Gospel Story Finder

I remember specifically making this promise one day as I sat in a chapel waiting for a baptismal service to start. As I sat pondering the doctrine of Christ, I began to have a strong feeling of joy telling me that everything I had learned from the missionaries was true. In that moment I silently committed to God to always trust Him and that I would remain active in His Church throughout my life if it meant I could continue to have the joy that comes from the Holy Ghost. To me this promise included not only attending church every week but also trusting in the Lord’s doctrine, the scriptures, the living prophets, and especially my Savior, Jesus Christ.
It was relatively early in my life that I made this important decision to trust in the Lord’s promises. Since then my decision has proved to be very beneficial to me. Whenever a doubt or a question has come up, I have been able to think back to the commitment I made and have based my life decisions on that commitment. Deciding early on the standards you will live by will help you make correct choices when doubts or problems come.

Nancy jumped down the steps of the school bus and ran into the house.
“Mom, guess what happened—I got first place in the class spelling bee! Now I get to compete in the spelling bee for the whole school!”
“Oh, Nancy, that’s great!” Mom said, giving her a big hug.
Nancy took her backpack to her bedroom. Kicking off her shoes, she lay back on her bed and grinned. With two weeks to study the list of words her teacher had given her, there would be plenty of time to study for the school spelling bee.
As the competition approached, Nancy started to get a little nervous. But she studied hard and won the school spelling bee. She even got her picture in the newspaper! But Nancy knew the hardest work was still to come.
Now Nancy had a month to study for the district-wide spelling bee. She kept the spelling list in her pocket and studied the words every chance she got. She had done everything she could to be ready, but she was still nervous.
The morning of the spelling bee, Nancy woke up with a sick feeling in her stomach.
“I don’t feel so good,” she told Mom.
“Do you think it could just be that you’re nervous about the spelling bee?” Mom asked.
Nancy nodded. “I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered.
Mom gave Nancy a hug. “I think you should say a prayer,” she said.
Nancy returned to her bedroom, knelt down, and asked Heavenly Father to help her feel better. She remembered that she had studied hard and was well prepared. She asked Heavenly Father to give her the confidence she needed. She felt better as she ended her prayer and stood up.
Mom drove Nancy to the spelling bee and smiled at her whenever Nancy looked out into the audience. After five rounds, only two spellers were left: Nancy and another girl. Nancy approached the microphone, her heart pounding.
“Can you please spell the word camouflage,” the woman giving the words said.
Nancy felt her courage fail as she realized this was one word she didn’t know.
Hesitantly, she began. “Camouflage. C-a-m … o-f-l-a-g-e. Camouflage.”
The woman’s quick shake of the head let Nancy know she had spelled it wrong. Hanging her head, Nancy returned to her seat, barely listening as the last girl spelled the word correctly. The audience began to clap, and Nancy joined in, but inside she felt like crying. That same sick feeling returned to her stomach.
Then Nancy remembered her prayer from that morning. Still sitting on the stage, she whispered, “Please help me be happy, Heavenly Father. I did my best, but I’m so sad. Please help me be OK with not winning. Please comfort me.”
Slowly, a peaceful feeling spread through her. A smile inched onto her face. She stood and put out her hand to the winner, giving a hearty congratulations.
Afterward, Mom wrapped Nancy in a hug. “Nancy, I’m so proud of you. You did fantastic. Are you OK?”
Nancy nodded. “Yes, I’m OK. I asked Heavenly Father for comfort, and I feel good in my heart.”
“I’m glad you remembered to pray,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father will always be there for you.” She winked at Nancy. “I think you learned a lot more today than just how to spell the word camouflage!”

He liked to grow unusual things in his garden, and one spring day I remember asking him what he was planting. He replied, “Goober peas.” When I told him I had never heard of goober peas, he gave me some and told me to go home and plant them in our garden. I did, and I watched them carefully as they grew. When I expressed my concern that I couldn’t see any fruit on the vine, he told me to be patient. The day came when it was time to harvest the goober peas. Elmer showed me how to dig around the plants, and was I surprised and delighted to find that under the ground were mounds of peanuts just waiting to be roasted—Elmer’s goober peas.

