Gospel Story Finder

I could not help noticing the lady across the aisle. She was looking around the bus with her eyes wide, her thin hands clasped together in front of her. She kept squinting out the window, shaking her wispy hair, and making a funny noise. She began fidgeting more and more, and I wondered if she was going to make a scene. I turned to the window, trying to ignore her. But curiosity made me look back again.
It was then that I saw the tears in her eyes. I wondered if she might be in trouble. I wanted to help, but what if she did make a scene? I wouldn’t know what to do. Besides, I thought, I have to get to school on time, and my stop is coming up.
Then I looked at her again and saw the fearful expression on her face. The next thing I knew, I stood up, crossed the aisle, and sat down beside her.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you need some help?”
Her eyes were wet, and her hands were shaking. She turned her delicate face to me, and I saw confusion in her eyes. I asked her again, “Are you okay?”
She looked down at her green handbag and fumbled through it for a pen and a notebook. She began writing, “Have we left Ottawa? I think I took the wrong bus.”
I picked up the pen and wrote, “Are you deaf?” She responded with a nod. “Don’t worry,” I continued to write. “We’ll figure this out.”
My stop was coming up next, and I knew this would make me late, but I didn’t get off. Instead, I approached the bus driver, and he phoned the station for directions. I wrote the alternate route down for her, and the bus driver said he would ensure that she caught the connecting bus.
“What is your name?” I wrote quickly, before getting off at a stop quite a distance from the school.
“Anna,” she scribbled. “Thank you. You are the friend I was praying for.” A calm smile spread across her face that made her hazel eyes sparkle. I could feel her love and appreciation. As I smiled back at her, I felt an understanding bond us together.
As the door swished behind me and I waved good-bye, I could not believe I had almost let Anna take that frightening journey alone. I ran all the way back to school with a smile on my face. I was glad I had listened to the promptings of the Holy Ghost telling me that someone needed my help.

While I was walking off the playground one late afternoon, after several weeks of helping out at the school, the principal pulled me off to the side.

The children were playing on the playground equipment they had earned by collecting Campbell’s Soup labels.

“See that little girl over there?” he asked, pointing to a skinny, olive-skinned, dark-haired girl sitting on the steps.

I nodded.

“She came to us last year from the public school system. The teachers said she was slow, uncooperative and noncommunicative. No one could reach her to teach her. So they sent her here as a last resort. She has really come out of her shell here with these kids.”

I noticed the girl was hugging a young student after he had fallen down.

“But she won’t respond to any adults. As soon as one of the teachers tries to engage her in something, she clams up and stares and won’t respond.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“Because we’ve tried everything we know and she still won’t respond. I’ve even worked with her myself.”

Then the principal paused.

“And there’s something else,” he said. “I was going through her records today. When she was tested—when she first entered school—she had a very high I.Q. By the time they sent her to us, her I.Q. had dropped to an infantile level. Her hands are deformed, and she has a wooden leg. The records report that she was treated badly by the other public students. But the kids here don’t make fun of her. They adore her. She is everyone’s second mother.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked again.

“I thought maybe you could reach her somehow.”

“I’ll try.”

From that time on I made it a point to observe this little girl every chance I got. I read her records and found out her name was Monica. She was 12 years old. A mother was listed on her records but no father. I noticed Monica spent a lot of time by the piano in the classroom. Because her fingers were deformed and small, she would sometimes start banging on the keys with her palms until all the other children were laughing and stomping their feet. At this point, the teacher would drag her away from the piano and take her to the principal’s office.

I watched the teachers and aids approach Monica with games, papers, blocks, and books. But she wouldn’t respond in any way.

Sometimes I’d sit down at the piano and play a couple of tunes. Monica would stand near the piano and listen. Once I noticed her squatting down at the side of the piano and placing her ear up against the wood.

One afternoon as I was playing, she came over to the bench and sat down next to me. Then she pushed my hands off the piano and began pounding on the keys with her palms. I gently took her hand and rolled it into a fist. Then I guided her hand to the piano and showed her how to play a simple tune that my mother had taught me as a child. It was a tune that she could play by rolling a fist down the black keys.

Monica quickly caught on and played the tune over and over. From that moment, she seemed to sense that I was her friend.

One morning during recess, I noticed Monica crouching beside a bush near the entrance to the school. I walked up behind her and could see that she was studying a chrysalis hanging precariously on a twig. The butterfly inside was almost free, struggling desperately to free its wings.

“You know,” I said whispering next to her ear, “that used to be just a funny looking caterpillar. Now look at it. In a few minutes it will be a beautiful butterfly.”

Monica didn’t say a word. In a moment the butterfly was separating its damp wings, and the gentle breeze soon dried the bright orange and black pattern. Moments later the breeze lifted the delicate wing expanse and the butterfly was gone. Monica cupped her hands and with them she followed the butterfly into the air as if attempting to follow.

