Gospel Story Finder

When I talked to my wife, Clirime, about the Church, she would not listen at first. Her grandfather belonged to a different religion, and she wondered why The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had even come to Albania. I knew that the only way I could bring her into the gospel was through my example. Through our actions, people can see who we really are.
Clirime noticed changes in me as I gave up alcohol and started coming home early from work. Because of the changes I was making, she started to feel the Spirt of God as I told her about the Church. I cannot describe the happy feeling I had when she told me that one day she would also get baptized. Soon she began taking the missionary lessons, which I helped the missionaries teach. I was especially happy when she set a date for her baptism, six months after I was baptized.

The scarcity of jobs and the financial difficulty of starting out as a couple make many young Ghanaians put off marriage. But Kofi Opare tells other returned missionaries in their mid- and late twenties that it’s a mistake to delay. “You have to forget all the hardship, and do it.”
At 26, Kofi was about the average age for a Ghanaian bridegroom. Like most young member couples, he and his wife, Theresa, had a legally binding traditional marriage. He visited her parents and brought gifts—money, in place of the customary alcoholic beverage; cloth; a hymnbook for Theresa; and her engagement ring.
That ceremony took place in December 1994, but Kofi and Theresa chose not to live together as husband and wife until they could have a formal wedding at an LDS chapel in June 1995. They wanted the influence of the Church in their married life from the very beginning. In the interim, they dealt with practical details—saving cash for all the costs of starting a household and securing a place to live.
Theresa has a steady income from her seamstress shop, but Kofi has to take part-time work as he can get it. Despite this, Theresa says, she and Kofi felt that “you have to make a bold decision” and go ahead. But a wise Latter-day Saint man, she adds, will find a woman in the Church who understands the eternal purposes of marriage and will not demand material things. “It takes two to make a team, to make a marriage work.”

I have experienced this for myself. I remember a time when a personal disappointment had left me exquisitely lonely. One day while searching the scriptures for consolation, I had the impression that I needed to focus on one particular verse. That verse led me to hundreds of others in what became a period of intense searching. But it wasn’t until three years later that another passage leaped out at me as if in neon. Only then was I given to understand what the Lord had been trying to teach me all that time about the power of the Atonement to ease our burdens. Some of the clearest promptings I have ever received have come while being immersed in the scriptures. They are a conduit for revelation. They teach us the language of the Spirit.

That time I took John, my training partner, with me to church. The first speaker was a woman who was graduating from basic combat training. She shared her conversion story and then sang the hymn “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” (Hymns, no. 29). I glanced at John and noticed tears forming in his eyes.
“What is this feeling?” he asked. “I’ve got the tingles.”
As I replied, “It’s called the Spirit,” it struck me that something special was going on—something about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was different.

I was 13 when my mom and I joined the Church. My stepdad had been a member, but he had gone inactive. One day, he decided to go back to church. My mom and I got baptized. My sister got baptized not long after that.
We were living in Missouri, USA, and we attended a teeny little branch that met in a second story room of a local building. On Saturday nights, we’d go in and clean up posters and ash trays. I played a little keyboard for our meetings. The members of our branch were like our family.
When I was 16, we moved to Arizona, USA. The change was difficult, but the Church is pretty strong in Arizona. Later, I went to Brigham Young University and got married. My husband and I had four kids and we were living the life.
But things happened, and when we got divorced, I was excommunicated. It took me about 15 years to get back into the Church. It took a while, but I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted to be going to church for all the right reasons.
I remember when we first moved to Kentucky, USA, I’d take my son to church and stay in the car while he went inside. It was a hard time. My daughter was the first of my children to get married in the temple, and I couldn’t be there. That really hurt my feelings, but of course, it was my fault.
It just takes some people like me a long time to finally figure things out. Ward members and friends were patient with me. They let me know that they were there. One family in particular reached out to me and were really like my family because I didn’t have anybody out here. They helped me start going to church, but they never pressured me. The cool thing is that when it was time, my son rebaptized me.
I’ve made a lot of bad decisions in my life. I wish I hadn’t made those mistakes, but I am grateful for the lessons I am learning throughout the repentance process. None of us goes through life without making mistakes—only the Savior was able to do that. When we make mistakes, it’s important that we turn to Him for strength and to learn from those mistakes.
I know I can’t go back and change anything, but my goal now is to do everything I can to give my kids a good example because they didn’t have one for many years. I hope they can see I’ve overcome many challenges.
I want them to know that if they have bad spells, they can move past them as they turn to the Savior for help. It’s a matter of having faith and never giving up. The Lord has helped me as I’ve gone along, and I know He can help them too. The progress has been painful, but the Lord has built me up and made me stronger.

