Gospel Story Finder

When Peter returned after completing his mission, he quickly began the routine of work and visits to the hospital as he continued with corrective surgery. At this time, he was called to serve a stake mission. In this capacity he met the secretary to the stake mission president, Marjorie Clegg of Tooele, Utah. They became good friends, and Peter started arranging dates for her with his friends. Finally, after having had too many dates arranged for her, Marjorie asked him to please not arrange any more dates for her. Peter asked her for a date for himself. Based on a foundation of friendship, the relationship grew into love, and they were married.
Except for the very first time Marjorie met me, she never seemed to notice my burns. I’m very much aware of people noticing that I’m different. I’ve never noticed that Marjorie ever thought me any different on the outside than she found me on the inside. She makes me feel very handsome. I love her not only because she’s my sweetheart, but because she’s my very best friend. She is the girl I prayed for who would take me for what I am on the inside. That’s what I needed because I couldn’t get very far using the outside.

In 1978, Elder Marvin J. Ashton of the Quorum of the Twelve published a valuable book for young and old entitled What Is Your Destination? He expressed concern that many become confused in their journey through life. Some may be lost, on the other hand, because they think they have arrived! Elder Ashton mentioned examples of fundamental guidelines such as temple marriage, mission calls, education, and opportunities for service, pointing out that progress “is a continuing process, not a state of arrival.”
Decisions determine and regulate our progress. We make them every day. To make wise ones, it is important to have goals, objectives, purposes, a sense of direction, constant reevaluation and reckoning. Following missionary service in the British Isles, I wrote some goals for the next 20 years of my life on a yellow pad of paper. I still have that pad. Nearly all of the goals I set have been exceeded. I was blessed to be guided by the principle Elder Ashton outlined, namely that “it is a continuing process, not a state of arrival.” One objective outlined was not achieved, but that was something beyond my control. The Lord saw fit not to grant that particular blessing. However, it was compensated for in many, many other ways.
The teachings and practices of the Church provide very significant guidelines: clean living, that we may have health and strength, joy and happiness on earth; baptism, reminding us of our status and accountability; the gift of the Holy Ghost, our striving to really receive and benefit from this personage whose mission is to guide us into all truth; missionary service; temple marriage; a useful and productive life of service through work; family and children; constant self-improvement to equip us for better service to our fellowmen. The gospel principles of faith and repentance are the keys to (1) achievement, (2) correction of mistakes, and (3) reevaluation of where we are going.
To make decisions, the best formula I have found is prayer, study, work, seeking wise counsel, and then doing something about it. May I offer a few examples.
Entering Roosevelt Junior High School in Salt Lake City required some important decisions for me. One September day I was confronted with new choices! What subjects to take? Thus far my schooling had been prescribed. We had gone at 9:00 A.M. and followed through the day with what was presented in our homeroom. Now we were to change classes each period, going from room to room. Should I take Algebra A and B, or a course called Mathematics? Or, something called General Science? English, physical education, and some selections were prescribed. But there was remarkable latitude in other choices. I could take U.S. History, or something called Civics. I could elect to study Spanish, Latin, or French. Some of us had the benefit of prior consultation with our parents. In line with their counsel, I was left with the choices I have indicated.
I also discussed my choices with two classmates. One was the son of a University of Utah professor of history. The other was a future doctor of medicine, whose older brothers had already attended the University of Utah and had gone through “the mill.” Both were wise young men. I benefited by discussion with them. After a few hours, I made my choices: Algebra A with Miss Cora D. Patterson, continuing the second semester with Algebra B, the binomial theorem, factoring, and other algebraic systems. I elected Spanish, a modern language, with Miss Grace Hogan as teacher. Assignments to stake conferences in Mexico and Latin-America have been assisted by that choice. Third period found me in U.S. History, a subject I dearly loved, with Miss M. Hulbert. Then came the luncheon break. Period four was physical education, under E. V. Howell. Period five in English brought Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar with Mrs. Jessie Hutchinson. Sixth period I elected music. I found my way to the room where Mrs. Matilda W. Cahoon presided.
This challenge of choices continued throughout high school and the university years following. The same process of consultation with parents and fellow students, prayer, study, and working it out in my own mind, produced the selections. In later years it was a great blessing to have elected in the ninth grade to study geometry, under Miss Snyder, and especially Ancient History under an excellent teacher, Miss Welthea M. Learned. I learned much of the history of the classical Middle East, Greece, and Rome and became acquainted with architectural and art forms that have enriched my life.
The decision to go on a mission had been made long before the call was received. Prayerful effort and study had helped me to qualify. That decision, blessed with the support of my parents and family, has brought the greatest blessings and some of the greatest experiences of my life.
A big decision following my mission was a career. What should I do? A new position opened with the Union Pacific Railroad Company as a passenger representative. After two months, other choices confronted me. An opportunity came to return to ZCMI in its finance division, plus part-time work as an early morning seminary teacher serving Salt Lake East High School; or to work as a mathematics teacher in Tucson, Arizona, High School, or as director of music at the Box Elder High School in Brigham City. I made it a matter of study and prayer. On an eventful afternoon I walked over to Temple Square during my lunch hour for a special, quiet prayer. The decision followed. The formula—prayer, study, work, consultation with parents and trusted friends—produced results.
The decision for graduate school came next. Harvard? The University of Chicago? London School of Economics? University of California at Berkeley? UCLA? I wrote to them all and was guided in the final decision by financial considerations and some sound counsel from a revered loved one. UCLA at that time had all of the advantages of the great prestige of the University of California, plus a new vital campus with extraordinarily high standards. I applied and was admitted and during the next three years was blessed with a loving wife, two children, part-time work, fellowships and assistantships, and a PhD.
So it has gone through life. I have faced decisions of whether or not to return to Utah State University in Logan, Utah, from Swarthmore College in Pennsylvania; accept an overseas appointment in Greece and Turkey; become the cultural attaché at the embassy in India; or serve in several university presidencies. In each case I was guided by the careful process indicated. These occupational choices often represented something expressed in Robert Frost’s poem.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. …
I took the one …
And that has made all the difference.
(“The Road Not Taken” in The Poetry of Robert Frost, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1969, p. 105)
I have learned that if we follow the guidelines afforded by the gospel, we will always be on solid ground.
You, too, may be guided in your choice of subjects to study, in what you should major in at college, in your choice of occupation, in the choice of friends and your eternal companion. As Elder Ashton wrote in his book, “You can get there from here!”