Then she turned and looked at me. She looked me directly in the eye. Deep, dark, and brown, her eyes were wet and soft and imploring. In that brief instant, I knew. Monica was not mentally retarded. She was trapped somewhere deep inside.

“I want …” she said.

Then her eyes darted to the ground, and she ran up the stone stairs and into the school.

I suddenly realized that Monica had found some kind of security and love with the mentally retarded children that she could not find in the public school system and at home. Her infantile behavior was simply her way of making sure she could stay here. If she responded to any adult and showed her intelligence, she knew she would be put back into a system where she had been abused.

Weeks grew into months, and soon Monica and I were good friends. But whenever I questioned her about her home, she would avoid the questions and change the subject.

“I like the way you smile at me,” Monica said to me one day. “My mother never smiles at me.”

Later I found out from the principal that Monica lived alone with her mother. Her mother was on welfare and spent most of her days sleeping and most of her nights going from bar to bar. She often had different men living with her. Much of the time there was little or no food at the house.

When Monica had progressed sufficiently that the principal thought she was ready to return to the public schools, he asked me to speak to her about it.

After I talked to Monica, she pulled away from me and told me she would do or act any way she had to to stay at the school.

I spent a lot of sleepless nights wondering what to do. Finally, one morning it came to me. That afternoon I talked to Monica about my idea. She agreed enthusiastically, so I went to the principal.

We worked out a plan where Monica could obtain the regular public school textbooks and materials for her age level and remain at the special school. Then Monica would spend each day doing her regular school work with a little help from the teacher and student aids.

The teachers and principal were amazed at how quickly she grasped her subjects and how quickly she progressed.

My course work became more and more difficult at college, and my hours at Monica’s school became less and less.

Four years later, after my graduation, I walked down to the special school to say good-bye. Most of the same students were there, but they were older now. Monica had developed into a strikingly beautiful young lady.

She had gone through her class work so quickly and well that she had taken her college entrance exams earlier that spring and had been admitted to college on scholarship at the age of 16 for the next fall.

Monica’s teacher was still telling Kenny to “Shh!” when he told his corny jokes. The principal was a little balder and plumper.

The children gave me a going-away party with cake, streamers, hugs, and tears. Monica proudly showed me her college scholarship and admission papers.

The principal put his arm around Monica’s shoulder and said, “You know I’ll be retiring in a few years. I think Monica would make a great replacement for me, don’t you?”

I don’t know what happened to Monica after that. After college I moved away, married, and had children of my own. But I have often thought about her.

I recall vividly when I was presiding over a mission some years ago in Central and South America. I was interviewing a sister by the name of Sister Rodgers. As we were speaking in warm conversation, she looked at me and she said, “President, I just found out with whom I am going to the temple to be sealed.”

I smiled and I said, “Sister Rodgers, is it logical, while you dedicate all of your time, your efforts, and all of your thoughts to the service of the Lord in the mission field, that the Lord would tell you here who you are going to marry?”

She said, “No, it isn’t logical, but I know.”

At the instant she said that there came to my mind, as clearly as can be, a face and a name.

I said, “Sister Rodgers, I believe you. What’s more, I know who it is.”

She looked at me in a very surprised manner and she said, “You do?”

I said, “Yes, the face just flashed before my mind, and I know his name. Sister Rodgers, in this mission we have five countries. He is one of the missionaries.” I hadn’t mentioned his name. “And I don’t recall your even working in the same country with him. So I don’t understand how you would know him.”

She said, “President, I haven’t worked in the same country or the same city, but I was at one zone conference and I saw him at a distance and the Lord told me he was to be my eternal companion.”

I said, “And his name is ———.”

And she said, “Yes.”

She smiled and shed some tears. We spoke on for a few minutes and then she told me about another experience she had had with someone in the field. Again, the impression clearly came to my mind of his face and his name, and I said, “I know who he is, also. It was———.”

She said, “Yes.”

You can imagine the warm rapport we felt between the two of us, knowing that the Lord was blessing us, knowing that he is interested in every single missionary. That is to say, every single missionary whether he is in the field or out of the field.

I was pleased to note, in the not too distant future, even though she lived in California and he lived in Idaho, that I received an invitation to the temple marriage, because they met at BYU. I have visited them since. They live in Boise, Idaho. They have a beautiful, happy home, in which I have dined. They have four beautiful children. He’s the bishop of the ward and a practicing lawyer.

Can you imagine the anchor they have because of that divine guidance they received from the Lord? It is the anchor to their marital life for eternity, knowing the Lord’s will had been manifested to them as to who they were to marry. Such guidance is so essential to us all of the time.

I'll tell you a quick story about my father and President McKay. My father was called to be the Branch President of a branch of the church at the Utah State Training School. The school was a school for handicapped, mentally and physically, young adults. President Hugh B. Brown had a granddaughter there and was very interested in the progress of Dad's branch. President Brown visited the branch often.

