Gospel Story Finder

Ten-year-old Gavin is in the fifth grade, and he likes to do missionary work. Twice already he’s given friends copies of the Book of Mormon, and several times he’s invited his nonmember friends to family home evenings. He always prays that he will be a good missionary.
One Friday Mr. Leitzmiller, Gavin’s schoolteacher, had taught his class about the Mayan Indians of Mexico and Central America. Then, after the class was over and the students were leaving the classroom, he stopped Gavin and asked if they could talk a moment. When they were alone, Mr. Leitzmiller (who was not a Latter-day Saint) said, “Do you know if Jesus appeared to the Indians on the American continents after He died on the cross?”
Remembering what he had been taught in family home evenings, at Primary, and on other occasions, Gavin replied, “Yes, He did!”
“I once had a Mormon roommate in college,” Mr. Leitzmiller continued, “and I thought that I remembered his telling me about Jesus coming to the Western Hemisphere after His resurrection. Gavin, do you have a book that tells about that visit?”
“Yes,” Gavin answered. “It’s called the Book of Mormon.”
“Could you bring it to school with you on Monday?” the teacher asked with great interest.
Gavin said that he would.
That evening during supper Gavin told his family about his teacher’s request. They were all very excited for Gavin’s opportunity to do some more good missionary work.
On Sunday Gavin’s dad went to the stake center and picked up “Christ in America,” a pamphlet that tells what happened when Jesus came to the Americas after He was crucified.
That night Gavin carefully wrote on the inside cover of a new copy of a Book of Mormon, “This book tells about Jesus visiting America. It is a true story.”
Early Monday morning Gavin took the copy of the Book of Mormon, with the pamphlet tucked inside, to school and gave it to his teacher before class started. “Mr. Leitzmiller, here’s the book that you asked me to bring,” he said. “I hope that you’ll read it.”
The teacher promised Gavin that he would, and Gavin ran outside to play before the bell rang for school to begin.
When Gavin said his prayers that night, he asked Heavenly Father to bless his teacher as he read the Book of Mormon so that he would know the truth about Jesus.

The spirit you bring from your service in the temple will touch many within your circles of influence—some you may not have even considered. At the conclusion of one of our visits to the temple in Washington, D.C., the group of members shared testimonies as the bus rolled across the miles toward home. One after another, participants shared their joy and gratitude for the immediate and eternal blessings of the temple. Our nonmember bus driver finally couldn’t stand it any longer. He grabbed the microphone and expressed appreciation for being with us. He then said, “I don’t know what you people have, but I feel something different here.” Of course, a ward mission leader on the bus got his contact information and later gave it to the missionaries.

“Dad was the bishop during the war years. He was very involved in community affairs, being a member of several community boards, and even running for mayor. I can remember Dad coming home one time during the war and saying, ‘Guess what I have? Some real butter!’ That was a big thing for us. Getting a new pair of shoes or a new pair of pants was a big thing too. We never felt that we were poor, though. We always seemed to have enough.

The Lord Knew Where to Send Him
Prophets, seers, and revelators assign missionaries under the direction and influence of the Holy Ghost. Inspired mission presidents direct transfers every six weeks and quickly learn that the Lord knows exactly where He wants each missionary to serve.
A few years ago, Elder Javier Misiego, from Madrid, Spain, was serving a full-time mission in Arizona. At that time, his mission call to the United States appeared somewhat unusual, as most young men from Spain were being called to serve in their own country.
At the conclusion of a stake fireside, where he and his companion had been invited to participate, Elder Misiego was approached by a less-active member of the Church who had been brought by a friend. It was the first time this man had been inside a chapel in years. Elder Misiego was asked if he might know a José Misiego in Madrid. When Elder Misiego responded that his father’s name was José Misiego, the man excitedly asked a few more questions to confirm that this was the José Misiego. When it was determined that they were speaking about the same man, this less-active member began to weep. “Your father was the only person I baptized during my entire mission,” he explained and described how his mission had been, in his mind, a failure. He attributed his years of inactivity to some feelings of inadequacy and concern, believing that he had somehow let the Lord down.
Elder Misiego then described what this supposed failure of a missionary meant to his family. He told him that his father, baptized as a young single adult, had married in the temple, that Elder Misiego was the fourth of six children, that all three boys and a sister had served full-time missions, that all were active in the Church, and that all who were married had been sealed in the temple.
The less-active returned missionary began to sob. Through his efforts, he now learned, scores of lives had been blessed, and the Lord had sent an elder from Madrid, Spain, all the way to a fireside in Arizona to let him know that he had not been a failure. The Lord knows where He wants each missionary to serve. …
Elder W. Christopher Waddell of the Seventy

