Gospel Story Finder

New Era: Have you had any special experiences in baseball because of your membership in the Church?
Brother Killibrew: All of us have plenty of opportunities to tell someone about it. I remember one day, just after I joined the Church, that I was playing first base and happened to be hitting pretty well at the time. In fact, I was in a hot streak. One player on another team was really struggling and having a tough time hitting. Well, he finally got to first base and said, “Say, what church was that you just joined? I’ll join myself, if it can help me hit the ball like you do!”
New Era: Even before you were a Latter-day Saint, you were well-respected and had a good-guy image. Has your life really changed very much since you joined the Church?
Brother Killibrew: I think my life has undergone a complete change since I joined the Church. It really has. And I’m very thankful for the gospel in my life and for the closeness of our family.
New Era: Besides the change in your life, has the gospel had an influence on your baseball career?
Brother Killibrew: Yes, in many ways. One of the most dramatic was demonstrated when I ruptured the hamstring muscle in my left leg in an all-star game. There was a real question as to whether I would ever play again. I was using crutches. Two bearers of the priesthood administered to me. After that I no longer needed the crutches, and my leg healed up very nicely. The next year was the year I got the Most Valuable Player award.
New Era: How about the Word of Wisdom as a factor for the athlete?
Brother Killibrew: There is no question that it has helped me to keep playing, even with minor injuries. With the rugged schedules that we follow, if a player does not take care of himself in all ways, it’s very difficult for him to do his best day after day. I have a strong personal testimony that the Word of Wisdom is a true teaching and that it has been a definite help to me.
New Era: How do you feel about working on Sundays?
Brother Killibrew: I wish I didn’t have to do it, but it is part of my business and there is nothing I can do about it. I try to attend priesthood meeting on Sunday morning whenever I can. During the off-season, I try extra hard to be active in my elders quorum and all the other programs of the Church.
New Era: How did it feel to win the Player of the Year award?
Brother Killibrew: Good! It felt great! But let’s put this kind of thing in perspective. Being chosen player of the year can’t even compare with the great feeling I had when I went to the temple with my family. That was a wonderful and special experience. It means so much to me to know that we will always be together as a family.
New Era: What advice would you give to Latter-day Saint youth?
Brother Killibrew: Stay close to the Church. If they do that while they’re young, they’ll have a good chance of staying with the Church throughout their whole lives.
I’ve learned that no one ever has to be ashamed of the gospel. People respect you for your beliefs. Sure, I get a little kidding once in a while, but on the whole, people seem to respect me for the principles I follow. I wish all of our Latter-day Saint youth knew this—you don’t have to go along with the crowd when the crowd is wrong. Self-respect and the respect of others will come to the person who stays close to the gospel.

My heart stopped beating as I peered over the edge of the 90-foot cliff. I couldn’t believe I’d put myself in this position. My friends in the boat below were laughing at my hesitation to jump, which made me even more determined to go through with it.
We’d chosen Lake Powell in southern Utah as our graduation retreat, and we were glad temperatures soared into the 90s during that first week of June. It felt great to be healthy, tan, and 18.
As we climbed to the summit of that 90-foot cliff, we laughed at our friends back in the boat who passed up the chance of flying through that great expanse of air toward the water. They were all talk and no action, we joked as we reached the top. They were the same guys, after all, who had passed up almost any form of “entertainment” during our high school years.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when Bryce, the bold one, let out a scream and jumped off the cliff. It wasn’t a graceful takeoff, but it got the job done. I watched him flip like a fish as he fell through the sky, and I heard the distant splash when he hit the water. “You’ve got to try it!” he yelled as he pulled himself into the boat. It was a direct challenge.
I looked around and found my three buddies smiling at me. My stomach went sour. It was then I realized that jumping from a 90-foot cliff wasn’t such a hot idea. But how could I pull out now? They’d never let me live it down.
Just when I was about to jump, I was interrupted by Kelly, who barked out an obscenity and took off. We never saw him hit the water, but heard him crying as the others pulled him into the boat.’ His knees had slammed together upon impact, and he would be in a cast for the rest of the summer, following surgery on both knees.
The three of us who remained were now scared to death, but we wouldn’t admit it. I remember thinking about my acceptance to BYU, and about my plans to serve a mission after my freshman year. For the first time that day, I began to think of the consequences of making the jump. What if I became seriously injured? Was impressing my friends really that important?
“Fifty percent chance you make it and fifty percent chance you get hurt,” Bryce impatiently yelled at me from below. That was comforting.
I slowly walked back from the edge, then raced toward it, lifting my body off the ground as I soared into the warm sky. I looked immediately down and found the water racing toward me. I waved my arms to maintain balance.
My entry into the water was like an explosion, and I heard my back snap. As I sank through the water, I became aware that I couldn’t move my body. I felt as though my lungs would explode as I slowly floated to the surface, only to hear my friends laughing at the expression on my face.
Ted was the first to realize I was in pain, and he told the others to stop laughing as I was pulled into the boat. I mentioned something about the pain in my back as they laid me down next to the already-injured Kelly, and I was soon whimpering right along with him.
Kelly and I watched in bewilderment as the remaining two contemplated their own jumps. Despite unfavorable odds, each of them made the leap—successfully.
Since no doctors were within 100 miles of us, I decided to finish the trip with my friends. I lay in a tent for two days, shocked at my stupidity. I was only 18, yet I had risked my life for the sake of “entertainment.”
The doctor who examined my back said I had a compression-fracture which would cause arthritis throughout my life, but I still considered myself very lucky.
For nearly four years I had wandered carelessly through a world of smashed pumpkins and crazy dives. I hadn’t stopped to consider what effect my actions were having on other people, or on myself. I had been a thrill seeker who never had to face the consequences until that fateful day when I’d almost given my life just to impress my friends. It took a crash through Lake Powell’s waters to plunge me from my fantasy world into a world of reality and responsibility.

