Gospel Story Finder

Going to high school for the first time was so intimidating. No one else in my school was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and a lot of my classmates’ standards were different from mine. I wanted to make friends without having to lower my own standards, but that can be hard when you’re living in a country where it’s uncommon to have faith.
I stood out in my school. I didn’t drink alcohol or coffee and didn’t join the smokers during lunch breaks. I was bullied by a lot of my classmates. Sometimes my personal items like my phone or bike keys would be stolen and thrown in the trash or hidden somewhere in the school. I didn’t know what to do. I felt beaten, broken, and worthless.
But things began to change when I decided I would always pray on my knees before going to sleep and pour my heart out to Heavenly Father. I did this for many, many nights. The answer to my prayer didn’t come immediately, but over time I became stronger mentally.
The bullying never really stopped, but it didn’t affect me the same way as before. I felt Heavenly Father’s love for me and knew that He was listening to my prayers. I could feel His arms around me, protecting me.
Rosa-Lynn R., Netherlands

I was born in Fontana, California. Both my mother and father struggled with substance abuse, and they divorced when I was 18 months old. As I grew up, I found fellowship and safety in each of the four Christian churches within walking distance of my home. When I was 13, I watched an advertisement for a free Book of Mormon and decided to order it. This eventually led to my baptism in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My parents didn’t seem to care one way or the other about my joining the Church.
About a year later, I attended a special youth fireside where the stake patriarch spoke about patriarchal blessings. I had never heard of them. I was only 14 at the time, and I figured it would at least be another two years before I was mature enough to even think about getting mine.
Two weeks later, Brother Clark, my neighbor, was driving me to early-morning seminary and said, “Thomas, Sister Clark and I have been thinking about you and wonder how you felt about the patriarchal blessing fireside.”
“Getting a patriarchal blessing sounds wonderful,” I said. “I hope to get one when I’m mature and ready!”
“You could start thinking about getting one sooner,” he said. “It can really help you through difficult circumstances.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I replied, “but I’m afraid if I got it too soon, it wouldn’t be everything I wanted it to be.”
A few days passed, and Brother Clark brought it up again. “I know we’re only your neighbors and don’t have the right to receive revelation for you, but we believe you should get your blessing.”
Though I was touched by his thoughtfulness, I was still unsure. However, the following Sunday, my bishop called me into his office and said, “Thomas, Brother Clark has told me his feelings about your blessing. I have prayed about it, and I agree with him. I feel very strongly that you should get your patriarchal blessing. Please reconsider.”
With all the courage I could muster, I said, “OK, I’ll do it. I hope I’m ready.”
“I’m glad,” the bishop replied, “because I made you an appointment with the patriarch this evening.”
The blessing was a sacred experience, and Heavenly Father exceeded my desires that day. But this isn’t where my story ends.
Five days later, I received the hard copy of my blessing in the mail. That same day, my mother and stepfather sat me down and informed me that they had made some decisions. In the time since my baptism, they had built up a great dislike toward my membership in the Church. They told me they were sending me to my dad’s house in Las Vegas and handed me a bus ticket.
The following day, I arrived at my dad’s. The first thing I did was look up the nearest meetinghouse for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. But my dad yelled, “You are no longer a Mormon! Got that? John Smith was not a prophet, and the bronze plates are a hoax!” He then took my scriptures and Church magazines and wouldn’t allow me to talk to anyone from the Church.
I went to my room devastated. But I suddenly remembered the envelope I had tucked into my jacket pocket the day before. My patriarchal blessing! My parents had taken a lot of things, but they didn’t know anything about patriarchal blessings. I was overjoyed.
For the next three and a half years, I wasn’t allowed to set foot in a Latter-day Saint building. Having my patriarchal blessing was crucial for me during this time.
I know that God could foresee the struggle I would have in the coming years in high school and beyond. I am so glad I did not put off receiving my blessing because of my fears and assumptions. My patriarchal blessing truly is a great blessing from my Father in Heaven.
The author lives in Virginia, USA.

In 1919, Abigail Kailimai was four years old. She lived with her mother and father and all her older brothers and sisters in the town of Hilo on the big island of Hawaii. From her house, she could see the beautiful ocean where seals, turtles, whales, and many colorful fish swam.
Towering over her town was the large mountain called Mauna Kea. Thick rain forests and green pastures grew between her house and the mountain. Abigail could sometimes see puffs of smoke in the sky from volcanoes on the other side of the mountain.
Her father often told her wonderful stories. Her favorite story was about the temple then being built almost two hundred miles away on the island of Oahu. Father told her how, long ago, Joseph F. Smith had come to Hawaii as a missionary. The year Abigail was born, he had returned as President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and had dedicated a sugarcane field where the Church would build a temple. Father told her the ground there was now holy because the prophet had blessed it.
Father told Abigail how much the Hawaiian people loved President Smith. They called him Iosepa, the Hawaiian name for Joseph. Father’s eyes sparkled when he told Abigail what a wonderful place the temple would be. He promised to take her and her family to the temple when it was built so that they could be sealed together forever.
On Sundays, Abigail’s family went to church. Some people walked to church, and some rode horses. Father had an automobile. The whole family climbed inside it and rode to church. She loved learning about Jesus there. Her teacher often talked about the holy temple that was being built.
One day, Abigail’s mother told her the temple was almost finished! Their family needed to get ready to make the long journey there. Mother sewed new white dresses for Abigail and her sisters. They had been saving their money for a long time so that they could sail to Oahu.
Father told them that they needed to get ready to go to the holy temple in other ways, too. They needed to try to act as Jesus would, so that they would be worthy to go inside His house. Mother wrote down the names of her grandparents and great-grandparents and other relatives who had died so that they could be sealed to the family, too.
Finally the day came for them to leave. Abigail wore her prettiest dress and carried a small bag with her new white dress in it. Their friends came to give them flower leis to wear around their necks and to wish them a good journey. Abigail and her family climbed into the boat and were soon far out on the ocean.
Father showed Abigail how smoke and steam came out of the boat’s smokestack. The steam made the boat go. Abigail liked to watch the boat slice through the waves and to see the dolphins swimming alongside. After a very long day, they finally arrived in Oahu.
Abigail and her family went to the town of Laie, where the new temple had been built. One of the families living there invited them to stay in their home. Abigail shared a room where all the girls slept. In the morning, the children went outside and played in the sand dunes near the beach.
The next day, November 27, 1919, President Heber J. Grant came to dedicate the temple. Abigail could feel that the temple was a wonderful, holy place. After the dedication, the Saints held a luau, or big feast, to celebrate. They ate pork, chicken, fish, bananas, rice, and coconuts. They sang beautiful songs.
One week after the temple was dedicated, Abigail and her family went inside it to be sealed together. She wore her new white dress. Father told her that now their family could be together even after they went to heaven. Abigail felt so happy!

I'm thinking of a special prayer with Sister Shumway not long after we came to Hawaii. I knelt in frustration and deep resentment against a ward leader who had heaped insult and abuse on my wife. It was totally out of line, uncalled for, and I was determined he was going to pay for it. But in the prayer I experienced a total change of heart, not unlike what happened to the people of King Benjamin at the conclusion of his address. There was no more disposition or desire to do evil. Resentment and frustration were washed out of my system and replaced by a warm affection for and understanding of the offending leader, which led finally to a close friendship.

After my conversion, I became a better husband and father. My wife and children could not believe how much I changed. My two oldest boys, Amadou and Gausou, began to ask about the Church and read the Book of Mormon. They were baptized in 1984. Soon they were inviting other young people to see Church films and to meet the American members who lived in Mali. We had no official branch, but I kept a history of our sacrament meetings in a green book with the word Record on the cover.

As a Church member, I received many blessings. Then came a period that greatly tried my faith. In February 1988, I lost my job as a teacher and my position as a leader in the teachers’ union. I was thwarted on all sides in my efforts to find work. My life had been dedicated to teaching. How would I now support my wife and six children? And how would I feed the eleven other relatives who, for economic reasons, were living in our home?

