Gospel Story Finder

Another one said, “I was always camping with my friends, and they were always putting in big chaws. Me and my cousin swore up and down that we’d never try it because it smelled sick and looked sick. One day I was with my buddies up in the hills. They whipped out their cans of snooze and offered me one. I just kept on telling them no. I finally took one. I figured these guys were my good friends, and they had done it so it must be good.”

All of the young men we talked to were underage to buy chewing tobacco. Even though the laws against selling tobacco to minors are strict in most states, this did not cause them a moment of concern. “We have friends with older friends or older brothers who will buy it for us. Sometimes we buy it ourselves when the clerk does not ask for identification. Or we’ll stop a stranger in the street, give him the money, and ask if he’ll buy it for us.”

None of those we talked to would admit ever being addicted to tobacco. In fact, several pointed out that they had quit for weeks or months at a time. They seemed reluctant to admit that it has any power over them. They started giving a list of excuses for using chewing tobacco such as how they like to have something in their mouths or how it keeps them alert or how it’s something to do when they’re bored. But it started to sound like they were fooling themselves. If it isn’t a problem, why can’t they leave it alone permanently?

They all talked about how bad the tobacco smells and how it burns the tender places of their mouths and how sick it made them at first when they swallowed the juice. Most of them couldn’t honestly say they liked it. The best they can say about it is they don’t mind it now. They see themselves as the exceptions, the ones who can give it up with no ill effects.

But one young man we interviewed is making a real effort to quit. He wants to get his life in order, so he can be in a position to serve a mission and stay active in the Church. He talked about how difficult the past months have been, how hard it is to give up a bad habit. He’s deep in the struggle to shake free.

These young men are members of the Church and know it’s against the Word of Wisdom to use chewing tobacco, but they took the bait when they were very young. One said, “Just last year in seminary, we were studying the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Word of Wisdom is in there. When we started studying that, it started eating at me. It bothered me quite a lot.”

Just like the trophy fish with a hook planted deeply in its lip, now they are fighting hard to get free even as they are being pulled more firmly into addiction.

What would help them quit? In one way the answer they give is not surprising because it’s the answer to so many other problems: a firm commitment to the Church. One of them said, “The Church has influenced me a lot towards quitting. When I’m with my Church friends, I don’t even think about it. But when I get around people who chew, or when I’m by myself, it drives me crazy.”

All of these young men agree that having their parents get angry about their habit makes them feel rebellious and want to get away so they can have a chew and calm down. What works much better is having their parents know about their habit and express disappointment or hurt by it. “Guilt is much more effective than anger in stopping me from taking a dip.”

And as they have taken seminary, where they read and study the scriptures, the desire to live a good life, free from tobacco, is starting to bloom in them. Their belief in the Church is a powerful element in turning them away from tobacco.

Here’s a tidbit we didn’t include in the article: Nicotine is so addicting that for many people the only way to quit chewing is to take up smoking. That’s like a fish shaking the hook and trying to hide in the frying pan.

Tobacco companies in the United States are not allowed to advertise on television or radio, so they have begun other promotions to make teens notice their brands. They are the major sponsors of sporting events. Jackets, hats, T-shirts, and sporting equipment are becoming available with tobacco brands imprinted on them. Dave Stoddard, vice-principal at Bingham High School in Salt Lake City, says, “We don’t allow kids to wear clothing that advertises tobacco products or alcohol. We ask them to change or send them home if they persist.”

Seemingly innocent products are produced that imitate the habit of chewing tobacco such as finely shredded beef jerky packaged in round cans, or shredded bubble gum, also in cans the same size and shape as chewing tobacco. When children learn to imitate, it isn’t such a big leap to participate in the real thing.

Chewing tobacco is easier to hide than smoking. In many cases even family members don’t really know how involved in tobacco some teens are. The young men we interviewed were very careful never to chew tobacco in school. They say it seems like anyone who tries gets caught. They also say they never ever chew at home, “unless it’s after 10:30 P.M. and you know for sure everyone is asleep.” When they feel a need for tobacco, they say they leave to go for a walk or hide out in the bathroom. They chew mostly around their friends. So far they think their parents don’t know about their habit.

They pointed out a few telltale signs of a chewer: flakes of tobacco caught in their teeth; habits like moving their tongue under their lips and spitting; chewing toothpicks or sunflower seeds when they can’t chew tobacco.

