Gospel Story Finder

Elder Kimball served his mission in the South at a time when anti-Mormon feeling was strong and when the missionaries were often subject to persecution and even violence.
At one of his conference addresses in later life, Elder Kimball referred to this element of risk with characteristic humor:
"I remember when we arrived at Chattanooga, Brother Roberts sent me and a son of an apostle into Virginia. … When we reached our field of labor, we lay around there for three weeks. I said to my companion, who was from the Brigham Young Academy, ‘Let us go up into the woods and see if we can sing,’ (I couldn’t carry a tune, I never tried to sing in the Academy), ‘and let us go up and learn to pray.’ We did not have any audience, only those great big trees. And I said ‘Let us learn to preach.’ I would advise young elders to do that before they start out and not practise so much on the people. … So I prepared myself and occupied the time. My companion was prepared, and we sang. We made an awful mess of it, but after a while—and that is another testimony—God brought the tunes to us, and we could sing the songs that we had listened to in the Academy. Then I preached. God was kind to us and he loosed our tongues and we found we were able to express the things we had studied. I remember my companion was dismissing. We had our eyes shut and our hands up. I thought he would never get through. And when he said, Amen, we looked back, and there were four men … with guns on their shoulders. I said to my companion, ‘That is another lesson, from this time on in the South; I shall pray with one eye open’" (in Conference Report, Oct. 1925, p. 158).

In addition to so many other responsibilities, the President of the Church receives a great deal of correspondence each day. I am reminded of one such letter and share it with you. I have changed the name of the young man who wrote the letter. It begins:
“Dear President,
“Hi. My name is David Smith. I live in an area where the starlings are very bad, and they are making nests in my step-grandpa’s boat and in my dad’s barn and all over the place. My step-grandpa and my dad both think I should shoot them, but my mom doesn’t. I know the law says it is okay, but I am not asking your opinion as a hunter. I am asking your opinion as a Church leader.
“Sincerely, David Smith
“P.S. A starling is a black bird that eats other bird’s eggs and other bad things.”
Each letter which comes in is answered. A response to this particular letter was sent by the secretary to the First Presidency, F. Michael Watson.
“Dear David:
“I have been asked to acknowledge your letter of April 30 addressed to the President of the Church about the problems you have been having with starlings.
“The Church does not have an official policy on this matter. The Brethren feel it should be left up to your parents to give you appropriate guidance.
“I hope this information is helpful to you.
“Sincerely yours, F. Michael Watson”

Just a few weeks ago, my brother and I caught a really strange toad in our neighbor’s front yard. We showed it to Mom and Dad, and they said it was not really a toad at all, but a special kind of lizard often called a horned toad.

We made a home for him by putting some sand in the bottom of an empty aquarium and setting it on top of the Ping Pong table outside on our back patio.

My dad asked a friend of his who studies lizards what horned toads eat, and he found out that they like big red ants. We went over to a park by a school where there was a small hole in the ground that had hundreds of ants running in and out. The ants crawled up on sticks that we placed on the ground and then my brothers and I flicked them into a jar. Back home we dumped them into the horned toad’s aquarium. He sat very still. But whenever an ant came close to him, he would zip over and gobble it up. One day we fed him ten ants, the next day twenty, and the next day thirty. Not knowing how many ants he should eat, we decided twenty was about right.

Our horned toad seems very happy, but we will probably let him go pretty soon. I think my dad wants to keep him though. Dad watches him a lot and has showed him to the Cub Scouts. Once he even put him in his coat pocket when he went home teaching. One of the families told Dad that they had some rattlesnake eggs. They handed him an envelope that was supposed to have the eggs inside, and when he opened it there was a trick paper clip wound on a rubber band that spun around and made a noise like a rattlesnake. My dad said he jumped and threw it on the floor, and everyone laughed. He had the last laugh, however, when he had them reach into his pocket and pull out the horned toad!

Our family has really learned a lot from watching our horned toad. Every night just after the sun goes down, he burrows into the sand and goes to sleep. Then in the morning, he comes out and sits in the sum until he gets warm. During the afternoon he spends most of his time in the shade. You know, he’s a lot like me. Except I don’t eat ants!

In my senior year at Brigham Young University, I entered the national Woodrow Wilson Fellowship competition, named in honor of a former U.S. president. An important part of this competition is a traditional half-hour private interview, in which three judges may ask each applicant any questions they please. My interview went fairly well until about halfway through, when one of the examiners suddenly changed the subject. My file had contained a copy of my article for a BYU publication on the Book of Mormon, and that was the source of his question. Challengingly, he demanded, “Doesn’t the Book of Mormon just steal from the Bible?”
The next five minutes were nervous ones for me. I undertook to show that the Book of Mormon differed from the Bible in several crucial ways. For instance, in the Sermon on the Mount, which appears in both books, the King James text reads: “whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment.” (Matt. 5:22; italics added.) The italicized phrase appears to be an interpolation that was added to the text well after it had been written by Matthew. The earliest New Testament manuscripts do not have it; neither does the Book of Mormon. (See 3 Ne. 12:22.) I also pointed to numerous differences between the selected Isaiah passages cited in the Book of Mormon and the same passages in the Bible, to important similarities between Book of Mormon imagery and nonbiblical Jewish imagery (especially in regard to the tree of life and to the significance of Joseph), and finally to the original poetry as part of the writings of the Book of Mormon prophets.
At least two things make me think that my answer was convincing. First, one of the other professors finally asked the challenging professor quite pointedly, “It doesn’t sound like stealing to me. Have you ever read the Book of Mormon?” And second, I received the fellowship.

