Gospel Story Finder

Paul Hulme is such a person. In November 1973, his 10-year-old daughter, Kelly, was walking from school to her home in San Jose, California. While crossing through an orchard, she was accosted by a teenage boy who raped and then killed her. The young man was convicted shortly thereafter and sentenced to life in prison.
Brother Hulme, a former bishop then serving as a high councilor, faced the challenge of his life. Having his youngest daughter’s life cut short so brutally assaulted his sense of justice and brought him to a crisis of faith. His pain, intense at the loss of one he loved so much, was compounded by anger and bitterness. He sought the Lord’s comfort for himself and for his grieving wife and family.
As he prayed for strength, he found solace in the knowledge that Kelly was in her Heavenly Father’s loving care, secure from the pains of this world. He also recognized that his growing bitterness, if not resolved, could seriously threaten his peace of mind and spiritual well-being.
He found that his thoughts, guided by the Spirit, began to turn to the young man’s family. Brother Hulme knew his daughter was safe and content, but what of the young man responsible for her death? What hope did he have of forgiveness and peace? And what of the boy’s family, also grieving but uncomforted by any knowledge that all was well with their son and brother?
Brother Hulme decided to visit their home and offer whatever comfort and support he could give. As he met with the boy’s family, he explained that he understood their anguish. But as he shared his concern, he sensed that the family did not fully comprehend his motives or the message he brought. He came to understand that this home had never been touched by such simple Christian principles as faith and charity. Brother Hulme did not know if his visit had helped the family. Nonetheless, a miracle occurred in his own heart as he felt bitterness and anger melt away, replaced instead with charity.2

Allen C. Ostergar, administrative director, comments, “We have many visitors come here, most of whom are not even members of the Church. They want to see how we do it. They see missionaries out in the world, and they’re impressed. They want to see how we train these outstanding young men and women. We’ve had many people from universities all over the world. We’ve had government officials from state departments, from the United States government, from many other governments. We’ve had people from other churches. We’ve had people from the Vatican. We’ve had people from the Church of the Nazarene. We’ve had Baptists and Methodists. We’ve had military personnel here to see how we train in languages. Once a group of five high-ranking military officers from the Pentagon visited us. They were responsible for the language training of military units in the United States. They spent two days visiting classes, talking to missionaries, reviewing our materials. At the end of the time they said, ‘We’d like to contract with you to train our people here.’

“We told them that wouldn’t work, of course, and then they asked us a lot of questions. First of all they asked the same question that everybody who comes here asks. ‘How do you do it? What is it about these young people that makes them do what they do? We don’t understand it.’ And then thoughts like ‘testimony,’ ‘righteousness,’ ‘the Spirit of the Lord’ go though your mind—things some of these people don’t understand very well. Those are the things that make all the difference.

“We have a beautiful facility. We have a great training system. And then you add to this the great spirit of missionary work and the Spirit of the Lord, and there’s no way a missionary can fail if he’ll do his part.”

In Eastern Germany I visited, with a handful of members, a small cemetery. It was a dark night, and a cold rain had been falling throughout the entire day.
We had come to visit the grave of a missionary who many years before had died while in the service of the Lord (See Tambuli, May 1989, page 7, “In the Lord’s Time”). A hushed silence shrouded the scene as we gathered about the grave. With a flashlight illuminating the headstone, I read the inscription:
Joseph A. Ott
Born: 12 December 1870—Virgin, Utah
Died: 10 January 1896—Dresden, Germany
Then the light revealed that this grave was unlike any other in the cemetery. The marble headstone had been polished, weeds such as those which covered other graves had been carefully removed, and in their place was an immaculately edged bit of lawn and some beautiful flowers that told of tender and loving care. I asked, “Who has made this grave so attractive?” My query was met by silence.
At last a twelve-year-old deacon acknowledged that he had wanted to render this unheralded kindness and, without prompting from parents or leaders, had done so. He said that he just wanted to do something for a missionary who had given his life while in the service of the Lord. I thanked him; and then I asked all there to safeguard his secret, that his gift might remain anonymous.

