Gospel Story Finder

I stood in my room dressing for the stake dance with the usual painstaking care, wondering why I was going at all. I think the girls that go hold some endless hope of finding him, that sweet, wonderful guy who would never let you stand alone by the wall. I had thought by that third year I had rid myself of that kind of hope, but maybe it would always be there.
That Saturday night was cloudy and breezy as I rolled away in the old family station wagon to pick up the seven people who depend on me for rides.
It began to rain very hard as we reached the stake center, and my carefully fixed hair quickly lost its bounce in the rain. That was enough to make me want to go back home and watch TV, but by then I had to stay.
I stumbled into the bathroom with the intention of repairing what rain damage I could. There I found a group of perfectly dressed, perfect-looking, happy, chattering girls, and I felt crushed. One of the tall, blonde ones asked me if it was raining. I resisted the impulse to say, “No! I just poured a bucket of water over my head to achieve the wet look,” and just said yes, knowing that it was probably going to be a very long night.
By then I had run a brush through my hair and with a sigh pushed open the bathroom door to face the noisy, social atmosphere of the dance. Many of my friends weren’t there, so I just mingled for a few minutes saying hello to various people. I was not in a great frame of mind even with the music and all the people there dancing and having a good time. I’m sure I wouldn’t have recognized Prince Charming if he had sat down next to me.
About 20 minutes after I arrived, I noticed a guy sitting all alone by the stage. He stood out because there was absolutely no expression on his face, and it was obvious by looking at him that he was not “normal.” His face was a little misshapen, he wore big glasses, and I got the impression that he was slow. I began to make assumptions about what he was like, and I even wondered why he would come to a dance at all. I was pretty ashamed of myself as I realized that I’m no Miss America myself, and I would hate for people to glance over me as though I were inconsequential. I tried to push all of these thoughts aside in my mind and just watched people dancing, but I found myself glancing at him every few minutes.
Soon one of my favorite songs came on. I just couldn’t sit there depressed any more, so I made up my mind to ask him to dance. As I made a move to get up, I looked over just in time to see him walking out the door. Without thinking I followed him and saw him throw something in the trash can which I recognized as a tissue. He was heading for the door to leave, so I had to do something quickly. I did the only thing I could: I tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. As he turned around I saw that his eyes were red and tears were welling up.
It’s hard to describe what I felt during the seconds that followed. I guess it was compassion and guilt (my worries about the car, my hair, and getting asked to dance seemed so trivial now). I wondered at the cruelty of people, myself included, who take it upon themselves to classify people according to those who are “cool” and those who aren’t. I also wondered what Heavenly Father thinks about his children and how they treat one another.
After those few seconds of realization, I remember saying, “Why are you leaving? I really wanted to ask you to dance.” Then he smiled, and his smile was more beautiful to me than any I had ever seen. I felt so good and so touched by what he was teaching me about life and Christlike love.
Well, he danced, or he tried to, but to me he danced beautifully, and I gave no thought to anything but the expression of contentment and happiness I saw on his face. You would have thought he had won the sweepstakes and I was Miss America herself. It was just one little dance, but for me it was a very important lesson.

Can you imagine a 25-hour-long meeting that was actually a good experience? Young men and women in the Madison Third Ward, Madison Wisconsin Stake, can. They met together on a holiday weekend—all day Friday and Saturday—to read the entire Book of Mormon.
They met at a leader’s home and read from 9:00 in the morning until 9:00 at night, stopping only long enough to say the blessing over dinner. After that, the young men camped out there, and the young women spent the night at a neighbor’s house. They reconvened the next morning for a similar schedule.
But there was no excited cheer when the last verse was read: “I bid unto all, farewell … until … I am brought forth triumphant through the air, to meet you before the pleasing bar of the great Jehovah, the Eternal Judge of both quick and dead. Amen” (Moro. 10:34). The evening ended with a very solemn and united “Amen.”

