Gospel Story Finder

Two years ago we were asked to live in Hong Kong, known for its tall buildings. Our apartment building was dwarfed by much taller buildings around it. So, I was prepared to live in the shadows. Imagine my delight to wake up and see the rays of the morning sun shining through our windows. This simple experience filled my soul with immense joy and gratitude.
When I finally got my bearings, I was so confused. Our windows were not facing east. How did we ever get the morning sun? Upon further investigation, I learned that the sun’s rays were being reflected into our apartment by the tall building in front of us. I was reminded that when we strive to follow the Savior, He will use us to bless others. Through our example and service to others, they will feel the Savior’s love for them.

The spicy aroma of teriyaki chicken greeted the members of the Healdsburg Ward, Santa Rosa California Stake, and their nonmember friends as they entered the cultural hall. The promise of a delicious dinner was fulfilled, followed by a song-and-dance program presented by 26 members of the ward who called themselves the “Healdsburg Kids.” It was a missionary dinner where any family who brought a nonmember was invited to eat for free.
“Everyone was pleased with the results of their efforts and were relieved when it was over!” said Elder Brent Mortensen, who was a member of the “Healdsburg Kids” and is currently serving a mission in Montana. “We didn’t realize at the time that it was really the beginning of an even greater missionary activity.”
Shortly after the dinner, Sister Kaye Davis suggested that the ward present its dinner show at the recently completed Historical Society Museum in Healdsburg. The members of the Church would decorate, provide the food and entertainment, cook, serve, and clean up, with all proceeds going to the museum.
The Society, after being assured that all they would have to do would be sell tickets, accepted the offer. The “Healdsburg Kids,” who had begun performing together five years before with seven members, eagerly accepted the challenge of three rehearsals a week for the next month. A special fast was held, and concluded with prayer, followed by a cast dinner and another rehearsal. The night of the dinner arrived, and the cast was excited! “We wanted to show the non-Mormons what the Church does for the youth, that it is a family-centered Church,” said Elder Mortensen.
Highlights of the evening included “An American Trilogy” (a medley comprised of old-time favorites) and a medley called “America’s Music Through the Years.” The program concluded with “Love at Home.” “We could feel the Spirit of the Lord,” said Elder Mortensen.
“It was a big job to prepare, both physically and spiritually, but it was fun and well-worth the effort! The seventies have been able to teach several people who first became interested in the Church after seeing the program. We discovered that a small ward can have success in missionary work. At one time all the wards in the Church were small. The Church is true in all parts of the world, and it’s our responsibility to make sure our neighbors know about it!” he added.

I suppose there are some things in life that we would never get used to. I am reminded of an experience that happened many years ago while I was a young missionary. Between the north and south islands of New Zealand is a very rough body of water known as Cook Strait. Out in this rough water are many small and beautiful islands. On D‘Urville Island lived a large group of wonderful Maori people who were members of the Church. They were in an excellent branch of the Church and lived the gospel well. All were related to one another and were mainly professional fishermen.

President Matthew Cowley, my mission president, and I left Wellington on the steamer that sailed between the two islands. It was a rather large ship carrying up to 600 passengers. The only way for a passenger to get off the ship anywhere near D’Urville Island was to climb down a rope ladder lowered from the side of the ship at about two o’clock in the morning. This little maneuver didn’t frighten me too much until the time to perform it approached.

It was a dark night with no moon and few stars. As the ship slowed down to stop, President Cowley and I could see off in the distance a little light bobbing up and down in the water. It was a lantern held by one of the Maori men who was rowing out to pick us up. As it got closer, we could tell that the water was very rough.

Finally the boat was right under us and we could look over the railing and see them. Then we heard one of them shout for us to come down. The deck steward on the ship opened a gate in the railing and threw down the rope ladder. I looked down into the water that dark night, turned to President Cowley, and said, “You are the mission president. You go first.” He looked down that rope ladder into the darkness of the night and said, “I am the mission president. You go first.”

Fearfully, yet bravely, I started down the ladder. Never in my life had I ever climbed a rope ladder more than two or three rungs long. The first and second steps were easy because I could still feel that I was near the side of the ship. But the farther down I went, the farther the ladder hung away from the side of the ship. After I had gone down about six steps I felt very much alone and was hanging on for dear life, praying with each step.

I think that in the darkness of that night, thousands of miles away from home, I learned how to pray all over again. I was frightened, but I hung on and slowly and carefully took it one step at a time. Finally a large Maori hand grabbed me by the ankle, and a voice assured me, “You’ve made it!” I managed to get into the rowboat and put on a raincoat to keep from getting wet.

I sat down and relaxed. Then I looked up the long rope ladder to watch my wonderful mission president begin to climb down. I am sure he prayed just as hard as I did, and finally he made it into the boat. We were then with friends, feeling safe and secure. In a short while we were on dry land on D‘Urville Island. The whole branch was out to greet us in the middle of the night.

Several times while we were there, I thought of that rope ladder. I thought, That is something no one would ever get used to doing. You could never take that downward trip for granted. But doing it over and over would make it easier and possibly less frightening.

When our visit was over and it came time for us to return to the North Island it dawned on me that we needed to climb up that ladder. I discovered that a climb like that would be just as dangerous and treacherous as the climb down. This would require practically the same amount of prayer and effort.

I will never forget that one dark night in the islands of the sea. It was a most unusual and unique experience in my life.

Budgeting and financial management need not be overly complicated or time-consuming. The story is told of an immigrant father who kept his accounts payable in a shoe box, his accounts receivable on a spindle, and his cash in the cash register.

“I don’t see how you can run your business this way,” said his son. “How do you know what your profit is?”

“Son,” replied the businessman, “when I got off the boat, I had only the pants I was wearing. Today your sister is an art teacher, your brother is a doctor, and you’re an accountant. I have a car, a home, and a good business. Everything is paid for. So you add it all up, subtract the pants, and there’s my profit.”

