Gospel Story Finder

One spring day I discovered that death can be closer than I ever expected. Until then, death seemed to be for people, old and ready, or for reckless people who knew death could come suddenly. That was what I thought before my day on Mount Timpanogos, near Provo, Utah.
There it was! Timpanogos peak in all its splendor towering above us. The streaked brown and gray of its steep cliffs drew dizzying contrast to the rolling snowfield of the basin below it. My friend and I had hiked a good portion of the day to conquer the peak, but we could see there was far too much snow to proceed to the summit. Nevertheless, the view was wonderful enough to make us feel the hike was worthwhile.
After savoring the moment, we started our descent, and it was a mutual decision that we should take a different, somewhat harder, route down. Then we saw a perfect place to do some sliding on the snow. We traversed the steep downhill slopes easily as we angled toward a large snowfield in the deep saddle between two rocky outcroppings.
As we came closer to the snowfield, we discovered we were not as close as we expected. We were 25 feet above it. We stood at the top of a sheer drop. At the base of the small cliff stretched acres of snow. The perfect ski run!
I looked at my friend. He smiled, sensing what I was thinking, and at that moment I knew what I was going to do. I sprinted from where I stood and jumped into space, straightening my body and spreading my arms. After endless seconds, I plunged into the snow, shoulder deep much to my surprise.
But my depth was only part of the problem. I discovered water was flowing underneath the snow, melting from above. Much to my dismay, I was being sucked underneath the crust of snow.
My friend, standing on top of the cliff, saw what was happening. He scurried down the hill to a much lower spot and hurled himself off the cliff. I watched him fall, praying he could avoid breaking through the snow’s crust.
He hit with a thud and immediately ran in my direction. My friend grasped my hand and began to haul me out. After he pulled me free, I lay on the snow breathing heavily.
He said to me, “Jon, that was stupid.” I knew he was right.
As I hiked the rest of the way down the mountain, wet from my knees down and a bit stunned by my close call, I was grateful my friend had saved me from the results of my stupidity. Because he was there, I did not have to pay the ultimate price for my unwise choice.
I know that in my life, I have another friend who has hiked alongside for as long as I can remember and is there to pull me out and rescue me from many pitfalls. Jesus Christ, my friend and Savior, is always willing to help when I reach out to him. Because his atonement made repentance possible, there is, through him, always a way out.

A young man said that while playing on his soccer and basketball teams, he had to tell his coaches that he would not be able to play on Sundays. This was hard to do as he felt a commitment to the team, but his coaches were very impressed with his commitment to his religion. Later, he invited his soccer team to visit the church meetinghouse. All the players and the parents were impressed with the beauty of the church and had lots of questions about the pictures inside.

This early morning boat launch is such a time. The stars have faded, but dawn has yet to tint the eastern horizon. On Tarawa, Kiribati’s most populous atoll (a low coral island encircling a lagoon), the few electric lights have long since blinked out. And with no wind to move the waters of Tarawa’s lagoon, the small, five-meter craft seems frozen in place, embraced on all sides by silent anticipation.
At the craft’s helm, Tune (pronounced toon-AY) gazes intently ahead. His 16-year-old friend and ward member, Moretekai Ataia, is at the bow, watching the water carefully. Though their destination, Abaiang Atoll, is several hours away, they are alert. Shoals extend right and left, and Tune must maneuver the boat safely between them until he passes the reef at the mouth of the lagoon. Once into the deep water of the ocean, he can increase his speed and steer directly toward Abaiang.
Moving into the lush landscape, they follow a familiar path to their destination—a maneaba (meeting place) in a clearing near the home of an elderly couple named Tamton and Taake Ruata. This maneaba serves as the meetinghouse for the Tabontibike-Abaiang Branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Tune has brought Moretekai with him today to visit Tamton and Taake and other members of the Church on Abaiang.
The Saints in Kiribati have great respect for the priesthood, and wherever Tune goes on Abaiang, he is received with gladness. It soon becomes apparent it wasn’t whim that brought him to Abaiang. He was drawn to the island by prayer—reeled in like one of his tuna. He thought he was just visiting, perhaps finding an excuse to go fishing. But the real reason he came was to give Aritaake Moutu a priesthood blessing.
“Ever since I joined the Church, I’ve depended on priesthood blessings,” Sister Moutu says. “I had a problem with one of my legs before I joined the Church. Now whenever it gives me trouble, I ask for a blessing, and I’m always healed. This morning I was praying for someone to come and give me a blessing because my husband is not on the island to give me one.” She smiles at Tune. “That’s why you came.”
“It’s always like that,” Tune says. “She lives on this isolated island in the middle of nowhere. She and her family have their challenges. There are few jobs; most people live off what they can grow and get from the sea. There are no doctors or nurses on Abaiang. The Saints here depend a lot on the Lord. And the Lord takes care of them.”
“Yes, we have our challenges,” Sister Moutu says, “even after joining the Church. But we don’t notice them as much now.”
It is time to return to Tarawa. Tune knows he needs to get back before the tide pulls too much water out of Tarawa’s lagoon, leaving parts of it too shallow for his outboard motor. But before he and Moretekai leave, Tune gives Aritaake the priesthood blessing she prayed for.

