Gospel Story Finder

Sixty-four years ago this September, I returned home from my mission in England. Three days after returning, I attended a Hello Day dance at the University of Utah with a friend of mine. He told me about a beautiful sophomore named Barbara Bowen, whom he thought I ought to meet. He brought her over and introduced us, and we started to dance.
Unfortunately, this was what we used to call a “tag dance,” which meant that you got to dance with the girl only until somebody else tagged you out. Barbara was vivacious and popular, so I got to dance with her for less than a minute before another young man tagged me out.
That was just not acceptable to me. Having learned the importance of follow-up on my mission, I got her telephone number and called her the very next day to ask her out, but she was busy with school and social commitments. Thankfully, my mission taught me to be persistent even in the face of discouragement, and I was eventually able to make a date. And that date led to others. Somehow during those dates I was able to convince her that I was the only true and living returned missionary—at least as far as she should be concerned. Now, 64 years later, there are seven children and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren who stand as evidence of the significant truth that no matter how good your message is, you may not get a chance to deliver it without consistent, persistent follow-up.

They came in groups, with sleeping bags and clothes under each arm, from cities throughout the massive state, twice the size of Texas. Handfuls came in cars from small cities such as Delta, Cordova, Kenai, Soldotna, and Clear. Others came in buses and planes. This meant a sacrifice of hard-earned time and money for many conference-goers. Eight youths from Juneau raised $1,400 to charter a flight in. One boy flew in from White Horse in the Yukon Territory, more than 500 miles away, at a cost of $150. The group from Kodiak Island floated for about 13 hours on a ferry and then immediately boarded a bus for another 11-hour trip. The largest group, 154 youths from Anchorage, drove in school buses for about seven hours.
But no matter how they traveled, their spirits were flying high when they arrived. From the start the pace of the conference was breathtaking.
The first night they threw their sleeping bags and clothes into the halls of the chapel, and then half of the crowd danced together at a record hop in the cultural hall, while the other half boarded buses and were whisked up to Uhlerhaven ski lodge to ooh and aah at the midnight sun.
The next day everyone joined together in the modern cement block and wood chapel to listen as astronaut Don Lind, in Alaska doing graduate studies at the University of Alaska’s Geophysical Institute, gave the keynote address on the conference theme “Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory.” Brother Lind painted a panoramic word picture of pioneers who suffered tremendous hardships for the gospel because they had glimpsed its glory. He urged the youth to take note.
“You may not have to bury your children on the plains or freeze your feet at Valley Forge,” Brother Lind warned, “but you will have trials as every generation has had trials; you may have more trials than most generations. You need, brothers and sisters, to glimpse the glory to sustain you through those times.”
The vividness of his words and the power of his spirit burned firm resolve in the hearts of that little gathering. Determination etched itself on every face, and soon the glory of their state, the glory of their country, and the glory of the gospel pulsed and glowed in everything they did.
They left the chapel and broke into smaller groups for workshops. The topics were as diverse as the youth who attended them. There were fun workshops such as “Cooking for Guys,” “Auto Mechanics for Girls,” and “Courting Alaska-style.” Sheepish, but excited boys dusted their hands with flour as they learned how to cook Maori hamburgers and other delectable delights.
“I figure I’ve got to cook on my mission,” one boy said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Why not learn now?”
Normally dainty girls rolled up their sleeves and tied back their hair to learn a little about what goes on under the hood of a car.
“I don’t want to become a mechanic or anything,” one girl commented. “But I do want to know the basics.”
And everyone sat back to munch popcorn and watch slides showing a melodrama of a typical old-fashioned Alaskan date with picnic basket, shotgun, and a bear.
There were also spiritual workshops such as “Answers to Gospel Questions” and “How to Prepare for a Mission.” President Barben led a lively discussion on many gospel issues in the chapel, and a recently returned missionary taught classes of boys and girls some practical tips on how to prepare for and succeed on a mission.
By lunchtime everyone had worked up a good appetite. The hot sandwiches on giant, Alaska-sized buns, potato chips, milk, and homemade brownies were eaten with great relish. Members of the Fairbanks Relief Society watched with proud smiles from the kitchen where they had been hard at work since 7:00 A.M.
The second half of the workshops went even faster and more delightfully than the first. After each class, comments such as, “You’ve got to go to the one I just finished. It’s the best so far,” could be heard in the halls when friends passed each other on their way to the next session.
As the workshops continued, one boy finally admitted, “I don’t know which one is the best. They’re all good.” And after it all ended, everyone seemed to have a common lament: “I wish I could have gone to all of them.”
But the laments were short-lived because faster than the bursting open of arctic buttercups in the summer sun, they found themselves in formals and suits at the university student union for a dinner and an upbeat dance with a live band. Although it looked more like a scene from a posh movie with elegant couples swaying in harmony, the simple melody of love was still very real. Three girls paused to help a friend mend the sagging hem of her gown. Several boys asked their timid advisers to dance. And everyone took turns photographing each other. If one person stood on the sidelines alone, an arm would reach around him and draw him into the group. There were no in-groups or out-groups, only the common bond of gospel love that continued to grow as the conference continued to unfold.
