Gospel Story Finder

Another important bit of counsel that I received from my father as a young man was that we should decide what we would do in various situations where temptations were served up—while able to think rationally and unemotionally rather than waiting until the actual situation developed and the pressure of peers, or of emotions, made making the right decision difficult.

I’d like to give two illustrations of the value of this counsel—the first was when I was about thirteen. Two of my closest friends wanted me to try smoking with them behind their garage. I solved that problem by serving as their “lookout” rather than as a participant.

Almost forty years later the second example occurred. I was a member of a scientific team sent to Moscow, in the USSR, to work out an exchange agreement with the Russians in the field of magnetohydrodynamics. The research and development were going on simultaneously in both our nations. The Office of Coal Research, which I then directed, was charged with the responsibility by President Nixon to establish a “bridgehead of understanding” in this nonmilitary field.

Our agreement, which was very one-sided in the Russians’ favor, included our furnishing their twenty-five megawatt experimental power plant with a special superconducting magnet, to be made at the Argonne National Laboratory, and also to build for them a special channel for collecting the generated electric power using electrodes developed after a great deal of research at MIT. In return for our giving them this equipment, they agreed to permit our technical people to come to Russia at their invitation to observe the equipment in action.

On the evening prior to our signing the protocol agreement, I was invited to attend a dinner at the Bolshoi Theater Ballet Restaurant not far from Red Square with the president of the Kirzhinsky High Energy Institute, his wife, his vice president (who spoke good English), and his wife. I was the only American invited to the dinner. It is traditional at dinner meetings in Russia for the host to offer a toast to be accepted by drinking a small glass of vodka. Then the other party would propose a toast, consuming a second small glass of vodka in the process. This toasting procedure continues until everyone has had an opportunity to have his or her particular moment on the stage.

As my host presented the first toast for good relations between the United States and the USSR, I picked up, instead of the vodka glass, my glass of water and had a sip from it to complete the toast. I then proposed a toast and capped it off by taking another sip of water from my glass. I noticed that the wife of my host was becoming very agitated, and as her turn came to offer a toast she picked up a fresh glass of vodka, walked clear around the table to where I was seated, and put it in my hand. She then said, “Doctor Hill will drink with us.” She then went back to her place, lifted another glass of vodka, and offered a gracious toast. She then watched me closely to see that I responded by drinking the vodka. Quickly through my mind flashed the idea that since I was the only American there, no one would know that I had participated in drinking the alcoholic beverage and that if I did not do it I risked offending this beautiful lady and her husband. But I also recalled an agreement I had made with my father years before that I would never drink alcohol as well as my covenant with the Lord to keep his commandments. So, I gently put down the vodka glass and had another sip of water.

The lady became furious. She got so upset that her husband had to take her out of the room. I thought, “Uh oh, I have probably ruined our chance to complete this mission. They likely will not sign the agreement at the meeting tomorrow.”

After the dinner was over I retired to the hotel and spent a fitful night wondering if I had jeopardized the whole purpose of our mission.

The following noon we had a small luncheon before the protocol agreement was to be signed. The vice president of the institute made it a point to sit next to me, next also, to his boss, for the meal we were to partake of before we signed the agreement.

He posed a question early in the meal asking why I had not drunk the vodka when his boss’s wife had made such an issue of it. I explained carefully that it was a matter of religious conviction.

He said, “Religious conviction, what’s that?”

So I responded that I belonged to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and that through a prophet the Lord had indicated that alcohol was not good for man and that I had agreed as a boy not to use it.

And then I said, “Why do you ask?” He responded, “My boss’s wife has an alcoholism problem, and he wants to know what it was that made it possible for you not to drink alcohol when under that heavy social pressure.”

Needless to say, I was relieved and elated, particularly as we finished signing the protocol agreement and I was able to return to the United States with the mission a success.

My father was my best friend while I was growing up. He had a great influence on my life because of the way he treated my mother. I never, ever heard him speak a cross word to her. He treated me and the rest of our family with the same kindness.
He often took me fishing. We also worked together at our family’s sawmill. After working hard all day, we sometimes went on evening picnics. Spending time working and playing together created a real family bond.

William again left his prospering business and a growing family in 1880 to fill a proselyting mission to his home country. Near the end of that otherwise successful mission he reported:

“I preached the Gospel to my dear ones, my father, mother, brother, and sister, and although none of my own kindred have obeyed, they had to acknowledge they could not confute the doctrine, and they feel to-day that I am not what they judged me to be twenty-seven years ago. When a boy … I obeyed the Gospel of Jesus Christ. They would then say, ‘I believe William is a fool, or he is crazy to join such a deluded people,’ and at the same time say ‘What a pity such a good boy should leave his father, mother, and all to follow after such things.’ They forgot the blessings which Christ promised should follow all who would take up the cross and follow him. … All my dear relations have treated me with marked kindness, as they have any of the Elders that called upon them at the time. I know God will bless them for that.”