One day, my father and neighbor who had been instrumental in the building of the church building at the school, traveled to Salt Lake with President Brown to give to President McKay a plaque made by the branch members. They took along a young man named Dary who was a mentally handicapped young man as a representative of the Branch. President McKay was aging and his health was suffering, so they went to visit President McKay in his apartment.

President McKay was in bed, yet he shook Dad's hand and welcomed the group. Dary then presented President McKay with the plaque. After which, in Dary's innocent enthusiasm, he unexpectedly threw his arms around the neck of President McKay and gave him a big hug, and told President McKay he loved him.

Well, President McKay was weak and lying in bed. And he started to cry. Not because Dary squeezed him so hard, but because he was so moved by Dary's genuine expression of love. President Brown then bore testimony of the special place in eternity God has for the mentally handicapped here on earth. To this day, my Dad still speaks reverently of that experience with a prophet of God. My father loved serving as Branch President and loved the members of his branch.

An elder told of traveling from Vietnam and arriving at a refugee camp near Seattle, Washington. While trying to learn English so he could live in the United States, someone gave him a small card with a picture and an address on it. He kept it for some reason. Later, when he was asked where he wanted to live he showed this card to the customs official. “I can’t send you there,” he was told “but I can send you to a place nearby.” He was sent to live with a Latter-day Saint family in Salt Lake City where he learned about the Church. As he finished telling me this story, he showed the card he had been given in the refugee camp. It was a picture of the MTC. “I am here, President,” he said. Like the others, he thought it was a privilege to go on a mission.

Dr. Heyerdahl—With great argumentation, with terrific debate! Scientists said that it would be impossible for anyone to leave America with a raft. Well, I had collected a thick volume of evidence, but no scientists wanted to read it because they said that balsa rafts and reed boats were the best vessels used by South American Indians and such vessels would get waterlogged and sink in two weeks. Well, even to me a reed boat sounded completely crazy at that time. So I discarded that. But I thought that a log raft would be sturdy enough to make it. Fortunately I knew nothing about sailing—otherwise, I never would have gone ahead. But I just believed in my ideas enough to do it anyway. The scientists kept warning me that a balsa raft would sink in two weeks. They’d taken a piece of dry balsa and put it in a tank, and it did absorb water and sink in two weeks. But if you do it like the Indians, go into the jungle and cut a tree with sap, the sap acts against impregnation. So together with four Norwegians and a Swede, right after World War II ended, I built the raft we called Kon-Tiki, after the legendary sun god of Peru. We left Peru and in 101 days had floated to Polynesia. Not only did the raft stay afloat off the Polynesian coast for several months after our arrival, but we took it to Norway and it floated for six months in the Oslo Fjord before we took it ashore to a museum.

Two days ago we attended a funeral here in our community of an 18-month-old baby boy who was ran over by a car and killed. The bishop shared what he felt was the most important lesson we could learn form this devastating moment. When the driver who ran over this little baby realized what had happened, he got out of the car, and with great sadness and sorrow, went over with some depredations to express his deepest apology to the father for his carelessness. This young father said he was compelled to give him a hug and tell him "I forgive you" and never hesitated to do just that.

Something we have heard the Prince of Peace had once said when he was on the cross at Golgotha, crucified for our sins: "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."

I thought family history was ancient history that was completely irrelevant to me until I had an experience that helped me gain a new appreciation for it.
During a family home evening lesson on the life of one of my ancestors, I discovered that even though he lived more than 150 years ago, he learned lessons in his lifetime that can help me in my life today.
He kept a detailed journal, which included “11 Rules for Living.” In our family home evening lesson we discussed his rules and looked up scriptures that supported them. They are:
Say secret prayers (Matthew 6:6).
Keep your tongue in check (Proverbs 21:23).
Suppress anger (Proverbs 16:32).
Consider the effect of every action before doing it (Luke 14:28–29).
Cultivate humility and charity (1 Corinthians 16:14).
Let love be the mainstream of all your actions (John 3:16).
Think of Christ upon the cross (1 Corinthians 15:22).
Stop work when tired (Mosiah 4:27).
Do not eat, sleep, or drink more than needed (D&C 88:124).
Consider that others do not look on things as you do, and sometimes they are right (D&C 88:122).
Remember that you are never alone. Therefore, do nothing you wouldn’t do in the presence of angels (D&C 121:9).
My aunt embroidered these rules on a wall-hanging that we keep near our door to remind us to try to live by them. My Great-Grandfather Twede also taught me the importance of keeping a journal. I love writing in my journal and then reading back through what I’ve written. It’s interesting to see how I’ve changed and how much I’ve learned.
I have also learned that the rules my Great-Grandfather Twede lived by in the 1800s still work today. My favorite rule to live by is “Remember you are never alone. Therefore, do nothing you wouldn’t do in the presence of angels.” This has helped me realize that I should always strive to choose the right and live up to my standards. Studying Great-Grandfather Twede’s 11 rules for living has helped me appreciate his example and understand that family history is important to my life today.