As a young man preparing for my mission call, I understood that I would serve wherever I was called. Still, although I had not studied foreign languages in high school, I hoped that I would be called to Sweden where my Samuelson roots derive or to another country where I might learn a language. When I finally received my letter of call from President David O. McKay, who was the prophet of my youth and also in many ways the prophet of BYU-Hawaii, I was called to the North British Mission. Candidly, I was initially a little disappointed that I was going to serve in an English-speaking mission. At that time, I did not understand that "Utah English" is not the same as "Scottish English." Quickly, however, I realized that Scotland was part of that mission and was the homeland of my maternal grandfather. I also remembered that the then-young David O. McKay and my Grandfather Mitchell had served in Scotland together!

In the days before entering the Mission Home, as we called the MTC in those ancient times, I had the opportunity to read my grandfather's missionary journal and first became familiar with towns and cities where I myself served in the following two years. I also learned a great deal about my grandfather whom I had not really known since he died before my third birthday. As I read, he seemed to me to be a very remarkable man then and I'm even more impressed now that I am much older.

Did it take me very long to get over any disappointment? No! Was my assignment a mistake? Not at all! I didn't believe in coincidences then and I don't now. I also had the unique experience of seeing President McKay personally three times during my mission.

The first was while still in the Mission Home in Salt Lake City. I was able to introduce myself to the Prophet and tell him that I was Joseph Mitchell's grandson. He wrapped his arms around me and told me that my grandfather had taught him how to be a missionary. My grandfather was in his late 30s with an expectant wife and little boy when he was called on his mission and Elder McKay was closer to the usual missionary age. Nevertheless, they were not only missionary companions but became lifelong friends.

The second experience happened when I had been in Scotland for only a few weeks. Our group of missionaries was fairly small and President McKay spent an hour or two teaching us about missionary work. That was a day I'll never forget.

The third experience was when President McKay returned to Scotland in August of 1962 to organize the Glasgow Scotland Stake. I had been on my mission for 19 months but this was the first stake conference for me as a missionary because this was the first stake created in that country. Many interesting and spiritual things happened at that conference. One was an electric moment for me. While President McKay was speaking, he began to talk about his first mission of 65 years before. He then said something to the effect that all of his companions had now passed to the other side of the veil but he felt that some were in attendance at conference that day and of the three names he mentioned, Brother Mitchell, my grandfather, was one of them! (An account of this speech given 26 August 1962 can be found in the Church News a week or two later.)

Can you imagine the thrill I felt? Do you think that I would ever have wanted to serve in any other mission? Ever since, I have felt a close and special relationship with this grandfather who died when I was just a toddler. I have felt his influence and frequently reflect on his example, his goodness and my desire never to embarrass him. I have felt my heart turned to him and feel that I now understand better that his heart has also always been turned to me.

Through all of these experiences and some others, I also developed and have retained special feelings for President David O. McKay, the prophet of my youth just as President Gordon B. Hinckley is the prophet of your young adult years. You might now understand better my counsel that you gain all you can from the experience you recently had with him here on campus and that you learn all you can when you see him and listen to him. Through the miracles of technology, as well as when he personally visits, you can have special relationships with the Lord's prophet and he is speaking directly to you.

