Gospel Story Finder

Only a few weeks before the earthquake, another group of young adults was giving similar service across the Atlantic. The floods that swept through western Europe in July were the most severe in decades.
When the waters finally receded, one shopkeeper in the riverside district of Ahrweiler, Germany, surveyed the damage and was utterly overwhelmed. This humble man, a devout Catholic, whispered a prayer that God might send someone to help him. The very next morning, President Dan Hammon of the Germany Frankfurt Mission arrived on the street with a small band of missionaries wearing yellow Helping Hands vests. The water had reached up to 10 feet (3 m) on the shopkeeper’s walls, leaving behind a deep layer of mud. The volunteers shoveled out the mud, removed the carpet and drywall, and piled everything in the street for removal. The overjoyed shopkeeper worked alongside them for hours, amazed that the Lord had sent a group of His servants to answer his prayer—and within 24 hours!

Sometimes our guide, like a mariner, works closely with us, teaching us what we need to know so we can successfully navigate life. In many cases the mariner accomplishes this by setting the example for us to follow. Such was the case with Patricia Horiuchi’s father, Frank.

After meeting the missionaries, Frank began regularly inviting them over for dinner. Soon he started taking the lessons. But no one else in his family wanted anything to do with the Church. “When we saw the missionaries coming,” Patricia says, “we would all run away—me and my younger brothers and sisters.”

Then Frank was baptized in July 2007 by the mission president, Nelson Bleak. It was a defining moment for Patricia and her siblings.

“I saw my father starting to change,” she says. “I knew that if the gospel could touch my father’s heart, it could touch mine and change my life. So I decided to study with the sister missionaries, and they challenged me to study the Book of Mormon and the Bible. My brother and I had had a fight before that, and I had never forgiven him. Then I read in the scriptures that if you forgive others, God will forgive you.” (See 3 Nephi 13:14–15.)

Patricia realized she had to forgive her brother in order to begin changing her life, be clean, and have peace. So she did.

“After I threw away my bad attitudes and changed to a new person who kept the commandments, I was so excited. I knew I had to get baptized so I could be in the true Church,” she says. “The Church put me on the right track. It separated me from bad influences. It taught me to respect my parents, to stay in school, and to keep on the right track.”

The Laurels in the Chatsworth Second Ward, Los Angeles California Chatsworth Stake, learned a great lesson about service when they cleaned an elderly lady’s house one Saturday.
Armed with buckets, mops, soap and rags, they cleaned the house until it sparkled inside and out. The sister they helped is confined to a wheelchair and greatly appreciated their service.
“I know the Spirit was with us because we felt so close to one another after we had finished,” said Julie Jensen, president of the Laurel class. “After this experience we knew that it wasn’t only the work we were helping her with, but that we made her feel so happy. That is what service projects are all about.”
The Laurels all agreed that they should do even more service projects, because they learned such a valuable lesson with this one.

I have been persuaded, almost against my better judgment, to tell a story. I ask for your indulgence and forgiveness because it involves my experience. Hopefully, the lesson I learned from it might be of some help to you.
In the fateful war year of 1942, I was inducted into the United States Air Force as a private soldier. One cold night at Chanute Field, Illinois, I was given all-night guard duty. As I walked around my post, shivering, and at the same time trying to stay awake, I meditated and pondered the whole miserable long night through. By morning I had come to some firm conclusions.
I was engaged to be married, and knew that I could not support a wife on a private’s pay of $50 per month. I felt I needed to become an officer. In a day or two, following my all-night vigil, I filed my application for officer’s school. Shortly thereafter, on the appointed day, I was summoned, along with some others, before the Board of Inquiry looking into my qualifications and aptitude. My qualifications were sparse, but I had had two years of College and had finished a mission for the Church in South America. I was twenty-two years of age and in good physical health. Possessing only these few qualifications, I was grateful to be able to put on my application that I had been a missionary for the Church.
The questions asked of me at the officers’ Board of Inquiry took a very surprising turn. Practically all of the questions centered upon my missionary service and my beliefs. “Do you smoke?” “Do you drink?” “What do you think of others who smoke and drink?” I had no trouble answering these questions.
“Do you pray?” “Do you believe that an officer should pray?” The officer propounding these last questions was a hard-bitten career soldier. He did not look like he had prayed very often. I pondered, “Would I give him offense if I answered how I truly believed? Should I give a non-controversial answer and simply say that prayer is a personal matter?” I wanted to be an officer very much so that I would not have to do all-night guard duty and k.p., but mostly so my sweetheart and I could afford to be married.
I decided not to equivocate, and responded that I did pray and that I felt officers might seek divine guidance as some truly great generals had done. I added that officers at appropriate times should be prepared to lead their men in all appropriate activities, if the occasion requires, including prayer.
More interesting questions came from my examiners. “In time of war should not the moral code be relaxed?” one high-ranking officer asked. “Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
Here was a chance to equivocate, to make some points and be really broad-minded. I knew perfectly well that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I tried to live by, had been taught, and myself had taught. I thought to myself, “Here go my chances to become an officer.” The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could still be faithful to my beliefs and respond by saying that I had my own beliefs on the subject of morality but did not wish to impose my views on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. I knew perfectly well what the scriptures say about fornication and adultery.
I could not delay my answer any longer, and responded to the question about the double standard of morality simply by saying, “I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.”
There were a few more questions, I think about whether or not I was trying to live and behave as we of our faith represent to the world. I left the hearing resigned to the fact that these hard-bitten officers who had asked these questions concerning our beliefs would not like the answers I had given, and surely they would score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my complete astonishment the score opposite my name read “95 percent.” I was amazed. I was in the first group taken for officers’ school, and had to be promoted to corporal to get into the school. I graduated, became a second lieutenant, married my sweetheart, and we lived happily ever after.
This was one of the most critical crossroads of my life, one of very many times when I have had to stand up, search my soul, and like all of you, be identified. Not all of the experiences in my life when I have had to stand up and be counted turned out the way I wanted them to, but they have always strengthened my faith and helped me adjust to the other occasions when the result was different.
From that and many other experiences, I learned that even though others do not share your beliefs, in fact may be hostile to them, they will respect you if you are willing to stand up and be counted.