Involvement with tobacco often doesn’t end with one bad habit. It usually leads to others, including alcohol or drugs. Dr. Van Komen says that studies show people who use tobacco are more likely to use alcohol. It’s known as cross-addiction.

We asked these young men what advice they could give that would help others keep from getting involved with tobacco. The question was hard for them to answer. After all, knowing better didn’t keep them from starting. One thing they do know, they probably wouldn’t have started if they hadn’t been around friends or relatives who were chewing tobacco.

When we asked Dr. Van Komen if there was anything we could say to persuade people to avoid chewing tobacco, he said, “I don’t know if there is anything other than telling them the truth about the addiction, the nicotine, and the very repulsiveness of chewing.”

Yes, chewing tobacco is a disgusting habit.
Yes, it can make you sick.
Yes, it can cause cancer.
Yes, it is against the Word of Wisdom.
Yes, it is highly addicting.
Yes, it can take away your choices.
Yes, it can ruin your life.
And if anyone offers it to you, say no.

Today was going to be an awesome day. Timmy’s cousin Madi was coming over. And she was going to stay for a whole week! He couldn’t wait to show her his toys and play together.
When Madi came over, the adventures began right away. For the first two days, they played with toy dinosaurs and pretended to be pirates. It was lots of fun. But on the third day, things didn’t go so well. Timmy and Madi couldn’t agree on anything.
“Let’s go outside and turn the tree house into a spaceship!” Timmy said.
“I don’t want to. Let’s just stay inside and draw,” Madi said.
“Inside is boring!”
“No, it’s not! We always play the games you want to play. Why do you always get to choose what we do?”
Timmy and Madi kept arguing. They weren’t having fun anymore. Timmy didn’t like the way he felt when they fought. Then he thought of something.
“Hey, Madi,” Timmy said, “let’s be like the Anti-Nephi-Lehies.”
“The who?”
“The Anti-Nephi-Lehies. They were people in the Book of Mormon who buried their swords. They had been in lots of fights, and they were sorry, so they repented. They promised Heavenly Father they would never fight again. Then they buried their weapons in the ground to show that they wanted to keep their promise.”
Suddenly an idea popped into Timmy’s mind. “Let’s make some toy swords and bury them and promise we won’t fight each other.”
“OK,” Madi said.
Timmy and Madi got some plastic building toys and made different kinds of swords out of them. Some were long. Some were short. And some had lots of different colors. When they were done, Timmy and Madi carried their weapons to the rug.
“Let’s pretend the rug is a big hole,” Timmy said.
They sat down by the edge of the rug. Then one by one, they set each of their swords on the rug, pretending to bury them.
“I promise that I’m not going to fight anymore,” Timmy said, dropping his last toy sword onto the pile.
“Me too,” Madi said. “Now let’s go play! What do you want to do?”
“Let’s draw,” Timmy said with a smile.
Madi smiled back. “After that, let’s play spaceship outside.”
For the rest of the week, Timmy and Madi kept their promise. And they had a lot more fun playing together after leaving their fighting behind.

I said I was speaking to the young. I still am. A 14-year-old boy recently said to me a little hesitantly, “Brother Holland, I can’t say yet that I know the Church is true, but I believe it is.” I hugged that boy until his eyes bulged out. I told him with all the fervor of my soul that belief is a precious word, an even more precious act, and he need never apologize for “only believing.” I told him that Christ Himself said, “Be not afraid, only believe,” a phrase which, by the way, carried young Gordon B. Hinckley into the mission field. I told this boy that belief was always the first step toward conviction and that the definitive articles of our collective faith forcefully reiterate the phrase “We believe.” And I told him how very proud I was of him for the honesty of his quest.