When Arlene Carter goes to a school dance, the question posed by admiring boys tends to be, “May I sit this one out?” It’s not that Arlene doesn’t like dancing or music—she’s usually within ear range of her eight-track tape system at home—and she’s not worried about guys stepping on her toes. But three years ago Arlene, her mother, and two others were in a car that plunged off an overpass onto a railroad track below. Arlene’s back was broken in more than 20 places; her mother was killed.
After the accident Arlene really got the chance to test her lifelong philosophy—change what you can; learn to live happily with what you can’t. She spent the next 16 weeks in a Salt Lake City hospital. For the first four she was strapped in a Stryker frame. (“They’re like ironing boards. They’d turn me over every two hours. I couldn’t see anything but the ceiling or the floor. I used to hate vacuuming, but while I was between those boards, I’d have done anything to be able to vacuum.”) Rehabilitation took another 12 weeks.
She wondered if she would ever see her old friends and the familiar countryside of her hometown, Nephi, Utah. She also had some serious doubts.
“After the accident I felt I hadn’t deserved it. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I felt that if Heavenly Father loved me, he wouldn’t let something like this happen. It wasn’t fair.”
Arlene told her father she was paralyzed before the doctors told her. When the doctors finally told her she would never walk again, she just lay there and cried.
“Finally there was nothing I could do but turn to my Heavenly Father the way I’d been taught since I was in Primary. I prayed and knew that He did love me and I would receive blessings if I’d heed his counsel.”
Arlene is in a wheelchair now, and, of course, it’s natural that she misses the dancing, running, and mobility she had before her accident. But now she can “pop wheelies.” She didn’t learn this from a finishing school, but Arlene can rear up “hi-ho Silver” style, spin her wheelchair around, and rock back and forth. “I can sit like this for hours, and I’ve never fallen over yet!”
Everyone who knows or meets Arlene realizes that she’s a girl who keeps her wheels turning—literally. Last year she was student body president of Juab High School, and she didn’t believe in sitting down on the job.
After serving as vice-president of the school, she launched a campaign for the presidency with posters that read, “Vote for Arlene. She’ll get things rolling” and “Arlene will ‘wheelie’ be a great president.”
Before the accident, stairs were the only way into the school, but a special ramp was built for her. “Just coming down the ramp was exciting because of the brick wall at the end. You could always tell where I’d been; I was the only one who left tracks.” She could get around to most places except her English class because it was upstairs. Instead, she and Chaucer had to do it alone.
Arlene was also the yearbook editor, and the Nebonian met each of its deadlines—no easy task for anyone in publishing. She wrote features for the school paper and was voted Best Citizen by the faculty. She was the second attendant to Miss Juab, the school’s queen. Arlene didn’t believe in just spinning her wheels—she really got things rolling at Juab.
With all her extra-curricular activities and despite having missed so much school, she kept up with her classes and graduated with a 3.94 gpa. When she missed a month of school for further training with leg braces, Arlene came bouncing back to get the highest grade in her algebra class. She took a physics class and couldn’t help but note, “The ratio was great—5 1/2 boys to each girl.”
Being in a wheelchair doesn’t hold Arlene back. She dates a lot of different boys and enjoys parties and long talks with her friends. And they let her know she’s something pretty special too.
On her birthday her friends decorated her wheelchair with crepe paper and a big “Happy Birthday” sign on the back. Once she drove a group of fellow student body officers to a district workshop in a car with hand controls. While in Moab, Utah, for the meetings, she and others also went on a river run.
Arlene makes her own clothes on her sewing machine and even creates her own patterns. To sew, she puts the foot pedal behind her back and presses on it. She cuts fabric on the family’s round kitchen table. By wheeling around it, she is able to reach all sections of the material. When the corduroy comes off the table, Arlene is likely to replace it with a double batch of chocolate chip cookies. She’s been known to come home, sneak in a baking session, and rush off to a basketball game before her dad reaches home and the chock-full cookie jar.
“There’s never a dull moment with her around,” says her grandmother who lives with Arlene and her father. And you’d know that if you walked into Arlene’s room. “No Minors” warns a sign—but Arlene is just kidding. The posters, mini-garden of plants, and knick-knacks, including campaign memorabilia, are gifts from friends. The room is a four-wall collage of important people, places, ideas, and goals in her life. It also reflects Arlene and her I’m-ready-and-willing-if-you-are out-look on about everything.
But there is also another side of Arlene—she has a deeply sincere and reverent attitude for the gospel and the gift of life itself.
“I went to a Laurel standards night recently, and some of the girls wouldn’t even sit by their mothers. It made me feel so bad; I would have given anything to have had my mother there so I could talk to her. But I really do know that problems make us grow and become better people. I try to be happy with what I have instead of being unhappy about what I don’t have.”
Being asked to speak before Church and civic groups has made her somewhat of an orator. Arlene has spoken everywhere from a girls’ camp in the mountains to the Utah State Prison. She’s modest about it, but everyone knows that she draws big crowds and has given as many as four or five talks in a day. Some wards have had to put up every chair in the building when she comes.
“I often tell people to appreciate simple things. What most people think are their rights, I think are privileges—like sitting up, taking baths, or walking.” She always shares her testimony of the gospel with others and considers this “one of the greatest things in my life.
“Everyone should gain a testimony. People who don’t have one don’t know what they’re missing. I’d like to lend mine out for test drives.”
In her ward Arlene taught a Sunday School class of four-year-olds, which was an exercise in itself. “They were lots of fun. Sometimes I taught the three-year-olds too. The only thing I worried about was when they would push me down the hall. They were not tall enough to see around the wheelchair.” But she never crashed.
When she is home many of Nephi’s missionaries stop to visit her just before they enter the Missionary Home. Her faith reminds them of what is most meaningful in life. They may be looking down at Arlene in her chair, but in their hearts and esteem they look up to her.
This fall Arlene entered college. She was offered several scholarships and decided to study at BYU. She’d like to become a rehabilitation counselor. “A lot of people come into a hospital and tell patients to cheer up, but they don’t know what it’s like. I’ve been there. I think I can help others in the same circumstances or people with other problems.”
Even with her physics studies and understanding Newton’s laws of gravity, Arlene knows life in a wheelchair doesn’t need to be an uphill battle—especially with a loving family, stick-with-you friends, and a deep faith in a caring Father in heaven. Knowing her own limitations she says, “I don’t think people have any reason to feel sorry for me.” She realizes she’s not the only one confronted by obstacles. Recently she wrote this poem:
Prisoners
We are all in a prison,
Some for a lifetime, some for a day.
Some are there for what they do—
Some for what they say.
Some prisons have bars and locks,
But in comparison, just a few.
The ones most common aren’t tangible.
Think, what imprisons you?
Yet there is one I know quite well
Who is captive to a chair with wheels
But she holds her prison keys in hand,
Because freedom is the way one feels.
After all, it takes a special kind of courage to attend a high school dance in a wheelchair the first night after you’ve been released from the hospital.

