Gospel Story Finder

I loved your article on the Idaho School for the Deaf and Blind (Jan. 1995). When I was in middle school, a class of mine learned some sign language and then we visited ISDB. It was a great experience to communicate with the deaf kids there and try to understand one another. I learned they are just like us, despite their disability. Thanks for your great, inspiring stories.
Merissa WilsonAlta, Wyoming

He knew they would be looking for him, so David scrunched down in his seat on the bench behind Brother Johnson. He figured the deacons quorum adviser wouldn’t be able to see him way back there even though the chapel wasn’t very crowded and it would be difficult to remain unseen. He knew if they found him he would be asked to pass the sacrament, and he didn’t want to. He was a priest now and a six-foot player on the high school basketball team. It was embarrassing to stand at the front of the chapel with those little 12-year-old deacons.
His father had been watching him from the stand, and David felt his disapproval. Much to his surprise, however, he wasn’t asked to assist the deacons. Before they could ask him, Brother Hensley volunteered.
Brother Hensley was a new member of the Church, not much older than David, and newly ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood. Everyone had been excited when they learned he was taking the missionary discussions. He had been very popular in high school just two years before and was now attending college.
He stood tall alongside the deacons. He walked proudly and passed the sacred emblems with dignity.
A group of members were talking in the lobby after the meeting. David couldn’t help but overhear their conversation, especially when he moved closer so he could hear better.
“Thanks for helping us out today,” someone was saying. “I hope it didn’t bother you to work with the young deacons.”
“Not at all,” David was surprised to hear him say. “I consider it a great honor. You know who the first person to ever pass the sacrament was, don’t you?” Then answering his own question, he continued. “It was Jesus Christ when he passed the sacrament of the Last Supper to his Apostles. It is my understanding that our Apostles and prophets today administer and pass the sacrament to one another just as we did today. I guess if they can consider this a privilege, well, so can I.”
David moved on quietly as he reflected upon what he had just heard. The following Sunday, he decided he would sit in plain sight. He would sit where they could find him.

A seminary open house by students in the Bonneville Seminary near Ogden, Utah, resulted in 126 referrals in just one evening, with 30 new families receiving lessons from stake and full-time missionaries.

“We had one baptism just a few days after the program.” That was the happy report of seminary instructor and program coordinator Richard Jackson. He said that when the program, which was centered around the mission of the Savior, was introduced to the students, the reaction was overwhelming. “We needed 60 students to participate and got nearly 200.”

The program depicted scenes from the Savior’s life, the restoration, and family home evenings. “We have seven families studying the gospel as a result of the family home evening section alone.”

The seminary students staffed the presentations, ran the lights and sounds, and helped as missionary aides. Six rooms in the building were used, and the only problem seemed to be that too many people turned out for the event!

One helper, sophomore Matthew Bell, said, “It’s great knowing you’re part of a program to help bring your friends into the Church.”

Lenore Scholfield, also a sophomore, said, “The program made me want to share the truth with my friends.”

Nancy Havens, a junior, said, “It helped me to talk with my friends about the Church. I know several who came and appeared to really be interested.”

Mitchell Halverson, who worked as a missionary aide, said, “Working on the program gave me a sense of responsibility and strengthened my testimony.”

Program participants noted that about three weeks were spent preparing the various scenes and coordinating the sound and lighting. Extensive use was made of seminary materials. Special showings of The First Vision were used to enhance the program.

A fireside was held the Sunday before the open house to acquaint students with ways to contact their friends concerning the activity. Other help came through local radio and newspaper coverage of the open house.

The three goals for the program were to put Christ into Christmas, help members realize the importance of missionary work, and share the gospel with nonmember friends. The open house was so successful that plans are being made to turn it into an annual event each December.

When I received the calling to serve as the student activities leader, I felt completely overwhelmed. I was shy and knew it would be difficult for me to plan activities. Feelings of inadequacy, nervousness, and depression consumed me.
In desperation I turned to Heavenly Father. “How can I do this?” I prayed. “I am small and weak.”
Right then, a peaceful, small whisper entered my heart: “Go, my daughter. I love you.”
That response from a loving Father strengthened me. Empowered by that prompting, I felt I could do anything. Knowing that He is aware of me, that He loves me, and that He will sustain me was all I needed to fulfill my calling effectively.
I know that whatever our struggles, Heavenly Father loves us and hears our prayers. As we go to Him, we can receive direction and encouragement as we strive to fulfill our callings.

