Gospel Story Finder

A month into meeting with the missionaries, they invited me to be baptized. I didn’t want to turn them down, but I was hesitant to leave the tradition of my parents and everyone around me. There were two paths before me, and I knew there was only one way to know which one to take—I had to pray like Joseph Smith. I asked Heavenly Father, in the name of Jesus Christ, if the things the missionaries had been teaching me were true.
That was my turning point. From then on, I knew for myself that the restored gospel is true. No one could take that knowledge away from me. I knew which path to follow, and nothing could change that.

“But, Mom! I don’t want to go!” There was no way she’d ever convince me. “Can you imagine what three days without showers or my cell phone will do to me? I’ll die!”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” My mother dismissed my worries like they were nothing. “It’ll be a good experience for you.” That was the end of it; my fate had been decided. I moaned and groaned for an entire month, but that didn’t change anything. I still had to go on pioneer trek with the youth in my ward.
We were scheduled for three days of wandering through what seemed a Wyoming wasteland, with only the “bare necessities” packed into a one-gallon paint bucket. I couldn’t believe other people were excited to go on a trip like this. I tried every loophole I could find to get out of going. All I got was a lecture on the “importance of my ancestors and understanding how they lived.” Personally, I appreciated the pioneers. I really did. But why did that mean going on trek? Couldn’t I appreciate them from the comfort of my own home?
The last week in June found me awake at four in the morning to help load the cars and drive across endless miles of desert for six hours into the Wyoming wilderness to reenact part of the early pioneers’ migration westward. Grumbling, I took my gallon bucket and sat sullenly with my other muttering friends.
Our leaders cheerily greeted us with a smile and handed everyone pieces of paper. Looking down, I saw a mournful face in a very bad, very old photograph on a paper. Next to the small picture was the story of Bodil Mortinsen. She had traveled with the Willie Handcart Company in October of 1856. I had been assigned Bodil’s name. I folded up Bodil’s biography and stuck it in my pocket.
“The handcarts are here!” someone called out. “Everybody get your buckets!”
I lifted my bucket into a handcart and waited for more instructions. I lost count of the number of times we were lectured on leaving the snakes alone. The phrase “DON’T GO OFF THE TRAIL” was engraved into our brains over and over again.
“And … ,” the voice of our tour guide wavered in the hot afternoon sun, “please remember why you’re here.” What could he mean by that? I knew why I was here. I was here because my parents had told me to come here. I was here because the pioneers had traveled this exact same road and apparently I had to too. I reached into my pocket and felt Bodil Mortinsen still there, limp from hours in the heat from my jeans.
“Off we go!” Brother Boulter called. He took hold of the first handcart, and moving with the methodical lethargy of a herd of cattle, the procession of teenage pioneers set off.
Nearly 48 hours later, I pushed my handcart from behind, completely exhausted. The sun hung high in the desert afternoon. It pulsed on my back, and I felt sweat trickling down my face. I felt the gritty texture of dirt mixed with the salty-sweet taste of sweat in my mouth but, surprisingly enough, didn’t complain. Suddenly, the caravan halted, and I wearily looked up. Brother Boulter had stopped at the opening of Martin’s Cove.
“We’re leaving the carts here,” he called out in a strained, hoarse voice. “Just bring your canteens and follow me.” We were led up a steep hill and came to several benches set up at the top of the mound. Gratefully, we dropped down and rested in the scorching midday sun.
“You are here,” Brother Boulter stated after a small pause, “to gain an understanding of what your ancestors went through. The Martin Handcart Company passed through this cove over 100 years ago. They suffered frostbite and scurvy and even gave their lives so that you could live in a better place. We are so proud that you have come with such a great attitude.” My friends and I exchanged sheepish looks. “You all have around half an hour to walk through the cove and see where the Martin Company took refuge from the blizzard that killed 50 people.”
A quiet stillness overtook us as we meandered along the trail. I imagined the pioneers a century ago trying to take shelter beneath their handcarts. I tried to imagine the feeling of freezing out here in the Wyoming wilderness, and my fingers became cold in the summer sun as I felt a nearness to my ancestors. Walking out of the cove, we took up our handcarts again. The story of Bodil Mortinsen was still in my pocket, growing steadily more limp.
We returned to Rocky Ridge. Here, the Willie Handcart Company had suffered a similar fate to that of the Martin Handcart Company until the rescue party from Salt Lake City found them. This time, the air hung heavy with rain, and we could smell the distant scent of wet sagebrush and sand.
Rocky Ridge was a small gully nestled between two grassy hills and cut in the middle by a quiet brook. A large boulder stood next to the trail with one word carved into it: “REMEMBER.”
“There,” Brother Boulter said, again at the front of our group and motioning to a point ahead of us, “is where the Willie Company buried their dead.”
Glancing up the trail, I saw two piles of rocks waiting at the crest of the hill. These graves were little more than two plots marked by jagged stones over their tops. The graves had been poorly dug, as it was wintertime when the Willie Company was here. The ground had been too frozen to make deep graves, and the pioneers had covered them with rocks to keep the dozen bodies from being destroyed by wild animals.
We stood there in silence. Suddenly, I realized that I had not read Bodil Mortinsen’s story. I carefully pulled out the wilted paper and looked again at the mournful black-and-white face. I read her story. I stood where she had stood and envisioned her grieving over a lost parent or brother or friend. At the bottom of the page, I read:
“Two of those buried at Rock Creek Hollow were heroic children of tender years: Bodil Mortinsen, age nine, from Denmark, and James Kirkwood, age eleven, from Scotland.
“Bodil apparently was assigned to care for some small children as they crossed Rocky Ridge. When they arrived at camp, she must have been sent to gather firewood. She was found frozen to death leaning against the wheel of their handcart, clutching sagebrush” (President James E. Faust [1920–2007], Second Counselor in the First Presidency, “A Priceless Heritage,” Ensign, Nov. 1992, 84–85).
I had imagined Bodil standing here, perhaps mourning the loss of a family member. Now I realized that she hadn’t stood here at all. She was buried here. Tears pricked at my eyes. A nine-year-old girl was buried here, and her family had been required to leave and move on. They walked and walked until they reached the Salt Lake Valley. After starving, freezing, and suffering, they had not been afraid to continue on. If they could keep walking, surely I could too.
These pioneers had been real people. Old men, young men, widows, mothers, young girls just like me. They had suffered and traveled away from everything they knew to live in a better place. I lived in that place. I had lived in a good place all of my life because of my pioneer ancestors. They were not just people who lived a long time ago, and I was not here just to see what they had done. They were my people, and I was here, standing in front of the graves at Rocky Ridge, to get to know them.
I went home after that adventure with a newfound respect and appreciation for my heritage. I can’t ever forget how it felt to stand at those graves. The boulder said “REMEMBER,” and I will forevermore.