President Smith then explained:
“This custom of holding fast meetings on Thursday was continued in Nauvoo and also after the coming of the members of the Church to the Rocky Mountains. I can remember the time when certain business houses closed their doors each fast day and placed on the doors, ‘Closed for fast meeting.’ …
“The change from the first Thursday to the first Sunday of the month came about in this manner. Hyrum M. Smith, who later became a member of the Council of the Twelve, was a missionary in Newcastle, England, in the year 1896. On the Thursday of the fast meeting, members of the Church in that land had to get excused from their employment with a loss of pay. Some of them were workers in the coal mines. When these came from the pits, they had to go home, bathe, and change their clothes. This was a loss both of time and compensation. Hyrum wrote to his father, President Joseph F. Smith, and asked why, under such circumstances, the fast day had to be a Thursday and not a Sunday. President Smith took the letter to the meeting of the First Presidency and the apostles and presented it there. The following is an excerpt from the minutes of the meeting held November 5, 1896:
“‘President Joseph F. Smith introduced the subject of fast meetings, suggesting that a change of the time from the first Thursday to the first Sunday in each month would probably be beneficial. This was endorsed by President George Q. Cannon, and after other brethren had spoken on the subject, it was decided that the Tabernacle services would be dispensed with on the first Sunday of each month, and that the saints in this city as well as in the country wards, should have the privilege of meeting in their meeting houses at 2 o’clock p.m. to observe fast day.’” (Improvement Era, Dec. 1956, p. 895.)

Years ago, while I was serving as a young bishop, an older gentleman asked to meet with me. He described his departure from the Church and the righteous traditions of his parents when he was in his youth. He described in detail the heartache he experienced during his life while vainly seeking lasting joy amidst the momentary happiness the world has to offer. Now, in his later years of life, he experienced the tender, sometimes nagging whispering sensations of the Spirit of God guiding him back to the lessons, practices, feelings, and spiritual safety of his youth. He expressed gratitude for the traditions of his parents, and in modern-day words, he echoed the proclamation of Enos: “Blessed be the name of my God for it.”

All the young women in my ward were happily splashing in the swimming pool when a man from New York came over to the pool and asked us what we were all doing there.
As soon as he heard the word church, he let us know that he did not believe in any churches. His dad was a preacher and was the “meanest man alive.” That New Yorker was the angriest person I had ever met. I got out of the water and went off to be by myself. I knelt down and said a little prayer that I would be able to say something to Mr. New York that would be meaningful to him and would help him overcome his anger.
When I came back, it was obvious nothing had changed. Mr. New York was still talking in angry tones about how there couldn’t possibly be a God. “If there was, He wouldn’t have let my wife and daughter die,” he said. The words came to me without my even thinking: “You can be sealed to your wife and daughter in the temple,” I said.
Mr. New York stopped and asked me to repeat what I had just said. After I did, there was silence. His countenance softened and his voice became calm. He asked about the temple and how he could be sealed to his family. I was able to tell him everything I had learned about temples. I don’t know what happened to him, but my little prayer was answered in a big way!
Twila H., Arizona, USA

