. Remember?”
I nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Dan,” I replied.
“Daniel was a biblical name, too,” she offered. “Have you ever read the Bible?’”
“Parts of it a long time ago.” I had not really planned to discuss the Bible tonight.
“You know, Dan, if the library were to catch on fire, I think I’d rescue that book before all the others!” Her eyes were shining. Religion must be an important part of her life.
Sensing that I didn’t share her enthusiasm, she stammered, a little embarrassed. “I—I guess I really shouldn’t be talking about the Bible right now.” Then, almost childlike, she asked, “Are you a Christian?”
Her question knocked on the door of my past—a door that I had carefully hidden away deep in a crevice of my mind. Memory and a deep feeling I hadn’t realized was there answered …
“Am I a Christian, Rebecca?” I asked, as I came back to the present. “Let’s say I used to be.” She sensed my need for silence.
We walked along the dark, tree-lined street; only the crunching sound of autumn leaves under our feet interrupted the silence. I felt so alone in the cold, dark world. More than anything else I wanted Rebecca’s friendship. She seemed so sure of herself, so at peace with herself. I wanted to draw from her strength, to learn from her wisdom. I looked down at my feet, afraid of her warm eyes.
“Rebecca,” I whispered softly. “What is it that makes you so special?”
I could have guessed that she would say it was her belief in Deity; she impressed me as a deeply religious girl. I wondered, though, which religion was to receive the credit for making her so sensitive, tender, and caring.
I pressed further. “What is your religion, Rebecca? Are you Catholic, Protestant, or something else?”
Her lips held just a hint of a smile. “I guess I fall into the ‘something else’ category, Dan. I’m searching for truth wherever I can find it. I discover it in some unusual places. But I can’t help but wonder one thing. Is there one religion that contains all of the truth?”
Her question pricked me deeply. Her eyes were searching mine, imploring. I looked away—my past blazed before me. Silently, I bowed my head and prayed. I hadn’t done that in years! After a long moment, I returned her gaze.
“Rebecca,” I slowly began, “what do you know about the Mormon church?”

Juan’s parents taught him as a child to follow standards that bless his life. These helped him grow and develop his talents. “Since I was little, I set goals in Primary and Young Men to learn instruments,” he explains. “I play the violin, flute, piano, and now the guitar. I like the guitar most of all.”
Juan also set personal fitness goals based on Fulfilling My Duty to God. Over the years he has studied tae kwon do, swimming, and gymnastics, and he was even on his school’s running team.
“I love to learn. That’s why I always took the challenge to learn a new instrument or sport, to learn something more,” he says.
These goals also supported a larger objective. “Everything I’ve done, all that I have studied, all the physical preparation, all the goals I’ve set—everything has been with the object of going on a mission,” he explains. “And going on a mission is just part of another goal: to be sealed in the temple and become a good husband.”

Just before my family was ready to leave for sacrament meeting, I got my finger stuck inside the end of a baseball bat. I pulled and pulled, but it would not come out. When my mom tried to get it out, it began to hurt and swell. I did not want to pull anymore. We decided to say a prayer and ask for Heavenly Father’s help. Right after we prayed, my mom had an idea. She poured some cooking oil on my finger. Finally, after some effort it popped out, and we were able to make it to church on time. I know that Heavenly Father answers our prayers.

As a young missionary serving in Strasbourg, France, Jan E. Newman had a special spiritual experience that strengthened his testimony and allowed him to feel Heavenly Father’s love. This experience came as he read the prophet Alma’s words in the Book of Mormon about planting the seed of the gospel in our hearts (see Alma 32:28; 33:22–23).
“I read that if you make room for that seed in your heart, it will grow, and you will actually feel these swelling motions,” Brother Newman said. “I remember reading that and the Spirit just testifying to me so strongly that it was true. I felt those swelling motions. I will never forget that as long as I live.”
This and other experiences helped solidify Brother Newman’s testimony of the gospel and prepared him for a lifetime of service as a husband, father, and disciple of Jesus Christ.