I have a friend who as a young man couldn’t say no to a drink of alcohol. But to him, it was a special kind of poison. He became an alcoholic. It had disastrous consequences on his family, and he struggled for years to overcome his illness. Fortunately, he did so, and he has found the time to help others. However, he lost years with his young family that he can never regain. He also was separated from the Church. From all indications, it appears that his past drinking has robbed him of an eternal family.

President Romney tells an interesting experience he had with regard to following the living prophet:
“One day when President Grant was living, I sat in my office across the street following a general conference. A man came over to see me, an elderly man. He was very upset about what had been said in this conference by some of the Brethren, including myself. I could tell from his speech that he came from a foreign land. After I had quieted him enough so he would listen, I said, ‘Why did you come to America?’
“‘I came here because a prophet of God told me to come.’
“‘Who was the prophet?’ I continued.
“‘Wilford Woodruff.’
“‘Do you believe Wilford Woodruff was a prophet of God?’
“‘Yes,’ said he.
“‘Do you believe that his successor, President Lorenzo Snow, was a prophet of God?’
“‘Yes, I do.’
“‘Do you believe that President Joseph F. Smith was a prophet of God?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“Then came the ‘sixty-four dollar question.’ ‘Do you believe that Heber J. Grant is a prophet of God?’
“His answer: ‘I think he ought to keep his mouth shut about old age assistance.’” (Conference Report, April 6, 1953, p. 125.)

When I was a little girl we only had radio. Every Saturday morning I would jump out of bed the moment I heard the music that meant my favorite radio program, "Let's Pretend" was about to begin. My mind filled with images as I listened to the program each week. There were Princes, white horses, castles, gorgeous princesses and happily ever after. The words and sound effects helped me see it all. I'm so grateful for those innocent exciting images of my childhood. I exercised my imagination every Saturday morning and lots of other times, too.

Sometimes I feel like you have been robbed because your childhood included a TV, a computer and video images. Violent video games that are built around killing and destruction frighten me when I think what is being taught. Why are so many children acting out what they have seen?

Illustrations by Andy Elkerton
Sarah was unpacking a box in her room when Mom walked in.
“Can we paint the walls yellow?” she asked Mom.
They had just moved into a different house. Sarah had been able to pick out a quilt and curtains for her new room!
“Sure,” Mom said. “Yellow is a happy color.”
But Mom and Sarah didn’t always feel happy lately, not since Dad had died in an accident.
Sarah put a few of her favorite books on a little shelf by her bed. She put her favorite picture of Dad next to the books, where she could see it every morning when she woke up.
She heard a sniffle and saw tears in Mom’s eyes.
“I love you, Mom,” Sarah said, wrapping her arms around Mom’s waist and squeezing tight.
“I love you more,” Mom said.
The Saturday before school started, Mom and Sarah put on old clothes, moved the furniture to the middle of Sarah’s room, and carefully pushed paint rollers into trays of yellow paint. After a while, the walls were covered in yellow—and so were their faces and clothes!
“You look like you’ve got sunshine splattered all over you,” Mom said.
Sarah giggled. “And you look like a banana exploded next to you!”
They were still laughing as they cleaned up. But Sarah’s smile faded when she thought about going to Primary tomorrow and school the day after that.
“I’m worried about church and my new school,” she told Mom as they rinsed paintbrushes in the sink. “I won’t know any of the teachers or kids or anybody.”
Mom turned off the water and pulled Sarah into a hug.
“You’ll make friends,” Mom said. “You have a kind heart that will draw others to you. Be your wonderful self, and friends will come.”
Sarah felt a little better, but she was still nervous.
“I wish Dad were here to give me a blessing,” she said. “Like he always used to before I went back to school.”
Mom was quiet for a minute. “What about Uncle Wyatt?” she said. “I’m sure he’d be happy to give you a blessing.”
Sarah nodded. Maybe a blessing would help.
That night, Sarah’s uncle put his hands on her head to give her a blessing.
“I bless you to know that the Savior is mindful of you as you start this new chapter in life,” he said. “He will not leave you alone.”
Sarah paid special attention to the words new chapter. She loved to read and was always excited to start a new chapter in a book.
The next morning Sarah and Mom went to church. After sacrament meeting Mom helped Sarah find the Primary room. A girl smiled at her and said hello.
“You can sit here,” she said, patting an empty chair next to her.
“Thanks,” Sarah said. “My name’s Sarah. I’m new here.”
“I’m Melody. And I’m new too! This is only my second week.”
Soon Sarah and Melody were talking with the other Primary kids. Their teacher was really nice.
I hope school goes well too, Sarah thought as she went to bed that night.
The next day, Sarah rode the bus to her new school. She was excited to see a few kids from Primary in her third-grade class.
Thank you, Heavenly Father, Sarah prayed silently as she ate lunch with her new friends. Maybe this will be a good chapter, after all.

