Gospel Story Finder

I was in the city of Torreó, Mexico, and was being driven about in a beautiful and expensive automobile. It belonged to a man named David Casteñ. At one time he and his wife and their children lived on a little rundown farm. They owned 30 chickens, two pigs, and one skinny horse. They walked in poverty.

Then one day two missionaries called on them. Sister Casteñ said, “The elders took the blinders from our eyes and brought light into our lives. We knew nothing of Jesus Christ. We knew nothing of God until they came.”

They moved into the little town of Bermejillo. Circumstances led them to the junk business. They bought wrecked automobiles. This led to association with insurance companies. They gradually built a prosperous business in which the father and his five sons worked. With simple faith they paid their tithing. They lived the gospel. They served wherever they were called. Four of their sons and three of their daughters filled missions.

Through their influence some 200 of their family and friends have joined the Church. More than 30 sons and daughters of family and friends have served missions. They donated the land on which a chapel now stands. At the time I met them, the children—now grown to maturity—and the parents were taking turns going to Mexico City each month to work in the temple. They are a shining and inspirational example of the miraculous power of missionary work. Think of the wonderful consequences of their being taught and receiving the teachings of the gospel from two humble missionaries. Such miracles are occurring today all across the world.

Sermon 2: Creation is Generally Pain-stakingly Slow But Rewarding; Destruction is Quick But Unfulfilling.
This sermon was taught to me earlier this summer when I cut down two large pine trees in my backyard that were approximately twenty-five and forty feet in height. I enlisted the help of a "crack" team of veteran lumberjacks to help me with the project (you can see from the images of my children that they were a rough and rowdy bunch). The trees had probably been planted when the home was newly built in 1973.

The thought occurred to me in the middle of the process that literally in a matter of hours I was destroying what had taken forty years to create. (Another backyard sermon was under way). To my mind came other things which had been built laboriously over time only to be destroyed in moments.

I thought of King David's marriage, kingdom and exaltation all consumed in his lust for Bath-Sheba; Abel's mortal life and Cain's eternal prospects were quickly dispatched in that first case of fratricide; and Thomas B. Marsh's standing in the Church was quickly diminished due to one little milky mess. Surely we can all think of instances in our personal lives or the lives of those dear to us where years of building have been destroyed in moments.

As I continued to work towards toppling the trees I thought of the precious shade, life-giving photosynthesis and two big, beautiful conifers that were home to squirrels and birds that would now be gone. The destructive consequences of my actions became particularly poignant when, upon finally getting to the lower branches of one of the trees, I watched a dove fly out of her nest as it tumbled from its resting place and her eggs broke upon the ground--the mother had waited until the last possible moment to abandon her nest and eggs.

I still stand by my decision to cut the trees down, but in that moment I felt the Spirit reminding me that there are always victims left in the wake of destructive actions and that few worthwhile things are ever accomplished overnight or in an instant. It should be a great life lesson to all of us that God's works--including Creation, Atonement, Exaltation and Salvation--require painstaking, deliberate effort and that they take place over time in perfect order until all is finally in place.

Similarly, in our lives, corn is not planted and then harvested in a single day and eternal families aren't created in one FHE. Being a builder and a creator and emulating The Creator in this life generally means steady, patient, laborious work. Conversely, those who want everything now and are willing to take shortcuts are not true builders.

In 1989, when Daniel and Thérèse Kola learned about the restored gospel, much of their income came from sales of coffee, tobacco, and alcohol at their café. After accepting the Word of Wisdom, though, they wondered if it was right to market things they wanted to avoid. They debated what to do until the day of their baptism. They decided to give up their old livelihood, like Christ’s ancient disciples.
“In the morning, the decision was made,” Daniel Kola recalled. They sold their shop and were baptised, confident they had done what the Lord would have them do. “We had that joy in our heart because we felt something.”
For the next seven years, Daniel and Thérèse served faithfully as the Church grew in their country. Like others in DR Congo’s first generation of Latter-day Saints, they learned step-by-step. In 1996, Congolese Church leaders were challenged to take the next step in their development. Although Kinshasa was nearly 4,000 kilometres from the nearest temple, in Johannesburg, South Africa, a group of over 20 local leaders were invited to travel to the temple together to be endowed with power from heaven and sealed to their spouses for eternity. It was the first group temple trip in Congo’s history.
The years after the temple trip were vital ones for the Church in Congo. In the late 1990s, stake after stake was organized in the country. Most of the men first called as stake presidents, including Daniel Kola, had participated in that temple caravan.
In 2007, Daniel Kola was called as an Area Seventy. The next year, he travelled to Utah to attend general conference and was blessed to attend the temple an additional five times to perform initiatory, endowment, and sealing ordinances for his ancestors, including being sealed to his own parents. “When I received my endowment, there was a lot I didn’t understand,” Kola reflected. “But today, I understand, and my knowledge is much more profound.”
As he developed a deeper appreciation for the temple, Kola also developed a greater interest in family history. Along with many others, he came to recognize that he lived at a crucial time, when the names and stories of many ancestors were still in living memory but at risk of being lost if they were not recorded. In 2018, Daniel Kola’s nonprofit organization contracted with FamilySearch to travel around the Democratic Republic of the Congo recording oral histories, aiming to gather 400,000 names in 12 months.