Allow me to share the true story of Alex, a quiet, thoughtful, and bright young priest. One Sunday, Alex’s bishop found him alone in a classroom in a state of great distress. The young man explained how painfully difficult it was for him to attend church without his father, who was not a member. Then he tearfully said it would probably be better for him to leave the Church.
With genuine concern for this young man, the bishop immediately mobilized the ward council to help Alex. His plan was simple: to keep Alex active and help him develop a heartfelt testimony of the gospel, they needed to “surround him with good people and give him important things to do.”
Quickly the priesthood brethren and all the ward members rallied around Alex and expressed their affection and support. The high priests group leader, a man of great faith and love, was chosen to be his home teaching companion. Members of the bishopric took him under their wings and made him their closest associate.
The bishop said: “We kept Alex busy. He ushered at weddings, ushered at funerals, assisted me at graveside dedications, baptized several new members, ordained young men to Aaronic Priesthood offices, taught youth lessons, taught with the missionaries, unlocked the building for conferences, and locked up the building late at night after conferences. He did service projects, accompanied me on visits to elderly members in hospices, gave talks in sacrament meeting, administered the sacrament to the sick in hospitals or in their homes, and became one of only a very small handful of people that I could totally rely on as bishop.”
Little by little, Alex changed. His faith in the Lord increased. He gained confidence in himself and in the power of the priesthood that he held. The bishop concluded: “Alex has been and will always be one of my greatest blessings in my time as bishop. What a privilege it has been to associate with him. I genuinely believe that no young man has ever gone into the mission field more prepared by his priesthood service.”9

Emma could hardly wait for Suzan’s birthday party.
“The party will be even more fun because Michaela will be there,” Emma said to Mother on the way to Suzan’s house.
“I know,” said Mother. “It’s always fun to be with your best friend.”
When they got to Suzan’s house, Suzan’s mother invited all the children into the playroom.
“Let’s play dolls,” Suzan said.
Everyone ran to get a doll. Emma picked up two dolls and gave the prettiest one to Michaela.
After that they played with teddy bears. Michaela picked out two teddy bears and let Emma choose one to play with.
Next, all the children played house. Suzan got to be the mother because it was her birthday. The other children sat around the table and pretended to eat.
“Would you like some of my cookies?” Emma asked Michaela, offering her some pretend cookies.
“Oh, thank you,” said Michaela. “May I pour you some more milk?” She poured pretend milk into Emma’s glass.
Then they played musical chairs. One by one, Suzan’s mother removed the chairs until only one chair remained. Emma and Michaela were the last two players.
Emma knew only one of them could win the game by sitting on the chair when the music stopped. Emma didn’t want Michaela to lose the game. But she knew Michaela would want her to try to win too.
When the music stopped, Emma just stood there, looking at Michaela. Then Michaela smiled. Emma smiled back at her and knew just what to do. They both sat down and shared the chair!