Our family has experienced this type of challenge. My brother was recently diagnosed last year with MDS myelodysplastic syndrome, which is a type of blood cancer. My brother Wayne, like myself, was an alumni here BYUH and he too worked at the Polynesian Cultural Center in the night show and in reservations with President Grace. They looked a bit younger back then. He is the assistant rugby coach for the BYU Provo rugby team and he's very involved with a lot of the Polynesian YSA living in Utah. With his illness the marrow in his bones are unable to produce immature blood cells that mature into the essential blood cells that he needs. As a result he requires regular blood transfusions and he also undergoes regular chemotherapy treatments.

Last week my brother completed biopsy testing in preparation for a bone marrow transplant from my other brother Jayson, who is also an alumni of BYUH. Our family has a lot of love for this campus and for the Polynesian Cultural Center. I asked him what does he do to conquer the daily challenge of living with such an illness. He said firstly he is able to handle such a challenge because of his loving, supportive wife and his two beautiful daughters. In other words surrounding himself with the right people to conquer his challenge. He said he is motivated to see them progress in their lives and get married and have families of their own.This past Christmas my brother and his family visited my parents and I here in Laie. It was interesting. The whole time that he was here in Laie, he functioned so well. The moment they went back to cold Utah, he struggled. I told him that it was the Spirit of the community of Laie. Two of the highlights of his trip were getting to see my parents work in the New Zealand village at the Polynesian Cultural Center and being able to shake hands and visit for a short time with President and Sister Uchtdorf. President Uchtdorf and his wife had been made aware of Wayne’s illness and both said they would pray for him and his family.

Since returning back to Utah, Wayne received a personal letter from President Uchtdorf saying that he would write his name on the Temple prayer roll. Having that experience was just what Wayne needed to undergo his final stages of biopsy testing. My brother is also very diligent and hardworking about taking care of himself consistently by even wearing a mask when is immune system is weak even when it's not an obvious fashion statement. Another thing that Wayne said helps him with his challenge is continuous service despite his circumstances. He told me that there were other people in worse situations that him, which helped him to continue to serve in his ward, with the rugby team, and even looks for opportunities to help others. I deeply admire my brother and the steps he takes daily to conquer his “One Tree Hill”.

I experienced this firsthand when, as a young graduate student living in a large metropolitan city, I was called to serve as executive secretary in a stake with some 2,000 members from 115 countries. I expect that just about every difference that could possibly exist among disciples of Christ existed among the members of that stake. As I worshipped with and served alongside this beautifully diverse body of Saints, their examples inspired, strengthened, and taught me. My understanding, and my heart, were changed.

For example, from the long-serving immigrant bishop, whose personal poverty far exceeded many of those who came to him seeking welfare assistance, I learned to more fully “consider the lilies.” [45]

From the unassuming, but unshakable, young Aaronic Priesthood holder who came to church with bruises on his body because he refused to stop home teaching ward members that lived in the declared territory of a local street gang, I learned something more of what it means to “do well, and suffer for it,” [46] and to “care not for the body, neither the life of the body; but care for the soul, and for the life of the soul.” [47]

From the faithful single mother whose Sunday best was pocked with crayon marks and juice stains, who arrived late to church almost every week but who came to church every week, even though she knew she would most likely spend the majority of the meetings in the hallway with whichever child’s turn it was to have a total meltdown—who, despite the seeming imbalance and chaos of it all never once turned down a calling, no matter how challenging or thankless—I learned that true discipleship cannot be performative, and that every ward would be well served by a few more cheerios in the front pew cushions.

From the lonely, longing student struggling to reconcile felt physical realities with unalterable eternal truths, I learned something of the perfect work of patience [48] and witnessed the depth of compassion that flows from meek souls who succeed, as we all must do, in putting off the natural man and becoming saints through the Atonement of Christ the Lord. [49]

And it was the example of the many members from all walks of life who came to unburden themselves through confession and repentance that changed my understanding of what it means to have “clean hands and a pure heart” [50] and my perception of what it looks like to walk well the covenant path.

I don’t doubt that each of those I just mentioned wondered at some point whether they really belonged and were wanted and needed by the Lord. Their impact on me is “exhibit A” in answering those questions in the affirmative. I am a better friend, brother, husband, father, and disciple of Christ because of each of them.

If your parents are like mine were, they really care for you, almost too much it may seem at times, especially when we are young and freedom-seeking. I didn’t realize until much later that the care and sincerity that was sometimes misunderstood was an integral part of the very freedom that I thought they were depriving me of. For example, I remember well how my mother was never asleep until I had checked in, regardless of the hour. This motherly concern and instinct bothered me at times, because if I was going to be late, mother’s sleep would be delayed, and my subconscious would even suggest “She doesn’t trust you.” But how grateful I am today for that vigil into the night. I can truthfully say that there is the extreme possibility that I might be a slave to a few undesirable habits today were it not for the freedom she helped to guarantee me by “standing guard” against that first sign of the adversary in the life of a son she cared for. Thanks, Mom!