By this time, I wanted to continue going to church on my own, but that was such a challenge! It was hard for me to sit alone at church. I felt like everyone was staring at me and feeling sorry for me because my family wasn’t with me. To ward off sympathy, I would sit with my head bowed, reading a book until the meeting started. I felt sorry for myself and thought the challenge wasn’t worth it. I decided that without a family, the Church was not going to be true for me.
It was another small miracle of friendship that brought me back. Wendolyn and I had been friends since childhood, but we’d slowly drifted apart. One afternoon, Wendolyn and her mother sat me down and told me about the importance of going to church. They offered to have me go and sit with their family. My main stumbling block was removed! I had people to sit with who cared!
Through the rest of my high school years, my friendship with Wendolyn deepened, and my testimony of the gospel along with it. Wendolyn’s mother even offered to help me pay for a mission if I ever decided to go. I was touched by their willingness to sacrifice for me and for the gospel.
I know it is sometimes hard to accept an outsider into your family, but these two families accepted me, and to them I owe my active participation in the Church today. I will be eternally grateful to these friends. What small miracles of friendship can do!

When I was a boy, at Christmastime my mother put out a picture of the Savior knocking at a door. We weren’t members of the Church yet, and I always asked, “Why is Jesus knocking on the door? Who is on the other side?”
A few years later I discovered there was no handle on the outside of the door the Savior was knocking on. The person on the inside needed to open the door. Now I know who is on the other side of the door. We are! The Savior is knocking, and we all have to open the door and invite Him to come into our lives.

“Revelation is a direct answer from God to each of us.”
Melissa sometimes has a hard time making decisions and figuring out what she wants to do in the future. “I have a lot of responsibilities, and it’s hard to balance life and church and school,” she says. “It can be hard to know which way to go and how to make it all work.”
But even though life can be busy, Melissa says, “I’ve learned that I just need to make sure that I always think about God first.”
Melissa determined that to put God first, she should make her prayer and scripture study more effective. She would read a verse of scriptures, pray about it, and then write down her impressions.
As she’s practiced this strategy, Melissa says she started to understand the meanings of each verse better. “It becomes clearer how I can apply it to my life.”
She’s also received blessings that help her manage her priorities and make good decisions. “When I communicate with God more often and try to involve Him in my life as much as possible, all of my other activities fall into place, and life seems a lot easier.”