I’m no dummy—or at least that’s what I thought. I knew that after a mission the next really important thing is marriage. That’s scary—so a year before I returned, I made a list of what I wanted in a wife.
Everyone knows that a couple with both partners completely committed to the gospel is more likely to be happy and stay married, so I planned to look for a girl with a solid foundation in the Church. I named the trait “unshakable gospel stability” and put it number one on my list. Smart, attractive, and talented were on the list too, but the cute stuff is easy. I wasn’t sure how to tell if a girl was unshakable.
Humility aside, I was quite sure of my own unshakability. After all, I’m a fourth-generation Mormon from Manti, Utah. My family is active, and I’m descended from pioneer stock, so I figured my gospel foundation was on bedrock. Generations of tradition are bound to help a person keep close to the Church. With that in mind, I decided the safest thing I could do was find a girl with a background just like mine.
Now don’t get me wrong. I think converts are great. They have enthusiasm—fire, I guess you’d call it. But as a missionary I had worked in little branches of the Church with impressive membership lists and only a few active members. I didn’t want to risk marrying someone with a flame that might go out.
After my mission, I enrolled at BYU and dated a bit. I wasn’t really looking to get married, but I kept my list in my pocket just in case. Then I met Beverly at my family home evening group. What a fireball! She was so excited to be at BYU that she could hardly contain herself. She was smart and cute, too, and so much fun that I volunteered to help her with her Book of Mormon homework.
“So,” I said casually, “where are you from?”
“California,” she replied, looking me straight in the eye. “And yes, I am a convert.”
I winced to hear those two “C” words in the same sentence.
“Have you been a member long?” I asked.
“Not long,” she admitted.
I made a mental note not to get emotionally involved until I was sure about her. But then she started questioning me.
“What callings have you had in the Church?” she wanted to know.
We compared notes. She had taught Primary, been a pianist, conducted the ward choir, directed a ward play, and been on the stake youth council. I had been LDSSA president—I was pretty proud of that because almost everyone in my high school was enrolled in released-time seminary. Bev didn’t seem impressed. There were only ten or fifteen students in her early-morning seminary class, and they took turns being president.
“I got up every morning at 5:30 to go to class,” she told me. I ducked my head and wondered if I would have done that.
By the time general conference came around we were seeing each other nearly every day. It was just as friends, you understand. I didn’t want to get serious. We went to church together every Sunday, but when she invited me to take her to the Tabernacle to see the prophet in person, I was a little reluctant.
“It’s awfully crowded,” I complained. “Why don’t we watch the sessions on television?”
“It’s a promise I made to myself,” she said in her determined way. “I may not be in Utah for very long, and I’m not going to miss seeing general conference in person.”
We went to conference. One thing led to another, and I invited her to drive to Manti to meet my mother.
The Manti Temple is a beautiful white limestone building that stands on a hill so you can see it from one end of the valley to the other. The pageant on the temple grounds is our summer youth program. Everyone has a chance to participate, and loudspeakers broadcast the sound all over town so that anyone who cares to listen soon has the script memorized.
I pointed out the temple as soon as we drove into the valley. Bev caught her breath when she saw it. “Oh,” she said, “it glows. I’d love to feel that influence every day.”
The Manti cemetery is beside the temple hill. I showed Bev the grave of my great-grandfather who helped build the temple.
“This is wonderful,” Bev said.
Bev won my mother over immediately. While they were chatting, I took out my list and read it again. I realized I was getting a little attached and began to panic. Was Beverly unshakable? I was going to have to decide.
“It must have been great to raise your family here where the Church is so strong,” I heard Bev tell my mother. “I wish my family were members.”
After dinner, Mom showed Beverly her collection of genealogy pictures. She stopped at the photo of her Grandmother Hansen and told her how Grandma’s family disowned her when she joined the Church in Denmark.
“We’re very proud of these pioneers,” Mom remarked. “They all made great sacrifices for the gospel.” Then she looked directly at me. “Each of them was a convert to the Church.”
“You know,” I said to Bev as we left town. “One of the things I really love about you is your enthusiasm for the gospel.”
“And I’m impressed with your family’s strong gospel traditions,” she replied. “You ought to be proud of your pioneer ancestors.”
“I am,” I said truthfully. But my thoughts were elsewhere. Unshakability doesn’t come from other people; it’s a personal choice. Being descended from pioneers is good, I decided. But wouldn’t it be great to be married to one?

As part of my calling, my wife and I were once on an assignment with President and Sister Hinckley and Elder and Sister Ballard. After our meetings were finished, Elder Ballard asked me if I’d like to see the airplane that takes President Hinckley to conferences all over the world. I said, “I would love to!” Elder Ballard escorted me inside, and I saw President and Sister Hinckley seated in the plane. The Spirit of the Lord came over me and I knelt down at President Hinckley’s side. I took his hand in mine and said, “President Hinckley, I love you. With all of my heart, I sustain you as a prophet of the living God.” I bear my witness to you young people that he is the Lord’s living prophet, that the Lord speaks to him, that the Church is guided by Jesus Christ, and that the Lord’s prophets—from Joseph Smith to Gordon B. Hinckley—represent the Lord as they speak to us. If we will follow their counsel, we will be protected from many problems and challenges in this life.