Let me close with one last, lengthy lesson on perseverance.

On 28 July 1847, four days after his arrival in that valley, Brigham Young stood upon the spot where now rises the magnificent Salt Lake Temple and exclaimed to his companions: “Here [we will build] the Temple of our God!” (James H. Anderson, “The Salt Lake Temple,” Contributor [The Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations of Zion], no. 6, April 1893, p. 243).

Its grounds would cover an eighth of a square mile, and it would be built to stand through eternity. Who cares about the money or stone or timber or glass or gold they don’t have? So what that seeds are not even planted and the Saints are yet without homes? Why worry that crickets will soon be coming—and so will the United States Army?

They just marched forth and broke ground for the most massive, permanent, inspiring edifice they could conceive. And they would spend forty years of their lives trying to complete it.

The work seemed ill-fated from the start. The excavation for the basement required trenches twenty feet wide and sixteen feet deep, much of it through solid gravel. Just digging for the foundation alone required nine thousand man days of labor. Surely someone must have said, “A temple would be fine, but do we really need one this big?” But they kept on digging. Maybe they believed they were “laying the foundation of a great work.” In any case they worked on, “not weary in well-doing.”

And through it all Brigham Young had dreamed the dream and seen the vision. With the excavation complete and the cornerstone ceremony concluded, he said to the Saints assembled:

I do not like to prophesy much, . . . But I will venture to guess that this day, and the work we have performed on it, will long be remembered by this people, and be sounded as with a trumpet’s voice throughout the world. . . . Five years ago last July I was here, and saw in the spirit the Temple. [I stood] not ten feet from where we have laid the chief corner stone. I have not inquired what kind of a temple we should build. Why? Because it was [fully] represented before me. [Anderson, Contributor, p. 257–58]

But as Brigham Young also said, “We never began to build [any] temple without the bells of hell beginning to ring” (J.A. Widtsoe [ed.], Discourses of Brigham Young [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1973], p. 410). No sooner was the foundation work finished than Albert Sidney Johnston and his United States troops set out for the Salt Lake Valley intent on war with “the Mormons.” In response President Young made elaborate plans to evacuate and, if necessary, destroy the entire city behind them. But what to do about the temple whose massive excavation was already completed and its 8’ x 16’ foundational walls firmly in place? They did the only thing they could do—they filled it all back in again. Every shovelful. All that soil and gravel that had been so painstakingly removed with those nine thousand man days of labor was filled back in. When they finished, those acres looked like nothing more interesting than a field that had been plowed up and left unplanted.

When the Utah War threat had been removed, the Saints returned to their homes and painfully worked again at uncovering the foundation and removing the material from the excavated basement structure.

But then the apparent masochism of all this seemed most evident when not adobes or sandstone but massive granite boulders were selected for the basic construction material. And they were twenty miles away in Little Cottonwood Canyon. Furthermore the precise design and dimensions of every one of the thousands of stones to be used in that massive structure had to be marked out individually in the architect’s office and shaped accordingly. This was a suffocatingly slow process. Just to put one layer of the six hundred hand-sketched, individually squared, and precisely cut stones around the building took nearly three years. That progress was so slow that virtually no one walking by the temple block could ever see any progress at all.