In 1829 Joseph Smith, with the help of his scribe Oliver Cowdery, finished translating the Book of Mormon.
Oliver, the Lord is pleased with us.
Now we just need to publish this great book.
Joseph and Oliver went to Palmyra, New York, and spoke to Egbert B. Grandin, a printer.
We need 5,000 copies of this book as soon as possible.
It will cost $3,000. Since you want so many copies and this is such a big book, it may take me over a year.
Several months later Mr. Grandin became worried that Joseph would not pay. He stopped the printing of the Book of Mormon until he could be sure. Then Martin Harris gave Joseph some money.
I mortgaged my farm to pay for printing the Book of Mormon. That should put Mr. Grandin at ease.
That’s wonderful, Martin!
Mr. Grandin had a new press that made the printing process much faster than earlier presses.
Mr. Grandin, we’re almost finished, and it has been only seven months!
I don’t completely understand how.
Once the Book of Mormon was published, the Lord commanded Joseph to organize the Church. On April 6, 1830, about 60 people met in the home of Peter Whitmer Sr.
Welcome, brothers and sisters.
The members sustained Joseph as the prophet and took the sacrament.
Though the Church started out with just a few members, Joseph later told some brethren in Kirtland about its destiny.
It is only a little handful of priesthood you see here tonight, but this Church will fill North and South America—it will fill the world.

Years ago I was given the assignment to speak in sacrament meeting on the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Though I was reading my scriptures regularly and had read about the Atonement, I had never studied the Atonement in detail before. As I began to learn about this sacred subject, I felt a hunger to understand every detail of that sublime event. I devoured every verse, book, article, and talk on the subject that I could get my hands on. My relationship with the Savior and Heavenly Father advanced more during those few weeks than any time of my life. I found myself talking to Heavenly Father on a much more regular basis, more than just traditional prayer time. I recognized promptings and answers were coming more often, and they were about aspects of my life that had not been considered before. Specific direction came about family, work, business, my church callings, and even what could be considered trivial things. My relationship with God moved to a much higher plane.

They seem to be everywhere, looking back at you—rough-hewn faces with enormous mustaches and lopsided grins, topped by oversized hats. Here and there a head woodenly grins from a windowsill or countertop. On a bookcase stands a quartet of musicians, fiddles and legs bowed. Nearby, a goofy gunslinger nervously points his six-shooter at the horizon.
Matt Rogers’s western woodcarvings have earned him a growing reputation among those who make or collect such work. His mother, Julie, is a professional artist who teaches art. And his siblings all have artistic talents. So you might say Matt’s accomplishments are to be expected. But raw talent is just the beginning.
The first piece of wood Matt carved was pine. And his chief tool was a pocketknife. Not exactly the best material or tool for wood carving. Pine is brittle. It chips and has hard knots in it. And Matt quickly learned that serious wood-carvers use a whole range of special tools that doesn’t include pocketknives. Matt has also learned that sometimes it’s the carver who is being shaped and molded.
Glendale, where the Rogers family lives, is a small southern Utah town spread along Highway 89 in the bottom of a beautiful mountain valley. It’s a place of apple orchards and pastures, with a rich pioneer history. TV reception in the valley is quite poor, but that just helps make for richer family relationships and more time for developing talents. The Rogers’s white-frame farmhouse is full of drawings and paintings, carvings and sculptures, all produced by family members.
On the wooden porch of the farmhouse, Matt sits in the dimming light of an autumn evening and talks about his life and his art and his hopes for the future. First he talks about the wood he uses for his carvings. Basswood from the midwest is his material of choice. “It doesn’t flake or chip like pine. It’s soft enough that you can carve details in it, but it’s not too soft,” he says. And the tools he uses: “V gouges and U gouges, and different tools for different details. I have to keep them sharp and fine-edged, because as you use them they become dull. Then, the tool’s not effective.”
As a wood-carver and sculptor, Matt can’t help but make comparisons between his art and his life. He thinks sometimes about how his life has been shaped. “I can see the Lord strengthening me. For two years when I was on my mission, I served others and I didn’t think of myself. Then I’d read my patriarchal blessing, and I could see these things that had come to pass. I don’t know yet exactly what I’m going to do with my life, but I know that the Lord has a plan. That’s part of a process.”
So, is the Lord “carving” him?
“Yeah,” Matt answers.
Is it painful?
“Sometimes it is, yeah.”
One of the things that has shaped Matt’s life is diabetes, discovered when he was 12. He had to spend Easter in a hospital, badly dehydrated. How has it shaped him? “There’s a scripture that I like that could explain it better than I can. It’s in Ether, chapter 12, verse 27: ‘I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; … for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.’”
Matt sits in thought for a minute. The night has deepened and warm, yellow light from the kitchen spills onto the porch. In the pasture below the house, a horse whinnies softly. The talk turns to the qualities of wood again—about the problems with the big knots in wood like pine, how hard and brittle they are and how difficult they make it to shape the wood. And how difficult it must be for the Lord to shape us if our hearts are hard and brittle.
Matt sees the process of shaping people as a joint effort between the Lord and the individual. “You live your life and live the principles you have been taught, and the Lord will take you and show you things that you wouldn’t otherwise think He could do.”
Each of Matt’s carvings starts out pretty rough. But bit by bit, piece by piece, he turns it into something. “I have a vision of what I want it to be. And I make the rough cuts. And when I get it carved out, I change a couple of things to make it better. And then I make a few more coarse cuts and make it still better.” And so the process goes.
But it takes patience. “Sometimes you can get really involved in a piece and you ruin it because you haven’t stopped to look at what you are doing. You have to stand back, be patient, and wait,” Matt says. It’s like the experience he had with some of his investigators in the mission field. For example, one woman didn’t think she could give up smoking. “We had to be patient with her and give her blessings. But in the end, she made it and she, her husband, and their son and daughter were baptized.”
Thinking back, Matt speaks fondly of his mission presidents and how they helped to shape him as a missionary, making him a sharper tool in the Lord’s hand. “I had a lot of spiritual guidance,” he says. And the people he helped the Lord shape? “I think about them a lot, and about how they are doing. I miss the people, the interaction with them.”
Considering how much he cares about people, it’s no wonder Matt has been teaching sculpting at an area art center, even as his future is still being shaped. After all, a piece of wood is still just a piece of wood. But a life—now that’s a real work of art.