Saturday started on buses, where a thousand spirit-building adventures had their beginnings. The engines had barely started up when the strains of hymns or camp songs sung with the vigor of gold miners could be heard through the windows of the bright yellow caravan. As they sped toward a day of fun on the shores of Harding Lake 30 miles from Fairbanks, a friendly rivalry developed between cars and buses on the two-lane roads. “Guess what, team? We’re about to be passed,” shouted one bus driver. Immediately the windows flew open and arms and shouts crowded through to greet the car speeding up temporarily to pass the cumbersome bus. “There goes the mission president,” someone announced, and the cheers grew louder still.
By the time the caravan stopped to unload its cargo, everyone was ready for the full day to follow. Tug-of-war, volleyball, frisbee, horseshoes, baseball—everybody joined in with their muscles or at least their lungs. When someone stood by the sideline looking a little forlorn, he was immediately handed a bat and told he was up next.
“It’s like we’re a family,” one girl commented as she watched. It was as if even the moments were too precious to waste on anything but loving concern. “This is about the only opportunity I have to get together with Mormon kids,” a boy from one of the small communities explained.
Later in the day the Dunns arrived. “We don’t get many General Authorities up here,” one boy explained as the group clustered on the shores of the lake waiting for the Dunns’ helicopter. “When they do come, we get excited.” The excitement was very real when the whirr of the propeller and the roar of the engine turned all faces skyward. As the Dunns stepped out of the craft, camera shutters clicked, handshakes were exchanged, and swarms of smiling people enveloped them. Suddenly a chorus of “Shall the Youth of Zion Falter” filled the air as everyone lifted their voices in unison. “Only in Alaska, only in Alaska,” murmured one boy almost to himself.
From that point on, the tenor of the conference intensified. A still-vibrant, but now-hushed feeling swept the crowd as they gathered in the sands with their backs to the shimmering sun and listened to Elder Dunn in the first of three addresses to them.
“I know that many of you have traveled long distances to come to this conference. Yet I get the feeling that it was all worth it,” Elder Dunn said, looking into their faces. “I think I see here spiritual eyes that are very comforting. I don’t have too much concern about the future when I can look out at such a sea of righteousness.”
He spoke and they listened. They listened until their hearts overflowed, the fullness glistening down sun-bathed cheeks. And then they listened some more. When it was time to climb back on the buses, many were reluctant to leave. Only the promise of hearing Elder Dunn the next day, Sunday, gave them the will to part.
Sunday began early, and many of the now-scrubbed faces were drooping a little as they entered the large cultural center on the university campus for church meetings. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over a month,” one girl on the planning committee later admitted quietly. But the tiredness almost felt good. It came from days filled to overflowing with Mormon-style work and fun.
It wasn’t long before the faces began to glow with spiritual awakening. The group divided for the first meetings. The boys met with Elder Dunn for a priesthood meeting in front of a huge mural of the Fairbanks countryside.
“Can you imagine,” he said, “what we could do if we took faith in God, confidence in self, and added that third ingredient—determination?” Then he answered his own question. “There isn’t a boy or a man in this room who couldn’t go all the way in doing anything he needs to do.”
Meanwhile the girls were meeting with Sister Dunn in the auditorium. The sweet spirit of womanhood at its best radiated from the girls as they listened to Sister Dunn bear her witness of the growth that can come through service in the kingdom.
“You know, girls, service is the only way to develop our capacities,” she said with quiet conviction. “The Lord wants us to grow and develop.”
From the third row a baby began to fuss and then cry. Sister Dunn paused for a moment, and everyone smiled as the mother offered the child comfort. Somehow it all seemed very right.
When the boys joined the girls in the auditorium for the final event of the conference, a three-hour testimony meeting, each paused for a moment in the greeting. The mysterious transformation that had occurred over the short night was most pleasing. Shirts and ties had replaced T-shirts, and soft dresses had replaced blue jeans. But the change was more than washing off the dirt and donning the Sunday best. They felt cleaner through and through. It was as if the words of the last night and the anticipation of the experience to come had brought a renewal of spirit, a new understanding of life.
As the meeting progressed, this renewal grew. Heart joined heart in a declaration of the power of righteousness that bowed many heads and filled many eyes. The lines of those waiting to bear testimony grew up the stairs the length of the auditorium.
“Do you know that the group sitting right here in this room could change the shape of Alaska?” Elder Dunn began the testimony bearing. “People want what you and I have if we are bold enough and courageous enough to share it with them. I’m just naive enough to think that you and I can convert the world.”
He spoke with boldness, and they answered with conviction.
“There is a feeling in this meeting that I can do anything that’s right,” one boy said, adding his testimony to Elder Dunn’s.
“I look around me and everyone is just sort of glowing,” observed one girl, her voice hushed in marvel.
And they did. It was a glow more beautiful than that of the midnight sun from the tallest mountain. It welled up from three days of nurturing and spilled over, moving all within its touch to swelling hearts and wet cheeks. Nonmembers stood to express their gratitude and testimonies in embryo. Adult advisers wept silently beside their youth. The Dunns watched in quiet wonder. And every heart joined in the silently resounding chorus, “His truth is marching on.”