Our school was pretty small. It had only about twenty kids in each class, so everybody got to know everybody else pretty well. From kindergarten on, I always had plenty of friends. But a few kids in each class were a little shy, and the rest of us didn’t always try to bring them into our activities.
I remember Randolph especially. He was really quiet and never said anything in class. The teacher sometimes asked, “What do you think, Randolph?” just to get him to talk. I never played much with Randolph, but it wasn’t because I didn’t like him. He was just too quiet. At recess he would usually to off to play by himself or sometimes with one other boy.
That was the way it was until the fourth grade. Then Jon moved to town. Jon was a great guy, and everybody liked him, including me. But he was so good at sports that all the guys made him their hero. I had been the leader, and I was still everybody’s friend, but Jon was their hero!
One day I was a little late getting outside for recess. When I did get outside, the kids had already started a soccer game, and it didn’t look like there was any room for me. So I went over to the tetherball and started hitting it around the pole. Then I saw Randolph. He was standing to the side just watching the soccer game. I guess that’s what he usually did, just watched. I called, “Hey, Randolph, want to play tetherball with me?”
He looked kind of funny for a minute. I guess he wasn’t used to being asked, because he said, “Me?”
I said, “Yeah, sure, you.”
We had a good time, and that afternoon at recess we played tetherball some more. We laughed a lot, and Randolph even talked a little. It made me feel good to see him open up like that.
The next day at morning recess, Randolph and I headed for the tetherball pole again. We’d just started, when Jon came over to me and said, “Hey, don’t you want to play soccer with us?”
I felt pretty good that Jon had asked me, since he usually had all his friends around him, so I said, “Sure,” and ran to get in place.
Then I looked back. There was Randolph, just standing alone by the tetherball, bopping it a little bit. I hollered, “Hey, Randolph, come on over. We need you to play too.”
He looked that funny way again, like he did the first time I asked him to play tetherball. I said, “Randolph, I’m not playing unless you do.”
Then the greatest thing happened. Jon spoke up and said, “Right, Randolph. We need you too. Come on.”
And Randolph came running over, grinning the biggest grin I ever saw.

One morning my wife said to me, “Hans, I dreamed something very strange last night. Two young men told us about a different church, and we joined it. What do you think about that?” she asked hesitantly. We agreed that the dream didn’t seem to have any meaning because we would never want to leave our own church.
The dream had long been forgotten when, nearly a year later, my wife greeted me after work with the news that “two young men were here today to tell me about their church.” I saw a trace of worry in her face. “But we are going to stay with our church,” I responded confidently. “Well,” she said, “they want to come back to talk with you.” I was not happy with the prospect.
A few days later, I opened the door to see two fine-looking young men. They introduced themselves as missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In the conversation that followed, they asked, “Do you believe that the church of Jesus Christ is on the earth today?” My wife and I had already considered this question while studying the Bible. We concluded that if there were a true church, it would have to have all the doctrines Jesus taught. The churches we knew, including our own, were not complete. “If it exists,” I said, “it must have all the things Jesus taught. But it does not exist.”
A few days later, as I was sitting with my wife, she asked, “Hans, can you still remember my dream?”
“What dream?” I wondered.
“The one I had about the two young men who visited us. They told us about their church and we joined it. Remember?”
Memory of the forgotten dream came back. Joyfully we realized that the dream was a revelation of what was to come, and its memory a confirmation of our testimonies. It was a dream that had come true.

Years ago, I felt a lot like young Joseph. I was confused by the “war of words and tumult of opinions” (Joseph Smith—History 1:10) coming from many different churches in Fiji. When I first met the missionaries, I had so many questions. Some have teased that I am a slow learner because I spent eight years investigating the Church. My conversion began through understanding the name of the Church.

During His mortal ministry, Jesus Christ established His Church. Over time, the doctrine and priesthood authority of His Church became lost. In our day, Jesus Christ restored through the Prophet Joseph Smith the same church He established when He lived on earth (see Articles of Faith 1:6). He also commanded through revelation, “For thus shall my church be called in the last days, even The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” (Doctrine and Covenants 115:4).

The Church bears the name of Jesus Christ because it is His Church! After eight years, this truth resonated in my mind and heart. I was baptized at age 27 and soon called as a counselor in the ward Young Men presidency and an early-morning seminary teacher. Along the way, my testimony continued to grow.

My life transformed as I taught seminary, attended sacrament meeting, and listened to general conference. I also felt the soothing, comforting, and inspiring influence of the Spirit as I read the Book of Mormon—a tangible evidence and manifestation of the Restoration and the prophetic call of Joseph Smith.

When the Lord called Joseph “and spake unto him from heaven, and gave him commandments” (Doctrine and Covenants 1:17), He showed that He “does inspire men and call them to his holy work in this age and generation, as well as in generations of old” and that “he is the same God yesterday, today, and forever” (Doctrine and Covenants 20:11–12).

The Restoration that began with Joseph continues today. As Latter-day Saints, we are called to speak in the Savior’s name so “that faith … might increase in the earth,” His “everlasting covenant might be established,” and “the fulness of [His] gospel might be proclaimed by the weak and the simple unto the ends of the world” (Doctrine and Covenants 1:21–23). We are blessed to be able to help build up the Church and prepare the world for that day when Jesus Christ returns.