“As a young boy, I was attracted most to baseball and softball. When I was in the fourth grade, I asked my physical education teacher in Ogden to put together a softball league with the other city schools, and she did. I was really excited to be able to play in a league. I was my team’s pitcher, and when it finally came time for the league to start, we had to play on Tuesday afternoons after school. But Primary was held on Tuesday afternoon! I played the first game, but my mother and dad found out that I had not gone to Primary, and that was the last game I played in that league. As I grew older, I was grateful to my parents for insisting that I go to Primary, because I learned that the gospel of Jesus Christ comes first. It doesn’t matter whether it’s baseball or anything else—Heavenly Father comes first! That lesson helped me to not have to spend much time making decisions whenever there was a choice between doing things the world’s way and living a principle of the gospel.”

I once met a British dancer while traveling on a train in Finland. We were both happy to be speaking English, and as we chatted we asked each other questions: What are you doing in Finland? What do you believe? Learning of my beliefs, she asked, “You don’t smoke or drink? You don’t believe in premarital sex?” And throughout our conversation, she kept coming back to this subject, intrigued. “I suppose if you dated men who felt the same way, it would work out,” she said. And then later: “Are there any men who feel the same way?” She started off disdainful and ended up wistful. She was hungry for something she heard in our doctrine.

A few weeks ago, just before 6:00 a.m., my wife and I boarded a taxi to begin the last lap of our trip to Salt Lake City from Australia. Our driver, who had been on duty since 3:00 a.m., was anxious to talk with us, his first passengers of the day. We learned his parents were born just outside of Mexico City. They moved to Chicago, where he was born, and then moved to New Mexico. Twenty years earlier our friend had come for a short visit to San Francisco and had never left. During our trip to the airport, this man related a few incidents from which some great truths were reemphasized.
His parents, he told us, had remained in New Mexico, but liked to visit him and his brother whenever they could afford it because they loved being with their children and grandchildren. In New Mexico his mother’s health was rather poor, but whenever she was in San Francisco, she seemed to feel much better. This discerning son had said to his brother, “I know just exactly what mother needs.”
He said, “I found a large truck. My brother and I drove to New Mexico, loaded our parents and all their possessions into the truck, and brought them to live near those who loved them most. Mother’s health improved noticeably.” Then he added, “You know, love is very important if it is done right.”
The second incident related by this humble but wise man was also significant. He said, “I teach all my children to work. I want them to have schooling, but they must learn to work to get it. I just finished helping my sixteen-year-old son get a part-time job at a bank. While he is going to school, he only works two hours a day, but he is learning to work. He knows I love him because I do my part, too. Due to the uncertainty of my driving hours, I can’t always take him to work, but I’m always there to bring him home. He looks forward to our ride together, and so do I.”
One other important point was made by this unusual taxi operator. He told us that some of his unmarried friends who are also taxi drivers are often out of money. They come to him to borrow. He indicated that he is generally able to help them over tight money spots. When his companions asked how he is able to support his family on his salary when they can’t even keep themselves, he said, “I tell them I don’t waste money at the races or on liquor or tobacco. My wife fixes our meals at home, and we don’t have to pay for expensive restaurant food.” He smiled when he added, “We do our partying with our family.” This man’s objectives are family-oriented, and he has learned the folly of serving the gambling, drinking, and momentary expensive habits.
A happy man, this driver; he has realized through experience important areas of love. He knows that nurturing love is healing; it is teaching. It requires sacrifice, and that which we love will be that to which we give our allegiance. He had shared some basic principles of love in action that were potent. Frankly, we were enjoying his comments so much we could have wished the airport terminal were another half an hour away.