Warmed by the medicine man’s healing fire inside the earthen lodge, Little Wind’s all-day vigil is over. For the valiant heart of the old buffalo—injured in a senseless and shameful slaughter two days before—is still beating.
Curled against the shaggy warmth of the great beast, the exhausted boy dreams of the sky people, then sleeps …
The first long, frosted slivers of light pierced the night sky over the tablelands. Ten Days Walking stepped out of his tepee, pulled a buffalo robe around him, and headed toward the earthen lodge. He entered quietly and stood for a long moment in the little bit of night still hiding inside, his eyes upon Little Wind, his son, who lay asleep with his head pillowed against the old buffalo. The ancient beast’s sides no longer rose and fell with a steady cadence.
Ten Days Walking stepped closer and put his ear to the animal’s side, but there was no heartbeat.
Little Wind stirred, then awoke. The look on his father’s face told him all he feared to know. His dark eyes widened and studied the creature beside him, then his vision was blurred by a thin veil of tears. “He only sleeps, Father.” Little Wind whispered with wishful uncertainty.
“It is the long sleep, my son,” Ten Days Walking uttered with reverent matter-of-factness. “The Great Spirit has called it home.”
“But I prayed so hard. It cannot be!” Little Wind buried his face in the old creature’s soft fur and wept.
Ten Days Walking sat down beside the boy and leaned back against the still warm bison. Gently and slowly he ran his large hand through Little Wind’s long hair, then he spoke. “Was it not this great one’s time, small warrior?” he asked. “No man or beast can remain on this earth place beyond his given time. This old four-legged had fathered countless of its kind and given much majesty and dignity to Mother Earth. Would it not perhaps be wrong now, maybe even selfish, to deny it its blessed rest?”
Little Wind could not—even in his pain—deny the simple wisdom of his father’s words. He nodded through his tears and snuggled himself against the big warrior who enclosed him in his great robe.
For a long while Little Wind watched the new light grow brighter in the lodge, spilling down through the hole in the center of the thatched roof and shedding its glow on the old buffalo. Then he muttered softly, “Grandfather says that life is like a blossom and that death is like the flower unfolding. What does he mean, Father?”
Ten Days Walking smiled knowingly. “Red Owl Watching means that to become like the Great Spirit, we must first become like a little child, like a … blossom … that opens into its greater self in the brighter light of heaven.”
Little Wind looked confused. Ten Days Walking’s smile broadened and he went on. “What your grandfather means is that he is anxious to leave his earth lodge and enter the great lodge of your Father and mine and to share in the wondrous things that await every valiant warrior who has served his Creator well.”
Little Wind didn’t know if he felt better because of his father’s strong arms around him or because of his wise counsel. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it was something to cling to every time his eyes returned to the old buffalo or to the lodge where his Grandfather, Red Owl Watching, lay in a long illness. “Will Grandfather die soon also?” he wondered out loud.
Ten Days Walking held his smile. There was a sadness in his voice at the thought of the old man’s leaving, but also the sound of hope. “Yes, it will very soon be his time. But as time rushes by like wind over a bird’s wing, my son, we will soon be together again. It is all part of a very wise plan.”
It was Little Wind’s unusual compassion and regard for the buffalo that caused his father to give the old four-legged special consideration. A great scaffold was prepared and its body carried on a litter to the sacred burial grounds that stood on the high jagged cliffs above the village. It was the first time such a thing had been done for any but a Sioux in the history of their people.
Little Wind climbed the steep trail in the icy November wind to the top of the butte to pay final tribute to the old buffalo. He watched as the mighty beast was hoisted up onto the scaffold, covered with furs, and secured with rope. Little Wind’s mother and little sister, Night Fawn, along with a few other village women, heaped brambles at the base of the scaffold to keep away wild animals. Then Ten Days Walking and the others left Little Wind alone to express his mourning.
When the sun had made its journey across the heavens, Little Wind turned from the wind-lashed scaffold and descended the darkened mesa to the village below.
In the days and weeks that followed, driving prairie rains beat unmercifully upon the little Sioux lodges. Winds howled and thunder boomed like the white soldiers’ cannons. Little Wind sat huddled in his family’s tepee, listening to the strange, wonderful stories spun by his grandfather from within the immense warm hides of his sickbed. The stories were of great battles fought and fine prizes won long, long ago.
Then one day came the great white silence. Little Wind pushed back the door flap and gazed upon it, wide-eyed. Winter had come in all its chilly white grandness.
The boy pulled his fur wrappings tightly about himself and stepped out, marveling at this shivering white Eden. Nothing stirred, and there was not a single footprint or track in sight. Mine will be the very first! he thought as he moved forward across the crusted snow.
The sun had just begun to rise above the huge white cliffs and had sprayed a silvery glow of near-blinding brightness over the valley mist. Suddenly his breathless wonderment was broken by the frightened whinnying of the village horses. He looked through the misty light toward the corral at the far end of the lodges. Vague, ghostly shapes moved stealthily among the ponies. They were the shapes of warriors warmly dressed against the weather … but not of his tribe!
Little Wind dashed quickly and silently into the tepee and shook his father from his sleep. “Father!” he cried in a loud whisper. “There are strangers in our village!”
Ten Days Walking sprang to his feet, grabbed a buffalo horn club and shield hanging next to his war medicine bundle, and bolted outside. He shouted an alarm to the other sleeping villagers.