The choirmaster of St. Michael’s Church looked up in surprise at the two travel-stained young boys the doorkeeper had just brought into the room. “What’s that you say?” he asked, turning to the youngsters. “You want to sing in my choir?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Please take us into your choir and school,” both boys answered at once, their eyes lighting up and brightening their faces in spite of their tired, dusty appearance.
“You must be able to sing well to join the choir of St. Michael’s,” the choirmaster said. “But first, tell me about yourselves. What are your names, and where are you from?”
“My name is Sebastian Bach,” the younger of the two boys said. “This is my Georg Erdmann. We have come from Ohrdruf.”
“Bach. Ah, yes,” the choirmaster said. The musical Bach family, he mused. How well they are known throughout the countryside. “But tell me,” he said, turning to the boys and staring into their dusty faces, “Ohrdruf is two hundred miles away. Surely you did not walk all the way here to Lüneburg.”
“Yes, sir, we did,” Sebastian answered.
“Except when a kindly old man gave us a ride in his oxcart,” Georg added.
“Sir,” Sebastian said. “We have a letter for you from our choirmaster in Ohrdruf. He told us to come here.”
“He said that to sing in your choir would pay for our tuition and lodging at St. Michael’s,” Georg added.
“Yes, that is so,” the choirmaster said, “and you must sing well, or Elias Herda would not have recommended you. But now you must have food and rest. Tomorrow we shall hear you sing.”
Sebastian and Georg ate heartily the soup and bread that were placed before them. When they finished, they sat wrapped in blankets before a warm fire. Soon they were sound asleep.
The next morning, when the choirmaster saw how easily they could read music and heard what clear, beautiful tones they sang with, he was delighted. “Yes, indeed,” he said, nodding his approval. “We certainly have a place for such fine voices in our choir.” Turning to Sebastian, he said, “Even for a Bach, your musical training has been superior.”
“My brother Christoph taught me a lot the last five years,” Sebastian told him. “When my parents died, I went to live with him in Ohrdruf.”
Sebastian’s home had been in Eisenach, Germany. Like almost all the other male Bachs, his first name was Johann. His family was very musical, and there was always much singing and music-making in their home. In fact, once a year all the Bach relatives gathered together for a three-day music fest.
When Sebastian went to live with his brother, Christoph taught him to play the clavier, which was a forerunner of the piano. Christoph taught him to play other musical instruments, too, and it was the organ that thrilled Sebastian the most. He loved to sit in church and listen to the music flowing from the mighty instrument. It was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. Now that I am in the choir school, I want to learn to play the organ better, he thought.
Sebastian eagerly began his new life at St. Michael’s. There were other lessons to study, but he was happiest when it was time for music. When his voice changed and he could no longer sing in his fine soprano tones, he played the violin and other instruments in the church orchestra. He spent countless hours practicing the music of the great masters and learning from them. Many, many years later Johann Sebastian Bach would be considered one of the greatest masters of music, but today he was just a young boy eagerly learning all he could from the opportunities he found before him.
One of those opportunities was that of studying the organ with the accomplished Georg Böhm, organist of St. John’s Church in Lüneburg. Sebastian loved to send the music echoing through the church, sometimes softly, sometimes loudly. Melodies began to flow through his mind, and he wrote them down.
During his lifetime Sebastian became famous as an organist. Most of the music he wrote was played or sung in churches. But although he wrote a vast amount of music, very little of his work was published in his lifetime. It was not until Mozart, and later Beethoven, heard the music of Johann Sebastian Bach and taught it to their students and presented it to the world that people realized what a great genius Bach was. March 21, 1985, will be the three hundredth anniversary of his birth. Today, Johann Sebastian Bach is still bringing joy to those who listen to his beautiful music.

In 1830 almost everyone in Kirtland, Ohio, was talking about the “Golden Bible” that missionaries had brought from New York. Many people were excited about the gospel, had been baptized, and were telling friends about their new faith. Others were offended by this new religion and went about warning their neighbors against it. It seemed that there was not even a mousehole where the Church was not being either commended or condemned.

All this talk caused a great curiosity about the Church and the Book of Mormon. Twelve-year-old Mary Elizabeth Rollins, a recently-baptized member, wanted to see the Book of Mormon, but at that time there were very few copies of it available. When she heard that a neighbor, Isaac Morley, had one, she went to his home to see it. When she first glimpsed the book, an overwhelming desire came over her to read it. Gathering her courage, she asked if she could take the book home and read it while Brother Morley attended a missionary meeting that evening.

Brother Morley hesitated but finally said, “Child, if you will bring this book back before breakfast tomorrow morning, you may take it.”

Mary hurried home with the book, threw open the door, and exclaimed to her uncle and aunt, “Here is the ‘Golden Bible!’”

Immediately her aunt and uncle sat down with her and begin taking turns reading until late at night. Mary got up the next morning as soon as it was light enough to see and memorized the first verse. Then she hurried to Brother Morley’s house to return the book.