Brandon was hunting for treasure. He had a shovel to dig with, a net to catch things with, and a box to put the treasure in.
As Brandon walked toward the park, he saw a blue feather in a crack of the sidewalk. He picked it up. “I wonder what happened to the bird that lost this,” he said. “Did it grow a new one?” He put the feather into his box.
At the park yellow dandelions dotted the grass. Brandon picked a dozen or more and held them to his face. The petals were soft and silky. They left a yellow dust on his hands and cheeks. He put them into his box too.
Brandon found an empty snail shell under a picnic table. He rubbed it gently so that it wouldn’t crack. It was smooth on the inside and had tiny ridges on the outside. “I wonder where the snail went,” Brandon said, “and why it left its house behind.”
Brandon walked by the edge of the lake. With his shovel he dug up a rock and dipped it in the water to wash off the sand. The rock shimmered like the little minnows darting in and out of the shadows in the water. He put the rock, along with the snail shell, into his box.
An orange butterfly flew past. Brandon chased it and caught it in his net. It fluttered weakly. Brandon looked at it a minute, then let it go. He watched it fly to a bed of blue and purple flowers. “Some treasures are just for looking at,” he said.
As Brandon skipped home, a squirrel chattered at him from high up in the elm tree. Brandon laughed at the saucy animal.
“Mom,” Brandon said, bursting into the kitchen. “See all the treasures I found.” He dumped the things in his box onto the table. The rock was dark and dry now, but he could still see flecks in it. The dandelions were wilted, but Brandon remembered how bright they were in the grass. “There were other treasures, too,” he said. “Treasures I can keep in my mind.” He told his mom about the minnows, the butterfly, and the squirrel.
“God hides treasures for us everywhere,” Mom said.
“That’s right.” Brandon smiled as he added, “But He makes it easy for us to find them.”

One of Julie’s greatest challenges was with a young man she attended honors classes and ran cross-country and track with. “All through my three years of high school if I said anything religious he’d verbally assault me and cut me to shreds. It was ugly,” Julie says. “He’d get so angry and yell, ‘How can you possibly believe in a God? There is no way. You are wasting your effort and your life.’” Julie would respond, trembling with conviction, “I know God is there and loves me. Loving God brings me so much joy; there is no better way to be happy.” Sometimes he said crude and obscene things in front of their classmates. And often he laughed at her and goaded other students into doing the same. “But my testimony grew in a new way—from adversity,” exclaims Julie. “I did care about him. If he’d only open his heart to the Spirit, he’d know the truth,” she says.
At the end of Julie’s senior year, that young man wrote in her yearbook: “I know I’m really rotten to you. The truth is I respect you. Great things are in store for you.”
Julie felt he was begging to be challenged, wanting someone to prove there really was a God. His criticism forced others to analyze their feelings about God and turn to Julie with their questions.