Red Owl Watching strained up onto an elbow. “Young Shoshones,” he uttered in a raspy, unworried voice. “They come to take our horses, not to take scalps.” He arched his neck and gazed up at Little Wind, who stood tensely by the door. “It is the way of things. It is honorable to take ponies from an enemy tribe and return triumphant to your village. It shows much courage and brings dignity to any young warrior.”
Little Wind’s mother looked harshly at the old warrior in the ermine blanket. “We cannot let our horses be taken just so some young Shoshone brave can paint victory marks on his leggings, old man! Without our ponies we will—”
Red Owl Watching chuckled and placed a quivery, reassuring hand on Laughing Water’s arm, then beamed at Little Wind. “It is also honorable for a young Sioux brave to disgrace a Shoshone brave.”
“How is this done, Grandfather?” Little Wind questioned.
The ancient Indian broke into a toothless grin. “Simply by keeping him from stealing a Sioux pony.”
“And how is that best done?” Little Wind pressed eagerly.
“It is best done quickly!” was the reply.
Little Wind was gone in the shake of a pony’s tail. Laughing Water argued with motherly concern, “He’s still a boy, old man!”
Again Red Owl Watching softly patted the woman’s arm. “Yes. But do boys learn to become men just by listening to tales of valor, or must they at some point take part in those deeds that lift them beyond themselves to that high, noble place of manhood?”
Laughing Water twisted her face. Can I never win an argument with this old one? she wondered. “Must you always be so wise?” she asked aloud.
The toothless grin once again returned to the old face. “Old age does have its rewards, good mother.” Then the two peered outside through the hide flap where the village was alive with warmly outfitted combatants. The warriors were dashing in and out in a ragged pattern, waving stone clubs and feathered lances. But as Red Owl Watching had testified, there was no noticeable desire to inflict grave injury upon each other. They were just taking coup—the touching or striking of an armed enemy with a lance or any other object and getting away unscratched. It was a deed far more noble than taking a scalp or inflicting a fatal injury.
Ten Days Walking had jumped atop the corral fence and had leaped onto a mounted Shoshone, wrestling man and animal to the ground. The enemy’s horse whirled about wild-eyed, then crashed into and broke a section of fence. Eighteen of the tribe’s twenty-two fine ponies, spooked by all the excited hoots and frenzied activity, plunged through the opening in the crude fence and disappeared into the mist. And with the fading sound of exiting, pounding hooves filling his concerned ears, Ten Days Walking quickly whacked his foe with his shield and sent him sprawling among the four remaining ponies. One of them, the warrior chief’s great buffalo runner, whirled by instinct toward the grounded Shoshone and nickered defiantly. The frightened Shoshone scrambled to his feet and ran off. Ten Days Walking hooted victoriously and gestured tribute to his war-horse. Then he plunged back into the fray.
At the same time, Little Wind darted in a low run through the tinseled fog, scooped up a broken lance, and leaped onto the back of an enemy brave who had pinned down a Sioux tribesman. Holding both ends of the lance in his hands, Little Wind quickly looped it over the Shoshone’s head and pressed it tightly against his throat. The Indian abandoned his grip, yelled angrily, and toppled over backward onto Little Wind, his wolf headdress falling off in the process. Before the startled would-be horse thief could get a fair look at his boy attacker, Little Wind had vanished with his prize, the wolf headdress, into the frozen brushwood.
By now the whole village was swarming with armed Sioux men, and even some of the women were wielding bone clubs and whatever else they could come up with. And the small band of hapless Shoshones, seeing themselves hopelessly outnumbered, reluctantly mounted their ponies and fled in shame, rubbing their wounds and suffering the sting of injured pride.
Joyous shouts burst forth in splendid unison from every lodge in the little community. But there was still an important matter to be attended to—recovering the tribe’s eighteen ponies. They would have to be found quickly before they were adopted by another tribe or before gathering clouds ushered in another storm.
Ten Days Walking sprang onto his buffalo runner and hastily instructed three braves nearby to get the three remaining horses and assist him in the hunt. Then he glanced at Little Wind with a flash of pride that seemed to lift the boy ten feet off the ground. After all, was it not he who first warned the village of the presence of an enemy tribe? And was not that a Shoshone headdress hanging from his belt?
The boy watched his father’s horse plunge away into the frigid whiteness. Then he started back toward his tepee, anxious to share the story of his first coup with his mother, grandfather, and little sister. But he had only gone a few steps when someone pulled at his arm. It was Yellow Fox, a village boy. “Your pony is gone too,” he said excitedly. “I saw it run away when the Shoshones first came!”
“My father will find it, with the others,” Little Wind responded confidently.
“He’ll not find your pony!” Yellow Fox insisted. “I saw your horse go toward the high rock county. Your father and the others rode off in another direction. They’ll not find your pony. But maybe a Shoshone will.”
Little Wind gazed anxiously toward the great mountains veiled in glacial mist. His pony had been given to him as a gift by his father before the big hunt. It was priceless to him. He had to find it before the next storm or he might never see it again. If he hurried, he could be back before his mother even knew he was gone. If he waited for his father to return with the horses, it might be too late. I’m well dressed against the weather in this big otter coat Mother made me, he assured himself. Besides, my pony probably hasn’t gone very far.
Little Wind pulled his wrappings snugly around him, gave a quick glance toward his tepee, and hurried off in the direction of the hoofprints in the snow.
What Little Wind did not know was that a new storm was gathering just beyond the mesas. Hidden behind the fog, it crouched like some huge, nameless beast ready to lunge across the sky and engulf anyone or anything careless enough to leave the fires of home.