The end of a semester can be a tired time, full of work and worry. Near the end of a challenging semester in graduate school, I met one of my classmates who, in contrast to most of us, was striding along with a radiant look on his face. He told me he had been for a swim to “refresh his ideas.” A little recreation turned his day around, and his original description of his swim “refreshing his ideas,” cheered me up. I am not going to suggest we all get up and go swimming right now, although it did occur to me that it would be a good idea. But, instead, I want to talk about some ways of refreshing our ideas without going all the way to the beach.

After we joined the Church, we continued to nourish the seed. Challenges came: poverty, the birth of a baby with a handicap, my husband becoming disabled, my trying to go to nursing school and working to support our family. When I graduated as an RN with an associate degree, I was pregnant. We were told the name of that child, but he was stillborn a couple of days before I was to take the RN-NCLEX exam. The Lord was there to help us through. We were taught about unconditional love, survival, obedience, and submissiveness to the will of the Lord and that the Lord was always near to lift us up. Occasionally I wondered why the Lord was not as near, and I realized He was not the one who had moved away—I had.

At the same time, in the heart of western Germany, another marvelous lady, recently widowed, still in her thirties, was terrified by the difficulties of the future. She had two young daughters and felt left alone in a country without hope. Right then two young missionaries rang the doorbell and brought the message of light, truth, and hope.
I give thanks eternally to those diligent American missionaries and most of all to Sister Carmen Reich, who became my mother-in-law, for her faith, strength, and willingness to listen to the still, small voice. My life has been very different because of the miraculous insight of these great individuals.

Eight Varsity Scouts from the Greeley Colorado Stake served as volunteers for two days at the Colorado Special Olympics Winter Games. The group cheerfully performed the many tasks assigned to them by the Olympic Committee. They helped decorate the “Olympic Town” and manned booths for competitions. Several of their group were also assigned as escorts to athletes on the ski slopes. They were to stay with their athlete during practice runs and during races.
They returned home tired but with a new appreciation and understanding of the special people they had been privileged to serve.

For many, the seeking requires sacrifice. “After my conversion, I had to wait half a year to be baptized,” recalls Olga Kovárová of Czechoslovakia. “Because we had no baptismal font, we needed to wait until summer when we could be in the woods and not be noticed.” When they reached the reservoir on the night of the baptism, they saw many fishermen. “We waited, and the time dragged on,” she said. Finally, a brother suggested that they pray and ask Heavenly Father for help. “This was my first miracle with a priesthood prayer. Within a few minutes of our quiet prayer, most of the fishermen left the river’s edge. … You can imagine my feelings of joy as I came up out of the water.” Olga was the first young woman convert in Czechoslovakia in almost forty years. When she was confirmed, she was told that through her, “many people would come to the Church.”

I visited Palmyra, New York, with my stake for youth conference in the summer of 2004. While we were there, we visited Church history sites around Palmyra, including the Sacred Grove, as well as the Palmyra temple. We ended with a testimony meeting in the Church building at the Peter Whitmer Farm. What a testimony-building experience!
I loved standing where Joseph Smith stood. It struck me during testimony meeting that most of the sites were such small buildings that I must have stood in places that Joseph Smith stood, even if it was only for five seconds. But I also know that I don’t have to stand where he stood to gain a testimony of him. My testimony of him has been strengthened while I have been alone in my own bedroom as well. But I am grateful that I was able to visit where it all began.
By the end of the youth conference, after visiting all the sites, I learned that I want to know Jesus Christ and that the only way to know Him is to constantly learn of Him and to be like Him. I am so grateful for my chance to learn these powerful lessons while visiting the spot where the Restoration began.