Shortly after my daughter, the first of our three children, was born, my wife and I purchased a piano. We hoped she would have musical talent like her grandfather—a fine composer and pianist. I particularly liked to imagine her playing the piano at church, accompanying the congregation. This would please our Father in Heaven, I thought. And the gift of music would bless our family.
Several years passed, with the piano serving no purpose other than decorating our living room. One day my father-in-law offered to teach me to read music. At some point in the future, he said, I might even be able to play a few simple pieces. I considered the very idea a joke—and not a very good one. I had never even considered that I might have musical talent. Nevertheless, he began to work with me. Unfortunately, I found the study of music unpleasant and even painful, and I quit studying about six months later. In time, I forgot what little I had learned.
In 1983 our daughter turned eight, and my wife and I felt she was old enough to begin music lessons. Unfortunately, she did not enjoy the lessons any more than I had. Since we had already paid for a month of lessons, I decided to take the remaining lessons myself. I was surprised to find that I enjoyed the lessons, and after they ended, I continued to practice on my own. My progress was slow, but by the time the Christmas season came around, I could almost play six different hymns.
When the bishop visited us during the Christmas holidays, I played “Away in a Manger” (Hymns, number 206) and asked him to sing along. We had to start over several times because I made so many mistakes, but eventually we finished the carol. The bishop encouraged me to keep practicing and to learn a sacrament hymn. I began to practice very faithfully, and to my surprise, I found that practicing was no longer drudgery. I had a goal for myself—to be able to play at church.
On one occasion while I was practicing I distinctly heard a voice singing the melody of the hymn I was playing. A wave of emotion swept over me, and I felt that my Father in Heaven was pleased with my efforts.
Several months passed, and I continued to practice devotedly. One Sunday I went to church early to practice. The room was quite dark and I couldn’t see well, but I sensed that someone was watching me. Soon the bishop stepped forward. He told me he had been listening, and he felt I was ready to play for Church meetings. I played the piano for the Madrid Second Ward that very day. A few days later, I was officially set apart as the ward pianist.
By this time practicing was exciting, and I was surprised at how quickly I was able to learn the hymns. I worked hard, but I realized that my efforts were being magnified by the Holy Ghost. My Heavenly Father had prepared me little by little for this calling and was now helping me fulfill it.
Today, playing the piano continues to be a great joy. I play for priesthood meetings in the Madrid Third Branch, where I am the branch president. My daughter also eventually resumed her music studies and has served as branch pianist. She is now married and lives in Madrid, Spain.
Often as I play I think of the Lord’s words: “My soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads” (D&C 25:12). I am grateful that my Heavenly Father prepared me with a desire and blessed me with the ability to play the hymns of the Church. They are truly a prayer unto him.

I was a young bishop when I began to see clearly why the Lord wants us to strengthen children when they are young and rescue them quickly. I will tell you one story of a young person who represents many whom I have tried to help over the years.
She sat across from me at my bishop’s desk. She spoke to me of her life. She had been baptized and confirmed as a member of the Church when she was eight. There were no tears in her eyes as she recounted the more than 20 years that followed, but there was sadness in her voice. She said that the downward spiral began with choices to associate with what she thought were exciting people. She began to violate what at first seemed to be less important commandments.
She felt at first a little sadness and a twinge of guilt. But the associations with her friends provided a new feeling of being liked, and so her occasional resolutions to repent seemed less and less important. As the gravity of the commandments she was breaking increased, the dream of a happy eternal home seemed to fade.
She sat across from me in what she called misery. She wanted me to rescue her from the trap of sin in which she found herself bound. But the only way out was for her to exercise faith in Jesus Christ, to have a broken heart, to repent, and so be cleansed, changed, and strengthened through the Lord’s Atonement. I bore my testimony to her that it was still possible. And it was, but so much harder than it would have been to exercise faith early in her life on the journey home to God and when she first began to wander.

I didn’t know it at the time, but when I was 14 I was floundering. I had moved with my family to a new school in a big city, and after a year there I still wasn’t adjusting. I didn’t have any friends, and I felt like I wasn’t worth loving.
I hoped that girls’ camp that summer would offer a break from feeling down, but I only felt worse as I watched the other girls enjoying themselves without me. I knew that as I started high school that fall, my problems would worsen.
Then on the final night of camp, a young couple came to talk to us. As the husband bore his testimony of the Atonement, a powerful realization struck me: Jesus Christ died for me. I had always known that He died for the world, but until that moment I hadn’t realized that He also died for me personally.
With this realization came a great feeling of worth and love. It was as if the Savior, the greatest of all, saw me when He was upon the cross and said, “Yes, I will die for her.” If He was willing to do that for me, then surely I was worth something. As I thought about this I went off by myself, and for the first time ever, I opened my heart completely to my Father in Heaven. For two hours I talked with Him and felt the soothing warmth of His love.
Since that time I have not only grown to know my worth, but I have found joy in the world and discovered my place in it. I will forever be grateful to the Redeemer, who gave His life for me and allowed me to know that I am worth loving.