“I’m hungry,” Becky grumbled as she plodded along behind the wagon.
“Me too!” Jonathan said. “Do you think Pa would mind if we stopped to pick some berries?”
Becky shook her head. “We’d better not. Pa says that if we don’t keep up with the rest of the wagons, we won’t be able to get down the mountain.”
“I wish Ma were here.” Jonathan’s eyes filled with tears. “She’d find us something to eat.”
From the front of the wagon came the sound of music, and Jonathan perked up a little. “Jacob’s hungry, too,” he said. “He always plays that harmonica when his stomach growls.”
Laughing, they hurried along. Sure enough, Jacob Brewster was tapping his foot and playing as hard as he could. With one hand he guided the oxen; with the other he played a tune on his harmonica.
Jacob Brewster was seventeen years old and an orphan. He had asked to join the wagon train in North Platte, and Pa had offered him meals and a place on their wagon if Jacob would help with the oxen.
Soon the signal came to stop for the noon meal. Becky made a thin gruel from a small handful of cornmeal, sweetened with a few drops of the carefully hoarded molasses. Pa cut each of them a small piece of a tough biscuit, and they dipped it into the gruel.
“Brother Snow says that we’re almost there,” Pa said. “He thinks that we’ll make it in the next two days.”
Jonathan jumped up and down. “Really, Pa? Does he really mean it?” Pa just smiled and nodded.
When the meal was over, Becky and Jacob quickly repacked the wagon and stomped out the small campfire.
Just after the family had left Omaha, Nebraska, Becky’s mother had a bad fall from the wagon. Within a week she had died. Now fifteen-year-old Becky had to fix all the meals, take care of the wagon, and help young Jonathan get over their mother’s death. It wasn’t easy when she still missed Mama terribly herself.
While they were stopped, Becky hurried to fill the water cans at the small stream. With a gentle touch she watered the tiny lilac plants in the back of the wagon. Her mother had taken care of them so carefully. In her mind she could hear her mother’s sweet voice tell Pa: “Why, it won’t be home without lilacs around the door! Don’t you worry, Becky and I will take care of them.”
“Time to go, Becky.” Pa’s shout broke into her thoughts.
“I’m ready, Pa. Jonathan, why don’t you ride for a while.” She helped her seven-year-old brother into the back of the wagon, knowing that in a little while he would be asleep.
The trail up the mountain grew steeper, and the pace began to slow. Anxiously Becky watched the darkening sky. A thunderstorm is one thing that we don’t need today, she thought.
The huge clouds grew darker. The slight breeze gusted fiercely, then became a stiff wind. From the north came the first flashes of lightning.
“Becky! We’ll have to lighten the load if we want to get up this mountain.” Pa’s words were all but lost in the wind. “Wake Jonathan and unload everything that we can possibly leave behind.”
“Yes, Pa.” Becky hurried to obey.
Out went the extra washtub and the small chest of linens that her mother had so carefully packed for Becky’s hope chest. Jonathan tearfully dumped his precious rock collection, and Becky resolutely removed the extra bedrolls and cooking pots.
“What about these?” Jonathan asked.
Becky turned to see the bucket of lilac plants in the young boy’s hand. “No, not those, Jon!” she cried. “I promised Mama that we’d plant those by our new home.”
Pa put his arm around Becky’s slight shoulders and gave her a hug. “Yes,” he said. “The lilacs stay.”
The sky became an angry black, and the thunder rolled from mountain to mountain.
“We’ll have to stop, Brother Webster,” Jacob called. “The trail will turn into a slippery mud slide as soon as the rain hits.”
Looking around, Jacob spied a level clearing off to the left of the trail and guided the wagon over to it. The other wagons followed.
As if on signal, the rain began. Great, heavy drops splattered here and there at first, then came down in a torrent. The north wind blew, the thunder roared, and the lightning blazed continually across the sky.