Ever since Carlos could remember, he had wished that he could fly in an airplane. And ever since he could remember, everyone had laughed that he, a barefoot boy of the Colombian campo (countryside), would even have such a wish.
He knew it was impossible. His family didn’t have money for shoes, let alone airplane rides. But he still liked to dream. And every day he ran home from the little schoolhouse, hurried through his chores, then ran to the sugarcane mill to watch the afternoon plane fly overhead.
Carlos’s brothers always teased him:
“Mira (look)! Carlitos (little Carlos) is flying again.”
“Look at him zoom to the woodpile. Careful you don’t crash, Alitas (Little Wings). Now swoop down to the stream for a pail of water.”
Mother seemed to understand, though. She just smiled at her young son as she shaped the arepas (round white corn cakes) for their supper. “You can go now, Carlitos, as long as you feed the cow and the mule when you get back.” She swung her long black braid over her shoulder and went on shaping the arepas.
Carlos scampered up the hill. The well-worn path felt smooth under his bare feet, and a warm, moist breeze ruffled his hair. Soon he came to the sugarcane mill. During the harvest season he and his brothers and father ground up the cane there to make hard brown sugar cakes called panelas. Now, though, the old round millstones looked lonely nestled among the cane.
Carlos sat down on the hilltop and listened for the sound of the plane. He felt the warmth of the sun on his skin. Looking below him, he saw the rows of sugarcane, the banana plants waving gently beside his little house, the stretch of thick jungle underbrush, and the meandering river far below. I am truly lucky to live in such a beautiful place, he thought. But it would be wonderful to see it from the sky!
Carlos’s teacher, Señor Vargas, had explained that the small airplane came from the seacoast town of Turbo. It delivered mail to the small towns and plantations along the flat, hot coast before flying over the mountains to Medellín. There it refueled, picked up mail, and flew back.
“But, Carlos,” his teacher had tried to point out kindly, “in this village we are all poor, and poor people don’t ride in planes.”
Carlos had nodded solemnly, but he never stopped wishing that he would someday fly in a plane.
Now, as he sat on the hilltop near the mill, he heard the familiar thrumming of the mail plane, and soon it appeared overhead. Sometimes when it flew close enough to the ground, Carlos waved and the pilot waved back.
Suddenly Carlos realized that the familiar sound of the airplane engine had been replaced by a putt-putt-putt sound. Something was wrong! He watched with horror as the plane plummeted toward the ground and disappeared behind the hill.
Carlos scrambled toward the stricken airplane. It was rough going through the cane, but the soles of his feet were as tough as leather. When at last he saw the plane on the ground, one wheel strut was crumpled and the left wing looked like an accordion. He could see the pilot’s helmeted head resting against the side window. Is he alive? Carlos wondered. Carlos was scared and curious and anxious to help, all at the same time.
He called out to the pilot. His voice sounded lonely in the stillness. No answer. The helmet didn’t move. Then he saw that the engine had caught fire!
Carlos sprinted to the airplane, grasped the door handle with both hands, and pulled as hard as he could. Nothing happened.
Glancing at the underside of the plane, Carlos saw that the flames were licking toward the cockpit. Desperate, he pounded on the door. Suddenly the door opened, and the pilot toppled out—right on top of Carlos!
The boy staggered to his feet and tried to drag the man away from the plane. Although he was small, Carlos’s fear gave him enough strength to drag the man some distance from the plane. When the boy stopped at last to catch his breath, the pilot groaned, and Carlos noticed a nasty cut on the man’s head. Also, his leg appeared to be broken. The man opened his eyes just as flames completely engulfed the plane.
“Oh!” they both gasped. Carlos felt sick. The beautiful plane that he loved so much was burning up right in front of him. Tears filled his eyes.
The man gripped Carlos’s hand. “Don’t cry, boy. You saved my life!”
But Carlos saw that tears were streaming down the pilot’s face too. They hugged each other and tried to smile to cheer each other up. Soon Carlos was scrambling down the mountain again to bring help to his new friend, José.
Carlos’s father brought a neighbor who had had some medical training to set José’s broken leg and bandage his head. Since their valley could only be reached by horseback, José could not leave until his leg was healed.
Carlos was a hero! No one remembered that they had teased him about always running up to the mill to see the airplane. “How lucky that Carlos was in the cane field!” they said, and “How good that Carlos loves airplanes.”
Carlos just smiled.
José shook his head. “It was God’s will, Carlos. He knew I would need you to be there. You were there, and you saved my life. When I get better, I am going to take you for an airplane ride, if your father says it’s all right.”
Carlos couldn’t believe his ears! He turned to his father, who smiled and said, “OK, Alitas.”
Some weeks later José and Carlos set off for MedellÍn. And the next day Carlos was in the cockpit of a small mail plane, flying over his beautiful valley!
As José dipped the airplane’s wings, Carlos’s family and friends and Señor Vargas were all waving from the hilltop. And as Carlos waved, he was sure he was the happiest boy in the world.

Jovencio Ilagan smiles as he tells that he had intended to just play along with the missionaries who knocked on his door. “I wasn’t a very religious person,” he says. But then he began to read the Book of Mormon. As he was reading in Alma, he says, “I felt the warm feeling that comes when the Holy Ghost is there bearing testimony.” Jovencio, Zenaida, and their six children who were old enough set a baptismal date.

But three days before the baptism, “I had a business appointment with some of my old drinking buddies,” he says. “They persuaded me to drink beer with them.”

Jovencio admitted to the sister missionaries what he had done. “I’m sure they were devastated. I told them to go ahead and have my wife and children baptized, and I would follow later. But the very wise district leader said no. That was a tremendous pressure, you know! Here’s my family—they couldn’t be baptized! Oh, I struggled!” A week later, they were all baptized.

Soon Jovencio became Young Men president and Zenaida became Relief Society president. They’ve since had many callings, including his as regional representative and mission president.

