Gospel Story Finder

Secondly, I speak of a young man who entered the mission field worthily but by his own choice returned home early due to same-sex attraction and some trauma he experienced in that regard. He was still worthy, but his faith was at crisis level, his emotional burden grew ever heavier, and his spiritual pain was more and more profound. He was by turns hurt, confused, angry, and desolate.

His mission president, his stake president, his bishop spent countless hours searching and weeping and blessing him as they held on to him, but much of his wound was so personal that he kept at least parts of it beyond their reach. The beloved father in this story poured his entire soul into helping this child, but his very demanding employment circumstance meant that often the long, dark nights of the soul were faced by just this boy and his mother. Day and night, first for weeks, then for months that turned into years, they sought healing together. Through periods of bitterness (mostly his but sometimes hers) and unending fear (mostly hers but sometimes his), she bore—there’s that beautiful, burdensome word again—she bore to her son her testimony of God’s power, of His Church, but especially of His love for this child. In the same breath she testified of her own uncompromised, undying love for him as well. To bring together those two absolutely crucial, essential pillars of her very existence—the gospel of Jesus Christ and her family—she poured out her soul in prayer endlessly. She fasted and wept, she wept and fasted, and then she listened and listened as this son repeatedly told her of how his heart was breaking. Thus she carried him—again—only this time it was not for nine months. This time she thought that laboring through the battered landscape of his despair would take forever.

But with the grace of God, her own tenacity, and the help of scores of Church leaders, friends, family members, and professionals, this importuning mother has seen her son come home to the promised land. Sadly we acknowledge that such a blessing does not, or at least has not yet, come to all parents who anguish over a wide variety of their children’s circumstances, but here there was hope. And, I must say, this son’s sexual orientation did not somehow miraculously change—no one assumed it would. But little by little, his heart changed.

He started back to church. He chose to partake of the sacrament willingly and worthily. He again obtained a temple recommend and accepted a call to serve as an early-morning seminary teacher, where he was wonderfully successful. And now, after five years, he has, at his own request and with the Church’s considerable assistance, reentered the mission field to complete his service to the Lord. I have wept over the courage, integrity, and determination of this young man and his family to work things out and to help him keep his faith. He knows he owes much to many, but he knows he owes the most to two messianic figures in his life, two who bore him and carried him, labored with him and delivered him—his Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, and his determined, redemptive, absolutely saintly mother.

When I was a boy, my mother had to go to work at Garfield Smelter and work like a man to help support the seven children. She worked the graveyard shift as much as she could, I’m sure to be with us during the day. I don’t know when the poor woman slept. One Saturday morning, she got off work about 7:00 or 8:00 A.M. She went to bed for a couple of hours and then got up. She had invited all her relatives to dinner. There must have been 35 or 40. She decorated the tables and arranged the chairs and put all the dishes and silverware out. She cooked and baked all day long. The dirty pots and pans and dishes stacked up.

Everyone came to dinner, and after dinner all the dirty dishes were brought into the kitchen. The food was cleared and stacked on the table and cupboards; then the kitchen door was closed and the family began to visit. It was about 8:00 P.M.

I remember standing all alone in the kitchen. In my young mind, I thought: My mother worked all night; she has worked all day to get this dinner. When everyone leaves, she will have to do the dishes and put the food away. It will take two or three hours, and that’s not fair. Then I thought, I will do them.

I washed the dishes, did the silverware, the glassware. We didn’t have an electric dishwasher; ours was a manual dishwasher, and that night I was manual. I used a half-dozen dish towels. I was drenched from head to foot. I put the food away, cleaned off the table and drainboards; then I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the floor. When I was finished, I thought the kitchen was immaculate. It took about three hours.

Then I heard the chairs shuffling, and everyone left. The front door closed, and I heard my mother coming to the kitchen. I was pleased and thought she would be. The door swung open, and even at the age of 11, I recognized that she was startled. She looked around the kitchen, looked at me, and then there was a look I didn’t recognize at the time. I do now. It was something like “Thanks. I am tired. I think you understand, and I love you.” And she came over and hugged me. There was a light in her eye and a warmth in my heart. I learned it is a wonderful feeling to turn on the lights in our parents’ eyes.

Education is helping Christina Augerea from Hula, Papua New Guinea, accomplish her goals. Ever since she was little, she has had a love of reading and the goal of attending university. Her love of reading is what led her to the Church.