Many years ago, a young couple called my office and asked if they could come in for counseling. They indicated they had suffered a tragedy in their lives and that their marriage was in serious jeopardy. An appointment was arranged.
The tension between this husband and wife was apparent as they entered my office. Their story unfolded slowly at first as the husband spoke haltingly and the wife cried quietly and participated very little in the conversation.
The young man had returned from serving a mission and was accepted to a prestigious university in the eastern part of the United States. It was there, in a university ward, that he had met his future wife. She was also a student at the university. After a year of dating, they journeyed to Utah and were married in the Salt Lake Temple, returning east shortly afterward to finish their schooling.
By the time they graduated and returned to their home state, they were expecting their first child and the husband had employment in his chosen field. The wife gave birth to a baby boy. Life was good.
When their son was about 18 months old, they decided to take a short vacation to visit family members who lived a few hundred miles away. This was at a time when car seats for children and seat belts for adults were scarcely heard of, let alone used. The three members of the family all rode in the front seat with the toddler in the middle.
Sometime during the trip, the husband and wife had a disagreement. After all these years, I cannot recall what caused it. But I do remember that their argument escalated and became so heated that they were eventually yelling at one another. Understandably, this caused their young son to begin crying, which the husband said only added to his anger. Losing total control of his temper, he picked up a toy the child had dropped on the seat and flung it in the direction of his wife.
He missed hitting his wife. Instead, the toy struck their son, with the result that he was brain damaged and would be handicapped for the rest of his life.
This was one of the most tragic situations I had ever encountered. I counseled and encouraged them. We talked of commitment and responsibility, of acceptance and forgiveness. We spoke of the affection and respect which needed to return to their family. We read words of comfort from the scriptures. We prayed together. Though I have not heard from them since that day so long ago, they were smiling through their tears as they left my office. All these years I’ve hoped they made the decision to remain together, comforted and blessed by the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I think of them whenever I read the words: “Anger doesn’t solve anything. It builds nothing, but it can destroy everything.”

It was 12:15 A.M. on a cold night. I had just left the police station and climbed into the blue Alfa Romeo of the Italian carabinieri. All Italian young men are required to devote a year to military or government service; I had been assigned to the police. My duty for that day was patrolling the cities of Jesolo and Cavallino, just northeast of Venice, between midnight and 6:00 A.M.
I had not always gotten along with my partner because of his temperament and my lack of patience. However, our relationship had improved substantially during the previous week.
Suddenly a call for assistance came over the radio. “Avanti dalla trentuno,” I answered. Headquarters informed us that a bank robbery had just taken place in a rural town north of Venice. My heart accelerated as I anticipated the potential danger. The officer on the radio stated that a policeman had been shot during the robbery. The four men responsible were armed with Kalashinikovs, Soviet-made automatic weapons. They were supposedly heading at high speed toward Jesolo in a white Lancia.
“Ricevuto,” I signed off, automatically reaching for my weapon. I turned to my partner and asked, “What are we going to do if we run into them?” His answer was cold and direct. “Shoot.”
My partner quickly shifted gears. My mind started reviewing all the different circumstances in which I could find myself in the next minutes. I was aware that our lives were in danger and realized that if we confronted four armed men, our chances of staying alive were not good. My partner was silent, showing little emotion.
Am I willing to die for this job and my country? The question that arose in my mind was quickly answered by the words of the oath I had taken at the beginning of my service. I had promised to serve the people of Italy and to protect them from criminal acts, even if it meant losing my life.
As we turned onto the main street of Jesolo, my right hand tightened on the grip of the gun. The thought came again: Am I ready to die? Am I ready to go back to meet my Heavenly Father? I started thinking about my family, my life, and my testimony of the gospel. I pondered my weaknesses and almost instantly realized that my conscience was clear. I had no major regrets and felt that I had apologized to all the people I had been unkind to. That thought gave me an incredible feeling of peace. My racing heart slowed to normal, and my mind relaxed.
We did not confront the robbers that night. I concluded my year of service in the police a few months later, never having to fire a gun. But I will never forget that experience. It helped me recognize that our Heavenly Father could call me home at any time—and I want to be ready to leave this earth with the peace of a repentant and clean soul.

Many years ago dear friends of mine, Craig Sudbury and his mother, Pearl, came to my office prior to Craig’s departure for the Australia Melbourne Mission. Fred Sudbury, Craig’s father, was noticeably absent. Twenty-five years earlier, Craig’s mother had married Fred, who did not share her love for the Church and, indeed, was not a member.

Craig confided to me his deep and abiding love for his parents and his hope that somehow, in some way, his father would be touched by the Spirit and open his heart to the gospel of Jesus Christ. I prayed for inspiration concerning how such a desire might be fulfilled. The inspiration came, and I said to Craig, “Serve the Lord with all your heart. Be obedient to your sacred calling. Each week write a letter to your parents, and on occasion, write to Dad personally, and let him know how much you love him, and tell him why you’re grateful to be his son.” He thanked me and, with his mother, departed the office.

I was not to see Craig’s mother for some 18 months, when she came to my office and, in sentences punctuated by tears, said to me, “It has been almost two years since Craig left for his mission. He has never failed in writing a letter to us each week. Recently, my husband, Fred, stood for the first time in a testimony meeting and surprised me and shocked everyone who was there by announcing that he had made the decision to become a member of the Church. He indicated that he and I would go to Australia to meet Craig at the conclusion of his mission so that Fred could be Craig’s final baptism as a full-time missionary.”

No missionary stood so tall as did Craig Sudbury when, in far-off Australia, he helped his father into water waist-deep and, raising his right arm to the square, repeated those sacred words: “Frederick Charles Sudbury, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

Love had won its victory. Serve the Lord with love.