After 11 years of school I enrolled in a two-year technical college. I was 16, active in a singing group, and had lots of friends, but somehow I could never fit in. I wouldn’t smoke or drink with my friends, and their language upset me. I didn’t like to hear what they did late at night after their dates. They were my friends, but as I looked at them, I couldn’t help thinking, “What’s wrong? Why is the world this way?”
As if responding, my friends would ask me, “Why don’t you start living? It’s human nature to do what we do.” I told them the person in my dream could not have meant human nature to be that way. Their response was usually the same: “You’re crazy, Anna! You belong to another world!”
Often I prayed to my Heavenly Father, asking him to help me find people who thought as I thought or, as my friends put it, who were of “my world.”
Turning on the television one afternoon as a break from my studies, I saw a group of boys singing. I’m a serious-minded person and have never had a pop music “idol,” but something about these boys made me stay and listen. They were dressed in white, and as they sang, “Is the answer up above?” my heart responded, “Yes!” I learned they were the Osmonds and that they were Mormons. I decided to read some books about the Mormons, but I couldn’t find any.
One afternoon as I was upstairs studying, I heard a knock at the door. My mother answered it, and I could hear her talking to two young men. As I went downstairs, I heard mother try to give them some excuse and turn them away, but I said I wanted to talk with them. She let them in, closed the door, and went back to her work. The missionaries gave me the first discussion that very afternoon, and I began to get the same feeling I had experienced as a little girl as I ran into the arms of my Heavenly Father.
A week later they came to give me the second lesson, but my mother met them and told them they were not to come again. She told me later the missionaries were only after my money. That night I heard my parents arguing about the Church, and I decided I would not see the missionaries again.
Just before I turned 18 I finished school and decided to go visit one of my friends. She had married my uncle, and they had moved from England to Switzerland. The week I arrived in Switzerland, two Mormon missionaries knocked on their door.
I eagerly asked them to teach me and decided to be baptized after only three visits. Two weeks after my 18th birthday I was baptized. I had found my people, my world, and was in the arms of my Heavenly Father again.

I visited Palmyra, New York, with my stake for youth conference in the summer of 2004. While we were there, we visited Church history sites around Palmyra, including the Sacred Grove, as well as the Palmyra temple. We ended with a testimony meeting in the Church building at the Peter Whitmer Farm. What a testimony-building experience!
I loved standing where Joseph Smith stood. It struck me during testimony meeting that most of the sites were such small buildings that I must have stood in places that Joseph Smith stood, even if it was only for five seconds. But I also know that I don’t have to stand where he stood to gain a testimony of him. My testimony of him has been strengthened while I have been alone in my own bedroom as well. But I am grateful that I was able to visit where it all began.
By the end of the youth conference, after visiting all the sites, I learned that I want to know Jesus Christ and that the only way to know Him is to constantly learn of Him and to be like Him. I am so grateful for my chance to learn these powerful lessons while visiting the spot where the Restoration began.

Another returned missionary, Bishop Fortunate Chitiyo from Nketa Second Ward, Nkulumane Zimbabwe Stake shares his and his dear wife’s mountain experience: “When our dear daughter Amalia Chitiyo was born, she had bilateral clubfoot” (a birth defect in which the foot is twisted out of shape or position). The Chitiyos couldn’t afford the funds for treatment and the special shoes which were recommended for their daughter. Bishop Chitiyo said, “During this process we prayed and fasted continuously and pleaded with God to heal our daughter and remove this mountain according to His will”.
After several months, the Chitiyos’s daughter was miraculously healed. Bishop and Sister Chitiyo testified of this healing experience: “This [experience] increased our faith and through it all we testify with the prophet of God, President Russell M. Nelson that the Lord loves effort! Truly, faith is the power that enables the unlikely to accomplish the impossible. The healing of our daughter did not happen according to our timing and in the manner we expected, but according to God’s timing and in His own way.”

Paul ran down the school steps and got into Mom’s car.
“How was school?” Mom asked.
“Great!” Paul exclaimed. “We have a new girl in our class named Cristina. She is from another country, and she is just learning to speak English.”
“I hope you will help her feel welcome,” Mom said.
“I’d like to, but how can I do that if she can’t understand me?” Paul asked.
“That’s easy,” Mom said. “Just smile.”
“Smile? What do you mean?”
“A smile can mean hello, how are you, or have a nice day. It is an international sign,” Mom said.
“I never thought of it that way before,” Paul said.
A few days later, Paul was excited to tell Mom about his day.
“Mom, remember when you told me that if I couldn’t talk to Cristina, I should just smile?” Paul asked. “Well, it worked!”
“That’s great!” Mom said. “What happened?”
“During recess I noticed that Cristina was standing by herself. She had a jump rope in her hand, but she wasn’t jumping. I wanted to be nice, but I didn’t know what to say. Then I remembered what you said and I smiled at her. She smiled back. Then she started jumping rope, and for the rest of recess she looked happy.”
“That’s wonderful!” Mom said. “I’m proud of you for being nice to Cristina.”
About a month later, Paul went to a school party at the roller-skating rink. As he skated around, he noticed that Cristina was standing alone at the side of the rink. Then there was an announcement over the loudspeaker: “Find a buddy to skate with for the next song.”
Paul skated over to Cristina. She looked surprised. He gave her a big smile and motioned for her to join him. Just like that day on the playground, she smiled brightly. As they skated with their classmates, Paul realized Mom was right. A smile means friendship in any language.