I recall an incident from early Church history, from the days of persecutions and difficulties. Heber C. Kimball, then a member of the Council of the Twelve, found himself in circumstances where he sought hospitality from a member of the Church, a widow woman. She offered him what she had—bread and milk—and provided a room with a bed for him. He went to retire. She thought: “Here’s my opportunity. I would like to find out (and this is, in effect, the same old question: Are General Authorities human), I would like to find out what an apostle says when he prays to the Lord.” So after the door was closed, she crept quietly up to it to listen. She heard Brother Kimball sit down on the bed. She heard each of his shoes fall to the floor. She heard him lean back on the bed and then utter these words: “Oh Lord, bless Heber; he is so tired.”

Little brothers can be such a bother, Erin thought as she knelt to pick up her scattered postcard collection. She knew how much her little brother, Evan, loved to look at all the beautiful postcards. She didn’t mind showing them to him, but she didn’t like it one bit when he went into her room and helped himself.
“What do I need a little brother for, anyway?” she said aloud as she gathered the postcards. If only she could lock him out of her room forever!
Her scowl softened as she caught sight of her most treasured postcard. She picked it up and looked at the picture of the Seattle Temple, remembering the day she got to go inside.
It was only last December, on a cool, sunny day, that she had gone there with her mother and father, Evan, and both sets of grandparents. In the temple nursery, she had helped Evan change into the white suit that one grandma had made for him. Then she put on the outfit the other grandma had sewn for her—a beautiful white eyelet dress that she would wear again six months later at her baptism.
When Erin and Evan were ready, a kindly woman with hair as white as Erin’s dress took them to an elevator and then up to a beautiful sealing room that seemed like heaven to Erin. She was very happy to see her mother and father and grandparents there. She knew that Evan didn’t understand what was happening—he was only three years old—but she was almost eight and knew that they were there to have him sealed to them at last.
Before Evan was born, she had prayed constantly for a brother. On the day he was given to them, she had gone home from the adoption center and thanked Heavenly Father for sending her a baby brother.
As she finished gathering her postcards, she suddenly realized that she didn’t feel angry anymore. Just then her mother called her into the kitchen. “I need you to do me a big favor,” her mother said. “I made these hot muffins, and I thought that it would be nice to take some to Sister Taber. She’s home from the hospital after having knee surgery, and I know that she’d enjoy them. Would you like to take Evan for a walk over to her house?”
“Sure!” Sister Taber had been her favorite Primary teacher. She wished she could go alone, because her little brother always slowed her down, but she knew how much he loved to go for walks.
“Please try to hurry, dear,” Mom said. “Dad will be home soon, and dinner is almost ready. Do you want me to draw a map for you?”
“No thanks,” Erin replied with confidence. “I’m sure I can find it just fine.” She took the basket of warm muffins in one hand and her brother’s hand in the other. As soon as they reached the sidewalk, Evan wanted to stop and look at some leaves, but Erin gently tugged on his arm to urge him forward. “This is going to take forever with him along,” she mumbled to herself.
They reached the first corner and carefully crossed the street. Then Evan saw some bright yellow dandelions growing in the corner of a yard. “Look at the pretty yellow flowers!” he said, heading toward them.
“I’m sorry,” Erin said, “but we don’t have time to stop and pick dandelions. Mom told us to hurry, remember?” She grabbed Evan’s hand again, and kept walking. When they reached the next corner, they turned right. Erin was sure she’d recognize Sister Taber’s house when she saw it.
As they passed the next house, Erin felt Evan stop. He jumped up and down, yelling, “That’s just like ours!”
Erin looked where he was pointing and saw a red, white, and blue basketball backboard identical to the one Dad had put on their own garage. She and Mom loved to watch Evan and Dad play basketball. Evan always made everyone laugh.
But this wasn’t the time to be distracted. “Come on now, Evan,” Erin said impatiently, taking his hand and starting back down the sidewalk.
They crossed the street and headed for the cul-de-sac where Sister Taber lived. They were almost there when Evan began tugging at Erin’s arm and shouting, “Quack, quack, quack, quack!”
She turned around and saw him standing next to a mailbox with a painted duck on it. “Evan Michael, please come with me!” Erin scolded. “We can’t stop and look at everything!” I wish I hadn’t had to bring him along, she thought.
As they entered the cul-de-sac, Erin felt a little unsure about which house belonged to Sister Taber. She looked at each one carefully, then recognized the flower bed in front of one of the houses. This is it, she thought. This is where we had our last Primary achievement activity. She and Evan went up to the door and she let him ring the doorbell.
Sister Taber’s daughter answered the door. She thanked Erin and Evan for the muffins and told her that her mother would really appreciate them.
Erin felt good inside. Then, as she and Evan headed home, she realized that she wasn’t sure how to get there. They stood at the corner leading out of the cul-de-sac while Erin looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go. She began to feel a little panicky until she remembered something her mother had told her many times: “If you ever feel lonely or afraid, tell Heavenly Father your troubles. He always hears your prayers and will help you.”
Erin quickly and quietly asked Heavenly Father to help them find their way home again. Once more she looked up and down the street. Suddenly she spotted the duck mailbox that Evan had stopped to see. Holding her brother’s hand tightly, she left the cul-de-sac. After they crossed the street, she saw the red, white, and blue basketball backboard. We turn left at the next corner, she said to herself.
When they turned the corner, Erin saw the dandelions that Evan had wanted to pick. She realized that rather than feeling angry with him, she was grateful that he had noticed all the things that were helping them find their way back.
When they reached home, she took him inside and told her mother what had happened. Then she bent down, gave her little brother a big hug, and whispered in his ear, “Would you like to come and look at my postcard collection?”