And, of course, getting the stone from mountain to city center was a nightmare. A canal on which to convey the stone was begun and a great deal of labor and money expended on it, but it was finally aborted. Other means were tried, but oxen proved to be the only viable means of transportation. In the 1860s and ’70s always four and often six oxen in a team could be seen almost any working day of the year, toiling and tugging and struggling to pull from the quarry one monstrous block of granite, or at most two of medium size.

During that time, as if the United States Army hadn’t been enough, the Saints had plenty of other interruptions. The arrival of the railroad pulled almost all of the working force off the temple for nearly three years, and twice grasshopper invasions sent the workers into full-time summer combat with the pests. By mid-1871, fully two decades and untold misery after it had begun, the walls of the temple were barely visible above ground. Far more visible was the teamster’s route from Cottonwood, strewn with the wreckage of wagons—and dreams—unable to bear the load placed on them. The journals and histories of these teamsters are filled with accounts of broken axles, mud-mired animals, shattered sprockets, and shattered hopes. I do not have any evidence that these men swore, but surely they might have been seen turning a rather steely eye toward heaven. But they believed and kept pulling. And through all of this President Young seemed in no hurry. “The Temple will be built as soon as we are prepared to use it,” he said (Anderson,Contributor, p. 266). Indeed his vision was so lofty and his hope so broad that right in the middle of this staggering effort requiring virtually all that the Saints could seem to bear, he announced the construction of the St. George, Manti, and Logan Temples.

“Can you accomplish the work, you Latter-day Saints of these several counties?” he asked. And then in his own inimitable way he answered:

Yes; that is a question I can answer readily. You are perfectly able to do it. The question is, have you the necessary faith? Have you sufficient of the Spirit of God in your hearts to say, yes, by the help of God our Father we will erect these buildings to his name? . . . Go to now, with your might and with your means and finish this Temple. [Anderson,Contributor, p. 267]

So they squared their shoulders and stiffened their backs and went forward with their might. But when President Brigham Young died in 1877, the temple was still scarcely twenty feet above the ground. Ten years later, his successor, President John Taylor, and the temple’s original architect, Truman O. Angell, were dead as well. The side walls were just up to the square. And now the infamous Edmunds-Tucker Act had already been passed by Congress disincorporating The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. One of the effects of this law was to put the Church into receivership, whereby the U.S. marshall under a November court order seized this temple the Saints had now spent just under forty years of their lives dreaming of, working for, and praying fervently to enjoy. To all appearances, the still unfinished but increasingly magnificent structure was to be wrested at this last hour from its rightful owners and put into the hands of aliens and enemies, the very group who had often boasted that the Latter-day Saints would never be permitted to finish the building. It seemed those boasts were certain to be fulfilled. Schemes were immediately put forward to divert the intended use of the temple in ways that would desecrate its holy purpose and mock the staggering sacrifice of the Saints who had so faithfully tried to build it.

But God was with these modern children of Israel, as he always has been and always will be. They did all they could do and left the rest in his hands. And the Red Sea parted before them, and they walked through on firm, dry ground. On 6 April 1892, the Saints as a body were nearly delirious. Now, finally, here in their own valley with their own hands they had cut out of the mountains a granite monument that was to mark, after all they had gone through, the safety of the Saints and the permanence of Christ’s true church on earth for this one last dispensation. The central symbol of all that was the completed House of their God. The streets were literally jammed with people. Forty thousand of them fought their way on to the temple grounds. Ten thousand more, unable to gain entrance, scrambled to the tops of nearby buildings in hopes that some glimpse of the activities might be had. Inside the Tabernacle President Wilford Woodruff, visibly moved by the significance of the moment, said:

If there is any scene on the face of this earth that will attract the attention of the God of heaven and the heavenly host, it is the one before us today—the assembling of this people, the shout of ‘Hosanna!’ the laying of the topstone of this Temple in honor to our God. [Anderson, Contributor, p. 270]

Then, moving outside, he laid the capstone in place exactly at high noon.

In the writing of one who was there, “The scene that followed is beyond the power of language to describe.” Lorenzo Snow, beloved President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, came forward leading 40,000 Latter-day Saints in the Hosanna shout. Every hand held a handkerchief every eye was filled with tears. One said the very “ground seemed to tremble with the volume of the sound” which echoed off the tops of the mountains. “A grander or more imposing spectacle than this ceremony of laying the Temple capstone is not recorded in history” (Anderson, Contributor, p. 273). It was finally and forever finished.