Inside the wagon the four shivered as they listened to the storm. Jonathan’s eyes were round with fear and Becky held him close. They could hear trees being split by the lightning, and the wagons creaking with the wind.
Suddenly the tether holding the oxen snapped. The freed animals headed for the meadow below. Pa and Jacob leapt from the wagon. “Stay here with Jonathan, Becky!” Pa called. “Jacob, you go straight down, and I’ll circle around behind them.”
The men disappeared into the driving rain. Becky and Jonathan anxiously waited. Finally the rain began to lessen, and the thunder grew more distant. When Becky peered from the wagon, she saw limbs strewn like kindling and several trees completely uprooted. Although most of the other wagons had come through the storm without serious damage, some of the smaller ones had lost their canvas tops. There was no sign of Pa or Jacob.
Night was approaching, and Jonathan was hungry. “When’s Pa coming, Becky?”
“He’ll be here soon. Don’t worry.” Becky tried to sound calm, but inside she trembled at the thought of a night alone. There were other wagons nearby, but those folks had troubles of their own, and Becky knew that Pa would want her to stay put.
She gave Jonathan some dried beef and tried to bed him down for the long night ahead. It was chilly in the wagon with its damp canvas, and Becky wished that she still had the discarded bedrolls. Finally she managed to get Jonathan to sleep.
Around midnight Jacob returned, leading one of the oxen. “I had a terrible time getting up the mountain in the mud,” he said weakly. “Where’s your father?”
“He hasn’t come back yet. Oh, Jacob, do you think he’s all right?”
Jacob could see the worry in Becky’s face. “He is probably waiting until morning,” he said consolingly. Then he added as he slumped wearily onto the wagon floor, “Be sure to wake me when he comes.”
Morning brought no sign of Pa. Search groups were hastily organized, with Jacob leading the main one. “We’ll find him,” he said, patting Becky gently on the arm. He gave Jonathan a loving hug and was on his way.
At midmorning Jonathan spotted the first searchers returning. “Here they come, Becky. Do you see Pa?”
Becky looked into the bright sunlight and carefully scanned each group as it appeared. The men were downcast and returning slowly. Suddenly she spotted Brother Snow’s brown mare being led by Jacob. Across the saddle, like a huge rag doll, lay the form of a man.
“No! Oh, no!” she cried and broke into a run with Jonathan right behind her.
“Pa, Pa,” Becky moaned. “Oh, Jacob, how did it happen?”
Jacob’s eyes were red with grief. “Lightning.” He held Becky close. “At least it was quick.”
Becky gazed at the stiff form, then quietly slipped to the ground in tears.
Pa was buried near the edge of the small clearing. Becky planted two of the precious lilac plants near the makeshift marker, just as they had planted two on Mama’s grave a few weeks earlier.
Becky stood in the mountain sunshine with Jacob and Jonathan as the simple service was completed. Tears streamed down her face as she held Jonathan’s hand. Jacob’s hand under her elbow steadied her. “Oh, Jacob,” she murmured. “What will I ever do? How can we manage without Pa?”
“Don’t you worry, Becky. I’ll take care of both of you.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent repairing the damage caused by the summer storm. Wheels were mended and canvases tightened. Bedrolls were laid out in the sun to dry.
About dusk one of the scouts arrived leading the other ox. “Found him a good three miles up the trail,” he said.
Jacob gratefully tethered the animal next to its mate. Women from other wagons prepared a dinner from their own precious food stores for the grieving trio.
As Becky helped Jonathan prepare for bed, she watched Jacob build up the fire and check the wagon. We’ll arrive in the valley the day after tomorrow, she thought. She didn’t know what the future would bring, but she didn’t fear. She had faith that Heavenly Father would watch over Jonathan and her. As she carefully watered the remaining lilacs, she thought, Soon we’ll have a home, and these lilacs will remind us of Mama and Papa. She pulled her shawl tighter around her slim shoulders and went to sit with Jacob in the glow of the dying campfire.