They aren’t great basketball players, but they are determined, I thought as I watched the opposing team run up and down the court.
They were younger, less experienced, and shorter than our basketball team. But they kept on trying, even when it was clear that they didn’t have a chance of winning.
Randy, a boy with sandy-blond hair, played like he didn’t know what the score was. Although he rarely had possession of the ball, he chased it up and down the court as if the whole game depended on him.
When his teammates did pass him the ball, he would carry it four steps, stop, bounce it, and pass it to another player. But the referees didn’t call a penalty, and no one complained. Randy, who is mentally handicapped, was doing his best.
With seconds left on the clock, he got the ball and his teammates yelled for him to shoot. Concentrating so hard that his tongue hung out of his mouth, he shot—and missed. One of our players rebounded the ball, hesitated, and then tossed the ball to Randy.
“Shoot the ball!” our player yelled, and members of both teams joined in the cheer.
The ball went up, hit the rim, and bounced off. Again, Randy was given the ball, and again he missed. Time had run out, but the buzzer didn’t sound, and the referees stayed at half court. Everyone yelled for him to try again. This time the ball arched and swished the net, and the last two points of the game belonged to Randy.
The crowd went wild, and the members of both teams surrounded Randy to congratulate him. He jumped up and down as though he had won the game. And I realized that he had.
And so had every player in that game. They had been true sportsmen: fair and generous. That night no one went home feeling angry or disappointed. There was no bragging or teasing. There were no losers, only winners.

Let me illustrate. I am very concerned about the tendency of members to disregard the counsel of the bishop or, at the other extreme, to become overdependent upon him.
I decided to speak in general conference about the bishop.
I prayerfully prepared, and there came to mind a conversation from 50 years past. It served my need as a teacher—served it perfectly. I quote now that conversation just as I did in general conference:
“Years ago I served on a stake high council with Emery Wight. For 10 years Emery had served as bishop of rural Harper Ward. His wife, Lucille, became our stake Relief Society president.
“Lucille told me that one spring morning a neighbor called at her door and asked for Emery. She told him that he was out plowing. The neighbor then spoke with great concern. Earlier that morning he had passed the field and noticed Emery’s team of horses standing in a half-finished furrow with the reins draped over the plow. Emery was nowhere in sight. The neighbor thought nothing of it until much later when he passed the field again, and the team had not moved. He climbed the fence and crossed the field to the horses. Emery was nowhere to be found. He hurried to the house to check with Lucille.
“Lucille calmly replied, ‘Oh, don’t be alarmed. No doubt someone is in trouble and came to get the bishop.’
“The image of that team of horses standing for hours in the field symbolizes the dedication of the bishops in the Church and of the counselors who stand by their side. Every bishop and every counselor, figuratively speaking, leaves his team standing in an unfinished furrow when someone needs help.”3