My own home has long been my favorite holy place. Each time I visit the temple I feel I bring home some of the light that is there. I remember one morning, suddenly realizing, as I prayed, that I felt like I was in the temple. I always kneel in the same place, near a window with a lovely view of the rising sun and the mountains.

Once I had a Jewish friend visit, with whom I had prayed. She said to me, "I want to see the place where you pray." I said, "Come with me." I showed her where I knelt each day and she stepped into it, like it was a circle of light and said, "I can feel that this is the place." It is not the only place in our home that feels holy. The place where my husband gave patriarchal blessings and the place where we knelt together for family prayer are still holy to me.

Many years ago, two of my teenage friends and I decided to take a drive into the mountains to a place where several small lakes collected melted snow in the spring to water thirsty summer crops in the valley below. We decided to drive in an old car which had been parked for sometime and had long ago exhausted its usefulness. We put gasoline in it, checked the radiator and oil, and by pulling it with a tractor, finally got it started, and we were on our way.

We soon realized why the car had been abandoned. The steep hills were more than it could easily negotiate, and frequently it stalled before reaching the top. When this occurred, we backed down the hill and up the one behind us. Then with a roar of the engine and all the encouragement three teenagers could muster, the old car pushed up the hill, over the top, and down the other side.

We soon reached the crest of a tall hill -- the last obstacle that stood between us and our destination. We opened the gate and looked down -- way down. The road was steep, much steeper than we anticipated. Still, we felt invincible, and although we were miles from home, no one wanted to mention or think about whether or not the car had the power to return up the hill.

We had set our minds upon enjoying ourselves at the lakes. The possibility of not being able to get back was far from our minds, so we drove through the gate and down the steep hill. The car engine revved up as it held back the car's descent to the lakes. We felt the quick drop in the pit of our stomachs.

We enjoyed this beautiful place, the scenery, skipping rocks on the lake, and the simple joy of life and living. As the sun began to lower in the sky, we knew it was time to go home. We looked up the hill, which seemed even steeper now. There was only a short distance from the edge of the lake to the point where the road began a steep angle upwards.

We piled in and started up the hill. We only made it part way -- not nearly far enough. We tried again and again. It was only then that the consequence of our earlier decision began to rest squarely on us.

We were not really concerned about our safety. We could sleep in the car that evening, and even if our tee shirts didn't keep us very warm, we would survive and walk out the next day.

We tried practically everything. Each new effort seemed to propel us a little farther up the hill. Perhaps, we thought, if we could muster one more major effort and have everything work right for us, we could make it out.

We cleared away brush near the lake to provide more distance to make our run. We removed rocks and debris from the road, and two of us stationed ourselves part way up the hill to push when the car reached its limits. One last chance! With the gas pedal to the floor, the old car fishtailed up the road, and as it slowed down, two teenage boys with arms under the rear bumper and faces squashed against the trunk pushed with all their might, as rocks spun from the wheels and stung their hands, arms, and legs.

Finally, we reached the top and were on our way home, a little wiser and armed with a life-long reminder that while we are free at any given time to make choices, we do not choose the consequences of the decisions we make.