A few weeks ago I went to the hospital to give a blessing to a young man named Nick and his sister Michelle. Nick is a friend of mine and former home teaching companion, and his young life was threatened by diseased kidneys. Nick had not been well for a long time. Nick’s older sister Michelle had offered to give him a precious gift to preserve his life: she offered one of her own kidneys.
The operation was successfully performed, but still in question was whether or not Nick’s body would accept this priceless gift from Michelle. You see Michelle had given the gift, not knowing if it would be accepted. Fortunately it was accepted. In like manner, our Heavenly Father has given us many wonderful gifts, not knowing if they would be accepted. He has offered us his peace, his comfort, his love. All we have to do to accept his gifts is to be obedient and follow Him.

The Veranos’ struggles with faithfulness were not yet over, however, and neither was the loving work of others in fellowshipping them.
A fine home teacher, George Baker, helped keep them active in the Church, Brother Verano recalls. Unused to attending church meetings three times a day, beginning with priesthood at seven A.M., Brother Verano was ready to quit. The early meetings were difficult because he was working from midnight to six A.M. But Brother Baker, who could not go himself, arranged for someone to drive the Veranos to ward meetings, and kept them coming.
The Veranos’ spirituality grew as they faithfully attended meetings and obeyed gospel principles.

A couple years ago my wife and I had the opportunity to travel back to Mongolia on a follow up trip to review the progress of the construction of wood frame homes for the poor in the capital city of Ulaanbaatar. With my background and experience in teaching building construction and living in the frozen tundra of Rexburg, Idaho, I was selected by the Church to help in this housing effort. I had visited the country five years earlier with a team from the Church Humanitarian Services with an assignment to help educate the faculty at the Mongolian Technical Institute, along with government building officials, in wood frame housing techniques. In trying to understand the traditional living conditions of the Mongolian, nomadic people, I arranged for my wife and me to travel to central Mongolian to live with the people in the vast countryside. We took a flight on an old airplane to Bayanhongor in central Mongolia and then took a five-hour jeep ride south toward the Gobi Desert. There are no roads, just horse trails and washed out river bottoms. Just the travel experience in that area is a story of its own. After traveling for hours without any signs of human life and being certain we would never see our home and family again, we arrived in a little valley with scattered camels, horses, sheep, goats, yaks and three round “Gers,” the traditional tent like, nomadic Mongolian home. These small homes with dirt floors, no power or modern conveniences were very clean and quite comfortable. These are wonderful, loving, religious people that love God, their families, the land and animals that provide them life. There was a young lady there who was a cousin living there for the summer who last year was baptized into the Church. While living with these families I couldn’t help feeling that these people are part of those that will come forth and be part of the prophesied gathering in the latter days.

While living in the Mongolia countryside, I was fascinated with the vastness of the rolling hills with no fences or barrier of any kind to keep their animals from wandering away. My wife and I both grew up on the farm with a love for animals. In my youth I spent much of my time trying to keep our animals fenced in. My father always had a band of sheep so I was especially interested how the Mongolian people kept track of their herds. I learned quickly that there is a difference between being a shepard and being a sheep herder. We were sheep herders, keeping our animals contained in fences and corrals. Our sheep had little agency as we herded them from fenced area to fenced area with force and a few sheep dogs. If ever our sheep escaped, they ran wildly through town.

Those who cared for the sheep in Mongolia were truly shepherds leading and loving their flocks. I was amazed that none of the sheep wandered away. The sheep, having full agency, with no fences to contain them, grazed within sight and the sound of their shepherd’s voice. Each afternoon several hundred sheep were called in and gathered into a small meadow area where they were milked. The sheep were separated by the families that owned them and held together by a soft camel hair rope, head to head, while they were being milked. These shepherds didn’t count their sheep. They knew them. As the sheep were gathered in, I tried to help, but I didn’t know which family the sheep belonged to. There were no makings or identifications on them. As I approached, the sheep were frightened and ran from me. I was touched by the love these families showed toward the sheep. They spoke to each of them as they stroked the loose wool from their backs while checking the general health of each animal.