I awoke to the screech of the alarm clock, which seemed designed to double as an air raid siren in the event of a bombing. The man who had invented this clock must have been an electronic mastermind. He had somehow combined the gentle lowing of a disgruntled water buffalo with the cheerful melody of a less-than-well-oiled disc brake and five or ten of the world’s other most annoying sounds. My companion, whose hearing range automatically excludes the top 10,000 kilocycles before 7:00 A.M., had not stirred, so I staggered over to the still frantic clock. Then I realized that it was Christmas morning! All over the world, children would be awakening early and scurrying excitedly to the Christmas tree to find the gifts left by the traditional visitor. I silenced the clock and looked around. This was definitely not like the Christmas of childhood memory.
I was in a small apartment, nearly 7,000 miles from home in a land where words like thermostat and central heating described facilities available mostly to the well-to-do. I dove back into my bed (a mat on the floor) as the icy bite reminded me that my pajamas were not constructed for warmth. There is something unsettling about seeing your breath when you are indoors. It does not conjure up the same feeling that one receives while looking at a cheery Christmas postcard depicting rosy-cheeked children with clouded breath, gleefully frolicking around a newly built snowman. No, this was quite a different feeling.
I reached for the heater, trying to keep as much of the surface area of my skin from contacting the frigid air as possible. To my dismay, the heater would not light. Further inspection revealed the worst—no more gas! In our excitement and busy schedule during the holiday season, we had forgotten to have the tank refilled. Morning study would be held shivering under a blanket. My sometimes overactive imagination recalled a book I had once read on the Donner party, a group of early pioneers who had become trapped in the Sierra Nevada mountains during the winter, eventually freezing to death. What a wonderful Christmas this would be!
After a freezing morning study period, during which my toes and fingers threatened permanent inactivity, we sat down to a Christmas feast of mugi (a Japanese wheat cereal) and mizo (a soup made of bean curd). I tried to imagine myself eating roast turkey and drinking eggnog, but the consistency was simply not there. I tried to console myself with the thought that we were eating more healthy foods than Americans. No fat-ridden meats and calorie-strewn desserts for us! When I found that we were out of cinnamon and butter and would have to eat the mugi plain, however, all attempts at rationalization died. The Sugar Plum Fairy would be replaced by the Pickled Radish Ogre this year. What a wonderful Christmas this would be!
At 10:30 A.M. sharp, as families celebrating the day were just finishing the unwrapping of gifts, we bundled up and set out for church. Since the church was some distance, we rode our bicycles. The “Green Dragon” bicycle, as it is nicknamed by the missionaries, is built like an army tank, for durability rather than looks or speed. Like its military counterpart, it comes in a lovely shade of camouflage green. Although the army’s tank is said to weigh a few more pounds, the bicycle makes up for this by its ability to reach excessive speeds, sometimes 15 or 20 miles per hour. Both are able to withstand mortar fire for prolonged periods of time. Finally, it is fitted with a unique, slow-acting brake system that avoids sudden stops by bringing the vehicle to a standstill only after 50 yards of desperate braking, at the same time emitting a sound which is guaranteed to alert all other motorists within a two-mile radius. This would be as close as we would come to a one-horse open sleigh.
The meetinghouse is the top two stories of a small three-story building near the Kumamoto train station. We were having a special Christmas sacrament meeting. I was to be the program’s principal speaker. I have learned just enough Japanese to begin a very impressive sounding sentence while lacking the skills to finish it. Japanese is interesting in that you must think backwards to translate. If then you become stuck in midsentence and still think in English, being somewhat new to the language, you must look ahead in the sentence, think forward what you desire to say, and then translate backward and finally say it. (I won’t attempt to even broach the subject of pronunciation.)
I think my planned speech on “the meaning of Christmas” came out as a third-person account on the wise men’s camels. The members, however, were kind as always and smiled even at the more blatant grammatical errors, although I saw one or two of the sisters wince. I knew it had gone badly afterwards when one of the brothers told me that the talk was “good.” In Japan, everything is on an elevated level. If they don’t say it was “terribly good” or “amazingly skillful,” then it was really bad. “Terribly” or “amazingly good” mean just plain good. If in fact it really was excellent, then the complimentary phrases will be repeated 10 or 15 times. My talk, therefore, being only “good,” was not good at all. It’s all a little confusing.
After church, we returned to the apartment for lunch. Again the usual Christmas feast gave way to tuna fish sandwiches and soup. No figgy pudding.
Afternoon dendo (proselyting) was without success, unless you count success as making a large dog very happy by allowing him to take two missionaries by surprise and chase them unceremoniously out of his yard. Things turned from bad to worse when I was attacked by the flower cart. Really, it happened. I was riding along minding my own business when out of thin air an old woman pulling a flower cart appeared in my path. To this day I believe nothing outside of a formula racer could have appeared that quickly from nowhere. But from the looks of the cart, it had been a few years since the last Grand Prix. I tried to swerve and brake but clipped the side of it, sending me sprawling on the roadside, Swedish knit and all. The Japanese, due to their attention-shunning nature, try to ignore anything less than a major traffic fatality, so she kept right on going without a second look. I was tempted to cry “hit and run,” but she probably hadn’t done any running since before I was born. Besides, with my complete ignorance of the road rules here, I was probably somehow at fault. There wasn’t much to do but dust myself off, check for bodily damage (of which there was none), and thank the Lord that one of the few inexpensive things here in Japan was dry cleaning. With that I set off after my companion, who was losing a personal battle to not let the humor of the situation (from an observer’s standpoint) show on his face. At the time, I did not find it at all funny, however. What a great Christmas!
With afternoon dendo finished, we again returned to the apartment for dinner, the crowning event of Christmas Day. The curry and rice, however, did little to enhance the day.
We left the apartment to proceed directly to the evening’s only appointment, the Nagata family. I was grateful that the day was nearly over. It had become somewhat of a physical and mental marathon in which I had dropped out, mentally at least, at the 400-yard mark. The moment we emerged from the covering that roofs the apartment’s walkway, it began to rain, then snow. Real snow! Not enough to cover the ground, of course. Anyone living above the 38th parallel would scoff at it, yet there it was, the only bit we received all year. I had always thought that it would be more homelike to have a white Christmas, but at the moment I could only shake my head at the incredible timing that began the downpour as I left umbrella-less to face the elements. What a wonderful Christmas!
The Nagata’s invited us in with the customary Japanese formality, which we gratefully accepted partly due to an established sense of custom and partly because we would have accepted an offer to step into almost any shelter if it had been warm enough. The Nagatas were an elderly couple whose children had long since left home. They had allowed us to talk with them several weeks earlier and had shown interest during the subsequent introductory lesson, so we had made a December 25 appointment for lesson 1.
As we finished renewing introductions and cultural niceties and began to teach, it struck me that we were teaching about the birth and life of Christ on Christmas Day, a unique opportunity. I was glad that I knew the lesson well enough to be able to add some extra comments and feelings relating to the Christmas season. As the lesson progressed something special happened—not an event so much as a feeling, yet one so tangible that all within the room could feel it. I could see on the faces of the family the whisperings of comprehension as they heard for the first time the story of mankind’s greatest benefactor. We taught of the Atonement, the mighty struggle that took place within the Savior’s suffering body so our sins could be purged at the price of life’s blood; then the glorious renewal, the answer to Christ’s humble request, “Glorify thy Son, that thy Son may glorify thee” (John 17:1).
The Spirit was with us that night as we spoke. The Nagatas knew that we were not just two young men giving an historical account but two messengers testifying of their Master. We then instructed them in the simple steps of prayer. After offering a prayer of his own, my companion invited Mr. Nagata to do the same. As that humble little man, for the first time in his 60 years on earth, began to call upon his Eternal Father, I felt a happiness and a sense of purpose that transcended all other feelings. Gone was the cold, the loneliness of Christmas away from home. Banished were the thoughts of rebelliousness and complaint. The single purpose of a mission from God became very clear as a tangible blessing was manifested. Mr. Nagata had told us of the joy he had felt when some of his children had called from America, for Christmas. I could imagine that the Lord felt that sort of joy after a beloved child called from even greater time and distance.
As we rode home that night, the cold didn’t seem to bite quite so hard. Maybe I was too busy marveling at the many blessings the Lord had given me. The chance to live in an age when I could travel thousands of miles in a single day to share what I had been given. The love of family and friends. The joy of knowing my purpose and reason for living. The apartment beckoned as we rounded the final corner knowing that some hot chocolate and a blanket were moments away. A starlit Christmas night, now devoid of clouds, testified of an Eternal Creator with endless dominions who had sent his Son on a night like this. What a wonderful Christmas it had been!