The third example is Linda Petersen of the Unity First Ward in Burley, Idaho, who was the originator for Brighter Beginnings, a mentor program that helps the community reach out to about 40 unmarried mothers each year. “What alarmed us is that a third of the babies born in these two counties are born to young women who haven’t even graduated from high school,” said Sister Petersen, a member of the Mini–Cassia Child Protection Team, a volunteer organization operating in Minidoka and Cassia Counties, Idaho. She has often helped teach the importance of sexual abstinence, but unfortunately abstinence isn’t always the choice young people make, nor is placing the baby for adoption, “so we felt we needed to help those young women who decided to keep and raise their children.” It is important, she says, to give each young mother greater self-worth and the opportunity to learn good parenting skills in order to “make it the brightest future we can for her and that baby.”

A few months after Sister Petersen shared her idea for the program with others on the child protection team, they had lined up a registered nurse and many volunteer mentor moms to help give Brighter Beginnings its start. The group seeks to help young mothers graduate from high school and learn how to care for their children in a nurturing environment. Each mentor mom goes into a young woman’s home once a month to teach parenting and safety skills and also makes herself available to answer the young woman’s questions. It is hoped that the experienced mothers can be role models and “sounding boards” for the young women, Sister Petersen says. A registered nurse will visit and check on the baby’s health at two and four months of age.

More than nurses and mentors are involved. Volunteers help in other ways. Laurel and Eagle Scout projects provide some quilts and wooden toys for the children. Once a month, senior citizens help babysit while young mothers get together at the local senior citizens’ center to talk and receive instruction in such things as nutrition and safety. One of Sister Petersen’s favorite memories is of an older gentleman tenderly cradling a little baby for an hour as the class went on. Brighter Beginnings is funded by a government grant under the title “Building Stronger Families,” but it is the mentor moms and other volunteers who give it life, Sister Petersen says. Without them, no amount of money could make the program work.

Seventeen-year-old Kailey had been on a cheerleading team until an accident resulted in a traumatic brain injury. Her recovery kept her from attending school, and she began to feel isolated and alone. She struggled emotionally and did not know where to look for help. A friend suggested that she listen to the missionaries. They taught her about the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Learning more about Christ gave her hope, and she felt as if God Himself were reaching out to her.
Kailey told her mom, “I have never felt that God loved me. But now I know He loves me.”
Her mom, Michelle, was a little surprised. She and her husband, Brock, had left The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when Kailey was seven because of various questions, doubts, and concerns. They assumed their daughter would be happier without all the meetings and commandments. They never thought their choice would keep Kailey from a close connection with God. As Michelle and Brock watched how Kailey changed, they realized that it had been a long time since they felt close to God, and they wanted to feel that way again.
They met with their bishop, and soon the family, including Kailey’s brother Braeden, returned to church. Feeling close to God and reconnecting with Him—especially through prayer—restored their faith. Returning to church did not resolve all their questions or concerns, but they realized that having a stronger personal connection with God was more important than their disbelief.
All of this started when a friend—a teenager like you—invited Kailey to look unto Christ. And she did!

by Deborah J. Lingle
The Young Women of the Battleground Ward, Vancouver Washington West Stake, responded to a challenge. Their advisers encouraged each girl to purchase a Book of Mormon or A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, write her testimony inside, and give it to a nonmember.
Catching the spirit of the challenge of missionary work, the 13 girls managed to give away 22 books in eight months.
After prayerful consideration, Jennifer Goodner, a Mia Maid, felt inspired to place her book with a friend at school. The friend thanked her and said she’d been waiting for Jennifer to approach her because she had so many questions about the Church.
Each girl had experiences that were unique. Alyce Clark, a Mia Maid, managed to place seven books by herself, one to a man who had rejected the Book of Mormon for many years.
The project was an overwhelming success. The process of writing their testimonies helped the girls to examine their beliefs and grow closer to their Heavenly Father. The experience also gave the girls the self-confidence to speak out about the gospel.