The Ilagans saw their lives change in many ways. “We have a data entry service bureau,” he says, “and many times we had to work on Sundays to meet our deadlines. But after we joined the Church, we decided we wouldn’t work on Sundays. So we lost some clients. But the income we earned during the six days in the week was far more than what we used to make working overtime seven days a week.”

Then they had an opportunity to open a restaurant while still operating their service bureau. “But we never opened on Sundays. We never served any beer or coffee. We never sold any cigarettes—or anything that we felt was against the Word of Wisdom. Some customers would say, ‘What kind of restaurant is this?’ and walk off! But we had a good family atmosphere and reached a different market.”

A few years later, they sold the restaurant for a profit. Jovencio was hired as manager of the Church’s distribution center in Manila. He later worked with membership and statistical records and in data processing. Now he is area manager of materials management.

“The gospel brought a complete turnaround in my husband,” says Sister Ilagan. “It brought a peace I had never known before. And it came into our lives just in time for our children.” Several of them have served missions and have been married in the temple.

I’m Molly McKinzie, and in most ways I’m rather ordinary. My hair is brown. My eyes are a plain sort of gray. I’m not too short or too tall.
My best friend is Brenda. We both love pets, ballet lessons, climbing trees, and strawberry ice cream with chocolate on top. In other ways, though, we’re very different.
Brenda’s hair is curly and blond, and her eyes are a sparkling blue. And, when she giggles, Chuck Thornton, the neatest boy in our class, stares at her and can’t remember what he was going to say. I often wished he’d look at me like that.
It seemed hopeless, though, because of the one thing about me that isn’t ordinary—my nose.
“Most remarkable!” said Dad’s Aunt Prudence from Philadelphia, when she came to help after Mom had Michael. She tilted my chin up with her long, skinny finger and spoke to Mom as if I weren’t there. “It certainly doesn’t look like anyone from my side of the family.”
“Maybe not too much,” said Mom with a funny look on her face, “but Molly helps take good care of baby Michael.”
Mom was right. I did such a good job that Aunt Prudence didn’t have to stay very long.
I don’t know why grownups are forever trying to figure out who looks like whom. When Michael was born, everybody said things like, “Oh, how sweet! He has his mother’s delicate nose.”
“And his father’s chin and hair.” “Yes, but aren’t those Grandpa McKinzie’s ears?”
Actually, baby Michael looked like baby Michael to me and not like anybody else. It made me start thinking, though. There must have been somebody in the family with a nose like mine.
The day Michael rolled over for the first time, Mom hurried to get out his baby book so she could write it down. I got out my baby book too. Sometimes I like to look at it just for fun.
As I turned the pages, I noticed one that I hadn’t really looked at before. It was titled “My Family Tree.” All the lines were blank. I asked Mom if she had the names and pictures of the people who belonged there. I hoped that at least one of them would have a nose like mine.
Mom smiled. “I think we could find some of them.” When she finished feeding Michael, she got down a large box. “I have a few pictures, but you’ll have to ask Dad about his side of the family. I don’t know much about them.”
We dumped everything out onto the floor. “Someday I need to organize all this,” she said. We found pictures of aunts, uncles, cousins, grandmas, grandpas, birthday parties, graduations, and weddings. We filled in many of the spaces and kept working until Dad came home. He joined in the fun too. We only stopped to make some sandwiches.
Dad got out his large black photo album and filled in many spaces. There was a picture of Dad as a little boy pulling a small dog in a wagon.
I had to laugh. Dad looked so plain and ordinary, just like me, except that he had an ordinary nose. The remarkable nose just couldn’t be found. When we finished that night, all the spaces were filled except two.
“Hmmm,” said Dad, leaning back in his chair, “I wonder where we can find your great-great-grandparents.”
The next Saturday, Dad and I drove to a huge library in a nearby city. We looked through books and films and even used a computer to search for more clues. Finally, after looking for a long time, Dad found a name. “Philadelphia,” he said thoughtfully. “It looks like we need to write Aunt Prudence a letter. Will you help me, Molly?”
I wrinkled my remarkable nose. “I guess so,” I said.
I helped write the letter, then began checking the mailbox each day for an answer. “It will take many days,” Mom said. I waited and waited until I almost gave up.
Weeks later I was out walking our dog, Dixie, when the letter carrier came. He waved to me as he put a stack of mail in our box. I waved back and ran to see what was inside.
Dixie’s leash slipped through my hands as I shuffled through the letters. Just then, a big gust of wind came along and blew the mail everywhere. I ran around as fast as I could, gathering it up.
Dixie thought it was a fun game and caught the last letter in her teeth. When I tried to take it from her she growled playfully and ran away, wanting me to chase her.
“Bad dog!” I shouted, but she paid no attention, darting this way and that with the letter still in her teeth.
Chuck Thornton came around the corner just then, delivering newspapers. He stopped to watch the chase. It was so embarrassing. He whistled to Dixie, and she ran right to him and let him take the letter from her.
“Thanks, Chuck,” I said, a little out of breath. “She’s kind of silly sometimes.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Hey! Look at this. It’s addressed to you, Molly. It’s from somebody in Philadelphia.”
“Really?” I was so excited that my hands shook when I opened it.
Inside was a five-page letter and some very old pictures. I read it carefully while Chuck looked at the pictures.
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “My Great-Great-Grandmother and Grandfather McKinzie were immigrants from Ireland who helped build a town in Pennsylvania. There’s even a park named after them.”
“Wow! That’s neat!” Chuck exclaimed. He handed me the pictures. “You know, Molly, you even sort of look like your great-great-grandfather. It’s … uh … your distinguished-looking nose.”
I stared at his picture. It was true! There was my nose on my great-great-grandpa’s face. “Distinguished?” I asked Chuck nervously.
“Yes, I think it’s the perfect description of it. Lots of famous people have distinguished noses.”
“They do?”
“Sure! Even some movie stars.”
Mom opened the door. “It’s here!” I yelled, waving the letter. She invited Chuck in for hot cider and donuts. While we had our treat, she read the letter.
“Remarkable!” she said, looking at the pictures.
“Distinguished!” said Chuck.
We all laughed.