My family went to the temple 45 years ago. My parents made covenants, and then our family was sealed in the Washington D.C. Temple. I was almost 2 years old at the time, so I do not remember what happened there, but I remember many other things after. I remember watching my parents strive to live and persevere on the covenant path, making our home a piece of heaven. I watched them fulfill their Church callings and take care of their children so that we would not stray from the covenant path. I learned many of the things about being successful in my callings from my father. I watched how he ministered to the brothers, how they came to our home seeking help, and how he loved them, just as my mother did with the sisters.

Because they stayed on the covenant path and persevered, they and their family received blessings. Their three children served full-time missions, have been sealed to their families in the temple, and have seen blessings and the fruit of their efforts. Although it takes a little work, the rewards of living on the covenant path can be seen, as it happened with the inhabitants of ancient America who “taught, and did minister one to another; and they had all things common among them, every man dealing justly, one with another.”

Some years before he was called as an Apostle himself, Elder Robert D. Hales recounted an experience that demonstrated his father’s sense of that holy calling. Elder Hales said:

Some years ago Father, then over eighty years of age, was expecting a visit from a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles on a snowy winter day. Father, an artist, had painted a picture of the home of the Apostle. Rather than have the painting delivered to him, this sweet Apostle wanted to go personally to pick the painting up and thank my father for it. Knowing that Father would be concerned that everything was in readiness for the forthcoming visit, I dropped by his home. Because of the depth of the snow, snowplows had caused a snowbank in front of the walkway to the front door. Father had shoveled the walks and then labored to remove the snowbank. He returned to the house exhausted and in pain. When I arrived, he was experiencing heart pain from overexertion and stressful anxiety. My first concern was to warn him of his unwise physical efforts. Didn’t he know what the result of his labor would be?

“Robert,” he said through interrupted short breaths, “do you realize an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ is coming to my home? The walks must be clean. He should not have to come through a snowdrift.” He raised his hand, saying, “Oh, Robert, don’t ever forget or take for granted the privilege it is to know and to serve with Apostles of the Lord.”

I think it is more than coincidence that such a father would be blessed to have a son serve as an Apostle.

Illustration by Brad Teare
“Twinkle, twinkle …” Caleb’s fingers slowly moved over the piano keys as he searched for the next note. He’d only been taking lessons for a few weeks, and playing the piano was harder than it looked. This one, he thought as he pressed a white key. Wrong! He frowned and hunched over the piano as he tried again. Oh, this one, he thought, pressing another key. Right!
“That song is challenging,” said Mrs. Lee, his piano teacher, when he finished playing. “But it sounds better than it did last week! I can tell you’ve been practicing really hard. I think you deserve a trip to the treasure chest.”
The treasure chest! Caleb’s eyes turned to the big golden box in the corner of the room. It glittered with sparkly jewels and was filled with granola bars, pads of yellow paper, stickers, candy, and other fun prizes. This would be Caleb’s first trip to the treasure chest.
As Mrs. Lee started to teach her next student, Caleb searched through the treasure chest. Should he take the pad of paper, the dog stickers, or the orange gum? Then he saw it—a neon green folder. It was his favorite color, and he could use it to carry his drawings. He reached for it.
But then he saw the fruit snacks. They were strawberry, his favorite flavor. That would be a great prize too.
The folder or the fruit snacks? Caleb knew his mom would be there soon to pick him up, but he still couldn’t decide what to pick. The folder would be perfect for his drawings, but he could almost taste the fruit snacks. His hand hovered between the two prizes as he tried to make up his mind.
Then Caleb had another thought. Maybe he could take both. Mrs. Lee had so many prizes in the chest that she would never notice. It wouldn’t even be stealing, really—next time Mrs. Lee sent him to the treasure chest, he just wouldn’t take anything. That would be OK, wouldn’t it?
Caleb looked at Mrs. Lee. She was busy helping her student with his scales. Quietly Caleb slipped the fruit snacks and the folder into his bag and crept out of the room.
But Caleb didn’t feel very good. When he left Mrs. Lee’s piano room, he felt a small knot in his stomach. By the time he reached her front door, he felt like he had swallowed a bowling ball. He looked at his prizes, hoping that would help, but seeing them only made him feel worse.
Usually Caleb said a prayer when he felt bad, but he knew Heavenly Father couldn’t make him feel good about a bad choice. And taking both prizes, he knew, was a bad choice.
He looked at the prizes again. His question wasn’t Folder or fruit snacks? anymore. It was Choose the right or choose the wrong? Caleb knew what he had to do.
Honk! That must be Mom. He opened the door and waved. “Just a minute!” he called. He took out the green folder and started back to Mrs. Lee’s piano room. Apologizing wouldn’t be easy, and he still wanted the green folder, but already he felt more peaceful. Honesty turned out to be the best prize of all.