The corners were curled from frequent use. The pages were wrinkled and torn in places. The text was thoroughly marked, and notes were added to the margins. The blue cover was nearly separated from the other 531 pages, and the gold lettering was beginning to lose its shimmer.
I couldn’t believe it. My Book of Mormon looked nothing like that. I had had mine since I was 9, and now that I was 18, my book still looked brand-new. The cover, as well as the pages, were crisp and clean. The binding had barely been opened, and the few markings found in my scriptures had little significance to me.
I had never seen a Book of Mormon so worn from use. My friend had studied the word in a way I simply couldn’t comprehend. I had read the book, and I had prayed about it. I truly felt it to be the word of God. Yet when I saw her Book of Mormon and the light in her eyes, I knew there was something more to do with the words I had always taken for granted.
I began to pray that I would have the Spirit of the Holy Ghost with me as I read the Book of Mormon, and I began to read several times each day. I would ponder the things I had read, and I studied any verses I didn’t understand.
As I was searching, I found a scripture that I had seen many times but that had never before meant so much. “Wherefore, I said unto you, feast upon the words of Christ; for behold, the words of Christ will tell you all things what ye should do” (2 Ne. 32:3). I had always been reading the word, but I had never before feasted on it. Somewhere in my efforts I had stopped merely glancing at the writings and began to see the message. I looked forward to the time I spent with the Book of Mormon. It no longer became a chore but a blessing.
My Book of Mormon is still not as worn as my friend’s. The pages are still not as marked, and the cover is not as tattered from repeated use. But someday it will be. And it is amazing. Christ truly does fill those who will feast.

The life of Ann Rowley, a pioneer woman in the early days of the Church, demonstrates how exercising faith impacts our lives for good. A widow from England, Sister Rowley exercised her faith to answer the prophet’s call to gather to Zion. She was a member of the Willie handcart company, which encountered deep snowdrifts along the trail in the fall of 1856. They had reached a point in the trek where her seven children were literally starving. She wrote: “It hurt me to see my children go hungry. … Night was coming and there was no food for the evening meal. I asked God’s help as I always did. I got on my knees, remembering two hard sea biscuits that … had been left over from the sea voyage. They were not large, and were so hard they couldn’t be broken. Surely, that was not enough to feed 8 people, but 5 loaves and 2 fishes were not enough to feed 5,000 people either, but through a miracle, Jesus had done it. So, with God’s help, nothing is impossible. I found the biscuits and put them in a dutch oven and covered them with water and asked for God’s blessing. Then I put the lid on the pan and set it on the coals. When I took off the lid a little later, I found the pan filled with food. I kneeled with my family and thanked God for his goodness. That night my family had sufficient food.”

Ann Rowley was living the gospel at great personal sacrifice. She needed help and asked for it in prayer. Because of her faith, she was filled with hope and miraculously provided with food for her family. The Lord also blessed her with the eternally significant ability to “endure in faith to the end.” Despite an uncertain future, she did not demand to know how she was going to feed her children the next day; instead, she patiently “wait[ed] upon the Lord” and pressed forward with hope—just as the beautiful hymn expresses:
Lead, kindly Light, amid th’encircling gloom; Lead thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home; Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene—one step enough for me.

Over four years ago, Esther Ofosu of Aburi, Ghana, decided to attend meetings at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Accra, Ghana. After attending church on Sunday, Esther invited the missionaries to her home to meet her family and to teach them the gospel.
Elder Collins and Elder Morgan began to teach them about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. The family began to come to church. Over time, they received testimonies. Even though it was not necessarily always easy to attend church or to do what their friends told them to do, they continued to come because they knew it was true. They felt something different when they came.
The elders invited the Ofosus to do something that would require great faith and might seem impossible at first. Elders Sanders and Morgan told them they must marry to follow the law of chastity in order to receive the blessing of baptism and confirmation. Marriage is no easy task in Ghana. The bride price involves serious money and at the time, the Ofosus had barely enough to provide for themselves and their two young boys. The missionaries told them to save one cedi in a jar every week, planting a seed of faith for the Ofosus to nourish and grow.
After four years of faithful church attendance and saving one cedi each week, the Ofosu family had finally saved up enough to have their traditional marriage. New elders were now serving in the area and met the Ofosu family. “You guys have picked up where they left off,” Samuel Ofosu exclaimed to Elder Olsen and Elder Linger.
As the wedding day approached, every cedi and every pesewa had been spent for the ceremony. The Ofosu family had spent all their money to have the Ghanaian traditional marriage.
On the morning of the marriage, Samuel Ofosu did not have a car or money to get to the place the wedding was being held. His phone was broken, it was 3 a.m. and he had no idea what to do to get to his own marriage ceremony. With a prayer in his heart, he found someone and asked them if he could use their phone to make a phone call. Samuel had a thought to call a random friend. Thankfully, his friend picked the phone and Samuel told him about the situation. His friend told him not to worry, just wait for a short time. In less than 20 minutes there was a car there to take Brother Ofosu to the wedding free of charge, a pure miracle by God’s hand.
“We truly thank you for your prayers,” Brother and Sister Ofosu told Elder Olsen and Elder Linger. “It is only by your prayers that everything worked out fine. Everyone was safe. The marriage was wonderful. We don’t owe anyone anything, but our pockets are empty.”
Elder Olsen shared that the “Ofosus are the some of the humblest, Christlike people I have ever met. They submit to God like a child does to his father. And because of this, they have pure joy in their lives. They are seriously always happy and so fun to be around, and their positive joyful energy radiates to all around them.”
On the Sunday following their baptism, Brother and Sister Ofosu shared, “Sometimes it would make me sad and discouraged when I would wake up Sunday morning and know that I wasn’t a member of the Church. But we are now free! We are now members of the Church!”
Elder Olsen shared, “This family is truly wonderful and brings so much joy into my heart. I feel so blessed to serve a mission and that I get to be a small part of their journey toward eternal salvation.”
On March 27, 2022, the Ofosus were confirmed members of the Church. One month after the Ofosus were baptized, Brother Ofosu was given the priesthood and had the opportunity to baptize their oldest son, Kofie.