Some Saints began arriving in the city weeks before April 1893 general conference. Lucy Flake and her husband started their trip from Arizona to Utah on 8 March 1893. “We went by team,” she noted in her journal, “as we hadn’t the money to go on train.” The group “consisted of William, myself, Sister Lanning, Joel and John, Henry and Emma Tanner and two of their children,” she wrote. The journey by wagon was “a cold hard trip, through snow and mud.” At Beaver, Utah, the Flake family finally boarded a train. “William and I took our first train ride together,” Lucy recalled. “We went with a large company of our friends and relatives from Beaver City to Salt Lake. We were joined at every station by others who were going to the Dedication.”

Technology Deprivation
Not only have some children in the Telford and Wrekin area been deprived of sufficient nutritious food, but also their circumstances have usually meant that some do not have computers to support home schoolwork. Under Bishop Pointer’s coordination, the Church provided 105 decommissioned iPads from the Church’s Europe Area offices. Bishop Pointer says, “These iPads (with an estimated value of £15,000) are being distributed to vulnerable families within the Telford and Wrekin Borough who need additional at-home education assistance due to the current pandemic. This is a joint venture with the Telford and Wrekin Interfaith Council and the Telford and Wrekin Borough Council.” Bishop Pointer also explained, “The Church has also donated 22 laptops for a not-for-profit organisation set up to assist vulnerable young adults.” “During the pandemic, these laptops were loaned out to a local Chinese community to allow their children to access their schoolwork online due to the national closures of schools.”

Golf is a popular sport in Japan, so I started playing it when I was 14 years old as a way to spend time with my father. It was fun from the start, and eventually I started to practice on my own and played on the golf team at my high school. I became friends with my teammates and coaches, who encouraged me to pursue my dream of becoming a professional golfer.
I worked hard, not just on my game but on my studies, graduating near the top of my high school class.
When I first entered college, I had a great relationship with my golf coach and teammates. They were better than I was, so I did all I could to keep up with them. Some of the team members commented on my unique first name, Shuho. I told them that my Korean maternal grandmother gave it to me and that in Korean it means “beautiful mountain.” From that point on I felt like their attitude toward me changed, tainted by a generations-long tension between some in Japan and Korea.
They began calling me “the Korean kid” and said I would hurt the good name of the university. Rather than allowing me to practice golf with them, they made me clean the toilets.
It became increasingly stressful to be around the team. Being away from home, I felt like I was on my own. I tried to hang on to my dream and return to the good favor of my coach and team, but after two years, I couldn’t tolerate their harsh treatment anymore, so I returned home.
This was a dark time for me. The stress was having psychological and physical effects. My self-esteem had taken a beating for two years. My dream to be a professional golfer was at an end. I didn’t know where to go with my life. And I was angry. I was angry at everyone: the coach, my teammates, and my parents. I was so angry, my thoughts scared me. I had no friends, and I felt I was unable to trust or associate with other people. For six months, I only left home to work out at the gym.
During this dark part of my life, I made friends with Justin Christy, whom I met at the gym. When I first saw him, I thought he was a foreign-exchange student. I was hesitant to talk to him until I saw him talking to someone at the gym and was surprised to hear that he spoke Japanese. I still felt unable to trust other people, but he suggested that we train together. There was something different about him that I didn’t understand at the time. I was calm when I was around him. I started to look forward to our training time together. I had found someone I felt I could trust as a friend.
After training together for several months, Justin invited me to a dinner group that he went to on a regular basis. I was hesitant, but after several invitations I decided to go to what ended up being a young single adult dinner at the home of Richard and Corina Clark. They greeted me warmly when I entered their home, Brother Clark in Japanese and Sister Clark in English. I didn’t understand what she was saying, but I attempted to respond to her. Even though several people there didn’t speak Japanese, they were a fun-loving group who were warm and friendly. There was lots of laughter.
I began attending other young single adult activities and had never had so much fun with other people in my life. I wondered what it was about these people that made them so nice and friendly.
Around this time Justin asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I was surprised to find that my goals had started to change. I told him I wanted to learn to speak English and I wanted to be a friend to all, just like him. He told me of the free English classes at his church. I went to the English class and met the missionaries. Even though I had never thought about God, I felt like I should listen to the missionaries. They taught me the fundamentals of the gospel and called me almost every day. They became my good friends, which made me really happy because I didn’t have very many friends yet.
I started meeting many members of the Church who went to the missionary lessons with me and became good friends with them. They taught me the gospel and set the example for me. Justin talked to me about the Book of Mormon and told me stories from it so that I wanted to read it for myself. Another friend, Shingo, who is very detail-oriented, discussed doctrines with me in a way that was easy for me to understand. He always bore his testimony at the end of our conversations.
I had found something I believed in and a place I felt I belonged. After I was baptized and confirmed, I started to think about serving a mission, but I was worried about dedicating two years to it. I talked to a lot of people about serving a mission, especially my returned missionary friends. I thought a lot about it, and I realized that the gospel was the only thing that could have saved me.
I know that God has given me everything: my dreams, hope, friends, and especially love. The gospel helped me come out of darkness into the light.