Upon greeting her, Brother Morley said, “I guess you did not read much in it.” When Mary showed him how far they had read, he was surprised. “I don’t believe you can tell me one word of it,” he said. Mary repeated the verse she had memorized and told him the story of Nephi. At that, Brother Morley gazed at her and said, “Child, take this book home and finish it. I can wait.”*

The road to recognition in this country has been both difficult and frustrating. Since receiving our European assignments, Elder Ringger and I have traveled to Czechoslovakia at least once each year to meet with governmental officials in Prague. Two transoceanic journeys were rewarded only with failed appointments or hopes dashed with the empty statement that “your request for recognition is still being studied.” When we returned to Prague on 6 February 1990, however, we found that the official with whom we had been dealing had been removed from his chair. When his successor heard our complete story, he said, “Your request for recognition will be approved this very month. Your people may again worship in full dignity. Your missionaries may again return to this country.” Recognition was granted February 21, effective 1 March 1990.

When that important declaration was made, I sensed that the real hero in this story was our district president in Czechoslovakia, Jiri Snederfler. Some two and one-half years earlier, Elder Ringger and I had learned that recognition could be formally requested only by a Czechoslovakian member of the Church. So we went to the home of Brother and Sister Snederfler. We explained that we had just received that information from the chairman of the Council of Religious Affairs. Knowing that other Czechoslovakian leaders and thinkers had been imprisoned or put to death for religious or dissident belief, we told Brother Snederfler that we, as his Church leaders, could not and would not make that request of him. After contemplating only a brief moment, Brother Snederfler humbly said, “I will go! I will do it!” As he spoke, his wife, Olga, shed a tear. They embraced and said, “We will do whatever is needed. This is for the Lord, and His work is more important than our freedom or life.”

Some months later, when the papers were properly prepared, Brother Snederfler submitted them personally. He and our members were then subjected to strict surveillance. The Saints continued in courage and faith. Ultimately, after periodic fasting and prayer and complete compliance with all requirements, that glorious announcement of recognition came. How I admire the Snederflers and all these stalwart members who endured so much interrogation and risk!

Brother Snederfler has been called to preside over the Freiberg Germany Temple effective 1 September 1991, succeeding President Burkhardt, who has given more than six years of devout and faithful service. Sister Olga Snederfler will serve as temple matron, succeeding Sister Inge Burkhardt.

On 1 July 1990, a mission in Czechoslovakia, forbidden for forty years, was again opened, with Richard W. Winder as president of the Czechoslovakian Mission. He had served in that country on his first mission as a young man. His wife, Barbara, was released as general president of the Relief Society to accompany her husband on this crucial assignment for which they alone were so uniquely qualified.

When I was about to go on a mission, I worried about the same things that today worry the young men and young women who will also serve missions. I worried about work, my girlfriend, school, and family. When I was old enough to go on a mission, my father was almost 66 years old, and I thought, My father is old, and if I leave for two years, he may die and I will not see him anymore. Who will take care of my mother? She will be all alone when he is no longer at her side.

May I tell you that I served two years in the mission, I served in the Church schools in Chile for five years, I served as a mission president for three years, as a regional representative for six years, and then in the Seventy before my father died in 1993 at the age of 94.

The Granger (Utah) Seventh Ward Aaronic Priesthood and Young Women organizations learned recently how to do service in secret. Recognizing that there is usually a need for service within the boundaries of one’s own ward, the youth began what they called their “secret pal” project. The plan was taken to the bishop’s youth committee where the bishop approved the plan and furnished names of people in the ward who were widowed, ill, elderly, or had sickness in their homes.
It was a year-long project of anonymous service. In November the youth went on a scavenger hunt to collect food items for Thanksgiving dinner for their secret pals. Bishop Brent E. Butterfield supplied the turkeys. The young women spent hours baking in the meetinghouse kitchen, and the young men wrapped and delivered the food. The youth also sent packages to missionaries and servicemen.
Christmastime found the youths making and filling Christmas stockings, making ornaments, decorating Christmas trees, and caroling throughout the ward neighborhood. Other service projects included baking and frosting cupcakes and wrapping fresh fruit for St. Patrick’s Day.
The project culminated in June. Engraved invitations were mailed to each of the participants. A black Cadillac limousine chauffeured by the bishop and Brother Rick Bauer, a member of the teachers quorum, was dispatched to pick up the guests in real style. There was a red carpet laid out for them outside the church door, and as each guest entered, Brother Frank Reedy, president of the teachers quorum, announced the arrival’s name. The young men were all in black tuxedos, and the young women were attired in their Sunday-best long dresses. A five-course dinner was prepared and served. Guests were served by waiters (young men in tuxedos with red linen napkins on their arms) who functioned with flair and ease.
A new tradition has begun in Granger, and the young people are already excited about the next year’s secret service.