Almost a decade ago, I read a letter from a returned missionary who described this process in his life. He had written to thank those who direct missionary work “for daring to send me where the Lord required rather than where I had deemed appropriate.” He had come, he said, “from a background of proud, competitive intellectualism.” Before his mission he was a student at a prestigious university in the eastern United States. Quote:

“I guess out of a sense of obligation and inertia, I filled out my [missionary] papers and sent them in, extremely careful to mark the column indicating greatest desire to serve abroad and in a foreign language. I was careful to make it apparent that I was an accomplished student of Russian and fully capable of spending two years among the Russian people. Confident that no committee could resist such qualifications, I rested confident that I would enjoy a wonderfully mind-expanding cultural adventure.”

He was shocked to receive a call to serve in a mission in the United States. He didn’t know anything about the state where he would serve, except that it was in his own country speaking English rather than abroad speaking the language he had learned, and, as he said, “The people I would work with would likely be academic incompetents.” He continued, “I almost refused to accept the call, feeling that I would be more fulfilled by enlisting in the Peace Corps or something else.”

Fortunately, this proud young man found the courage and faith to accept the call and to follow the direction and counsel of his fine mission president. Then the miracle of spiritual growth began. He described it thus:
“As I began to serve among the uneducated people of [this state], I struggled mightily for several months, but gradually the sweet workings of the Spirit began to tear down the walls of pride and disbelief that had wrapped themselves so tightly around my soul. The miracle of a conversion to Christ began. The sense of the reality of God and the eternal brotherhood of all men came more and more powerfully to my troubled mind.”

It was not easy, he admitted, but with the influence of his great mission president and with his growing love for the people he served, it was possible, and it occurred.
“My desire to love and serve these people who in the ultimate scale were at least my peers, almost definitely my superiors, waxed stronger and stronger. I learned humility for the first time in my life; I learned what it means to make our valuations of others [without relying on the] irrelevant details of life. I began to feel swelling within my heart a love of the spirits that came here to earth with me” (letter to General Authorities, Feb. 1994).

Remember when the Prophet Joseph Smith went to John E. Page and said to him, “Brother Page, you have been called on a mission to Canada.”
Brother Page, struggling for an excuse, said, “Brother Joseph, I can’t go to Canada. I don’t have a coat to wear.”
The Prophet took off his own coat, handed it to John Page, and said, “Wear this,and the Lord will bless you.”
John Page went on his mission to Canada. In two years he walked something like 8,000 kilometers and baptized 600 converts.2 He was successful because he responded to an opportunity to serve his God.