Everybody worked hard to bring in money. My wife took in sewing, while Amadou and Gausou used a lathe to make tools to sell. Their younger brother cleaned shoes. Even my mother opened a small business selling spices. Eventually I had to sell the family car, for which we had saved for years. I pleaded with the Lord to help me provide for my family.

During this difficult time, a package arrived from Church officials in Salt Lake City containing a simplified version of Gospel Principles, which had been translated into Bambara. They asked if I would check the translation and then translate twelve hymns. As soon as I began this work, I realized its importance and tried to do it as correctly as possible. I struggled many times to find the right word or expression. Then, at other times, my mind would open in a remarkable way—as though someone were dictating to me. (When I finished the translations, I asked them to keep most of the money they were to pay me. I considered it my tithing.) I continued to pray constantly because of our desperate situation.

Little did I guess what would happen next. In May, I received a letter from an old friend, an American doctor named James Ferwarda. I had met Dr. Ferwarda during his visit to Mali in 1985. At his request, I had accompanied him on a tour of my country. Now, to my great surprise, he was sending me a round-trip airplane ticket and inviting me to visit him at his home in the United States!

I was astonished, overwhelmed at his offer. But it seemed impossible for me to leave my family at this critical time. The Church members urged me to accept the invitation, however. Perhaps, they said, the Lord would open the way for me to go to the temple while I was in the United States. Like many members, I cherished the dream of attending the temple “someday.”

Still dumbfounded, I did go, “not knowing beforehand the things which I should do.” (See 1 Ne. 4:6.) It was incredible that someone who was barely surviving financially could make such an expensive trip. After I arrived in the United States, Dr. Ferwarda learned of my deep desire to attend the temple, which was more than 2,000 kilometers away. Although he was not a member of the Church, he told me, “I respect your opinion, and I will pay for your ticket to Salt Lake City, too.”

I visited the Church offices as soon as I arrived in Salt Lake City. I will never, ever forget that day. Elder Alexander Morrison of the Seventy ordained me an elder. Then I went to the temple and received the endowment. Everyone in the temple was so kind. The beauty and serenity there moved me deeply. I was also impressed by the young missionaries, whom I saw for the first time. Now I knew that I wanted my sons to serve missions.

The next day, I visited the offices of a humanitarian organization that sponsors a number of agricultural and educational projects in Mali. Hoping that they might need my services, I met with several administrators but returned to Mali without a job offer.

Our family’s trial of faith lasted five more months. During that time I was grateful for the temple ordinances, which strengthened me. Nevertheless, I often felt like a man who was drowning in a deep river. Daily I entreated the Lord to deliver us from our economic crisis. Then, in November, the miracle came. The humanitarian organization that I had met with in Salt Lake City sent me a telegram, notifying me that I had been hired as their new field director. I knew without a doubt that only the Lord’s hand had plucked me from the river.

My job is a challenging one, requiring negotiations with government officials, local trainers, and village chiefs. Whenever I begin something that seems impossible, someone is sure to say, “You will never accomplish that!” But I know the Lord has the power to help me. I pray, and things work out somehow. I am still not rich, but I can feed my family and the others who depend on me. And now I am able to travel to Utah on business once a year. During these visits, I go to the temple, and I am sometimes able to attend general conference.

Other things have happened, wonderful things. In 1992 my son Amadou completed his mission to French-speaking Canada. There he helped to teach and baptize many people, including African immigrants and Moslems. Now both he and Gausou are studying in the United States. Gausou, too, wants to serve a mission some day. I pray that he will, and that all the rest of my family will join the Church. I pray that all of my children will be good students and honest citizens.

I look forward to the day when the Church will be organized in Mali. As of this writing, I am the only resident member of the Church here. I sustain myself spiritually by praying in all circumstances and by reading the Book of Mormon. And I still have in my care a worn green book with the word Record on the cover. But in my heart I carry another record. I will remember forever how the Lord has poured out his blessings upon me.

Consider this example from the life of Elder Dallin H. Oaks:
When he was a young man, he looked forward to serving a full-time mission. But one week after he graduated from high school, war broke out in Korea, and young Dallin Oaks was sent into military duty and was unavailable for missionary service.
Many years later, when Elder Oaks was 48 years old, he was appointed to the Utah Supreme Court. At that time, Elder Oaks and his wife, June, made a plan for the rest of their lives. They determined that he would serve for 20 years on the court and then retire at age 68, after which they would submit their mission papers and serve, as a couple, the full-time mission neither of them got to serve in their youth.
Well, it didn't quite work out that way. Just four years later, Elder Oaks was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles--not exactly the kind of thing you plan ahead for. He would still be serving the Lord, just not in the capacity he anticipated. Then, when he was 66, his wife, June, died of cancer. And two years later, he married his current wife, Kristen.
Elder Oaks observed, "How fundamentally different my life is than I had sought to plan! My professional life has changed. My personal life has changed. But the commitment I made to the Lord--to put Him first in my life and to be ready for whatever He would have me do--has carried me through these changes of eternal importance."[9]

“On the other hand, think of some of our elders coming from the country or the reservation to a larger city for the first time. These new experiences are fun and challenging. Do you remember Elder Descheenie?”
“Sure, I remember him. He was a Navajo elder, dark eyes, black curly hair, and a wide smile that made you wonder what he had been up to. He was a good elder.”
“That’s him all right, and he was a good elder. Let me share this story from a letter I received from him: ‘Did I ever tell you about my first and second day at the MTC? Well, I was the only Navajo speaker that went to the MTC that first day. On my first day there I did all right in finding my apartment and classes, but my second day I got up late and came to find out that everybody had gone to their classes already that morning, so I took a shower and decided to go to class, too, but couldn’t find my class. I walked in every hall and every building but still couldn’t find my classroom, so I just gave up and decided to go back to my apartment and stay there until my companion came back.
“‘So I was headed to my apartment, but I couldn’t even find my own apartment either, so I decided to try the building that was next to me there. I still couldn’t find my own room, so I started toward the rest room when I saw many girls headed into the building that I was in, and I thought to myself, I couldn’t be in the girls building could I? The girls were still headed this way, and I thought to myself again, I must be! I ran out of there flying, and I was so lost I didn’t know what to do so I walked over to the bookstore and there I found my companion. Was I ever glad to see him again!
“‘I told him what had happened to me, and he was about to die laughing at me. Anyway those were the good old days. We had some baptisms last Saturday, and we’ve got some more coming up too. I was going to write you a long letter, but I’m running out of news so I’m going to close here and do some more work. Have a nice day, and thanks for everything, and we’ll see you soon. …
“‘Elder D.’

Years ago, while immersed in the task of preparing a talk for general conference, I was aroused from a sound sleep with an idea impressed strongly upon my mind. Immediately I reached for pencil and paper near my bed and wrote as rapidly as I could. I went back to sleep, knowing I had captured that great impression. The next morning I looked at that piece of paper and found, much to my dismay, that my writing was totally illegible! I still keep pencil and paper at my bedside, but I write more carefully now.