My first encounter with preaching the gospel was also exciting. In a park near my office in Bogotá, I saw a multitude, and since I had some time, I went down to see what was happening. My surprise was great when I saw the missionaries with displays about the Church and with copies of the Book of Mormon. They recognized me and asked me to stand in the middle of the park with a banner saying, “Be happy; be a Mormon.” I stood for a while in that place. I was a Mormon, but at that moment I was not so happy! But I started to feel better about my ability as a missionary, losing my fear to talk with people about the Church. I let go of my own restrictions—so many “don’ts”—and realized that this is the Church of love and service, of sacrifice and blessings, of happiness and eternal life. My message to the missionaries, to the people that are investigating the Church at this time, and to the members is, “Don’t give up; continue looking for the best results in this wonderful work.”

My mother taught me the gospel when I was young, but because my father was not a Church member, I always wondered if I was on the correct path. I never understood why my father had never joined the Church if it really was true. Still, I loved going to Primary and singing the hymns. I also enjoyed when my mother read the scriptures to me, and little by little I began to develop my own testimony.
When I joined Young Women, one of the first goals I made was to share my testimony every fast Sunday. Bearing my testimony became a habit for me and strengthened my desire to increase my knowledge when I was able to enroll in seminary.
My first seminary class covered the Old Testament. That year I not only grew to appreciate and value the Old Testament, but I also learned the importance of temples and family history.
I joined together with other students from my ward and got involved in family history work. We indexed hundreds of names and developed an enormous love for people we knew almost nothing about—just their names and other limited data. Even though I knew that the work we were doing was important, I sometimes felt discouraged and frustrated. I was working so that ordinances could be done for people I did not know, yet I could not reach my own father. He did not understand the importance of what I was doing. I continued praying and fasting that he would be touched.
The following year in seminary we studied the New Testament. One morning after I woke up, I began to read about the Savior in Gethsemane. Tears flowed from my eyes as I realized that the drops of blood He shed were for me. How I wished I had never sinned! The words of Isaiah that I had studied the previous year came into my mind: “He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him” (Isaiah 53:5). As I read about the Crucifixion and the Resurrection, my mom came into my room. I shared with her my feelings, my testimony, and my desire for my father to know what I had learned in seminary.
My testimony continued to grow the next year as we read the Doctrine and Covenants. I obtained a testimony that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I also decided to follow his example and ask God if the Church is true. Although I already had conviction in my heart, one afternoon I found myself alone and sincerely prayed. As I did, I realized that the testimony I was asking for had been developing as I studied the scriptures and attended seminary.
The Lord opened my mind and my heart that year, and I understood the Doctrine and Covenants as I never had before. I also learned of the great value of souls (see D&C 18:10–16) and began to share my growing testimony with those who did not know about the gospel, including my father.
I knew that studying the Book of Mormon during my final year of seminary would also fortify my testimony. As I truly studied, I felt Heavenly Father’s love for me. The stories inspired me to the point that all I wanted to do was read the Book of Mormon. I began to take the Book of Mormon to school and would read it during my free time. I also began to discuss what I was reading with my father.
One day after a long conversation with my father about the gospel, I challenged him to read all of the Book of Mormon. I testified that, like me, he could receive a testimony.
I am happy to say that my father read the Book of Mormon. When he did, he knew the Church is true and was eventually baptized! My family is now preparing to be sealed in the temple. I know that attending seminary and reading the scriptures helped me develop my own testimony, and I know that they bless families.

October 9, 1846—Sugar CreekA miracle in camp today. We have been living on parched and boiled corn, and drinking muddy river water. Many are ill and all are hungry, but today, flocks of quail suddenly flew into camp, falling on wagons and tables. My brothers were able to catch many in their hands! We had a feast. God has not forgotten us. Our rescuers taught us a new song written by Brother Clayton. The song reflects well how I feel today: “All is well!”