On Church assignment in Hawaii, Sister Wirthlin and I visited the island of Molokai. As we walked back to our car after laboring up a trail in the mountains, we came upon a young man headed toward the overlook. I offered a polite greeting. From his answer, I could tell he was from Germany.
His countenance bespoke a sincere heart and an approachable personality. I spoke his language and knew something of his culture, having served a German-speaking mission. The Spirit prompted me to introduce the gospel to him. However, other people around us interrupted our brief encounter without my having said a word about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I failed to be the missionary that every member of the Savior’s Church ought to be.
As we drove away, I had the disturbing feeling that I had failed in my duty to proclaim the gospel. I was troubled while we drove around the island to see Molokai’s beautiful waterfalls. As we got out of our car, another car drove up and stopped. The young man we had seen earlier stepped out, smiled, and gave me a warm handshake. As I grasped his outstretched hand, I thought to myself, This time I will do my duty.
We introduced ourselves, and I learned he was a university student in a small city south of Düsseldorf, Germany. We spoke of my fond memories of Germany and of my admiration for the German people. Speaking of my work in Europe gave me an ideal opportunity to explain some of the basics of the gospel. As we parted, I asked for his address and telephone number, which he gladly shared. I felt he was truly a newfound friend.
Upon my return to Salt Lake City, I wrote to the Germany Düsseldorf Mission and asked President John F. Charles to send missionaries to continue the gospel discussion. I don’t believe my wife and I met this young man twice by coincidence.
But the Lord doesn’t always give us a second chance to share the gospel. I failed to follow the Spirit the first time the still, small voice unmistakably spoke to my heart and mind. I may not have had another opportunity, but the Lord graciously gave it to me.
We must act when the Spirit speaks. When I did, the young man responded positively to my message. It wasn’t really my message. It was God’s, brought to my mind by the Spirit of the Lord. I was but an instrument in the Lord’s hands.

Equally important in shaping and influencing his life was his mother, Lucy Mack Smith. Although this strong woman gave occasional leadership, her primary role appeared to be support to the family. She gave birth to eleven children and endured faithfully as all but four preceded her in death. During her life, she watched three of her children and one grandson die as a result of ruthless mob violence and persecution.

Lucy prepared herself early in her marriage to raise a prophet. On one occasion she became seriously ill, and the doctors said she would die. Lucy records that she “made a solemn covenant with God that if He would let me live I would endeavor to serve him according to the best of my abilities.” After a voice assured her that she would live, she told her mother, “the Lord will let me live, if I am faithful to the promise which I made to him, to be a comfort to my mother, my husband, and my children” (Lucy Mack Smith, History of Joseph Smith, by His Mother, Lucy Mack Smith, ed. Preston Nibley, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1979, p. 34).

She gave continual encouragement, support, and strength to her son, Joseph the Prophet. His mother was the first person with whom young Joseph shared some of his momentous experiences of the Sacred Grove. Years later, he shared with her the joy and relief he felt when the Lord allowed others to view the sacred plates of gold. Lucy wrote that “Joseph threw himself down beside me, and exclaimed, … ‘you do not know how happy I am: the Lord has now caused the plates to be shown to three more besides myself. They have seen an angel … and they will have to bear witness to the truth of what I have said, for now they know for themselves, that I do not go about to deceive the people, and I feel as if I was relieved of a burden which was almost too heavy for me to bear” (Lucy Mack Smith, History, p. 152).

Her determination to testify to the restoration of the gospel may have led her to dictate her well-known History of Joseph Smith. This was a major undertaking in her day. The book’s importance to the Church today is immeasurable! It contains many details of the Prophet Joseph’s life that might never have been known otherwise. It stands as a monument to the devotion of Lucy Mack Smith and her family.

Like great parents of all ages, Lucy turned to prayer for divine help to sustain her family. During the march from Ohio to Missouri known as Zion’s Camp, Joseph and Hyrum were seriously ill with cholera, and their lives were almost taken. At one point, “Hyrum sprang to his feet and exclaimed, ‘Joseph, we shall return to our families. I have had an open vision, in which I saw mother kneeling under an apple tree; and she is even now asking God, in tears, to spare our lives. … The Spirit testifies, that her prayers … will be answered’” (Lucy Mack Smith, History, p. 229).