Haroon remembered the excitement of the day the announcement was made that the language would be written with the same alphabet he used to study English. Airplanes had dropped leaflets all over the city to tell the people the good news.
People began learning to read and write Somali at once.
Three months later Haroon’s father, who was a clerk in a government office, told him, “Next week I must pass a literacy test in Somali in order to keep my job.”
That same week Haroon and three of his friends sat at a sidewalk cafe sipping a spicy beverage. Jama ran up to them, waving the first edition of the Somali daily newspaper.
“Just look at this!” he shouted. Proudly he read the name “Xiddigta Oktoobar (October Star).”
Soon five heads were bent over the pages, sounding out familiar words that looked strange in print.
Radio Mogadishu began broadcasting literacy lessons daily. Everyone in town was learning to read now. Classes started all over the city.
In August of 1974 the literacy campaign was taken to the nomads in the bush country. All schools, except technical schools and the senior classes, were closed for the year. Students fourteen years and older were sent into the bush to teach the nomads to read and write Somali.
Thousands of students were assigned to various sections of the nation. Haroon was one of these. He had stepped up to the official handing out the supplies. “Nabad miyaa,” he greeted.
“Haah waa nabad weeya,” came the cheerful answer. “Here is what you’ll need, Haroon: a blanket for cold bush nights; a folding blackboard that is used as box for the eraser, pens, pencils; a textbook; and a class register. Nabad gelyo. Llaah ha ku barakadeya (Go in peace with God’s blessing).”
Haroon began with great confidence, but he found the nomad chief was not interested in learning anything from a city youth who knew nothing about camels. Only the children and some women attended classes—sometimes.
Haroon longed for the comforts of his father’s house, especially plenty of water for showers. He longed for a chance to talk with friends, for most of the men here ignore him.
Just when he felt especially low in spirit, he met Osman, a former schoolmate, traveling with another group of nomads. Osman was bubbling with enthusiasm about the literacy campaign and all that he was learning from the nomads. “I even helped load the camels for this move,” he said with a grin. “I’d never touched a camel before. And do you know what?” Osman continued, stroking the flank of the animal near him. “This animal actually obeyed my command to get up after we had put on its load.”
After they parted, Haroon thought about Osman’s words and obvious enjoyment of his experience. I guess I’ve just been thinking of one part of the president’s challenge. I think I know so much the nomads should learn that I haven’t thought about learning anything from them. He softly repeated the president’s words, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aquoon baro.” (If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn.)
That night he moved closer to the men around the campfire. He was captivated by the stories Chief Abdi told of Somali heroes of the past. Just before he fell asleep, he thought, I ought to write those stories in Somali. But the next day there was no time for classes nor for story writing, for the clan had to move to find more pasture.
Haroon tried to be helpful. By the time they got settled in their new location, he was feeling as though he were almost a part of the group. However, he was also feeling sick with a fever. He did not complain, but when Chief Abdi heard about his sickness, he was concerned. He sent a young man to find a special plant that was used for a fever medicine. To Haroon he said, “Perhaps you want to return to your father. Life in the bush is hard.”
But Haroon was determined to remain, now as eager to learn as to teach. After his recovery, when the chief observed Haroon’s genuine desire to learn of the nomadic way of life, he became more friendly. He ordered his people to attend classes.
Sometimes in the afternoon when the youths gathered under the spreading branches of an acacia tree, the camels shared the shade. It was very different from the classroom in the city where Haroon had studied English. Here the blackboard hung on a tree. And the strong, acrid odor of camels hung on the dusty air.
Some of the nomads were keen students and helped others. Little children chanted the alphabet as they herded goats. They wrote the letters in the dust while goats nibbled whatever they could find.
One evening when the full moon shone over the settlement, Haroon read to the group a story the chief had told some weeks earlier. The men sat enthralled, realizing in a way for the first time that these marks could tell a familiar story.
Chief Abdi was thoughtful as Haroon finished. “That is good, Haroon,” he said. “If we write our history, our children will not forget. I must learn this writing also.”
Chief Abdi became an earnest pupil, and with his constant encouragement, others came more regularly.
Later in Mogadishu, there was a big celebration when Haroon and thousands of other boys and girls returned to the capital after eight months among the nomads. Crowds lined the streets to welcome them and to celebrate the completion of one more phase in the fight against illiteracy.
The schools opened and these youths returned to being students again. But there was a difference. The experiences in the bush had changed them and increased their appreciation and understanding about some of the problems their country was facing. Many now had a growing respect for the skills of the nomads who could survive in the harsh desert. They also had a greater appreciation for the Somali nomadic culture of their ancestors.
Six months later Haroon was walking home from school one day through the noisy city streets when he suddenly caught the strong, unmistakable scent of a herd of camels. Memories rushed into his mind. Then he saw the herd come around the corner at the end of the block. They jostled each other as cars and taxis honked their horns. A bushman was bringing a herd to the slaughterhouse. Haroon went to talk to the nomad and found he knew Chief Abdi’s clan very well.
The man handed Haroon a letter showing signs of being carried many days in the folds of the man’s skirt. Haroon opened it and read greetings from many in the clan. It was written by the hand of Chief Abdi himself. He thanked Haroon for teaching him and his people.
Haroon was happy to know that Abdi was also following the president’s words: “If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn.”

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

Because my mission language was French, I was hired as a student teacher of entry-level French classes here at BYU. In fact, it was in one of these classes that I met my future wife, Lucia. I will never forget when she walked into my classroom in the JKHB on the first day of class. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I was super disappointed to find out she wasn’t actually enrolled in my class.

Back then, in order to add a class, you had to get the teacher to sign a card. At the end of class, about twenty students came to the front of the room wanting to add my French 101 class. Lucia was at the very back of the group. Fortunately I have very long arms, so I reached over about three rows of hopeful students, grabbed Lucia’s card, signed it, and handed it back to her. Some of the other students were not pleased with my overreach.

Before dating Lucia, I thought it would be a good idea to seek approval from the department chairman. When I asked him if it was okay to date a girl in one of my classes, he simply replied, “Isn’t that what BYU is all about?!”