Years later my husband told me that when he was a child, Brother Joseph went to their home and asked if he could borrow one of his mother’s twin babies. He explained that his wife Emma had been sad and lonely since her own baby had died, and he thought it would comfort her to take care of one of the girls. The Prophet picked up the baby in the morning and brought her back each night.
One evening when the baby was not home at the usual time, Mother Burgess went to see what was the matter. There was the Prophet rocking the little baby by the fire. He had her wrapped in a silk quilt, and he was singing to get her quiet.
Margarette M. Burgess

One final story: William Tyndale, who translated the Bible into the language of the common person--English--in the sixteenth century--and was martyred for it--stated to a cleric who opposed his efforts: "If God spare my life, ere many years I will cause a boy that driveth the plough, shall know more of the Scripture than thou dost!"[43] In a parallel some three hundred years later, Nancy Towle, a famous itinerant preacher in the 1830s, visited Kirtland. While there, she sharply criticized the Church. The emotional Sidney Rigdon responded in kind, and accused her of being "in the gall of bitterness, and the bond of iniquity!" According to Towle's record, Joseph said nothing during this heated exchange until she turned to him and demanded that he swear to her that he had seen an angel. Ever gregarious, Joseph good-naturedly replied to her that "he never swore at all." Having failed to rattle him, she tried to belittle him: "Are you not ashamed, of such pretenses?" she rejoined. "You, who are no more, than an ignorant, plough-boy of our land?" Joseph calmly responded: "the gift has returned back again, as in former times, to illiterate fishermen."[44]
Joseph compared himself to an "illiterate fisherman." In this, Tyndale's words were prescient: certainly a plough-boy did grow to know more of scripture than that cleric, and probably more than any man that ever lived, save the Savior only.

“My father was the greatest influence on me. He was such an example of one who quietly serves! He would sit back and listen to everybody’s opinion and then make a wise judgment. One day I decided I didn’t want go to sacrament meeting. My father wasn’t alarmed. He only said, ‘Just remember that when you don’t go once, it’s easier not to go the next time. That’s how we can fall into bad habits. I would suggest that you go every time, and then you won’t have to keep remaking that choice.’ That’s all it took. I didn’t argue with him, and I didn’t feel unhappy about going to church that day—or any other day. And l’ve always remembered that advice when I’ve been tempted.

I recall being 14 years old and on vacation at my grandma and grandpa's house. In a small bedroom on the second floor of their farmhouse, I remember reading the Book of Mormon where it says that to be prosperous I had to keep the commandments. I felt the Holy Ghost whisper to me that it was true. This story is not a dramatic story, but it's one I reflect on often because it was clear to me, and it helped shape my future.

Caroline Jacobs focused on the words of the closing song. If she concentrated hard enough, she could block out the jeers and cries coming from outside—almost. Her father offered a prayer, and the meeting was dismissed.
Because there was no church building, the Mormon families in the area met in the Jacobses’ home. No one was in a hurry to leave tonight, Caroline noted. They were afraid, just as she was.
The mob hadn’t actually attacked anyone yet. But daily they grew louder and bolder in their protests against the Mormon families in the small Missouri settlement.
Surely they won’t harm people who only want to live in peace, Caroline kept telling herself. But the struggle to believe it intensified every day. Reports came, relating the persecutions the Saints in other towns were suffering, but so far the mob had stopped short of real violence here.
Caroline’s family had moved from New York a year ago, just after her baptism. At first she had liked the frontier town. She’d seen trappers and traders, cowboys and soldiers, all of whom she’d only read about before her family’s move to Missouri.
But as more Latter-day Saint families settled in the area, anti-Mormon sentiment had grown. Caroline kept close to home now and no longer played outside by herself.
When the other families had left the house with her father, who was seeing the widows safely home, Caroline turned to her mother. “Mama, why do the men outside hate us?”
Her mother sighed. “I don’t think they really hate us. I think they’re afraid.”
Caroline listened to the shouts that could still be heard, even though the meeting had ended. “They don’t sound afraid. They sound angry. Besides, why would they be afraid of us?” She knew her father didn’t even own a gun. He’d told her often enough that he believed in talking out differences, not shooting them out.
Her mother looked sad. “People often are afraid of what they don’t understand.”
Caroline thought about that. Maybe her mother was right. “Are you ever afraid, Mama?”
Her mother busied herself with sweeping the wood floor. “Sometimes I am,” she said at last. “Then I remember that if I am at peace here”—she placed a hand over her heart—“I don’t have to be afraid.”
Caroline put a hand over her own heart. “But how can I feel peace when people are trying to force us to leave our homes?”
“Peace isn’t something that comes from the outside. It’s a feeling inside,” her mother said with a slow, soft smile.
“A feeling inside,” Caroline repeated, liking the sound of the words.
The next day Caroline walked with her mother to the small store that sold supplies to the farmers. She kept her eyes straight ahead when several boys from town yelled, “Dirty Mormons!”
“They can’t hurt us with their words,” Mama said quietly, but she tightened her hold on Caroline’s hand and walked faster toward the store.
Caroline thought about Mama’s counsel from last night and placed her hand on her heart. This is where it matters, she thought. If I can feel peace here, it doesn’t matter what’s happening around me.
She fixed her thoughts on the sweet feelings she’d received the previous night, when she’d knelt by her bed and prayed for Heavenly Father’s help. Never before had she known such peace.
On the way home she ignored the taunts aimed at her and concentrated on what she felt inside. Her mother was right. The peaceful feeling didn’t go away. Instead, it grew steadily stronger until she no longer even noticed the boys’ insults.
At home she climbed the ladder to the loft that was her bedroom. Once more, she knelt by her bed and prayed. This time it was a prayer of thanks.