I was 15 years old, and that summer I wished I could stay 15 forever. I had two close girl friends, I was old enough to earn babysitting money so I could buy pizza and ice cream, and I could do the 600-yard run faster than anyone else in the school. What more could a girl ask for?
That last day of school I had worn my favorite broken-in jeans and had walked around proudly with my award for the 600-yard run tucked under my arm with my yearbook.
"Hey, Morgan!" I called when I saw Eric Morgan in the middle of a bunch of girls as usual. "Sign my yearbook!" I elbowed through the crowd.
"Hey, creep!" he said, with his usual punch to my arm. "You’ll have to wait in line," referring to his group of female followers.
"Aw, I’ll catch you later." Eric was the "boy next door" in my life. I’d known him just about forever, I guess.
Oh, it was a great feeling leaving the school that day. Everything was shiny and warm. I rarely wore shoes in the summer when I was outside, and the grass was warm and tickley under my feet. I felt free. I was ready for anything. Or so I thought.
Later that afternoon I ran out the front door of my house, jumped off the porch, yearbook in hand, on my way next door to Eric’s house. But I stopped in the middle of my yard, hair blowing in my face, bare feet suddenly immobile. Eric was sitting on his porch. Beside him sat a girl. I mean, not a girl like me, but a girl with long, rippling hair, shorts, and long smooth legs. They seemed to be engaged in something very confidential. And for the first time in my life, I felt that I did not belong.
I finally dragged my feet back to my front door. Who was that? I hadn’t seen her around. And where did she get that tan?
"Mary Jane!" I jumped at my mother’s voice. She carried a basket full of dirty clothes under one arm and my wriggly baby brother under the other.
"I need your help," she said.
Ugh. She always needs my help.
"Don’t pull a face. Go clean that room of yours."
"Oh, mom! Please! Have you seen that room?"
"Of course. That’s why I’m telling you to clean it."
"But, mom!"
"No buts. Just go."
No buts, no buts. Mothers can say things like that. I could see me saying that to her! I don’t think my mother was ever a teenager.
Friday night Jill and I slept over at Barbara’s house. We brought our yearbooks so we could all compare the fantastically dull things that perfectly intelligent people had written. "See you next year!" "Have fun this summer." "Algebra was fun."
Unbelievable.
I had at least tried to write things I really meant to people. Like, "Hey, funny face! Call me this summer and we can go water skiing together." Or "Hey, biology was a drag, but you’re the funnest person I know to dissect cats with."
"Listen to this!" Barbara said. "I love your foxy hair and captivating voice. Maybe I’ll come over this summer and swim in your swimming pool. Can’t wait to see you!" Barbara burst into giggles.
"Good grief!" I said. "Who wrote that?"
"Eric Morgan!"
Eric! I was stunned. And I saw a long-legged girl with rippling hair, and I saw Barbara with fantastic, shiny brown hair, and I saw Eric, and I saw me, and I saw something happening that I couldn’t understand. Yet Barbara and Jill sat munching potato chips and laughing as if nothing were happening at all.
"Eric is crazy," Jill laughed. "Look what he said to me."
She thumbed furiously through blue and white autographed pages, a grin crinkling her freckles, while Barbara’s eyes sparkled in anticipation.
I felt like I was sitting back in an easy chair watching a movie. I could see it, but I was not part of it. And the producer had done some awfully tricky things, and it didn’t seem fair.
"Here it is," Jill said. "I love your cute little nose and the way it wrinkles up your face when you laugh. And those dimples! I’ll see you this summer for sure!"
I sat cross-legged, hugging my yearbook up close against me. Barbara and Jill were very far away, their laughter distant. And they didn’t even realize that I was gone. They sat there in their lacy nighties, laughing like crazy. I, in my cut-offs and football T-shirt, crawled into my sleeping bag and slept.
Of course, Saturday morning Barbara and Jill had to rib me all through pancakes and bacon about being the first one to fall asleep. It was the usual thing, so I just ribbed them back, but they were strangers. I didn’t know them anymore.
I helped mom clean the house like we always did on Saturdays, but it wasn’t as painful as usual because my mind was somewhere else. I had plans for that afternoon. I was going to wash my hair and put some of that lemon creme rinse on it. Then, instead of just blowing it dry, I might try to do something with the curling iron mom had given me last Christmas. If it turned out okay, I’d go over to Eric’s. He still hadn’t signed my yearbook.
When I was ready, I went slowly around the bushes in the front yard to make sure that there wasn’t a girl on the porch with him. There wasn’t. He was washing his dad’s car in the driveway with a bucket of sudsy water and the hose. I took a breath, felt my hair to make sure it was still behaving, and strolled across his front yard.
"Eric," I said in his ear.
"Aaa," he yelped, jumping forward, drenching himself with the hose.
"Hey, you shouldn’t sneak up on a guy like that!"
I didn’t know what to say, but I felt my hair again, and it still felt good. I stood there waiting for something, I wasn’t sure what. Neither was he.
"Well?" he said.
"Oh." I cleared my throat. "Um … I wanted you to sign my yearbook."
"Oh, okay." He dropped the hose on the ground. "I’ll go get mine," he said, running to the front door. He was back in a moment. I sat on the shaded porch. I could feel the cool cement through my shorts. I stretched my legs out leisurely before me.
"Good grief," Eric exclaimed. "What happened to your legs?"
I looked at my stubby white legs, covered with nicks and scrapes, with a couple of bandaids hiding the two worst spots.
"Just forget it," I said.
Eric began to hoot and howl with laughter. I stood up and stalked across his front lawn.
"Hey, come back here." He swaggered after me. I briefly looked at him but kept walking. "Hey, come on," he said. He grabbed my arm.
"Don’t touch me, Eric Morgan!"
"Hey, I was just teasing. Come on, you don’t really look all that bad." I stood firm. "Come on, Mary Jane," he said softly. And something happened to me. A tingling in my arms and legs. A light-headedness. A temporary paralysis. Then I looked at him, and I couldn’t keep the smile from my lips.
"Okay?" he said gently. "Come on." I had to give in. I walked back to the porch. I had spent the whole day figuring out what I would write in Eric’s yearbook. I had repeated the words over and over again to myself at least a hundred times.
"Dear Eric," I began. "You know you’re not just the boy next door anymore. You’ve been a part of my life for almost 16 years." I hesitated before writing the last sentence. Between making beds and vacuuming and scrubbing floors, I hadn’t decided whether I was brave enough or not. What if he laughed? I looked at him. He was still busy writing in my book. His thick black hair was a little mussed up, windblown. His cheeks were sunburned. Just think, I told myself, I probably know more things about him than any other girl. Or anyone at all in fact. We spent our childhoods together. I kept his secrets; he kept mine. I’ve seen him cry. Other girls look at him and see a big husky guy. I look at him and see a vulnerable little boy.
He signed his name with a flourish. Looking up at me he caught me staring. For just a moment our eyes met in silence.
"Well," he said, "you done?"
My eyes lingered just an infinitesimal second longer. "No," I answered and scribbled, "Just remember, Eric, that you’re a boy and I’m a girl and that can lead somewhere." Blushing so hard I could feel it, I quickly signed my name and shoved his book into his hand, taking mine from him.
I hopped off the porch and thumbed through my yearbook as I walked. I couldn’t wait to see what he’d said to me. Wow, all those fantastic things he’d said to Barbara and Jill, and he’s known me longer than he’s known them. I finally found the page and I stood still to read it. "Hey, creep!" it said. "You’re not a bad kid. We’ll have to have some more of those great water fights this summer. See you around, Eric." That was it. All of it. Oh no, I thought as I felt the pressure building in my nose, in my eyes. I thought, I’m going to cry; I’m going to stand right here in his yard and cry. Yet I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run to the safety of my front door, to the privacy of my bedroom.
Suddenly an ice cold avalanche hit the back of my head and cascaded over my shoulders, freezing my back and my legs all at once. My breath seemed sucked into my stomach and held there. I screamed, tossing my yearbook aside, and charged at Eric and the water hose, 45 minutes worth of messing around with the curling iron down the drain. This was the last straw.
"Eric Morgan, you awful …" my words became lost in a torrent of hurt and anger. All I could see was cold, spraying water and a laughing sunburnt face. I screamed, I pushed, I knocked him down. "Hey!" he yelled. "Cut it out! What are you?" he panted. "Crazy?"
It suddenly occurred to me that I must be. I grabbed my yearbook and ran.
"Mary Jane!" Mom yelled as I ran through the kitchen. "Look what you’re doing. You’re getting water all over! I just did this floor. Do you hear me?"
"Leave me alone, mom!"
"What did you say?"
"I said leave me alone!" I slammed my bedroom door. I didn’t come out for the rest of the day. Even when mom knocked on the door and said we were having pizza for supper.
"What’s wrong, dear?" she kept asking. I just wanted to scream at her. She wouldn’t understand. She had never been a teenager.
I spent the next few weeks pretty quietly. Pretty alone. I sat in my backyard a lot and listened to my stereo; I mowed the lawn sometimes and drank lemonade. Jill and Barbara called me a lot at first. They asked me to go horseback riding or water skiing. But I usually said no, and after a while they quit asking me. Mom still kept asking me "What’s wrong?" and dad kept trying to tickle me and tease me or challenge me to a game of chess. Mom would ask me if I was sick, and I would say I didn’t know, because I didn’t.