Elder and Sister Wakolo (far right) were endowed and sealed in the Nuku’alofa Tonga Temple in August 1995, a year after Elder Wakolo joined the Church. They are shown here with the temple presidency.

A year after my baptism, my wife, Anita, and I traveled to the Nuku’alofa Tonga Temple to be sealed for time and all eternity. My testimony of the Restoration made going to the temple so meaningful. The restored gospel of Jesus Christ truly means everything! My heart is filled with gratitude for the blessings it has brought to me and my family.

These precious blessings have come to the world through “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, [who] has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it” (Doctrine and Covenants 135:3). We must be ever grateful for—and never lose sight of—what we have been given through the prophet of this last dispensation.

I used to leave the house at 8:00 a.m. and return at midnight after working all day and going to class at night. During the little time my husband, Daniel, and I had together, we argued. Things were bad. We were on the verge of separating.
One Sunday evening after an argument, Daniel said, “Maybe we should get closer to God.” The next day, while Daniel was home watching our son, missionaries knocked on our door.
When the missionaries started visiting us, I disagreed with everything they taught. But after a few lessons, we began to feel something. We didn’t know what it was, but we described it as “magical,” a feeling of peace and harmony. It would linger even after the missionaries left. We realized that we needed that feeling more often in our home.
Inspired by the missionaries’ message about the importance of family, Daniel and I came closer together in our marriage. I had hoped that going to school would lead to a better position at my work. But we decided to focus on our family, spend more time together, and have more children. I quit school, quit my job, and went to work as Daniel’s secretary at his pest control business.
Less than three months after the missionaries’ first visit, we were baptized and confirmed. Our life changed dramatically. We began living the law of tithing. We began praying at home and at work with Daniel’s employees. We began serving in the Church. Daniel’s business grew, and he needed to hire more workers.
A year after our baptism, we went to the temple to be sealed. A few days after our sealing, I found out I was expecting.
Sundays aren’t easy for us. Daniel leaves early for high council meetings. I have to prepare our three children for church by myself. But we are able to share a lot of time together throughout the week. So even if we are apart at times on Sunday as we serve the Lord, we know that we are blessed.
We have gained a testimony that when we do our part, the Lord can help us, and blessings come. We have received a lot more than we had ever hoped for from our own plans. The Lord had better things in mind for us.

I learned to appreciate the principle of fasting by fasting for just one meal the first time I did it. That helped me develop confidence that I could fast for two meals. I also learned to ask for Heavenly Father’s help, so that the experience might be spiritually uplifting.

My aunt became a member of the Church after we fasted and prayed in her behalf.

Marianne Vaags, 13Muelheim Ward, Dortmund Germany Stake

His help has come to me on countless occasions throughout my life. During the final phases of World War II, I turned 18 and was ordained an elder—one week before I departed for active duty with the navy. A member of my ward bishopric was at the train station to bid me farewell. Just before train time, he placed in my hand a book which I hold before you tonight. Its title: The Missionary’s Hand Book. I laughed and commented, “I’ll be in the navy—not on a mission.” He answered, “Take it anyway. It may come in handy.”

It did. During basic training our company commander instructed us concerning how we might best pack our clothing in a large seabag. He then advised, “If you have a hard, rectangular object you can place in the bottom of the bag, your clothes will stay more firm.” I thought, “Where am I going to find a hard, rectangular object?” Suddenly I remembered just the right rectangular object—The Missionary’s Hand Book. And thus it served for 12 weeks at the bottom of that seabag.

The night preceding our Christmas leave, our thoughts were, as always, on home. The barracks were quiet. Suddenly I became aware that my buddy in the adjoining bunk—a member of the Church, Leland Merrill—was moaning in pain. I asked, “What’s the matter, Merrill?”

He replied, “I’m sick. I’m really sick.”

I advised him to go to the base dispensary, but he answered knowingly that such a course would prevent him from being home for Christmas. I then suggested he be quiet so that we didn’t awaken the entire barracks.

The hours lengthened; his groans grew louder. Then, in desperation, he whispered, “Monson, aren’t you an elder?” I acknowledged this to be so, whereupon he pleaded, “Give me a blessing.”

I became very much aware that I had never given a blessing. I had never received such a blessing; I had never witnessed a blessing being given. My prayer to God was a plea for help. The answer came: “Look in the bottom of the seabag.” Thus, at 2:00 a.m. I emptied on the deck the contents of the bag. I then took to the night-light that hard, rectangular object, The Missionary’s Hand Book, and read how one blesses the sick. With about 120 curious sailors looking on, I proceeded with the blessing. Before I could stow my gear, Leland Merrill was sleeping like a child.

The next morning, Merrill smilingly turned to me and said, “Monson, I’m glad you hold the priesthood!” His gladness was only surpassed by my gratitude—gratitude not only for the priesthood but for being worthy to receive the help I required in a time of desperate need and to exercise the power of the priesthood.