When I was at BYU in Provo as an undergraduate, my friend, Ryan, now an English professor at Southern Utah University, had put off taking a required math class until his very last semester before graduating. He was not looking forward to it. On the first day of class, as his professor introduced the course, she excitedly told the students, quite earnestly, “In this class, there are no exams, only celebrations!” Sounds fun, right? But, despite the enthusiasm of Ryan’s math professor, it soon became clear that the so-called celebrations looked and felt a lot like exams. If the teacher’s intention was to reduce the dread and anxiety that students felt about their upcoming math tests, the students weren’t buying it.

I think sometimes, like Ryan’s well-meaning math professor, we try very hard to convince ourselves that the exam is the celebration, or at least that we should feel that way.

It takes time and patience to find solutions. When I reflect on my time as a caseworker with resettled refugees, the stories I remember most are those that were not neatly resolved. I worked with a brilliant mother who failed to qualify for a liver transplant. Before her death, she focused on finding support for her sons. In another case, a family moved into a great new apartment, only to be forced to move out two days later due to unclear requirements.

Many issues in people’s lives and on a larger, global scale will not be resolved quickly or in the way we want. Giving service does not guarantee we will fix things or reach a particular outcome. Service also won’t necessarily provide a sense of worth. Seeking personal value in service is a recipe for taking on too much and becoming angry when people don’t appreciate you. Your value is independent of any service you can give. Service is ultimately about sharing the fruits of God’s love that we have so generously received. God will amplify our limited efforts and inspire trans­formation. Our great opportunity is to choose to share and to become a conduit through which love and grace can come.

At our wedding shower, she gave me the strings she had cut from her kitchen apron, symbolizing that she would let him go. And she did. She didn’t bring pots of hot soup regularly to our house to make sure that he had a good, nutritious meal. She didn’t arrange his dental appointments for him.
She didn’t always remember my birthday, but she did better than that: She remembered me kindly and gave me the most precious gift of all—her confidence that I could handle my life with her son and her grandchildren.

I am what you would call an average high school student. I’m not that popular or good looking. So you can see why I was excited when the new girl at my school agreed to go to the homecoming dance with me. Okay, I wasn’t just excited; I was walking on air. She was a beautiful, blond-haired girl from my ward, and I considered myself lucky to be her date. Homecoming finally rolled around, and I was even more excited.
When I picked her up for the date and met with the other couple we were going to “double” with, my good mood soon disappeared. Once we were with the other couple, my date suddenly seemed more interested in the other guy than in me. I tried to tell myself that I was imagining it, and that everything was all right. But during dinner, she acted as if I weren’t even there.
At the dance I could no longer deny that my suspicions were correct. My date wouldn’t dance with me, but she did dance with the other guy. My heart broke. I got so frustrated that I left and took a walk. While I walked around the school, all I could think was, Why me? I waited to date until I was 16, I’ve tried to do what’s right, so why is this happening to me?
The dance finally ended, and I decided to give it one last shot. We had planned to go to a movie, so I decided we would. The other couple was still with us, and during the movie, my date held hands with the other guy. I hadn’t expected to hold hands with her, but I never guessed she would be holding hands with him.
When I finally arrived back home, I realized that I was all alone. My family was out of town, and it was too late to call a friend. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I lay down and cried just like a little kid.
After a while, I got down on my knees to say my prayers. I asked for peace. At that moment, my heart was filled with a love that was so powerful and amazing I can’t really describe it. The Savior’s love filled my heart, and I knew that Heavenly Father loved me. After that I could go to sleep and deal with what had happened.
Now that I look back on this experience, I have to laugh. That horrible date is just a memory to me, and my life has gone on. And even though it was a terrible experience, I learned something very important: with Heavenly Father’s love, I can endure.