In October 1918, 100 years ago, President Joseph F. Smith received a glorious vision. After almost 65 years of dedicated service to the Lord in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and just a few weeks before his death on November 19, 1918, he sat in his room pondering Christ’s atoning sacrifice and reading the Apostle Peter’s description of the Savior’s ministry in the spirit world after His Crucifixion.
He recorded: “As I read I was greatly impressed. … As I pondered over these things … , the eyes of my understanding were opened, and the Spirit of the Lord rested upon me, and I saw the hosts of the dead.” The full text of the vision is recorded in Doctrine and Covenants section 138.
In the Lord’s due time, the additional answers, comfort, and understanding about the spirit world President Smith sought came to him through the marvelous vision he received in October 1918.
That year was particularly painful for him. He grieved over the death toll in the Great World War that continued to climb to over 20 million people killed. Additionally, a flu pandemic was spreading around the world, taking the lives of as many as 100 million people.
During the year, President Smith also lost three more precious family members. Elder Hyrum Mack Smith of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, his firstborn son and my grandfather, died suddenly of a ruptured appendix.
President Smith wrote: “I am speechless—[numb] with grief! … My heart is broken; and flutters for life! … O! I loved him! … I will love him forever more. And so it is and ever will be with all my sons and daughters, but he is my first born son, the first to bring me the joy and hope of an endless, honorable name among men. … From the depths of my soul I thank God for him! But … O! I needed him! We all needed him! He was most useful to the Church. … And now, … O! what can I do! … O! God help me!”
The next month, President Smith’s son-in-law, Alonzo Kesler, died in a tragic accident. President Smith noted in his journal, “This most terrible and heart-rending fatal accident, has again cast a pall of gloom over all my family.”
Seven months later, in September 1918, President Smith’s daughter-in-law and my grandmother, Ida Bowman Smith, died after giving birth to her fifth child, my uncle Hyrum.
And so it was on October 3, 1918, having experienced intense sorrow over the millions who had died in the world through war and disease as well as the deaths of his own family members, President Smith received the heavenly revelation known as “the vision of the redemption of the dead.”
He alluded to the revelation the following day in the opening session of the October general conference. President Smith’s health was failing, yet he spoke briefly: “I will not, I dare not, attempt to enter upon many things that are resting upon my mind this morning, and I shall postpone until some future time, the Lord be willing, my attempt to tell you some of the things that are in my mind, and that dwell in my heart. I have not lived alone these [last] five months. I have dwelt in the spirit of prayer, of supplication, of faith and of determination; and I have had my communication with the Spirit of the Lord continuously.”

When I was a year old, I had a serious infection that scarred my right lung for life. We lived in Missouri at the time, in the Nauvoo Stake. It was a nice place to live, but it was too damp for my lungs. My mother said that I coughed all day and all night. So we moved to Arizona, and I don’t cough all day and all night anymore.
In spite of Arizona’s dry climate, sometimes I have ended up in the hospital with pneumonia, because of my scarred lung. I am grateful for hospitals, which have saved my life, but they are not my favorite places to visit. I don’t like the IVs, and the food doesn’t taste like my mom’s cooking. I really miss my family when I am there. Some nights can get really lonely. But I do like watching kids’ movies there that I haven’t seen before. It’s even fun to be pushed around in a wheelchair. However it’s still really sad to not be in my own home.
One night, I heard a tinkling of music in the hallway. It sounded like an ice-cream truck. Soon a happy-looking man wearing a rainbow helicopter hat was standing at my door. He was pushing a cart full of tiny stuffed animals. On top of the cart was a music box. He smiled at me and asked how I felt. He even made me laugh. He told me I could have any of the stuffed animals I wanted! I chose a bright, yellow bear. I was so happy! I even forgot that I was feeling sad.
He made me forget my sadness. He truly was following Jesus’ example, helping those of us who were sick and lonely. I know that he will be blessed forever and that all the happiness that he has given away will come back to him tenfold.

As soon as we accept the Lord’s invitation “Walk with me,” the nature of our priesthood service changes. It becomes all at once higher and nobler but also more achievable, because we know that we are not alone. I felt this most powerfully when President Thomas S. Monson laid his hands on my head nine years ago and blessed me as I began my service in my current calling. In that blessing, he recited these words of the Savior: “And whoso receiveth you, there I will be also, for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up” (D&C 84:88).

I have relied upon that promise many times, and I have seen it fulfilled in many ways throughout my 72 years of priesthood service. It happened when I was a new Aaronic Priesthood holder with an assignment to pass the sacrament. Terrified that I would make a mistake, I went outside the chapel before the meeting started and prayed in desperation that God would help me. An answer came. I felt that the Lord was with me. I felt His confidence in me, and so I felt confidence in my part in His work.