There was no moon, and it seemed extra dark to Nellie Kunz as she sat by the fire. She stared into the darkness toward the trees that she knew were there. She wished she had never heard all the stories of mountain lions and wolves that her father and brothers had told.
Nellie was twelve years old, and this was the first time she had come to the sheep camp to cook for her father and brothers and the hired men. They were up in the mountains and over fifty miles from home.
Zina, Nellie’s younger sister, sat beside her and poked a stick at the burning embers. She had come to be Nellie’s assistant and companion while the men took care of the sheep. Besides being sisters, the girls were best friends.
“We’d better get to bed now,” their dad said. “The sheep are all settled down for the night, and we have a lot of work ahead of us in the morning.”
“I’m tired anyway,” said Zina. “And Nellie and I have made a comfortable bed in the wagon.”
“Good night, Daddy,” Nellie said as she gave him a hug. “Good night!” she called to the others.
Zina climbed into the wagon first and Nellie followed her. The wagon was covered with canvas and all their food supplies were stored inside. The girls had made a bed of straw topped with their favorite quilts and pillows from home.
The men slept under the stars near the campfire. Nellie didn’t envy them at all. She liked the idea of sleeping in something enclosed and comfortable. It seemed a little safer and more like being at home.
“It’s so quiet,” whispered Zina.
“Yes,” agreed Nellie. “It’s far more quiet than when Sister Jenkins dropped a pin for us to hear in Primary last week.”
“Don’t forget your prayers,” said Nellie. As she knelt on her soft down quilt, she thanked Heavenly Father for her family and for her many blessings. She asked him to watch over and protect all of them.
“Are you scared?” whispered Zina.
“Sure. Are you?” answered Nellie.
“Yes,” said Zina and they squeezed each other’s hand before they snuggled down into their quilts.
Zina became more and more quiet and Nellie knew she was falling asleep. But Nellie couldn’t sleep. She lay wide awake, staring at the darkness.
After a while she heard a noise. At first, Nellie thought it was the wind blowing the tree branches, but then she felt sure something was moving outside. The sound came closer and closer, and soon Nellie could hear another sound—a heavy breathing sound.
“Zina!” she whispered. “Zina!” She gently shook her sister’s arm.
“What’s the matter?” answered Zina.
“I don’t know,” whispered Nellie, “but when I count to three, scream as loud as you can. One … two … three!” Both girls screamed.
There was a crashing sound beside the wagon as something bounded away. Dad and all the men jumped up from their bedrolls, grabbed their guns, and raced for the wagon.
Everyone was shouting and talking at once for a few minutes as Nellie and Zina tried to tell what they had heard. The men started the fire up again and, holding their torches high, they looked around the wagon. “Looks like the tracks of a mighty big mountain lion,” said Nellie’s oldest brother when he came back from his search. “Took off through the woods.”
“There’s no use trying to track him down,” said Dad. “He’s clear over the mountain by now, with the scare these two girls gave him. I’ve never heard such a row.”
Nellie smiled at her dad, though she was still shaking. “Come on, Zina,” she said as they climbed back into the wagon. “Let’s kneel down again. We need two prayers tonight—another one to say thank you.”

As a brand-new missionary in England, I was assigned to the southern coast for my first area. One Sunday afternoon my companion and I decided to go tracting in the small town of Sandwich, located just a few miles north of the white cliffs of Dover. After a few hours of knocking on doors, feeling like we must have talked to every living person in the place—and without any success at all—we sat down dejectedly on a nearby bench.
Although it was summertime, it was a rather cold and damp day, as sometimes happens in England. Feeling downcast due to the lack of response to our efforts to share the gospel, my companion tried to lighten the mood by remarking, “It’s okay, Elder. It could be worse: it could be one degree colder right now.”
His comment was well received and hit home. Life really wasn’t bad. We were in a beautiful country. We had the gospel. We were missionaries on the Lord’s errand. In fact, I had more blessings than problems. I felt much better knocking on doors the rest of the afternoon, armed with an enlightened attitude and a purer perspective—although I was still cold and damp and I still wished someone would listen.

I could hardly keep my voice steady as I said good night to Ben. Tears were already streaming down my face as I shut the door and flopped down on the living room floor.
I was glad everyone had gone to bed; that way I wouldn’t have to tell them about the prom or why I was crying.
I should have known it would be horrible, since I hadn’t even been my date’s first choice. He had wanted to take Amy, my best friend, but she was already going with Chad. So Ben had done the next best thing—he’d asked me and suggested we double.
It was an awkward situation from the moment we all climbed into Ben’s old station wagon. I don’t think he said anything to me as we drove to the restaurant; he was too busy staring at Amy in the rearview mirror. She didn’t notice. She was too entranced by Chad—star basketball player, student body vice-president, and the most popular guy in school—to notice anything. It was driving Ben crazy.
That’s why he forgot to help me with my chair at the restaurant. He tried to pull out Amy’s chair and bumped into Chad. In the confusion, he must have forgotten about me because he just turned and sat down.
All through dinner Ben played “Name That Tune” with the background music, and I tried to hide my anger. I knew he was feeling as miserable as I was, but why did he have to take it out on me? I didn’t want him to fall in love with me; I just wanted him to treat me like a human being.
I don’t know how we made it through the rest of the evening. At the school neither of us was very anxious to dance, so we had our pictures taken first. Even that didn’t go smoothly. Ben was too tall to stand next to the wicker chair where I was to sit, so we had to trade places. I think we both wanted to die.
Since neither of us wanted to dance the slow dances, we used his height and my shortness as an excuse to sit them out. “Just one more hour,” I thought as I watched his eyes follow Amy around the room. For the first time in my life I was grateful for my curfew.
An hour later, I walked into my living room and dropped onto the floor. All I could think, over and over, was, “What’s wrong with me?” I hardly ever dated and when I did, it always seemed to go like this.
Suddenly the living room light blinked on and I sat up. I must have looked pretty pathetic, lying there in my taffeta dress with mascara smeared all over my face. Dad suppressed a smile.
“So it wasn’t the best date you’ve ever been on, huh?” he said.
“Not even close. But some things never change,” I mumbled, straightening my dress.
He kind of chuckled as he sat down beside me. I couldn’t stand it any more—I had to ask.
“What’s wrong with me, anyway?”
He looked up. “There’s nothing wrong with you, why?”
“Then what’s wrong with the guys?”
He shook his head. “Heck, I’m a guy and I don’t even know.”
I had expected something a little more profound. Why doesn’t he at least say, “Sorry you’re such a social misfit,” and get it over with? I thought. But he just sat there. I gave up.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said weakly as I stood up and headed towards my bedroom. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He couldn’t possibly understand how I felt.
“Christie,” he called after me, “don’t make yourself miserable over something you can’t control. You know, sometimes you just have to be patient and things get better.”
I didn’t answer. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. More than anything, I wanted to believe that if I said the right thing or looked a certain way, the guys would beg for a date with me. I just had to figure out what I was doing wrong.
Then one night I read a scripture that reminded me of my dad’s words: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Eccl. 3:1). It said there was a time to cry, a time to laugh—and even a time to love.
Maybe I’ve been rushing things a little, I thought. One thing was certain: more than I wanted a boyfriend, I wanted to be happy and feel good about myself again.
I only had two dates the rest of the year, and one of them was a girls’ choice. But when I started to feel depressed, I reminded myself that it wouldn’t last forever. I filled up my time with school, Church, and my family and tried to be patient.
Nothing changed—until after graduation. I don’t know how it happened—maybe it was because I met hundreds of new people at college. All I know is that I had dates. Not tons, but enough. I dated regularly for three years, served a mission—and then I met Sam.
On my wedding day, as I knelt at the altar and looked into Sam’s eyes, I knew that everything was right—the right person, the right time, and the right place.
Like my dad had said, there was never anything “wrong” with me in the first place. I didn’t need to change; what I really needed was time.