When I was recently assigned to a conference in the Mission Viejo California Stake, I was touched by an account of their four-stake New Year’s Eve youth dance. Following the dance, a purse was found with no outside identification. I share with you part of what Sister Monica Sedgwick, the Young Women president in the Laguna Niguel stake, recorded: “We didn’t want to pry; this was someone’s personal stuff! So we gingerly opened it and grabbed the first thing that was on top—hopefully, it would identify her. It did, but in another way—it was a For the Strength of Youth pamphlet. Wow! This told us something about her. Then we reached in for the next item, a little notebook. Surely this would give us answers, but not the kind we were expecting. The first page was a list of favorite scriptures. There were five more pages of carefully written scriptures and personal notes.”

The sisters immediately wanted to meet this stalwart young woman. They returned to that purse to identify its owner. They pulled out some breath mints, soap, lotion, and a brush. I loved their comments: “Oh, good things come out of her mouth; she has clean and soft hands; and she takes care of herself.”

They eagerly awaited the next treasure. Out came a clever little homemade coin purse made from a cardboard juice carton, and there was some money in a zippered pocket. They exclaimed, “Ahh, she’s creative and prepared!” They felt like little children on Christmas morning. What they pulled out next surprised them even more: a recipe for Black Forest chocolate cake and a note to make the cake for a friend’s birthday. They almost screamed, “She’s a HOMEMAKER! Thoughtful and service minded.” Then, yes, finally some identification. The youth leaders said they felt greatly blessed “to observe the quiet example of a young lady living the gospel.”

This account illustrates the commitment of our young women to Church standards. It is also an example of caring, interested, dedicated Young Women leaders all over the world. They are incredible!

In 1980, the Saints were blessed with the announcement that a temple would be built in Santiago, Chile.
When President Spencer W. Kimball dedicated the temple lot, he was very weak; but his presence there demonstrated his love for the Saints of South America, with whom he had worked since 1959. Sister Adriana Guerra de Sepúlveda, who was interpreting for Sister Kimball at the event, said, “When I saw the prophet, a tiny person with an angelic face, I began to weep and could not find words to speak to him. It was the first time for me to be at the side of a living prophet. Seeing the Lord’s mouthpiece here upon the earth and in my country was something marvelous.”10
The temple was dedicated in 1983, becoming the second in South America and the first in a Spanish-speaking country.

Like many people my age, whenever the stake leaders come to our ward, I brace myself for an hour or two of lessons on morality and the danger of straying from the gospel path. I had never thought much about what they said or even really understood what it was like to get off the “strait and narrow path” until I had a rather painful experience.
My family lives out in what is affectionately referred to as “the sticks.” Next to our property are remnants of an abandoned plantation. The only secure building is a rickety old barn with a loft brimming with hay. Over the years this has become a favorite haunt of mine.
My lesson came when I was attempting to make my way towards the barn to mull over a problem a friend had asked advice on. In order to get there one must follow an almost hidden path along the stream to an old road. I had never experienced the obstacle of fallen leaves on the path before, so I was paying careful attention to the stream in order to stay at least close to the path.
After a while I felt this was unnecessarily laborious and time-consuming. I tried a shortcut, which I thought would not be a bad idea as long as I stayed within sight of the stream.
I was wrong. In the woods one cannot stray too far from the path or he will end up in an undesirable place. Well, I ended up making a wrong turn.
When I finally realized that I was going the wrong way and would not be meeting up with the stream, I did not immediately turn around and try to retrace my steps. Instead, I thought I knew what I was doing, so I fought on through the tangle of trees. Suddenly I realized I was surrounded by the largest bunch of wild rosebushes I had ever seen. Being dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and an old pair of deck shoes, I was not overjoyed at the prospect of fighting my way out of this predicament.
My dog, Peppy, had followed and when we arrived in this area tried several times to divert my attention and show me an easy way out. But my ego would not let me follow a dog. How could he know where I wanted to go? Eventually I got to the field next to the barn and then reached my destination, but not without much struggle and pain.