Julius and Sabina Kasue of Chyulu were two of Kenya’s early converts. They both came from Christian backgrounds and had studied the Bible. In 1981, while living in Nairobi, Kenya’s capital, Julius was introduced to the Church by Dennis Child, a Latter-day Saint working there. Julius frequently read the Book of Mormon and missionary pamphlets and discussed them with Brother Child. Julius recalls, “It was when I read the Book of Mormon for the second time and then prayed about it that I felt something burning in my heart.”5 Although Julius had a witness of the truth, he waited four years before being baptized in February 1986. His wife, Sabina, was baptized the following November. Soon after their baptism, Brother and Sister Kasue left Nairobi and returned to Chyulu, the area of their birth.

Let me share an experience about responding to prophetic words from the life of President Russell M. Nelson:
In 1979, five years before his call as a General Authority, Brother Nelson attended a meeting just prior to general conference. “President Spencer W. Kimball challenged all present to lengthen their stride in taking the gospel to the entire world. Among the countries President Kimball specifically mentioned was China, declaring, ‘We should be of service to the Chinese. We should learn their language. We should pray for them and help them.’”
At age 54, Brother Nelson had a feeling during the meeting that he should study the Mandarin language. Although a busy heart surgeon, he immediately secured the services of a tutor.
Not long after beginning his studies, Dr. Nelson, attending a convention, unexpectedly found himself sitting next to “a distinguished Chinese surgeon, Dr. Wu Yingkai. … Because [Brother Nelson] had been studying Mandarin, he began [a] conversation [with Dr. Wu].”
Dr. Nelson’s desire to follow the prophet led to Dr. Wu visiting Salt Lake City and Dr. Nelson traveling to China to give lectures and perform surgical operations.
His love for the Chinese people, and their love and respect for him, grew.
In February 1985, ten months after his call to the Quorum of the Twelve, Elder Nelson received a surprise phone call from China pleading for Dr. Nelson to come to Beijing to operate on the failing heart of China’s most famous opera singer. With the encouragement of President Gordon B. Hinckley, Elder Nelson returned to China. The last surgical operation he ever performed was in the People’s Republic of China.
Just two years ago, in October 2015, President Russell M. Nelson was once again honored with an official declaration, naming him an “old friend of China.”

It had been four years since my baptism, and I had been less active for most of that time. I was drinking, smoking, and very depressed. My husband, Ian, was away at sea, leaving me home alone with two small children. And now his submarine had major defects and was in dry dock at the other end of the country. Each evening for six weeks the phone would ring, and Ian would say, “We should sail tomorrow.” But tomorrow never seemed to come, and the promised sailing was repeatedly delayed.
The bright lights on the horizon were my marvelous home teachers and visiting teachers, who came regularly to my door and shared their love and fellowship. I must admit I was not always polite and sometimes downright rude. Nevertheless, I knew I could pick up the phone at any time and they would be willing to help. My home teachers were consistent in their belief that if I came back to church, Ian would get baptized—but I had to set the example first. Yet I never felt the desire to put their faith to the test. I was too spiritually low.
One evening after speaking to Ian and learning that the submarine had again been unable to sail for home, I sat and cried, feeling utterly desolate. Then I began to pray, something I had not done for a very long time.
As I prepared for bed that evening, I was conscious of something I had not noticed before—a very strong, though not unpleasant smell. It stirred a memory long forgotten. I had to think for a while before I recognized that it reminded me of the chapel where I had been baptized. As recognition dawned I felt a warm, comforting glow within and an awakening desire to go back to church.
I phoned Tony, one of my home teachers. Soon he and his wife, Rosie, arrived at my door, and we talked as we had never talked before. All past barriers were swept away. I was going back to church.
I could hardly wait for Ian’s next phone call. This time he was met with excitement rather than depression. To my astonishment, his reaction to my story was to suggest that when he got home we should go to church as a family.
The following Sunday Tony and Rosie picked up the children and me and took us to church. I was surprised to see a missionary who had been sent back to the area for a second time. He had been to our home before but had failed, along with many others, to impress either Ian or me to go to church. He greeted me warmly now and announced that he had come back to our area to baptize Ian. I was skeptical and laughed, but during the following week Ian at last came home. As he had promised, he came to church the next Sunday. Elder Paskett approached him on that first visit and made arrangements to come with his companion, Elder Brown, and teach Ian the discussions. Within two weeks Ian had accepted the invitation to be baptized. The whole process took less than a month, and shortly afterwards the missionaries were moved from our branch to another area.
During those weeks the outpouring of love through the Holy Spirit and from the members of our branch was overwhelming. We made a commitment then that if we were going to live the gospel at all, we would live it fully. Shortly after his baptism Ian was called as president of the Young Men, and I was called to serve in Primary. Our Church life became full and exciting. Over the years our family blossomed from two to five beautiful children. We were sealed in the London England Temple in 1982, with Tony and Rosie in attendance.
The gospel has touched every part of our lives since that time. We have had our ups and downs but have never regretted our decision to serve the Lord. We have truly found a home in His Church.