“Wow, what an army!” Jamie’s eyes were big as he excitedly knelt next to the small trenches and plastic men Brady was playing with.
“Yeah,” Brady said, grinning proudly. “I’ve been digging these trenches for an hour, wondering where you were.”
“You should’ve called. I was helping Mom sort some books for her bookstore. She got an order in yesterday.”
“You always have your nose in a book, you bookworm!” Brady knew that Jamie didn’t mind his teasing. Jamie was the best reader in the third grade and proud of it.
Jamie started plowing in the warm dirt with his hands, and soon he was busy building trenches too. Books were forgotten as the boys worked in silence for several minutes. The only sound was Mr. Morris’s lawn mower next door and Brady’s loud sneeze when he stirred up too much dust.
“What’s your general’s name?” Jamie asked, pushing a lock of hair back with a grimy hand. “I think that I’ll call mine General Lee.”
“Mine’s General Moroni,” Brady said without looking up. He moved a plastic man in uniform into position at the front of the battle line.
“Moroni? What kind of name is that? Lee was a famous general. I’ve read a lot of history books, and I know a bunch of real cool names. There’s Alexander the Great and MacArthur and—”
“I like Moroni.” Brady looked up then. His green eyes quickly skimmed Jamie and his trench progress, then moved back to his own work. “Moroni was the best.”
“You mean there was really a general named Moroni? I’ve never heard of him.”
“Yeah, there was. He once fought the Lamanites, or Indians, but only when he had to. He liked to live in peace.”
“He fought against Indians? Was he a cowboy?” Jamie had read a lot of cowboy stories too.
“No, he was a Nephite.” Brady smiled and proudly held up the plastic man. “He was strong and brave, and he made his own flag and everything.”
“Who told you about him?” Jamie was curious now. He didn’t know anything about Nephites or a general named Moroni.
“My Primary teacher. Dad and Mom told me a lot more about him too.” Brady had asked Jamie to come to Primary when his friend first moved in several months ago, but Jamie had said no. He liked to read on Sunday.
“They tell you stories like that in Primary? I thought it was just prayers and Bible stuff.”
“Oh, sure, we have those things. But we also have the Book of Mormon, and it has a lot of neat stories in it.” Brady could see that Jamie was interested. He had put down his men, and his hands were still. “Do you want to come to Primary with me next Sunday?”
“Nope.” Jamie bent his head and started digging extra fast. He wasn’t going to let Brady trick him into going to church. Nobody mentioned Moroni again while they played.
On Saturday Brady and Jamie went exploring at the old ballpark. They kicked a soccer ball around for a while, played “hut” in the overgrown bushes, and climbed up on the old rock wall that bordered the east corner of the park.
“Hey, look!” Brady hollered. He spread his arms wide and lowered his voice dramatically: “Behold, I am Samuel the Lamanite. …”
Jamie asked, “Who are you talking about now?”
“Samuel the Lamanite. He once preached from a high wall that surrounded the city because the Nephites had chased him out of the city.”
“Why did they chase him away? I thought that Moroni was a Nephite and that Nephites were the good guys.” Jamie scratched his head and lay back on his elbows. He squinted his eyes half-shut and watched Brady gesturing from the wall.
“Yeah, Moroni was a Nephite when the Nephites were righteous. But Samuel was preaching to a bunch of Nephites who were wicked. He told them to repent and quit doing wrong. So they chased him from their city. That’s when he climbed up on the wall and preached from there. The Nephites shot arrows and stuff at him, but they couldn’t hit him. Neat, huh?”
Jamie didn’t answer for a minute. He palmed the soccer ball and passed it from one hand to another. “Another Primary story, right?”
“Yeah. I think that Samuel was great, and he didn’t give up easily.”
Brady didn’t ask Jamie again to go to Primary with him. They played soccer until the sun got too hot, then rode their bikes back to Brady’s for lemonade. Mom even let them make a tepee in the backyard.
Three weeks later was Jamie’s birthday. He got a new fishing pole from his dad, a mitt from his older brother, and a book about trains from his mom. Brady gave him some building blocks that snapped together just like the huge set that Brady had received last Christmas. Brady knew that Jamie would like them. The next day they played for hours with the blocks, making trucks and buildings and even a huge tower.
When Jamie had made his tower secure, he ran to his closet for a plastic man. He put him on top of the tower and grinned mysteriously at Brady. “Do you know who that is?”
“Who?” asked Brady. He wasn’t paying much attention to Jamie, because he was busy linking his ship together with some yellow blocks.
“King Benjamin.” Jamie paused to give it emphasis. “I built a tower for King Benjamin.”
Brady looked at the tower. It was sturdy, tall, and magnificent. “Wow!” Brady whistled through his teeth. “Nice job!” Then a puzzled expression replaced Brady’s smile. “But how did you know about King Benjamin?”
Jamie smiled a smile that covered his whole face, the kind he wore when he hit a home run. “Mom got me a copy of your Book of Mormon. We’ve been reading it together. I really like the story of King Benjamin.”
Brady left his ship and went over to study the tower. “Wow! A tower for King Benjamin.”
“You know,” Jamie said, “I like Moroni too. The missionaries told us about him. I can see why you used him to lead your army. I can’t wait till we get to that part in our reading. He was the best.”
Brady agreed. He didn’t have to ask Jamie if he wanted to come to Primary on Sunday. He knew that he would.