But there’s something that poisons the kind of relationship I’m looking for. I first became aware of it with a close friend of mine. He and I grew up together from Primary lessons to high school dances and cared about each other deeply. I was excited to see him get ready to serve a mission. Then one day he had a look on his face that made me think he was going to announce he had a terminal illness. He blurted out he would have to delay his mission because of morality problems he’d had that started with pornography. I felt so bad for him. I still cared about him and all the memories I had with him, but the blow was a difficult one for me to handle.
My experience with my friend made me think. Even if I never viewed pornography myself, I realized it could still hurt me if people I loved chose to look at it.

In Liverpool, New York, USA, as Primary president Melissa Fisk attended ward council meeting, she gained insight into its power. When she reached inside her bag for a notebook, she came across a picture of 28 Primary children on the steps of the Palmyra New York Temple. All were covered with wasp stings. For a moment, the picture pulled her attention away from the meeting, and she focused briefly on the day the ward Primary had gone to Palmyra to enjoy the sacred feeling of the temple grounds. Unfortunately, when the children spread out their blankets, they had accidentally upset a wasps’ nest.
After everyone had been cared for, the leaders invited the children to touch the temple. The children refused because they were afraid that there might be more wasps. So parents and leaders stood in a line and created a path to the temple. This gave the children courage to move forward.
As Melissa turned her attention back to the ward council meeting, she thought, “If only everyone could be surrounded by such loving friends and leaders as they progress toward the temple.”
Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard the Relief Society president comment on a sister in need: “She wasn’t at church last Sunday. I’ll make sure her visiting teachers let her know about the upcoming temple trip.”
“They’ve got some hard things going on right now,” added the elders quorum president. “I’ll follow up with their home teachers and see if there’s anything we can do.”
“The young women could help with babysitting,” said the Young Women president.
As Melissa looked at the faces of the members of the ward council, she saw genuine affection and concern. A smile spread across her face. “The Lord has prepared ways for His children to be protected and loved,” she thought. “The ward council!”
Just as in Joplin, Puerto Francisco de Orellana, and Liverpool, Church leaders worldwide continue to discover the blessings of ward and branch councils. As they do, they will harness the extraordinary power of these councils to help the Lord bless His children and accomplish His work.

Unfortunately, many of us fail to recognize what the Lord wants us to be. A sister wrote to me recently, telling of some events that led her to realize how much her Heavenly Father loved her and had blessed her. She said:
“I have had very low self-esteem and have not felt ‘good enough’ to have a close relationship with [my Father in Heaven]. This has kept me self-centered and unable to serve as effectively as I could. During the last few months I have felt a yearning desire within me, an urgency, if you will, to draw nearer to my Father in Heaven. Lately I have felt his arm around me and his great love extending to me—a beautiful feeling of acceptance. With this have come many gifts: more patience, more self-control, [more understanding]. I know this is the Holy Ghost teaching me.
“I have learned when priorities are in order and I prepare personally each day with prayer, scripture study, and physical care, I am happier and a more profitable servant.”

Born with a genetic defect in the joints which affected his ability to walk, Mark Powell has learned to face obstacles and achieve in ways that have surprised many.
Mark, a deacon in the Dallas Fourth Ward, Richardson Texas Stake, started playing the piano to exercise his fingers. Through hard work, he became proficient. Encouraged by school contests in composition, he began composing pieces for other contests. His piece, called “Dinosaurs,” for piano and synthesizer won the elementary division of the Music Teachers’ Association contest. He has also composed a piece called “Running Free” for two pianos, which also placed in composition contests.

In 1863 Charles Dickens, the English novelist, went on board the passenger ship Amazon, which was bound for New York. His purpose was to report on the Latter-day Saint converts who were emigrating to build up the Church in the American West. There had been thousands of converts who had already emigrated, and much had been written, particularly in the British media, about them and their beliefs. Most of what was written was unfavorable.
“I went on board their ship,” wrote Dickens, “to bear testimony against them if they deserved it, as I fully believed they would; to my great astonishment they did not deserve it.”
After observing and mingling with the converts, Dickens was impressed with them and described these English converts, most of whom were laborers, as being “in their degree, the pick and flower of England.”

Annelise Nielsen is a third-generation member of the Church. Her grandma and grandpa converted, her dad grew up in the Church and married a member, and they had Annelise. They’re all now members of the Frederiksberg Ward, and Annelise, a Beehive, is, along with Pia, one of the few young women in the ward.
And the ward currently meets in a rented building. There is an elevator in the building, but it’s pretty slow so Annelise takes the stairs. Up three flights gets her to the top floor of the building, where she enters the chapel. The building is clean and nice, but Annelise says there is a temporary feeling about where the Frederiksberg Ward meets. She looks out the window of the chapel and points.
“That’s our old chapel right there,” she says. She’s looking at a beautiful brick building one block away, the first the Church built in this country. And it sits empty—for good reason.
“That is where our temple is going to be,” Annelise says.
The Frederiksberg Ward chapel is in the process of being converted into a temple that will serve the members in Denmark and other parts of Scandinavia. So to get a temple 10 minutes from her house opposed to the 12 hours it takes by car to get to the Stockholm Sweden Temple is a real blessing and worth the sacrifice.
But there’s still the issue of the Church building a new chapel. The lease on the temporary chapel will expire soon. So on this Sunday, the members of the Frederiksberg Ward are holding a fast, praying that the Danish government will approve building a chapel on property the Church has purchased.* Annelise joined other ward members in fasting and prayer for this special purpose.
This morning, Annelise admits she’s hungry. “But when I fast I feel close to God and I feel more humble,” she says. “I don’t feel like fasting is that much of a sacrifice, and I believe if everybody in this ward prays for the same thing then our Heavenly Father will help us.”
After sacrament meeting, with her fast almost complete, Annelise doesn’t make a mad dash home to get some food. Instead, she walks out the door holding the arm of Kristel Pedersen, a 96-year-old member of her ward. Sister Pedersen joined the Church in 1958 and taught Annelise’s father in Sunday School. Each month, Annelise gets to know her better by taking time to visit with her.
“Sister Pedersen is nice to talk with. I think she’s a strong woman because she’s the only member of the Church in her family. Her husband never joined, and her children were already grown up when she was baptized,” Annelise says. “She’s 96 years old, and she still comes to church each Sunday.
“I admire people like Sister Pedersen,” Annelise adds, “who are close to Heavenly Father. And when I do things like fasting, it brings me closer to Him too.”