Every year since he was three years old, Tommy Tipana had gone into the wilderness with his grandfather, Utak, for a short period of time to learn the old ways of his people. Tommy’s father, however, was a modern Eskimo who lived in a sturdy wooden house and had a snowmobile. He did not approve of the old ways, but he allowed Tommy to learn what he could from Utak.
The year Tommy was ten, Grandfather Utak invited him to go on a trip through Anaktuvuk Pass by dogsled. So, early one morning Tommy waved good-bye to his parents, then snuggled down under a bearskin robe on his grandfather’s sled. Utak cracked the long whip that sent the dogs bounding toward the snow-covered tundra, and the journey began.
At the end of the day, Utak and Tommy stopped the dog team and fed them strips of caribou meat. Afterward Utak tapped on the snow with his ayoutak (long stick used for probing), and they listened for a deep, resounding squeak. “A good spot,” Tommy said, pointing.
His grandfather smiled and nodded. “Yes, the snowdrift is firm and deep here, Grandson. It will make a good igloo. You learn well.”
Together they cut out blocks of snow and stacked them. Then they packed the joints and cracks with loose snow, leaving only a small doorway for them to enter. They built a fire, and all was warm and cozy for the night. Next they cut a hole in the ice and fished for arctic charr. As Tommy and Utak ate their meal, Utak smiled in the light of the fire, for he was pleased with his grandson. “It is good that you learn the ways of our people,” Utak said encouragingly. “Soon there will be few who remember, and the new ways are wrong.”
“Father lives the new ways,” Tommy said, bewildered. “How can they be wrong?”
“Your parents go to the store to buy their food and clothes. They have forgotten how to fish and hunt and tan hides and sew. They have no dogsled, but ride on a snowmobile. All that we need is outside our igloo, Tommy, if we know how to use it.”
Utak slept, and Tommy sat curled in his bearskin, watching the fire. Outside, he could hear the whistling snow as it covered everything with a white blanket. He wondered which way was best—the old way or the new way. Tommy liked them both.
Early in the morning, Tommy and Utak ate and dressed quickly, for the fire was low. Tommy coiled thongs of caribou skin around his boots to make them skid proof. Pulling the hood of his fur coat closely around his face, he crawled out into the blazing whiteness of the new day. The dogs, shaking the snow from their coats, barked and strained at their tethers while Tommy threw them strips of frozen whale blubber. When they were through eating, Tommy helped them into their traces and waited for Utak. But Utak did not come out of the igloo.
“Grandfather!” Tommy called, kneeling at the doorway. “The dogs are ready.”
“Tommy, come here,” came his grandfather’s faint answer.
Tommy crawled back into the igloo. His grandfather sat leaning against the wall amid their belongings. His hand was massaging his chest.
“Grandfather,” Tommy whispered, “are you ill?”
Utak motioned for Tommy to come closer. “You must leave me here, Tommy. I am a sick old man, and it is the old way to deal with sickness.”
“I cannot leave you!” Tommy cried. “You are my grandfather.”
“Adjornarmat (that is life),” Grandfather said, shaking his head slowly. “Now do as I say! Leave me here. Take the sled and return to your parents … but do not forget the old ways.”
“I will not leave you, Grandfather,” Tommy replied. “There is much I do not know yet, and you are the only one who can teach me.”
Tommy hurried outside to get a wide strip of baleen (whalebone) from the sled and bring it into the igloo.
“Here, Grandfather, let me help you.”
Tommy helped Utak onto the baleen, then pulled his grandfather to the sled. Slowly Utak climbed onto the sled, and Tommy wrapped him in bearskins. Then Tommy packed their few belongings and turned the dogs toward home. His grandfather slept.
The dogs knew Utak was not driving them, and they growled, refusing to pull. Finally, Tommy lifted the heavy whip and commanded them as his grandfather had done so many times before. The whip cracked sharply in the frozen morning air; the lead dog growled one more time, then began to pull. They had a new master now, but he had learned much from their old master.
Back along the frozen tundra the sled raced, mile after mile, without Grandfather to guide it. Nevertheless, the boy remembered all he had learned and drove the sled in a straight line. Late that night, they arrived home.
The next morning Utak awoke in a hospital bed with white sheets. There were curtains at the windows. A nurse was leaning over him.
“Your grandson saved your life, Mr. Tipana,” she said, smiling. “Would you like to see him?”
Utak nodded, and Tommy walked into the hospital room, followed by his parents. He bent and hugged his grandfather gently. “Thank you, Grandfather,” he whispered.
“You saved my life and yet you thank me?” Utak was puzzled.
“For the old ways,” Tommy said and smiled. “If I had not known them, I would not have been able to bring you to the new ways that have saved your life.”
Tommy’s father frowned. “Utak! You must give up the old ways—the new ways are better and safer.”
Tommy simply smiled to himself as his father and grandfather argued about the old and new ways. He wondered why they did not understand as he did that both ways were good. Tommy knew he would live somewhere between them, for he had learned to love them both.