On a ski trip to a large resort, some friends and I decided to split up and check out the various runs. We planned to meet later for lunch and compare notes on the runs for the afternoon.
I rode several lifts and enjoyed different runs. It was a glorious day. A storm had just passed, and everything was fresh and white.
I traversed the mountain to a run which is used less frequently than others. It had a very long ski lift and there were few people in line. I was alone on my chair and I stretched my arms across the back of the chair to enjoy the sensations of the morning. The world seemed a very friendly place. The bright sun shone in a deep, blue sky. The trees were dark, almost black, and contrasted with the brilliant white of the snow. Now and then I passed over tracks made by a rabbit or some other small animal. The sun was pleasant on my face, and the cold, bracing air felt good in my lungs. I took long, deep breaths and involuntarily broke into a wide grin.
I was enjoying all that was around me and wished for someone to share it with. Then I thought of my Heavenly Father. It was through his plan that I’d come to this earth to enjoy these things. I thought of his love and concern for me and felt I should express my gratitude to him. I prayed aloud. I told Heavenly Father how good it was to have a physical body that I could exercise and sense the beauties of this world with. I told him how I felt about the colors around me, and the great feeling of the warm sun mixed with the cold air. I told him that I loved him and was happy that he loved me enough to give me these things.
I had been praying to express my happiness to my Heavenly Father, but I also realized that my prayer was an attempt to make him happy. I thought of my earthly parents and how they enjoy hearing about the fun, exciting things of my life. Wouldn’t it gladden my Father in Heaven to hear about my joy?
The rest of that day was very special. I spent much of it sharing with my Heavenly Father the things around me. The more I shared the more I appreciated. It was wonderful to know I had found another way to express my love for him.

I was once driving home with my friends when someone brought up the subject of girls and asked “Whom do you like?” The young men in the front of the car had begun to mention names of young women, and then they asked me whom I liked.
“I don’t really like anyone in that way,” I answered.
That’s when the name of a young woman whom I used to be good friends with came up. They began to mention her name and insult her. I immediately felt the temptation to insult her as well and to agree with what they were saying. But I held my tongue. Slowly what they said got worse until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Stop,” I said quietly. “She’s not that way at all. She’s nice when you get to know her.”
They didn’t listen and continued to insult her. Again the temptation arose to insult her. “Why would she care? She doesn’t even have to know,” I thought to myself. I just listened for a moment.
“She is so weird,” one of the guys said.
By this time I’d had enough.
“You need to stop what you’re saying and be nice to her!” I said. “She has a really hard life, and insulting her even though she can’t hear you doesn’t make her life easier!”
Silence filled the car. I felt so alone, so strange.
When I got home, I thought and prayed about what had just happened. I began to feel better, and then I felt really good about my decision to defend rather than belittle this young woman.

One of grandfather’s finest qualities, and the one that I’d like to make the focus of this article, was his ability to forgive. Examples from his journal are many. Reading them has not only built up our love and respect for him, but it has given my family a greater desire and determination to live this same principle.
In grandfather’s journal dated September 28, 1906, we find the following: “As I piled my hay and did my work, I took twelve piles and stuck over the fence to my neighbor, as they had no hay for the horse and cows; and we could see a little gone from our area the night before.” He declared, “I would rather give them a little than have them steal.”
The Savior taught us this principle of forgiving and how important it is in our lives. He said: “Wherefore, I say unto you, that ye ought to forgive one another; for he that forgiveth not his brother his trespasses standeth condemned before the Lord; for there remaineth in him the greater sin.
“I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.
“And ye ought to say in your hearts—Let God judge between me and thee, and reward thee according to thy deeds.” (D&C 64:9–11.)
When we forgive men in our hearts and let the Lord judge the acts of men, we create a condition whereby men can live in peace with one another. Forgiving others frees us of ill feelings toward them. It lifts the burden of grudges from our heads, and it puts us in a position of seeking forgiveness from the Lord for our own sins. A spirit of forgiveness enables us to remain in control of our thoughts, words, and actions. An attitude of forgiveness generates a feeling of peace and optimism about life. Being forgiving helps us to keep from being easily offended, and we are less likely to judge the intentions of others in a negative way. We are also ready to accept correction and criticism ourselves. In times when we may be wronged or mistreated, we can, in the spirit of love and peace, work out solutions to the problems. We can determine a positive course of action. If an honorable agreement cannot be reached, the attitude of forgiveness provides us the strength to turn the other cheek in the spirit of love.
On one occasion some men were constructing a watering gate in a canal on grandfather’s farm. He noticed that they were placing the gate in the wrong location. He tried to persuade them to put the gate in a location that they had originally agreed upon. The foreman became angry. He said, “Johansen, that will be enough from you. We’re going to do just as we please.” Grandfather replied, “And so will all robbers.” Then he began to sing the words of a Danish song that begins, “Be careful what you say.” These words were a reminder to him to remain forgiving. The men continued to build the watering gate, but the gate did grandfather very little good. He never mentioned the wrong that these men had done to him, but he often recorded how he had to pray for rain because he could get so little water from the canal. He also records that the rain came.
Yes, prayer is a very important part of the spirit of forgiveness. We must ask the Lord to forgive those who offend us and soften our hearts toward them. Through prayer we may find the strength to forgive others and leave their judging in the hands of the Lord. We also receive comfort and direction for our own lives. Grandfather Johansen’s life has demonstrated the value of living the principles of forgiveness and obedience. His faith in the Lord enabled him to live a full and happy life, a life which has left his posterity a rich spiritual heritage. I am grateful to him and to my Heavenly Father that my family are the beneficiaries of that righteous man.