I met William on the first day of my third year of teaching English in the adult high school program at our local community college. He was small, dark-eyed, with tight blond curls, rather unattractive, unwashed, and, as I soon came to discover, almost totally illiterate. It was the early ’70s, when long hair was popular among the young and drugs were beginning to be a major problem. I thought, Here’s another victim of the drug culture, and my heart sank.
After making my introductory remarks, I asked the class, as I always do on the first day of school, to write about themselves. Looking from student to student, I noticed that William worked very hard on his paragraph, grasping the pencil in a stranglehold, licking the point every few minutes. William’s face was close to the paper, his brows knit close together.
The rest of the class completed the assignment rather quickly and grew restless. I let them leave. It took William 40 minutes to print a few lines, and when he at last handed it to me, I could not read it. He stood at my desk staring at me while I looked at the paper.
“You want I should read it for you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“My name is William, and I live off a government pension in my car in an empty garage. I’m 19 years old, and since I was 11 I been a drinker. Now I’ve decided to be a learner.”
I had never before taught a student who could hardly read and write. I had no idea how to handle the problem.
“You’ve misspelled every word,” I said.
William looked dismayed. “I can learn,” he said.
“All right. I’ll print them correctly, and when you come to class tomorrow, plan to write them for me.”
“A spell test,” he said, as though it were some magical word.
I looked away from him. “Look, William …” I meant to tell him that the class would be impossible, that his skills were so poor he would fall behind immediately, and that there was no hope for him to catch up. I meant to tell him he could not possibly succeed. But instead I said, “Your basic skills are somewhat limited. How hard are you willing to work?”
He stared at me.
“We’ll be studying difficult writers—like Shakespeare and Twain.”
“Who?”
“William Shakespeare. Mark Twain.”
“Oh,” he said. And after a pause he added, “I can learn.”
“It won’t be easy for you,” I said, “but if you work hard …”
I didn’t expect to see him ever again, but the following day William was the first one in the room. He took a front-row seat, and as I taught, his eyes followed me intently, his brows knit into the same shaggy line, his mouth slightly open as he listened. After class ended, he stood by my desk staring at me for a long time.
“What is it?” I asked, irritated.
“I’m ready to spell,” he said.
And he was. He had memorized all the words, and as I called them out to him he wrote them quickly.
He stood watching as I marked his paper, putting a check by each correct word and then an A+ and a large I AM SO PROUD OF YOU at the top of the page. For the first time, I saw William smile. He took the test, folded it carefully, and put it into his shirt pocket.
“Now,” he said, “I’d like to pick up some on my reading. You got anything I can borrow?”
“I don’t think I have anything appropriate,” I said. Opening the desk drawer I began to look through the papers and books.
“What about that?” he said, pointing to a copy of Huckleberry Finn.
My hand hesitated, and then I shook my head. “It would be too hard for you.”
“I’ve done hard things all my life,” he said.
I pulled Ellie the Elephant Learns to Fly, one of my daughter’s books, from my desk drawer.
“That’s for little kids,” he said.
“It’s for new readers,” I said, handing it to him.
“I want that other one.”
Ignoring his comment, I opened the child’s book and began to read aloud, resting a finger under each word while he stood beside me watching and listening.
“Let me do it now.” He read hesitantly and with great difficulty. “See, if somebody shows me, I can learn. If I had that other book, I could work at it. I’m not stupid.”
I gave him Huckleberry Finn.
Each day I sent William home to the garage with a list of words clutched in one hand and one of my daughter’s books tucked under his arm. Every morning he came back with the material mastered. A few weeks later he returned the Twain text. “I read it,” he said, and the look of pride on his face brought tears to my eyes.
That week I gave him a bag containing a bar of soap, a washcloth, a towel, and deodorant. “This is an important part of education, too,” I said.
He looked in the bag and then at me, stunned. But the next day William was clean. And he was reading and writing with greater confidence. He had progressed so much that he insisted on taking his turn at reading poems from our literature text aloud. And every day he stayed after class for an hour to talk with me. Actually, he asked question after question, and I tried to answer them.
His enthusiasm for learning was contagious, and soon three other students began to stay, too. There was Suzy, who later trained as a registered nurse; Jody, who went on to earn a doctorate in biology; and George, who planned to become a physician but died in a motorcycle accident that spring.
George’s death upset the class deeply, and we spent that day talking about the transient quality of life, trying to answer the eternal questions—where did we come from, what are we doing here, and what happens to us when we die? I taught the class that knowledge is power, that the glory of God is intelligence, and that all we take with us from this world to the next is our relationships with others and the knowledge we gain in this life.
“There are two ways most people learn,” I told them. “One way is by experience—and life doesn’t last long enough for us to get all our knowledge that way. The other is to read.” I encouraged them to spread their wings and learn while they were young and filled with energy and enthusiasm.
One day William came into class with a list of quotations he’d copied from the library, and he shared them with us. He particularly loved “Knowledge is the wings wherewith we fly.”
“Watch me fly, teacher.” He spread his arms and flapped them, bringing laughter from the students and me.
William (this genius—the only true genius I ever taught) was my student for two years of English. When he graduated, I sat in the audience and watched with pride, tears brimming my eyes. He enrolled in the community college program and continued his education. On occasion he stopped by my office during the week, sharing with me the excitement of his new world. Each Friday afternoon he borrowed one of my books, which he quickly read and returned. On one occasion, he asked to read my Book of Mormon. I gave him a copy and a week later learned that he had called the missionary number left with my testimony on a front page. At his baptism, I gave him the Pearl of Great Price.
Last spring I received a card from William. He was teaching Spanish and American literature at a large university. “We’re reading Huckleberry Finn,” he wrote, “and I’ve never been happier. I seem to have a gift for languages.” He continued, “Remember years back when you had to teach me English? For all you did for me, I thank you, teacher. Thank you for lending me your wings while I was growing my own.”