Now, it is not what BYU is all about, but for me it was right up there.

That signature and approval changed my life forever. We began dating and were sealed in the Oakland California Temple about a year later.

I did not want to be at Young Women camp last year. Three weeks earlier my grandpa had passed away, and I just wanted to be alone and away from everyone. By the time we got there, I felt like I shouldn’t have come.
However, on the first day, our ward had a devotional that I’ll never forget. One of the older young women spoke about finding joy. At first I rolled my eyes. How could I find joy if there was none?
But then she said something I had never thought about: When it feels like we can’t find joy anywhere else, we can find it in the Savior. Sometimes our mortal lives are filled with grief, depression, anger, trials, and constant uphill battles. Sometimes it is hard to find joy except in Him.
Although my girl’s camp experience was not perfect, I did find joy. I found it by turning to the Savior—in the scriptures, in nature, and in quiet moments where I could pray to Heavenly Father. This principle has gotten me through many trials since. I’m so grateful for the knowledge that the perfect love of the Savior can reach us even when we feel there is no joy.
Elise B., Missouri, USA

For a Long time, I wasn’t really good at praying to my Heavenly Father. I was either too tired or would forget. Finally, for a Personal Progress experience, I challenged myself to start praying every night and every morning. I was doing really well and felt good too. I was waiting for some big moment to prove that God answered my prayers. That moment never came for me, but I did see God answer my little sister’s prayer.
That weekend was the Daddy-Daughter dance, and she was really excited. A couple of days before the dance, my stepdad called and said that his work schedule had changed, causing him to miss the dance. My little sister was devastated and my stepdad even cried when he gave the news.
But our sadness didn’t last long. The next day, he called back to say that because of the incoming snowstorm he could come home and go to the dance! My little sister’s eyes lit up with happiness as she said, “Whoa! I prayed last night that Daddy could make it to the dance!”
That night, I prayed to Heavenly Father and thanked Him for being there for my sister and my family. I learned that God does answer our prayers, although it may not be exactly when and how we want them answered. He wants us to be happy. He loves us! He promises to help and remember us. And it’s our part to remember Him.
Katie W., Washington, USA

One night while I was on my mission in the beautiful mountains of Cajamarca, Peru, my companion and I arrived home from a hard day’s work, happy with the efforts we had made. The phone rang. I picked it up, and my mission president’s voice cracked with emotion as he said, “Elder Deaver, your father just had a stroke. He’s in critical condition and will probably die tonight.”
The next thing I knew, I was sitting in front of my desk, where I had worked and studied for one and a half years, in a place where I felt I had literally given my soul to the Lord and the people. I was in shock. I simply could not believe it. These things were always supposed to happen to other people. Why me?
Fortunately, my companion, Elder Allen, was a spiritual giant. We knelt down and began to pray for understanding. We wanted to understand the will of the Lord. Still, in my heart, I was pained and suffering. I didn’t sleep that whole night.
We went out to preach the next morning with a desire to find some listening soul. My companion, an Idaho cowboy, led the way. We arrived at the home of the Reyes family. A woman invited us in, and we sat down at the table of the dining room and started a discussion. She was confused about the purpose of life. She had seen family members die and didn’t understand why. In my heart, I somehow knew that this opportunity would arise, though I still had an emotional hole in me, where it felt like my dad was missing. Even though I felt weak, I knew it was time for me to bear testimony. I had testified about the eternal nature of families during my whole mission, but did I really know now?
This was my test, my time to shine. I shared my part of the discussion, and the moment came when I bore testimony that families can be together forever. The woman was touched deeply as the Spirit testified. Families are forever. That is our message. The Book of Mormon is a book about families. The plan is to save the family of Heavenly Father.
I also found comfort in other scriptures. “And Jesus said unto him, No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God” (Luke 9:62). This scripture means a great deal to me because of this particular experience.
My father passed on, and I managed not only to live through the ordeal, but also to grow in faith and feeling in the gospel. I came to know our Father in Heaven and His Son, Jesus Christ, like I never had before and even felt the presence of my father with me in the mission field.