At the time of my birth, the clouds of war had overshadowed Europe and were sweeping across the English Channel to the British coastline. My father, like thousands of other men of his generation, was required to report for active military service. My elder brother and I were shielded from the turmoil and fear that surrounded us by a mother who compensated for the absence of our father, involving us in a variety of activities. From this I learned that when fathers are absent, mothers can be the recipients of compensatory blessings. I have fond memories of those days and recall her speaking of her beloved companion as she received letters from him, without my fully understanding who he was or what he was doing.
My first recollection of meeting my father occurred when I was five years old. A telegram was delivered to our home. My mother stood with the gold-colored envelope in her hand, making no attempt to open it. I did not realize then as I do now the reason why, and the message it could have contained. Eventually, and with great difficulty, she fumbled with the flap of the envelope. This seemed to take a long time. Even when the telegram was opened and Mother read its contents, there was no immediate response. Finally, raising the telegram high above her head, my mother joyfully exclaimed, “Dad’s coming home! Dad’s coming home!”
My father’s parents lived in the adjoining house. Mother, holding the telegram high in the air and with a skipping step, set out in the direction of my grandparents’ home, shouting, “Dad’s coming home! Dad’s coming home!” My brother, following close behind, shouted, “Dad’s coming home! Dad’s coming home!” I brought up the rear, also shouting, “Dad’s coming home! Dad’s coming home! Who’s Dad?”
The next morning when I awoke, there was a man sitting on the edge of my bed holding a leather soccer ball from Italy. He asked if my brother and I would like to play soccer with him. Cautiously I agreed, and we went to an area of grassland near our home, where we played together. This was the beginning of my father’s continuing influence in my life. I wanted to spend every moment that I could in his company.
We lived, like many others in those war-torn years, in humble circumstances. Our home was modestly furnished. Dad had many skills and used them to beautify the home. He raised the Anderson air-raid shelter located in our garden to ground level and made it his workshop. He spent many hours there repairing shoes and making items of furniture for the home. I would wander into this workshop and watch him. Just to be in his presence was a thrill for me. He invited me to help him by passing a hammer, a screwdriver, or some other tool. I was convinced that my help was necessary and that without me he would not be able to complete his task. He used a variety of pieces of wood, obtained from different sources and considered by others to be unsuitable for any practical use, and from them created items of great beauty and worth for our family. As he worked he played a game with me, inviting me to determine what he was making. I was seldom able to do so until the components were completed and the object assembled. Then I would declare with great excitement, “It’s a bookcase!” or “a table!” and wonder at his ability to create so much from so little.
As I look back and reflect upon those wonderful memories, I realize that my contribution was not necessary for my father to complete the work he was engaged in. I was the beneficiary, as through these experiences I came to know him and to love him.