Before getting into bed, Karen and Katie knelt to pray. Karen soon finished and jumped back into bed. Katie was still praying.
Karen fluffed her pillow a few times and curled up under her nice warm quilt. Katie was still praying.
Karen closed her eyes. After a while, she opened her eyes again. Katie was still praying.
Karen adjusted her quilt again and snuggled in. Katie finally finished her prayer.
“What could you possibly be praying about for that long?” Karen asked.
“Well, I was thanking Heavenly Father for all He gave me today.”
Karen sat up. “Really? He gave you that much today?”
“Oh yes!”
“Like what?”
“Well,” Katie said, “when I woke up this morning, I opened the curtains, and the sun warmed my face. I was thankful for sunshine. I got dressed and rushed downstairs for breakfast. When we all knelt for family prayer, I thought, I’m so thankful to have a wonderful family!
“After breakfast, I went for a bike ride. I heard birds singing. I saw flowers of all colors and shapes. I saw the big shady trees up and down our street. I could smell the fresh air. I thought, I’m so thankful for this wonderful world!
“Then I saw my Primary teacher, Sister Smith, in her front yard. She waved and said hello. I felt blessed to have a nice Primary teacher who loves me and teaches me.
“When I got home, Brady was there to wag her tail while I petted her. I was thankful for Brady.
“Tonight at family home evening, Mom and Dad taught us more about Jesus Christ. I’m thankful for them. I’m most thankful for Jesus and all He’s done for me.”
“Wow!” Karen exclaimed. “I never realized how much there is to be thankful for.”
“There’s more,” Katie said. “When Mom reminded us to say our prayers, I was thankful for prayer itself. Not only can I talk to Heavenly Father any time and thank Him for all He’s given me, but I can ask for help with my problems.”
With that, Katie turned off the lamp and snuggled down in her bed.
Suddenly Karen turned the lamp back on.
“What’s wrong?” Katie asked.
“Nothing. I just need to say another prayer. I have a lot to thank Heavenly Father for, too.”
Katie closed her eyes tight and turned toward the wall. She had a feeling that Karen would be praying a long time.

It was the fifth period of my first day in high school. That meant biology, and as I sat down on my hard plastic chair, I recognized one of the boys at my lab table as Casey, the school’s best water polo player. I couldn’t believe I had a class with Casey!
The two boys on my left looked familiar too—I had seen them hanging around with the mob of baseball players during lunch. The last member of our little biology “team” was Mike, scholar-athlete of the year and an important contributor to both the volleyball and tennis teams. I felt like I was sitting among the who’s who list of our high school athletes.
I soon discovered that popularity and athletic prowess weren’t very good indicators of character. Surprise! The boys were nice to people, but the crude way they talked made me squirm in my seat.
At first I was rather timid, afraid to speak up to these “big men on campus,” but as the school year progressed I voiced my discomfort more and more often. They just laughed good-naturedly at my protests.
One day, out of the blue, Miles—one of the baseball players—turned his freckled face toward me and asked, “Kim, are you Mormon?” I was completely taken aback. Where had that question come from?
“Yes, why?” I asked. Miles just shrugged his shoulders and said matter-of-factly, “I don’t know. It’s just that you can always tell when a girl is Mormon.”
Now I was even more perplexed. I knew that I had the gospel in my life and that it set me apart from the rest of the world. But I didn’t think I acted noticeably different from any of the other girls in my class.
“How can you tell?” I asked, really wanting to know.
The other guys at the table were leaning forward, listening intently and murmuring in agreement. “I don’t know,” Miles said. “You can just tell when a girl is Mormon. They’re different.” All of the baseball caps bobbed up and down in unanimous assent.
Miles never said whether being able to tell a girl was LDS was a good thing or a bad thing—it was just a fact. I took it as a compliment that my behavior set me apart as a member of Christ’s church. From then on, I have tried to live my life so that people will realize there is something different about me because I’m a Mormon.

Let me now share a very personal experience from years ago that may serve to illustrate this point. I was set apart as a stake president by two General Authorities, and during the blessing, certain—as I viewed them—promises were mentioned, one of which related to the success of a new business venture I had just undertaken. But things did not go well business-wise. Unbeknownst to me, I had started an advertising agency on the cusp of a serious recession. After weeks of unease, early one morning, with many unanswered questions in my heart, a terrible uncertainty and a feeling of being alone washed over me like a waterfall of doubt. Although going into business for myself seemed like an inspired decision at the time, I had begun to second-guess the rightness of my choice, and I even wondered about the inspired words that had been uttered in that blessing just a few months earlier.

Fortunately I followed a common pattern and went to the scriptures and to the Lord, anxiously looking for answers—any answer that would mitigate my vexed state of mind. I was pondering the words in Matthew 28 about the risen Lord, specifically what the angel said to Mary Magdalene and the other Mary who were in search of the Master, searching just as I was on that morning and perhaps as you may be searching today: “He is not here: for he is risen, as he said.”13

The details of what followed are not important here, except to say that in my scriptures there is written in the margin a little note that says, “Special experience.” The Lord blessed me that day with a powerful witness of the reality of the Savior as my personal advocate with the Father, as the Creator of heaven and earth, and as the would-be Friend of all mankind. Today I testify that He lives and that He wants nothing more than to help us perform well on this playing field of life.

Yes, the business survived the recession and, happily, all the words spoken in my blessing were fulfilled. More important, I learned something about the definition of the phrase “in the Lord’s own way.”