Basketball is one of the most important things in the life of Roger Enrique Velasquez Paredes, who goes by Koki because it’s much easier to say when the clock is running down and the game is on the line.
Koki, a member of the Victoria Ward, Puno Peru Central Stake, is a starting forward on the Benson Jazz under-17 boys’ team, a community league team sponsored by Church members in Puno, Peru. Koki’s team went undefeated going into the championship game each of the last two seasons and took second both years.
His experience on the team has taught Koki not only a lot about basketball but also a lot about living the gospel and making seminary worthwhile.
“Seminary and basketball aren’t so different,” he says, then laughs. “I have to wake up early for both.”
Joking aside, Koki does see some important similarities between the game he loves and the gospel he lives: you have to listen to the coach, apply what he’s teaching, and not stop practicing what you’ve learned.
Koki says his coach is great, but it doesn’t matter how good your coach is if you don’t listen. Seminary is no different.
“In both basketball and seminary, I have a good coach,” Koki says. “But if I don’t listen, I don’t get any better.”
A coach tries to teach a player things that will make him or her better, like how to shoot. “The teacher is doing the same thing,” Koki says. Among other things, teachers try to help students succeed against their opponent in life. “They try to teach us how to leave the world and strengthen us against temptation.”
Koki has learned that just showing up, whether in basketball practice or at seminary and church, isn’t enough to make you better. You have to listen to the coach.
Koki tries to listen while the coach is explaining something new. But he has learned that if he really wants to understand what the coach is saying, he’ll have to put it into practice.
Putting something into practice, or applying it, is an important part of learning, Koki says. A coach can talk all day long about good shooting form and even demonstrate over and over, but until you practice doing what he says, you won’t have learned how to do it yourself.
“That’s how I learned about prayer,” Koki says. He had been taught that consistent personal prayer would invite the Lord’s help. “But it was only after I tried it that I found it was true.”
Putting gospel principles into practice gives the Holy Ghost an opportunity to testify to us that the principle is true.
“If we learn something new but don’t apply it, it’s like we never really learned it,” Koki says.
Koki listened when his coach taught about shooting, and he tried to apply what he learned. Now, in order to improve, Koki has to be diligent in practicing.
Diligence means dedication or persistence in applying what you’ve learned even in the face of opposition.
“I have to be dedicated,” Koki says. “If I stop training, my skills will get rusty.”
That’s an important lesson he learned after he couldn’t practice for a while because he broke his nose in a rough pickup game with some older players.
“If we don’t practice, we don’t just stop progressing—we lose ground,” Koki says. “It’s the same spiritually. If we pay attention and apply what we learn, we can learn more. If not, we lose what we have.”
Koki’s teammates have done their best to listen to the coach and apply what he’s taught them. They practice for hours to keep what they’ve learned.
They’ve also learned that after all of that, it is possible—and disappointing—to fall short of perfection. “We worked hard,” Koki says. “It was discouraging to lose the championship again.”
But while immediate perfection isn’t guaranteed, it would be impossible if they gave up trying. In the meantime, Koki has seen that there are many rewards, including improvement and progress, that come from trying.
Koki, who is serving as a ward missionary, has seen rewards for being diligent off the court as well. He helped organize movie nights, campouts, and sports activities in order to interest two young men in his ward who hadn’t attended church for some time. “At first we’d have to go get them, or they wouldn’t come,” he says. “Now they come on their own. It took a little time and a lot of visits, but they’re coming regularly now.”
Between playing basketball, going to seminary, and serving in the Church, Koki is learning what King Benjamin meant when he said we must be diligent to “win the prize” (Mosiah 4:27).
He’s also learning that both on the court and off, the rewards are worth the work.

Wilford Woodruff wrote in March 1840 about climbing the Malvern Hills. “In my walk to Colwell on the 9th, I had a great survey of nature and of the power of the Creator; this was while standing upon the summit of Malvern Hill, elevated from twelve hundred to fifteen hundred feet above the level. The surrounding country was before my view, stretched out many miles. Worcester town lies in the north, clearly seen in the prospect, Gloucester on the south, with several large villages between, Ledbury and other villages on the west, and a fine, beautifully cultivated vale upon every hand. While upon this noted hill, beholding the grand and charming prospect before me, the thunder began to roll, and the lightning flashed in the vale below, on which the rain descended in torrents. The solemnity and grandeur of the scene was impressive as I stood upon the hill above the clouds, surveying the beautiful works of the Creator, and His majesty in the storm” (Cowley, 148–49).