Not everyone can go to BYU, at least not in his freshman year when he lives only 15 miles from another college, Mark thought as he made his way to a desk in the large amphitheater prior to his first class at State College.
He glanced at the 60 other strangers who had also elected to take Sociology 119. Many of them were also freshmen, opening their cellophane-wrapped notebooks for the first time.
He looked to see if he could recognize any members of the Church. As far as he could tell, he was the only Mormon on campus.
Two rows ahead of him was a girl who caught his attention. It was not her long hair flowing softly over her shoulders or her high cheek bones that caught his eye. She was reading a Bible.
The instructor, Dr. Guthrie, entered the classroom. He wore a turtleneck sweater and carried an old pipe that he carefully filled with tobacco as he waited for the bell to ring. He looked to be about 30 years old. Mark’s adviser had told him that Dr. Guthrie was one of the most popular teachers on campus. He had won teaching awards for the past three years.
Dr. Guthrie began his lecture by telling the class that he was a little “hung over” from a party the night before, but that he’d try to muddle through. He opened with a joke.
Mark looked around at the others in the class. For the most part they were happy to find an instructor who was “human.”
Dr. Guthrie talked for a few minutes about the course requirements, then switched to another joke that ended with a string of swear words.
The class roared its approval.
The girl in front of him raised her hand.
“Yes,” Dr. Guthrie said.
She stood up, cradling her Bible in her arms. She stood with dignity and said calmly, “I’m a Christian, Dr. Guthrie, and I believe the Bible is the word of God. The Bible teaches that taking the Lord’s name in vain is a sin.”
Mark stared at this beautiful girl with no make-up who had the courage to face 60 people and declare her standards. At the same time he felt embarrassed for her, knowing the reaction of the rest of the class.
Dr. Guthrie studied her thoughtfully for a moment, trying to decide whether to humiliate her in front of the class or let it go.
“What’s your name?”
“Sara Taylor.”
“Okay, Sara. Thank you. I’ll try and control my language.”
Dr. Guthrie examined his notes for several seconds, and then, looking up with a sly grin, announced, “Sara has just wiped out half my lecture.”
Loud laughter pulsed through the large amphitheater.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ve got four jokes I won’t be able to tell today, but if anybody wants to hear them,” he said, with a mischievous grin, “come down after class and I’ll whisper them to you.”
“Just send her out in the hall when you want to tell a joke,” someone suggested.
“I’m afraid she’d be in the hall all the time,” Dr. Guthrie kidded.
He’s the Pied Piper of State College, Mark thought.
After class, while the rest stayed to hear the jokes, Mark followed Sara out of the amphitheater into the hall.
“Sara?” he called after her.
“Yes?” she turned to face him.
“I agree with what you said about the Bible.”
“Do you? I didn’t hear you say anything in class.” She turned and hurried away.
As Mark drove the 15 miles home that night, he rehearsed in his mind that first class, trying to picture himself standing up as she had done. Deep down, however, he knew he couldn’t have done it.
As he drove, he remembered his disastrous first-grade school year in a small farm community, reliving the panic as he attempted to answer a teacher’s question but stuttered so badly she finally turned to someone else for the answer. On the playground that year, other boys in the class had mimicked him day after day until finally he would not even go out for recess.
They had moved to a larger town after that year, and careful professional therapy had helped him overcome the problem, but the emotional scars were still there. He couldn’t speak to large groups.
The next class started out with Dr. Guthrie being careful to control his speech. He was an excellent teacher, Mark had to admit, and only used the jokes as a diversion to keep everyone awake.
Halfway through the class, sensing students beginning to tire of sociology, he told a joke that would have made any truck driver blush. There was raucous laughter from a group of guys who sat on the last row.
Sara’s hand shot up again.
Dr. Guthrie saw her and, with a grin, announced, “Oh, oh, I’ve been a bad boy. Yes, Sara.”
Again she rose to her feet, and with a calm voice said, “The Bible teaches that adultery is a sin.”
“That may be true, Sara, but I don’t believe the Bible. I’m an agnostic, and any reference you make to the Bible is meaningless to me. I am more interested in what can be verified and proven. Please confine your statements to something having intellectual merit.”
She sat down. I wonder if Dr. Guthrie ever loses, Mark thought.
After class, Mark stopped her in the hall.
“Can I buy you a donut and a glass of milk?”
“Why?”
“I want to talk with you.”
They went to the student union cafeteria and found a table in the corner.
“Sara, I admire you for your courage.”
For the first time, she seemed to relax, realizing that he wasn’t going to argue with her.
“I know I don’t do it very well, but I have to say something. I just can’t let him walk over everything I cherish.”
That she dunked her donut in her milk made her seem a little more human to Mark.
She continued: “Before class today a girl came over and said that she hoped I wasn’t trying for a good grade in the class. I asked her if she had been quiet in class because of wanting a good grade, and she said, ‘Sure, I’ll believe whatever he wants me to believe for an A.’”
“Oh,” Mark said, feeling a little condemned by the story.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked as gently as she could.
He looked at her eyes, trying to decide if he could confide in her. She did not carry with her any arrogance.
“I’m afraid,” he answered honestly.
“Anybody would be nervous; that’s natural.”
“No, it’s more than that. When I was young, I had a speech problem. I overcame that, but the fear of being laughed at is still there.”
“Exodus, chapter 4, verses 10, 11, and 12 [Ex. 4:10–12],” she answered with a grin.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Here, I’ll write it down and you look it up later.” She wrote the reference on a napkin and gave it to him. He put it in his wallet.
“Are you a Christian?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, wondering how much more he should tell her.
“Someday you’re going to have to show it. Jesus will help you.”
He wondered why this girl, who had only a fraction of the scriptural knowledge about the Savior that he had could be so much better at showing her love for Him.
“Will you help me?” he asked her.
“Yes, of course.”
“Dr. Guthrie knows his business, but maybe we could be more effective if we could meet him in his own arena, you know, ‘intellectual merit.’ My Sunday School teacher is a trial lawyer. He knows how to present a case before a jury. I’m sure he’ll help us. Will you come with me to my Sunday School?”
“What church is that?” she asked.
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The one we go to is 15 miles from here. I could pick you up at your dorm.”
Sunday he picked her up at 7:30 in the morning so he could attend priesthood meeting. She attended a Sunday session of Relief Society.
After class he saw her coming out of the classroom. She was upset.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Take me back to the dorms or I’m walking.”
“Why?”
“This is the Mormon church.”
“Yes, that’s another name.”
“And you’re a Mormon?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been deceived,” she said, turning and walking quickly out of the building.
He ran after her. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Back to the dorm.” She stopped and accused him, “You’re not a Christian.”
“How can you say that? How could a church that is named after the Savior not be Christian?”
“What about the Book of Mormon?” she said. “That’s your Bible, isn’t it?”
She turned and ran from him. He ran after her. After half a block she slowed down to a fast walk. She wouldn’t allow him to walk beside her, and so he maintained a ten-foot distance behind her.
A few blocks from the church, a family driving to church who knew Mark stopped and asked him if he needed any help. He asked them to tell his parents that he’d be late. Before they left, he asked if he could borrow a copy of the Book of Mormon. They willingly agreed.
He had to run to catch up with Sara. By this time they were outside the small town and were walking along a gravel road that eventually led to the highway back to the college.
“Sara, you can’t walk 15 miles.”
“Watch me.”
“Sara, listen to me. I’m going to read you the flyleaf from the Book of Mormon.” She sped up, but Mark stayed close enough so she could hear him: “‘… to the convincing of the Jew and Gentile that Jesus is the Christ, the Eternal God, manifesting himself unto all nations …’”
“Do you have several wives?” she snapped.
“I don’t even have one, and if all women are as unreasonable as you, I may keep it that way.”
She kept on walking.
A few minutes later, he tried again. “Sara, I’m going to read from the Book of Mormon about the Savior. Did you know that he visited people in the New World after his resurrection?”
No answer.
Mark began reading aloud in chapter 11 of 3 Nephi [3 Ne. 11]. As he began, she again sped up, trying to get out of hearing range of his voice.
It was difficult to both read and watch where he was walking. He fell down once but quickly got up and continued.
After a few pages she slowed down.
He read aloud to her to the end of 3 Nephi. It took two hours.
Then, finally, she stopped and turned around. “What you’ve been reading, it’s in the Book of Mormon?”
“Yes.”
She began walking toward him. She passed him, standing there, and kept on going, now heading back to town.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
“Back to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Sara?” he called after her.
“What?” she asked, not breaking stride.
“Can I walk beside you?”
She stopped and turned around. It was the first smile he had seen from her that morning.
By the time they reached town, the other ward was about to begin their sacrament meeting. He ushered her to the second row.
It was fast and testimony meeting, and it was one of those meetings that you hope will never end. At one point he looked over and saw tears streaming down Sara’s face.
After the meeting they drove to the home of Brother Packard, who was a lawyer and Mark’s Sunday School teacher. He agreed to help them debate the concepts presented by Dr. Guthrie. They stayed so long that they were invited for a light supper. While Sara helped Sister Packard in the kitchen, Mark called his parents to explain what had happened. He also called the elders to arrange a time for the missionary discussions for Sara.
During the next week Mark and Sara prepared to debate the opinions of Dr. Guthrie. They spent several hours a day in the library taking notes from reports that would sustain their position in regard to chastity, family life, and use of drugs. They used a shoe box to file their notes. On Thursday they met with Brother Packard who coached them.
Friday night Sara received her first discussion.
On Saturday morning Mark took her rock climbing in the mountains near the college. She had never climbed before, so he chose an easy route.
The air was crisp, and the leaves on the aspen trees along the canyon had begun to turn various shades of gold and yellow. They were both quiet as they made their way up a rock cliff, talking only when necessary, somehow trying to disturb as little as possible the beauty around them.
Finally they reached the top of the rimrock and sat down. He pulled two apples from his small pack. They munched on the apples slowly and watched the morning progress into day.
She looks best out here, he thought to himself. On campus, if she were placed alongside a girl who uses make-up, Sara would look plain, but out here where simplicity is a mark of beauty, she looks good.
“Last night I woke up and started to cry,” she said quietly.
“What for?”
“The problem I face is, what if your teachings are true?”
“They are.”
“Mark, you can’t be right. God would’ve told more people. How many Mormons are there?”
“Four million.”
“And those four million are right, and everybody else is wrong?”
“The priesthood has been restored.”
“I know that’s what you believe.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked her. “What’s really bothering you?”
“Okay, I’ll tell you. My mother. All last night I worried about my mother. She’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” she said, fighting back the tears. While she waited to gain composure, she picked up a small gold leaf from the ground and examined it.
“My mother was a good person. Dad and Mom were always dedicated Christians. I never was. When I was 14, I rebelled against them. I did everything I could to hurt them. When I was 17, I ran away from home. I wound up in California, living with a group of other girls who had also left their homes. We were pretty wild.
“One day I went with some other girls to hear an evangelist speak. We went on a lark, but as he spoke, my heart softened and all the bitterness left me. I made a promise to dedicate my whole life to Jesus. As soon as I could scrape up the money, I took a bus home.