Often the blessings come long before the end, while you’re in the service of the Lord. Jo has seen that happen many times on his mission—such as the day he met Kevin Smith.
Kevin had become interested in the Church through the fine example of a young Latter-day Saint woman in his office, and he had requested a copy of the Book of Mormon from the Blackpool Ward. Jo and his companion volunteered to deliver the scripture to him.
“At that point I wasn’t sufficiently interested in the Church to have missionaries in my home,” says Kevin, who has been confined to a wheelchair for the past sixteen years. “I had a stereotyped image of Mormon elders—tall, fresh young American lads straight out of college, wearing stylish suits, with toothpaste-advertisement smiles. I probably wouldn’t have opened the door if they had looked like that. But here were two down-to-earth people, one just as surprised as I was at the sight of a wheelchair.”
“Kevin is such a great guy,” exclaims Elder Folkett, who was surprised to find his investigator in a wheelchair. “Even before we got to his house the first time, I felt that something good would happen.”
Elder Folkett and Kevin got along well from the moment they met, and Jo baptized Kevin not long after that first discussion.

May I close with just one other experience. Let me tell you of one elderly brother who sat in a nursing home just looking at the floor day after day, week after week. Someone who loved him and knew about Deseret Industries arranged for him to come to work. He began by the supervisor placing a wide push broom in his hands, taking him to the end of a corridor, and having him push the broom down the hall to the other end; then turning him around and having him push it back again. This he did time after time.
In the process of doing, he started to get a small glimmer of interest in something—in anything—and his eyes raised from the floor. He saw the walls, and he saw the windows. As this process continued, the development of a feeling that everyone needs was nurtured. It wasn’t long until other assignments were given to him which he did very well. In time his faith in himself and his feeling of worth had been restored. He became a supervisor of others.

The power of the priesthood and the importance of its restoration and blessings came to have special meaning in my life when I was fifteen years old. I had developed a serious ear infection, and I was rushed to the hospital. The infection required major surgery. Following the operation, I overheard one of the doctors say that the damage to my ear had been so severe that I would permanently lose my hearing and my sense of balance.

My father and another Melchizedek Priesthood holder, having the power and authority to act in the name of God, administered to me, using the oil that had been consecrated by the priesthood for anointing the sick.

My mother was influenced by the Holy Ghost to place my name on the prayer roll of the temple where those in attendance would join their faith in prayer for me. It was the first time I knew that people could have their name placed on the prayer roll in the temple. In time, through faith and the power of the priesthood, my healing was complete.