The women do all of the milking, whether sheep, yaks, horses, camels or goats. After milking, the sheep and goats were lead back to the protection of the Ger as evening darkness approached. They instinctively knew that they would be safe and secure sleeping along side the shepherd’s Ger.

The shepherds caring for their sheep in the country sides of Mongolia were like those in the homeland of Jesus. Christ taught often of the relationship that the loving shepherds had for their sheep. He referred to Himself as the Good Shepherd.

Brothers and sisters, I would like to tell you about how I made a change three years ago that has had a major impact on my life, that has helped me be more “all in” and has played a key role in my progress to follow my Savior, Jesus Christ. This experience came about by having a desire to change and by following a spiritual prompting that I received.

In January of 2016, when in a conversation with a friend, he was prompted to inquire if I had ever committed to attend the temple for 40 consecutive days. He testified that if I would commit to attending the temple daily for a period of time, I would be taught many additional truths I was now missing through infrequent attendance.

As we spoke, the Spirit whispered to me that this was something I should absolutely do. Up until that time, my wife and I did not attend the temple on a regular schedule.

For me, going 40 days in a row would be a challenge and a sacrifice. After a conversation with my wife, we decided to act without delay and begin this challenge. We went every day that the temple was open. Bonnie was able to go 24 consecutive days and then attended with me when she could.

I ended up going 56 consecutive days—one day for each year of my life. There were numerous challenges along the way, including having a medical procedure done and traveling on a business trip to Utah, but I was all in, and I was not going to let anything stop me from completing this goal.

This experience has changed our lives. We now have a different outlook on life, our priorities have changed, and our love for the temple has grown by leaps and bounds.

We started paying much more attention to the kinds of media we watched and listened to, serving more faithfully in our callings, and desiring to study the gospel at a much deeper level. But more importantly, we truly desired to be more “all in” for the gospel of Jesus Christ.

After completing our challenge, my wife and I became consistent temple attenders. We love serving in the temple and emulating the pattern of love demonstrated by the Savior. We have learned that there is great joy in doing for others that which they cannot do for themselves and doing our part to help gather Israel.

About seven months after completing the challenge, we became ordinance workers and are now coordinators for our shift at the temple on Wednesday nights. I think it is very special that I can serve with my wife in the temple, and we are much closer as a couple for doing so. There is nothing like seeing a beautiful smile on your wife’s face as she is dressed in white.

“See you later, Mom!” Trevor said as soon as sacrament meeting was over. Trevor couldn’t wait to get to Primary. He walked as fast as he could toward his classroom.
“Walker, Ethan, wait up!” he called. Trevor’s friends slowed down so he could catch up.
Trevor and his friends were always in a hurry to get to class. They liked being together, and their teacher, Sister Goodell, gave great lessons with stories and activities. After class, they liked to hurry to the Primary room and sit in the little Sunbeam chairs before the leaders had a chance to put them away. Sister Dolan, the Primary president, would tell them to sit in the big chairs. The boys would tease her a little bit and shake their heads, then laugh and move to the back row. Trevor loved all the familiar jokes, the familiar scripture stories, the familiar friends, and the familiar songs of Primary.
But something was unfamiliar today. Somebody new was in his classroom—a quiet girl that Trevor had seen around school.
“Boys,” Sister Goodell said, “This is Jana.”
Jana smiled shyly.
Sister Goodell smiled too and asked, “Jana, would you like to say the prayer?”
Jana looked embarrassed. “Sorry,” she said quietly, “I don’t know how.”
Jana was quiet for the rest of the lesson. She didn’t have her own scriptures, and she didn’t know the answers to any of Sister Goodell’s questions. Trevor wondered if Jana was worried because there was so much to learn.
“She can watch the rest of us to see how to act,” he thought.
When class was over, Jana stayed close to Sister Goodell and went straight to the Primary room while Trevor and his friends got a drink. When Trevor walked into the Primary room, he was disappointed to see that the little chairs had already been put away. He and his friends would have to wait until next week to play their favorite joke. He sat down near Jana so she could watch him and see what to do.
He was surprised when Sister Dolan said, “Before we start, I want to thank Jana for being such a great example. She came in and helped me put away the little chairs without even being asked.”
Suddenly Trevor felt embarrassed. He realized that his favorite joke wasn’t very reverent and probably wasn’t very funny to Sister Dolan. He watched Jana during sharing time and noticed that she listened quietly when Trevor would have been playing with the bookmark in his scriptures or whispering to his friends. During singing time, he noticed that even though Jana didn’t know the songs, she had learned some of them by the end because she paid such close attention. When it was time to go, Jana walked up to Sister Dolan and told her that she liked her sharing time lesson. Trevor had never done that, not ever!
Trevor thought about Primary and Jana’s example for the rest of the day. Jana was helpful. She was reverent. She was thoughtful. She understood what to do at church better than Trevor did, and she had never come before. Trevor knew that he still had a lot to learn in Primary. He hoped Jana would come back soon and they could learn it all together.