“How are you doing, Matte?” Grandmother asked.
“I’m about finished, Mormor (Grandmother). It will be ready on time.” She held up the sweater she was knitting for her grandmother’s inspection.
“You’ve done a fine job,” Grandmother said. “I’m sure that Jenny will love it.”
Matte’s American cousin was coming to Norge (Norway) for a visit. She was going to stay for the whole month of August, and Matte had many things she wanted to share with her. This sweater was one of them.
In Norge everyone wore a svetter (sweater) knitted with wool in pretty patterns. Jenny’s sweater was navy blue with white diamonds and polar bears. Polar bears were very popular, and Jenny would look stylish in it.
Matte had many plans for her cousin. Ålesund, her town, was right between two of Matte’s favorite places. On one side were forested mountains; on the other was the fjord. She would take Jenny up on the ski lift so she could look down on the countryside. After a trip to the heights, they would swim in the crystal-clear water of the fjord.
Matte had been baptized in the fjord just two months before. She planned to share that day’s special memories with her cousin while they were swimming there. She wanted to introduce Jenny to this most important part of her life—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Matte and Mormor had started talking to the missionaries after Christmas. The missionaries had taught them about Jesus Christ and the Prophet Joseph Smith. They learned that Joseph Smith was a prophet to people all over the world and that he’d translated a very important book, the Book of Mormon.
The book fascinated Matte. In school they sometimes studied about the American Indians, and she loved learning about these people who were so proud of their race and heritage. So when she’d heard that the Book of Mormon was about them, she was eager to read it.
She and Mormor had read it aloud to each other during the long winter evenings. When they finished the last sweet words of Moroni, they prayed about what they read. A calm assurance that it was true helped them decide to be baptized.
That had started a new life for Matte Pedersen. The very first Sunday after her baptism, Soster (Sister) Hansen introduced herself as the Lykkefroken (Merrie Miss) teacher. Matte was to be in her class. Although there was just one other girl, Solveig, they had a lot of fun. On Sundays, Soster Hansen taught them many important things from the scriptures.
On their activity days, they learned different kinds of things. Soster Hansen helped them make their own bunad (national costume). When May 17, Constitution Day, came around, the girls proudly wore the beautiful dresses and aprons that they had made.
The Lykkefroken class was going to Bror (Brother) Olsen’s farm next week. Matte, Jenny, and Solveig would cut the sweet-scented hay with scythes and hang it to dry on racks. They’d gather speckled eggs and help milk the cow. Oh, how delicious that warm milk would be! Then they’d help Soster Olsen churn the cream into butter. It would be so much fun. Jenny was sure to like it!
Matte finished the last stitch on the svetter and cut the yarn. Carefully she worked the end into the pattern so that it wouldn’t unravel. “There,” she said happily. “It’s finished. I hope she likes it.”
The next morning she and Mormor were up early. They wanted to have the house sparkling clean, with supper waiting, when Jenny and Aunt Louise arrived.
At the sound of a car horn, Matte ran to the window. They were here! Rushing to the door, she was swept into Aunt Louise’s arms for a big hug. Then she faced Jenny. It was like looking in a mirror! She had blond hair streaked by the sun, and apple-red cheeks. Blue eyes like her own looked shyly back at her.
“Welcome to Norge,” Matte said, hugging her cousin.
“Thank you, Matte.”
“Come to my room,” Matte said. “I have something for you.” In the bedroom, she handed the tissue-wrapped present to her cousin. “I made it myself!”
“It’s beautiful!” Jenny exclaimed as she unwrapped the sweater and admired the intricate pattern. “I can’t believe you knitted this yourself! Now I don’t know if I should give you the present I made. It’s not anything like this!”
“I’d love to have it. Please?”
Jenny ran into the other room and dragged a suitcase back with her. Opening the case, she pulled out a present. Matte admired the beautiful wrapping, then carefully opened it. Inside was a wooden embroidery hoop with a message cross-stitched on cloth: I can follow God’s plan for me.
Matte felt excitement build inside her. She understood English very well but wasn’t quite sure she interpreted the motto right. Finally she grinned at her cousin and gave her a hug. “You’re a Lykkefroken like me!” Seeing Jenny’s puzzled look, she added, “A Merrie Miss. You’re a Latter-day Saint too!”
Laughing and hugging, the girls eagerly told each other of their baptism days, one in Norway and one in America. It was a wonderful surprise to learn that they were both members of the Church.
“Since we can’t introduce the gospel to each other,” Matte said with a twinkle in her eye, “maybe we’ll find someone else to teach it to this summer!”