We all need to know what it means to be honest. Honesty is more than not lying. It is truth telling, truth speaking, truth living, and truth loving. John, a nine-year-old Swiss pioneer child who was in one of the handcart companies, is an example of honesty. His father put a chunk of buffalo meat in the handcart and said it was to be saved for Sunday dinner. John said, “I was so very hungry and the meat smelled so good to me while pushing at the handcart that I could not resist. I had a little pocket knife. … Although I expected a severe whipping when father found it out, I cut off little pieces each day. I would chew them so long that they got white and perfectly tasteless. When father came to get the meat he asked me if I had been cutting off some of it. I said ‘Yes. I was so hungry I could not let it alone.’ Instead of giving me a scolding or whipping, father turned away and wiped tears from his eyes.” …
Honesty is a moral compass to guide us in our lives. … I would like to tell you a story of an excellent athlete—a young man with superb character. He never went to the Olympics, but he stands as tall as any Olympian because he was honest with himself and with his God.
The account is told by a coach in a junior high school. He states:
“Today was test day in climbing the rope. We climb from a standing start to a point 15 feet high. …
“The school record for the event is 2.1 seconds. It has stood for three years. Today this record was broken. …
“For three years Bobby Polacio, a 14 1/2-year-old ninth grade … boy, [trained and worked, consumed by his dream] of breaking this record.
“In his first of three attempts, Bobby climbed the rope in 2.1 seconds, tying the record. On the second try the watch stopped at 2.0 seconds flat, a record! But as he descended the rope and the entire class gathered around to check the watch, I knew I must ask Bobby a question. There was a slight doubt in my mind whether or not the board at the 15 foot height had been touched. If he missed, it was so very, very close—not more than a fraction of an inch—and only Bobby knew this answer.
“As he walked toward me, expressionless, I said, ‘Bobby, did you touch?’ If he had said, ‘Yes,’ the record he had dreamed of since he was a skinny seventh-grader and had worked for almost daily would be his, and he knew I would trust his word.
“With the class already cheering him for his performance, the slim, brown-skinned boy shook his head negatively. And in this simple gesture, I witnessed a moment of greatness. …
“… And it was with effort through a tight throat that I told the class: ‘This boy has not set a record in the rope climb. No, he has set a much finer record for you and everyone to strive for. He has told the truth.’
“I turned to Bobby and said, ‘Bobby, I’m proud of you. You’ve just set a record many athletes never attain. Now, in your last try I want you to jump a few inches higher on the takeoff.’ …
“After the other boys had finished their next turns, and Bobby came up … for his try, a strange stillness came over the gymnasium. Fifty boys and one coach [watched] breathlessly [as] Bobby Polacio … climbed the rope in 1.9 seconds! A school record, a city record, and perhaps close to a national record for a junior high school boy.
“When the bell rang and I walked away, … I was thinking: ‘Bobby, … at 14 you are a better man than I. Thank you for climbing so very, very high today.’”
All of us can climb high when we honor every form of truth.

My first Sunday home, I was lying on my bed and realized I hadn’t looked at Facebook since coming home. I opened it and was overwhelmed by the nostalgia of pictures and videos from before my mission. I love to dance and had started watching some dance videos when I heard my mom call up to my room, “Breanne! What are you listening to?”
I listened more closely and realized how inappropriate the background music was. I was pretty embarrassed that here I was—a freshly returned missionary—listening to music that wasn’t inviting the Spirit.
That experience helped me realize how easy it is to become more relaxed in how much we maintain our gospel standards when we aren’t full-time missionaries. I wanted to stay changed. I wanted to remain the person God had helped me become. Luckily, I recognized that, for me, what I was listening to wasn’t bringing the Spirit and was able to adjust.

Ami lives in Okinawa, Japan. Because of COVID-19, lots of people there had trouble getting food. So Ami’s ward planned a food drive. She really wanted to help!
They all met at the Church building. They were careful as they worked. Ami wore a mask.
Ami put cardboard boxes together. When the boxes were full of food, she closed them so they could be taped shut. Ami kept thinking of how Jesus fed people with loaves and fishes. She was glad to help give food to hungry people like He did.
Ami followed Jesus by helping people who were hungry. Turn the page to read a story about how Jesus helped others.

“We explained at a fireside what we planned to do at the conference,” Jacie said. “We told them we were going to work and work hard, but we explained how they could help and how much good it would do for the farm.”

Evidently the appeal was convincing. “This is the biggest turnout we’ve ever had for a youth conference,” Jacie said. And Gary, who served on the steering committee with her, noted that more than 500 attended an activity originally planned for 300. “At first we were afraid people would be turned off by the idea of working, but it turned out to be one of the best ideas ever.”

Another brother, Craig (7), is known as a hero at the local elementary school because he donated half his birthday money to a fund-raising activity for victims in New York and Washington, D.C. Craig was also a hero in preschool when he had the courage to invite his teacher to the open house of the Louisville Kentucky Temple (Louisville is just across the river from Jeffersonville). Both the teacher and her husband attended. “She said it was beautiful,” Craig remembers.

May I comment briefly on one other point in President Hinckley’s talk: He encouraged the students in 1985 to save, protect, and preserve the facilities on this campus. I believe his counsel continues to be heeded by many of you students today. Let me relate a recent experience.

I was walking toward the Wilkinson Student Center last summer. A group of visitors had finished eating lunch, but not all of their garbage had been properly disposed of. A pile of trash was conspicuously in the patio area and needed to be removed. As I reached down to grab an armful of boxes, I noticed a BYU coed next to me picking up the rest of the boxes. She looked at me and said with a smile, “Some of our visitors don’t appreciate what it takes to keep this campus clean.” I think her mother and bishop would be pleased with the kind of student she had become. Her actions showed the gratitude and appreciation she had for the tithing funds allocated to BYU.

To illustrate this, here are two stories of young men in different centuries who answered a call from a prophet. The first happened in 1856. Most of you have heard this story about the last of the handcart companies coming west. The Martin and Willie group was in desperate trouble because of a late start and an early winter. President Brigham Young put out a call in general conference for men to gather their wagons, supplies, and teams and go and rescue these people. As part of those that left, three young men, all 18 years old, answered the call.