I still have a small set of scriptures that my mom and dad gave me when I turned seventeen. I will always remember one time as a young woman when I read the Book of Mormon. I had read it before, but this time it was different. Perhaps I was more in tune with the Spirit, or maybe I had studied more diligently or prayed more fervently. This time I wanted to know for myself if the Book of Mormon was true.
As I finished Alma chapter thirty-two, with that wonderful passage about faith, I had a feeling that I recognized as a witness from the Holy Ghost. I knew the Book of Mormon was true. I wanted to tell the whole world how I felt, but I was alone. So with tears of joy streaming down my face, I wrote a big red star at the top of the page and wrote, “May 31, 7:30 A.M. This I know, as if written to me.” Then in the margin on one side, “I have received a confirmation. I know the Book of Mormon is true!” In the other margin I wrote, “One month ago I began fasting each Tuesday for a more sure knowledge. This I know.”

Elder Patricio M. Giuffra was four years old when his father died of cancer. As a child, he grew up questioning God and wondering why life was so unfair.
“My father was a good husband, father, and provider,” Elder Giuffra recalled thinking. “Why did he have to die?”
Answers and understanding came about a decade later when Patricio and his mother met the full-time missionaries and accepted the gospel.
The plan of salvation gave him hope because it helped him understand his family’s loss. “My father prepared the way for us to join the Church,” he said.
From the time he was baptized, the gospel of Jesus Christ has anchored Elder Giuffra’s life. “The Church has been my life,” he said. “I feel like I’ve always belonged to the Church.”

I want to begin with a brief test and a self-evaluation. The following episode was presented in a general conference address in 1966 by President N. Eldon Tanner (1898–1982), a counselor in the First Presidency of the Church.
““A young man came to me not long ago and said, ‘I made an agreement with a man that requires me to make certain payments each year. I am in debt, and I can’t make those payments, for if I do, it is going to cause me to lose my home. What shall I do?’
“I looked at him and said, ‘Keep your agreement.’
“‘Even if it costs me my home?’
“I said, ‘I am not talking about your home. I am talking about your agreement; and I think your wife would rather have a husband who would keep his word, meet his obligations, keep his pledges or his covenants, and have to rent a home than to have a home with a husband who will not keep his covenants and his pledge.’”1

I descended at my own pace. Five feet (1.5 m) … I felt a current jostle me. Now ten feet. Suddenly it became dark. I felt my breaths shorten. This freezing, murky ocean was nothing like the pool we had practiced in. Scared and claustrophobic, I darted up to the water’s surface.
“What happened?” the instructor’s assistant asked me. Tears welled up inside my mask. I was in the middle of my scuba-diving certification exam, performing a 30-foot (9 m) descent, one of the necessary skills to pass the exam. The assistant saw my panic and assured me I would be OK. He was encouraging, yet not prodding. At one point he told me, “You don’t have to do this.” It was then I realized that I wanted to.
I realized that although this was hard for me, I wanted to accomplish it; I wanted to gain my certification. So I bridled my fear and completed the remaining skills with the class to pass the exam. It was hard, but with some encouragement I was able to do it.

It was a sunny Sunday morning, May 18, 1980, when Mt. St. Helens blew her top with a blast 500 times as powerful as the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. The top 1,400 feet of the mountain were blown off, killing at least 22 people, wiping out homes, displacing families, creating steaming mudslides and floods that demolished bridges and logging camps, and blanketing much of the northwestern United States and parts eastward with a fine gritty, gray volcanic ash. Over a billion dollars in crops, timber, and property were lost; cities and schools closed down; food and water supplies were sometimes cut off; and people stayed in their homes.
The chalky ash covered trees, houses, fields, streets, everything, like tons of powdered sugar, but it was far from sweet. It clogged car engines, swirled up in white clouds like dense fog whenever cars drove through it (making driving extremely dangerous), choked out new crops, weighed heavily on rooftops and awnings and people’s minds. You could shovel it from your walk to the street, but it often blew back, and how did you get it out of the street, anyway. For most people it was a gritty nightmare that eventually city bulldozers and trucks would help handle.
For the young Latter-day Saints living in volcano territory, the disaster became a time of faith, service, and closeness to our Heavenly Father.
“I was in sacrament meeting when it happened,” said Joyce Allsop, 19, of the Yakima Fifth Ward, Yakima Washington Stake, about a hundred miles from Mt. St. Helens. “I looked out the window and everything was getting darker and darker. There were flashes of eerie, orange-red lightning through the ash particles, like nothing I’ve ever seen before, but no rain. The thunder came so close that we all ducked, and the building shook. We thought it would fall down on us. Then everything turned pitch black, at 10:00 in the morning, and stayed that way for 24 hours.
“Outside, ashes were falling like snow, only you could feel it, like sand pelting you. Then it started coming down like a heavy, gritty rain.”
The members of Joyce’s ward were told that the volcano had erupted and that the roads were extremely hazardous, with visibility down to zero. She and a friend decided to drive the 20 miles home, because they wanted to be with their families.
“As soon as we got into the car, we said a prayer to help us get home. We started out and could barely see anything, it was so dark. Cars where pulled off in ditches to the side of the road because people couldn’t see where the road was. Most people had no idea where they were. The only way we ever made it home was with the Lord’s help.
“When we got home, we got calls from all sorts of concerned people, some we hardly even knew, checking that we’d made it home safely,” she added.
The abrupt change from a peaceful, secure life to not knowing what would happen gave Joyce a lot to think about.
“I realized how blessed we were to get home safely. And I thought, if this is anything like the Second Coming, we have to be more prepared. I think I could also relate a little to how the Nephites must have felt when Christ was crucified, when it turned pitch black. Those words from the Book of Mormon suddenly took on new meaning.
“I also understood how powerful the forces of nature are and how quickly the world could be destroyed. And I realized, more fully why we need to have food storage and clothing, supplies, and water on hand. As soon as the general public in Yakima heard that the roads were closed because of the eruption, they all rushed to stock up on supplies. Now a lot of the single people from home are starting their own food storage programs,” said Joyce.
Sheryl Hague of Yakima was also at church when the volcano erupted. “I thought it was a blessing that we were all in church when it happened, in a safe place,” she said, “I go to a singles’ branch, but I knew my family was in church at their ward, and my dad, who’s a stake president, was in church somewhere. My bishop was making sure we had wet paper towels over our mouths so we didn’t breathe the dust in, and people were making sure that everyone who wanted a ride home had it and that we were all okay. Right away we organized a calling committee to make sure that everyone had food and any help they needed.”
Many of the Young Adults at Sheryl’s ward opted to stay at the institute building where church was being held, until things quieted down. Food was brought in to the group by the Relief Society and elders quorum presidents.
“The prophet tells us constantly to be prepared, but often we don’t really listen until something like this happens, which is too bad,” added Sheryl. “During the first day especially I thought a lot about the Second Coming and how if you’re not prepared you’re going to panic, like a lot of unprepared people here did. I found out how important food storage is, too. Some people here didn’t have enough food to last them for even a couple of days. On the radio people were advised to store water, which our family had already done long before. We stored quite a bit more, though, including a bathtub full.”
Immediately after the shock of the eruption, even with the uncertainty of not knowing what was going to happen, the young people of wards across Washington jumped wholeheartedly into helping other people. Calling committees checked to see that ward members were safe; teachers and priests quorums and the young women organized to help clean chapels and homes. Volcanic ash started flying as young volunteers got out their shovels and brooms and started the cleanup.
“The youth in my ward were helping even as families started leaving the chapel the morning of the eruption,” said Bishop Terry Brandon of the Yakima Fourth Ward, Yakima Washington Stake. “The teenagers comforted the children, talked with them, and in many cases scooped the young ones into their arms and delivered them safely to waiting cars and their parents. Breathing was uncomfortable, and the falling ash was irritating their eyes, but these youth didn’t care about that.
“Then early the next morning I began receiving phone calls from teens wanting to help anyone who needed it, so we organized a cleanup force. They spent eight, nine hours at a time in the grittiest, dirtiest mess you’ve ever seen helping other people, in addition to the efforts spent in cleaning up their own homes. They took a lot of initiative themselves. All of them helped clean up the stake center.
“It was such a spiritual uplift to work alongside such cheerful youth during a depressing, messy week of cleanup. We have a fine generation of young people here with goals and ideals that just won’t let them be defeated. When we didn’t know if we’d be able to hold church the next Sunday, I was determined we should, just so I could let them know how I felt towards them. I’ve never seen a finer group of young people,” said Bishop Brandon.
Hundreds of young Latter-day Saints across the disaster area swept ash, piled it high into giant gray hills, washed down roofs and streets, wiped it from their ears and hair and faces. And despite the seeming drudgery, some of them even had fun while they did it.
In the Moses Lake Washington Stake, over 150 miles east of the volcano, 33 youth helped clean the stake center, working until 1:00 in the morning so they could return the hoses they’d borrowed from the fire department in time. Scouts in Moses Lake helped clean the homes of ward members. The four teenagers of the Allen Brown family helped a blind ward member clean off his house and yard. The teens in the Don Larson family surprised a ward member who was out of town when the eruption occurred by having his house cleaned up when he got back to town. He then helped clean the chapel grounds and homes of other people. Craig Duvall, a recently returned missionary, cleaned county roads and driveways for a week. Carolyn Whiteman, a 14-year-old Lamanite, went day after day to haul ashes out of the yard of an elderly couple down her street.
“We got a wonderful response from all our people with the cleanup,” said President Lew Judd Allsop of the Yakima Washington Stake. “We had all sorts of help from the youth in our stake when we needed to clean the ash off the roof of the stake center. It was tedious work, sifting the ash out of the gravel on the roof so the roof wouldn’t cave in with the first rain. It was a dirty, gritty job, and I didn’t hear anyone complain about the dust in their eyes or it being terrible, dirty work. Working conditions couldn’t have been worse. Faces were black; there was grit in your ears, your hair, all over. And yet they got the job done, and in good spirits.”