My family moved near Manti, Utah, in my sophomore year of high school. We lived at a place called Crystal Springs. By then, it was only a skeleton of more prosperous earlier years, when it had been a popular resort and, thereafter, a large dairy farm operated by my grandfather Giles and his family, including my folks.
We moved to Crystal Springs after my father had a heart attack and lost his job. We didn’t have much in those days, so it was necessary for my father to work as much as he could and for me to take employment as a plasterer’s helper to supplement the family income.
Although my parents were less active in the Church, my mother’s family, also living at Crystal Springs, fortunately were very active. They provided the critical support I needed to stay active in the Church at that time.
Of those high school days, I can remember many nights sitting on the edge of my bed, looking out at the Manti Utah Temple through my second-story bedroom window. I realized that, regardless of whether my folks had ever been there, the temple was a place I wanted to be able to go someday. The temple became a standard for me to measure everything else against.
It was during this time in my life that I began to feel the need to serve a mission. The promises made in D&C 31:5 began to play upon me: “Therefore, thrust in your sickle with all your soul, and your sins are forgiven you, and you shall be laden with sheaves upon your back. … Wherefore, your family shall live” (emphasis added). The two key promises in that verse became increasingly meaningful to me.
I made up my mind that I was going to serve a mission. I needed some method of showing the Lord that I truly did love Him in spite of my sometimes foolish youthful actions.
So, with the temple as a standard and a desire to serve a mission, I started to plan for a mission. Not long after that, my father had another heart attack and died. I was still in my first years at the university. With the death of my father, I suddenly realized that if I were to go on a mission, there would be no one to take care of my mother, grandmother, and two sisters.
I was torn between my sense of obligation toward my family and my obligation to Heavenly Father. I wasn’t even sure I could save enough money to get started on a mission, but I was determined that, if it were possible, I would go. I made a decision based totally on my faith in the Lord’s promise: “But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matt. 6:33).
Not long after, I received an offer to work at a very good job as an engineering aide in Oregon, in the western United States, which permitted me to save for a mission and send some money home. Still, it wasn’t easy. But as I pondered D&C 31:5 and Matthew 6:33, the Spirit said to me, “If you will seek first my kingdom (a mission), I will take care of your family.” I didn’t know how that would be possible, but I believed the Lord’s promises with all my heart.
When the time neared for me to leave, I still didn’t have all the money I would need to support myself, so I went to my bishop and explained my predicament. He said, “All the help you need you’ve got right at your fingertips.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
He told me to talk to my relatives, even to nonmembers and less-active members, to see if they would help me. “Go bear your testimony to them,” he said. “Tell them you want to serve the Lord, and ask for their help.”
I didn’t know how I was going to do that, but I did, and all those I asked said they would help a little. The high priests group in my ward helped me with the rest.
I was soon on my way to the Spanish-American Mission, based in San Antonio, Texas. After I got into the mission field, the things that took place, both there and at home, clearly confirmed that I had made the right decision. My family was being taken care of as well or better than if I had stayed home, and the joy of missionary service had changed my heart and the direction of my life.
My mission became the great turning point in my life. I could tell myself and my family at home that I knew I was doing what the Lord wanted me to do and that, although I didn’t know how everything was going to work out, I knew it would work out the best for all of us.
During the time I was in the mission field, my mother began to come back to church. And when my sweetheart and I married after my mission, my mother was able to be in the temple with us. Many of those who assisted in financing my mission also drew closer to the Church.