Three eighteen-year-old boys belonging to the relief party came to the rescue and to the astonishment of all who saw, carried nearly every member of that ill-fated handcart company across the snowbound stream. The strain was so terrible, and the exposure so great, that in later years all the boys died from the effects of it. When President Brigham Young heard of this heroic act, he wept like a child, and later declared publicly, “That act alone will ensure C. Allen Huntington, George W. Grant and David P. Kimball an everlasting salvation in the Celestial Kingdom of God, worlds without end.”

Many years ago, my family happily awaited the birth of our son, Randolph “Ray” Gibson. But a routine ultrasound produced a sledgehammer to our hearts.

Ray was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome (HLHS), which is a condition where the left side of the heart does not develop properly. Blood cannot circulate for the heart to function, and it is often fatal for the infant.

As our family processed this diagnosis, our friends and family offered prayers for us, family fasts, and outpourings of love and concern. We remained hopeful. Nevertheless, a follow-up test brought more discouraging news: Ray’s HLHS was extremely severe.

Compassionate medical professionals discussed our options with us. To terminate the pregnancy was not a decision we would consider. But we had to balance a wish for our son to live—however faint the odds—against pain he would suffer from attempts to repair his heart. Efforts to keep Ray alive would likely lead to a lifetime of suffering and to death at a very young age.

My wife, Kati, and I prayerfully made a very hard decision. We would greet our son into this world, keep him comfortable, and allow him to die peacefully. Our commitment to the gospel of Jesus Christ and our belief in the plan of salvation helped us make this choice. It was not easy watching our son grow in the womb, knowing his death would occur after birth. We also worried how our two-year-old would deal with meeting a baby brother and then attending his funeral a week later.

We were strengthened by the Lord’s declaration that “little children are holy, being sanctified through the atonement of Jesus Christ” (Doctrine and Covenants 74:7).

Kati and I can attest that the year in which we awaited Ray’s arrival helped us understand the true meaning of a husband and wife cleaving to each other (see Genesis 2:24 and Doctrine and Covenants 42:22). We clung to one another, allowing our love and trust to help us endure. We poured our hearts out to God, asking for strength to go on and to bless our family through this ordeal. Our marriage grew stronger.

Before Ray was born, we found out he was breech. The doctors worried that he would not survive the strain of normal birth, so they performed a C-section delivery. Minutes after the birth, I, along with my bishop and several others, gave Ray a priesthood blessing outside the operating room. During this chaotic, traumatic situation, I uttered several sentences and finished “in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Ray was then washed, bundled, and taken to his family in the hospital room.

Ray lived for 24 hours and 16 minutes. Family and friends filled the hospital room during the day, holding Ray and loving him. It was a surreal experience—the only day we would have with our son. I treasured holding him, kissing him, and changing his diapers.

The next morning our son died. We held him and loved him fiercely in his final hour.