A young mother recently shared with me a story called “The World’s Meanest Mom,” and I would like to share it with you here. She said:
“I had the meanest mother in the whole world. While other kids had no breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs, and toast. When others had pop and candy for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich. My mother insisted on knowing where we were at all times. You’d think we were on a chain gang. She had to know who our friends were and what we were doing. She insisted that if we said we’d be gone for an hour, that we would be gone for one hour or less.
“I am ashamed to admit it, but she actually had the nerve to break the child labor law. She made us wash the dishes, make beds, learn to cook, and all sorts of cruel things. I believe she lay awake nights thinking up mean things for us to do. She always insisted that we tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“By the time we were teenagers she was much wiser, and our lives became even more miserable. None of this tooting the horn of a car for us to come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates and friends come to the door to get us.
“My mother was a complete failure as a mother. None of us have ever been arrested or beaten a rap. Each of my brothers has served a mission, and his country. And whom do we have to blame for this terrible way we turned out? You’re right—our mean mother. Look at all the things we have missed. We never got to take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a million and one other things that our friends did. She made us grow up into educated, honest adults. Using this as a background, I am trying to raise my children. I stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my children call me mean. You see, I thank God that he gave me the meanest mother in the whole world.” (Orien Fifer, Phoenix Gazette)

The summer before I turned 16, my dad decided that he wanted to get as many of our family members together as he could and take us all on a camping trip. My grandparents came and so did many of Dad’s brothers and sisters, along with their families. We made a large, rambunctious group, and I often felt like I was in heaven on that camping trip, surrounded by the beauty of the mountains and among the people I loved most.
At the time my dad was also my bishop and, while at camp, we had very unique patriarchal blessing interview. One night, as the sun set and the moon began to rise, we took a canoe out onto the lake near our campsite. The water was still and serene as we glided over the surface and talked about my blessing.
We stayed out in the boat for a long time, enjoying the beauty of the stars that were beginning to come out. Then suddenly, from far across the lake, we heard singing. The sound carried easily over the water, now glistening with starlight. I immediately recognized the voices of my grandparents. They were singing Grandpa’s favorite hymn, “Brightly Beams Our Father’s Mercy” (Hymns, no. 335). In this hymn it speaks of Heavenly Father as a lighthouse keeper who guides His children safely in from the troubled sea. I think Grandpa’s favorite part is when it calls us the keepers of the “lights along the shore.” It means that while our Heavenly Father is the great guiding light, we need to tend the “lower lights” along the shore to help bring our brothers and sisters safely home.
We listened to Grandma and Grandpa sing: “Let the lower lights be burning; Send a gleam across the wave. Some poor fainting, struggling seaman You may rescue, you may save.”
At the moment they started this chorus, a beam of light shone out in a bright path across the water. Grandpa had pulled a flashlight from his pocket and, every time the song mentioned light, he switched it on and used it to guide us safely in.
Dad and I laughed with them and started rowing back to shore. I treasure that memory and will always remember my grandparents’ voices and their light guiding us in over the dark water.

As a young person trying to find God, it was really hard to believe we had prophets living on the earth today. It felt so complicated and confusing. But almost two years later, as a committed convert to the Church, I found it even harder to believe that I was one of the 15 young adults in Sydney, Australia, chosen to meet with President Russell M. Nelson for a question-and-answer session.
It was an experience that will always bring a smile to my face and tears of joy every time I flashback to it.
We were all anxious to meet him and even more nervous to hear what he had to say to us as young adults. I imagined the answers he would give to our questions to be deep and elaborate, and I wondered if I was ready to hear and understand his words. With the amount of nerves flowing through us, we all decided to say a prayer to help us be more at ease and to invite the Spirit.
The moment when President Nelson walked into the room was so surreal. We have always been taught that prophets receive revelation from God and share it with the world, helping everyone to come unto Christ. We see them speak at general conference. But seeing and speaking with him in person is a different experience.
Here he was—a humble, loving prophet of God. The Spirit he brought into the room was so powerful. We all stood in silence, hesitant to smile or speak, but as he walked over with a huge grin and told us how happy he was to meet us, we were all filled with so much joy and peace. I could feel his sincere humility and the love he had for each of us as he shook our hands and gave us all a tender smile.
We began asking him questions about young adults in the Church, and one particular question stood out to me the most. We asked, “As young adults, we often struggle to encourage our families and friends to take part in the gospel. How can we do better at sharing the gospel with them?” President Nelson took a moment to think and then said two words: ”Be attractive.” And he went on: “Be an example and be faithful.”
That was it—a simple yet thoughtful and true message. His simple words were deeply imprinted on our minds and hearts. I realized in that moment that as young single adults, we tend to complicate and overthink the gospel so much, when truly the guidelines from the Spirit and from our prophets are simple, straightforward, and they hold so many promises of blessings.
I realized in that moment how President Nelson had become so humble and spiritual: from constantly practicing living the gospel of Jesus Christ. And all we have to do is the same. Do those little things each day that draw us closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ: attending church and the temple, reading the scriptures, praying with a sincere heart, and ultimately being kind and loving toward everyone we meet. Those small, everyday acts are the keys to mastering the art of becoming true disciples of Christ, strengthening our bond with Him, and sharing His truth with others.
We should simply strive be the best version of ourselves, and those small simple things will lead to big results. Yes, the world is complicated, and yes, it’s easy to overthink so many things in life, but God’s plan is simple, and when we follow it, it makes life more simple. By taking the prophet’s guidance to heart and doing our best to become like our Savior Jesus Christ each day, our mere examples of faith will change the lives around us.