Michael and his mom moved into our ward when he was 11. Like the other boys in the ward, he was excited to receive the Aaronic Priesthood and pass the sacrament when he turned 12. But unlike the other boys, passing the sacrament would be a challenge for him.
Michael was born prematurely and suffered such severe brain damage that doctors doubted he’d develop normally. The fact that Michael has cognitive skills at the same level as his peers is nothing short of a miracle, but he still deals with physical limitations.
Michael can walk only with assistance, and he needs help taking care of basic needs. Still, he attends church, participates in his classes, and shares his testimony with others.
When Michael was ordained a deacon, some people in our ward wondered how he would be able to pass the sacrament with the rest of the boys his age. One of his fellow deacons found a solution. This young man pushed Michael’s wheelchair down the aisles of the chapel as Michael passed the sacrament tray.
We watched with tears in our eyes as Michael served us, and his friend served him. We learned that day that true service comes not only from hands, arms, or legs. Service also comes from the heart.

I was living with my mom in a little town in Mexico where everyone knows each other. I knew right from wrong, but I was confused and the only active young woman in the whole town.
I wanted to fit in, so I did one thing that made sense back then: have a boyfriend. This was only one of the first mistakes I started to make. I started giving in to peer pressure and believing I was old enough to think for myself, which meant becoming an inactive young woman who lived in darkness.
I lived in darkness for a year, with every passing day becoming darker. My poor decisions led to arguments with my family, and I realized I couldn’t keep living with them. But it wasn’t until the death of a close Latter-day Saint friend that I realized something was missing. Unfortunately, I blamed God and the gospel. I stopped believing that blessings came from being obedient. I knew that if I didn’t decide to start living the gospel, I would continue ignoring my connection with the Church and keep living in a worldly manner.
I was sitting on my bed in a dark room, crying and feeling sorry for myself when I realized that I was afraid—afraid of being there alone with no one to talk to, afraid of not being able to fix all the wrongs I had done, afraid that no one was going to forgive me, especially God.
Eventually, I moved to Minnesota, USA, with my grandparents, who are not members of the Church. My stepdad flew with me, and my first Sunday there, we went to church, but only for sacrament meeting. By the end of the meeting I had already decided to leave the Church, but to my surprise, just when we were going to the car, we saw the bishop running to catch up to us. He asked us a few questions and invited us to come back next Sunday—and we did.
The next Sunday, just as sacrament meeting was ending, before I could stand up, I was surrounded by the young women from the ward—young women who would help me change my life.
Illustration by Alberto Ruggieri
I suddenly entered a completely different world: a world with a bishop and a Young Women president who cared for me and, most of all, young women who tried to live the gospel daily, who strived to live high standards and stand for the right. They shined so much that they could brighten the path before me.
That’s when I realized what I had to do: “Let [my] light so shine before men, that they may see [my] good works, and glorify [my] Father which is in heaven” (see Matthew 5:16). And so I started by going to church and Mutual every week, reading the Book of Mormon and praying every day, dressing modestly, using better language, going to the temple, and preparing myself to get my patriarchal blessing.
I had completely changed, but I didn’t realize it until Young Women camp, when I felt the Holy Ghost and discovered that I had a testimony—a testimony that would remind me that God loves me, that He has a plan for me, and that He doesn’t want me to be alone. A testimony so bright and strong that it changed me. A testimony to share and light not only my path but others’. A testimony that is not afraid to shine in the dark.