While I was still a student, my grandmother fell down a flight of stairs, injuring herself so severely that her heart stopped three times and had to be restarted. She also suffered broken ribs, a broken hip, and a broken jaw. Worst of all, she lost almost all of her vision.
A few weeks later, my grandfather suddenly died of a heart attack. Why had she survived her accident only to face this? she wondered. She missed my grandfather and longed to be reunited with him. Fortunately, she had a good home teacher who helped her to feel secure and looked-after.
As time went on, Grandma began to feel that perhaps she had survived her fall for a reason, and she determined to find out what it was. She began to realize that once a person is gone, there isn’t much left on earth to remember him or her by. Many of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren—including myself—hadn’t known her and Grandpa well. And she wanted us to know our heritage. Neither she nor Grandpa had ever kept a journal, so she decided to write about her fifty years of marriage and of her service in the Church.
With this new goal, Grandma became excited about life again. Her only problem was how she would be able to do it. She was nearly blind, and she didn’t know how to type. She tried tape-recording her recollections, but her memory was failing just enough to make accuracy impossible.
About this time, Grandma phoned me and asked for help with her history. I had never had a very close relationship with my grandparents, and the last thing I wanted to do was to help with this project. Besides, I didn’t have the means to get to where she lived to help her.
But the Lord must have wanted me to help, because when I graduated from college, I found a job and an apartment near where my grandmother lived. Though I still didn’t really want to help write her history, I felt a family obligation to give her some of my time.
One day, I visited her and evaluated what needed to be done. She had a box full of photographs, tapes, letters, newspaper clippings, and certificates. To organize this would take months, maybe years!
But the Lord was listening to her prayers. The first week at my new job, I hurt my back and couldn’t work for some time. I decided to spend the time recovering from my injury to helping Grandma with her history.
I soon found that the fastest way to compile the material was to tape-record Grandma telling her story as she responded to questions I asked her. Though the history was soon progressing well, my injured back wasn’t, and after a while I was almost out of money. I decided that I would have to return to work; the history would have to wait.
About this time, my grandmother’s home teacher, John Minor, told me about a night when my grandmother had almost died. She had been very sick and had called him—not to ask him for a blessing, but to ask him to pray for her, which he did.
That night John had dreamed that he saw my grandfather, who said that he was going to call for Grandma. John had pleaded, “You can’t. She hasn’t finished her book yet!” The next day, John had checked on Grandma, and she was all right.
As John told me of his dream, I felt the Spirit soften my heart. I sensed the urgency of finishing my grandmother’s history. It would not be easy, but I determined to spend as much time as I could with her—as long as my limited funds lasted.
Now my concern was shared by other family members. They all helped to support me with food and with rent money while I wrote. In a pocket of some clothing I had my family send from home, I found some money that I had forgotten about. The Lord was blessing me and Grandma as we worked on the project together.
As I wrote, I began to better understand my grandparents. I learned about the persecution they had endured when they had joined the Church. I learned that soon after their marriage they had found out that they could not have children until Grandma underwent an operation to allow them that blessing. I felt the Spirit of Elijah turn my heart to my fathers, and I loved and appreciated my grandparents more than I ever had before.
After a few months of steady work, I gave the first chapters of the history to Grandma. She loved them!
A few weeks later, Grandma died.
After Grandma’s death, I finished her history and made it available to our family. I am grateful that through it, other descendants can come to love and understand my grandparents’ as I have.

It’s game point, and the pressure is on. The volleyball soars over the net in a perfect serve, beginning what could be the final play of the regional championship game. Each team hustles for every return, prolonging the play and anticipation. Athletic battle rages on the court, every team member playing her heart out, desperate to end the game and win the championship.
One player places herself in position to hit a tricky shot—and misses. Game over. One team celebrates; the other is angry at their teammate who missed. They shoot nasty words to her and yell disparaging comments across the court to the other team. The victorious team retaliates, gloating and returning harsh comments.

The children in Ryan’s new neighborhood were from all over the world: Australia, Canada, Egypt, England, India, Kuwait, Mexico, Saudi Arabia, Scotland, the United States, and Vietnam.
Ryan had been amazed to meet people from so many places, but he noticed that sometimes children in the park played only with other children who spoke the same language. Ryan couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t want to play together, no matter where they were from or what language they spoke. Sometimes children from one country would be mean to children from another country. That made Ryan sad.
Ryan wondered what he could do, but it was hard to think of anything. He couldn’t just tell everyone to be friends—because they spoke so many different languages, they wouldn’t understand.
One day Ryan’s family took a walk down the street. Some of the boys who had been mean were outside. One of them was holding a soccer ball. Ryan liked to play soccer too. Getting up his courage, Ryan walked over to the boys. He knew a few words of their language, and they knew a little of his. Ryan and the boys started smiling and laughing as they tried out the different languages. Then Ryan pointed to the soccer ball. “Do you want to play soccer with me?” he asked slowly, hoping they would understand. He smiled extra big.
The boys looked at him, then at each other. They talked for a minute, but Ryan couldn’t understand the words. Then they looked back at Ryan and nodded. Ryan grinned, and they ran to the nearby park. Ryan waved to his friends who spoke English, and a little shyly they walked over. One boy set down the soccer ball, and the game began.
A while later Ryan took a quick break to run home for a drink of water.
“How’s it going out there?” Mom asked.
“Great!” Ryan said. “It’s like this, Mom. We’re all shoes!”
“Shoes?” Mom asked.
“Sure. We’re all different, but we all wear two shoes—and that’s all you need for soccer.”
“Good discovery,” Mom said. “You’re all children of Heavenly Father, and you’re more alike than you think.”
Ryan waved as he ran back out the door to play with his new friends.
After that day the children in the neighborhood went to the park every Thursday to play soccer together. It didn’t matter what languages they spoke or where they were from—they were all shoes, and that was enough.