Following years of planning and preparation, I finally made my way to the Holy Land with family and close friends. As we approached the Sea of Galilee, we looked forward to seeing Capernaum.
In Capernaum we explored ruins and wandered down old city roads in awe of what this little village had witnessed (see Matthew 11:23). Later, I stopped and sat under a tree, pondering and gazing out on the Sea of Galilee. My great expectations to feel the events of the scriptures come to life, however, remained unfulfilled. Despite my preparation for the trip, sincerity in seeking Christ, and determination that had brought us here at last, I felt an emptiness that weighed on my heart.
Why wouldn’t this place where Christ blessed so many people also bless our lives? As I grappled with my feelings, I longed to read the scriptures. I checked with each member of our group, but sadly, no one had brought a Bible. Fortunately, one member of our group had a personal digital assistant with an electronic version of the scriptures on it. We soon gathered around, listening as someone read verses in Matthew 4 and Mark 5 about the Savior in Capernaum.
As soon as our focus shifted to the scriptures, the emptiness that I had been feeling was replaced with a comforting witness of the love of the Savior and of the reality of the events of which the scriptures testify. We had come to Capernaum searching for Christ, but we didn’t find Him until we searched the scriptures. It was not the physical surroundings that bore witness to us but the Holy Ghost.

These powerful truths were life-changing for my friend Jen, who as a teenager caused a serious car accident. Though her physical trauma was severe, she felt exquisite pain because the other driver lost her life. “Someone lost their mom, and it was my fault,” she says. Jen, who just days before stood and recited, “We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us,” now questioned, “How could He love me?”

“The physical suffering passed,” she says, “but I didn’t think I would ever heal from the emotional and spiritual wounds.”

In order to survive, Jen hid her feelings deeply, becoming distant and numb. After a year, when she was finally able to talk about the accident, an inspired counselor invited her to write the phrase “I am a child of God” and say it 10 times daily.

“Writing the words was easy,” she recalls, “but I couldn’t speak them. … That made it real, and I didn’t really believe God wanted me as His child. I would curl up and cry.”

After several months, Jen was finally able to complete the task every day. “I poured out my whole soul,” she says, “pleading with God. … Then I began to believe the words.” This belief allowed the Savior to begin mending her wounded soul. The Book of Mormon brought comfort and courage in His Atonement.

“Christ felt my pains, my sorrows, my guilt,” Jen concludes. “I felt God’s pure love and had never experienced anything so powerful! Knowing I am a child of God is the most powerful knowledge I possess!”

There is a story told of an old Cherokee teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.
“It is a terrible fight, and it is between two wolves. One is evil: he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.”
He continued, “The other is good: he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you—and inside every other person too.”
Illustration by Allen Garns
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

How do you remember to choose the right? Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles tells a story about a young boy and his friends who found a package of cigarettes: “They decided to go down on the cliff alongside some large boulders and smoke. … They lit up, and the young man said that as he was looking down at the smoldering cigarette that he held between his fingers, he saw his CTR ring. He quickly put the cigarette out. … He chose to choose the right, as he remembered what the emblem stood for” (“‘Choose the Right,’” Ensign, Nov. 1993, 66).

When the alarm went off at 5:00 a.m., 17-year-old Yee Mun Lim got out of bed and got ready for the day. She left the house at 5:20 for seminary. At 6:30 a.m. she hurried to school, where she stayed until 7:00 p.m. for classes and co-curricular activities. Then she rushed to the stake center by public transport to practice for the stake musical production.
This was the standard routine of most youth in the Singapore Stake every Friday for five months. Sometimes exhaustion and fatigue set in, but throughout the entire preparation for the musical production, When a Prophet Speaks, there were no complaints or regrets, because the youth felt that the sacrifices they made were worthwhile. “This is the most amazing, awesome, spiritually uplifting, fun-filled, and heart-warming event I ever took part in,” said Yee Mun, of the Singapore Second Ward.