While my daughters were growing up, during the many trips we took in our car, the most often-asked question was, “When will we get there, Dad?” And “How long will it take?” I couldn’t help but think that those questions are much like some that we adults ask. We think we will be happy when we arrive at a certain destination, our schooling is finished, we get a better job, we arrive at a certain income, the baby is born, our bills are paid, we recover from our illness, we own a new car, some disagreeable task is finished, we retire, or we are free from all responsibility.
My father used to teach us that life is a journey, not a camp, and he indicated that too many people are camping. I’d like to challenge all of us, particularly the young people and young couples that are married, to see life as a whole and to enjoy the marvelous journey.
I remember a grandmother who had been widowed early in her life and was moving out of her home. Her granddaughter, about to be married herself, was carefully helping her pack the boxes of dishes and the faded towels. “See that sewing machine over there in the corner?” the grandmother asked. “Your grandfather always left his hat there when he came home in the evening. I used to scold him all the time about it. ‘Just put your hat on the hook,’ I’d say. ‘Why does your hat always have to be on the sewing machine messing everything up?’ Then one day he got pneumonia and died, leaving four little children and me to miss him for a lifetime. How many times through the years I’ve thought, What I’d give to see that hat on the sewing machine, placed there by his own hand!”
Like the grandmother in this story, we too often let trifles cloud our vision. We get caught up in nonessentials or in a multitude of meetings, both in and out of the Church, that have no particular meaning or purpose. We sometimes nag the people we love the best over little inattentions, small faults, mere nothings in the whole scheme of things. Instead of treasuring the all-too-rare moments we share with our dear ones, we pick at faults, imagined or otherwise. How many of us say to our wives, our husbands, our children: “Why can’t you do this?” “Why don’t you do that?” Or “Someday when I have the time …”
Our last daughter left for college this past month, and the eighteen years of daily living with her were suddenly over. Where had they gone? What minute, what hour, what day or night had swallowed up all those joyous, giggling, growing-up years? The first night she was away, I slipped into her bedroom, looked at her record player, and thought of all those times I had mechanically said, “Would you turn down the music!” And I thought, too, how often in the days ahead we’d be longing to hear the music. Thank God she and her parents have many wonderful memories to savor in the years ahead.
Our daughter Janet lies in a hospital bed at this very moment, and she and we know what great moments we have to share. And you know, Janet, our great faith and our feeling.
Why do those sudden moments of clarity, when we realize how precious our loved ones are, come so rarely? How do we let ourselves get caught up in faultfinding, digging, or scolding at those who are nearest our hearts? Is it ever worth it? As C. S. Lewis once advised, “Take care. It is so easy to break eggs without making omelettes.” (Cited in Richard L. Evans, Richard Evans’ Quote Book, Salt Lake City: Publisher’s Press, 1971, p. 169.)
Maybe each of us needs to stop amidst our busy, dashing, breathless lives—even amidst our many meetings. It recalls to mind an experience—perhaps you know it—of a little inquisitive boy who came to church with his father, and as they walked into the foyer, the boy noticed the usual trophy case over which were placed several large plaques. Curiosity got to the little boy. He pulled on his dad’s coattail and said, “Dad, what’s that one?”
The father moved a little closer and read the inscription, patted his boy on the head, and said, “Son, that’s a plaque honoring those who died in the service.”
To which the little boy said, “Morning or evening?”
I appreciate that the Lord has instructed us that there are important meetings, but then there are other meetings which are not well planned or properly structured. Yes, even amidst our meetings and our commitments we need to really see: to see the way his eyes wrinkle when he laughs, see the tilt of her head as the light catches her hair, remember his dash of humor. Maybe when things get in the saddle and ride us, we need to step back for a moment of clarity. We need to remember why we are doing all of this—remember how much we love those we love.
A young mother was running late to a very important meeting one time. As she dashed from her bedroom, her little three-year-old stopped her and said, “Mommy. Mom.”
To which the mother replied, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Mom, I need to tell you something.”
“Not now,” said the mother with an impatient wave of her hand.
“Mom,” began the little girl again.
“Oh, what is it?” said the mother.
“I just wanted to tell you I love you!”
Well, life is fleeting at best. We turn around and we’re young, turn around again and we’re old. Minutes rush past. We can’t stop them in all their rush. We’re eighteen; we’re twenty-eight; we’re forty-eight; we’re gray. Is there ever enough time to nag, scold, dig, or complain at the people we love most? We fool ourselves if we think there is. There’s only time to stop, as one has put it, to smell the flowers.
Do you remember Julia Ward Howe who told a senator on one occasion, “I am in need of help for a very special person”?
“Julia, I am so busy,” he said, “I can no longer concern myself with individuals.”
She replied, “That’s remarkable. Even God hasn’t reached that stage yet.” (See Richard Evans’ Quote Book, p. 165.)
Concern yourself first with individuals, with relationships, with loved ones. What else really matters? Don’t imagine yourself, regardless of who you are, busier than the Lord, who puts souls first above everything else.
The other night I was flying home from a distant conference. I had been away only three days, but as the flood lights of the airport loomed up, I welled up with anticipation and excitement. I felt as though I could have been a great hero returning from space—and what caused this excitement? I was going back to my family. Does it have to take flights away from home, a child leaving for college, or the death of a husband who will never again leave his hat in an awkward place to remind us how sweet are the moments with our loved ones and friends? How brief they are in the run of time? Does it take these things to stop us in our picking at trifling faults to realize the beauty of every minute together?
“When will we be there?” “How long will it take?” “How much longer, Dad, will it take?” are questions often asked by impatient children. “When will I arrive?”—a question asked by adults as they face the pressures of life. For all of us, let it not take a lifetime before we realize that we have been there all along, that life does not offer anything sweeter than the love of dear ones and the sharing of time together.
You remember what President Kimball said: “Prevention is far better than redemption.” God grant us the wisdom to know that life is a great journey, and may we have the sense to enjoy it. I bear witness to these truths in the holy name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