My name is Job Abram Goldrup. When I was four years old and my older brother, Matt, was six and a half, Dad took us camping at a place called Blue Lake in northern California. It was in the middle of a very hot summer. Although most of the other lakes around there were very low and muddy, Blue Lake was filled with water.
We slept in sleeping bags on the ground that night, and Dad told us a story. I can’t remember what it was about, but I liked the soft sound of his voice and the feeling of being with him by the lake in the woods. I felt safe and loved and excited. The moon made silver, bouncy light on the water, and I heard an owl hooting in the dark trees, whose branches swayed back and forth in the dry wind. I looked a long time at the warm, bright glow of our campfire. It made the dark not too scary, just like Dad’s voice did.
In the morning Dad made hot chocolate and cooked hot dogs. The chocolate had a few twigs in it because he spilled the chocolate powder on the ground and some stuff got mixed up with it when he scooped it up. But that was OK because Dad said there was hardly any use being in nature if you didn’t get a little of it in you. "Besides," he added, "a little roughage is good for the system." We just laughed and drank it down. It was kind of a strange breakfast—what we ate should have been for dinner, and what we had for dinner we should have had for breakfast—that was part of the fun of camping with Dad.
After breakfast, we rented a rowboat and went out on the lake. Dad made us wear orange life jackets. That’s the only part that wasn’t much fun, because it was already getting hot and the life jacket made me hotter. But Dad said that just as the words of the prophets are meant to help keep us spiritually safe, life jackets are made to help keep us temporally safe.
I scrunched up my face something awful and fidgeted as if to shake that life jacket right off me.
"You have to plow your own furrow, huh, Joby?" Dad said, smiling and shaking his head.
I didn’t know what he meant. I scrunched up my face again and reached my hand down into the cool water. The water felt good. And, I have to admit, so did Dad’s counsel. Even if I didn’t understand it sometimes, I knew it meant that hecared about me and my brother.
We kind of went around in a few circles before Dad started rowing straight. Matt whispered to me that Dad was about as good at rowing as he was at cooking.
Dad heard us and laughed. "I’m just taking the scenic route," he joked.
After a while, we reached a small island near the other side of the lake. I felt like an explorer as Dad pulled the rowboat partway onto the pebbly beach. The island was covered with trees. A few big ones had long before fallen into the water along its edges, and there were logs on the beach.
There was only one problem: It was very hot! It helped to take off my shirt and shoes and wade in the shallow water along the beach, looking for rocks and small fish. It helped, but it wasn’t enough. "Dad," I begged, "can’t I take off my life jacket? It’s so hot, and the water isn’t deep here. It hardly comes up to my knees."
Dad, who was wading higher up the beach ahead of us, scratched his head and scrunched up his face. "I guess it would be OK, Joby," he said at last, "as long as you don’t wade out any deeper."
I promised I wouldn’t, and Matt helped me get out of the jacket. I threw it up onto the beach. It felt great to have it off! My brother and I continued to look for rocks and fish below the surface of the water, Matt poking and turning the rocks over with a stick he had brought from camp.
A few minutes later, Dad looked back to check on me and my brother and yelled, "Where’s Joby, Matt?"
Matt looked this way and that, then, bewildered, back at Dad. "I don’t know—he was right here a minute ago."
Dad raced up out of the water and faced the thick, tangly island trees. "Joby!" he yelled again and again, hoping I had decided to venture into the trees.
Matt was worried, too. "Where is he, Dad?"
Dad didn’t answer. He ran into the shallow water close to where Matt stood, scanning the water about him. Then he ran along the beach, first in one direction, then another. Suddenly he stopped, looked down into the shallow water by a fallen tree, and screamed, "Joby!" He threw himself beneath the surface and pulled me up!
A big gasp came from me as I breathed in air at last.
"Are you all right?" Dad looked at me with tears filling his eyes.
I nodded. "I guess I stepped into a hole. A feeling like a voice told me, ‘Stay calm; your dad will come for you.’ So I did. I just started looking around at the big tree roots, waiting for you to find me."
Dad started crying hard. He hugged me as though he would never let go. And for a moment, I didn’t want him to. I started to cry, too.
Afterward we all sat on a log up on the beach, and Dad explained what had happened. He said that I had stepped in a pothole and very well could have drowned. It was because of Heavenly Father’s loving, watchful care that I was spared. Dad said that the voice-feeling I had was the Holy Ghost telling me what to do. I know that’s true because of the special feeling I had while I was waiting for Dad to find me. "If you had panicked," Dad said, "you would have swallowed water and might have drowned."
I will always remember that day—listening to Dad’s story, sleeping by the campfire, eating those hot dogs, drinking twiggy hot chocolate, wading in the cool lake water on a hot summer day. But most of all I will remember my experience with the Holy Ghost that taught me how near he is to us—as near, Dad would say, as an amen at the end of a prayer.