It happened again while I was serving as a bishop. I received a phone call from a woman who had made a serious mistake and now faced a difficult, life-changing decision. As I visited with her, I felt I knew the answer to her problem, but I also felt strongly that I should not give her that answer—she needed to obtain it for herself. My words to her were “I believe God will tell you what to do if you would ask Him.” She later reported that she did ask Him and He did tell her.

On another occasion a phone call came when I was a bishop—this time from the police. I was told that a drunk driver had crashed his car through the glass into the lobby of a bank. When the bewildered driver saw the security guard with his weapon brandished, he cried, “Don’t shoot! I’m a Mormon!”

The inebriated driver was discovered to be a member of my ward, baptized only recently. As I waited to speak to him in the bishop’s office, I planned what I would say to make him feel remorseful for the way he had broken his covenants and embarrassed the Church. But as I sat looking at him, I heard a voice in my mind say, just as clearly as if someone were speaking to me, “I’m going to let you see him as I see him.” And then, for a brief moment, his whole appearance changed to me. I saw not a dazed young man but a bright, noble son of God. I suddenly felt the Lord’s love for him. That vision changed our conversation. It also changed me.

I hesitated, then I said, “Four years ago, my dad and I took a trip to the beach. We played all day in the sand and waves. When it was almost time to go, he took my hand and we walked along the shoreline. He told me to look for the prettiest rock I could find. After looking and looking, I picked this one. It was round and smooth and had this sort of green spot that reminded me of a heart. See it?”
I pointed it out to Ray. He nodded.
“Dad asked me if the rock would change much if I kept it a hundred years. ‘Of course not,’ I said. He said, ‘Love is like that. It lasts forever.’ Then he told me he was going away and wouldn’t be living with us anymore. He said I should always keep this rock and remember that”—I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice—“he loves me.”

In 1964, I had finished my courses at LDS Business College, graduated, attended a year at BYU, served a mission to Denver, Colorado, and returned home to re-enter BYU. I've met and dated many fine young women but I'm confused, I can't seem to find the "right one." One afternoon in the bedroom of a rented home on 7th north in Provo, I really feel the need to offer a significant prayer to Heavenly Father. I'm all alone in the house. I kneel down and this time, which has not happened that many times in my life, I said a vocal prayer, reverently but out loud. I really poured out my heart. I ask Heavenly Father to lead me to my future eternal companion. I have not been able to find her and would He lead me to her. I covenant to stay extremely clean and pure in thoughts and actions, to be morally clean in every way, to keep the highest standards of dating, and to show respect to all young women I date; and to keep ALL the commandments of Heavenly Father to the best of my ability. He hears my prayer and covenant. Within six months, in a J.C. Penney shoe department, my beautiful future companion walks into my life. We date for three months, get engaged, have a four-month courtship and marry August 19, 1965. During our courtship, we never do anything inappropriate. In fact, I am so committed to my covenant with Heavenly Father that we do not kiss on the lips until the sealer in the Arizona Temple tells us "you may now kiss as man and wife." And I gave her a big one! I had waited a long time for that.

I'm so grateful for that covenant.

I learned something of preparation many years ago, fresh out of school. A partner and I were pleased when the White House took note of our work identifying and coaching high potential leaders. The president’s staff asked for a proposal from us within a few days to help follow up on the State of the Union address scheduled for the next week. As it turned out our proposal was soon the heart of a Presidential Executive Order mandated for implementation by the entire Federal government. When the request came from the president’s office, there was no time for more preparation.

For many years I have been haunted by an experience that occurred in my own life. I was working in a community where a full-time seminary was operated adjacent to the local high school. Part way through one school year, a teaching vacancy occurred at the seminary because of a health problem experienced by one of the teachers. I was invited to assume several of his classes each day over a period of time until a replacement could be found. In most respects it was a delightful experience and one that carries fond recollections for me. In one of the classes, however, there was a young man who proved to be a real challenge. He was in his final year of high school. He was bright and talented. It was obvious that he was popular with the other students and had a considerable influence with them. However, his conduct in the seminary class was generally disruptive. He sought for attention and usually got it as a result of his misbehavior in class.
In my desire to establish an atmosphere in the class where we could discuss and learn about things of a spiritual nature, I was repeatedly frustrated by the antics of this young man. He craved the attention of the other students. Several private interviews between us brought no improvements. In our interviews he was agreeable enough, but he reverted to his disruptive behavior as soon as the next class met.
I spoke with the counseling staff at the high school and learned from them that the young man came from a single parent home and that he was a constant problem in his classes at the high school, even though his aptitude test scores showed above average ability and talent.
There finally came a day when I knew I must do something decisive if I were to maintain some sense of order and direction in the class. After a typical outburst I invited the young man to step outside the classroom with me. There I told him that I could no longer sacrifice the opportunities of the other students to his frivolous behavior. I told him that he was no longer welcome in the class until he could control his conduct and contribute to the spiritual atmosphere necessary in a seminary classroom. He spun on his heel without comment and left the building. I never saw him again.
His mother called me that afternoon and expressed her displeasure and distress over what I had done. She warned me that the expulsion of her son from the seminary class would dwell on my mind for a long time to come.
The mother’s prediction has been correct. I have never been able to completely free my mind of that experience Within a week or two of these events, my work was changed, and I was moved to another part of the country. I have no idea whether the young man ever returned to seminary. I don’t even remember his name now because it has been more than 20 years. I have sometimes wondered if there is a father of a large family out there somewhere who blames his separation from the Church on the action of an unsympathetic seminary teacher many years ago.
I am sure I have learned some things in the intervening years that would have helped me handle the situation more competently. Perhaps there are some things I could have done that I did not do to help the young man change his attitude and conduct. I am sure there were. However, as I look back upon those experiences, I recall vividly the concern I felt for the other students in the class and the intense desire I felt to somehow bless their lives. As my mind runs back over that episode, I inevitably come to the same problem I faced the day when I invited the young man to leave the seminary class. In addition to my responsibility for his spiritual opportunities, what was my responsibility to the other class members whose opportunities were being threatened by the conduct of the young man? What were his responsibilities?
I keep hoping that someday in one of my visits to some part of the Church I will be approached by a man who will say, “Do you remember me? I’m that seminary student who walked away from your seminary class that day. I’ve learned some important lessons in life since then. I want you to know that everything has turned out all right.”
Then maybe some of the apprehensions I have felt since that day 20 years ago will disappear. And perhaps his dreams will be less troubled too.