In 1993, three days after I moved to Polokwane, in northern South Africa, I got a knock on my door. When I opened it, there stood two missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I grew up deeply religious, and my family had always warned me to stay away from the missionaries. But they seemed nice and I enjoy talking about religion, so I invited them in.
After a wonderful visit, they said to me, “Could we give you a Book of Mormon?”
“Wait just wait a minute,” I responded. “I think I have one.”
When I showed my copy to them, they were astounded. I explained that in my home city of Cape Town a number of years before, missionaries had given me a Book of Mormon at an exhibition. I hung on to it, and every now and then I paged through it.
After our visit, I invited the missionaries back. I had been raised in a different church, however, where my stepfather was a minister. The thought of having to be baptized again became one of the stumbling blocks to my conversion. Nevertheless, I began attending the Church’s small branch. After about a year and a half, the branch president called me into his office.
“David, I want to give you a challenge,” the branch president said. “We really want you to get a testimony of the Book of Mormon. I feel you can do that if I call you to teach Gospel Doctrine. You already teach at a university, and you’re not scared of standing in front of people.”
Today, teachers must be members of the Church.1 But back then, the branch president felt inspired to ask me to teach. I’m grateful for that.
“OK,” I said.
Every Saturday evening I would study the lesson in great detail so I could understand it, know it, and relate to the Book of Mormon’s stories and characters. For me, teaching the book really was a good way to find my testimony of it.
One Sunday, after I had taught for about a year, the mission president from Pretoria came for a conference and attended my Sunday School class.
“Thank you, Brother Baxter,” he said afterward. “That was a nice lesson. Where are you from?”
When I told him Cape Town, he asked what ward I had attended.
“I didn’t attend a ward.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I am what you would refer to as a Gentile?” I said. “I’m not a member of the Church.”
He went white in the face and rushed off to the branch president.
“You have a nonmember teaching the scriptures?” the mission president asked him.
“Well, did he do it badly?”
“No.”
“Was he inspiring?”
“Yes.”
“Did he teach true doctrine?
“Yes.”
They allowed me to continue teaching. A few months later, I went to visit my family in Cape Town for the Christmas holidays. While I was there, my mother told me she was going to leave her church after my stepfather passed away. At that very moment, the Lord helped me feel free of any feelings of guilt I had because of loyalty to my mother and the church I grew up in.
When I returned home, I called the branch president.
“I’d like to be baptized tomorrow,” I told him.
“David, are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I got a message from the Lord.”