“All the way home on the bus, I thought how happy Mom and Dad would be to see that I’d finally accepted Jesus as my Savior. When I arrived home, I found that my mother had died four weeks earlier. She never saw me as a Christian. We were never united as a family.”
She let the leaf slip from her hand and fall to the ground. “What about my mother? Is she to be condemned for never hearing about Joseph Smith?”
He reached into his pack and pulled out his Bible and also his three-in-one combination.
“Do you have an answer?” she asked, surprised at seeing his broad smile.
“The most beautiful answer in the world,” he said, turning to the Pearl of Great Price.
In the afternoon they found a path in the woods and followed it for miles. They talked about many things, both large and small, but once, during their walk, she turned and asked if they could talk about the Savior, and it was like two people getting together and sharing news about a cherished friend whom neither had seen for some time, each sharing memories of his experience with that friend. Sara told of His mission to bring salvation to the world, and of His love for even those who have sinned. Mark told of His appearances to Joseph Smith and other prophets, and that He was speaking to a prophet in our day.
As he said good-bye to her at the dorm, she said, “Mark, I must tell my father that I’m learning about Mormonism. I owe him that.”
Sunday night she received the second missionary lesson.
Tuesday night he picked her up at the library at closing time, and they drove to a diner on the highway for a snack. She seemed very distant and tense as he drove.
When the waitress came to take their order, Sara said abruptly, “I’ll take a cup of coffee.”
After the waitress left, Mark asked, “Why? Why did you order coffee?”
“Why not? Do you think I’ll be damned if I have one cup? Are you that close-minded?”
“You’ve never ordered coffee before,” he argued.
“There’s no reason I can’t drink coffee. I’m not a Mormon, you know.” Her voice was sharp, her face hard.
“You’re drinking it just to spite me.”
The waitress put down two rolls and her cup of coffee and his glass of milk. Sara eagerly took a sip.
“Would you like some?” she taunted.
“No.”
“Why not? Afraid it will kill you?”
“Why are you acting this way?”
“My father received my letter today. He called me tonight after supper and read me some things about Mormonism from a book he’d found in the library. They are quite different from what you’ve been telling me.”
“And you’re going to believe him?”
“Why shouldn’t I? He’s my father.”
“Will you at least finish reading the Book of Mormon and taking the missionary lessons?”
“No. I’m through.”
“And so you’re just going to believe what is in some anti-Mormon book without completely investigating our teachings?”
“I’m past the rebellious stage. Do you know what I put my father through when I ran away from home? I can’t hurt him anymore. I love my father.” She hastily got up. “Good-bye, Mark.”
She hurried out of the diner. He threw down a dollar bill on the counter and ran after her.
“Where are you going?” he asked, running to catch up with her as she ran along the side of the road.
She stopped to confront him. “Leave me alone!” she yelled. “Go find someone else to convert!”
“Look, you say you love your father. Fine. I’d expect that of you. But do you love your mother?”
“She’s dead.”
“I believe she’s waiting for you to accept the message of the Restoration. At least give me five minutes.”
They turned and walked back toward his car. He drove her to the parking lot near her dorm and parked the car. During that time, he tried to decide what to say, praying in his mind for help.
“Sara, you know a lot about the Bible. I want to talk about something that is in the Bible. When Jesus was on the earth, he was not accepted by most people as the Messiah. One of the reasons was that he was from Galilee, but the scriptures testified that the Messiah would come from Bethlehem. Do you agree with me on that?”
“Yes, but he was born in Bethlehem.”
“I know. Hundreds of people rejected him because others, some of them influential and smart men, ‘proved’ that Jesus was not a true messenger. Any one of those people who rejected him could have asked Jesus about the apparent contradiction, and he would have told them that he had been born in Bethlehem.”
“I wouldn’t want to have made that mistake,” she said.
“Sara, don’t reject our message just because someone says that we’re wrong. Study it out. Finish reading the Book of Mormon. Finish the missionary lessons. Pray and ask God if it’s true. That’s all I’ll ever ask. Will you do that much?”
She studied his face carefully for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders and replied, “Okay, I will do that.”
Just before she left him outside the dorm, she reached out and held his hands. “Mark, I think we had better quit seeing each other. I will do as you’ve asked, but I don’t want to feel any pressure to accept your teachings because of my feelings for you. That wouldn’t be honest.”
And so they quit seeing each other except in their sociology class. Mark asked the missionaries after every discussion about her progress. She was having a difficult time.
Sara continued to voice her opposition to some of Dr. Guthrie’s views, but it was in her own way, and many in the class enjoyed seeing Dr. Guthrie systematically destroy her arguments.
Mark inherited the shoe box with references on recipe cards because Sara did not feel comfortable using them, but he had not yet spoken in class. The fear of being laughed at, as he had been when young, prevented him from speaking out. At night he would resolve that tomorrow would be different. He would practice in front of his mirror what he would say. But when morning came, he faltered.
Sara never did falter.
Another month rolled by. As Mark began his fast on Saturday, he decided to pray for help so that he could overcome his fear of speaking. He spent the afternoon in his bedroom praying for help.
Sunday morning, as he drove to priesthood meeting, he was stopped by the state police.
“Could I see your driver’s license?” the officer asked.
“Here it is,” Mark said, pulling it out from his wallet. “Is something wrong?”
“Your back license plate is about to fall off. You better get it fixed before you lose it.”
“Thanks. I’ll take care of it right away.”
After the policeman had left, Mark put his driver’s license back into his wallet. He noticed a small piece of napkin tucked in with the other cards. He pulled it out. There was writing on it—Exodus, chapter 4, verses 10, 11, and 12 [Ex 4:10–12]. He read the scripture while still parked alongside the road.
He saw Sara at church and went with her to the class taught by the missionaries. Near the end of the class, one of the elders asked what her reactions were after learning about the Church.
“It’s been very interesting,” she said lightly. “I think everyone should learn about other beliefs.”
Mark turned to her, “Is that all you can say?”
“What am I supposed to say? I told you my father doesn’t want me to become a Mormon.”
“Is the message true?” Mark asked. “That’s the first question to answer.”
“I love Jesus,” she answered. “Isn’t that enough?”
“How much do you love him? Enough to be baptized into his church? Enough to follow a prophet who receives revelation from Jesus?”
“Mark, when we’re together, why is it that I always end up crying?”
“Sara,” one of the missionaries gently asked, “will you pray and ask God if the Book of Mormon is true?”
She stared at the wall for several seconds. Finally she answered quietly, “I don’t need to ask. It is true. I’ve known that for days.”
“If you know that, will you be baptized?”
“Don’t you understand? I love my father. All he’s ever wanted from life is that I follow in his faith. He doesn’t want me to be a Mormon. It would hurt him deeply, and I’ve already hurt him so much. How can I ask him to let me be baptized?”
Mark placed his hand on her shoulder. “Once you gave me an answer for one of my problems. You told me, ‘Jesus will help you.’ Sara, he’ll help you too.”
On Monday, Mark arrived late and didn’t get to talk to Sara before class. Dr. Guthrie stated that they would discuss changes in the past ten years regarding dating and marriage. He quoted a number of surveys that showed a marked change in these areas.
“Have these changes been healthy?” he asked. “I think they have. The old religious philosophy of damnation for doing what was labeled sin is almost gone, and good riddance.”
Sara objected. “I believe that kind of physical intimacy is reserved for marriage.”
“And who reserved it only for marriage?” Dr. Guthrie asked, obviously baiting her.
“God,” she answered.
“I see,” he said with a smirk that was shared by many in the class. The group of guys on the back row began to boisterously sing “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Dr. Guthrie smiled and asked them to stop.
“Sara, I’m afraid your opinion is fast leaving the contemporary scene. Does anyone else feel the way Sara does?”
Mark knew that he must finally defend his beliefs.
“I do,” he said boldly, standing up to face Dr. Guthrie.
“Oh?” Dr. Guthrie asked, surprised at finding anyone else who would support Sara’s position. “And are you going to quote the Bible too?”
“Dr. Guthrie, I can understand that two people may have an honest difference of opinion, but you have delighted in making Sara look bad. I felt the implication from you that anyone who believes in Christianity is foolish. And I have sat by and let you do it. I should have stood long ago to defend my beliefs, but I didn’t. This is hard for me to do. Is there anyone else in here who has felt uncomfortable with the way Dr. Guthrie has treated Sara?”
A girl’s hand went up. Then another. Slowly, soberly, others raised their hands until there were 15 hands in the air.
“Thank you,” Mark continued. “You seem to take great sport in poking fun at the Bible. Have you ever read the Bible?”
“No. Not completely. I’ve got more important things to do.”
“Is it fair then to say that you are not an authority on the Bible?”
Dr. Guthrie’s smile had disappeared. “Yes.”
“On what basis do you choose to reject a book you’ve never read?”
“That’s beside the point. This is a sociology class.”
“I’ll get to that in a minute, but will you agree that there may be merit to the teachings of the Bible, but Bible study has been outside your area of expertise, and so we may treat your opinions on that subject differently than we might were you to speak about your area of research? Is that a fair statement?”
“Yes,” Dr. Guthrie said grimly.
“Thank you. I’d like to make one small suggestion about your teaching. I can see why you are rated so highly as a teacher. You deserve the tribute you receive. However, I have noticed that you seldom present more than one side of any issue. That to me is not very scholarly.”
Mark wished he had time to write out what he was saying in order to filter it. He was making mistakes, angering Dr. Guthrie, but he had to muddle through as best he could. He felt the sweat pouring down his shirt, and he knew that he was blushing.
“Last week you chose to speak about the legalization of marijuana. The week before we discussed open-coed dorms. In each of these issues your opinion matched that of the majority of the class. Today we will discuss a subject that, when we are through, will end up with you agreeing with the majority of the class that traditional religious sanctions on dating are old-fashioned. I am curious why you have chosen topics upon which you must know beforehand that there will be agreement between you and the class. Is that the price you pay for popularity as a teacher?”
There was utter silence in the room.
Too strong, Mark thought.
“Are you through?” Dr. Guthrie asked curtly.
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I don’t want to change anything in the class except to add a more balanced approach to the topics we discuss. If you would not be offended, I am prepared to present tomorrow an opposing viewpoint to your position concerning the subject of dating standards.”
After class Sara met him in the hall. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “Can we go for a walk?”
It was snowing lightly that morning. Large flakes settled gently on the lawn and trees and her hair.
“I called my dad this morning, and I told him that I loved him, and that I loved my mother—more now than ever before. I told him that Jesus has restored his gospel to the earth. I told him that this church holds the only opportunity that our family can ever have to be united together in heaven. I asked him to give me permission to be baptized. Mark, he said yes.”
He threw his arms around her, lifted her off her feet, and they spun around and around until they both fell down on the snow, laughing, crying, bubbling.
In a few minutes they continued their walk.
“After I talked to my father, I phoned Sister Packard and asked her to help me fill out a form so that someone can be baptized for my mother in the temple.”
“You’ve had a busy morning,” he said.
“We’ve both had a busy morning,” she said, squeezing his hand as they approached the cafeteria. “But you know what? It’s just the beginning of busy mornings and afternoons for both of us.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“This morning, when I phoned the missionaries to tell them I wanted to be baptized, we also talked about something else. Who do we need to contact about setting up an LDS institute program on campus?”