“I can fly,” laughed Carlos as he went spiraling into the cool Idaho evening. He landed in the playground sand and rolled like a movie stuntman.
He brushed himself off and ran back to the merry-go-round, but it was spinning too fast to get back on. The four of us, all college roommates, had the thing moving so fast that I was afraid it would spin off its braces and take flight. I guessed we’d break out of the earth’s gravitational pull somewhere near Boise, and I’d never get home for Christmas.
“Is there a point to this?” I yelled at Dave, who was leading our family home evening activity that night.
“Yep. And remember, I buy pizza for whoever stays on the longest,” he called from his position in the middle of the twirling merry-go-round.
Our roommate Brad, however, was standing near the edge of the contraption, and I could see his grip was not that secure. From the ground Carlos saw too and began spinning us until we were moving at particle-accelerator velocity. Finally, Brad slipped and was sucked off like he’d just opened the door of a flying 747. He crashed right into Carlos. The two of them landed on the sand in an awkward heap.
“Okay, I win,” I yelled. “Now stop this thing before I throw up.”
We eventually slowed the ride, and Dave gathered us on one of the park benches to give us his lesson.
“Anyone know why I put us through this merry-go-round exercise tonight?” he asked.
“Mental instability?” Brad guessed.
“A sadistic streak?” I asked. My world was still spinning.
“Thanks, but wrong. Did you notice why Carlos and Brad flew off?” Dave asked.
“Yeah, because you took the middle,” said Brad.
“Actually, there was room for all of us,” Dave added.
“Yeah, but it’s not as wild a ride in the middle,” I added.
“True,” said Dave, “there are greater risks on the outside—which is my point tonight. It’s safer when we are in the center—on the merry-go-round and in the Church.
“You’ll find that when you move away from the teachings of the Savior and the prophets, you find yourself taking risks you know you shouldn’t. And then you can suddenly find yourself far away from the Church. And it can be really hard to get back on the ride again once you’re off. Right, Carlos?”
Carlos nodded and brushed a few flecks of sand off his jacket.
Dave opened his scriptures and read from Moroni 10:32 [Moro. 10:32]. “Yea, come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness; and if ye shall deny yourselves of all ungodliness, and love God with all your might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for you, that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ; and if by the grace of God ye are perfect in Christ, ye can in nowise deny the power of God.”
Dave closed the scriptures. “Being a member of the Church is the greatest blessing in the world,” he said. “This scripture reminds us that if we come unto Christ and do all He has asked of us, we won’t be led astray. And if we stay centered on Him, following the teachings of the Church and the prophets, we won’t be tempted to take the risks that will throw us off the path that leads home.”
I have never forgotten Dave’s lesson. Every year the world seems to move faster and the distractions and temptations are greater, but I know if I stay centered I will avoid the greatest risks.
As Dave reminded me, by staying close to Christ I can overcome anything.