I wasn’t the most popular person in the marching band. I had some friends, of course, but I didn’t hang with the really “cool” people. They were the ones who sat in the back of the bus on trips and held their own raucous celebrations.
As I settled onto a green vinyl seat on the “band bus,” the cool breeze of an Alabama autumn slipped in a window and brushed my cheek. We were headed for the stadium, and like usual, the drum section members were in the back of the bus with their rowdy friends. Lulled by the rhythm of the ride, I shut my eyes and reflected on my social status and how isolated I felt being one of the few Mormons at school.
A teeth-jarring jolt startled me. The bus was off the road, careening wildly along the gravel shoulder. I gripped the seat ahead to steady myself. The bus was out of control, and each tilt and sway threatened to fling us into a crushing roll.
We lurched toward the ditch that lay beyond my window, balancing on two tires. The afternoon sun flared into brilliant white, filling my mind with a microsecond vision of my family. I clenched my fists and braced myself for the impact.
The bus tipped, voices screamed, and I sobbed, “Heavenly Father, please!” I was so afraid to die. Immediately my fear was replaced by comforting waves of peace.
There was a thud as the bus righted itself, and gravel sprayed as the bus jolted to a halt. We were on the slope of a ditch, only a few feet short of smashing into the framework of a bridge. I wiped my tears, astonished I was still alive. I was aware of people shouting and sobbing while scrambling for the exit. When I was able to climb out, I collapsed with relief on a grassy knoll, gentle peace still warming my heart.
At that moment I realized I was not only okay physically, but spiritually as well. I thought of a scripture we had discussed in seminary: “And if they die they shall die unto me, and if they live they shall live unto me. … And it shall come to pass that those that die in me shall not taste of death, for it shall be sweet unto them” (D&C 42:44, 46).
I marveled at the calm that had replaced my terror. I really thought I was going to die, yet in the last moment I wasn’t afraid. Popularity pales in the face of death, as do many other things. Although I may not be perfect, it’s nice to be on the right track.

Sometimes we do our very best to understand a question. We study it out in our mind and try every way we can to come to our best decision. At that point, we will sometimes receive additional guidance—things we hadn’t thought of, protection from dangers we couldn’t anticipate, an open pathway we wouldn’t have thought of.
Normally the Holy Ghost doesn’t tell us things that we know we should do. I’ve never had the Holy Ghost tell me to go to bed on time. I knew I was supposed to do that. Usually, the Holy Ghost helps alert us to things after we’ve done everything we can.
When I was deciding about graduate school, I had been granted a scholarship at a wonderful school. Yet, after studying things as best I could and coming to what I thought was my best decision, I had a very clear feeling that I should apply to a different school.
So I did and ended up attending a different graduate school than I had initially planned. At that critical juncture, after I had done all I could, quiet guidance took me from one set of opportunities to another that opened many possibilities and blessings I would never have anticipated on my own.