Thank you so much for the article “I Found Peace” in the March 1996 issue. I have been through some hard times. I went on a camp for a week, and when I came back I found out my uncle had died. I got mad at the Lord because I really loved my uncle, and I had been looking forward to seeing him the next week. But when I read that story, I knew Heavenly Father loves me and will help me deal with my uncle’s death.
Cindy SimperCanyon Country, California

The Refiner’s Fire
I continued to look for work in Provo, but without success. By this time, our steadily diminishing funds were nearly depleted and my stress level soared. I was doing everything I could to find a job. The situation was dire. I thought the Lord had abandoned us. In the midst of this trial, I remember one particular night feeling that my faith was failing. That night my prayer extended into the wee hours of the morning. Most pleadings were filled with anger, as I recited the good things I had done to justify receiving the help I wanted. I murmured, “I have served a mission for you, married and worked in the temple, served in various callings, even taught early morning seminary! How can you not help us?” I traversed the five stages of the life and death cycle: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

At the end of the prayer, as frustrated as I was, I knew that I could not, that I would not deny that the Lord was there, that He was aware of our plight and that He loved us. At that point, I finally let go of my pride, my anger, became submissive, relinquished all control to the Lord, and accepted without reservation whatever was to come from our situation, including homelessness, if it was the Lord’s will. I put my head down that night on a pillow that was soaked with my tears. This was a spiritual process, brought about by tribulation and suffering, and it changed me forever. I have not been able to find the words that begin to describe the transformational light, power and love that entered my heart and soul.

The next morning when I awoke, I felt a complete calm cover me. As I planned another day of job hunting, (at the risk of sounding melodramatic), I thought, “I should spend a little time driving around town to find a good viaduct to live under, just in case it comes to that point.” Then “out of the blue” at 8:25 that morning, I received a call from a friend who was a co-owner and vice president at Nu Skin, then a relatively young start up multi-level company. He inquired whether I would be interested in working there and said that he had been waiting for a middle management position to open up before calling me. I interviewed that morning with his brother, the CEO. Within in a few minutes, he offered me the job. I started immediately. That was on a Wednesday. Oddly, they paid me for three days at the end of that week. That amount, plus the remaining $65 in our bank account, was just enough to pay the next mortgage payment and buy groceries to hold us over until the next pay day. Since then, our family has never been without. I came to better understand that the Lord was in total control and that he could change my circumstances in a matter of seconds, as He did with one very timely phone call from a friend.

Listen to a wonderful story by the mother of the Prophet Joseph Smith about the night he went to get the gold plates. She writes: “[That night] I sat up very late. … About twelve o’clock Joseph came to me and asked me if I had a chest with a lock and key. … And not having one I was greatly alarmed. … But Joseph … said, ‘Never mind, I can do very well … without it—be calm—all is right.’”

Shortly after, Joseph and Emma left, taking a horse and wagon. Now listen to what his mother says: “I spent the night in prayer and supplication to God, for the anxiety of my mind would not permit me to sleep.” The pleadings of a mother, a righteous daughter of God, comforted the Prophet and protected the gold plates. Over the years, her constant prayers helped strengthen her home and family (see Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, ed. Preston Nibley [1979], 102).

Here is another experience. A few years ago my wife and I and another General Authority and his wife were on a Church assignment. The other man’s wife and I had dated when we were both in high school. I was glad, and I am sure she was glad, that we did not have any bad memories of that date. Both of us could speak of it to our spouses and both of us could speak to a Church audience in the presence of the other without embarrassment.

When we are young, we sometimes behave as if there were no tomorrow. When we are young it is easy to forget that we will grow up, marry, raise a family, and—note this significant point—continue to associate with some of the same people who are witnesses to or participants in our teenage pranks or transgressions.

The Lord blessed my family too. While on my mission, I received an email from my parents telling me that my older brother went to church for the first time in 12 years. He later changed his work schedule so that he could go every Sunday, and he set a goal to read the Book of Mormon. Also my younger brother who had been struggling made some changes in his life and strengthened his faith. My cousin became active again and started going to the temple every week to do baptisms for the dead. We truly have been blessed.

Early in 2003, just two years into our quinoa research project, I visited traditional quinoa production fields in the Bolivian Altiplano. There, highly diverse quinoa fields were partly infested with the local weedy goosefoot, and the two often cross-pollinated. Impoverished subsistence farmers who lacked mechanization would walk through the fields and separately harvest the black-seeded weedy quinoa, which they often consumed in popped form. Later, in early November 2003, I broke away for a day from a scientific conference in Denver to see what quinoa production looked like in the United States, visiting the main growing region around Alamosa in southern Colorado. The discouraged Colorado grower I met with complained that every three years they had suffered near-total yield losses due to pressure from insect pests and excessive heat. From those two experiences, my colleagues and I started thinking that maybe the solution to failed quinoa production in the United States was to cross it with lowland-adapted strains of goosefoot.

The next year, in 2004, we started collecting seeds from weedy populations, mostly in Utah and Arizona. Since then, our collection has expanded to include samples from hundreds of goosefoot populations growing in environments as diverse as the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts, the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the Great Plains, California, and even as far east as the coast of New England. We are now crossing elite quinoas with these exotic goosefoot strains and producing breeding populations that we share with quinoa breeders in a dozen countries on four continents.

Two years ago, while revisiting the Colorado quinoa region, this time during the growing season, we noticed that the production fields had native goosefoot plants growing around their margins. In addition, the quinoa fields contained many plants showing intermediate characteristics between quinoa and the weedy form—just like we were accustomed to seeing in Andean quinoa fields in Bolivia and Peru. The next year we sampled fifteen plants showing varying degrees of goosefoot characteristics, and after DNA sequence analysis by one of my students, Jake Taylor, and Drs. Maughan and Jarvis, we confirmed the extensive introgression of goosefoot genes into this population. Interestingly, many years after the quinoa disaster of 2003, the problem was no longer failure to set seed; it was now a problem of heterogeneity due to the natural outcrossing process, which was converting quinoa into an adapted crop through genetic mixing with its weedy but native cousin. In other words, weedy goosefoot genes had literally saved the Colorado quinoa industry.