All my life I strove for perfection: I strove to be the angel child, the straight-A student, the exceptional friend, family member, and athlete. But things didn’t work out the way I’d hoped, and I started to feel like I was losing control over my life.
So I turned to something I could control: how much I ate. I began to look in the mirror and feel unhappy with what I saw—an imperfect girl. The only way to make her perfect was to be skinny. I began to weigh myself daily. I ate less and less. I turned down foods I loved. And still I was not happy.
My parents noticed my frequent gloomy attitude, and they noticed I was not eating very much. When they realized that something was not normal, they took me to my pediatrician. Sure enough, my weight was down an unhealthy amount. I was diagnosed with the eating disorder anorexia. I was put on an anxiety medication and treated by three specialty doctors. I was to the point that they almost put me in the hospital to save my life. I was walking the line of life and death. At the time I didn’t realize how bad things were. I didn’t even know what anorexia was: an emotional disorder characterized by an obsessive desire to lose weight by refusing to eat.
I got mad. I did not see what the problem was and why everyone was so worried. Wasn’t that what I was supposed to be doing—staying healthy and being skinny? My family decided to fast and pray for me. This made me frustrated. I didn’t think people should fast and pray for me, because I thought I was healthy, happy, and content with how I looked.
My parents and siblings told me over and over, “You need to change. You need to seek a desire to change.” I didn’t want to change. I didn’t want to put on weight, and I couldn’t see why they wanted me to, either.
Countless times they would tell me, “Turn to the Lord. Tell Him you want to change and ask Him to help you change.” I would pray for these things, but it was an empty cry. I didn’t want help but went along with it to make my parents and doctors happy.
I had been receiving treatment for my eating disorder for about a year and a half when my sister, who was serving a mission at the time, said, “You need to change.” I had been told that over and over again and was kind of sick of hearing it, so I just said in frustration, “How? How do you want me to change?”
From the time I was diagnosed with anorexia, I had read my scriptures every night, had not missed morning or night prayer, and had gone to church. I said to my sister, “I have asked God to change me, and I am still here. He isn’t listening.” I felt frustrated, but I knew giving up my scripture study and daily prayers would do nothing to help the situation.
My kind sister thought for a moment and then said, “You need to want to change. Go to God, and talk to Him like you would to me, and tell Him you are ready to change.” What she said hit me like a ton of bricks. I went to my Heavenly Father, a little nervous but honest and earnest, and just said, “OK, here I am. Help me to change. Please help me to find a desire to change.”
Things did not get better immediately, but I had a slight change of heart. Ever so slightly, I began to want to be healthier, to eat, and to be free from this illness. Little by little, things improved.
I still fight daily to eat, but it is so much better because I turned to the Lord for help. I did not do this by myself and could not have done it by myself.
Heavenly Father and His Only Begotten Son, Jesus Christ, did not leave me comfortless. The Savior is aware of every little pain and agony I feel and have felt. Not only is He aware of them, but He has also felt them (see Alma 7:11–13). He knows how we are suffering. He knows we want to give up, and He gives us the extra boost to keep us going.
There were countless times when I would wonder, “When will it go away? Why me?” I wanted to give up. Later I realized that Heavenly Father has a plan, and I need to trust in His plan. His plan is perfect, although I do not always see it in that way. I also know that the Lord blessed me with amazing parents, doctors, family, and friends throughout this process.
Truly, God knew I would need all the help and support I could get, and each person was inspired of God to help me. God does not leave us to fend for ourselves no matter the situation. He is there, and He wants us to turn to Him, to be saved through His Son’s amazing Atonement. I know that God loves His children and that He has prepared a way for us to return to Him no matter the gravity of our trial or sin.

In the last half of 1833 Missourians drove the Saints, including the Knight clan, from Jackson County. Mobbers shot Philo Dibble, whom Newel Knight saved from death through a remarkable priesthood blessing.1 Fearing for their lives, the Knights braved the cold weather and rushed to the Missouri River ferries. Joseph Knight, Jr., told of women and children walking with bare feet on frozen ground. The Knights lost all their property, including a gristmill. Of that awful winter, Sally Knight’s sister, Emily Colburn Slade, recalled, “We lived in tents until winter set in, and did our cooking out in the wind and storms.”2 Suffering from poor food and shelter, many Saints became victims of fever and what was called ague (probably malaria). Sally was one of them. She gave birth to a son, who died, and then she died herself. “Truly she died as a martyr to the gospel,” her husband, Newel, eulogized.