Jean would always remember the night when she really learned that her Heavenly Father hears and answers sincere prayers, even when uttered by a weary 17-year-old in a little town in southern Georgia, U.S.A.
Four years earlier my younger sister Jean joined the Church in Natchez, Mississippi. I joined about the same time but was working and living out on my own. Throughout high school, Jean was very active in her small ward. Mother saw to it that she attended every meeting, every seminary class, and every activity held. Jean’s testimony grew strong in such circumstances, and her bubbly personality made her a favorite with the youth throughout the Jackson Mississippi Stake. I don’t suppose any other girl was as happy as Jean during those years. She was leading a busy, productive life, learning things that would be valuable to her in the future and having fun times with members her own age.
When Jean’s senior year began, she started her first journey through the refiner’s fire. Our mother and stepfather were divorced, and mother drifted further and further from the Church. She no longer cared whether or not Jean even went to sacrament meetings much less all her other activities. Jean struggled on with the help of her friends and the support and sympathy of her bishop’s family. Her testimony grew stronger still, and she continued in all of her activities.
At high school graduation time, Jean learned that her trials had only begun. Mother remarried and moved far away. Jean had no choice. She had to go live with our father in rural Georgia. He lived in a tiny, isolated town where he was the minister of the only church.
Our father had always been bitter toward the Church, and that bitterness had turned to hatred when all three of his daughters had been baptized. Jean was his baby, his special daughter, and it hurt him deeply to see her not only in a religion different from his but as a Latter-day Saint and a devout Latter-day Saint at that. He looked upon her move to his house as an answer to prayers. Now things would be different. Now he would be able to show her the error of her ways.
Although I live more than 300 kilometers away, I came as often as possible during the summer and took Jean to my home in Columbia. However, the summer soon ended, and Jean had to start commuting to college. Jean had a car to make the drive back and forth to school but not for her personal use on weekends. The nearest branch was 40 kilometers away, and even if she could get there, father wouldn’t let her go. There wasn’t a Latter-day Saint student institute at her small college, and it just seemed that there was no way for her to have any contact with Church members.
Days turned into weeks, and then months had gone by since she had attended a Church meeting. She read her scriptures, wrote daily in her journal, and spent hours on her knees. As she grew closer to her Heavenly Father through earnest prayer, Jean’s testimony of the gospel grew. She began to realize how often she had taken the opportunity to attend meetings and functions of the Church for granted, how she had even wished meetings would hurry and be over. During this time, father made every effort to break her testimony. He quoted scripture after scripture, but Jean’s seminary scriptures stood her in good stead. She was able to answer with scriptures of her own. Sometimes he made accusations against the Church and its beliefs that she couldn’t or, to stop an argument, wouldn’t defend. While her testimony wasn’t harmed, it did make Jean weary as she faced each day on the defensive, knowing that everything she loved and considered holy would be denounced in her father’s booming voice at mealtimes, in discussions with her stepmother, or in his verbal prayers.
Some nights only hours on bended knees kept her from total despair. She fought back the desire to rage against her Heavenly Father for deserting her. Soon even the scriptures she loved were difficult to read because they produced such a terrible longing for her old friends, teachers, and bishop. Often she lay in bed at night with tears streaming down her face trying to remember that she wasn’t the only Latter-day Saint in the world. She tried to be strong, but she was young and alone and there had been no contact with other Church members for so long.
One night in January, Jean was particularly distressed. Her father and stepmother had taunted her and prayed aloud for her soul until she was ready to scream. No one understood the trials she was going through. Her older sisters sympathized, but we were too far away to be any help. Finally Jean knelt by her bed and poured her heart out as she had so many times in the past. She told her Heavenly Father that she knew he loved her and that he had promised no burden heavier than she could bear. She begged for some sort of help because the burden had grown so heavy that she could not bear it any longer.
When Jean left Natchez, Mississippi, her records had been sent to the nearest branch. Once the records were received, she was assigned home teachers. However, as no one had ever met Jean and she lived so far away and had never attended a meeting, the home teachers didn’t visit her. In their minds, she was probably someone who had joined the Church at eight years old but had never been active. Someone in the branch had heard that a Mr. Swilley in Egypt, Georgia, was the minister of another church, and this Jean was probably his wife. They weren’t going to drive all that way to get a door slammed in their faces!
In a small branch, the work load is heavy for each member. The home teacher lived about 20 kilometers on the other side of the town where the branch was located, a total of 60 kilometers one way on country roads from Jean. Months went by, and each month his home teaching report was complete except for Sister Swilley. Being a good and conscientious man, this bothered him. He decided to go at least once just to see what sort of circumstances she was in.
The night came when he couldn’t rest until he had made the effort to see this sister. He called his companion, a young boy 16 years old, and they began the long drive. As they drove farther into the countryside, they began to be uneasy and wished they could turn around and go home. Yet something urged them on. Little did they know that at that moment, Jean Swilley was on her knees begging her Father in Heaven to help her. As her prayer ended and she dried her tears, father knocked on her bedroom door. “Jeanie, there are two men outside, and they are asking for you. They are LDS, and I won’t ask them in, but you can go talk to them at the front door.”
Jean ran through the house and to the front door. She stood on the step, and tears fell again as the older of the two men stretched out his hand and said, “We are your home teachers … “He didn’t have to say anything else because Jean fell into his arms and cried out all the pain and loneliness that was there. Finally someone had come. God had indeed heard her prayers.
As Jean told her story to these wonderful men, I know that their hearts were touched. They expressed sorrow for not having come sooner and promised to make the branch president aware of her situation. They prayed with Jean and told her to call them when it got too hard and left with the most beautiful words Jean had ever heard, “You aren’t alone anymore.”
Jean is still not allowed to go to church, but her spirit is so much stronger now that she knows her Father in Heaven is aware of her needs and answers her prayers. Father said the home teachers could keep coming as long as they had a talk with him first. When Jean explained the situation to the home teachers, they told her that they would talk with him and do it gladly.
Jean’s home teachers had every excuse in the world not to visit her. It was inconvenient—one and a half hours just in driving time. She had expressed no interest in seeing them. They did not think she would welcome them, and they were busy with other church responsibilities. Still, they obeyed the promptings of the Holy Spirit.
Those home teachers will never know just how happy they made my sister nor will they know how thankful they made me for a Heavenly Father that heard my sister’s prayers. How can they know what will come of their talk with my father? Or that mother, who had drifted so far away that she denied the Church on every opportunity, would cry when told that her baby girl wasn’t quite so wretched anymore and why. How could they have known that mother would say through her tears, “I knew He would take care of her and hear her prayers.” I know that more good will come because those two men listened to the promptings of the Holy Ghost and obeyed. I hope that I will learn to listen to that same voice and obey. I hope we all will.