“All right, I’ll listen to your message,” I told the young missionaries when they asked if they could visit me in my home in Mexico City. “But just to share ideas. I already know what I believe, and I don’t want to be a member of your church.” I had met them when the Flores family invited me to their family home evening. I never imagined that the evening would end with my allowing them to come to my house. Oh, well, it’s only an hour, I told myself. Then I can forget about them.
The following week, at exactly the appointed hour, I heard their knock. At least they’re punctual, I thought, and opened the door to see two fresh faces, eager to begin.
At first I was defensive, expecting them to attack my beliefs. But instead they talked about our Father in Heaven, who has a body like me; about his Son, who had died for me and then was resurrected; and about the Holy Ghost, who can communicate with me. It was all very logical.
Then they went on to say that Jesus Christ had visited the American continent; his visit was recorded in a book—the Book of Mormon.
If they think they’re going to sell me their little book, I thought, they are mistaken. To my surprise, they said that someone had already purchased the book for me and that the only price was to read it. For that reason I accepted it, although I felt that only the Bible contained God’s word.
When the elders came a second time, they asked me if I would be baptized. “I’m already baptized,” I replied. “I was baptized when I was a baby, and it was good for life.” The missionaries stated that baptism had to be done by immersion and that it was for the remission of sins at the age of eight, when a child was old enough to be responsible for his actions. In my heart I knew that I had been sinless when I was baptized. And I hadn’t been submerged. I decided to take a closer look at their beliefs.
I began to visit their church, although I would leave the meetings early to attend my own services. I found that everyone there smiled and greeted me as if they had known me for a long time. They just want to convert me, I told myself. The atmosphere is nice, and the classes are interesting, but that is all.
Although I didn’t touch the Book of Mormon, I continued with the discussions. I learned about a young man named Joseph Smith who, in the year 1820, saw God the Father and his Son Jesus Christ. At that moment, a new era had begun—lost truth had again illuminated the world. Could this possibly be true? There was only one way to find out, the missionaries said, and that was to pray. They taught me how to pray in a very simple way. They said God would answer me if I would only ask him this question, with sincere faith. My heart softened for a moment, but then I was afraid. What if he did answer? What if it were true?
The next time they came, they explained that before we were born, we had all lived with our Heavenly Father in a spirit world (could it really exist? I wondered) and that we came to this earth to get bodies and to learn to choose between good and evil. If we chose the good, we began to become like God. Isn’t this blasphemy? I asked myself. How can I become like God, who is perfect? The missionaries also explained that I should take care of my body. They asked me if I would keep the Word of Wisdom and the law of chastity. I surprised myself when I agreed to live by these standards, even though I did not believe in their church.
This is too much, I thought, when during the fifth discussion they told me about tithing, about fasting, and about the offering I should give for the poor. Why should I help others when I am the one who needs help? But the missionaries explained that Latter-day Saints consider it a privilege to pay their tithing and fast offering. “The Lord gives you ten apples and asks for only one back,” they explained. “How generous he is!”
Well, I said to myself, if he’s going to give me ten apples and then want one back, let him just give me nine in the first place! But I had always had financial problems. Was it because I was unfair with the Lord?
At the last discussion, the missionaries reviewed everything they had taught and explained the mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Again they spoke of baptism, and again I told myself that they would not succeed in baptizing me. I began to argue vigorously with them. The evening ended with my assuring them that they were wrong about everything. They listened sadly, then tried to respond with readings from the scriptures. But I refused to listen and asked them to leave.
At last I was free of the missionaries. Certainly, they were pleasing enough as people, but I wanted no more to do with them as representatives of their church. So why did I feel such an emptiness inside?
One Sunday afternoon, about six weeks later, the missionaries came again. This time, one of the elders suggested that I would have a difficult time reading the Book of Mormon in a week. I felt a challenge in his words. Did he think I wasn’t capable of reading his little book? I will read it in even less time! I also accepted their suggestion that the three of us fast together the following Tuesday while I came to a decision about the book.
That night when I began to read the Book of Mormon, I found that despite my former reluctance, I could not put it down. I read steadily, with no desire to sleep, until three o’clock in the morning. Although I had to work the next day, I found myself reading the book at each free moment. And as soon as I came home in the afternoon, I went back to it like steel drawn to a magnet.
That very evening, I visited the Flores family, who had introduced me to the missionaries. I told them that I was considering baptism. Brother Flores questioned me, wanting to know if I were serious. I answered that I was. Then the Flores family said that they wanted to fast with me and the missionaries the next day. That night I read until the early hours a second time.
On Tuesday morning, each of us, in our own homes, began to fast. I was in good spirits all day and was not hungry or thirsty. In the afternoon, I read a scripture that shook me: “For after this day of life, which is given us to prepare for eternity, … then cometh the night of darkness wherein there can be no labor performed” (Alma 34:33). I knelt and asked my Father in Heaven if the church I was investigating was true and if I should join it. As I listened, I knew deep within my soul that this really was the church of Jesus Christ. I should wait no longer. That night when I ended my fast, I told the missionaries of my decision to be baptized. Happiness filled their faces.
Day and night I continued my reading of the Book of Mormon until, six and a half days after I started, I finished it. I had done it! I had met the missionaries’ challenge. I knew that I would never again refer to the Book of Mormon as the “little book.” It was now a great book, another testament of Jesus Christ. And although Satan tried to put obstacles in my path, on 19 February 1990 I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
After all was said and done, it was true! God loved us so much that he designed a plan of salvation for us and gave his Only Begotten Son as a sacrifice so that we could return to his presence. Joseph Smith saw the Father and the Son and was chosen by God to restore the truth. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints holds the authority of God to perform those ordinances and offer those covenants that help us obtain a celestial home, if we are faithful and true to those covenants.
Each night I thank God for the opportunity I had to meet the Flores family and the missionaries. They all served as instruments in the hand of the Lord so that I could receive and accept his precious gospel.