Layna Cahone ran lightly up the front steps of the house and into the living room. “Dad,” she called, “are you home?”
“In the kitchen.”
She went to the kitchen doorway. Her father stood by the stove, stirring something in a small pan. “I knew that you’d be too busy again to fix supper,” he said, “so I opened a can of soup.”
Layna felt a quick stab of guilt. She had thought having just herself and her father home would be rather enjoyable. Charles was in the service, and Mother had gone to help Anne with her first baby. Layna had promised that she’d see to it that her father had adequate meals and clean clothes, but she realized now that she’d been pretty lax.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier, Dad,” she told him, “but I was talking to Debbie and forgot the time. You want toast with your soup?”
“Never mind, dear, but it would be nice if you would—”
“Oh, good grief,” she cried, “just look how late it is! I’m supposed to be at a meeting—decorating committee for the dance. May I take the car?”
He inclined his head slightly toward the hook behind the door where the car keys hung. Hurrying out, Layna thought briefly that her father must have had an especially tiring day. The lines around his mouth appeared deeper than usual, and his skin looked gray.
For a moment Layna paused with her hand on the car door. She really should go back and at least fix him dessert; but then, remembering the confusion in the school auditorium—decorations half finished, no decision made on the music—she climbed into the car and drove away.
Darkness had fallen before she reached home again. All the windows were dark. Wondering where her father could have gone, Layna turned on the kitchen lights. His soup, uneaten, was on the kitchen table. A cold chill went through her.
“Dad?” She flipped on a lamp in the living room. Her father lay on the couch. His hands, clenched into fists, were on his chest and his eyes were closed. Layna ran to him and bent down, realizing at once that he was fighting desperately to breathe.
“Oh, Daddy,” she cried, “what is it? What’s the matter?”
His eyes opened. “Heart,” he gasped hoarsely. “Doctor—”
Layna rushed to the phone, grateful that emergency numbers were written down, because her fingers shook so badly she had trouble dialing the doctor’s home number. She breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving when Dr. Shannon, answering, said, “An ambulance will be there in just a few minutes. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
But even though she knew that little more than fifteen minutes had passed before she and her father were speeding toward the hospital, Layna hadn’t known a stretch of time could be so agonizingly long. She looked at her father, lying half conscious on a stretcher, telling herself over and over, “I wouldn’t know what to do if my father died.” What would life be like without the good, quiet man whose gentle strength had supported her every day of her life? She knew that a world without him would be not only empty but frightening.
At the hospital her father was wheeled down a long, busy corridor. After she could no longer see him, Layna stood, not knowing what to do, until a nurse came to ask if she could register for her father at the front desk.
In the office a woman asked, “Does your father carry insurance?” and Layna remembered the card he carried in his wallet.
“I’ll have the orderly get it and bring it to you,” the lady said.
The sight of the wallet, handed to her a few moments later by a young man in a white coat, made Layna intensely aware of the seriousness of her father’s condition. She took the wallet, feeling the soft leather, worn smooth, and after giving the woman the necessary information, she went to call her mother, who assured her that she’d be there by morning. Then she sat in the waiting room, holding the wallet tightly, as though she could gain comfort from something that was his.
Thinking of how many important things the wallet held, Layna remembered a picture that she knew her father had carried for a while—a snapshot of herself and Charles and Anne taken in the mountains one summer. Wondering whether the picture was still there, she opened the wallet. As she did so, a tightly folded piece of paper fell out.
Absently she unfolded it. As she read the brief paragraph, she knew with a stabbing sense of her own failure that a letter she had seen in a newspaper the week before, one that had touched her, had also been seen and saved by her father.
She read the clipping again: “I have lived nearly fifty-five years and have worked hard to care for my family. My children have all they need. Why can’t they see me as a person who loves them and needs their affection? I’d gladly give every cent I have if my son or one of my daughters would only take my hand and say, ‘I love you, Dad.’”
Layna folded the clipping carefully as tears streamed down her cheeks. Oh, Daddy, she thought, don’t die. I want a chance to say what I’ve been too thoughtless to say to you all these years.
Slowly the hours passed. Layna rested, eyes closed, remembering many little things about her father, such as the day when she was in her early years at school and had complained because he absentmindedly took steps that were too long, and then how, smiling, he had shortened his stride to fit hers. She thought about one of her birthdays; he had come home from work looking a little sheepish because the stuffed tiger he’d bought for her was too big to wrap.
She remembered big things, too, like the time she’d had her appendix out and had awakened to see her father sitting beside her bed. She had known immediately that she’d be all right. She thought of the nights when she’d gone on dates and he had told her, “I know we can trust you.”
Just then Dr. Shannon came into the room. Jumping up, Layna ran to him. He put his hand on her arm.
“Everything’s fine, Layna,” he assured her gently. “Your father’s resting.”
After drawing a shaky breath, Layna asked, “Can I see him?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, but just for a minute.”
Slowly, feeling almost shy, Layna entered the room where her father lay on a high, narrow bed. How strange, she thought, to see him so quiet, this big man who was always busy and interested. His face was white, but the worry lines on his forehead seemed eased, his eyes composed.
Pulling a chair close to the bed, Layna sat down. She looked at her father and smiled, then covered his strong, work-worn hand with hers.
“Daddy,” she said softly, “I love you.”