I have known a modern-day Nephi: Daniel Choc, a Cakchiquel Indian of Guatemala. When I first met him, Daniel was serving as a missionary in the Guatemala City Mission, the first Cakchiquel missionary, as far as I could learn. He served only 48 kilometers from his home, the small city of Patzicia where his father was a farmer and president of the branch. The distance from home was small, but for Daniel and his family the financial sacrifice for his mission was great. His father earns approximately $100 to $200 each year, but as Daniel approached the age of nineteen and his call to serve a mission for the Lord he loved, the family prayerfully committed $90 for the two-year period—approximately one-fourth of the family’s income.
Having taken that step, Daniel then began to conquer other challenges such as collars and ties and shoes, and foods other than beans, tortillas, and rice. But he adjusted to his new environment rapidly, for his only interest was in teaching and blessing his people, and in helping the missionaries to learn the difficult Mayan dialect.
Elder Choc was a gifted teacher, and he worked with an urgency that amazed me. He taught with power, love, faith, and testimony, always leaving his contacts happy and satisfied. He made the gospel easy to understand. I never saw him angry or upset, even in the midst of opposition. He loved his people, and they loved him.
Before my mission came to an end in 1976, I was destined to meet Elder Choc one last time. In this experience I would learn what faith in the Lord really means, and what life is all about. I would gain an even deeper insight into the devotion of this amazing native elder to his people.
On the morning of 4 February 1976, in the central Guatemal highlands, one of the most devastating natural disasters ever to hit Central America occurred: a killer earthquake, responsible for more than 24,000 deaths.
After it was over, my companion and I were assigned to secure information concerning the welfare of our elders and Church members in the central highlands in order to make a preliminary report to Salt Lake City. We stopped in several small towns, and finally encountered Elder Choc and his companion making their way to Daniel’s home. They had worked all morning helping the wounded and taking care of the dead, and then, having done all they could in their assigned area of labor, they started for Patzicia. My companion and I went with them.
When we came upon what used to be Daniel’s home, we saw his father, looking lost, uncertain, and afraid, stumbling through the rubble. Daniel rushed over and embraced him. After a moment of silence, they both broke into tears as Daniel’s father whispered that his wife, then carrying their unborn eighth child, and two young sons had been crushed to death by the heavy adobe walls of their home when the quake began.
President Choc was deeply hurt, and the stress was almost more than he could bear. But after a long time of weeping, Daniel composed himself, looked into his father’s eyes, and said: “Can you remember the sacrifices we made for almost twenty years to go to the temple of God, and how special it was to know that we had been sealed for time and all eternity? We will all be together again. I know it! Father, the Lord has blessed you. You are his servant in this part of his vineyard. Take this bruised and broken people by the hand and comfort them. Organize them and lead them in prayer, will you?”
And then, as Nephi of old had turned to Lehi in the desert to encourage him as a leader, Elder Choc said, “Help us, Father, to exercise our faith.”
President Choc did organize the members of his branch and began the massive task of salvaging and rebuilding. He was a pillar of strength from that day on to all those associated with him.
After doing what he could for his family and friends, Daniel’s first words to me were, “Come on, let’s go. We’ve got a lot to do if we are going to report back to Salt Lake by tonight.”
Somewhat shocked by his remark, I explained to him that we could get to the remainder of the cities by ourselves and that he was needed at home.
“My father can take over now,” he said. “My calling is to help the Saints and elders elsewhere. Can I please go?” After such a plea, we consented.
The day was going by quickly and we still had three cities to get to, two of them inaccessible by road because of quake damage. So we decided to split up. Elder Choc and I drew the assignment of going to Comalapa. He was so anxious to reach the city that he suggested we run all the way—17.7 kilometers!
I was sure he was joking. After all, we had to go through a deep canyon that was sure to be dangerously steep because of quake-caused landslides. I was willing to walk around the canyon, but Daniel, already familiar with the terrain, insisted that we would never make it unless we ran through it. He reminded me that with the Lord’s help, we could do it. He asked me if I would pray for physical strength and endurance, and plead with the Lord for a special blessing on the canyon because there were many in Comalapa who needed help but were trapped there because of the dangerous condition of the canyon. Humbled, I did so.
And we ran every step of those 17.7 kilometers! As we did so, he rehearsed with me the words of the Savior to the people of ancient America. Daniel said he had pondered them deeply in his heart and was anxious to know more.
When we got to the canyon, we found it calm and quiet, and it stayed that way the rest of the day. After helping and securing the information we needed in Comalapa, we made our way back to Patzicia, and I left Elder Choc there with his father and surviving family.
I never saw him again. But I pondered continually the greatness of this young Cakchiquel Indian. He affected my life in such a drastic way that I have never been the same since. My vision of the gospel has been amplified a hundredfold since my association with Daniel. Truly, “he did keep the commandments of God, and did walk in the ways of his father.” (Hel. 3:37.)
On 30 March 1976, while working with sixty other missionaries to clear away rubble in the devastated town of Patzun, Daniel was killed as an adobe wall was collapsed by one of the earthquake’s many after-shocks.
His death was hard to accept. But as a fellow missionary, Elder Julio Salazar, said at his funeral: “I could picture Elder Choc as a great leader in Patzicia. For this reason, I could not accept his death. As I pondered why he died, I realized that it was probably because of his preparation that the Lord called him to aid with the work in the spirit world, especially among the thousands of Cakchiquel people who were taken during the earthquake.”