Last year the Williamsport Pennsylvania Stake Laurels hiked through the little village of Nauvoo—but not in Illinois. They hiked through Nauvoo, Pennsylvania, and learned about its history. The Williamsport stake covers a large area encompassing 11 counties, and some of the girls are the only members in their entire high school. So learning about once-thriving congregations of early Latter-day Saints within their present-day stake boundaries is inspiring to them.
The young women stopped to talk to an elderly man at the edge of the road on the outskirts of Nauvoo. Earl, age 70, a lifelong resident confirmed that his Nauvoo community was a Mormon settlement during the 1840s and named after the Mormon city in Illinois. “Our borough was named Nauvoo by a prominent Mormon leader,” he said. When asked what he thought the word Nauvoo meant, he was unsure and thought it might be a Native American word. Earl seemed pleased to learn that Nauvoo is Hebrew and means beautiful, a place of rest and beauty.

Lydia always remained faithful, but one of her sons, Jesse, not only grew up inactive in the Church but would argue against the Church with his mother. J. William Knight recorded that on his grandmother’s last visit to the Knight home before her death, his father Jesse said:

“Mother, how is it you are not preaching to me as you usually do?” She answered, “Jesse, I have prayed in the Temple for my children many times and on one occasion the Lord made known to me that I was not to worry about you any more, that you would one day understand for yourself.” Father then said to her, “Mother, I know you must be mistaken, for I’m further from the Church now than I have ever been before.” She replied, “I don’t care what you say, I know you will one day see the Gospel for yourself, and I never intend to argue again with you about religion.” [Jesse Knight Family, 33]

Jesse’s mother then returned to St. George and her temple work. On the day that she completed the temple work for the last family name that she had, she went to bed and quietly passed away to go meet Newel and “that God who gave [her] life” (see Jesse Knight Family, 24; Alma 40:11).

A few years later Jesse’s family was afflicted with sickness. His youngest child, about two years old, was the first to become sick. J. William stated that Jennie “was the idol of the whole family” (Jesse Knight Family, 34). When the doctors declared that nothing more could be done to save her, Jesse’s wife insisted that they call the elders to administer to the child. However, Jesse stated: “No, it would be hypocritical, now that the doctors have given her up, for me to resort to such a thing.” “And besides,” he said, “I have no faith in the Church” (in Jesse Knight Family, 34).

Jesse’s wife prevailed, and the elders were called. They administered to the unconscious two-year-old. As soon as they finished, Jennie immediately regained consciousness, sat up, and noticed the flowers in the window. Jesse’s son J. William wrote, “From that very moment, my father’s life was changed” and he “remembered the words of his mother” (Jesse Knight Family, 34). Jesse himself noted:

Soon after the miraculous healing of Jennie, our oldest girl, Minnie, was striken. . . . From the time she was taken ill, Minnie felt that she would not recover. When asked why she felt so, she answered that when Jennie was so bad she had asked God to take her if she would do as well as Jennie; so she counted the days, believing she would live but thirty days from the time she took sick.
Every day she kept the count, and departed as she had said. Her going was peaceful, her breath leaving her as she said the prayer, “Oh God, bless our household.” I remembered now that when she was a baby she had diphtheria, and that then, almost seventeen years ago, I had promised the Lord that if he would spare her life I would not forget Him. I had not kept that promise. How keenly I felt the justice of her being taken from us! I suffered in my feelings. I prayed for forgiveness and help. My prayer was answered and I received a testimony. [Jesse Knight Family, 35–36; original spelling]

Don Dewey was a nonmember and one of Ken’s friends stationed aboard a sister minesweeper. He wanted to discover the loopholes in Church doctrine so he could point out to Ken the error of his decision to be baptized. So when the three men returned from sea, Don decided to join Willis and Ken at sacrament meeting in Charleston.

But Don never did find the loopholes. Instead, after months of intensive study, he also chose to become a member of the Church.