Derek Fagan, 17, has excelled both in school and in seminary, and he credits an experience he had just before he received his patriarchal blessing. “We had been talking about patriarchal blessings in seminary. I prayed and asked if I should get my patriarchal blessing. Our stake did not have a patriarch at that time, but three days later, our new patriarch was called. I felt it was my answer. That was the time I decided for myself that the Church was true and I would try harder to do well and choose the right. My patriarchal blessing was amazing. I carry it around with me everywhere. Since early-morning seminary started, everything has been clearer. Even in school, I just learn very quickly now. It’s unusual to do ordinary level subjects for exams and then move up and take the exam at a higher level. The teachers were rather amazed when I moved from ordinary level to higher.”

Photographs by Richard M. Romney
Aidan Troutner, 18, from Timpview High School in Provo, Utah, figured he could race well at the Nike Cross-country Nationals (NXN) in Portland, Oregon. But no one figured he really had a chance to win the individual championship—until it came to the final sprint.
Aidan entered the meet, he says, “under the radar.” Several other runners were predicted to win. “But that’s one of the goals I had this season, not to worry about other people so much, just to focus on my own time and training, improving myself. The Lord gives us talents, but He expects us to put in the work.”
And Aidan had worked, hard. Training and competing from June through November had enabled him to win first place in both the Utah 5A high school championship and the Southwest Regionals.
“I had confidence in myself, because I knew I was prepared,” he says. “The Lord expects us to act, not to be acted upon [see 2 Nephi 2:13].”
He also knew that a couple of other Latter-day Saints were running, too. “So, just before the race began, we gathered together for prayer. We asked Heavenly Father to help everyone run to the best of their abilities. We said our prayer, then the starting gun went off and we were on our way.”
Aidan followed the strategy his coach had mapped out with him. He stayed in 4th position through most of the race. Then, with about 600 meters to go, he made his move. “It wasn’t until then that I realized I could really win it,” he remembers. “With 200 meters left, I took the lead and cruised to the finish line.” He had paced himself, and he had finished strong.
Aidan received a lot of recognition for his performance. “One of the greatest blessings I had was the number of people I got to talk to about the gospel,” he says. “Especially after the race, people wanted to know more about me, what I was doing after high school, and where I was going to college. I told them I’m going on a mission and then I’m going to BYU. It was an amazing blessing to talk to people who didn’t know much about the gospel.”
Aidan also finds that running has reinforced gospel principles for him.
“We had a lesson just last Sunday about self-reliance,” he says. “One of the key things we talked about was that self-reliance implies that you do it yourself, but in truth, we can’t do anything without our Savior Jesus Christ. That’s the way we become truly self-reliant—to rely on Him to ease our burdens. As applied to running, that means I couldn’t have done this by myself. I needed the help of teammates, coaches, and my family, just like each of us needs the help of the Savior.”