Joyce Baggerly of Provo, Utah, considers herself a member of the Lord’s kingdom on earth who happens to be single. “Being single in a mostly married church has never been a problem for me,” she says. “I would rather be married, but I’m not, so I do the best I can with what I have.”
When she moves into a new ward, she finds the executive secretary and requests an appointment with the bishop, and she makes sure the membership clerk requests her records.
“I introduce myself to the Relief Society president and request a visiting teaching assignment. The first fast Sunday, I bear my testimony of Jesus Christ and express how much I love the Savior. I attend every activity the ward has,” she says. “On the rare occasion when I come home from a meeting where I feel ignored, I say a prayer that I might be able to go again with the same cheerful countenance I usually have on Sunday and that I can keep that smile until I am accepted.”

It was a Thursday afternoon, and Carrie Roberts was on her way home from her piano lesson. She pedaled her bicycle down Mimosa Street past the park.
“Carrie! Carrie Roberts!” someone called.
Carrie turned toward the park. She saw her friend Peggy waving at her.
Carrie rode her bike over to Peggy.
“Hi, Peggy. What are you doing here?”
“I’m helping Mark. He’s practicing his running.”
Mark was Peggy’s retarded younger brother. Although Carrie felt sorry for Mark and knew that he wasn’t responsible for his condition, she felt uncomfortable around him.
Carrie watched Mark run awkwardly around the big track. “Why is he running?” she asked.
“He’s going to be in the Special Olympics next Saturday,” said Peggy proudly.
“What are the Special Olympics?” Carrie asked.
“They’re like the real Olympics, but they’re for handicapped kids,” Peggy explained. “They run races and everything.”
Just then Mark finished his run. He was panting, and his face was red.
Peggy hugged him. “That was good, Mark! Do you remember Carrie?”
Mark grinned a friendly, crooked grin. “Hi, Carrie,” he said. The words were slurred, as though his mouth was full of marbles.
“Hi, Mark,” Carrie replied. She tried to think of something else to say to him, but her mind was blank.
“I have a great idea, Carrie,” said Peggy. “Why don’t you come to the race Saturday? You can be a hugger.”
“What’s a hugger?”
“Huggers hug the kids after they finish their races. Everyone gets lots of hugs at the Special Olympics. Will you do it?”
“Well …” Carrie hesitated, trying desperately to think of an excuse. But she couldn’t. “I guess I can,” she said.
“Great!” Peggy said enthusiastically. “Be at Lincoln Junior High Saturday morning at ten o’clock.”
On her way home, Carrie felt awful. “I don’t want to be a hugger!” she muttered. “I’ll have to think of some way out of it.” She looked up at the sky. “Maybe it will rain.” The thought cheered her up a little.
The first thing Carrie did Friday morning was look out the window. The sky was clear and blue. During school that day, Carrie looked out the window periodically, hoping to see some clouds. But by the time school was out, she had given up hoping for rain. She would have to think of something else.
When Carrie got home, her mother was painting. “Are we having company tomorrow, Mom?” Carrie asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Do we have to go anywhere tomorrow?”
“I don’t believe so,” Mom said. She put down her paintbrush and looked at Carrie. “I thought you were going to the Special Olympics tomorrow.”
“I am.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“I guess I’m not too crazy about hugging a bunch of retarded kids,” admitted Carrie.
“Oh, Carrie! They may look and sound a little different, but they’re Heavenly Father’s children, too, and they need hugs just as much as the rest of us do.”
“I suppose so,” said Carrie. But she was not convinced.
The next morning Carrie was almost cheerful as she rode her bike to the junior high school. Late last night she had finally thought of a plan to get out of being a hugger. Reaching the school grounds, she found Peggy standing with Mark. He was wearing a bright red T-shirt.
“Hi,” said Carrie, in a low, raspy voice.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Peggy.
“I have a cold,” Carrie said. She coughed. “I won’t be able to be a hugger because these kids might catch my cold.”
Peggy gave Carrie a funny look. “That’s too bad.” She turned to her brother. “Come on, Mark. It’s almost time for your race.”
“Good luck, Mark,” said Carrie in her raspy whisper.
Peggy and Mark walked away. Carrie sat down on one of the wooden bleachers near the finish line. She could see Peggy and Mark at the starting line on the other side of the oval track.
Carrie looked around. Lots of the kids looked and sounded like Mark. Boy, am I glad I found a way to get out of being a hugger, she thought.
Peggy left Mark at the starting line with the others and ran across the oval to the finish line. Carrie motioned for Peggy to sit by her, but Peggy didn’t seem to see Carrie. Instead she stayed on the inside of the track. Carrie’s heart sank. She realized that Peggy knew she was faking the cold.
Mark lined up with four other children. The starter’s gun sounded, and the runners took off. At first all five were bunched up together. Then slowly a boy in a blue shirt began to pull away from the others. Soon Mark, pumping his legs up and down, began to catch up to him.
As the runners rounded the curve, Carrie could see the look of concentration on Mark’s face. He was really trying hard!
“Come on, Mark!” Peggy was shouting over and over.
As they got closer to the finish line, the boy in the blue shirt stumbled and fell. The crowd in the stands groaned sympathetically.
“Come on, Mark!” someone yelled.
But Mark stopped. He helped the other boy up and then helped him brush the dirt from his knees. The other runners passed them and crossed the finish line.
Mark held the fallen runner’s hand. Together they crossed the finish line. Mark grinned and raised his arms high.
Carrie felt tears in her eyes. She pushed her way through the crowd and hurried over to Mark. He grinned at her. She held out her arms and enfolded him in a big bear hug.
“That was a great race, Mark!” she exclaimed.
“Peggy is lucky to have you for a brother.”
Carrie looked at Peggy.
“Do you still need a hugger?” she asked.