Paulina M., age 18, Podlasie, Poland
Likes to play the violin, play the piano, and read novels.
In middle school I struggled a lot with self-image and trying to fit in. I would try to exercise to look a certain way, but I just didn’t feel happy with the image in the mirror.
Then my older sister got her patriarchal blessing, and I started thinking about getting mine. I was 12 years old, and at first I thought I might be too young. But I prayed and talked to my bishop, and it felt right.
My patriarchal blessing reminded me that Heavenly Father is aware of me and that He knows the struggles I go through. He knows my name personally. He is there to help me if I’m just willing to ask for His help.
Sometimes you might look at yourself and think you’re not pretty enough by the world’s standards. But I learned for myself that God’s view of me is more important than anyone else’s. And if I know that God sees me as His daughter, then that’s all I need.

It was an early morning in 2008 when my mother woke me up to go to school. I was really happy that morning, but I didn’t know that it would turn into the worst day of my life or the last time I would be with her. I didn’t finish all my classes that day because a friend of our family had to pick me up and tell me that my mom had killed herself. I was only 12 years old.

I thought, “How can I live without my mother?” She was my best friend.

I cried for months. I didn’t like going to school because the other children treated me differently and felt sorry for me. I had no clue what I was supposed to do; I only knew I had to be strong for everyone else.

One day, five or six months after my mom’s death, I was alone in my room by the window, crying, trying to understand what I was here for. Suddenly I heard a voice in my head: “You are my daughter; I won’t let you suffer.” I knew it was God. But it surprised me because I didn’t believe in Him anymore, especially since I felt that it was God who had taken my mother from me. Even though I didn’t know what He meant, I felt safe.

Three years later I went to Rome, Italy, to visit my uncle. He kept telling me about this church he went to. One Sunday, he took me with him. I will always remember walking toward the church’s doors for the first time and feeling the love of Heavenly Father when I went in. It felt like home.

I started going to church every single Sunday and to every activity during the week. I loved being with the youth of the Church. They made me happier. They thought and believed in the same things that I did. Then, after three months, my summer holiday finished and I had to go back to Albania.

When I returned home, I told my dad about the feelings I had had and how happy I had felt during all that time. He didn’t like it. He told me he wouldn’t allow me to continue to go to church or learn more about it. So I would have to be patient for the next three years until I turned 18 years old. Then I could decide for myself and get baptized.

During this time I was blessed with so many people who would tell me about what they learned each Sunday at church. One of those people was Stephanie. She had been living in Italy when my uncle joined the Church, but she had returned to her home in the United States. My uncle thought it would be good for us to write to each other, so I added her as a friend on Facebook.

Even though we had never met in person, I will always be grateful to her for helping me build my faith and learn more about the gospel of Jesus Christ. She wrote to me almost every Sunday and told me everything she learned in church and then would answer my questions. She was a great friend to me.

Finally, after years of being patient, I was baptized just two days after my 18th birthday. And soon I will share with my mother the happiness I felt that day, because I will be baptized for her. I know she will be proud of the life I have chosen.

I feel blessed by Heavenly Father because He was with me during my entire journey in so many ways. I just had to wait and be patient because He had a plan for me. He’s the one who gave me strength to go through all the challenges I faced. He was always there, helping me be happier.

On a rainy morning in 1953, 79-year-old President David O. McKay visited Thurso, Scotland, to see the home where his forebears had embraced the restored gospel more than 100 years earlier. President McKay’s son Llewelyn, who accompanied him on this visit, recalled: “[As we approached the home], the sun broke through the clouds and smiled at us as though he were reflecting the joy and happiness in father’s heart. As we all gathered in front of the home, tears came to father’s eyes as he looked through the door. ‘If it had not been for two missionaries knocking on this door about 1850, I shouldn’t be here today!’” he declared.1
Even though the home had fallen into disrepair and was by that time used only to store potatoes, President McKay lingered for some time in the doorway, speaking fondly of what had happened there. The gratitude and joy President McKay expressed that day were characteristic of his life and ministry. As a General Authority for almost 64 years, including 19 years as the ninth President of the Church, he served with the energy of one who cared deeply for people and for the gospel and found joy in bringing the two together.