“Okay, I’m going to need your full name for these records. Last name?”
“Trent,” I answered, sounding a little cocky. I was proud of my last name. I had ancestors involved in all sorts of historical events. James Trent was one of the first men to found Virginia; there was the Council of Trent that reformed the Catholic Church; and there’s also a street in England bearing my last name. Trent. What a great name, I thought to myself as the secretary typed it.
“First name.”
“Jared,” I answered with even more pride. I had created a name for myself at school. I was the crazy kid, or—my personal favorite—“Ask Jared, he can answer anything.” I wondered if the secretary knew how wonderful my name was. She was, after all, typing it in bold print.
“Middle name.”
“M,” I answered as if the question wasn’t even worth an answer.
“Come on now, Jared. I need to know your middle name, not just your initial.”
Now was the hard part, disclosing my middle name. She wasn’t going to buy my middle initial trick. I was trapped.
“Moroni,” I said quietly.
“Could you spell that for me.”
“M-O-R-O-N-I.” I was growing uneasy.
“Hmm, that’s an interesting middle name. Is it Italian?”
“No, it’s a religious name.”
“Odd, I don’t remember ever reading about any Moroni in the Bible. At any rate, let’s finish this so you can start work.”
I didn’t know then why I was embarrassed by the name. It just seemed so odd to me. No one I knew, not even any of the people in my ward, had a name from the Book of Mormon. I remember once receiving a letter addressed to Jared Moron Trent. One slip of the computer, leaving off the last letter, and I was Moron.
Then, one day in seminary, my teacher asked us if we had ever read about Captain Moroni. I knew who the Angel Moroni is—the one whose statue stands on top of the temples. But I had never read the Book of Mormon, and so I had never heard of this captain guy. All I knew was that he shared my name. Then my teacher told us about the bravery and brilliance of Captain Moroni. He had invented armor for his soldiers at a time when armor wasn’t heard of. He protected entire cities and used military techniques far more advanced than some used today. He was a genius. I kept reading.
The next day my teacher asked the class if anyone knew what my middle name was. Most didn’t because I hadn’t told many people. Then she asked me to tell the class. After I did she explained that my parents had named me with an unusual name to help them share the gospel. In Saudi Arabia, where I was born, it is illegal to discuss other religions unless people ask about them. So my parents had named me, hoping that people would question the origin of my name and that would lead them to discuss the Church. I was completely surprised. I hadn’t known I had been a missionary when I was born. I was not only named after a great general, but the angel that helped to restore the gospel.
I no longer wanted to hide my middle name. I realized that the importance and nobility of it far surpassed my first and last names. I say it now with pride, explaining to people the origin of it, and why it’s such a wonderful name. I no longer think of it as one letter away from meaning idiot, but as one step away from achieving celestial glory, as the two Moronis of old did. I only hope that I might live up to its greatness.

Hiding behind Dad’s truck, I pulled ever so slightly on the rope that reached up over the tree branch above the garage door. The large bucket of water at the other end of the line jiggled as I pulled. I grinned. The trap was finally ready!
My big brother was so going to get it as soon as he came out of the garage. Kyle deserved it, too! This time his teasing had gone too far.
My little sister walked over to my hiding place again. “Come on, Megan. Let’s go play. Just forget about it,” she said.
“No way,” I told her. “I’m going to get even.” She didn’t understand. I had to do this.
“But I want to play on the swings,” she said. “Won’t you come with me?”
I shook my head. “Not until Kyle walks under my trap.”
My sister left. The sun rose higher. It was a perfect day to play outside. But this was important. I thought of all the rotten times my brother had teased me.
Banging and clanging sounds came from inside the garage. What was he doing in there?
I had to admit it was getting a little boring holding that rope. Especially on such a nice, sunny day. But I didn’t think about letting go for a second. The wait would be worth it when Kyle walked through the garage door and I dumped the big bucket of water on his head. I couldn’t wait to see his face! It would be the perfect payback.
A noise came from behind the garage door. My muscles tightened as I gripped the rope. I watched the door like a cat ready to pounce.
The lock clicked. The door swung open. I saw the edge of a tire and one of my brother’s sneakers. This was it! I yanked hard on the rope. The entire bucket of water tipped and poured all over Kyle. As the now-empty bucket dangled from the rope on the tree, I jumped up and hooted in excitement. Yes!
Then I noticed something that stopped my yell of excitement right in my throat. Kyle was pushing my bike. It had been broken for weeks. But now it was all ready to ride. I didn’t understand.
Kyle looked at me and said, “Um, I fixed your bike.”
I just stood there. As the water dripped off his face and off my bike, I didn’t feel at all like I expected to. My trap had worked perfectly, but I felt horrible.
The whole time I’d been waiting there, my big brother had been doing something nice for me. In fact, now that I thought about it, Kyle did nice things for me all the time.
“I’m sorry!” I said, still feeling awful. “I was … I mean, earlier today …”
He held up a hand and smiled. “It’s OK, Megan. I’m sorry too. That’s why I wanted to fix your bike.”
Kyle looked up at the bucket. “Nice trap,” he said. Then he laughed. “I never saw it coming.”
I couldn’t help but laugh with him. Suddenly I felt much better inside. My big brother had already forgiven me. Just like that! I realized I needed to learn how to do that too.
“Hey, want to ride bikes?” I asked.
Kyle nodded. “Sounds awesome. I’ll probably dry off faster that way.”
As we laughed again, I knew it was going to be a great day after all.