Linda’s bike screeched to a stop next to the lawn where Jill was pulling weeds. “Can you finish your paper route by three o’clock today?” Linda asked.
“Sure, I’m always finished by then. Why?”
“My dad has a business meeting in Santa Cruz, and he says that he could drop Mom and us off to swim while he goes to the meeting.”
“Great!”
“We can’t be late though. We have to be ready when he gets here.”
“No problem,” Jill said. “I’ve been working all summer for a chance like this. Every day I try to do my route faster than the day before so that I’ll have more time to play. Now my practice is really going to pay off.”
“How fast can you do it?”
“Forty-three minutes, when the papers are small. Then I usually stop at Widow Wiggen’s for a few minutes before I come home.”
“Are you nuts? She’s a real weirdo.”
“She is not.” Jill stood up. “She’s just like a grandma.”
“She talks to herself.”
“You would, too, if you had something to say and no one to listen to you. Mrs. Wiggen has all kinds of exciting stories to tell about the old days, and she imitates what everybody sounded like until you feel like you know them all. It’s fun to talk to her. Besides, she’s really lonely. I think the main reason she takes the newspaper is to have someone to visit with. And since she can’t see very well, she usually asks me to read her the headlines, the weather, and the obituaries.”
“Obituaries?”
“Yes. She wants to know if anyone she knows has died.”
“Well, you don’t have to visit with her today, do you?”
“I’ll have plenty of time. The papers get here around one o’clock.”
“OK. But remember to be at my house by three o’clock. If you’re not, we’ll have to leave you.”
“Fair enough. I’ll bring my skimboard.”
Linda spun away on her bike, and Jill continued weeding. By the time she headed for her route, she had finished pulling the weeds, assembled all the things she wanted to take to the beach, and had them in a neat pile on the porch. She even wore her swimsuit under her jeans.
Jill whizzed along toward the pick-up corner, ready to jump off her bike, grab the bundle of papers, and whip through her route.
“Oh, no!” she groaned when she saw the empty corner. “The papers can’t be late today.”
But they were late. And later. And even later. As the minutes ticked by, Jill’s hopes faded.
While she waited, Jill tried to think of any shortcuts that she could take. The only thing that came to mind was to eliminate her visit with Mrs. Wiggen. Then, just as the papers finally came, Jill had another idea. If she didn’t go down the widow’s long lane at all, she could save five minutes. Jill looked at her watch. Five extra minutes were all that she needed. She would take the widow her paper after coming back from the beach. Mrs. Wiggen would understand.
But as Jill thought about her plan, she remembered what Widow Wiggen had said just the day before: “It’s a good thing that you come by every day to check up on me. You never know when an old lady might fall and break her neck.”
Mrs. Wiggen had laughed when she said it, thought Jill, but maybe she’d really meant it. What if she needed me this very day? Hogwash! Jill told herself. Mrs. Wiggen will be just fine if I don’t see her until later today.
Once Jill had talked herself into postponing the widow’s paper delivery, she tried not to think about it anymore. But the thought that maybe something was wrong at the widow’s kept popping into her head. Jill tried to think about the fun she’d have with Linda at the beach. She could imagine the slap of each paper on a porch sounding like the splat of the skimboard on the water. But every time she tried to imagine that she was jumping onto the whirling disk and skimming along the water, what came to her mind instead were the widow’s words: You never know when an old lady might fall …
I’m only imagining things, Jill told herself. The widow’s fine. She glanced at her watch and knew that Linda would already be waiting.
Slap, slap, slap. As the newspapers hit the porches, Jill again tried to summon the thrilling sensation of slipping along on the skimboard. But she couldn’t do it. Thoughts of Widow Wiggen drowned her attempt the same way a big wave washes away a sand castle.
A new thought shivered up Jill’s neck: The man who cut the widow’s lawn wouldn’t be around until Friday, and the only time the widow’s son came to visit was late on Sunday afternoons. Jill was the only person who saw her every day. What if something had happened to her?
Jill pedaled faster, hoping that she would see the elderly lady waving from her yellow lawn chair. But the lane was strangely quiet; only the whir of Jill’s tires resounding off the asphalt could be heard. When at last she saw the chair under the big oak, it was empty. Jill dropped her bike and ran for the house. Just as she reached the porch steps, she heard a small, desperate cry. “Jill …”
Jill turned toward the sound and found the widow crumpled on the ground beside the porch. Splintered pieces of rotted wood from the railing lay around her. The pain that she felt showed in her eyes, and a single tear slid down her cheek. “I knew you’d come,” she whispered.
Jill shuddered at the thought of how nearly she hadn’t.
“Sorry I wasn’t here sooner, but the papers were late,” Jill explained. Making her voice sound bright and comforting, she continued, “But don’t worry. The Daily News Rescue Service is here at last. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Yes, I know.” Widow Wiggen’s brave smile assured Jill that it would be.