July was my birthday. But not till the end of July. I told myself at the beginning of July that I had a whole month to get used to the idea of being 16.
July was also the Young Artists’ Festival. That’s a program that my stake had been holding annually for some time. It wasn’t really a competition, or wasn’t supposed to be, but each entry was graded on a scale from one to ten, with one being the best you could get. It was an opportunity to "do your thing" in front of an audience and get some recognition for it.
Two years ago Barbara and Jill and I had asked another girl, Sandy, to enter the quartet division with us. We practiced hard and had a lot of fun. We even made costumes. We couldn’t believe that we were only given a rating of four. After all that practice! The next year we had taken a realistic look at it and had just about found the nerve to ask Jill not to sing with us, when she dropped out on her own. She wasn’t dumb. We asked a girl named Lori to take her place. That year we earned a two.
So when Brother Wood, who had been in charge of the festival for years, called up to ask if we’d be performing this year, well, it was the first thing since the day of "The Great Water Fight" that gave me a good reason to get up each morning. If there was one thing that I wasn’t confused about that summer, it was my love of singing. I’d been born with it, I guess.
So I quit sitting around, and we started having practices two or three times a week, with Jill watching to tell us what to do differently, or what to do more of. Another girl, Karen, played the piano for us.
It was after one of these practices that Barbara invited us all over to swim in her pool.
"Mary Jane," she said, "you haven’t been in my pool once this summer."
"I know," I said uncomfortably. "I’ve … been busy."
"Well, you’ll come today, won’t you?"
"Sure," I shrugged. After all the singing we’d been doing, I was feeling a little more human and it had been a hot summer.
"Good," she said. "Eric will be glad."
"What?"
"Eric. He’s been swimming at my house all summer. He’s always telling me to get you over there."
"He is?"
"Yes." Suddenly her voice was very soft. "He says he’s missed you."
"We have too," Jill added quietly.
I looked from Barbara to Jill then down at my hands. I didn’t know if I wanted to go swimming or not if Eric was going to be there. He’d probably make cracks about my one-piece swimming suit or about my legs. But they were really tan now, after sitting in my backyard all summer.
"Did he really say that?" I asked.
Barbara nodded solemnly.
"Okay, I’ll come," I said. But, I thought to myself, I sure won’t curl my hair for him.
The sun was extra hot that day. It seemed to bounce off the pavement and get caught in my eyes. The water was cold and delicious to my body. Under the water all was quiet, perfectly silent, perfectly solitary. That is, until I suddenly felt a tight clutch on my foot and I looked down to see Eric’s body moving gracefully up alongside mine. We both soared to the surface and our heads popped through, making bubbles and waves. Laughter from the other girls filled the air. I swam to the side and pulled myself out, then sat on the edge. I had already decided how to treat Eric the next time I was forced to be with him. Aloof. Very aloof. So when he pulled himself out and sat beside me I just kind of looked the other way.
"Race you across the pool," he said.
"Not now."
"Why not?"
"I don’t feel like it."
He didn’t say anything. I kept looking the other way. I wondered what he was thinking.
"Mary Jane," he said quietly. That soft voice again. It made me nervous. I looked at my legs. "Why do you hate me now?"
I stopped breathing and looked at him, my mouth hanging open. There were those blue eyes again. Then suddenly we were surrounded by the other girls.
"Mary Jane," Barbara said as they all sat down around us, "we’ve got it all figured out."
"What?"
"White formals."
"Huh?"
"For the festival. We’ll wear white formals."
"Formals?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"I don’t know," I said. "I mean last year we wore checked gingham with pinafores."
"Well, Mary Jane," she said, "last year we were little girls."
Later that evening Eric walked home with me. We walked in silence most of the way, but I was troubled because I felt that I had to say something to him. I didn’t hate him, and I wanted him to know it. As we neared my house, I finally stopped walking and turned to face him.
"Eric."
"Mary Jane," he said at the same time. We both laughed just a little. Then we were quiet again.
"Go ahead," he said.
"I can’t."
"Why not?"
"Because I don’t know what to say."
Laughter. Silence.
"You were right you know."
"About what?" I asked.
"What you wrote in my yearbook."
"Oh that." I blushed.
"Really," he said. "I’m a boy and you’re a girl. A good-looking one too."
I grinned and stared at my terribly interesting toes.
"Well," he said. "I’ve got to go." I looked up at him, and once again our gaze was locked in time and space.
"Good-bye," he said suddenly and ran home. I stared after him. With him went something. A part of me. A part that I wasn’t sure I was ready to give up just yet. Did I want to grow up? Was I ready?
Oh, I thought as I slowly walked into my house, this whole crazy summer is too much. I decided to take a nap.
Something was shaking me, and my head slowly cleared as I opened my eyes. It was mom.
"It’s almost time for supper," she said.
I just lay there.
"Honey," she said, feeling my forehead, "are you sure you’re all right?"
I still just lay there. She looked completely frustrated. She began to leave the room.
"Mama," I said. She stopped and turned to look at me. I hadn’t called her mama for years, but I suddenly felt so little. "Do you remember when you turned 16?"
For a moment mom just looked at me, as if she didn’t understand. But slowly a dreamy look came over her face. Her eyes sparkled, and she gazed across the room as if I weren’t even in it.
"Yes," she said slowly, walking to the window. There she rested her elbows on the window sill, her chin on closed fists. "I do remember something like that." She smiled wistfully. I had never seen her like this. Maybe she had been a teenager. I was suddenly speechless. But she finally came back to the present and looked at me.
"It’s hard, isn’t it?" She was very quiet. That was all it took to bring on the tears that had been stored up inside me for weeks. I was quickly in my mother’s arms, small and vulnerable, warm and protected.
"Oh, mama," I sobbed, "I don’t know what I want or who I am or what I’m good for. What am I doing here? I want to live in summertime forever. I want to go barefoot and be happy. I want to care about someone. I want someone to care about me. But I’m scared." I looked at my mother. "Do you know what I mean?"
Again she spoke slowly, distantly.
"Words don’t come easy to me as they do to you. But I remember feeling … well, as if someone had placed me in the wrong world. And it did no good to cry."
"Why does it have to be this way, mom?"
"Oh, don’t get me wrong," she said, smiling. "I mean, it’s for sure we’ll never be 15 again. But I have you, don’t I? And I have your father, and your baby brother. And a lot of other wonderful things that I can’t even describe. You’ll know someday."
Will I? I wondered. Will I really? But mom did look happy. For the time being, I would just trust her.
The Young Artists’ Festival was the night before my birthday. We had worked hard for this one. We wore our white formals. I spent all day doing my hair and getting ready. I arrived in time for the last-minute flurries that always go on before these productions can begin. Brother Wood was running around trying to get everything organized. Barbara, Sandy, Lori, and I were almost jumping up and down with excitement. The audience began to arrive, things began to settle down, and with the opening prayer, the program started.
Everyone was good. They always were. In fact, the four we earned two years ago was probably the lowest score that had ever been given in the history of the Young Artists’ Festival. So that everyone could fit into some category, pluses and minuses were also given.
As the judges began to read the scores, everyone was silent. Brother Wood gave his usual speech about how everyone had been so good. Then the scores were read. A two. A one. A three +. And on and on. Squeals and sighs.
"Quartet." He read our names. Tension. Heart pounding in my ears. Hands gripping my chair.
"One +."
Shock for a moment. Then shrieks!
At the reception afterward we were all standing around drinking punch and talking and laughing. The feeling of knowing a job has been well done was still lingering in my chest and bursting out of my eyes and out of my mouth, making me sound like someone else. It came out so smoothly, so … well, almost sophisticated. But easy. My arms were warm and brown next to the white of my dress. My hair felt clean and swingy. I almost didn’t recognize myself. I felt as if I had, in my hurry, left myself at home.
I was casually looking from one side of the room to the other to feel my hair swish across my neck when I saw Brother Wood coming toward me.
"Excuse me," he said, breaking into our little group. Something about him wanted to make me nervous, but my new self refused to cooperate, and I looked at him steadily.
"Yes?" I said, since he seemed to be addressing me.
"I hope I don’t embarrass you, but there’s something I’ve got to tell you."
I looked quickly around at Jill, at Barbara, and an assortment of curious faces. I felt my face flush slightly, but still I refused to flounder. I turned cool eyes to Brother Wood and smiled.
"What is it? I hope my slip isn’t showing."
"No, no. It’s just that I hope you know that you are a beautiful young lady."
What happened after that is not completely clear in my mind. I vaguely remember a circle of softly smiling faces. And I barely remember the still serious face of Brother Wood. But I very clearly remember the sincerity in his eyes.
At 11:00 that night I stood in front of my dresser mirror, still in my white dress, gazing into a thousand faces of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
That night at the stroke of midnight, while I was sound asleep, I turned 16. And I’ll never be 15 again.