One day when strolling down the road on which the Bridlington meeting house stands, my mind not taken up so much as usual with the needs of the day, I took to looking at the buildings that line this very ancient of streets.
My first observation was a surprising one, when I realised there had been eight churches of different denominations on the street at some point. Many were still there, but now used for different purposes than their builders intended. I then began to wonder at what had been on the sites of new buildings squeezed between the Victorian shops and houses. My curiosity aroused, I made a visit to our local studies library, and returned many times, as I became absorbed in the history of this road that had existed since pre-Christian times.
I was fascinated and felt that maybe others of the town would be also. This thought coincided with an invitation to attend a meeting to discuss ideas for the year’s Heritage Open Days (every September thousands of volunteers in towns and cities across the country organise events to celebrate Britain’s heritage and culture). I went along and volunteered to give a talk and put on an exhibition on the history of the street. Conscious that the biggest problem in doing so is finding a location, I had previously approached the Bishop and been given permission to use the church building.
A further thought had already come into my mind- why not extend the event to include a chapel Open House? Saddened by the missionaries’ lack of success in getting people to come into the building, I felt that putting on something of a nonreligious nature could be the encouragement people needed and hopefully once in the building, they might ask questions, pick up leaflets and read things on notice boards.
The foyer had the history of the Bridlington Ward, the Church’s involvement in humanitarian aid, emergency preparedness and ‘Just Serve.’ The notice board in the baptismal font told of Christ’s original Church, the apostasy and the restoration; and our belief in the need for baptism and the form it should take. Displays on the work of Relief Society, the Young Men and Young Women’s programmes and Primary, filled the classrooms, and the Elders Quorum were on hand to give help and advice on family history and show a film about one brother’s experience of finding out more about his family than merely their names and dates.
With excellent advertising on social media, in local newspapers and free events booklets supplied by the Heritage Week organisation, seventy people attended. No one asked the missionaries for the discussions, no-one new appeared at church the following day, but one man who attended the lecture approached me and raised my spirits when he expressed his appreciation for being able to tour the building and learn something of our beliefs. Others may have felt the same, but not expressed it. Seeds were sown and continued effort and new ideas will bring results. As Christ said: "If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you." (Matthew 17:20)

Angela stormed into the house, slamming her books onto the kitchen table. Her younger brother Caleb watched in shocked silence.
“I’m never going to school again!” Angela yelled. Her anger turned to tears as she dropped into a chair. Between sobs, she wailed, “Sheela Kelly is making my life miserable. I tried to be nice to her when she called me names. I ignored her when she teased me about my clothes. Then today she told everyone that I told her secrets about Ammon Young. Now Ammon’s afraid to talk to me.”
Mom put her arms around Angela. Angela raised her tearstained face. “Mom, Ammon’s the only other Church member in my grade. We always help each other choose the right.” She laid her head against Mom’s shoulder and cried.
Caleb, trying to help, said, “Jesus said to pray for our enemies. Maybe you should pray that Sheela gets really sick and misses lots of school.”
“I don’t think that is what Jesus meant,” Mom gently corrected.
“Maybe you could pray that Sheela moves to another country,” Caleb suggested.
Mom shook her head. “No, Caleb—but you’re right that we should pray for our enemies. In fact, this Sunday is fast Sunday. Let’s use this opportunity to fast for Sheela. When we combine faith, prayers, and fasting, miracles can happen.”
Angela, who had calmed down a bit, sniffled and added, “Like the time we all fasted and prayed for Sister Smith’s baby when he was born two months too soon?”
“That’s right, Angela,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father blessed us for our faith. He always does.”
Angela prayed many times throughout the weekend that Sheela would stop being mean. As she fasted, she hardly noticed when her stomach growled.
Before leaving for school on Monday, Angela knelt once again. “Heavenly Father, please help Sheela to stop being mean. I’ve fasted and prayed. I have faith that Thou canst change her. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Angela bounced happily down the stairs.
“Have a great day,” Mom said.
“Oh, I will—I just know it!” Angela replied.
She was sure she would when she arrived at school and found her teacher had rearranged the desks. Angela was no longer sitting next to Sheela. Angela silently offered a prayer of thanks. Ammon even smiled at her as he walked past her desk. This really is going to be a great day! she thought.
After lunch, she stopped by the rest room to make sure no food was stuck in her braces. Her heart raced when she noticed Sheela. Summoning her courage, Angela smiled and said, “Hi, Sheela—did you have a fun weekend?”
Sheela just smiled—not exactly a friendly smile but a smile. The two girls left the rest room at the same time.
“Hello, Sheela. Hello, Angela,” Mrs. Keiter, the music teacher, said as she passed by.
“Hello,” the girls answered. Angela was glad Sheela had not said or done anything mean. She was happy, too, when Sheela went to the office instead of out to the playground. Again, Angela offered a quiet prayer of gratitude.
A few minutes before school was over for the day, Angela was called to the principal’s office.
As she walked past Sheela’s desk on her way to the office, Sheela smirked, “Good luck.” It made Angela feel cold all over.
Mr. Cooper was waiting for Angela when she arrived. “Angela, I’ve received a report that you scratched ‘Angela loves Ammon’ on one of the walls in the rest room. The student who reported this said Mrs. Keiter saw you leaving there during lunch. Mrs. Keiter confirmed you were there at that time.”
Angela was stunned. How could this be? Hadn’t she fasted and prayed and used all her faith for Heavenly Father to make Sheela be nice? Sheela had been in the rest room at the same time. She must have scratched the wall.
“Mr. Cooper,” Angela said softly, “I did go into the rest room after lunch, but I didn’t scratch anything on the wall.”
“I’m sorry, Angela, but I have your word against another student’s and a teacher’s. You will help the janitor, Mr. Hamblin, during recess for a week. Maybe that will help you respect school property more.”
Caleb knew by the look on Angela’s face that things had not gone well. He walked silently beside her on the way home from the bus stop. Entering the kitchen first, he blurted out, “Angela’s faith didn’t work.”
“Caleb! That’s not nice,” Mom scolded.
“No, Mom, Caleb’s right,” Angela sighed. “I must not have enough faith for Heavenly Father to make Sheela be nice.” She told Mom about her day.
“Angela, we can’t pray away another person’s agency, no matter how much faith we have,” Mom explained. “When we pray for our enemies, it changes how we feel about them and brings us peace. We change for the better, and sometimes our goodness helps our enemies to change. Sadly, some never change. But we should never let our enemies choose how we will act.”
“So what does Angela do about Sheela?” Caleb interrupted. “How does all this help her if Sheela is still mean?”
Angela nodded. “I thought faith could produce miracles.”
“It does. I promise you it does,” Mom assured her. “Do you remember the story of Alma and his people in the land of Helam?” Mom reached for her scriptures.
“A little,” Angela said. “Alma’s people were righteous, but they still were captured by the Lamanites. Things got even worse when the Lamanites put Amulon, one of the wicked priests of King Noah, in charge of Alma’s people.”
“And Amulon was Alma’s enemy,” Caleb added. “He knew Alma had believed the prophet Abinadi and had tried to save him from being burned.”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Amulon made slaves of Alma and his people. He even put guards over them to kill anyone caught praying.”
“But they still prayed in their hearts,” Caleb added.
“And the Lord answered their prayers,” Mom continued. “He didn’t help them escape right away, but He helped them with their trials. Let’s read what happened in Mosiah 24:15: ‘And now it came to pass that the burdens which were laid upon Alma and his brethren were made light; yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord.’
“So, what do you think you should pray for now?” Mom asked gently.
Angela sat quietly, then answered, “To endure my trials cheerfully.”
The next day, after sanding and painting over the writing in the rest room, Angela was emptying trash cans when Sheela walked by. Loudly she said to the girls with her, “It looks like we have a new janitor at our school.” The group left, giggling.
“Please help me to be cheerful and patient,” Angela prayed in her heart.
Just then Mr. Hamblin walked up. “Angela, you’re a good worker.” Then he smiled a big smile. “You didn’t scratch those words on the wall, did you?”
Angela shook her head.
“That’s what I told Mr. Cooper. And while we were talking, Ammon Young came to report he’d overheard Sheela Kelly bragging about doing it herself and getting you in trouble.” Mr. Hamblin smiled again. “Mr. Cooper wants to see you in his office. He’s a fair man. I think you’ll be happy to talk with him again.”
Patience and cheerfulness, prayers and faith, Angela thought. They really do produce miracles. I don’t think my troubles with Sheela are over, but I’ll keep trying to do what’s right. Maybe I’ll try to talk with her again. And as she hurried toward the principal’s office, she silently prayed, Thank Thee, Heavenly Father, for helping me with my trials.