The city lay in darkness. The blank windows of the mercantile store glinted now and then with a hint of the treasures inside. The white stars at the roof of the bandstand stood out against their red, white, and blue bunting.
When the Heritage Arts Committee began selecting displays from Heritage Arts festivals to be exhibited at June Conference, they soon realized that the work was just too good to be housed in little square booths. They called a special “atmosphere committee” that decided to create a turn-of-the-century village to house the displays in the Salt Palace convention center. They drew up plans and assigned a ward, stake, or group of stakes to put up each of the buildings.
Local stake presidents were asked to provide 40 journeymen carpenters and 40 helpers. The 80 built a whole frame city out of two-by-fours one Saturday morning, using enough lumber to have built four four-bedroom houses.
But before even one two-by-four had felt a hard-hit nail, thousands of Church members had spent months planning, researching and collecting relics of the past, not to mention learning, developing, or brushing up on age-old skills.
The red-brick grammar school seemed to slumber in the shadows. Next to the co-op, the balconied Deseret Hotel was shadowy and silent. The social hall looked awkward and lonely without its crowds of happy people.
Members of the Aaronic Priesthood and the Young Women of the Holladay 22nd Ward, Salt Lake City, began when the bishop’s youth committee discussed activities stressing the past that might interest young ward members. They chose as their theme “Born of Goodly Parents” in appreciation for the legacy of other generations. Class presidents met together with class members and selected projects. Together the young people worked under the supervision of their presidencies, calling on the ward service and activities committee to suggest specialists and to help coordinate. The kids sponsored a potluck banquet and invited all ward members to see their projects. They set up the displays in the ward meetinghouse and were later invited to do the same for the stake festival. The Salt Palace display was their third. This time they were to display their skills in an old-time mercantile store.
The Church steeple was gray against the blackness. The barber pole was merely a shimmer of pale white stripes.
When the frames were up, the wards and stakes assigned moved in and started fleshing out the skeletons. Although each group was given a suggested plan for the facade of its building, everyone was encouraged to make improvements, and some groups even called on architects in their stake to help create authentic and beautiful designs.
The spirit of cooperation and achievement was infectious. One man and his teenage helper started driving their pickup down the street toward their building, glancing at the work on both sides as they went. Before long they stopped the pickup and started backing out. When someone asked them what was wrong, the man replied, “Ours isn’t good enough. We’ll be back.” He went home and got a crew and more materials and came back and built a whole new storefront.
The newspaper presses were silent. There were no car sounds, no people sounds, not even dog sounds. The town was suspended in a stillness unknown to modern cities. The clocks all said 4:00P.M.
In the Sweet Shop a retired carpenter worked alongside an Aaronic Priesthood youth. They did not work swiftly, but every small detail was finished perfectly.
At the post office a deacon, a teacher, and their nine-year-old sister painted real-looking rocks on the whole building, putting in more than 14 hours each.
An 81-year-old lady working on the grammar school climbed up and down a ladder, pasting each red cardboard brick on individually.
Soon, a gleam came from the east, and the city lights flickered on. Men and women came. Doors began to open. There was talk and laughter. Dresses and dolls and rugs and plows and saddles were set out. The barber stood ready by his chair. The potter’s wheel began to turn.
In the meetinghouse of a Salt Lake student branch a poster titled “Jobs to Be Done” hung on the wall. There were instructions under each job listed. For two days, at all hours of the day, young people would come streaming in from work or school, pull on a pair of coveralls, do the job, scratch it off the list, and be on their way.
Students from the Utah Technical College donated the labor necessary to install 10,000 feet of electrical wiring, plus light poles and lights. The poles were supported by sandbags donated by inmates at the Utah State Prison. For five days hundreds of people worked hard and loved it. Laughter was as prevalent as the banging of hammers and the rasp of saws. Finally, when the sawdust had cleared, there were 50 buildings, a bandstand, a medicine show wagon, and a tepee—an authentic little turn-of-the-century town with a few last workers walking down its streets dressed in the clothing of an age to come.
When the clocks said 5:00 P.M., the row of doors to the east swung open and hordes of people came pouring in out of the future to look and point and wonder at the way it was. A band struck up a lively tune, and Heritage Square was open for another evening of business.
In their store, the youth of the Holladay 22nd Ward talked to visitors and embroidered, hammered, and quilted. Robed Buie, first counselor in the bishopric commented, “We took it seriously when the prophet said the youth were our first and foremost responsibility.” He was there to offer help, but he made it clear that the kids were running the show and had from the start.
The first-year Beehives made patriotic pillows for their rooms. Large and small, tufted, machine-stitched, embroidered, appliquéd, and creweled, the pillows displayed original as well as traditional designs, many taken from past American flags and Naval symbols.
The second-year Beehives discovered Pennsylvania Dutch designs. Seeing the distinctive heart, tulip, angel, and fruit patterns on bedspreads, furniture, birth certificates, and needlework, they duplicated the authentic designs on wall plaques, dish towels, pillow cases, table runners, and cutting boards.
The Mia Maids took advantage of the experience of a ward member and a blue-ribbon recipe for honey wheat bread to learn and demonstrate the art of bread making.
Thinking of their hope chests, the Laurels took up quilting, embroidery, and cross stitching. “People are really interested in taking up the older handicrafts,” said Mary Robinson. “The older women all say they’re glad the old skills aren’t dying out. We’re making a stitch quilt in activity night, and it’s really made me appreciate the time people used to take in doing a beautiful job.” The group donated three of their quilts to the Primary Children’s Medical Center.
The Holladay 22nd Ward Aaronic Priesthood wasn’t about to be outdone. The deacons earned the pioneer merit badge and worked on their Heritage Arts project at the same time. With dowels and balsa wood they built spans, trusses, monkey, suspension, and pier bridges.
Teachers quorum members chose pioneer photography. They studied early cameras and inventors and also photographed other classes at work on their projects.
The priests learned leather tooling from quorum members Richard Larson and Craig Hanson and then made sheepskin vests, belts, hats, wallets, moccasins, and even purses.
Visitors to the mercantile store were delighted as the young people stitched and pounded and demonstrated. The onlookers repeatedly asked, “How long does it take?”, “Where did you learn this?”, and “Is it hard?”
Throughout the square people learned from each other. A Laurel worked alongside an 85-year-old woman, explaining a new needlepoint stitch to her, and the sister taught the Laurel the practically lost art of tatting. Becky Cutler, 18, worked on a circular shag rug across from Ada Jensen, 79, who used 40 years of experience in making hidden-crocheted rugs.
The festival committee told participants that some 20,000 people might visit Heritage Square. No one was surprised, however, when the word got out and more than 100,000 showed up. The display was extended an extra day. Salt Palace executives tried unsuccessfully to extend it even further, but the volunteers who manned the displays were unable to give more time.
Everything on the 1900 Main Street teased memories. There were Dutch almond pastry, apple butter on wheat bread, and sour dough pancakes to taste. There were Indian dancers, flappers, brass bands, barber shop quartets, and marimba players to see and hear. There was even a lady who played the spoons and comb. The grammar school was complete with girls in pigtails, ink wells, dunce cap, pot-belly stove, and a portrait of George Washington. The Centerville Utah Co-op bragged that it was “the store that sells striped paint.” Modeled after the town’s old general store, the co-op featured lace-up ladies boots, black-boa wide-brimmed hats, the legendary cracker barrel and pickle jar, sasperilla, ginger snaps, shelves of mason jars, and yellow “bridal pajamas” trimmed with black lace. The Dressmaker, with its elegant collection of ecru vintage clothing, brought back the parasol, hats with plumes, long christening dresses, and the top hat. Everyone overlooked the frayed hems, worn velvet, and clumped feathers and marveled at the Japanese silk, delicate lace edgings, and tiny shoes. At the Missionary Church, a black-coated preacher exhorted, “There are places still on the front row,” and a young girl answered knowingly, “Aren’t there always?”
There were young people churning butter, dipping candles, throwing pots, pulling taffy, and spinning wool. Across from them their friends were weaving cloth, caning ladder-back chairs, stringing snowshoes, splitting stones, tying trout flies, and making rope.
This was a time-spanning occasion for all as evidenced by the equal numbers of “What’s that, Dad?” and “Hey, look over there. That’s what we used to chop ice.” Or “… warm the bed … reap wheat … pump water … and … harness the team.”
The grandmothers left feeling their quilting skills were not lost, and fathers left knowing that the five-foot saw with one-and-a-half-inch teeth was as big as they’d remembered. Mothers decided that making wheat bread must not be as hard as they remembered, while their daughters learned there’s more to embroider than jeans. For those who had spent months preparing, it was a time to excite and explain. But for most it was a motive to go home and search the attic, library, and family tree for old skills and heirlooms in an attempt to “remember the past, to better the future.”