Karoly Takacs, a Hungarian, was recognized as the best pistol shot in the world. More than anything he wanted to win in the Olympics. But one day driving home, Takacs was in a crash, and doctors had to amputate his right arm—his shooting arm.
Takacs’s recovery was slow. It wasn’t a physical challenge, but an emotional one. He had hit bottom. People wanted to help but there was little they could do. Takacs began to avoid his friends; even his family didn’t know where he spent his time. But Karoly Takacs was preparing. In solitude he had trained his left arm and his aiming eye, a training that’s far more of an intellectual mastery than most people realize. By the next Olympics, Takacs was ready.
When the pistol event was over, this one-armed Hungarian stood, the cheers rising about him, on the topmost step of the winner’s platform with a gold medal around his neck.
Takacs showed us something more than his ability to shoot. He proved that human beings have a largely untapped comeback capacity. He discovered for himself the exciting fact that hitting bottom does not mean defeat, but that it just signals the end of downward movement. As one friend told me, “The bottom can be something to bounce on.”

Nana Ninsin’s advocacy extends to education and menstrual health. She has introduced clubs like Women in Law and Development Africa in local schools, helping reduce dropout rates and teenage pregnancies. “Last year, I received an award from the Director of Education,” she shares proudly. “Now we don’t have pregnant girls in class.” But challenges remain. “My girls use banana stalks as sanitary pads,” she says. “Disabled girls can’t manage menstruation in schools without proper toilets.” She’s calling for support for sanitary pads, school supplies, and infrastructure improvements.

Hans Eduardo Nieto, a nine-year-old boy living in Guayaquil, Ecuador, has been a missionary since he was born.
Hans’s family is made up of Hans and his mother. When he was born, his mother was not a member of the Church. But the family she worked for as a housemaid were Latter-day Saints. They asked if they could take the baby to church to receive a blessing.
Although Hans’s mother didn’t want to go, she allowed them to take her baby for the blessing. Hans has attended church ever since. Wherever he and his mother lived, she found members to take him to church.

“You’re up early,” Mom said as she walked into the kitchen. It was the day of the trade fair, and I had gotten up a little earlier than usual to make sure I was ready to go.
“I’m just checking my ornaments,” I said. I opened a paper sack on the table and counted my handmade Christmas wreath ornaments. I had been working on them for a month, ever since Mrs. Moore announced that we would have a trade fair to practice what we had learned about supply and demand and bartering. I hoped my ornaments would be a hit with my classmates!
When I arrived at school, my classmates had boxes and bags of their trade items. I looked around the room as they set out their goods: Suzelle had woven pot holders, Mark had made key chains out of hemp cord and silver charms, and Kylie had hammered together some bark to make boxes.
“I can’t wait to start trading,” I said to Jason, who was setting out some of the colorful balls he had made from balloons filled with sand. “Everyone brought really cool stuff to trade.”
“Yeah, except for Lucas,” Jason said.
I looked at Lucas’s desk. He was setting out a few rocks that were different colors. It looked like he had gotten some rocks from his yard and drawn on them with markers.
“Think anyone will trade with him?” I asked quietly.
“No!” Jason laughed. And he was right. I noticed that Kylie’s boxes were gone right away. My ornaments were pretty popular too. About halfway through the trade fair I only had two ornaments left.
I also saw that no one had traded with Lucas for any of his rocks. It seemed like he was trying to shrink or just disappear. I felt bad for him, but what could I do?
“He should have put more effort into it,” I thought. “If he had set aside more time to get ready for the trade fair, he wouldn’t have this problem.” But I kept watching Lucas, hoping someone would trade with him.
It wasn’t long before Mrs. Moore said, “All right, everyone. Five more minutes to finish your trading.”
Lucas’s shoulders slumped. I knew he was feeling terrible. I also knew what I had to do.
“Lucas,” I said, “I’d like to swap one of my ornaments for two of your rocks. Would you like to trade?”
Lucas smiled a little and let me pick out two rocks. I handed him one of my wreath ornaments.
As we cleaned up the trade fair, I was sad that no one else had traded with Lucas. But I felt good because I had tried to include Lucas, and I had made him smile. It felt so good that I wanted to make him smile again. Maybe we could play basketball at lunch or hang out after school.
I smiled too as I looked at the rocks on my desk. They had started to look kind of nice to me.