I fidgeted impatiently in the backseat of the car, excited as much by the prospect of an end to our long ride from California to Kansas as by the thought of seeing my grandparents again.
“Do you think she’ll like my hair short? Last time she saw me I was wearing it in braids. Can you imagine? I must have been about ten or eleven. I hated those braids! Remember when Grandpa offered to cut them off with the hedge clippers?”
My mother exchanged glances with my father. “Don,” she began.
Dad cleared his throat and spoke to me in the rearview mirror. “Tara, you realize that they’ve changed. People do as they get older. You’ve changed, and they will have, too. You have to expect that.”
“I know, I know.” Impatiently I brushed aside the warning in his voice. “But I’m eager to see them.”
“So are we, dear,” Mom said, but there was an edge to her voice that I didn’t understand.
We reached the edge of the little town where my grandparents lived, and Dad turned down their street. Grandpa was waiting for us on the front porch.
I shot from the car and hugged him as tightly as I could. He seemed thinner than I’d remembered, almost fragile, so I released my grip on him.
He held me at arm’s length. “Tara, you look wonderful. But whatever happened to those beautiful braids?”
“Well, one day I was trimming a hedge and they just happened to get caught in the clippers,” I teased.
We laughed and hugged again.
“How’s it going, Dad?” Mom asked him. “You holding up okay?”
Grandpa kissed her soundly on the cheek. “You bet.” He turned to Dad and clapped him on the back. “Good trip out?”
Dad shrugged. “Can’t complain.”
I couldn’t stand this exchange of pleasantries any longer. “Where’s Grandma?” I interrupted.
Grandpa looked at Mom and she nodded.
“She’s at the rest home by the courthouse. We can see her tonight,” he said.
“Oh, can’t we go now?” I begged. “I want to see her.”
“Well, Tara, you’ve come all the way from California, and your father probably wants to rest after such a long drive. We’ll go tonight.”
“Please?” I wheedled. “Pretty please with sugar on top?” It had been my favorite childhood phrase when I had wanted something very badly, and I could see him weakening.
Dad solved it. “Let me unpack the car. You three go, and I’ll snooze a bit while you’re gone.”
I threw my arms around Dad. “You sweetie!” I turned to Mom and Grandpa enthusiastically. “Let’s go!”
We pulled up in front of the sedate red brick rest home. As Grandpa got out of the car, my mother leaned over the back of the seat to speak to me.
“Don’t forget,” she cautioned in a tight voice, “she’s not the same grandmother you remember.”
Not the same grandmother? Of course she was. Oh, I knew from Grandpa’s letters that sometimes her memory slipped and she couldn’t remember people’s names, but she was still my grandmother, the same one who had read me Winnie-the-Pooh when I had scarlet fever, the same one who had let me name the barn cats, the same one who had taught me how to make the world’s best grape jelly. The same one.
I leaped from the car and began to sprint across the vast green lawns of the nursing home, until I remembered that Grandpa was with us, so I waited patiently in the quiet Kansas afternoon for him to catch up to me.
My grandfather led us confidently, like a tour guide, through the cool halls of the nursing home, holding a jar of peaches he had put up himself. “They’re her favorite, you know,” he said. “Bring her some each time I come.”
We stopped outside Grandma’s room, and Mom reached over to squeeze my arm, perhaps to reassure herself as much as me. I ignored her touch and opened the door.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, almost engulfed in a flowered robe that was much too big for her. She looked up as we entered.
Her eyes looked past me and found my grandfather. “Oh, there’s the nice man with the peaches,” she said.
My mother dropped on the bed beside her and put an arm around her. “Hey, Mom,” she said, “remember me? I’m Annie.”
Grandma ignored her and held out her hand for the peaches. “It’s so nice of you to bring me peaches each time you come.”
I wanted to say triumphantly to Mom, “See? She does remember. She is the same grandmother.”
Then Grandma cocked her head and looked quizzically at Grandpa. “Now, what did you say your name was?”
I wanted to leave. I wanted to be outside in the cleansing heat of the summer day, where the sun could burn this scene from my mind. I wanted to forget it had ever happened. It was changing my entire world.
But my grandfather was speaking to Grandma. “I’m Frank. And this is your daughter, Annie, and your granddaughter, Tara.” He spoke slowly and patiently.
“Hello,” Grandma said politely to Mom, and held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.” She turned to me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Tara,” I blurted.
A smile lit up her face, and my heart with it. She remembered me!
“Why, that’s my name, too!” She peered closely at me. “Will you be going to my school?”
I looked helplessly at my mother. She was crying silently, her face in her hands. My grandfather touched my shoulder and gently nodded.
I took a deep breath. “I hope so,” I said.
“Good. We’ll have great times. I hope you don’t live too far from me.”
I didn’t know what to do. She obviously expected me to say something. Suddenly I decided what to do. I plunged into her world.
“Tell me about the other people who go to the school,” I prompted.
Grandma’s eyes looked back 60 years. “Well, there’s Edith Scott. She’s nice and has the most beautiful red hair. And there’s Rob Anders, but stay as far away from him as you can. He’s trouble. And there’s Frankie Gleason.” A sly smile stole over her face. “I’ll bet he goes for you in a big way.”
My grandfather caught my eye and winked.
“Oh, no, I don’t think he will,” I said. “I think he likes you.”
Grandma blushed and smoothed the lap of her robe. “Well, some have thought so, but I don’t know. He is a nice fellow, though.”
“Why, I’ll bet that one day you and Frankie Gleason get married and have a beautiful daughter,” I teased. My mother looked up at me startled, and I wrinkled my nose at her. I was beginning to enjoy this.
Just then a nurse walked in. “Are you ready for your lunch, Mrs. Gleason?” she asked my grandmother.
Grandma’s face brightened. “Can I have peaches?”
In the middle of the night, the phone rang. A few minutes later my mother came into my room and sat on my bed.
“Tara, that was the nursing home. Grandma’s had a stroke, and it’s a bad one.” Her voice broke. “They don’t expect her to make it to morning.”
I sat up, suddenly awake. “Are we going?”
Mom touched my forehead, smoothing away stray hairs. “You don’t have to go.”
“But I want to go!” I cried. “She’s my grandma!”
Mom bit her lip and looked at me before she nodded. “Okay. Get dressed. We’re going right away.”
The nursing home looked different at night. “It looks so asleep!” I burst out. Grandpa patted my arm.
As we crossed the lawn, I noticed something in Grandpa’s hand.
“Peaches,” he said, embarrassed. “Her favorite. Bring her some each …” His voice cracked.
It was my turn to pat his arm.
Inside, the only person in the lobby was a nurse, who nodded understandingly at us and said softly, “Go ahead.”
Grandma’s room was brightly lit, and a doctor stood beside her bed.
“How is she?” asked my mother.
The doctor shrugged helplessly. “I never know what to say. It’s been a massive stroke, and her heart isn’t strong.”
Grandma looked very small on the bed. She looked past my mother and my grandfather to me. “Tara! How kind of you to come see me.” Her voice faltered. “I don’t think I’ll be in school tomorrow. I don’t feel very good.”
“That’s all right,” I said as reassuringly as I could. “I’ll explain to the teacher. By the way, I brought someone with me to see you. Frankie Gleason.”
We stood in a stiff line at the cemetery to “accept condolences,” as my mother put it. I felt numbed, yet painfully aware of what was happening. Grandpa seemed to shrink even more as his friends filed by to lay gnarled hands on his shoulders and wordlessly offer looks of understanding with eyes that had seen other loved ones laid to rest in this same grassy stretch. This man who had been the strongest man in the world to me when I was a child suddenly looked vulnerable, and I moved closer to him, instinctively wanting to protect him.
After the other people had left, Dad cleared his throat. “They’re serving lunch at the church. Come on, Tara.”
I hung back, reluctant to let Grandpa stay there alone, yet not wanting to hurry him into a premature separation from Grandma.
“I’ll wait and go with Grandpa,” I said.
Mom looked up sharply. “Tara …”
Grandpa stopped her. “Let her stay, Ann. We’ll meet you at the church after I say . …” His voice wavered. “After I say good-bye.”
When we were alone, I told Grandpa I’d wait for him in the car. He nodded absently. In a rush of empathy, I put my arms around him. He held on to me, and I could feel his thin shoulders shaking. Tears collected in my eyes, and I blinked helplessly as they ran unchecked down my cheeks.
“I’ll miss her, too,” I said. “But you know what makes me feel good, really good? Out of the millions of people in the world, I got her for my grandma. I feel very lucky and very grateful to whoever picks grandmas.” I leaned my head against his. “And grandpas.”
Grandpa lifted his head and smiled at me. “And granddaughters.” He took a large white handkerchief from his suit pocket and blew his nose.
I patted his arm. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
When he got to the car, I offered to drive. I started the car, and as I pulled out of the parking lot, something rolled out from under the car seat and tapped my foot. I stopped the car and reached down to pick it up. It was a jar.
“Peaches,” Grandpa said. “They’re her favorite, you know. Bring her some each …” He buried his face in his hands.
I laid my hand on his arm. “Let’s take them to her.”
Grandpa raised his head and looked at me. Then he nodded.
He carried the peaches in one hand and held my hand with the other. Together we walked back to the grave.
Grandpa knelt with difficulty and placed the jar of peaches in the midst of the flowers. Then he turned to me.
“Looks kind of simple here with all those showy flowers.”
I smiled at him. “You’re a nice man, Frankie Gleason.”