It’s a typically humid day in Jogjakarta, Indonesia, and sweat drips from Agung’s brow as he awaits his opponent’s serve. The badminton match is close, and the 15-year-old feels driven to win.
After a furious exchange, his opponent puts the shuttlecock hopelessly out of Agung’s reach. Unwilling to give up the point in such a close match, Agung dives for the shuttlecock but comes up short—and bleeding from sliding across the cement court.
It’s easy to see that he loves competitive badminton. But Agung doesn’t dream of becoming a professional badminton player. He’s not going to have to choose between serving the shuttlecock in the Olympics and serving a mission. By his own admission, he’s not particularly good at the sport.
So why does this small teen with the big smile try so hard? Hope.
“I believe I can get better,” he says.
“If I had no hope of getting any better and ever winning, it would be very easy to give up,” Agung says.
Agung knows he will probably never be a professional athlete, but he knows that as long as he keeps trying, there is hope he can improve.
He has learned that the great power of hope is this: “As long as you never give up, there is hope,” he says.

In August 1976, at the age of twenty-six and coming from a non-member family, I received a blessing from my home teacher which in a few short months was to be staggeringly fulfilled. At that time, although my faith was strong, I was, nevertheless, carrying a burden. I had recently experienced profound trials of a personal nature. Also, I deeply longed for an eternal and righteous companion. I wanted a husband who could share both my spiritual and academic interests, but I believed that I would not find such a man in Tasmania, since there are few members of the Church here.

So I made plans to visit the USA at the end of the year. These plans and my personal crisis I discussed fully with my home teacher, Brother J. E. Prebble. We decided that together we would fast, and then he would give me a blessing. In that blessing he told me that I would journey to the USA later that year and that within three months of leaving I would meet my eternal companion, that he would need me to enable him to perform his function correctly as a priesthood holder, that not everything would happen quite as I had expected it to—though it would happen in the Lord’s way and in the Lord’s time, and that while I was away I would visit the temple and receive my endowments.

We were both astonished at the specific details, but utterly sure by the witness of the Spirit that God was giving me this understanding of my future.

In early December when I left, many of my friends, including my wonderful home teacher, Brother Prebble, came to the airport to see me off. He took me aside and told me he had a dream in which he had seen “him”—a kind of short, blue-eyed, fellow with ginger-colored hair. I boarded that plane with both anticipation and trepidation.

During my first weeks in the United States, I celebrated my twenty-seventh birthday by receiving my endowments, a beautiful and sustaining experience. But my three months were disappearing. By the end of January, there was still no sign of “him.” Because of a domestic crisis and health problems, I had to return to Tasmania in mid-February. I was overjoyed at returning home (I had been fearfully homesick) but bitterly disappointed for other reasons. I came very close to doubting God and my own worthiness.

When I arrived home I sought help from Heavenly Father about future plans. Because of a recent substantial hearing loss I could no longer teach. I decided to enroll in the law school. Classes began in early March.

My first day at the law school I was examining a class listing with one of the secretaries when a rather brash, scruffy, bearded fellow approached us and told me brusquely just which class I was meant to be in—his. Before following him to class, I whispered to the secretary, “Who on earth is that?” “It’s Mr. Stokes, one of the lecturers she replied. As I was sitting in that first class, an incredible thought occurred to me. This man was small, blue-eyed, with ginger-colored hair and our academic interests had at least brought us into the same room, if not quite together! I said, “Surely this can’t be him. He’s not even a member, and he seems far too set in his ways; besides, I told myself, academic types don’t readily join the Church.”