It takes a lot of grit, backbone, and just plain courage to accept a job cleaning out raw sewage tanks when the job you applied for was an office position. But if you can pull it off? “Bragging rights!” says Jen F. after she did just that.
Jen was looking for summer employment when she heard about an office job at a nearby RV-rental facility. She applied and was later asked if she would instead be interested in becoming an RV mechanic for the summer. They’d provide the training.
“I didn’t know anything about cars, but I figured I could learn,” Jen says. She accepted.
The work was hard. And greasy. And it came with long hours. “I was dirty all the time,” she says. “I felt gross all the time.” Jen was in charge of cleaning out the sewage systems, checking generators, performing oil changes, inspecting for damage, and completing maintenance and other minor repairs on the rented RVs.
She’d come home exhausted at the end of each day. But what did she gain by the end? “This job taught me a lot about self-reliance,” Jen says. “I know I can learn any skill that I need to. It was empowering.”
She also earned enough money during that single summer to pay for a big trip.

When I was a child, my family traveled to the Tokyo Japan Temple. The 12-hour car trip was long, but we were grateful for the time we got to spend together, and we spent the drive discussing our excitement about going to the temple.
At the time I wasn’t yet 12 years old, so I was only able to enter the temple lobby. But the sacred nature of that space filled my heart with the warmth of the Spirit.
I could have stayed in that lobby forever. So when it came time to return home, tears started streaming down my face. The temple quickly grew smaller and smaller in the distance as we drove away, and I already missed the strong Spirit I had felt inside.
I was determined to return one day. If the Spirit was that strong in the lobby, I couldn’t wait to experience what it felt like to actually go inside and perform ordinances. I wanted to do whatever I could to prepare to go inside someday.

Daniel dressed quickly in his Sunday clothes. He knew how to button his shirt all by himself. He pulled his sweater carefully over his shirt and straightened the collar on the outside, just like Mom had shown him. He couldn’t tie his Sunday shoes all by himself, but he could get started. Mom would be coming into the living room with the video camera in just a minute to videotape Daniel on his first day of Primary.
Looking into the mirror, Daniel liked the clean, neat little boy who looked back at him. The only thing missing was a necktie. He wished he had one just like Dad’s. Then he would be really grown up.
Daniel knew that Mom had to take care of his little brother before she could come and videotape him. He felt very big getting dressed by himself. Now he could help Mom on Sundays even more, just like a grown-up man. Men in the Church were called “brethren.” Or if you were talking about just one all by himself, he was a “brother.” Now that Daniel was going to be in Primary, he felt like one of the brethren.
“OK,” Mom said, coming in with the video camera. “Why don’t you sing ‘Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam’?” (Children’s Songbook, pages 60–61.)
Daniel frowned. “I don’t want to sing that.”
“But you’re a Sunbeam now,” Mom told him. “And all the children sing.”
“The big kids, too?” Daniel asked.
“Of course.”
Daniel sang “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” as loudly as he could. He showed Mom how he was going to sit during Primary with his arms folded reverently. He walked back and forth in front of the camera to show how he would walk to his Sunbeam class. He felt very good and big inside.
“Well,” Mom said, turning the camera off, “it looks like you’re ready for Sunbeam class.”
Daniel beamed.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Daniel Dee Roper,” Mom told him.
Daniel looked crushed. “Mom, I’m not Mr. Daniel Dee Roper!” he cried out.
Mom was surprised. “Well, if you’re not Mr. Daniel Dee Roper, who are you?”
Daniel put his hands on his hips in exasperation. “I’m Brother Daniel Dee Roper!”
Mom nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “From now on we’ll call you Brother Dan.”

Fourteen years came and went with my same activity in the Church and still no baptism. One particular night, I had a dream in which I could not hide from a young man in a white shirt, with a badge and his scriptures. The next morning in seminary, the classroom discussion revealed my dream’s meaning. The students were asked, “If Jesus Christ came today looking to receive all those who opened their hearts to Him and had decided to accept Him as their Savior, would you be able to go with Him?” I shared my dream with them, and they told me, “The Lord wants you to make the decision to be baptized.”