What a happy day for the Mqadi family. After the doors of the temple had been closed for the better part of 14 months due to the COVID-19 pandemic, Nala M. (age 11) finally had her opportunity to visit the temple for the first time in June 2021.
Looking back on the experience afterwards, Nala named some of the highlights of the experience. She loved the peace and cleanliness of the building. And she loved that she could be baptized by her older brother, Ntando.
Ntando (15) was able to perform this sacred ordinance because he holds the Aaronic priesthood. He had recently been ordained to the office of priest.
“It was spectacular having the opportunity to baptise my sister for her first time,” he remarked. “I also baptised my mom for my first time being able to baptise in the temple. I have the key to access the temple and I have the ability to do sacred ordinances. I have been truly blessed from it and I have received the blessing of serving the Lord in His temple.”
As is evident by the experience of the Mqadi family, although the priesthood is borne by men, it is used to bless all of God’s children.
“I felt blessed when I went into the temple,” Nala commented afterwards. “It was cool to be baptized by my brother.”
For Nala’s older brother, Ntando, it was also a day of firsts. It was his first time performing proxy baptisms in the temple. Being able to do this for his family members was meaningful for him.
The siblings’ mother, Tshepiso, said, “Being in the temple for the first time with Nala, and watching Ntando exercise the Aaronic Priesthood also for the first time at the baptistry was very special for me.
“I am grateful for the Spirit that testified to them of the divinity of the temple and the service performed therein. It touched my heart when they both excitedly requested to attend temple baptisms again. It is my prayer that this experience has ignited a desire within them to do more to participate and be part of the Lord’s work as they grow.”

In 1902, Miles suffered a cardiac arrest; and although his life was spared, he died two years later of a second attack. A daughter, Lula, remembers that they had no tree the following Christmas, even though there were gifts in their stockings. She recalls, “I fear I showed my disappointment and self-pity, for mother told me I was to go on an errand as soon as I finished my breakfast. I really did not want to do it for it was a long way, clear on the other side of the railroad tracks, to an elderly couple who were strangers to me, and I was to pull the red wagon in which we used to take my cripple little brother to Sunday School. I watched as my mother put into the wagon a blanket, a pillow, and part of our Christmas dinner—turkey, potatoes, vegetables, doughnuts, butter, etc.
“‘Just knock on the door and say “Merry Christmas,” she said. ‘Then you can hurry home and play.’
“It wasn’t hard to find the place, a little mud hut, quite alone it seemed, on the prairie. A little old lady answered when I knocked.
“‘Merry Christmas,’ I said.
“‘Oh, you’re just like a little Christmas angel,’ she said as she kissed me. There were no steps, so she pulled the wagon inside to unload it. An old man with a long white beard sat staring at the little fire in the fireplace.
“‘See, John,’ she said, ‘what the good Lord has sent us?’
“I thought that was an odd thing to say, for I knew it was my mother who sent it and not the Lord. The elderly man didn’t answer or even look up, so I realized he was deaf. The remains of a meager breakfast were still on the table. Pointing to the tiny remnants, the lady said, ‘See, this was all we would have had for dinner, if you had not cared.’
“As I left the home after receiving another kiss, I had a very sweet, peaceful feeling flood over my body. How glad I was that my mother had sent me to keep them from going hungry on Christmas! I almost skipped all the way home, and I am sure I never enjoyed Christmas dinner more than I did that day.”