“All right, all you boys, there are lots of girls who would love to dance, so let’s get busy.” Our tour adviser looked directly at Jason and me and then turned on the record player again. A tropical breeze shuffled through leaves in a planter behind us on the hotel patio.
I had only just finished eighth grade and didn’t even know how to dance by myself, let alone ask a girl to do it with me.
“I guess we should go dance, Brad.” Jason was rolling up the embroidered sleeves of his “I’m-a-tourist-in-Mexico” shirt he had bought that afternoon.
“No, not me.”
“But Mr. Jarman said there are girls who want to dance, and anyway this is the last night of the tour and we’ll probably never see them again.” A sudden gust blew Jason’s hair across his eyes. Casually he pushed it back again.
This educational tour through Mexico had been sponsored by our school district, and up to now it had been a great experience. Why did they have to spoil it with a dance?
“Come on.” Jason stood me up. “You ask Joan, and I’ll ask Christie.” He buttoned his top shirt button, moved across the patio, and offered his hand. “Hey, Christie, would you like to dance?”
I stood back and watched in hopes of learning instantly the intricacies of social interaction.
Christie flipped her hair, “Gee, ah thanks, Jason, but not right now.”
“What about you, Joan?” he asked.
From my safe position behind the lines, I noticed Jason’s crooked-tooth smile. I saw my friend for the first time as those girls might be seeing him, and I guess overall he did look kind of unusual.
“I’d really like to dance, Jason, but I don’t like this song.”
He tugged at his gaudy new shirt. “Well, maybe later?”
The two embarrassed girls looked quickly at each other. “Oh, ah … we’re not feeling too well.”
After a moment he came back to me. “Listen, Brad, who should we ask next?”
I still couldn’t believe what Joan had said. “Not feeling well! She felt good enough to dance with Monroe a few minutes ago,” I complained to Jason.
“But he’s a senior in high school. We’re only eighth graders.”
“Ninth grade now,” I reminded. I followed him to the tile fountain in the center of the patio, where Stephanie LeBette stood. With her hand on her hip and her nose in the air, she might as well have been a water-spouting statue.
I realized what Jason was about to do even before he said, “Hey, Stephanie, how about a dance?”
“Jason, don’t …” I turned away with elaborate casualness. Stephanie broke her pose to smile disdainfully and glide haughtily away.
“Well, how about it? You want to dance?” Jason called after her.
“No gracias, señor.” She didn’t even bother to look back.
I pushed a ripple into the fountain pool. “I don’t get it, Jas. I thought girls liked to dance.”
“They do,” he assured. “Look, why don’t you ask Stephanie?”
“No way, not her. I don’t want to get turned down, too.”
With his square fingers Jason jarred the water again, contorting our shadowed reflections.
“Brad, if Stephanie doesn’t want to dance, it’s her problem not yours.”
“But if she said no, why keep asking her?”
“Why not?”
The director turned up the music again. Jason stepped closer to me to be heard. “Why should you let her decide how you are going to act?” He pushed his fingers through his hair again. “I’m going over there and ask some new girls. Want to come?”
I shook my head and sat on the tile rim. It felt cold in the evening. Jason walked away, stepping awkwardly to the beat.
As I think back on the incident, I realize that Jason is one of the few people I’ve ever known who acts toward people. Most of us react to them. He knew what he wanted and how he should behave. If Stephanie had refused me like that, I’d have either crawled off and buried myself in a Mexican pyramid, or said, “You’re not so neat yourself, you goat,” and maybe bitten her ankle or something.
I remember that evening as though I were a character in a cartoon, sitting by that cold fountain thinking but with nothing written in my thought bubble. If I were to fill it in now, I guess I’d write, “No one is more miserable than the dummy who always reacts.”
At that long-ago dance my center of confidence was outside myself, being kicked around that patio like an old can. If Christie had said, “You’re cold,” I’d have sneezed. If Monroe had said, “You’re hot,” I’d have sweated. My feelings toward the whole situation were totally dependent upon a few people who could decide if I were to be embarrassed or proud, rude or gracious, introverted or extroverted. Unlike Jason, whose emotional security was rooted within himself, I had relinquished control of my own personality.
I’m thankful for that skinny, unkempt tourist friend and for the important principle he personified—to act and not to react—for in all the dances I’ve attended since that bomb-out in Mexico, not once have I bitten Stephanie LeBette’s ankle.

When I was a Beehive, our stake leaders decided to hold a New Era Bowl. The Mutual groups of each ward and branch were to form teams, and each team was to read the back issues of the New Era for a whole year, then come together for a competition. For weeks at Mutual activities, my team members and I studied the magazine issues and quizzed each other.
One Sunday afternoon, as the competition grew nearer, I took a couple of New Era issues with me to a nearby canal bank to read. It was quiet there, and I could count on not being interrupted. I sat on the bank by the slow, brown water and read article after article. I only remember one article in particular, now. It was an article on Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. The last paragraph challenged every person to ask God if Joseph Smith was a prophet and if the Book of Mormon was true.
“Well, of course I knew it was true,” I thought. “I was baptized, wasn’t I? I went to church, didn’t I? I had borne my testimony in sacrament meeting, hadn’t I? Of course I knew. Surely people like me didn’t have to actually go through the motions of praying about it.”
Then I read the paragraph again. “Every person …”
Well, every person would probably include me, I reasoned. Sure, I could pray—what could it hurt? I set the magazine down, and there in the dirt of the canal bank I got on my knees. This would be simple. I would ask, and God would answer that it was true. I bowed my head, but before I got one word out, fears began to creep in.
I had asked for things in prayers before and had not received the answers I wanted. When I was nine, I prayed to be able to walk on water like the Apostle Peter. I tried it in the bathtub. It hadn’t worked. When I was 10, I prayed that if God could move mountains, could He please move a perfume bottle on my dresser just to let me know He could. Didn’t happen. What if Heavenly Father really didn’t answer prayers? Maybe He just didn’t answer mine.
Yet somehow I couldn’t back away. The article said every person.
Pushing my fears aside, I finally started my prayer and explained the problem to Heavenly Father. I told Him about the article I’d read. I told Him I was pretty sure the Church was true anyway, but the article said every person should pray. Then I said, “Please help me know if the Church is true. I think it is, but would Thou help me know?” Then I ended my prayer.
I never made it to my feet before a warmth that was physical as well as spiritual filled my whole body, mind, and heart. There wasn’t a corner of me that wasn’t filled with confidence, the confidence of knowing—really knowing—the Church was true, Joseph Smith was a prophet, and the Book of Mormon was true.