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,” Mama sang to baby Charlie. The harsh wind howled and blew red dirt through the cracks of the one-room log cabin. Rachel’s whole family couldn’t fall asleep that night. The clock hands pointed straight up to midnight as Papa got up to start a fire and Mama gazed at the dark sky out the window. Rachel closed her eyes tight and tried to fall asleep. Then she heard her mother whisper to her father.
“Look at all this dirt. I miss the green grass and pretty flowers at our old home,” she said. “Remember when I used to pin flowers to my dress? I miss that.”
Rachel missed the flowers at their old house too. Their new cabin didn’t have any flowers growing nearby. In fact, Rachel had noticed only a few little white flowers in all of southern Utah! Mama said they were called sego lilies. Maybe I can find one of those little white flowers tomorrow for Mama! she thought, just before falling asleep.
When sun shone through the window near Rachel’s bed, she knew it was time to get up. She pulled on her dress and tied a ribbon in her hair. She swept the kitchen floor without being asked.
“Thank you for your help, Rachel,” Mama said. “What would I do without you?”
While she did her chores that morning, Rachel tried to think of places she could find a flower for Mama. There has to be at least one flower out here, she thought. But I may have to look everywhere to find it.
She had just finished hanging clothes on the clothesline when she saw her friend Sarah walking toward her. Rachel told Sarah about her plan. With their bonnets tied under their chins, they searched everywhere for something beautiful.
They looked under the wagon. Nothing. They searched through the sagebrush. Nothing. They looked near the edge of the stream. Still nothing.
“Maybe we can find something over there.” Rachel pointed to the field her father was plowing.
The girls walked toward the field. Rachel ran her eyes along the edge from one sagebrush bush to the next. Suddenly she spotted a small white flower. It had three white petals and a purple center. Rachel gasped. It was a sego lily! “Look, Sarah!” she said. “Isn’t that pretty?”
Rachel gently picked the little flower from the red dirt and showed it to Sarah.
“It’s perfect!” Sarah said.
“Mama!” Rachel shouted as they ran toward the cabin. “Look what we found!”
Mama looked up from washing clothes, and Rachel gave her the flower. “Now you have a beautiful flower to pin on your dress.”
“Oh, Rachel. It is beautiful!” her mother said. As she admired the delicate sego lily, tears came to her eyes. She pulled Rachel in for a tight hug. “Let’s put it in some water to keep it fresh.”
As she finished her chores, Rachel kept glancing up at the sego lily. She felt happy every time she looked at it.
In her prayer that night, Rachel thanked Heavenly Father for creating the beautiful flower to grow in the desert. She told Him how happy she was that she found it. Then she climbed into bed. When Papa kissed her goodnight, he said, “What a wonderful surprise, Rachel. You made your mother very happy.”
Then Mama smiled and kissed Rachel on the cheek. “Thank you for finding me a beautiful flower. It reminded me that you’re the most precious gift of all.”