Many teens volunteered to help others make the tour through the temple. Even though most of them had been on the temple tour with their families or with their seminary classes, they still found that helping someone else see the temple made the experience even better for themselves.
One group was asked to help the physically challenged American Fork special education seminary students take the tour.
Branden Madsen, 18, of the American Fork Central Stake, helped Natalie Shultz. Although Natalie couldn’t really talk to Branden, he said, “Her love and excitement were contagious. I had been through the temple four times before, but this was my best experience because of the sweet spirits of the special education students.”

Last conference I wrote down some questions I had about things happening in my life and prayed to receive answers during general conference. During conference I took notes, and when I reviewed my questions, I realized that all my questions had been answered. Some were simply reminders of what I already knew, and some were answered in unlikely ways. General conference is a blessing in so many ways.
Grace H., 18, Taiwan

May 26, 1853 I went to Fourchu, a place 6 or 7 miles from Gabarouse. On my way along the beach I saw a large duck on the waves, picking among the kelp. This was a desolate place, no houses for 6 or 7 miles. The Spirit said to me, “You are going among strangers. No Saints there. Take the bird with you.” So I sat down right where the wave broke and the bird floated straight towards me, picking among the kelp and sea weed. When it got close to the shore it put its head under its wing, so I jumped and caught it. It was lively enough then and tried to get away. So when I got to Fourchu (6) I went to a house, asked if that was Mr. Cann’s. They said yes. I told them I had come over from Gabarouse to preach the Gospel to them. I had forgotten the duck. I then happened to notice them looking at it. Says I, “Here is a bird. I saw it out on the water and I thought I would bring it along, that it might be good to eat.” Says he, “Is it hurt?” “No, Sir.” I handed it to him. Heexamined it very close and said it was all right. It was cooked. We ate it. It was fat and good. A few came in. We had a meeting. The sectarian minister had poisoned the minds of the people, but Mr. Cann and family treated me very kindly … and spoke favorably to others of me.

The little girl’s black hair was as shiny as patent leather, and her bright ebony eyes seemed to hardly ever blink. She was always so busy examining something, turning it upside down or inside out, that blinking seemed a waste of time.
Lynette Wood was her name, but she preferred being called Ettenyl. People laughed and nodded tolerantly at one another. And her mother humored her when she remembered to, which wasn’t very often. “What’s that you said your name was?” she would ask. Why couldn’t they remember? Lynette wondered, then decided that there was nothing to be done except to answer to both names. Once in a while even Lynette forgot, especially when she was involved with turning something inside out.
“Lynette! Lynette! I’ve called you to supper five times! If I have to call again, I’m going to give your share to the dog!” her mother threatened.
“You didn’t call me by my name,” Ettenyl muttered, but she hurried inside, anyway.
The little girl was usually happy. Her mother let her take clocks apart, and she laughed when Ettenyl made sand buckets into hats. When she built towers that tottered on one small block with six across the top, her father said that she was smart. Every time she turned around to look, the shapes of things changed. If she walked backward and watched, the trees changed colors and got smaller.
When the leaves grew scarlet and her mother said, “Lynette, it’s time for you to go to school,” Ettenyl was excited and a little scared.
Her teacher, Miss Morris, had beautiful, flowing, golden hair. It fell across her eyes, and great blue circles peered through like discs on a magic screen. Ettenyl was so enchanted that she forgot to answer a question that the teacher had asked her. The teacher frowned and pushed away the golden curtain. Her voice slashed at the little girl. Ettenyl’s stomach tightened up and tried to run away inside her body. She caught her stomach and sat very still with her hands pressed against it.
The next day Ettenyl was determined to do better. She labored hard over the paper, printing her name. Try as she might, she could not get the pencil to make the lovely round circles. Finally she got all the letters copied. She was the last one to finish, but her last letter was the best circle that she had ever made.
“That’s very good, Lynette,” her teacher said, “but this last letter isn’t quite right. Your last name is Wood.” The teacher pointed to Ettenyl’s “perfect” little circle and said, “You have written Woob.” She corrected it with a big, red mark.
Ettenyl’s stomach revolted. She sat still and tight.
The teacher held out a pencil and said, “Please write the d correctly at the end of your name.”
Ettenyl couldn’t move; her hands were stiff from holding her stomach.
“Lynette, please take the pencil.”
She took the pencil and drew a straight line.
“Good. Now put the circle on it.”
Ettenyl bit her lip, and she managed to draw a squarish circle.
“No, Lynette. That’s a b. Your name ends with a d, like this.” The teacher demonstrated.
Ettenyl spent the rest of the week trying to do it right. But each time that she tried, Miss Morris looked so disappointed that Ettenyl started to cry, and the children teased her about it on the playground.
The following week Miss Morris asked Ettenyl’s mother to come to school for a conference after classes were over.
“Don’t look like that, Lynette,” her mother said. “I’m just going to talk with her. Lots of parents visit with their children’s teachers at school.”
Ettenyl went home and waited and waited. Just when she thought that she couldn’t stand it any longer, she noticed the rocket plane that she had made the day before. She had tossed it into the air to make it fly, and now it leaned at a rakish angle against the table leg. Suddenly she had an idea. If she removed the tips of the wings, turned the body on end, and stuck the wings on the bottom, it would be a robot. She was so engrossed with her project that she didn’t notice when her mother came home.
Every night after that, Ettenyl’s mother helped her read and write. Sometimes it took so long that her mother bit her lip angrily. Ettenyl’s stomach hurt, and she hated going to school. The letters floated like the noodles in her alphabet soup. She burst into tears.
“Lynette! Stop crying! You can’t do anything if you cry!” Her mother was cross. Ettenyl cried louder. “Why are you crying?”
“I can’t read. I’m stupid!” she blubbered soggily.
“Oh, Lynette, you’re not stupid. Reading is very hard work,” her mother comforted her.
“You’re mad at me.”
“I’m impatient. Being patient is hard work for me just like reading is hard work for you.”
Ettenyl had an idea. “If you have to help me read, then I can help you to be patient,” she offered.
“That’s a good idea!” her mother agreed.
They worked and worked and worked, and finally Ettenyl put the letters in the right order, even though she knew that there were other ways to see them. After reading, Ettenyl turned her toys inside out. She learned to make one toy into a helicopter, a boat, and even a funny-looking person.
“That’s wonderful!” her mother laughed. “What is it?”
“It’s a ‘twistup.’ I can twist it all up—see?”
As Ettenyl grew up, she invented more twistups, and she became a famous toy maker by turning things inside out and upside down for happy children. Grown-up Ettenyl called herself Lynette and almost forgot her old name. Eventually she married and had a fine son, Kevin, who had shiny black hair and bright eyes that almost never blinked. She read him stories and turned him upside down until he squealed with delight. One day she took Kevin river-rafting. They loved bouncing and swirling in the rushing water, but no matter how she tried, they always went through the biggest rapids backward.
“I can’t see where we’re going,” Kevin complained.
“That’s the way Ettenyl would do it,” his mother answered.
“Who?” he asked.
She just smiled mysteriously and said, “Wasn’t it fun that way? Hold on tight!”
They laughed together as they swooshed backward through another wall of foamy water.