It was just before dawn. Slowly the anxious moments ticked by for the American soldiers who waited in boats for the signal that would start their battle. They were trying to take one of the Japanese island bases in the Pacific during World War II. In one of the boats were two young Latter-day Saint marines.
At twenty minutes to six, the signal came to start firing. Suddenly it was as though the island base and all the boats waiting to attack exploded into flame and fire. Dive bombers dropped their loads, machine guns cut down the men who started wading toward shore, and the island base of Kwajalein seemed to heave and roll with the fury of the battle.
The two marines were hit in the first wave of gunfire and one was very badly wounded. The other, who was less seriously hurt, held the head of his comrade above water until help came. Finally, a United Press newspaperman and some medics found them both in the water. They tried to give first aid to the least injured boy, but he refused help until his buddy was checked. The rescuers thought the boy was too badly hurt to ever recover. A war correspondent wrote the rest of the story on February 8, 1944.
“Then it happened. This young man, the stronger of the two, bronzed by the tropical sun, clean as a shark’s tooth in the South Seas, slowly got to his knees. His own arm was nearly gone, but with the other, he lifted the head of his unconscious pal into his lap, placed his good hand on the other’s pale brow and uttered what to us seemed to be incredible words—words that to this moment are emblazoned in unforgettable letters across the doorway of my memory:
“In the name of Jesus Christ, and by virtue of the holy priesthood which I hold, I command you to remain alive until the necessary help can be obtained to secure the preservation of your life.’”
The two young marines were later taken to a hospital with the newspaper reporter who concluded his story in this way:
“The three of us are here in Honolulu and today we walked down the beach together. … He is the wonder of the medical unit, for—they say—he should be dead. Why he isn’t they don’t know—but we do—for we were there, off the shores of Kwajalein.”