An interesting experiment in social psychology investigates how much the judgments of others influence the way we see things. A psychologist built a small machine containing a bright light which could be switched on in pinpoint bursts. When one views a small burst of light in a dark room, the light appears to move, even though the machine producing the light is stable and doesn’t move at all. This is called the autokinetic (self-movement) effect, and it plays an important role in this experiment.
During the first stage of the experiment one person, let’s call him Bill, is led into a dark room and instructed to judge how far the tiny pinpoints of light move each time he sees a burst of light. His judgment is one inch the first time, two inches the second time, and three inches the third time. After several trials he settles on three inches as his average judgment.
Bill is then excused from the room, and Susan is invited to be seated several feet from the light machine. She then voices her judgments each time she sees a burst of light. She begins with three inches, then two inches, and she finally begins to repeat estimates of about one inch.
After her judgments have been recorded, Bill is then invited back into the room with Susan, and both of them are instructed to voice their individual estimates of another series of light bursts. After the first burst Bill says, “three inches,” and Susan counters with “one inch.” On the next trial Susan says, “one and a half,” and Bill replies, “two and a half.” After several subsequent trials, they concur that the light moves two inches each time.
Few of us are ever invited into an experimental laboratory to share our opinions, but each day of our lives we are required to make important judgments in the laboratory of life. Sometimes we tend to forget some important eternal truths. For example, “the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil.” The Lord assured us that if we are responsive to his spirit, he will “show [us] the way to judge” (Moro. 7:16). The Savior also referred to himself as “the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life” (John 8:12). This light never moves, and if it appears to move from us, we are the ones who have moved.
Sometimes in everyday life, just as in the darkened laboratory, we lose our perspective as familiar landmarks vanish. We think the light has moved. One of the ways we move from the light of Christ is in engaging in the “Not As Bad As Game.” You know how it goes:
“I swear a lot, but I never take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“I don’t pay a full tithing, but at least I pay something.”
“I go to a few questionable movies, but never to an X-rated movie.”
“Necking isn’t as bad as petting.”
“Sure, I cheat on my income tax, but not as bad as other people.”
“I don’t consider it gossip when I’m only telling the truth.”
“If what I wear is a little extreme, it’s not as bad as what others at school wear.”
And so, in the words of our beloved friend Nephi, “thus the devil cheateth their souls, and leadeth them away carefully down to hell” (2 Ne. 28:21).
Although the light never moves, the more often we are in contact with that which is abnormal, degrading, and undesirable, the more normal and desirable it begins to appear. We become less sensitive to the promptings of the still, small voice. In that same great epistle which motivated the boy prophet Joseph to seek the Lord in prayer, the Apostle James shared some great insights into this process:
“Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love him.
“Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God: for God cannot be tempted with evil, neither tempteth he any man:
“But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.
“Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death. …
“Wherefore lay apart all filthiness and superfluity of naughtiness, and receive with meekness the engrafted word, which is able to save your souls” (James 1:12–15, 21).
Youth of the noble birthright, you have been lovingly commanded to “shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light” (1 Pet. 2:9).
Remember, the light never moves.

My soccer team went to a tournament on a Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. My mom asked me what I was going to do about Sunday’s game. I said I didn’t know what to do. My dad encouraged me to pray, so I prayed about it. That night, the song “Nephi’s Courage” got stuck in my head. I knew Heavenly Father answered my prayers through that song so I would remember to have courage to obey His commandments. On Sunday after church, I knew my team was playing. I was a little sad that I couldn’t help my team, but I knew I was doing the right thing. I am glad that Heavenly Father helped me make the right choice, even though it was hard to make.

One sister shared that she and her husband had often attended a weekly game night with friends in her ward. After the divorce, she was saddened when the invitations to game night stopped coming because it was only couples who had attended. Another sister shared that many ward members assumed that because she was now a single mother, she wouldn’t have time to attend activities with friends like she did before; therefore, they didn’t invite her so that she wouldn’t feel sad in not being able to come. However, this simply left her feeling more isolated and alone. This sister shared that it would have felt nice to simply continue to be invited (even if she couldn’t join)—to know that others wanted her there.