With permission from our son Matthew, let me reconstruct a conversation we had when he was 16 years old. One evening, while driving in the car together, I asked what he was learning in seminary. “Oh, you know,” he said in his teenage way, “the gospel.” “What about the gospel?” I asked.“You know, Dad, the Restoration and all that.” “I see. Which part?”He paused for a moment, as if weighing whether to share something that really mattered to him. “OK,” he said, “the part about Joseph Smith giving Oliver Cowdery the 126 pages from the Book of Mormon.”For a moment, I wondered what kind of seminary class he was in. Then I tried to gently explain, “Well, you know son, the Prophet Joseph Smith gave those pages to Martin Harris, not Oliver Cowdery.”“Sure, whatever,” Matthew said.“And,” I continued, “I believe it was 116 pages, not 126.”“Yeah, yeah, Dad, I know. But the point is, I made the link.”“The link?” I asked.
Then Matthew helped me understand. “Do you remember the summer when I earned $100 mowing lawns, and I wanted to buy that electric scooter? You said you didn’t think it was a good idea. But I really wanted that scooter. So I prayed about it, and I had the feeling I should listen to you. But I didn’t like that answer, so I prayed about it again—a couple of times. And I kept getting the feeling I should forget the scooter. But I really wanted it, so I just bought it anyway. And the second day I rode it, it broke. It was too expensive to fix, and we ended up throwing it away. And I lost everything I’d saved! Dad,” he said, “ that’s what happened to Joseph Smith. He knew in his heart that he shouldn’t loan out those pages. But he kept asking the Lord, and finally Joseph loaned them anyway. And they were lost. He was totally sad and couldn’t sleep or eat or anything. And he decided he was never going to disobey again. That’s the link, Dad. That’s the link I made to myself.”We sat in silence for a moment while I was making a link of my own: Learning the gospel is about more than hearing and repeating facts and concepts. Was it Oliver Cowdery or Martin Harris? It’s important to know, but not essential to salvation. The number of pages lost? That’s not a saving doctrine either. Suddenly I was thinking about good people I know who master many details of gospel doctrine and Church history, but do not make the link to what it means for them. Linking gospel truth to ourselves is another way of talking about truly understanding the gospel.
Matthew’s new understanding was very simple: “Heavenly Father wants to help me. He won’t impose His will or insist that I obey. He will speak to me by the still, small voice of the Holy Ghost. And if I willingly listen and respond, I will be blessed and happy.” In time, Matthew did learn the correct names and number of pages. And thanks to a fine seminary teacher, he identified much rich doctrine embedded in early Church History. But let’s remember, none of that would have meant much to 16-year-old Matthew until he made the link and came to an understanding for himself. That’s when he changed. And that confirms the powerful principle taught by President Boyd K. Packer: “True doctrine, understood, changes attitudes and behavior.”8 That’s what happened to Matthew.

As the Maid of Iowa docked in Nauvoo to unload its passengers—more than three hundred British converts—Captain Dan Jones, also a new convert, anxiously searched the crowd of greeters for the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Captain Jones had never seen Joseph Smith, so he was startled when a “large, comely man” approached him and shook his hand, saying “God bless you, brother.” When the man returned a little later, Dan Jones realized that this was the very person for whom he was looking.

James H., age 11, from Salt Lake City, Utah, likes to learn about history, use computers, and search for clues like a detective. That’s why he got really excited when his parents invited the ward’s family history consultant to teach James’s family about the Church’s online family history program. It’s called Family Tree, and James loves using it to search through his family history chart to find the green arrows next to the names of ancestors who weren’t baptized or sealed to their families.
Since that day, James has found more than 80 of his ancestors’ names. It feels good to know he can help his ancestors by sending their names to the temple. “Someone up in heaven is thinking, ‘They finally found me!’” he says.
When I find a new ancestor who needs to have temple ordinances done, I print out the ancestor’s name so the temple work can be done.
I taught my little brother, William, how to type in names so he can help search for our ancestors online.
My mom and dad and older brother and sister have helped me by doing baptisms for the dead and other ordinances in the temple for the ancestors I find.