The LDS students try to be good examples, and some of their fellow students can’t help but notice and want to know more. “I was always associating with them,” said Erika Redfield. “It was the example I noticed. Mormons seemed to always be sensitive to other people’s feelings. They were never fake or dishonest.”

When Erika was thinking about her future, planning her education and what she wanted to do, she felt a hole in her religious life. She called one of the LDS girls she knew at school and started asking about things her friend believed. Soon she was investigating the Church with the missionaries. Erika said, “My testimony came really slow at first, but every time I read something, I prayed about it. I had the feeling that it was true. Whenever I found the truth, I wanted to hear more.” But it wasn’t easy. Friends and acquaintances made sure she was well supplied with anti-Mormon literature. “I don’t know how I stood up to it all.” But Erika had found what she was looking for and was baptized.

Now Erika feels very much a part of the LDS group. “The peer group at school is awesome. They try hard to make you fit in. I could never repay them,” Erika says pausing, “but no one asks for anything in return.”

But the Verano children enjoyed Primary, which then was held one afternoon a week. Sig or Ana would drive them to the chapel for the meeting. One afternoon, the car wouldn’t start. “Well, it isn’t my fault,” Sig told them. “I guess you won’t be able to go.”
Back in the house, six-year-old Edison wouldn’t give up. “Let’s pray,” he pleaded. So they knelt in prayer, then went back out to the car. To Sig Verano’s surprise, it started immediately.

Not long ago at the end of fall semester, my advanced composition class decided to have a gift exchange. Because we had worked hard to have the spirit of unity in the class, we thought that we might stretch ourselves to give gifts in the spirit of the Zion classroom. That semester in two classes we generated more than $200 for the Perpetual Education Fund. One student, Aaron Bahn, gave me a gift I will always treasure. It is a mission pin from his mission in Peru. To it was attached a note: Early in my mission in Peru, my native senior companion had only two or three pair of garments. I gave him a couple of mine; he gave me all he had--this mission pin. I would like you to have it in love and memory. Aaron's gift, both to his companion and to me, illustrates spiritual mindedness because to him service and giving exceeded the desire for personal possessions.

However, as a young teenager, I began to question whether I would be allowed to serve a mission. World War II had kept my father from serving as a missionary, which he badly wanted to do. In my case, the Vietnam War was raging; only two young men from each ward in the United States were given exemptions from military duty to serve missions. The rest had to rely on high lottery numbers to allow them to serve missions. Though my lottery was a few years away, I still worried about this, wondering if I would actually be able to fulfill my childhood dream.
About this time, I attended a stake conference in which Elder Thomas S. Monson was the visiting General Authority. After one session, my mother and I went to meet him. I shook his hand and we talked. I don’t remember any of the conversation except for one sentence. He looked right into my eyes and said, “You will be going on a mission.” I never worried after that; all my doubts were removed.

How can we develop a good attitude of cooperation? One wise stake president counseled priesthood and Relief Society leaders to determine their actions by asking, “What would the Savior do?” rather than “What has been done before?” With this idea in mind, ward leaders examined their “policies” in working together. Several ward “traditions” came under examination—the first, when the ward budget was presented for approval to the men in priesthood meeting, but not to the women in Relief Society.
“Would the Savior do that?” priesthood leaders wondered. They decided that he wouldn’t, and then they consulted the General Handbook of Instructions, which indicates that proposed budgets should be discussed with all ward members in a special meeting. That tradition was changed, and the sisters in the ward are much more supportive of ward activities now that they are included in the planning.

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf shared a story in general conference about a challenge from his own life that became a massive blessing for him. During the challenge, however, it was hard for President Uchtdorf to see much value in the struggle. He was 11 years old at the time and had to pedal a heavy bicycle and cart to deliver laundry for his family’s laundry business.
“Most of the time, I was not overly excited about the bike, the cart, or my job,” he said. “Sometimes the cart seemed so heavy and the work so tiring that I thought my lungs would burst, and I often had to stop to catch my breath.”
There was a reason the work was so hard for him. He was battling a lung disease he didn’t even know he had. But here’s the miracle: all that strenuous exercise proved to be exactly what he needed to heal his lungs. Not until many years later, when he took a physical exam to enter the military, did President Uchtdorf learn there had ever been anything wrong.
“It became clear to me that my regular exercise in fresh air as a laundry boy had been a key factor in my healing from this illness,” he said. “Without the extra effort of pedaling that heavy bicycle day in and day out, pulling the laundry cart up and down the streets of our town, I might never have become a jet fighter pilot and later a 747 airline captain.”1