Photograph by Leslie Nilsson
I was raised in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but I left the Church as a teenager after my family moved from Alabama. Later, I moved to California, where I worked and studied. That’s where I met Patrick. Six weeks later, we were engaged.
Once we got married and started having children, we knew it was essential that they understand the importance of faith and religion. We wanted that to be part of our family.
We became what we called “vacation churchgoers,” visiting lots of churches. We’d try this one over here and that one over there, but nothing ever felt right.
In 2012 we traveled to Alabama so I could reconnect with family members. We fell in love with the area where I lived as a child. So, we moved there in 2014, bought some land and animals, and started growing and selling produce.
One morning our seven-year-old son, Jesse, came into our bedroom with an illustrated children’s Bible.
“Mom, look at this picture of Jesus,” he said. “He’s getting baptized. Why am I not baptized?”
All the children read and loved that Bible, and they all began asking similar questions: “Why don’t we have a church? When are we getting baptized?”
About this same time we began making caramels from goat’s milk and selling them at local farmers markets. People loved them, and our caramel business took off. By that fall, we were selling our caramels in about 30 stores. By June 2015, we went to a major international market in Atlanta and added about a hundred stores. Soon, we were on television and in a couple of magazines.
We were making caramels full time leading into that fall. That’s when things took a turn in our lives.
I had what I thought I always wanted in life—a farm-based business working with my family and teaching my children about life through a farm. People had this beautiful picture of our family working together, but we were struggling big time.
We were ignoring the kids in order to make the business work. Our marriage wasn’t getting any attention. We were trying to do too much. Our priorities weren’t straight. We didn’t have a spiritual base. We didn’t have Heavenly Father guiding our lives. We were just trying to do everything by ourselves.
That fall the children all came down with strep throat. We gave them antibiotics, and soon everybody was fine except for Jesse. His cough wouldn’t go away, and his neck became swollen. Pat took him to the pediatrician for what we thought would be a second antibiotic.
Two hours later Pat called from the hospital. The pediatrician had sent Jesse there for an X-ray to check for infection in his lungs. Instead, doctors found an 11-inch tumor in his chest.
“Go home, get your family packed up, head to Birmingham, and prepare for a lengthy stay,” the doctor said.
A few days after we arrived at the children’s hospital in Birmingham, we received Jesse’s diagnosis. He had pediatric acute lymphoblastic leukemia, a rare type of aggressive leukemia.
For the next three weeks, Pat and I lived at the hospital. While I zoned in on Jesse, Pat made the 90-minute drive back and forth from our home to the hospital. He tried to keep our business going and care for our goats. My mother-in-law came from California and stayed with our other children.
Jesse’s tumor had begun to cut off his airways, but it shrank after six weeks of chemotherapy. We thought that once the cancer went into remission, it would be an easy road ahead, but then Jesse got a blood clot in his brain. After doctors dealt with that, he got fungal pneumonia. He was in and out of the hospital seven times over the next several months.
In December 2015, while Jesse was back in the hospital, I began reading the Book of Mormon. I thought, “I left the Church, and I just want to rule it out like I’ve ruled out all the other churches.” But right away, it hit me like a ton of bricks—full peace. The book just spoke to me. I didn’t even have to pray to find out it was true. I knew in my heart it was true from the very beginning. I would read for hours sitting in that hospital room.
At one point, Jesse spiked a fever, which lasted for 10 days. It wouldn’t break, and doctors decided they needed to do a bone marrow biopsy to see if the leukemia had returned. I remember lying on the floor of the hospital. I had reached bottom. That’s when I decided to call Elaine Oborn, a member of our ward while I was growing up in Alabama.
I had been best friends with Sister Oborn’s daughter. Though I hadn’t spoken to the Oborn family for 20 years, I couldn’t get Elaine’s face out of my mind. I looked her up on Facebook, and there on the hospital floor, I called her.
“Do you even remember me?” I asked.
After explaining what our family was experiencing, I told Sister Oborn: “I don’t know what I need, but I need something. I’m not active in the Church. We don’t even have a church, but I keep thinking of you. Please, can you help me?”
“We can start by getting you and Jesse a blessing,” she said. She said her husband, Lynn, would come to the hospital that evening.
After the phone call, I told Pat, “I know you’re not a member of the Church, but can we have some guys come and give Jesse a blessing?”
“Whatever it takes for him to feel better,” he said.
That evening, in came Brother Oborn with two full-time missionaries, all dressed in white medical protective clothing because Jesse was so sick.
“The angels are coming for us,” I remember thinking as I opened the door.
They gave Jesse a blessing. Then Brother Oborn lined up all the kids and gave each of them a blessing. Then he gave me a blessing. Then he gave Pat a blessing. That was one of the first experiences where we all felt the Spirit. It was powerful. The next day, Jesse’s fever broke. As soon as he was released from the hospital, we started attending church.
In February 2016, the full-time missionaries began visiting us. At first Pat thought they were coming over to help on the farm. When we accepted an invitation for them to teach us, he thought the lessons were just for the children.
As the missionaries were preparing to teach us their first lesson, Pat went out to work on the tractor. After about 20 minutes, I could see that they—two sisters and two elders—were deflated. At that moment, I felt that I should get Pat and ask him to come listen for a couple of minutes.
Later the missionaries told me that they had been praying that that’s what I would do. They knew that Pat needed to hear what they were teaching.
After the missionaries had taught us for several weeks, Jesse, Bo, and Frank wanted to be baptized. Pat thought that was great, but he felt that he was “beyond salvation.” That was before he met Von and Glenda Memory and heard Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles speak during general conference.
When we saw Brother Memory at church, I recognized him from when I was a child. He was now serving as the ward mission leader. Pat introduced himself, telling Brother Memory that he really wanted the Church for our children.
“That sounds good,” Brother Memory said with a twinkle in his eye. “We’ll do it for the children.”
A few weeks later, after a lesson from the missionaries on the plan of salvation, Brother Memory said, “Boys, we’re going to talk about your baptism.” Then he added, “And then we’re going to talk about your dad’s baptism.”
Pat said OK, but his doubts about his readiness and worthiness persisted until general conference that April.
“You may be afraid, angry, grieving, or tortured by doubt,” Elder Uchtdorf said in his talk. “But just as the Good Shepherd finds His lost sheep, if you will only lift up your heart to the Savior of the world, He will find you.”1
Pat said: “Before then, it hadn’t occurred to me that I really could be a part of this, that I was worthy of salvation. But after listening to Elder Uchtdorf, it hit me that it wasn’t too late for me. I actually have a shot to get to heaven. I had never felt anything like that. From then on I knew. This is the Savior’s Church. We found it. I got baptized and received the priesthood. A week later I baptized my boys. When our girls were old enough, I baptized them.”
A year later, we were sealed in the Birmingham Alabama Temple.
Living the gospel of Jesus Christ as members of His Church has strengthened our marriage. It has made me a better mom. It has given our kids a foundation they never would have had. We’re confident about their futures, now that they have the Church in their lives.
I’m so grateful for everything that has happened and for all the lessons I’ve learned. I think it was important for me to go through a lot of stuff, a lot of mental anguish. I needed to be humbled, feel desperate for God’s help and love and forgiveness, and forgive myself of wrongdoings earlier in my life.
Jesse completed chemotherapy and his last round of steroids in March 2019. We would be devastated if his cancer returned, but now we have an eternal perspective. Now we’re sealed as a family. I can’t imagine ever not having the Church as my go-to for everything. The gospel has changed us forever.
Whatever happens, it’s going to be OK. We’re not afraid anymore. Jesse’s illness led to the best thing that ever happened to us. It brought us to the Savior’s Church.