When I was about six or seven years old, our family went to Kanab, Utah, to visit my aunt, who was married to a forest ranger. My uncle was in charge of the Kaibab Forest, one of the largest national forests in the United States. We arrived there late at night and went right to bed at their home.
The next morning I was awakened by my cousins, who were younger than I. They said, “There’re some deer out there. Come and look.” I jumped out of bed and got dressed and ran to the back door. Sure enough, within twenty yards of the house was a doe with her two little fawns. After we watched for a few minutes, I wanted to get closer and try to touch them.
My three cousins and I started walking toward them, but just as we got close to them, they moved away. They kept doing that, and we kept following them. All of a sudden, the mother deer decided that she’d had enough and bounded away, her little ones behind her.
My cousins and I turned around to go back to the house and realized that we were lost. In our minds it seemed easy to just turn around and go back, but we had gone much farther than we thought we had.
I had never been in a forest before. My cousins kept saying, “Let’s go this way.” “No, let’s go this way.” So we just wandered around, and pretty soon we started hearing sounds that we imagined were bears and cougars.
We called and whistled for our families to answer, but we didn’t hear a thing. We wandered around in the tall trees for maybe an hour and a half. Then the thought came to me that we should pray to Heavenly Father. We knelt in a circle, and I said a simple prayer. As we got up, I had the distinct impression that we should walk in a certain direction, which we did. We walked that way for another thirty minutes or so. The little ones were tired, and I had to carry the smallest one on my back.
When we heard a motor in the distance, we knew enough to walk toward the sound. All of a sudden, we broke into a clearing. We could see a road, and the motor we’d heard was in a road grader. We were really tired and upset, but we knew that we had to get over to the road grader before it went by the clearing, so we ran as fast as we could. When we got close enough, we waved, and the road-grader operator saw us and stopped. He put us in the cab and took us down to the forest rangers’ headquarters. By that time, my parents and aunt and uncle had all the forest rangers out looking for us, so they were glad to see us. That experience was a testimony to me that Heavenly Father does hear and answer our prayers.

Two years ago last spring I was caught in the middle of a very heated controversy. A group of creative writing and art students at Brigham Young University, where I am one of the deans, published an issue of the school’s literary magazine which some members of the administration, faculty, and student body felt contained spots of questionable language and photography that should not be permitted to circulate. I was asked as Dean of the College of Humanities to withdraw the publication. Feelings were strong on both sides, and I was painfully squeezed between.
In the confrontations that followed, some teachers and students urged me to really clamp down on those students and their advisors who were responsible for the publication. It was suggested by some that I ought to exercise tighter controls in supervising students and their creative activities. Meanwhile, other teachers and students were pressing me even more strongly to stand up with vigor in defense of academic and creative freedom. Each side stressed the important “principles” involved.
The whole situation was intensely awkward for me because I felt that both sides were, to some extent, right. Surely morality, refinement, and good taste are standards to be defended and practiced, especially by members of the Church and in all Church publications. Equally, however, academic and creative freedom is also surely an ideal to be championed; and its opposite, censorship or suppression, inevitably contains elements that are not only inherently repugnant but also most difficult to control.1
This unpleasant incident of two years ago was particularly tense for a few weeks, but, rather than standing alone, it was merely one of many such incidents that have come to my door during the past twenty-five years in my responsibilities as a teacher and school administrator supervising creative writing classes, publications, and contests. The incident I have referred to happened at BYU, but it could have been in any high school or university. In fact, similar confrontations, often far more severe, have occurred and are occurring all over the world, wherever talented young people are writing, and that is everywhere. It is a problem that concerns all of us who are students and educators; and for those of us who are students and educators in the Church, it is a problem of special concern. The typical pattern is for some students and their teachers to press for increasing freedoms in writing and publishing while other students and educators press for tightening restrictions and controls.

The call of duty came to John E. Page when the Prophet Joseph Smith extended to him a call to serve as a missionary. John E. Page “murmured” and responded, “Brother Joseph, I can’t go on a mission to Canada. I don’t even have a coat to wear.”

The Prophet Joseph removed his own coat, handed it to Brother Page, and said, “Here, take this and the Lord will bless you.” John E. Page went on that mission to Canada and, during a two-year period, walked five thousand miles and baptized six hundred people. (See Andrew Jenson, “John E. Page,” The Historical Record, 5:57.)