My great-grandparents are two of my heroes. They settled in Kaysville, Utah, where they built a home for their growing family. They had just finished their home, when John Taylor, the President of the Church then, needed a place to stay. My great-grandparents offered their new seven-room, two-story home to the prophet.
President Taylor and his office staff moved in, and my great-grandparents and their children moved to an old log cabin behind the home. While President Taylor lived in the house, my great-grandmother cooked and washed for him and his office staff, along with the cooking and washing she did for her own family. She and her husband worked very hard to serve the prophet of the Lord. When I read about what they did, I am impressed with the examples they set. I want to live the same kind of life they did.

The summer I turned 12, just before I entered the seventh grade, I encountered the first doubts I’d had about the gospel. My parents seemed to know the Church was true, and so did the many Church leaders I’d had throughout my life. But I realized I couldn’t remember ever feeling the “warm, fuzzy feeling” that everyone talked about.
So for three months, I prayed hard every night to feel it too. I prayed for any sign that Heavenly Father was listening to me and ready for me to know. Still, no answer came.
I didn’t tell my parents, siblings, or friends about my inner turmoil. I was scared to think I was the only one without an answer, that I was the only one who didn’t know for sure that the gospel is true.
After those three months, at the end of summer vacation, it was time for our family’s annual father’s blessings. These were our “back-to-school blessings,” as we called them, so the things spoken for each of my siblings generally fit with that theme. My dad blessed my siblings with success in their schooling and academic goals.
When it was my turn, my dad laid his hands on my head. Just after he started the blessing, he spoke nine words without hesitation, in the surest voice I’d ever heard him use, which shocked me: “I testify to you that this gospel is true.” My dad didn’t even mention my academic life. Instead, he simply bore his testimony for the entire blessing.
My eyes welled with tears that confused the rest of my family—none of them, including my father, knew about the questions I’d been struggling with. However, as I learned then, my Heavenly Father did.
Since that day, I can testify that no matter how or when, whether it’s through a feeling or the words of another, Heavenly Father will answer every prayer.

Indeed, Leon wanted not only to be like the missionaries but to be a missionary himself. His parents were not pleased with his decision to be baptized nor his desire to serve a mission. “My family thought the Church was something bad, but I knew everything would be okay,” Leon recalls. From the time he started racing, Leon had been saving his earnings for a car. “I still had all that money,” Leon says. “It had been to buy a car, but then I realized that money was saved for something else. There are a lot more important things than a car.”
Taking two years off during his prime racing years may affect Leon’s professional career. He feared telling his teammates of his decision to serve, knowing how shocked they would be.
In addition, all young men in Slovenia are required to serve in the military, so Leon’s desire to serve a mission had to wait while he fulfilled his military obligation. But Leon had many opportunities to do missionary work and to have others look to his example. “Since becoming a member of the Church, I have prayed in the morning and before going to bed,” he explains. “When I went into the military, I slept in a room with 30 people. It was hard to kneel down and pray. But I felt I had to do this no matter what the circumstances. The first day I asked the guy in the lower bunk if I could borrow his bed, and he said, ‘Yeah, sure, but why do you need it?’ I told him, ‘I pray. Could I use your bed for a few minutes?’ He said, ‘OK, no problem.’ So I knelt down and prayed, and the room went from being very loud to very quiet. I had a lot of opportunities in the military to talk about the gospel because when I started to pray every day, I became an example for my friends. They saw that I was different. They started asking me, ‘What are you doing and what are those books you are reading?’”
Following his military service, Leon was called to serve a mission. He is the third missionary to serve from Slovenia, where the Church is very new. Missionaries have been serving in Slovenia only since 1991. Slovenia is part of the Austria Vienna South Mission.
In October 1997 Leon Bergant received his mission call to serve in Croatia, also part of the Austria Vienna South Mission, and he entered the missionary training center in England on 17 January 1998.
Today Leon still rides a bicycle—but instead of wearing the colorful uniform of the Slovene team, he wears a white shirt, a tie, and dark pants. His purpose, too, is different; instead of improving his racing times, he is finding those interested in the Lord’s Church and helping them improve their lives. And rather than collecting a glistening trophy at the end, he will take home eternal treasures—a stronger testimony of the Lord Jesus Christ and prized memories of his experiences in sharing gospel truth, the truth Leon himself sought and fortunately found.