Another element of trust: trust in your leaders. There are many ways to illustrate this, but a story comes to my mind that I’m particularly close to. It appeals to me because it involves my dear wife’s father. Brother Walser was one of the Mormon colonists in Mexico when this incident happened, and afterwards he was one of the witnesses, having spoken with one of the men who was with Pancho Villa at the time this little miracle occurred. Pancho was very much incensed at the intervention of the United States in internal Mexican political affairs. I’ll not go into all of the details, but in retaliation he took his army across the border into Texas and proceeded to harass and burn and murder and so on. And then on returning into Mexico, he found the Mormon colonies directly in his path. He was angry; he was going to cause more trouble. The Mormon colonists knew that his army was approaching them, and they sensed the threat of danger, and so they met together. The bishop who was there with this particular group called all of the priesthood leaders together, and they discussed what they should do. Some said, “Well, we have our deer rifles and our shotguns. Let’s defend ourselves.” Another said, “No, let’s take our wives and families and flee to the mountains.” Another said, “Well, let’s set up an ambush for them,” or “Let’s put dynamite in certain places” or let’s do this, or let’s do the other. There were different options. The bishop, a wise, humble man, facing several options that he felt he really was not competent to decide among, finally said, “I think we ought to go home, have prayers, turn out the lights, go to bed, and leave it in the hands of the Lord.” Immediately there were some other discussions: “No, let’s do this,” and “No, let’s do the other,” and so on. Then one of the brethren stood up and said, “I’m going to follow the example of the bishop.” Then another one did the same thing, and pretty soon they all went home, had prayers, turned out their lanterns, went to bed, and left it in the hands of the Lord.

Late that night Pancho Villa and his army arrived at the border of that little farming valley. He held up his hand, stopped the troops, and said, “Wait, there’s an ambush. I can see the faint glimmers of fires all throughout the valley. The other army must have arrived here before we did.” Others who were with him said, “No, we can’t see anything.” He disagreed strenuously with them and instructed the army to go around the valley and off in another direction. One of his guides was known to my father-in-law, who happened also to have been a guide for some of Pancho Villa’s army in another case in which he was taken as a hostage and threatened with his life unless he led them through a pass which he knew because of his deer hunting experiences. He was one of several witnesses to that incident where the men around Pancho Villa said, “We can’t see anything.” The colonists had done nothing but Pancho Villa himself could see remains of fires in the valley, and he was certain there was an ambush there threatening him.

Let us trust in our leaders.

After graduation, Christine and I moved to Palo Alto, California, where I started graduate studies at Stanford University. It would have been easy for us to get lost in the wave of move-ins as part of our new ward’s annual intake of graduate students coming out of BYU. But the Lord sent two men into our lives who changed us forever. Hank Taylor and Peter Giles had graduated from BYU years earlier. With Silicon Valley’s ascendance, these men were always representing their alma mater and the Church with distinction. They raised their families in the gospel and helped establish the Church in the Bay Area. Brother Taylor had served in the stake presidency and Brother Giles was one of the former bishops of our ward.

By the time we arrived in Palo Alto, some might have thought these two brethren were past their prime in Church service. But no one had told them that. Both Hank and Peter looked at all these new graduate students and decided part of their service would be to teach us what it means to serve in this Church. I was called as just another Young Men advisor—one of many. But these leaders then taught me how to minister to those in need, how to welcome others into the ward, and how to embed myself in the lives of the youth. Here is a picture of the three of us years later on a return visit to our Palo Alto ward. [A picture was shown.]

I’m not sure the young men in that ward really benefited much from my role as just one extra Young Men advisor. But a few years later, I found myself across the country with a call to serve the youth in inner-city Boston. This time there was no Hank Taylor or Peter Giles to mentor me. My youth were of Haitian, Dominican, and West African descent. I loved those boys. I gave everything I had to them, ministering in their homes and helping them build their testimonies in Christ. Those young men have since served missions, graduated from BYU and BYU–Idaho, and married in the temple. They are now building their own families and building the Church. I doubt any of those young men will ever know Hank Taylor or Peter Giles, but their lives were blessed forever because of what I learned from those early mentors about what it means to serve in this Church.

—Caroline Olsen, a 22-year-old interior design student from Brampton, Ontario, Canada, enjoyed her studies, but wondered if they were superficial.
“I started to feel like what I was doing was unimportant. I mean, why be a designer? Who does it help? “Then one of the faculty members sat down with me and said, ‘Carrie, the things you develop will help others. Our environment is the most important thing that surrounds us each day. It creates an atmosphere for our workplace or our family. If it’s a good environment, it will influence us to be better people.’
“All of a sudden I understood that what I was doing was important. Thanks to that teacher, I found out I was doing something good.”