Michael Stokes asked me out approximately a week later. I made some excuse. The next time he didn’t ask. He told me I was joining him for lunch, and I found myself accepting! I soon learned just what an extraordinary person he was—unfailingly kind and compassionate, exceptionally gifted, a former Rhodes Scholar from Oxford University in England with impressive degrees in law from Oxford University, and a first-rate sportsman. But still, he wasn’t a member.

Two months later, after receiving confirmation from the Spirit, we were married. Another two months elapsed, and he joined the Church. Later we were sealed in the New Zealand Temple for time and all eternity. We have been blessed with two beautiful daughters. When I checked, I realized that we had met two months, three weeks, and six days from the time I had left for the United States. I know that most marriages between members and non-members do not generally result in the non-member joining the Church. But some do—and I suppose the only sure guide is to follow the Spirit. In my case, that surely was the answer. Heavenly Father does fulfill his promises—but in his time and in his way.

In my early childhood, we had a stove in the kitchen and a stove in the dining room. A furnace was later installed, and what a wonderful thing that was. But it had a voracious appetite for coal, and there was no automatic stoker. The coal had to be shoveled into the furnace and carefully banked each night.

I learned a great lesson from that monster of a furnace: if you wanted to keep warm, you had to work the shovel.

Have you ever been in an uncomfortable situation and thought "how did I get here," or more accurately "how did I allow this to happen?" I felt this way when, while living in Allentown PA, a group of my friends thought that it would be fun to have a "girls' night out" and go dancing. Even though we planned on going to a club, we wouldn't be drinking and I thought that there would be no harm in dancing with my friends. As soon as I entered the club, I started to feel uncomfortable. This was not a place where a daughter of God should be spending time. It was rather, a place where people were dulling their senses with alcohol and giving away their dignity by the way they dressed and acted. What a mistake; how had I allowed this to happen? I succumbed to peer pressure and listened to worldly friends instead of listening to the Spirit.

Choosing our friends carefully is important in our life-long journey. Now I'm not talking about limiting our friends to those who are well-dressed, or those who move in the popular social circle. The Savior chose his disciples by looking at the inner man, not by considering their appearance or their occupation. If we could look at people with "heavenly glasses" we may be surprised at who is dressed in royal robes. When we surround ourselves with associates who uplift us and encourage us to do better, we put ourselves on a path to spiritual success.

When I received my August 2002 issue, the first article I read was “Carving A Character.” About half-way through diabetes jumped off the page at me. Before I continued, I called my sister to come listen to the rest of Matt Rogers’s story. My sister was diagnosed with type-1 diabetes when she was four years old. Even though she has had the disease for four years, lately she has become very depressed about her illness. She feels like no one else understands what she is going through, and she tries to ignore her illness, hoping it will disappear. I loved reading her the scripture Matt mentioned (Ether 12:27); his diabetes had been something to help shape his life. It gave my sister a different perspective. Now she tells me she wants to be a sculptor!
Kassandra GreerWalkersville, Maryland (via e-mail)

Dr. Neal Halfon, a physician who directs the UCLA Center for Healthier Children, Families, and Communities, refers to “parental benign neglect.” One example involved an 18-month-old and his parents:
“‘Their son seemed happy, active and engaged, clearly enjoying time and pizza with his parents. … At the end of dinner, Mom got up to run an errand, handing over care to Dad.’
“Dad … started reading phone messages while the toddler struggled to get his attention by throwing bits of pizza crust. Then the dad re-engaged, facing his child and playing with him. Soon, though, he substituted watching a video on his phone with the toddler until his wife returned.
“… [Dr.] Halfon observed a dimming of the child’s internal light, a lessening of the connection between parent and child.”5

I was moved to tears as I listened to an interview of a family who lost their home to Hurricane Michael in Florida. The home of Kimberly Downs Norton was hit hard by the hurricane. Her backyard was covered in downed trees and debris from surrounding homes. She found a silver lining in what seemed to me like an insurmountable trial. She said, “We had so many trees in the yard. We can see more of the stars at night now.” [2] Can you believe her gratitude amid her loss?