Photograph posed by model
When I crossed the finish line of the Mayor’s Marathon in Anchorage, Alaska, I felt extremely grateful to be a finisher because I had been fighting the battle of living with a chronic illness. After receiving my finisher’s medal, I hurried to call my mother. She was thousands of miles away serving a mission with my father in Samoa. With heartfelt emotion and tender tears, my first celebratory words to her were “I’m free! I’m free!”
Four years before then, I had been diagnosed with post-viral fatigue syndrome, often associated with symptoms of chronic fatigue syndrome. After many blood tests, MRIs, and CAT scans, I was referred to an infectious disease specialist. At last, after months of wondering what was wrong with me, the virus was found. The doctor found the cytomegalovirus (CMV) in one of my blood tests. I asked him about a treatment plan and how long my symptoms might last. His answer was not what I wanted to hear. He told me that I would need to rest often and not overdo it. He told me that the symptoms could last for several months or even years.
How could I rest? I was a full-time elementary physical education teacher and Young Women leader. My husband and I had been married for 16 years and had not yet been blessed to have children of our own, so I tried to fill this void by teaching other children and serving the young women. After offering many prayers, I knew it was time for me to resign from my teaching position. I did not have the strength or the energy to teach or do much of anything. I often experienced daily headaches, joint pain, dizziness, anxiety, loss of concentration, unrefreshed sleep, and extreme fatigue.
What was I going to do? I knew I had two choices: give up or hold on. I chose to hold on because I knew that with my faith anchored in Jesus Christ, I could endure the struggle.
The struggle continued for four years. Getting dressed every morning became exhausting. Just doing one load of laundry wore me out. I could not drive myself to appointments due to dizziness and exhaustion. Asking others for help was challenging for me; but if the Spirit prompted me to do so, I would try to obey. I was amazed at the love that was offered to me. I had always been a giver. I had found joy in service. Now I had to allow others to serve me and hold on to hope for healing.
In priesthood blessings that I received, I heard that I needed to be patient for healing to happen. I had read in the scriptures that if I would “bear with patience [my] afflictions,” the Lord would give me success (see Alma 26:27). I read a general conference talk from President Russell M. Nelson about the Lord’s ways and timing. He testified: “I know that an all-wise Heavenly Father’s perspective is much broader than is ours. While we know of our mortal problems and pain, He knows of our immortal progress and potential. If we pray to know His will and submit ourselves to it with patience and courage, heavenly healing can take place in His own way and time.”1 I knew I must hold on.
When I would attempt to walk half a block in my neighborhood, I often experienced shortness of breath, light-headedness, and joint pain. I had been a runner previous to contracting the virus, and now I could only walk slowly. Many times I would fall on my knees to pray that I could get up and feel up. The fatigue got worse every time I tried to get up and do too much. One day I got up and my back went out. I fell to the floor in tears and pain. I cried out to Heavenly Father, “I can’t take it anymore!” He knew I was down and helped me up once again. I would often tell myself, “Just hold on.” There was not much else I could do. By choosing to hold on to hope in Christ and continually calling upon the Lord, I was able to press on.
I decided I needed to focus on what I could do rather than what I couldn’t do during this physical affliction. I began by compiling a gratitude list. At the top of my list, I wrote that I was grateful for being alive and knowing who I am. By knowing that I am a daughter of God and that my Savior loves me, I was able to “press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope” (2 Nephi 31:20).
I became determined to fill myself with a perfect brightness of hope, love, and gratitude by studying the life of Jesus Christ through reading the scriptures, receiving priesthood blessings, and serving others in small and grateful ways.
I was often filled with fear during this affliction. This fear would cause panic attacks and make me feel weary and unsure of my ability to ever recover and be whole. One day I received a card in the mail from my Relief Society president that included a scripture that became my peaceful prescription for overcoming the fear that was holding me back: “Perfect love casteth out all fear” (Moroni 8:16). Our Master Healer, Jesus Christ, would cast out my darkness, doubt, and despair and fill me with His light, love, and lift. My fear faded and my faith ignited.
After four years of chronic fatigue, I ran my first marathon in 2011 and have run 12 more since.
Photograph courtesy of the author
After four years, I knew I had been patient in affliction, and I felt physically able and prepared to move on. I wouldn’t be moving on alone. My husband and my children (the oldest of which was born two years into my illness) were my most enthusiastic cheerleaders.
So I began training for the marathon one step at a time. My husband decided to train with me and promised to run the race with me. During one of my training runs, I came upon a street sign that validated my healing. The street name at the top of a hill was Success. At that moment, I knew the Lord had kept His promise to me. I had been taught what I should do to endure this affliction: “Bear with patience thine afflictions, and I will give unto you success” (Alma 26:27).
The Lord gave me more success than I expected. He renewed my strength and healed my broken heart. I could run again, and after 16 years of not being able to have children, I was blessed to give birth to a son and a daughter (within 21 months of each other). I’m so grateful I held on to God’s guidance I had received in the scriptures.
I pressed forward through the illness with faith in Christ and with my husband and children as my cheerleaders. Now our children are old enough to run with us.
Photograph courtesy of the author
I know the words of Christ tell us all things that we should do (see 2 Nephi 32:3). I know that being patient helps the process of healing to happen. As Paul wrote, “Let us run with patience the race that is set before us” (Hebrews 12:1). Running the race of life requires us to overcome obstacles put on our path. By holding on to hope in Christ, pressing forward with a steadfastness in Christ, and moving on with His perfect love surrounding us, we will, in the Lord’s timing, be made free! (see John 8:36).
The author lives in Alaska.

It is so easy to drift inadvertently into something less than this kind of attitude. I recall a manuscript on Reasons for Observing the Word of Wisdom, produced by one of our BYU professors. He wanted us to print it. So we took the manuscript to one of the Brethren, President Spencer Kimball, who pronounced it one of the finest treatments of the subject that he had ever read. Convincing economic, health, and other reasons for following the Word of Wisdom were clearly set forth. “But,” he said, “you left out the most important reason.”