I learned about those realities from a wise teacher nearly 25 years ago. I spoke in an ancient theater in Ephesus. Bright sunlight flooded the ground where the Apostle Paul had stood to preach. My topic was Paul, the Apostle called of God.
The audience was hundreds of Latter-day Saints. They were arranged on the rows of stone benches the Ephesians sat upon more than a millennium before. Among them were two living Apostles, Elder Mark E. Petersen and Elder James E. Faust.
As you can imagine, I had prepared carefully. I had read the Acts of the Apostles and the Epistles, both those of Paul and his fellow Apostles. I had read and pondered Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians.
I tried my best to honor Paul and his office. After the talk, a number of people said kind things. Both of the living Apostles were generous in their comments. But later, Elder Faust took me aside and, with a smile and with softness in his voice, said, “That was a good talk. But you left out the most important thing you could have said.”
I asked him what that was. Weeks later he consented to tell me. His answer has been teaching me ever since.
He said that I could have told the people that if the Saints who heard Paul had possessed a testimony of the value and the power of the keys he held, perhaps the Apostles would not have had to be taken from the earth.
That sent me back to Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. I could see that Paul wanted the people to feel the value of the chain of priesthood keys reaching from the Lord through His Apostles to them, the members of the Lord’s Church. Paul was trying to build a testimony of those keys.

When I turned in my missionary papers, my bishop challenged me to not listen to any music at all until my call came. After about a week, the music was gone, but the bad lyrics were still there. Needless to say, my taste in music has changed. I was also able to feel the Spirit more often without the music blaring all the time. Don’t fool yourself into thinking that you are immune to the traps of Satan.
Nicholas Uerkvitz, 19Hereford, Arizona

I continued to study the gospel, however, and one day, late in 1974, I left a note at the chapel in Wollongong, New South Wales, saying I wanted to meet with the missionaries. Once again they began teaching me. Three times they set a date for my baptism, and each time I postponed it. (Once they even had the font filled!)
My indecision came to an end when I was offered an excellent position as a translator for the Australian government. For this position I would have to travel to Canberra each Sunday, making it impossible for me to attend church. I decided not to join the Church, and to take the job.
Not long after I made the decision, I suffered a heart attack, which left me unfit to accept the position. Once again I promised to be baptized, but this time persecution from my former minister friends made me change my mind.
I was then offered a position as a Calvinist bishop, responsible for all the migrants in New South Wales. As I contemplated this offer, I suffered another heart attack—my seventh. I realized then that I could die at any time, and that I wanted to be baptized.
At last, on 15 March 1975, after knowing the truth but putting off acting on it for so long, I was baptized.

My initial feeling of peace stayed with me for another week and a half. I was sitting in a wheelchair watching fireworks through the hospital window on the Fourth of July when it hit me—my mom was gone. She wouldn’t be at my high school graduation. She wouldn’t be there when I received my endowment in the temple. She wouldn’t be at my wedding. She was gone.
That’s when things started getting really hard. The pain in my leg was terrible, and I had no appetite. I watched TV without seeing it, and I mostly just slept. My family worried about me because I wasn’t crying very much.
The tears came a lot more when we finally went home to Oregon to an empty house. I suddenly had to take over some of my mom’s responsibilities, and my siblings often looked to me for comfort. I tried to be strong for them. But it wasn’t easy.
Going back to school was tough. Everyone had heard about the accident, and if they hadn’t, they heard about it when my teachers introduced me as the girl who was in the accident. I felt isolated.
It was especially hard when my dad remarried nine months after my mom died. I knew that my stepmom would be good for our family and that we needed her, but it was hard to adjust.
Not everything was dark during this time though. I felt a lot of love from my Father in Heaven, my family, and my Church leaders. What helped me heal and move forward after the accident was doing simple things that strengthened my faith. Every day I spent an hour before going to bed reading the scriptures, praying, and writing in my journal in my closet. In the privacy of my closet, I didn’t have to be strong for my siblings. I could cry as much as I needed and pour out my heart to God. I told Him exactly what I was feeling and how much I missed my mom. I know He heard me because of the many tender mercies I felt. That closet space became sacred to me.
Doing those simple things helped me stay connected to God instead of pushing Him away and becoming bitter. I didn’t see the accident as God hurting my family. I felt more power to be patient and submit to His will and keep moving forward through my hard days. And there were some really hard days.
After my dad remarried, I wanted to set a good example for my siblings, and I definitely didn’t want to have bad feelings toward my stepmom, so I continued to put my trust in God. One activity in my Personal Progress book focused on making my home life better by strengthening my relationship with a family member for two weeks. Basically the goal was to try to be Christlike and show love through actions. I decided to try it and serve my stepmom.
With our combined families, there were a lot of dishes. So that’s where I started. As I served her over the next two weeks, I felt enabled to love my stepmom and be patient even though I wasn’t necessarily happy about the situation. Simply focusing on serving her helped me get through hard times because I felt the Spirit with me.
I still don’t understand everything about why the accident happened to my family, and there are still hard days. But like the pioneers, I have put my trust in God and been given the power to persevere.