When the car horn honked, Ricky jumped to his feet, grabbed his sleeping bag and his pillow, banged the front door open, and ran outside. “Bye, Mom. See you tomorrow,” he called without even looking back.
Mrs. Oglethorpe’s green station wagon sat in the driveway. Steve pushed the back door open for Ricky. “Hey, Ricky!” Steve greeted him.
Ricky had always admired Steve, who was a year older and the best athlete in their school. Although they lived on the same street, they had not been good friends until this year, when they both played for the Dodgers. All spring and summer they’d practiced together, and Steve taught Ricky how to pitch. Steve was a great pitcher. Besides having a sharp-breaking curve and a sinker, he could throw the ball so hard that it would almost knock your glove off. All of Ricky’s pitches looked the same—slow balls.
“Hi, Stever! Hello, Mrs. O,” Ricky said as he climbed into the station wagon. “Oglethorpe” always seemed to get mixed up in his mouth and never came out right.
“Hi, Ricky. All ready?” Mrs. Oglethorpe asked.
“You bet!”
As Mrs. Oglethorpe was backing the station wagon out of the driveway, Ricky’s mom hurried out of the house. “Ricky!”
She caught up with the car, and asked, smiling at Ricky, “Didn’t you forget something?” “Something very important?” She held out Ricky’s baseball glove.
“Oh, wow! How’d I forget that?” “Thanks.”
“Don’t forget your promise, Ricky,” Mom said. “In bed and asleep by ten o’clock. No later.”
“OK. I will.”
“Remember what Dad said. ‘You don’t want to be tired for the big game tomorrow.’”
The Dodgers were in first place, and tomorrow’s game against the Giants was the last game of the season. If they won, they’d stay in first place, and with Steve pitching, they should win easily.
Because Steve’s family was leaving on vacation right after the game, Brad had decided to have a sleepover party tonight to celebrate the last game. It wasn’t a big party—just Brad, Steve, Jason, and Ricky.
The boys played catch in the backyard while Brad’s dad grilled hamburgers. The delicious-smelling barbeque smoke floated through the hot, summer-evening air. Even baseball couldn’t keep the boys’ minds off the sizzling hamburgers and the food on the picnic table. Everyone laughed as Brad grabbed his stomach and rolled on the ground, moaning about how hungry he was. Then Jason, who was getting a drink from the hose, decided to cool off Brad, Steve, and Ricky, and soon a water fight was going. It ended abruptly when Brad’s dad got soaked. It felt so good to be cool, though, that the boys didn’t mind the soggy hamburger buns and the limp chips. The coleslaw, pickles, corn on the cob, and lemonade tasted great too. Then there was watermelon—complete with a seed-spitting contest—and brownies and vanilla ice cream for dessert.
When it got dark outside, the boys went inside and started a game of Monopoly but didn’t finish it. Then they played video games for a little while. Mostly they talked baseball.
They were still talking baseball as they laid out their sleeping bags in front of the TV. Brad brought in a huge bowlful of popcorn and put a movie into the video recorder. That was when Ricky looked at the clock on the video recorder—9:59. Hey, he thought, how’d it get to be so late so early? There’s a movie and lots more fun coming. It just can’t stop now!
Ricky heard a grandfather clock chiming in another part of the house. Ten bongs. Rats! I wish I hadn’t promised to be in bed by ten. He looked at Brad and asked hesitantly, “Don’t you think it’s kind of late to start a movie?”
“Nah,” Brad replied. “Not for a sleepover party. I’ve stayed up lots later than this before.”
“But we have a game in the morning,” Ricky said, “and we can’t be tired.”
“That game’s no sweat,” Jason said. “We beat ‘em before when Steve pitched.”
“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to bed.” Ricky changed into his pajamas, climbed into his sleeping bag, and fluffed up his pillow.
“Come on, Ricky. This is a great movie. It’ll scare your socks off,” Brad said.
Ricky sighed, casting a longing look at the popcorn and the VCR, but said, “No. I’m going to sleep. Good night, guys.”
Jason threw his pillow at Ricky. “Hey, how come you’re such a party pooper?”
“He promised his mom and dad that he’d be in bed by ten,” Steve said as he got out a big bag of candy.
“Ricky, they’ll never know what time you went to bed if you don’t tell them,” Jason said.
“Yeah,” Brad urged. “We won’t squeal on you.”
“Let him alone, you guys,” Steve said. “Have some candy.”
Brad got up. “Let’s go find some more stuff to eat before we start the movie.”
Ricky rolled over, away from the glare of the TV. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. He thought it would be hard to fall asleep, but it was easy. He never even heard the rustling of cookie and candy wrappers, the opening of pop bottles, the joking and giggling, and the scary movie music.
The next day was a perfect day for baseball. The sun shone brightly on the green grass and tan dirt of the diamond.
Steve had pitched only part of the first inning before his stomachache had gotten so bad that he’d had to leave the game. Now it was the last inning. The Dodgers were ahead, 5–3, but the Giants had one more chance to bat. Jason was pitching. He walked the first four Giants, so the score became 5–4, the bases were still loaded, and there was still nobody out.
The coach walked out to the pitching mound and talked to Jason, then looked around at the other players. His eyes stopped on Ricky. He waved at Ricky, calling him in.
“Just throw strikes, Ricky,” the coach said, handing him the ball. “You’re playing well today. I know you can do it.”
Ricky threw some warm-up pitches, and the umpire asked if he was ready. Ricky nodded. The batter stepped up. Ricky looked around at his teammates and checked the runners. If he walked a single batter, the game would be tied. If two runners got in, the game would be over, and the Giants would win. Ricky looked in at the batter. The kid was grinning.
Ricky paused and said a silent prayer. Then he wound up and threw the baseball hard.
“Outside and low—ball one!” the umpire yelled.
Ricky tried another fastball.
“High! Ball two!”
The next pitch hit the dirt in front of the batter.
“Ball three!”
Ricky kicked at the dirt and looked in at the batter, who was grinning bigger than ever. Ricky could hear the Giants cheering. He thought of the times he and Steve had worked together on pitching. Steve had told him not to worry about the batter. Just think about the target. Get the ball into the catcher’s mitt.
Ricky looked at the catcher and his mitt. Then he wound up and threw.
“Steee-rike!”
Ricky threw another strike. The batter just watched it, expecting to stand there and be walked.
Ricky pitched again.
“Strike three! You’re out,” the umpire yelled.
The Dodger fans cheered, and Ricky heard Brad behind him yell, “Come on, Ricky! You can do it!”
The next batter swung at the first pitch and missed. He wasn’t going to just stand there. Ricky pitched again, and the batter hit it—right back to Ricky. Ricky grabbed the ball and threw it to the catcher for the force-out at the plate.
Two outs. But the bases were still loaded, and the Giants’ best hitter, Jay Cottrel, was coming up to bat. Jay was big. And he was swinging the bat like he was ready to hit the ball over the fence.
Ricky thought of the catcher’s mitt and pitched.
Crack! The ball sailed through the air.
“Foul ball!” shouted the umpire. “Strike one.”
The Giant fans yelled for Jay. The Dodger fans yelled for Ricky.
Ricky rolled the ball around in his glove. He couldn’t pitch fast enough to get the ball past Jay the way Steve could. Jay was going to hit it. No doubt about it. So don’t let him get a good hit, Ricky thought. Steve had taught him how to put spin on the ball, so Ricky grasped it on the seams the way Steve had showed him.
Ricky took a deep breath. Everyone else was standing and yelling with excitement.
Ricky wound up. He threw the ball, spinning it off his fingers.
Jay swung. The bat cracked against the ball. But the ball went straight up in the air. Ricky called for it and moved under it. Down it came—down, down and smacked into Ricky’s glove. The Giants were out! The Dodgers had won!
All the other Dodgers ran over to Ricky, patting him on the back and giving him high-fives.
“Ricky, you’re a hero!” Jason yelled.
Ricky looked over at his mom and dad in the stands. They were yelling and cheering with the other parents of the Dodgers. He couldn’t help smiling at them. He knew how proud they were of him, and he was glad to know that they could be proud of him even for things that they didn’t know about—like how he kept his promise to them at the sleepover. They might never know that he’d kept that promise. But Ricky would know. And that was even more important.