A few years ago at the BYU Law School, we were hosting a conference on religious iconography. An orthodox Christian priest from Oxford University had been invited to participate. He was an imposing fellow who wore dark robes, had a long beard, and wore a heavy cross around his neck. He explained that as part of his preparation for coming to Provo, he had decided to do some homework about what Mormons believe. He didn’t want a dry academic account, so he called the Mormon missionaries and invited them over. Can you imagine how nervous they must have been?

He described them as earnest and polite and a little naïve—a description with which many of us can probably relate. He explained:

I asked them to tell me what was unique and ­different about the Mormon Church, and they began to tell me about how Joseph Smith as a teenager was visited by God the Father and Jesus Christ. Then they showed me a truly remarkable piece of religious iconography. It was a picture of God and Jesus, depicted as two men in white robes and with white hair, standing in the air, with Joseph on the ground leaning back in astonishment.

Like me, you can probably picture the exact illustration from the Gospel Art Kit. Then he projected it onto the screen.

“What a remarkable piece of religious iconography,” he said, “depicting God and Jesus Christ as two men with bodies.” This, he explained, was a complete recalculation of the Christian doctrine of the Trinity.

I have to admit I had never thought of this illustration as noteworthy religious iconography. But think about it: it depicts, in an illustration a child can understand, something profound about the nature of God and Jesus Christ.

When Steve was fifteen, his nine-year-old brother, Brian, became his shadow. Like many younger brothers, Brian was curious about his older brother’s world and wanted to be a part of it. Steve resented having a tag-along. Teasing Brian, running away from him, and calling him names didn’t solve anything. Brian was too persistent.

Steve worked out this problem accidently. His family went on vacation. Lacking older companions, he was forced to spend time with just Brian, doing activities Brian could do. He taught him how to turn his mitt the right way when catching a ball, how to put a worm on a hook, how to break the water with his hands when diving. It was this type of participation Brian really wanted in the first place.

Back home, when Steve was busy, he could peacefully do things without Brian by promising to spend time with him later. Steve realized his little brother’s needs could not be changed; but he learned to adapt to and deal with them in a way that made both brothers happier. Brian, also, seemed to understand that there were things which Steve did that he could not yet do.

It is wrong to assume your brother already knows you love him so you don’t need to tell him. Let your love be shown by good deeds; however, let it also be expressed verbally. The most important thing Jenny learned was how to say, “David, I love you.” Even Steve, afraid of sounding “corny” at first, found that reminding Brian that he loved him made it easier to get along. “The more time I spent alone with him, the easier it was to say,” Brian says.

When my friend and I were caught stealing, we both knew what big trouble we were in. I also knew that what I had tried to take was worth practically nothing, but I had still broken one of the Ten Commandments. Nobody could know how ashamed and sorry I was. I had the longest prayer with my Heavenly Father that I have ever had. When I went to see my bishop, I picked up the February 1996 copy of the New Era with the Mormonad about repentance. The funny thing is that of all the times I have looked through the magazine, I never noticed the Mormonad until then. When I saw it I just cried. This whole experience has taught me the true importance of repentance.
Name WithheldCalifornia

If you were an explorer in Antarctica, you’d have the opportunity to meet another fantastic father, the emperor penguin. This stately bird has a seemingly impossible task as a father. In the middle of winter the mother penguin lays a single egg on an ice pack. For a few days she and the father penguin take turns incubating it. Then, because the mother needs to go to the sea to feed, she leaves the egg to the father to keep warm while she is gone. Through the worst part of the Antarctic winter, with temperatures ranging from -40° F (-40° C) to -100° F (-73° C) and with raging winds, the father covers the egg with his sagging belly. For most of two long, hard months this father stands faithfully holding his egg, usually huddling for warmth with a group of other penguin fathers.
When the penguin chick hatches, the father continues keeping it warm and protected as it huddles at his feet. If the mother has not yet returned, he also feeds the chick with a fluid secreted in the lining of his stomach. When the mother does return, she takes her turn caring for the chick while the father goes to feed at sea—finally! After gorging on fish and restoring his needed body fat, he returns and both he and the mother collect food for the chick. The father penguin continues providing warmth, protection, and food until the young penguin is about six months old and can fend for itself.