This celebration was so special that I traveled more than four thousand miles to return to my Samoan village of Faletele.
The village was already bustling with activity. Crowding in with the few hundred villagers were more than a hundred of my relatives from many parts of Samoa and scores of honored guests from other villages.
I started walking through the malae, heading toward the big, dome-roofed fale. There in that fale, visiting with the most honored guests, sat my beloved cousin Sama. Suddenly I was filled with pride and pain and love as I remembered when I first came to know Sama—Sama the Thumb.
I was a little girl then, just five years old. Sama was ten. His parents had gone to New Zealand for the dedication of the Mormon temple there, and Sama had come to stay with us.
I was sitting on the edge of the malae, watching the young men and boys play Samoan-style cricket, with dozens of players on each side. The spectators were shouting and cheering and singing and dancing to a rhythm beaten out on an old, empty kerosene tin. A bus stopped on the road, and one of my aunts got out, followed by a boy who struggled to carry a heavy basket. When they went to the Tuita‘ua’s fale, I followed them.
Tuita‘ua Ioane was the main matai in our family. Hundreds of relatives honored and obeyed him. Tuita‘ua is one of the great titles in Samoa, and the Tuita‘ua is respected by all Samoans.
“Go get Tofo and Malini,” Tuita‘ua Ioane ordered me.
I ran back to the cricket match to fetch my cousins. They weren’t happy to give up their places in the match, but they obeyed the Tuita‘ua’s orders to fix fried corned beef and baked bananas and lemonade for him, our aunt, and the boy—who we learned was our cousin Sama. They bowed low and showed great respect when they served Tuita‘ua Ioane his food on a leaf-covered tray. But I saw them scowl at Sama when they placed his food in front of him.
In the days that followed, scowls were replaced by smiles and laughs. Sama won us over with his stories and jokes and his sense of humor. Even though most of the cousins were much older than Sama, they soon accepted him not only as a cousin but also as a good friend. I tagged along when they gathered coconuts, chopped the grass with bush knives, played cricket, went inland to plant taro in the family taro patch, and sang songs while strolling through the village after evening prayer services. When Sama was with us, whether we were working or playing, we laughed and had fun.
Then on Saturday the boy cousins went spear fishing in the lagoon. Sama caught an octopus and was treated like a hero.
After the cousins had cooked the evening meal of fish, taro, palusami, and, of course, octopus, two of the cousins grabbed Sama’s arms and held him while another cousin beat out a solemn rhythm on a log. Tofo marched up to Sama carrying a tray of food, including the best parts of the octopus. Tofo’s face was stern.
“We honor Sama, the great octopus hunter,” Tofo said. “As long as you are here in Faletele, you, Sama, will have the honor of serving the Tuita‘ua.” Then Tofo smiled and handed the tray to Sama, and Malini put a necklace of fragrant buds around Sama’s neck and a red hibiscus flower in his hair.
On Sunday morning I couldn’t find Sama. All day I asked the people of the village if they had seen him, but nobody knew where he was.
Finally, in the late afternoon, long after our church services and our after-church meal were over, Sama came walking through the village in his white shirt and white lavalava. Tuita‘ua Ioane called him into the fale. “Where have you been, Sama?” he asked.
“In Fuapa‘epa‘e.”
“You walked eight miles to Fuapa‘epa‘e? And back?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Why?”
“Because that is the closest village where I can attend my church.”
Tuita‘ua Ioane took off his wire-rimmed reading glasses and laid them on the Bible, which he’d been reading. “Sama, the matai has made a decree that there will be only one church in Faletele and that all the people in Faletele will attend that church. Do you understand? You are part of my family, Sama, but you are also a guest in this village and you are under my protection. You know our rule.” He leaned forward and looked Sama in the eyes. “You do what you have to do.”
The following week none of the cousins mentioned Sama’s trip to Fuapa‘epa‘e. They continued to joke and laugh together as they worked in the taro and helped harvest a truckload of bananas that would go to New Zealand. On Saturday we all hiked to our secret waterfall, where we splashed and swam and lay out on the big rocks to be warmed by the sun. On our way home we caught prawns in the stream for dinner.
Trouble started on the second Sunday. I woke up to the sounds of arguing. Malini and Tofo were chasing after Sama, who was dressed in his white shirt and lavalava.
“Sama, you know what the village rule is!” Tofo shouted.
Malini grabbed Sama’s arm. “How can you show such disrespect to your matai?”
Though Sama was shorter than the two older boys, somehow he seemed taller as he stood boldly in front of them. “Tuita‘ua told me to do what I have to do. And this is what I have to do!”
As he started walking again, Malini shouted after him, “Sama, don’t embarrass your family like this!”
At the end of the day when Sama came walking back into Faletele, a woman made fun of Sama, calling him a bad name. All the cousins were angry at Sama and wouldn’t talk to him—all of them, that is, except me. I was glad to see Sama, and it was the first time that I had him all to myself. It was wonderful as we talked and sang and he told me stories.
In the morning the cousins took their long poles and went up the hills to gather breadfruit. Sama and I hurried after them.
We talked and joked as we knocked the breadfruit from the trees. It was almost like before, and all the cousins were starting to have fun together again. Then a group of villagers came by and called Sama “Mamona” and said mean things about Sama and our family.
There was no more joking among the cousins. For the rest of the week the cousins refused to include Sama in anything that they did. Tofo told me not to talk and play with him, but I did anyway whenever I could find him. Mostly he went off by himself into the forest.
“Maybe tomorrow you will remove our family shame and come with us to the village church,” Malini told Sama on Saturday night.
But on Sunday morning Sama was gone again. Next to each of our sleeping mats was a gift that Sama had made—octopus lures for Tofo and Gutu, a flute for Malini, toy fishing canoes for ‘Ene‘ene and Pisa, and a top and a pale for me.
When Sama returned that evening, I put on my pale and ran out to greet him. He was happy and eager to see the others—until he stepped on something in the grass. He looked down and saw one of the canoes he had made, now smashed and broken. He looked around and saw that his other gifts had also been broken and discarded.
“The villagers got them mad,” I explained. “But I kept mine. I like my presents very much. Thank you.”
Sama smiled at me, then went off by himself until it was time for the evening meal. As Sama got a tray of food ready for the Tuita‘ua, Tofo grabbed the tray away and shouted, “You are a disgrace to your family! You no longer get the honor of serving the Tuita‘ua!”
“And find someplace else to sleep,” Malini yelled. “You’re no longer welcome in the boys’ fale.”
‘Ene‘ene pushed Sama down, and Gutu raised his fists to hit Sama. “Because of you, our friends are calling us dirty names!”
I was afraid that the cousins were going to hurt Sama, so I ran to get Tuita‘ua Ioane. But he had heard and had already come to the edge of the fale. “You boys, stop it now!” he commanded. “All of you, come in here!”
At the sound of his voice, the boys immediately stopped. They walked meekly into the fale and sat down across from the old matai.
“Look at my hand!” Tuita‘ua Ioane held out his hand. “See how these fingers are bunched here together? And how the thumb is out here all by itself?”
We all looked at his hand.
“We have a saying here in Samoa: ‘The thumb stands alone, but it is the strongest of all the fingers.’”
Tuita‘ua Ioane pointed at each of the cousins. “You boys are the fingers. But Sama is the thumb!”
Even though I was very young, I learned many things that night. Tuita‘ua Ioane taught us about integrity, about standing up for what you think is right no matter what other people say, about being true to yourself and valiant in your beliefs. His words and Sama’s example changed my life.
As I stood on the malae thinking back to those days, a small girl came up to me and handed me a pale.
“Thank you.” I smiled at her and put it on. Then I walked up the steps of the big fale and removed my shoes. Sama saw me immediately. I made a thumbs-up sign. That had always been my secret sign to him. None of the other matai in the fale seemed to notice, and even if they did, it wouldn’t mean the same thing to them. They were there for just one reason—to honor the new Tuita‘ua. Tuita‘ua Sama.
But to me he would always be Sama the Thumb.

I recall clearly my first profound experience of personal revelation. I was 17 years old. It happened in my parents’ home in Suva, Fiji. I was in my bedroom alone, reading from the Book of Mormon with a determined desire to know for myself if the book was true. This was the challenge that full-time missionaries Elder Rian Nelson and Elder Randy Price had given me after their lesson on the Prophet Joseph Smith and how he had received gold plates from an angel, and then translated the text into English.
Those missionaries read passages from the Book of Mormon during our discussion and they shared strong and enlightening testimonies. I was touched deeply, and I wanted to know for myself if what they had shared was truly of God . . . and I wanted to say what they said with the same conviction and confidence.
I read 3 Nephi chapter 11. Almost immediately I began to understand and become enlightened. I visualized the Savior, Jesus Christ, descending out of heaven and standing amidst the multitude with outstretched hands, inviting them to come unto Him, to feel the prints of the nails in His hands and in His feet. This they did one by one, and afterwards, they fell to the earth and worshipped Him as the promised Messiah2.
Feelings of warmth, comfort and peace overcame my whole person and I cried tears of love, gratitude, and appreciation for the Lord and for His mission of love and mercy. Instantly I recognized this was a spiritual witness from heaven . . . that what I was reading and feeling was true and of God.
The wonderful feelings I had experienced with the missionaries the day before returned, but this time I was alone. The influence of the Holy Ghost was personal and powerful. I did not want this precious moment to end. I knew then what personal revelation was. Whenever I have shared that experience over the past 40 years, that sweet reassuring witness of the Holy Ghost fills my heart.