Heavenly Father has answered my prayers many times since then. When one of my own sons was about 10, Heavenly Father saved our lives. I had my pilot’s license and was flying some friends from St. George, Utah, to Grand Junction, Colorado, so they could visit their family. I invited my son Michael to come along for the ride.

To get to Grand Junction, we needed to fly over some very high mountains. We were flying 15,500 feet in the air in a twin-engine plane. We were a little more than halfway there when the propeller of my left engine started racing out of control, so I had to shut it down and boost maximum power to the other engine. But even after that we started losing altitude, heading downward at about 200 feet per minute, and we still had one last mountain range to fly over.

As we got closer, I could see that the plane was sinking below the top of the mountain, and that we weren’t going to make it over. In my heart I was praying that Heavenly Father would guide me through this. I started to look around for a place to make an emergency landing, but there was nowhere to land the plane safely.

Right then, words came into my mind that told me to start the damaged engine. At first I ignored them, because I was afraid that if I turned the engine on, it would race out of control again and maybe even blow apart. But the words kept coming back to me: “Start the engine!” I then realized that if I turned the engine on just a tiny bit, the wind would be able to easily pass through the propeller and not drag the plane down as much. The minute I turned on the engine, the plane started to climb. We cleared that last mountain pass with less than 50 feet between us and the treetops. We finally landed safely at the airport. That taught me a real lesson in life—to pay attention to what Heavenly Father is trying to tell you through the promptings of the Spirit.

My husband tells of an experience he had in medical school.
It is very difficult to get into medical school, and as you might guess, freshmen students are committed to work very hard. My husband said he still remembers going to his first examination at the University of Utah Medical School. The honor system was in place. As the professor passed out the examination and left the room, some classmates started to pull out little cheat papers from their pockets and from under their books. “My heart began to pound as I realized how difficult it is to compete with cheaters,” my husband says.
Then a tall, thin student stood up in the back of the room and said, “I left my home and put my wife and three little children in an upstairs apartment to go to medical school. I’ll turn in the first one of you who cheats and YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT!” They believed it. Those cheat papers disappeared as fast as they had appeared. That young man set a standard of hard work and cooperation instead of dishonesty. He cared more about character than popularity.
When I heard the name of J. Ballard Washburn to be sustained as a member of the Quorum of Seventy, I remembered he was that medical student. Whether or not J. B. had been called to be a general authority, I realized his name would have been known for good wherever he was. He had developed character!