As we got to know each other, our conversations sometimes evolved into debates, with Karen defending religion while I argued for science. Our discussions served mostly to frustrate her.
But Karen had a friend named Nese. Nese never said more than “Hi” to me in the halls at school, but she had listened closely to my conversations with Karen.
Nese never told me directly that she was a Latter-day Saint. She strolled up to my table in the library one day during study hall. “May I sit down?” she asked. At some point during the conversation, she said she was a member of the house of Israel. I assumed she meant she was Jewish.
We had classes all at the same hour, and during the remaining months of our senior year, Nese and I sorted through the many religious questions flooding my mind. She told me later she “just wanted to share her opinion with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” I would tell my ideas on a subject like life after death, and then she would explain her beliefs. Her confidence amazed me. It wasn’t until later that I found out she was a Latter-day Saint.
By then our talks were so enjoyable I began spending lunch hours with Nese and her Mormon friends. They were refreshing to be around. No smoking, no swearing, no improper jokes. Best of all, they never seemed to ridicule anybody—they respected each other’s feelings. It was different being with them, and I enjoyed it.
Towards the end of the school year, Karen invited me to a Gold and Green Ball, I had no idea what that was. I had never been to a dance in a church, and I had to dress in a suit! I was amazed to see a gymnasium in a church building.
But what went on in the gym surprised me even more. Adults and teenagers were talking, laughing, and even dancing together. My friends had always thought it was childish to like your parents. All over the nation there was an uproar about communication breakdown between parents and their children. But these people all seemed to be friends, regardless of age.
I asked Karen about it. She said it was because of the Church. As she took me on a tour of the building, I pondered what she had said. By the time I went home that night, I felt these people were unique, they were choice in some way I didn’t fully understand. They had a lot to be proud of.
After graduation my summer job took me away from my new-found group of friends. I was employed at a gas station, where I was unhappy because of my co-workers’ lack of concern. I was depressed, unhappy, and alone.
One afternoon in July, Nese and a friend drove up to the station. Just seeing them boosted my morale. They were planning to sing in the Oakland Temple Pageant and invited me to attend.
I’ll always remember that special evening. It was the first time I heard the story of Joseph Smith and learned the history of the Latter-day Saints I had grown to admire. At the end of the pageant, the audience rose and sang “The Spirit of God Like a Fire Is Burning.” (Hymns No. 213) How I wanted to know the words of the song so I could join the chorus! I felt completely full of respect and love.
The crowd left slowly. Standing in the parking lot, I looked up at the temple. A voice in the back of my mind told me that some day I would enter that building.
When fall came, Nese left to attend Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. I returned to Berkeley, California. Loneliness encompassed me again. Nese’s letters arrived regularly, two or three times weekly. I asked her why she was Mormon. The next letter bulged the envelope. It was a detailed explanation of her struggle to remain active and maintain a firm testimony while living with her inactive family.
I decided I had to go to church. That was a difficult decision because no one pushed me to attend. I had been allowed to come to the conclusion by myself.
I nearly changed my mind when I opened the door. I entered the chapel by myself, spotted an empty seat on the back row, and quickly sat down. Was I going to be all alone here, too? I wondered inside.
Then suddenly Karen, who had appeared from nowhere, was shaking my hand. “Good morning, David,” she said, grinning. I wasn’t alone anymore. She introduced me to people, showed me which class to go to, and sat beside me the entire time.
I was impressed to find a class I could bring my questions to and get answers. Furthermore, the teacher, Sister Booras, took time afterwards to thank me for coming. “You added a great deal to our class,” she said. I had never felt so at home before.
But I still didn’t have that spiritual testimony of the Church; I could believe in many of its teachings, but I didn’t know it was true. I kept attending the meetings anyway.
One month later, Nese urged me to come to Brigham Young University. I jumped at the chance and rushed to Provo for a whirlwind visit. She described her school as if it were part of her. As we walked around campus, all we talked about was religion. My mind was overflowing with questions again, as it had been in the high school library. I still didn’t see how everything fit together.
The thing that held me back was the principle of eternal progression. “It just can’t be right.” I said, “How can man, who was created by God, ever hope to be a god?”
We were standing in front of the Joseph Smith Building. Nese paused for a moment.
“Dave,” she said, “before we were ever created physically, we were created spiritually as God’s sons and daughters. A part of us, our spirit, comes directly from him as our Father.”
I finally understood! It all fell into place. My grin spread to a smile and erupted as a laugh. I couldn’t stop grinning. My mind jumped from doctrine to doctrine. “Yes, yes, it all fits!” I wanted to dance or sing or run.
There, on the steps of the Joseph Smith Building, the Spirit bore witness to me of the gospel plan. I knew in my heart I would join the Church.
I still had to read the Book of Mormon, learn to pray, and take the missionary discussions. But my life was changed from that moment on. I had found truth, purpose, and a life to fulfill. Five weeks later I was baptized.
Eighteen months later, my impression that I would one day enter the Oakland Temple came true, as I received my endowments one week before leaving on a mission. When I returned, Nese and I decided to continue the eternal journey we had begun with conversations at a table in a library. We were married in the Provo Temple.
Every time I look at my wife, I thank the Lord that there was a girl in my high school with enough faith to “just want to share her beliefs with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” She touched my heart and changed my life.