Of the many happenings that I remember when thinking of these delightful outings, the incident I remember best happened one summer on Puget Sound in Washington.
A cunningly hewn, 30-foot Indian war canoe with a high animal head for the prow was our home and our method of travel for that summer. We were truly “roughing it” and had become tanned, tough as leather, and happy as could be.
Toward the close of this very enjoyable outing, we had pulled the canoe up onto a sandy beach and had been lazily lying around on the sand just passing the time in complete relaxation. Then the sudden inspiration came to us to move on somewhere. It was unanimously felt, so although it was late afternoon, we all got into the canoe, spread our blankets on the floor for those who wished to sleep, and pushed the canoe toward the shore on the other side of the bay.
The canoe was so wide that my father had equipped it with oars. We each rowed with just one oar, like the galley slaves of olden times. We were rowing along contentedly, paying little need to our exact destination, when suddenly we sat up and took notice. The shore seemed to be rapidly leaving us. We were caught in a rip tide and going swiftly out to open sea. My father, having been a ship’s captain and steamboat man knew there was trouble ahead. A storm was coming, a big storm!
He had mother and the two children sit in the canoe bottom to balance it as much as possible and then said, “Now, you four kids (meaning my brother, two sisters, and myself) row, but save your strength because you’re going to need it before we’re safely out of this fix.
Soon the storm began; the waves rolled higher and higher and the distant hills to which we must row were becoming misty and purplish with the on-coming night. My father, an expert boatman, was guiding the canoe between the great waves that now foamed all about us. Just one great wave over the side of the canoe would be enough to finish us.
Still, on we rowed and then came the night. Few words were spoken. The wind was in our hair and the salt spray dashed against our faces. We moved our oars carefully, fearful lest one of the waves bury them and throw us into the sea.
On and on we rowed, our arms becoming weary. But we dared not stop. My arms were numb. They had become mere mechanical devices that made the oar go forward and back.
Through the wind came my father’s voice: “Is everything all right?”
“All right,” was the reply, and on through the night we crept, barely moving against the wind and tide.
Hours passed before the dashing of waves against the rocks could be heard above the wind and the roar of the incoming waves. Ahead loomed the darkness of the cliffs toward which we had been rowing. The sound of the breaking waves on the rocks would have to be our guide. We could not turn in the wild tumult of those giant waves on the bay without capsizing, and we had to go ahead as fast as possible to have headway enough to move between the waves as they tumbled forward. But toward what were we moving? Although accustomed to the dark by now, we could discern outlines but nothing definite. We came closer.
I remember distinctly my father’s words: “Please forgive me if I fail this time. There’s one chance in ten thousand that we will see the sunrise again, and it is that chance I must take now. Are you ready?”
“Ready,” was the reply.
Straight toward the ominous cliff we rowed. I did not look ahead anymore but just rowed hard. Soon the canoe turned quickly.
“Oars in!” shouted father.
We quickly drew in our oars. A soft grating of sand could be felt. The canoe scraped to a stop. Our heads buzzed as the wind whistled through trees far above our heads but did not touch us.
We felt nothing but the large swells raising and lowering the canoe. No one spoke for a while. Then, as if without knowing that he spoke aloud, my father said, “Truly there is a God.”
We had to remain in the boat until dawn. I dropped off to sleep from sheer exhaustion, but father and mother kept watch. The tide might go out and leave us in a dangerous plight.
When next I opened my eyes, I saw a cozy little cove a little larger than the canoe, which was then resting on sandy bottom. A wall of rock all but surrounded us, with a break just large enough for the canoe to pass through into this shelter. Had father’s eyes been less keen, or his hand less capable with the paddle, none of us would have remained to tell the story. For kilometers up and down that coast, the cliff was otherwise unbroken.
To pass through that storm in a canoe that tossed about like a peanut shell, and in the dark come directly to that one possible shelter that was barely large enough to enclose the canoe, was truly a thing that could not be attributed to anything but the care of our Heavenly Father.

A-Pui’s face was bruised and swollen. He had three teeth missing and a bandage on his chin. Four days before Fast Sunday, he fell off a bicycle. But during the meeting he stood and bore his testimony that he knew that God lives and answers prayers. His beautiful spirit touched the hearts of many others that day.
Even before A-Pui joined the Church, he was always eager to help the missionaries in Hong Kong. His older brother and two older sisters were baptized first and then A-Pui became a member.
Now A-Pui and his brother and sisters have accepted the challenge of helping their parents learn more about the gospel so that they too might become members of the Church. The missionaries in Hong Kong feel sure they will be successful!

My mother passed away last November. For the last six years of her life she needed full time caregivers due to her cognitive decline. In her earlier years she was a middle school earth science teacher. It was hard to watch her struggle with memory loss and the inability sometimes to express herself or to even make simple daily living decisions. It was very hard for me, her daughter, to switch roles with her. It was hard for her too. I knew she was not going to get better. Sometimes our mortal bodies have done their work and they experience what they are meant to experience in mortality.

At my father's graveside service, six years before my mother's death, a friend brought about 20 homing pigeons whose wings had been dyed beautiful colors of the rainbow. They were released at the end of the service and we marveled at the beautiful ribbon of color they made as they flew in a beautiful pattern on their way home.

My mother remarked to me, "At my funeral, forget the flowers, I want those birds." So when it came time for my mother's graveside service we made arrangements for the birds. After the dedication of the grave, the birds were released. We watched them fly together against the dark green backdrop of the beautiful Koolau Mountains and then were shocked to see the birds form the shape of a heart. The funeral director was standing next to me and she said in a hushed voice, "Did you see that! The birds made a heart!" I wasn't quite sure I had seen it myself, but when she said that I knew that I had seen it. For me this was a message of renewal from my mother and my Heavenly Father. My mother was renewed. She was free.