The Lord taught me that principle personally and powerfully one stormy night in May of 2005. I was cleaning up the dishes after dinner. Sue was listening to messages on the phone. Suddenly she said, "Kim, I think you better listen to this one." I listened to the message. Sue was right. The message was from President Hinckley's office asking me to call. I returned the call and waited while President Hinckley came on the line. After asking me a few questions about my service at Harvard Business School, he asked me if I would be interested in presiding over Brigham Young University-Idaho. I told him that I would. Sue and I had been talking about our future and had discussed just that opportunity. The Lord had already blessed us with a desire to serve there if asked. In that moment our lives changed. We talked some more, and President Hinckley asked me to talk to Sue, to pray, and think about the opportunity he had presented to me. The next day, I called him back and told him that Sue and I would love to serve at BYU-Idaho if that was what he wanted us to do.

And so began a new adventure, and a new chapter in our lives. In the succeeding days and weeks we had many wonderful experiences that confirmed to us the preparation the Lord had given us in the years and months leading up to President Hinckley's phone call. It is a great privilege to serve at BYU-Idaho, and I know it would not have come had I not made that commitment to put on the whole armor of God. And so, I thank the Lord every day for His tender mercies, for reaching out to us, for His love and His watchful care. And I know with all my heart and soul that the message that came to me in that night of searching and reaching was a message from the Lord. It was a call to prepare and to choose. It was a call to serve.

All the family lifts weights together. Even Megan, the youngest, who is 12, can bench press a little more than she weighs. She blames her brothers for getting her started. And they blame their dad, Dan Brown, for getting them started.

“I was pretty skinny,” Denver says. “I asked my dad what I could do to start looking better and be healthier.” His dad had lifted weights in high school and picked it up again when his children became interested. Denver’s example got his brothers and cousins interested too.

“Denver was doing it, so I started,” says Navaar. “I found out I could break records, so I just went for it.” Navaar, who is 14, holds a national bench-press record for his age group.

The family is careful as they try to stay in shape. They don’t overdo it, and they eat healthily. “Our focus is more on health than on weight lifting,” Denver says.

Holding records in weight lifting is nice, but physical fitness is only part of being balanced. Kristopher, 16, says, “I wanted to be fit so I’d be better able to serve.” Kristopher and his brothers and sister who still live at home are eager to serve, whether it’s babysitting or just helping a friend.

Denver says service is not the only opportunity weight lifting has given him: “Anywhere you excel, people are going to notice, and that will give you missionary opportunities.” Recently at a national meet, a world-class power lifter asked Denver why he wasn’t coming to the next meet. Denver told him about his mission, and the power lifter surprised him by encouraging him to put God first. Denver later told his mother, Tammy, “I could be known as Denver the weight lifter, but I’d rather be known as Elder Brown in Mexico.”

The whole family puts a lot of effort into building their spiritual muscles. “You can’t just work out one day and expect to compete and do well,” says Sam. “Just like you can’t expect to come to church one day and then be ready to go on a mission. It takes time.”

“Weight lifting takes a lot of determination and eating well,” Jake explains. “With the gospel, you need spiritual food, and you need determination to stay with it, because it’s not always easy.”

All the boys have had instances where their physical strength was useless, and they were glad they could rely on the spiritual strength they had built up.

“When my dad had cancer, we weren’t really sure what was going to happen. We prayed a lot, and the Lord helped us through it,” Jake says.

“Prayer always helped,” agrees Sam. “That’s why we did it so much.”

Denver relied on the Lord when his best friend was killed in a car accident. “It took a lot of time and a lot of prayer. That was probably the time when I felt most reliant on Heavenly Father, rather than trying to take care of things for myself, because I felt helpless,” he says.

The whole family needed to rely on the Lord when their previous house burned down a year and a half ago. They’ve since moved to a new town and have made their new house into a home.

One of the family’s favorite scripture stories is of Ammon, a son of Mosiah, going to preach to the Lamanites (see Alma 17–20). Denver is not only impressed by Ammon’s physical strength in defeating those trying to steal the king’s sheep, but he is also impressed by his optimism. “There’s a possibility he’s going to get killed for letting the sheep get scattered, but he thinks, ‘Great! An opportunity!’”

Navaar likes the story of Ammon because even though Ammon was strong, he didn’t boast about his strength. He was still humble and trusted in the Lord. For Navaar, Ammon is an example of living a balanced life.

The Brown family keep striving to have balance in their lives and to support each other, through hard times and easier times. And they keep building up their reserves of spiritual strength because they know that no matter how strong they are physically, the only strength they can truly rely on is the Lord’s.