A few years ago, I was becoming more comfortable with sharing my experience with same-sex attraction. However, I was having a hard time feeling like I belonged at church. On a beautiful October Sunday, I took a moment to go on a walk and pray before going to elders quorum. I was feeling quite raw and vulnerable from sharing some of my personal experiences and feared how people would perceive me. I knew Heavenly Father could help provide the peace I needed.
I prayed to Him, letting Him know the pain and emotions I was experiencing. I remember saying, “God, how can I go back to a place where I feel that people don’t get me?”
And this sweet impression came to my mind: “Spencer, they don’t need to get you, because I get you.”
Knowing that Heavenly Father and the Savior truly saw me, understood me, and loved me was, in that moment, a profound tender mercy.
They affirmed my “belovedness” that day, and I realized that following Them and remembering that I belong to Them fills me with joy and helps me see what I can be. Being reminded of this eternal truth and allowing it to take root in me gave me the peace I needed.

This past summer I was invited to hike to a lake called Gunsight, a gorgeous glacier lake in the White Clouds mountain range, where we would spend a day fishing. This would be a one-day event:hike in, fish, and hike back out.

When I inquired about the terrain of the trail, my younger brother exclaimed, “It’s basically a goat trail.” In other words, no trail. As we began our journey, I quickly learned what he meant. For the first quarter of the trip, we ascended up the trail, with the final destination climbing down towards the lake.

After an enjoyable, relaxing day of fishing, we reversed the process and headed back out. My preparation helped me get into the lake but did not quite prepare me, or my legs, for the ascent out. As you can see, I made it.

Be prepared to accomplish hard things. Before a long race, marathon runners plan and prepare themselves by getting the proper nutrients to complete a race. This preparation helps them avoid “hitting the wall,” a sudden urge to quit that happens three-quarters of the way through the race.

As I reflect back on my hike, I think about how I was not as prepared as I thought I was. I think about each foot placement and navigating over those boulders, where the slightest wrong move could have been a tragedy.

My heart feels warm tonight. Broken, bruised, torn, certainly. But beautifully warm. I feel intense gratitude—gratitude so deep and encompassing that it seems a new hole has opened in my soul to make room, gratitude so filling and so personal that it won’t stop coursing down my cheeks in silent tears. My husband is breathing. I can hear it, deep and soft.
Just a couple of hours ago, I climbed into his hospital bed, ignoring the gentle kicks from our soon-to-arrive baby, and found a spot among all the wires hooked to his chest where I could rest my head. Listening to his heartbeat in my ear was an experience that will be burned into my memory forever.
His heart beats still. Not as well as it did before the heart attack. But it beats still.
But mostly I feel gratitude to the Lord for my husband’s life—his deep breathing, his heart pumping blood, his living body and soul. His life is my Christmas miracle.

Many years ago, I had the desire to learn how to plant taro, which is our Polynesian potato. To help me in this endeavor, I went to see a very good friend—an elder in the ward—who knew a lot about agriculture, and who, over the years, had accumulated all the necessary expertise to produce beautiful taro in his fa’a’apu (field). I asked him if he could come to my house to teach me the basic techniques for planting beautiful taro. He accepted my invitation. He was excited to share his knowledge.
We talked for 30 minutes, and I took as many notes as possible of all the necessary steps to plant taro. I followed my notes to reproduce the advice my friend had given me. Every day, I would enjoy watering my taro after work. I could see the foliage of the taro plants growing day after day; it was radiant. I could envision myself eating my taro.
The long-awaited moment came to harvest the taro; seven months had gone by. I couldn’t wait to see the size of my taro tubers in the ground. I took my shovel to remove the soil around the plant to extract the taro. To my surprise, I found no taro under the plant. The taro had not grown. It was a total failure! I could see that the foliage of the plant had reached maturity—at least one meter, and it was green, which is a sign that the plant is doing well.
What happened to my taro which did not grow like my friend’s taro? I had followed every advice he had given me.
I would like to share with you some of the lessons I learned from this experience and especially how these lessons have helped my wife and I raise our children to stay on the covenant path, and to produce fruits worthy of the Lord.
The first lesson I learned was that taro needed much more water to grow. I don’t think I watered my taro plants enough. The “corme” (bulb) which is the base of the plant’s stem should not be completely submerged; or if so, only temporarily. However, the soil must constantly remain moist for the roots to grow and bear fruit.
The second lesson was that in addition to living in a humid environment, taro needed to be fertilized regularly because the taro plant needs plenty of nitrogen; and that’s something I hadn’t done, unfortunately. I must have overlooked this important information when I talked to my friend.