Illustrations by Julissa Mora
Do we really have to go on a hike with the young women?
Yep. I’m going because of my calling. And I need you to come with me.
But it’s raining! And the rain here isn’t warm like where I used to live.
I bet something good will happen. After all, obeying our parents brings us blessings.
Why should I obey her? She’s not even my birth mom.
The trail will be too slippery.
What if we hike around the neighborhood instead?
Good idea.
Ugh!
Hey, Marcel!
Noah? You’re going on the hike?
Yeah! I’m here with my mom too. Are you going?
Yeah!
Watch me jump in this puddle!
That was awesome! What about this?
Pretty good. I give you an 8 out of 10.
OK! Your turn.
That splash was tiny! 2 out of 10.
It looked like you had fun on our walk. How was it?
You were right about obeying, Mom. Something good did happen!

Contrast this with a similar situation that occurred a few years earlier, on a different trip but on the same stretch of river. Again, we arrived at our reserved camp, only to find that it was already occupied. The group explained that someone had taken their reserved site, so they moved downriver to the next available site, knowing that it might already be reserved. They were profusely apologetic and offered to pack up their gear and leave. I discussed the situation with the crew, and we agreed that it would be best to invite them to stay at our camp for the night. They were very grateful. We went about our business, and they went about theirs. By the end of the night, we were all sitting around the same campfire, swapping stories and sharing desserts. I was happy!

I recall a time I was babysitting my younger brother Mark, who was three years old. It was quiet, which meant trouble, so I went into the kitchen. There I found him, simply sitting on the floor playing with a long, sharp, butcher knife he had pulled from the top of the cabinet. It was bright and shiny and obviously attractive to him. I knew that potential danger, and, of course, I took it away from him. He didn’t understand. I had taken away something that was very attractive to him and something that he wanted, so he cried. When I reflect on that experience, I think of how much more infinite our Heavenly Father’s knowledge is of those things which can be hurtful to us.

I faced a lot of challenges after my baptism. The changes I needed to make in my life were significant. On top of that, sometimes I felt that I had no friends in the Church, and it was tempting to go back to my old friends. But my desire to feel joy—and my understanding that we can be happy regardless of external circumstances—helped me keep coming back to church. I knew I couldn’t “lay aside [my] faith” (Alma 32:36). Over time I made friends within the Church who helped me during the transition. And as I continued to live the gospel, my testimony and my happiness grew (see Alma 32:37).