A girl’s journal is often a record of her dreams, and Annapurna Guru’s journal held her most cherished desire. “Someday,” she wrote, “I will go to the temple.”
Annapurna was not a member of the Church when she wrote these words. Raised in Hyderabad, India, she had learned something about Christianity as a child in a Catholic school. Then, in 1992, her older brother met Latter-day Saint missionaries and was baptized. Annapurna was 14 when her brother, Murthy, gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon. “Once I read it,” she recalls, “I felt it was true.”
Annapurna found in the gospel answers to her most troubling questions, especially her worry about what happens after death. But just as surely as she knew the gospel to be true, she knew something else: Her parents would not allow her to be baptized in a Christian church.
During her remaining teenage years, Annapurna lived her new faith quietly. She read the Book of Mormon and the Bible. She prayed. She learned all she could. And she began to form in her mind a beautiful dream: Someday she would marry a Latter-day Saint. Someday she would go to the temple. And someday she would give her children the precious gift she lacked: membership in the Lord’s Church.
By the time Annapurna graduated from college at age 20, her parents had begun planning a traditional arranged marriage for their beloved daughter. But Annapurna never considered her dreams to be unattainable because she felt that they were not hers alone. “I had big dreams,” she says, “but actually God had His own plans for me.”
When Annapurna was 21, those divine plans started to become reality—miracle by miracle. First, she met Santosh Murala, a faithful Latter-day Saint visiting his family in Hyderabad. A medical student, Santosh was doing a surgical residency in Chandigarh, two days away by train. When they met, Annapurna and Santosh talked for half an hour. After that brief conversation, Santosh called his friend Neil Twitchell, who was then serving as India Bangalore Mission president, and confided, “She’s gold!” Santosh felt quite clearly that this was the woman he had been looking for. Annapurna felt that Santosh—the first Latter-day Saint young man she had ever met—was the man she had been praying to find.
The two exchanged a few letters, confirming their feelings. Several months later they married. Understandably, Annapurna’s family was upset at first, as was Santosh’s. But Annapurna was legally old enough to marry a man of her choosing.
Annapurna viewed this situation through the eyes of faith. “If I had married to please my parents and other people,” she says, “then my children might never have known about the Church and the whole responsibility for that would have been on my head. This one step has changed life for me and my posterity. For this life my parents may be upset with me, but for eternity they will be happy and proud of me.” In fact, Annapurna’s parents are already more accepting of her marriage. They like Santosh and even get together socially with Santosh’s parents.
Map by Randall J. Pixton
The next part of Annapurna’s dream came true when at last she was baptized. There was no branch in Chandigarh, so the Muralas made the five-hour journey to New Delhi for the baptism. Ironically, now that Annapurna was free to go to church, the nearest branch was far away. “Before I was baptized, the church was very near my house, just on the corner at the end of the road, and I didn’t have the opportunity to go,” she says. “Now the church was five hours away, so we could go only once a month.” Then Annapurna became pregnant, and the five-hour trip was too taxing for her.
But then came another miracle, in the form of two Latter-day Saint families. “God takes care of you,” explains Santosh. A British couple, Brother and Sister Beer, came to Chandigarh, where Brother Beer worked in highway construction. Sister Beer taught institute classes to the Muralas, and the Beers held family home evening with the Muralas every week. A Korean family, the Moons, also moved to Chandigarh, where Brother Moon worked for a construction company. Every Sunday for two years, this little group of Latter-day Saints met at the Moons’ home for sacrament meeting. Shortly after Santosh finished his residency in Chandigarh, the Beers and the Moons moved away too.
In New Delhi, where Santosh is receiving specialized training in heart surgery, there are two branches of the Church. Now Annapurna’s knowledge about the Church is catching up with her knowledge of the gospel. She has learned how to sing hymns and conduct meetings.
On 19 June 2001—Annapurna’s 24th birthday—her girlhood dream of temple marriage came true. The Muralas traveled to the Hong Kong China Temple when their first baby, Neil, was not quite two. During the five full days they spent serving in the temple, the most sacred and wonderful moment came when they were sealed to each other and to their son.
Today the Muralas’ lives are full to overflowing. Annapurna serves as Primary president and Santosh as president of the New Delhi First Branch. Santosh also spends about 100 hours a week at the hospital, working 18- and 36-hour shifts. In order to have Sundays free for Church responsibilities, he works on holidays. So Annapurna spends most of her time caring for their two young children and supporting her husband in his heavy responsibilities.
And she continues to dream. She dreams of sharing the gospel with her parents. She dreams of the day when her own and others’ children—the first generation of children in India to have Primary, seminary, and Young Men and Young Women—will be strong leaders of the Church. She dreams of the time when her children will serve missions. She dreams of the time when they too will go to the temple. And she even dares to dream that that temple might be in India.

My wife, Brittney, and I began purchasing food storage early in our marriage. In the first months after our wedding, we bought a few storable items each time we went grocery shopping. By adding a little bit at a time, we accumulated a useful store of food. We didn’t know when we would need to use it, but we knew it was important.
A year into our marriage, we moved across the country for graduate school, and we brought our food storage with us. Financially, things were difficult. We had used all of our savings to secure housing, and Brittney received no income as a student teacher. We relied on my graduate school assistantship to pay the bills, but it didn’t go far.
Our finances took another turn for the worse the second night in our new home. Brittney woke up with severe stomach pain, and when it didn’t subside after several hours, we went to the hospital. She had her appendix removed later that day.
After she recovered, we sat down to budget our money. As we calculated the next four months’ bills—which included the emergency surgery—we discovered we could still get by without going into debt. In order to do so, however, we could spend no more than $25 each month on groceries. That was about one-fourth of what we were used to spending.
The food storage we had accumulated over the past year became invaluable. It was enough to cover our basic needs for four months, and we used the budgeted $25 to buy milk and other perishables. We didn’t eat fancy food, but we didn’t go hungry.
As we lived frugally and served others willingly, we received added blessings. One of my fellow students finished his degree and asked us to help his family move. While we were helping, he asked if we would like to take the food left in their freezer. Because of his kindness, we now had meat to supplement our food storage.
The Lord blessed us as we prepared food storage, paid our tithing, and showed willingness to serve. We made it through those months without borrowing any money. After that semester, my wife found a full-time job, and we could afford to spend more money on groceries. We built up our food storage again, and we continue to be blessed as we obey the Lord’s commandments.

Less than a year after returning home, the Bollbachs locked up their house and workshop a third time to serve in the Germany Munich Mission, where Brother Bollbach was called to be branch president in Nürnberg. Although the branch had more than 450 people on its records, only about 20 members attended regularly.
The Bollbachs knew they had challenges, but they also knew how to overcome them. With faith, prayer, obedience, and diligence, they concentrated on visiting less-active members. “A miracle happened,” Brother Bollbach exclaims. “The branch grew. Several months later, the branch was divided into three branches—Feucht, Fürth, and Nürnberg. I know it was the blessing and help of God. We were just the instruments in his hands.”