Many of the early Saints “experienced this mighty change in [their] hearts.” It awakened them to receive temple blessings that strengthened them in their duties. Early Saints in Nauvoo went “to the temple all day and long into the night” to receive ordinances and make covenants before they began their journey westward.
Sarah Rich, a Relief Society sister in Nauvoo, said this: “Many were the blessings we had received in the house of the Lord, which has caused us joy and comfort in the midst of all our sorrows and enabled us to have faith in God, knowing He would guide us and sustain us in the unknown journey that lay before us.”
With hearts changed through faith in the Savior, they relied on the power of His Atonement. They were awakened to act. They knew deep in their hearts that there was one—the Savior—who understood their personal adversity because He suffered it for them in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross. He felt their fear, their doubt, their pain, and their loneliness. He suffered their sorrows, their persecution, their hunger, their fatigue, and their loss. And because He suffered all these things, He could say to them, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
And they came. They trusted in and followed the prophet. They knew the journey would be long, their duty difficult. They knew that sacrifice would be required, but sustained by their faith and cleaving to their covenants, they were spiritually prepared.
Before leaving Nauvoo, a group of Saints wrote a message in the assembly hall in the temple they were forced to abandon. It read, “The Lord has beheld our sacrifice: come after us.”
Recently I participated in a pioneer trek with young men and young women in our ward. Each morning I asked myself, “What is my sacrifice? How do I come after them?”
On the second day of the trek we had pulled our handcarts eight miles (13 km) when we came to a place on the trail called “the women’s pull.” Men and women were separated, and the men were sent ahead up a hill. As we started to pull our handcarts, I looked up to see our priesthood brethren, young and old, lining both sides of the trail, hats off in respect for the women.
The path was easy at first, but soon we were in deep sand, and the hill grew steep. I had my head down and was pushing with all my might when I felt a tug on the cart and looked up to see Lexi, one of our young women and my neighbor. She had pulled her handcart to the top and, seeing our need for help, ran back. When we reached the top, I wanted so much to run back to help those following me, but I was breathing heavily and my heart was pounding so hard, the words heart attack entered my mind more than once! I watched with gratitude as other young women dropped their handcarts and ran to help.
When everyone reached the top, we took some time to record feelings in our journals. I wrote: “I didn’t prepare well enough physically so didn’t have the strength to help those following me. I may never need to pull a handcart again, but I never want to let my sisters down spiritually, never!”
It was a sacred experience that awakened me spiritually to my duties to my family and others. Throughout our journey I reflected on what I had learned.
First I thought about my sisters, those who had pulled and those who continue today to pull their handcarts alone. Nearly 20 percent of the women in those early handcart companies were alone for at least part of the way. These were women who had not married, were divorced, or were widowed. Many were single mothers. They all pulled together—covenant daughters, young and old, in different life circumstances, on the same path, with the same goal.
Those who ran to help their sisters in need reminded me of rescuers, both seen and unseen, who are quick to observe, see a need, and act.
I thought of the Lord’s words: “I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.”
Lining both sides of the trail were faithful, obedient, covenant-keeping men. Their priesthood power—the power God uses to bless all His children—lifted, strengthened, and supported us. They were a reminder that we are never alone. We can have this power with us always as we keep our covenants.
I thought of the men who were separated on the journey from families, leaving them to pull the handcart alone. Many men died on the journey. Some sons stayed behind to serve missions in their native lands. Others had emigrated earlier to prepare for their families’ arrival in the Salt Lake Valley. Some men were absent by choice, having chosen not to keep their covenants.
Like those who went before, many today live in circumstances that are not ideal. We continue to teach and strive for the ideal because we know that continually striving will keep us progressing along the path and prepare us for opportunities to receive all promised blessings as we “wait upon the Lord.”
Each of us has had and will continue to have adversity in our lives. This mortal life is a time of testing, and we will continue to have opportunities to use our agency to choose what we will learn from the adversity that will surely come.
As daughters of God, we continue on the path in faith because we recognize, as President Thomas S. Monson taught, “The saving ordinances received in the temple that permit us to someday return to our Heavenly Father in an eternal family relationship and to be endowed with blessings and power from on high are worth every sacrifice and every effort.”
It isn’t enough to just be on the journey; we must be awake to our duty and continue with faith as we draw upon the comforting, strengthening, enabling, and healing power of the Atonement.
Sisters, I love you. I don’t know many of you personally, but I do know who you are! We are covenant-keeping daughters in His kingdom, and endowed with power through our covenants, we are prepared to do our duty.
Relief Society prepares women for the blessings of eternal life by awakening us spiritually to increase in faith and personal righteousness. Let us begin with ourselves. Let us begin where we are. Let us begin today. When we are spiritually awake, we will be better able to strengthen families and homes and help others.
This is a work of salvation, and the strengthening and enabling power of the Atonement makes it possible. Awaken to who we are. Awaken to our duty. We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us. Of this I testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“In through the top loop, bring the yarn through, catch the yarn a second time, and pull it under two.”
Mariana chanted softly as she wove the yarn around her crochet hook. The rhyme helped her remember the steps. She glanced around. Some of the moms and daughters had finished already! She tried to make her fingers work faster. She wanted to make sure she got done in time to see the beginning of the general women’s session of conference. But the crochet hook was slippery, and the gray yarn kept getting tangled.
Mom had taught Mariana how to crochet so they could help with the stake Relief Society project. Their stake had a goal to crochet 500 squares. The squares would then be joined together to make quilts. They’d be given to hospital patients, people without homes, and anybody else who might need a warm blanket. Mariana was excited to help. But what if she didn’t finish her square in time?
Mariana kept crocheting. In through the top loop, bring the yarn through, catch the yarn a second time, and pull it under two.
“Looks like you’re almost done,” Mom said a few minutes later. Mariana counted each row of stitching. Mom was right! Her square was the right size! Mariana finished the row she was on and proudly held up her work.
“Way to go!” Mom said. She showed Mariana how to tie off the last bit to avoid loose threads. Then Mariana was done!
Mariana skipped to the front of the room. A table was stacked high with finished squares. She stopped and stared at the colorful mountain of bright, fluffy squares. They were every color of yarn, and they all looked straight and even. They looked like they had been made by experts!
Mariana looked down at the plain gray square in her hands. She had messed up a few times. It was crooked on one side, and not nearly as pretty as the squares on the table. She thought about shoving her square in her pocket. With all those pretty, colorful squares, no one would miss her lumpy gray one, right?
“Is that another square for us, Mariana?” Sister Garcia smiled and held out her hand. Mariana gulped. But she nodded and held out her gray square.
Sister Garcia cleared her throat. “Sisters? May I have your attention, please? We’ve just received our one-thousandth square!”
People gasped. Then they started clapping and cheering. Mariana’s jaw dropped as she stared around the room. A thousand squares? That was double their goal! Mariana grinned. She knew they weren’t just cheering for her one gray square. They were cheering for all the hard work they had all done together.
Mariana watched Sister Garcia place the slightly crooked gray square on top of the pile. Mariana felt proud of her square. It was a part of something special! Her square was going to help someone. She hoped that whoever it helped keep warm would feel all the love that went into making it.