That afternoon, I called the elders to tell them my experience and that I was ready to be baptized. The branch president, mission president, and the elders were super excited about the guidance the Lord was giving me.

My baptism was performed in the Los Llanos Branch, by my son. I was super excited that his first baptism before leaving for his mission was mine.

6. Soon after arriving home from World War II, I had “promises to keep” (Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” in The Poetry of Robert Frost, ed. Edward Connery Lathem [1969], 225)—meaning going on a mission now. I grew tired of waiting for the bishop. And in some early ark-steadying, I went to the bishop’s home and said I had saved the money and wanted to go, so let’s “get this show on the road.” The good bishop hesitated, and then said he’d been meaning to ask me about going.
Years later, I would learn from that bishop’s devoted ward clerk that the bishop had felt I needed a little more time with my family after having been away so far and for a tenth of my life. Hearing this, I chastised myself for having been too judgmental. (See Bruce C. Hafen, A Disciple’s Life: The Biography of Neal A. Maxwell [2002], 129–30.)

In closing, may I share with you a story of a woman whose life demonstrated trials, promises, and dedication to Relief Society.
Years ago, a faithful father and mother were traveling with three of their six daughters from Utah to Washington. About 13 miles out of Baker, Oregon, the car spun out of control, left the road, and rolled two and a half times. The second time it rolled over, the mother, who was driving, and her youngest daughter, who was 10 years old, were thrown from the car. Because the car did not have enough momentum to complete the third roll, it rocked back and pinned the mother and her daughter beneath its weight. The father quickly surveyed the situation and, knowing that if the car was not moved quickly his wife would die, he bowed his head in humble prayer and then proceeded to lift the huge Buick, with its wheels still spinning. The youngest daughter crawled from beneath as his 12-year-old daughter pulled her mother from beneath the car. The mother was critically injured and in terrible pain. As the father tended to the others, the 12-year-old daughter knelt beside her mother to comfort her. The mother reached for the girl’s hand and said, “Always remember who you are, and always be a good girl.”
The ambulance soon arrived, and the mother was whisked off to the nearest hospital. Amid the critical moments of that evening as the mother teetered between life and death, she pled with her Father in Heaven to spare her life long enough to see her six daughters married to worthy men in the house of the Lord. She promised that if He would grant her this righteous desire, she would then be ready to go, and she would dedicate her life to Him.
Miraculously, the woman steadily progressed over the days and weeks that followed until she fully recovered from her near-fatal injuries. More committed than ever, she faithfully served the Lord and focused her attention on raising her six daughters in righteousness.
Years later, while serving as the stake Relief Society president in Clearfield, Utah, she saw her youngest daughter married for time and all eternity. That day was the fulfillment of a sacred covenant between a beloved daughter of God and her loving Heavenly Father. The woman, her husband, their six daughters, and their eternal companions stood together in the house of the Lord. Her earnest plea from a hospital bed years before had been heard and fulfilled.
From that day forward, the woman’s health quickly declined under the ravages of cancer. Her condition worsened to the point that she could no longer continue in her calling as stake Relief Society president. As a result, she reluctantly accepted a release just weeks before she serenely and gratefully passed into the eternities, returning to a Heavenly Father who was mindful of her.
Sisters, that 12-year-old girl who knelt at the roadside beside her mother so many years ago, stands before you as a witness that:
“Your every need shall be fulfilled, now, and in the eternities; every neglect will be erased; every abuse will be corrected. All of this can come to you, and come quickly, when you devote yourself to Relief Society.”

In 1993 Hannah had an experience that was not about the past but the eternal future. She was sealed to her parents in the London Temple. A friend of the family made her a beautiful white dress for the occasion. The night before the sealing, the family stayed in a room overlooking the temple. “We didn’t get much sleep that night,” Hannah’s mother recalls. “Hannah kept waking up every hour to make sure that the temple was still there. ‘Oh, it’s so beautiful!’ she kept saying. After we had been sealed the next day, she said, ‘I love it. I want to come back.’ She didn’t think that it was fair that we could keep going to the temple but she would have to wait until she was ‘really old’ at twelve to do baptisms for the dead.”
“I liked the cafeteria and the sealing rooms,” Hannah says. “The sealing rooms had mirrors on both sides, and we could see our family going on forever.”

Then the Lord sent us a family of new converts—an active father and mother with three children—who moved into the area. This gave us another child for Primary and two teenagers to add to the MIA. It also gave me a counselor (I was Relief Society president), and Ben now had a counselor to assist him. The new family’s sixteen-year-old son was unresponsive to the gospel message and hadn’t been baptized, but the young elders worked with him and soon he, too, joined the Church. Then we had a priest to bless the sacrament.