I was going to Arkansas to do one particular story. Period. But the flight schedules left me just enough time to do an additional story. So I asked Monty, my local contact, if he had any suggestions.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “since you asked—how about Rochelle Abram up in Bentonville?”
I had never worked with Monty before. Did he really know what kind of story I was looking for? I wasn’t completely sure myself.
What I didn’t want was to put some super-gifted super-achiever on a pedestal and make everybody else feel inadequate. Maybe I was just looking for an ordinary kid who has some qualities worth writing about.
I grabbed pencil and paper. “So tell me about Rochelle, Monty.”
He began, and mentally I responded to each point. “… multi-talented …” (The Church has lots of multi-talented kids.) “… state championships in gymnastics …” (We’ve done gymnast stories.) “… has done very well scholastically …” (That’s better, but—) “… a fine influence among the youth here …” (Okay. Now I’m listening.)
On the map, the road between Ft. Smith, Arkansas, and Bentonville looks fairly straight. In reality, it has more twists and turns than a soap opera plot, more bad grades than my fifth-grade report card. But since it winds among beautiful green hills, past some delightful little towns and villages, you don’t mind too much.
With Monty as guide, we found the Abram home, nestled among tall trees on Trail’s End Road, the driveway full of cars. This was Rochelle’s graduation night. Family and friends had started to gather, and it promised to be a little hectic.
Jerry Abram, Rochelle’s dad, greeted us warmly, pulled us into the house with a car salesman’s handshake, and introduced me to some of the family as we moved through the living room. A young woman approached from a hallway and he announced, “This is Rochelle.”
I doubted that boys had to be bribed to take her to the prom. Light blue-green eyes, warm smile and perfect white teeth, reddish-blond hair framing an oval face and fair complexion—Jed, my photographer, was going to have an easy time of it. But my anxiety about trying to do a story on a too-perfect girl had increased.
We discussed a few details, like what she would wear for the photographer and how much time we had before she had to go to commencement exercises. Then we went out onto the deck at the back of the house and sat down at a wrought iron table. It was after 5:00 P.M., and the tall trees that surround the house cast lacy shadows over us. I turned on my tape recorder, and we began to talk while Jed circled about, taking picture after picture.
First, just to break the ice, we talked about school and friends. I learned that Rochelle’s circle of friends includes LDS youth in the larger town of Fayetteville, 30 minutes away. “We just get together on weekends and do stuff and have a lot of fun.” Like what? “Just about everything. We like to hike and camp and fish and do all the tomboyish things,” she laughs. “We’ve also had dinner parties with the guys.” Pretty normal so far.
Before coming to Arkansas, I had talked some more to Monty and others about Rochelle, and everybody mentioned gymnastics. So I asked, and learned that she started in the sixth grade and began competing in seventh grade. “And you took state honors—first place,” I prompted.
“Yes, I got first place in uneven bars in the state high school competitions last year and this year.” She paused. “And I got first place in floor exercises in the USGF (U.S. Gymnastics Federation) competition this year.” Another slight pause. “I enjoy it; it’s a lot of fun.”
Fun? The closest I’ve come to a back flip was on an icy morning a few winters ago. But I know that even for the talented, gymnastics training is punishingly difficult. “What has it done for you?”
“It’s taken up a lot of my time, and it’s a lot of hard work, but it teaches you patience and endurance. It’s kind of hard sometimes because you want to learn a trick and be good, but you have to work at it. And it’s really discouraging sometimes. But it’s given me more confidence in myself because when you do well you feel better about yourself.”
As Rochelle talked, I studied her face and listened to the inflections in her voice. No hint of false modesty. Others confirmed that she doesn’t talk freely about her accomplishments, even to her parents. You get the impression that she does things for the joy of doing—not for the trophies and certificates, but for the satisfaction of tackling something tough and doing it as well as she possibly can.
She treats school the same way, taking the challenging advanced placement courses instead of going for the easy A. I commented on the fact that she would be attending BYU on a four-year academic scholarship instead of going to some college on a gymnastics scholarship. She just laughed. Gymnastics may be fun and challenging, but it isn’t her life. Rochelle will be studying things like biology and chemistry. “I want to pursue a career in a health-related field, probably in some area of research,” she said.
What does she see herself doing ten years down the road? “Hopefully a mission, marriage, and a family.”
We took a break for a few minutes. Jed needed photos in a different setting, and I wanted to talk to Rochelle’s parents.
Jerry Abram came out and sat down. “Rochelle is not a spectator; she is a participant,” he said when I asked him to sum up his daughter. “I don’t know what she’ll contribute to the Church—whether she’ll ever be a Relief Society or Young Women president—but I know what she’ll contribute to other people. She always has time for others.”
For example? “In our stake there was a young man, a ninth grader, who was not participating. So Rochelle went to his house every morning, woke him up if necessary, and took him to early-morning seminary. It wasn’t an assignment; she just did it. I asked her about it, and she said, ‘It’s there to do.’”
When Jerry Abram talks about his daughter, there is both pride and some wonder in his voice as he discusses her skills and accomplishments. But it was when we talked about her qualities that his eyes became moist, his voice slightly husky. Asked about Rochelle’s spiritual gifts, he said, “She excels in the same way. She craves spiritual knowledge.”
I asked Rochelle’s mother, Mary, what her daughter’s best quality is. Her first thought was, “She is a true, sincere friend.” Then, as she continued to speak about Rochelle’s relationships with others: “It’s her commitment to Christ and to gospel standards.”
Commitment to Christ. I thought back on something that everyone but Rochelle had talked about so far—the death of Rochelle’s fraternal twin sister, Rhonda, in an auto accident just 11 months earlier.
When Rhonda was killed, two other girls also died in the one-car rollover. Both of them, Kathryn and Michele, were also LDS and close friends of both of the Abram sisters. The tragedy shook the town. Yet the Christ-centered faith of Rochelle and her family not only carried them through, but became a blessing to many others.
Hundreds of townspeople attended the joint funeral for Rhonda and Kathryn that was held in the LDS chapel. Michele’s funeral was two days later. Many commented afterward that they had always been taught that Mormons are not Christians. Now they knew otherwise. And a dozen or so have since come into the Church after being fellowshipped by Rochelle and her family.
A little later in the evening Rochelle and I talked again. The shadows had lengthened further and a light breeze toyed idly with the leaves. Through the closed glass doors you could faintly hear the growing crowd of friends talking and laughing. But out where we were it was quiet enough to hear the calls of insects and birds.
“Do you mind if we talk about Rhonda for a minute?”
Her gaze was direct and open as she said that was fine.
I asked her how her sister’s death had affected her.
“It makes me want to be a better person. She was such a great example—almost perfect.”
Like many of her answers it was short and to the point. I guess I could have followed up, tried to draw her out. But her parents had commented on how deeply she has felt the loss of her sister and how private she is about her grief. What would be the point in prying further? Instead, after a short silence, for some reason I changed the subject and asked, “What do you fear most?”
This time she paused. Her soft voice took on a slightly different quality as she answered. “Not being accepted, I guess.”
The surprise must have registered on my face. She laughed at herself and at her answer, as though she realized how silly it might sound to someone else, someone aware of her accomplishments.
I sat back and looked at this young woman from a small town in the northwest corner of Arkansas. Rochelle Abram—who wins titles in gymnastics. Loves to swim in the creek with family and friends. Is graduating with high honors. Recently shot a hole in her brother’s bedroom window with a BB gun while trying to hit a slow-flying bug. Eats peanut butter and jelly for Thanksgiving dinner because she doesn’t like meat and vegetables. Needed two full days to clean her room before company came.
It was time for Rochelle to go into the house and finish getting ready for her graduation. I looked down at my tape recorder and notebook and thought about the story contained on tape, on paper, and in my memory. Monty was right. She is worth writing about. Hooray for anybody who has gifts, develops them as well as possible, and is modest about them. Three cheers for those who accomplish things for the sheer joy of doing.
But far more importantly, I decided Rochelle was worth writing about because she excels in some ways that everyone can excel in: commitment to Jesus Christ and his gospel, putting aside our own fears and tragedies and reaching out to others. Even a Rochelle Abram sometimes worries about acceptance. It’s a natural fear most of us have. But instead of holding back, afraid to stand out, she goes ahead and does when “it’s there to be done.”
Next time Monty recommends a story, I’m ready to listen.