Many of Samoa’s early Saints were exiled, persecuted and even executed for their faith. In 1904, prophet and President of the Church, Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918), directed the purchase of 800 fertile acres up in the green hills of rural Upolu. This land would provide a refuge for members of the Church.
The people praised the Lord for His kindness and dedicated the 800 acres with a prayer that it might “become a choice land and a fit place for Saints to gather and become a choice people of the Lord.” They then voted to call this place: “Sauniatu,” which means “prepare to go forth.”
Starting over wasn’t easy but the early villagers moved forward in faith, planting crops, building homes and chapels, and founding a school for their children.

Another profound influence in Elder Orton’s life was his grandmother Mildred Riggs, who lived with the family after the death of her husband. She set an example of personal righteousness and self-discipline, reading the scriptures faithfully every day and choosing to serve a mission while in her late 60s. “When the time came for me to consider going on a mission, I began to think of my grandmother and the kind of person she had been,” Elder Orton recalls. “Finally I said to myself, If Grandma Riggs can do it, you can do it, and you should do it.” Elder Orton subsequently served in the French Mission, an experience he credits with deepening his love for the restored gospel.

We had a similar experience when we called another man to be the president of our stake mission. Through some discouraging experiences in Church service, he thought himself halfway on the road to apostasy and not at all sure of his testimony. He resisted his appointment vigorously, saying that it would deprive him of time to do some of the most enjoyable things in life. We explained to him how once again we had sought the direction from the Lord about who should preside over the mission. We told him that he was not being forced to accept the call, but that he should ask his Heavenly Father whether or not it was right for him to serve. The Lord gave him a powerful assurance that he was called to the work. The following year he, with his missionaries, baptized nearly ten percent of all the nonmembers in our stake. Later on, he was called to be a bishop.

Bryan’s favorite family home evening lesson was one his mom gave on repentance. She hid paper footprints around the house. Each footprint had a step of repentance written on it. The children first had to find the hidden steps. “I found some and let Rachel find some,” Bryan recalls. Then the family talked about each one and put them in order on the floor. Then each person walked on the footprints, naming the steps of repentance as he or she went.

“I want to be a missionary. I’ve been reading the scriptures to prepare.”

Bryan knows that all Latter-day Saints have been called to be a light to the world and that his home is a “lighthouse” for neighbors and friends. His family is looking forward to going to yet another house of light—the holy temple—where they will be sealed for time and eternity. They want all the light they can get.