“What is that?” the author asked.

“Because God asked us to,” he replied.

Now, I wondered why I hadn’t thought of this reason. I had to confess that, as a professor, I just wasn’t in the habit of using this approach. It seemed like a reason you talked about only in church. Was it because the approach was too sacred or was I afraid the learned would not understand? I began to feel like the salt that had lost its savor. I read the eighty-ninth section of the Doctrine and Covenants over again. Sure enough, it said, “the word of wisdom, showing forth the order and will of God.” And here and there God said, “I warn you,” or “it is pleasing unto me if you don’t do this,” or “I ordain this grain for you,” and finally, “I give unto you the promise that the destroying angel shall pass by you.” Then I began to see it as wise counsel from the heart of a loving God, the God of all health and happiness.

As a bishop of a student ward adjacent to the University of Utah campus about 18 years ago, I tried vainly to hold a young marriage together. The wife had been unfaithful, and as I sought to help and to understand, I learned that as a child this woman had had an adulterous father. Though unjustified, she acted out her feelings about men. What she then did was not love. Several years after my release as bishop, I saw a story in the local paper about her having been picked up for prostitution. I know not where she is today, but I cannot put out of my mind the words of Jacob, who decried unfaithful fathers who had lost the confidence of their children because of their bad examples (see Jacob 2:35).

Towards the end of 2020, for a series of four podcasts called ‘Real Questions’, LDS Living invited youth to send in questions relating to their concerns around important issues.
Scarlett Smith, a young woman from the Harrogate Ward in the York Stake, was fortunate to be able to take part in one of the four discussions. It was led by co-creator David Butler, who welcomed two surprise guests, Bonnie H Cordon, the Young Women’s General President and the Young Men’s General President, Steven J Lund.
Scarlett’s question was, “I live part time with my dad and part time with my mum, and they have different beliefs. What are some of the things we can do to stay focused on the gospel when we have different viewpoints in our family?’ Scarlett said, “I wasn’t sure what I could do to stay focused on the gospel when I have different viewpoints in my own family.” Realising other young people may have the same problem prompted her to submit her question.
Sister Cordon thanked Scarlett for asking her question and highlighted that there are so many other young people in the same situation. She asked what Scarlett found the easiest about this situation, and she responded that it helped her to relate to other friends in similar situations and enables them to help each other. Sister Cordon’s second question was, “What advice would you give to someone in your position?” Scarlett replied, “I would tell them to follow prompts that they get and to keep praying. Don’t distance yourself from the gospel.” Sister Cordon’s response was, “That’s a fabulous response, l love that—don’t distance yourself.”
President Cordon counselled Scarlett to, “Pray for your mom and dad that you will be able to share with them what is in your heart, the things that are very important to you. Seek to share good things with your family… Do it wherever you are. If you are at Mom’s house, you do it at Mom’s house, if you are at Dad’s house, you do it at Dad’s house … it will be a lifeline for you.”
President Lund highlighted that all of us are surrounded by people we care about that don’t believe the same things as we do; it can be especially difficult when it’s someone we are really close to and whom we love. Elder Lund asked, “Who is in your life that is on your side. Are there people around you who are supportive of your values?” Scarlett feels blessed that she has friends that are supportive even though they may not share her beliefs.
President Lund remarked, “Sometimes always doing the right thing against a headwind requires courage.”
“When talking with the general leaders of the Church, I was very excited at first because I didn’t know that they were going to be there. … I felt the Spirit strongly, as I knew the words that they spoke were true and that asking this question would not only help me but many others in the same position”, Scarlett said.
Meeting host David Butler said, “Life is always going to change, but there are some things that can always remain constant. No matter what life looks like, you can stay connected to God, and stay connected to the gospel.”
It was a wonderful experience for Scarlett to have been able to take part and receive direct counsel from Church leaders who made a significant impression on her. She said, “I started straightaway to establish and act on the words and things that had been said, as I knew they were true, and I knew it would help me build my faith. I felt full, and at peace, as I knew what I had to do and knew it was right.”
You can watch the interview with Scarlett at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YY4Bj49wkdQ

While on a flight to Peru a few years ago, I was seated next to a self-proclaimed atheist. He asked me why I believe in God. In the delightful conversation that ensued, I told him that I believed in God because Joseph Smith saw Him—and then I added that my knowledge of God also came from personal, real spiritual experience. I shared my belief that “all things denote there is a God” and asked him how he believed the earth—this oasis of life in the vacuum of space—came into existence. He replied that, in his words, “the accident” could have happened over eons of time. When I explained how highly improbable it would be for an “accident” to produce such beauty and order, he was quiet for a time and then good-naturedly said, “You got me.” I asked if he would read the Book of Mormon. He said he would, so I sent him a copy.

By way of background, I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was fifteen, in May 1978. My brother and I were raised by our father, who was a secular Jew, in Southern California. We gathered for the High Holy Days with our aunts and uncles and in many ways were deeply affected by our cultural background. Although indoctrination in the Christian religion was not a part of my upbringing, I had nevertheless read much of both the Old and New Testaments in my own personal search for truth as a teenager and was gradually drawn toward the persona and teachings of Jesus Christ.

The first experience happened just a week or so after my baptism. I was invited by a friend of my brother to attend a home worship service of an Evangelical fellowship. After the meeting, the preacher invited me to stay and discuss my new religion. Although we shared a common belief in the divine mission of Jesus Christ, his ensuing attack on the character of Joseph Smith was ruthless, and as a fifteen-year-old convert, I was unprepared to defend the Church. I discovered that night that we disagreed on two points: my very personal witness from the Spirit regarding the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and the foundational belief that we are not creatures but actually spirit children of God.