A new animal was coming to live in the zoo, and the other animals were excited. One morning a big truck backed up to an empty cage, and out stepped the new animal.
The other animals stared in amazement. The new animal did not look like any animal that they had ever seen before. He had a long neck and a long tail, and when he opened his mouth, he barked. One by one the other animals turned away from the cage. Because the new animal was so different, they were not sure how to treat him.
The new animal was very lonely. The other animals ignored him, so he had no one to talk to. He was so sad that he could not eat. The zookeeper began to worry. People stopped visiting the zoo because the new animal was sad and the other animals hid in the backs of their cages.
One day the elephant heard the new animal barking to himself. “The new animal does have a good trunk,” he told the giraffe. “It’s not as long as mine but is really quite nice.”
The giraffe stretched her neck to take a closer look. “Look at his strong neck. He can reach as high as I can.”
The lion was looking quietly at the new animal’s mane. “My goodness! He has an excellent mane—almost as thick as mine.”
Just then the zebra trotted by the cage. “His coat has a very nice pattern,” she said.
“And his horns are curved just right,” the mountain goat said, “just like mine.”
When the monkey came swinging from the trees, he said, “Look at that handsome tail. I wonder if the new animal would like to play tag?”
Finally the duck waddled by the cage.
“What fine feet you have. You probably can swim faster than I can,” she said.
The new animal stopped crying and thanked the duck for the compliment. Soon all the animals were talking together. They felt much happier. Even though the new animal looked different, the other animals had all found something about the new animal that they liked.

The day the bad people flew airplanes into buildings and killed lots of people, I said in my bedtime prayer, “Bless all the good people, but don’t bless the bad people.” After I finished my prayer, my mom explained that we need to pray for bad people to help them choose the right. In my next prayer, I said, “Bless all the bad people so they will turn into good people.” I am glad I can pray to help people be good and choose the right.

Years ago our 17-year-old son wanted to go on a weekend trip with his friends, who were all good boys. He asked for permission to go. I wanted to say yes, but for some reason I felt uncomfortable about the trip. I shared my feelings with my wife, who was very supportive. “We need to listen to that warning voice,” she said.

Of course, our son was disappointed and asked why we didn’t want him to go. I answered honestly that I didn’t know why. “I just don’t feel good about it,” I explained, “and I love you too much to ignore these feelings inside.” I was quite surprised when he said, “That’s OK, Dad. I understand.”

Young people understand more than we realize because they too have the gift of the Holy Ghost. They are trying to recognize the Spirit when He speaks, and they are watching our example. From us they learn to pay attention to their promptings—that if they “don’t feel good about something,” it’s best not to pursue it.

When Peggy told me her husband, John, after 31 years of marriage, was going to be baptized, I asked what had changed.

Peggy said, “John and I were studying the New Testament Come, Follow Me, and John asked about Church doctrine.”

Peggy said, “Let’s invite the missionaries.”

John said, “No missionaries—unless my friend can come.” Over 10 years, John’s ministering brother had become his trusted friend. (I thought, What if John’s ministering brother had stopped coming after one, two, or nine years?)

John listened. He read the Book of Mormon with real intent. When the missionaries invited John to be baptized, he said yes. Peggy said, “I fell off my chair and started to cry.”

John said, “I changed as I drew closer to the Lord.” Later, John and Peggy were sealed in the holy temple. Last December, John passed away at age 92. Peggy says, “John was always a good person, but he became different in a beautiful way after he was baptized.”

In the cold Alaskan winters, people need wood to burn in their fireplaces. For their weekly service, Elders Fjelsted and Leha’uli went to a local sawmill that has extra wood. They chopped it, piled it into members’ trucks, and delivered the wood to single mothers, older couples, people with disabilities—anyone who needed a little extra help. Those people always mentioned how grateful they were.

These elders also volunteered at a food bank, where they packed food for the needy, and at an elementary school, where they read to the children.

“Our service is making a difference in the community,” Elder Fjelsted says. “People are recognizing us and the Church for the good we do. It is also leading to some teaching opportunities that we hope will help build the kingdom of God in Alaska.”