The shadows grew longer and finally disappeared as the sun sank behind the hazy mountains far to the west.
The small western town, built on the edge of the desert near the delta of a small river, boasted one of the better rodeo grounds in the area. The grandstand, stock corrals, small concession building, and large greasewood brush on two sides made the grounds an ideal place for us four boys to play. On this sunny afternoon, my friends and I had come to the rodeo grounds and let our fantasies run wild. We had fought and won many battles with cattle rustlers and other outlaws. We had ridden the hardest-bucking horses and bulldogged the meanest steers.
Now the four of us were sitting quietly on the top steps of the grandstand, and Ray suggested, “It’ll soon be dark, so we’d better be getting home.”
“Yeah, my brothers will be looking for me,” I said, brushing wisps of hair out of my eyes.
“I’m still too tired to walk home. Let’s rest a few minutes more,” Bobby mumbled coaxingly.
“Do you guys like honey?” Jack asked. He was gazing across the rodeo grounds into Mr. Sampson’s alfalfa field, where there were a dozen white beehives, barely visible now in the near darkness.
“I do,” I said, “with peanut butter and bread.”
Ray and Bobby agreed.
“Honey is good fresh out of the comb,” Jack said then. “Have you guys ever eaten honey fresh out of the comb?” None of us had. “Well, let’s go see if Mr. Sampson left any honey in the hives and get us each a comb.”
“Wouldn’t that be stealing?” asked Ray.
“Mr. Sampson probably already has all the honey out of the hives that he needs, so I don’t think he’d care if we took some,” answered Jack.
We were hungry as well as tired, so it didn’t take much argument to convince us that honeycomb would probably taste really good. We crossed the rodeo grounds, climbed over the board fence, and took a honeycomb apiece from a different hive.
As we sat back on the top seats of the grandstand, my conscience began to tell me there was something not exactly right with what I was doing. I should have been home before dark, and I had taken something that belonged to someone else. That first bite of honey didn’t taste as good as I had expected it to.
Just then we heard the crunch of footsteps in the gravel below us.
“Quick, put your combs on the footboard,” Jack whispered.
The footsteps came slowly up the grandstand toward us. The large figure of a man loomed out of the darkness. “Evening, boys.” It was Mr. Sampson. Everybody in our community respected him and liked him, and we weren’t very happy at this point.
Jack shifted uneasily, trying to wipe the honey off his fingers onto the seat beside him.
“Good evening, Mr. Sampson.” Ray was the only one able to speak.
“Out kind of late, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes sir. We were just going home,” Ray answered.
After a slight pause, Mr. Sampson asked, “Do you boys know anything about bees?”
This question made us squirm. Finally Ray answered, “I don’t think we know very much.”
“I didn’t think that you did. Let me tell you a little bit about them. In each beehive there are three kinds of bees—the queen, the drones, and the workers. Each has a separate job to do, and each does its job well. The queen bee lays the eggs that hatch into young bees. The drones are male bees that fertilize the eggs laid by the queen.
Mr. Sampson hesitated a few seconds to let what he had told us sink in. “Now I’ll tell you about the workers. As soon as it warms up in the spring and the plants and trees start blossoming, worker bees leave the hive and begin gathering nectar from the flowers. They fly from blossom to blossom until their pouches are full, then fly back to the hive and deposit the nectar in the comb. I extract the honey from the combs as they are filled throughout the summer. But in early fall when it gets cold and the blossoms are gone, the bees can no longer work, so I leave the combs full of honey for them to live on during the cold months. If someone took the combs away from the hives, the bees would starve to death and there would be no more bees or honey.”
Mr. Sampson stood up. “Well, boys, I guess that’s enough about bees for now. I’d better be getting on home.” He started down the grandstand, then stopped and turned back toward us. “You boys had better go on home too. But first I think there’s a little chore that you might want to do. Good night, boys.”
“Good night, Mr. Sampson,” we chorused.
For a minute we just sat there, stunned. Mr. Sampson knew that we had taken the honeycombs, yet there had been no anger, no scolding, no threats.
We knew what “little chore” we had to do. We retrieved our combs from the footboard and returned them to the hives.

During her work on both the YWMIA general board and the correlation committees, Sister Funk came to know Sister Hortense H. Child, now her first counselor. Sister Child tells the story of the time she needed to give an important report on short notice. Before coming to the office that day she had forgotten to change from an old pair of gardening shoes. She just traded shoes with Ruth and carried on with her usual poise. But Ruth got even: she was asked in one meeting by the president of the Church to play the piano for an opening song, but she had forgotten her glasses. She just got up from her seat in the audience, and when she passed Sister Child, who was sitting on the aisle, she took off Hortense’s glasses as she swished by, put them on, and read the music without a flaw.

Qualicum Bay, British Columbia—
Jessica and Sandra Stüssi know all about family togetherness. They live across the street from the beach in a tiny town called Qualicum Bay, in British Columbia, where their parents own and operate a resort. With the waves lapping softly on the shore, the sun setting in a crimson burst, and the family sitting outside quietly enjoying ice cream cones together, it seems like heaven on earth.
But what about the days when Jessica and Sandra are helping their mom do the resort’s laundry? What about days when they seem to be moving in several directions at once to sports practices and school activities?
Of course the Stüssis aren’t perfect, but they know that keeping their home heavenly—even when they’re doing something that’s not particularly pleasant—is partly their responsibility. And they know that living the gospel will help them create love at home. Getting up at the crack of dawn every day with their mom (she’s the seminary teacher) is an important part of their success.
“Sometimes it’s hard to have your mom as a teacher because it’s hard to have lessons from her. But it’s good too because we sort of know what to expect and she knows what we need,” says Jessica. “Also, she’s wide awake when the rest of us aren’t.”
After seminary every morning, Jessica and Sandra head to a different secondary school than the other youth in their branch, making them the only Church members there.
“Going to our school can be sort of hard,” says Sandra. “Sometimes people ask me questions [about the Church] and I don’t always know how to answer them. I just try to take things one at a time.”
It’s a tough job, being the only Latter-day Saints in the whole school, but Jessica and Sandra both say that it forces them to stick to their standards—and to stick together.
“We have to back each other up,” says Sandra.
Soon Jessica will graduate and Sandra will be on her own. But their family ties will stay strong as Jessica travels to Switzerland to live with relatives for a year.
“None of the people on my mom’s side of the family are members, so hopefully I’ll be able to teach them and bring some of them into the gospel while I’m there,” she says.