I was a directionless 16-year-old moving around the country when a pastor of a local church in northern California took me in. He gave me a roof over my head and my first exposure to Jesus Christ. I began to attend the local church’s youth congregation. After a few months, I was given free schooling at a youth ministry school, allowing me to become a youth minister over a group of 8–15-year-olds. Life seemed to be falling into place, but I still lacked a life plan. When my pastor suggested I enroll in the army, I realized it could help me gain the focus I needed for my life. Plus, I was excited to serve my country and knew it was a great opportunity to receive an education. So I enlisted.
I soon learned that even though there are a lot of tough things in life, basic training may be among the toughest. But on Sunday, all soldiers were given a small break to attend religious worship, which provided a much-needed rest—not just from the daily rigors of the army, but also from a stern drill sergeant as well. I eagerly accepted this opportunity and began attending a different faith’s worship services each week. When I attended The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I told the members I was already a member so they wouldn’t try to convert me. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the three-hour break, so I decided to go back the following week.
That time I took John, my training partner, with me to church. The first speaker was a woman who was graduating from basic combat training. She shared her conversion story and then sang the hymn “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” (Hymns, no. 29). I glanced at John and noticed tears forming in his eyes.
“What is this feeling?” he asked. “I’ve got the tingles.”
As I replied, “It’s called the Spirit,” it struck me that something special was going on—something about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was different.
John and I soon met with the missionaries, and they gave us copies of the Book of Mormon. John readily accepted his copy; I was more hesitant. In basic training our only free time was the four hours we had for sleep, and I did not feel like we could waste a precious minute doing anything other than sleep. But John felt differently.
That night as I climbed into my bunk, I noticed a light coming from the bunk next to me. It was John reading the Book of Mormon instead of sleeping. The night guard for our barracks later approached and asked John what he was doing. John matter-of-factly replied, “I’m reading the Book of Mormon.” The guard responded, “Oh, John, you’re not reading those lies are you?” I grimaced on the top bunk. I knew I should defend John and the Book of Mormon, but I cowardly decided to roll over and act like I was asleep.
John climbed out of his bunk, stood up, and, addressing the guard boldly, stated, “This is another testament of Jesus Christ. You take that back.”
I lay in anguish all that night. I had failed to defend my God and my training partner. I felt like I had denied my Christ and denied my discipleship. I, who was a certified minister, had lain in bed, while John, after having the Book of Mormon for only a few hours, had bravely stood up to defend it. Overcome with shame and embarrassment, I knew that the only thing I could do was to read the Book of Mormon for myself.
As I began to read, it wasn’t long before I gained a testimony that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ. I was so excited and knew I had to share the good word with my adopted family. I wrote home to my pastor and eagerly explained what I’d learned. I was surprised, confused, and mostly sad when he wrote back telling me I could never go home to them again unless I stopped going to the LDS Church and reading the Book of Mormon. I wanted to remain close to my family, but by then I knew the Book of Mormon is true and that I would do everything in my power never to let God down again, even if it meant giving up my family (see Matthew 10:37–39).
So I did what I had to do. I got baptized.
About two years later, I was praying one night when a thought entered my mind: “What about a mission?” I dismissed the idea as impossible. After all, I had signed a contract and was enlisted to serve in the army for a set amount of time. The next night the same thing happened, and I shrugged it off again. But when the thought came back for the third consecutive night, I decided to ask Heavenly Father about it.
“If I really am supposed to serve a mission, help me know what to do,” I pleaded.
About 10 minutes later I was lying in my bunk when someone knocked on the door. It was my elders quorum president, looking a little uncomfortable.
Somewhat sheepishly he said, “I’m not exactly sure why, but for the past three nights the Spirit has prompted me to tell you that you are supposed to serve a mission. Tonight the prompting was so strong that there was no way I could ever think of sleeping without telling you.”
Illustration by Andrew Bosley
I knew my answer, and so I started to act on it. I knew it’s extremely hard to get permission to take a two-year break from the army, but after much effort and many small miracles, I was finally granted leave for two years to serve a mission. I received my call to the Alaska Anchorage Mission, where I’m now serving.
The Lord has blessed my life with so much. He brought the pastor into my life so I could learn about Jesus Christ and straighten out my life. Then He helped me find the Church and the restored gospel, and He cleared the way so I could serve a mission. I am so grateful that He trusts me enough to call me to share His gospel with His children. He knows each and every one of us, and if we have faith in Him, He will always prepare a way for us and guide us to the right places at the right times.

Before our calling as Stake Interfaith Specialists, we served in the bishopric and Relief Society of our ward, where we had many opportunities to build bridges in our local community. During that time, we were blessed to open our meetinghouse to various local organisations and faith groups in need of a space to gather. These included an International Women’s Day celebration, pop-up clothing shops for asylum seekers, English Connect lessons, warm space initiatives in winter and even small social gatherings for refugee families.
One of the most cherished relationships we developed was with the Ahmadiyya Muslim Association. Without a building of their own, they have used our meetinghouse for several events and have become close friends of our members. A highlight was a youth evening where their young people met with ours to talk about our respective beliefs, share experiences and enjoy sports and games together. The unity and joy felt that evening were so powerful that we plan to make it a regular event.
Since being set apart in our new callings, our desire to reach out has only grown. We’ve come to know and love many people of different faiths, churches and service backgrounds and we’ve felt strengthened by their examples of quiet, consistent goodness. Their desire to serve, often without recognition, has been truly humbling.
Early on, we felt prompted to look into the Stevenage Interfaith Forum, which had been inactive for some time. With the Lord’s help and the support of others, we were able to re-establish it. Today, eight different faith groups and churches meet regularly, with strong backing from civic leaders—including the previous Lady Mayor and the current Mayor of Stevenage.
This led to our invitation to the Stevenage Mayor’s Multi-Faith Gathering 2025, held on the Covid Day of Reflection. Brother Head was asked to speak in his dual role as Chair of the Interfaith Forum and a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He shared how our faith inspires us to reach out, to build community and to serve. The response was very positive and several groups have since asked to be involved in our future meetings.
The event’s theme was ‘Coming Together’ and it truly lived up to its name. Prayers and reflections were offered for youth, for those with special needs and for the care of our planet. The words shared by friends from the Sikh, Ahmadiyya Muslim, Methodist, Jewish, Roman Catholic, Church of England and Latter-day Saint communities were moving and unifying.
As Latter-day Saints, we believe in “standing as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places”. Participating in interfaith work allows us to do just that—to represent Christ in our communities, to serve shoulder to shoulder with people of goodwill and to show that our Church truly desires to bless the lives of all of God’s children.
We are grateful for these opportunities to build relationships, foster mutual respect and help others come to know who we are by the way we live and serve.