One of my neighbors who is a member of the Church gave copies of the Book of Mormon to three families in our neighborhood in Argentina. I lived across the street and did not receive one of the copies, but I watched as the families learned about the gospel from the missionaries. My sister Sandra’s boyfriend was one of those listening to the discussions, and he invited her to join them.
They were all invited to attend church one Sunday, and Sandra invited me. I never imagined that accepting an invitation to attend church would completely change my life. From the moment I entered the meetinghouse, I felt a wonderful sense of belonging.
I met the missionaries and made arrangements to take the discussions. My parents wouldn’t let the missionaries into our home, so I was taught at the meetinghouse. After much prayer and fasting, I was baptized on 21 January 1990. Two weeks later, Sandra and her boyfriend were also baptized.
I feel I would never have accepted the Church if it were not for the efforts of this member family in giving away those copies of the Book of Mormon. I am eternally grateful to the Lord that I have such obedient neighbors who were willing to share their riches, the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I have kept track of how many baptisms have occurred because of those three copies of the Book of Mormon. There were 16 baptisms on our block, and now my sister Sandra and I are serving full-time missions. My mother, who was totally opposed to the Church at first, was baptized during my mission and is now the Relief Society president in our branch.
My neighbor gave me the knowledge that I needed to return to my Heavenly Father. We must give this same opportunity to everyone. I know this is the only true church, but others don’t know this. We must share the Book of Mormon with everyone.

I begin with a conversation I had with one of our young men students last spring. I was walking by the tennis courts. He was waiting for a game. Finding out that he had just come to BYU as a transfer student from a junior college on the West Coast, I asked him to tell me about his experience at BYU.

“Well, I don’t know much about the studies yet,” he responded, “but the social life is sure great, and that’s what it’s all about here at the Y, isn’t it?”

I ground my teeth at that answer. What I wanted to reply was: “No, you featherheaded, indolent child, social life isn’t what it’s all about. This is a university. Learning is what it’s all about. You are here to get an education.”

Instead I managed a gentler suggestion that he ought to discover some other purpose for his enrollment or his stay would be frustrating and short. Now this young man meant no harm. He was suffering from a misapprehension whose victims are all too common among our students, alumni, and supporters. It concerns the purposes and functions of this university.

Let us banish forever the illusion that Brigham Young University exists for any purpose other than to provide a university education. Social life, physical exercise, Church activity, cultural development, good times—all these are here. We deem all of them essential ingredients of a university education. As for the opportunity for our choice young men and women to meet and marry someone of their own faith, we consider that a welcome by-product of the coeducational enterprise. But none of these ingredients is sufficient in itself or in combination to justify the enormous capital investment and annual financial support appropriated to Brigham Young University. Each of these other activities could be conducted separately and economically in your own home areas.

Our reason for being is to be a university. Your reason for enrolling is to pursue a university education. Persons who are here for any other reason or who fail to measure up to this challenge with all their hearts and abilities have come to the wrong place.

It was July 4, 1976, and the huge, yellowed stones of the Western (Wailing) Wall, all that remains of the enclosure that was once part of the resplendent glory of Solomon’s Temple, echoed with singing: “God is with us; no one can defeat us.” The golden city of Jerusalem, made more golden by the ruddy glow of the setting sun, sang her victory song. Israel had amazed the world that morning with her daring commando raid on the airport at Entebbe, Uganda. Ninety hijacked Israeli hostages, facing the threat of death, had been rescued and flown back to Israel.
On the evening of that eventful day, I photographed soldiers and civilians whirling together in dancing circles, singing and praising God. The dusky evening light merged colors and shapes into a oneness. I stood next to a soldier as he leaned his head against his arm to pray at the rough stone of the Wall, while behind us common folk and government officials blended their voices in vocal prayer and thanksgiving for the glory of Israel.