Aaron burst through the front door after school and ran straight upstairs to his bedroom. He began searching for something while his little brother Jared curiously watched.
“Where are you? Where are you?” Aaron mumbled to himself.
“What are you looking for?” Jared asked.
“I’m looking for …” Then Aaron spied the very thing he needed up on the corner shelf in his closet, next to his scriptures. “Here it is!” Aaron exclaimed as he reached up and plucked his journal from its hiding place.
Aaron’s mind was buzzing with thoughts from his day. He wanted to begin writing as soon as possible so he wouldn’t forget about all the things he had heard and seen. He sat at the desk and carefully opened his journal to a blank page. He began to write.
Jared watched his big brother, wondering why he was so determined to write in that book. “What are you doing?” he asked. Aaron continued to concentrate on his journal. He wrote down the date, time, where he was, and how he was feeling. Jared became impatient and asked again, “What are you writing in that book?”
Aaron stopped writing and turned to Jared. “I’m almost finished,” he said. “Then I promise I’ll tell you what I’m doing, OK?” Jared nodded and sat patiently on his bed.
After writing some more, Aaron finally closed the book. Then he grabbed his scriptures and carried them with his journal to where Jared was sitting.
Aaron held up the Book of Mormon. “This book is kind of like a journal,” Aaron explained to his little brother. “It’s written by prophets and tells what they did and taught.”
Aaron told Jared about some of the stories he remembered reading and learning about in Primary: the Lord teaching Nephi to build a ship, the brave Lamanite Samuel standing on the wall to preach, Jesus Christ coming to the Americas and teaching the little children.
“Mormon and his son Moroni finally finished writing their people’s history on gold plates. Then Moroni hid the plates as God had commanded,” Aaron said. “The Book of Mormon was left for us to read today. Someday, someone in our family will read my journal too.” He smiled. “My journal is not scripture, but it will tell about all the important things that happened in my life and about the people I love, like you, Jared. It will be my testimony of the love Heavenly Father has for me.”
Jared thought about what Aaron had told him, then sprang off the bed and ran out of the room. He soon returned with a piece of paper and some crayons. He began coloring. Now Aaron was curious. “What are you doing?”
“I’m almost done,” Jared said. This time Aaron waited patiently. Jared put down his crayons and lifted up the paper for Aaron to see. He had drawn a picture of himself and his big brother. And he had drawn a journal and a Book of Mormon in Aaron’s hands. “I’m writing my journal now!” Jared said. “This is where I put down the time, the date, and where I was.” Then Jared pointed to the cartoonlike picture he had drawn of his big brother. “And this is where I put the person I love.”
At that moment Jared remembered he had forgotten something. He reached for a bright yellow crayon and drew a big smiley face on the top of his paper. “And this is how I am feeling inside!”

Marin Watt was a direct descendant of George D. Watt, the first member of the British Isles to be baptized. He visited from his home in the USA and met the cast member playing his ancestor in the show. He commented, “It truly was an experience of a lifetime for me personally. Having been told of the event of George D. Watt and the race to the River Ribble and his being the first person baptized has always had a special place in my heart. But, now I have been there. I have walked the footsteps of my Great Great Grandfather. I have been at the Temple which is there because of baptisms over 186 years ago involving my ancestors. I heard and witnessed how the people of the British Isles know of that baptism and what it still means to them today. I was able to watch the pageant, in England, of those events surrounding the introduction of The Gospel of Jesus Christ in my ancestral land and so much more.”

You could start in your room today. Is there an unfinished school paper somewhere in the stacks? (I assume there are stacks there; I think I know your room.) Perhaps it is typed and apparently ready to turn in. Why bother more with it? I learned why during a religion class I taught once at Ricks College (now Brigham Young University–Idaho). I was teaching from section 25 of the Doctrine and Covenants. In that section Emma Smith is told that she should give her time to “writing, and to learning much” (verse 8). About three rows back sat a blonde girl whose brow wrinkled as I urged the class to be diligent in developing writing skills. She raised her hand and said, “That doesn’t seem reasonable to me. All I’ll ever write are letters to my children.” That brought laughter all around the class. Just looking at her I could imagine a full quiver of children around her, and I could even see the letters she would write. Maybe writing powerfully wouldn’t matter to her.

Then a young man stood up near the back. He had said little during the term; I’m not sure he had ever spoken before. He was older than the other students, and he was shy. He asked if he could speak. He told in a quiet voice of having been a soldier in Vietnam. One day, in what he thought would be a lull, he had left his rifle and walked across his fortified compound to mail call. Just as he got a letter in his hand, he heard a bugle blowing and shouts and mortar and rifle fire coming ahead of the swarming enemy. He fought his way back to his rifle, using his hands as weapons. With the men who survived, he drove the enemy out. Then he sat down among the living, and some of the dead, and he opened his letter. It was from his mother. She wrote that she’d had a spiritual experience that assured her that he would live to come home if he were righteous. In my class, the boy said quietly, “That letter was scripture to me. I kept it.” And he sat down.

Some years ago, while visiting the members and missionaries in Australia, I witnessed a sublime example depicting how a treasury of testimony can bless and sanctify a home. The mission president, Horace D. Ensign, and I were traveling by plane the long distance from Sydney to Darwin, where I was to break ground for our first chapel in that city. En route we had a scheduled fueling stop at a remote mining community named Mt. Isa. As we entered the small airport, a woman and her two young children approached. She said, “I am Judith Louden, a member of the Church, and these are my children. We thought you might be on this flight, so we have come to visit with you during your brief stopover.” She explained that her husband was not a member of the Church and that she and the children were indeed the only members in the entire area. We shared experiences and bore testimony.
Time passed. As we prepared to reboard, Sister Louden looked so forlorn, so alone. She pleaded, “You can’t go yet; I have so missed the Church.” Suddenly, over the loudspeaker there was announced a 30-minute mechanical delay of our flight. Sister Louden whispered, “My prayer has been answered.” She then asked how she might influence her husband to show an interest in the gospel. We counseled her to include him in their home Primary lesson each week and be to him a living testimony of the gospel. I mentioned we would send to her a subscription to the Children’s Friend and additional helps for her family teaching. We urged that she never give up on her husband.
We departed Mt. Isa, a city to which I have never returned. I shall, however, always hold dear in memory that sweet mother and those precious children extending a tear-filled expression and a fond wave of gratitude and good-bye.
Several years later, while speaking at a priesthood leadership meeting in Brisbane, Australia, I emphasized the significance of gospel scholarship in the home and the importance of living the gospel and being examples of the truth. I shared with the men assembled the account of Sister Louden and the impact her faith and determination had had on me. As I concluded, I said, “I suppose I’ll never know if Sister Louden’s husband ever joined the Church, but he couldn’t have found a better model to follow than his wife.”
One of the leaders raised his hand, then stood and declared, “Brother Monson, I am Richard Louden. The woman of whom you speak is my wife. The children [his voice quavered] are our children. We are a forever family now, thanks in part to the persistence and the patience of my dear wife. She did it all.” Not a word was spoken. The silence was broken only by sniffles and marked by the sight of tears.