“When I was in fifth grade, we didn’t have books at my school,” she says. “My teacher was a Church member. She didn’t have other books, so she gave us the Book of Mormon.”
Years later, Christina served a mission in the Philippines and then started attending Brigham Young University–Hawaii, where she is working toward law school with a double major in political science and business administration and a minor in Mandarin.
Christina’s story came full circle after the COVID-19 pandemic forced her to return home. One day while visiting her village, she learned that the library at her primary school was infested with termites. With the help of local organizations and the Church, Christina oversaw the construction of a new library, with systems in place that will keep it running for many years.
As happy as she is that she was able to help her community, Christina explains that it took a lot of faith and work to get where she is now. “I know how it feels when you don’t have anything but you want to study,” she says. And through all her experiences, she has learned a lot about the value and purpose of education.
Our Church leaders often teach that it’s important to seek whatever education we can. “The Lord and His Church have always encouraged education to increase our ability to serve Him and our Heavenly Father’s children,” taught President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency.2
But, as Christina shares, education is more than just sitting in a classroom. “One of my professors told us that learning is not just about getting grades, a certificate, or eventually a job. It’s about understanding concepts.” And in order for education to really make a difference in your life, what you learn has to become a part of you. “You have to love learning,” Christina adds.
There are many ways we can become educated. “We don’t just learn in school,” Christina says. “We also learn in the Church. We learn at home. We can learn everywhere.” As we take advantage of opportunities to expand our knowledge, we become more educated, and the process of learning becomes more central to our lives.
Christina testifies that knowledge is key to helping each of us “prepare to meet God” (Alma 34:32). “We can grow and reach our potential by learning,” Christina says. As we humbly seek knowledge, we become more like our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and prepare to live with Them again.
By unlocking our personal potential, education also increases our ability to serve others. President Russell M. Nelson said, “Education is the difference between wishing you could help other people and being able to.”3
This is one of the biggest blessings that Christina has seen from education. “Education gives me the confidence to know that I can teach skills to others,” she says. “Even teaching in the Church is a lot of responsibility. So having confidence to be able to teach the young women or youth is amazing.”
Gaining an education takes persistence and strength—but it’s possible. At first, Christina didn’t know how she would accomplish her goals. “I didn’t know where I would get the money,” she says. But Christina found that when you trust in God and seek His help, He will help you accomplish what He needs you to do.
“With all my dreams and plans, two things that I always asked Heavenly Father for was to teach me what I could do and how I could do it. And He never left me. He knew that there was something better for me, and He guided me. I knew all those times that Heavenly Father was with me and that He still is.”
And as we seek Heavenly Father’s help, He will bless us with opportunities to gain more education and knowledge.
Christina knows that gaining an education is worth the effort. “I would tell people who think that they can’t do it to remember the huge potential God has given us. We can unlock that potential by believing that He has given it to us.”

The name Rudger Clawson will, unfortunately, be unfamiliar to many of you. For forty-five years Brother Clawson was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and for twenty-two of those years served as the president of that quorum. But long before any of those responsibilities came to him, he had a chance to prove his faithfulness and demonstrate in his youth just how willing he was to defend his beliefs, even at the peril of his life.

As a young man Brother Clawson had been called on a mission to the Southern States. At that time in America’s history, well over one hundred years ago, malicious mobs were still in existence, outlaws who threatened the safety of members of the Church and others. Elder Clawson and his missionary companion, Elder Joseph Standing, were traveling on foot to a missionary conference when, nearing their destination, they were suddenly confronted by twelve armed and angry men on horseback.

With cocked rifles and revolvers shoved in their faces, the two elders were repeatedly struck and occasionally knocked to the ground as they were led away from their prescribed path and forced to walk deep into the nearby woods. Elder Joseph Standing, knowing what might lie in store for them, made a bold move and seized a pistol within his reach. Instantly one of the assailants turned his gun on young Standing and fired. Another mobber, pointing to Elder Clawson, said, “Shoot that man.” In response every weapon in the circle was turned on him.

It seemed to this young elder that his fate was to be the same as that of his fallen brother. He said: “I … at once realized there was no avenue of escape. My time had come. … My turn to follow Joseph Standing was at hand.” He folded his arms, looked his assailants in the face, and said, “Shoot.”

Whether stunned by this young elder’s courage or now fearfully aware of what they had already done to his companion, we cannot know, but someone in that fateful moment shouted, “Don’t shoot,” and one by one the guns were lowered. Terribly shaken but driven by loyalty to his missionary companion, Elder Clawson continued to defy the mob. Never certain that he might not yet be shot, young Rudger, often working and walking with his back to the mob, was able to carry the body of his slain companion to a safe haven where he performed the last act of kindness for his fallen friend. There he gently washed the bloody stains from the missionary’s body and prepared it for the long train ride home (in David S. Hoopes and Roy Hoopes, The Making of a Mormon Apostle: The Story of Rudger Clawson [New York: Madison Books, 1990], pp. 23–31).

I tell that story with some concern, hoping no one will dwell on the death of a young missionary or think gospel living brought only trials or tragedies in those early years. But I do share it for an ever younger and ever newer generation in the Church who may not know the gifts that earlier men and women—including young men and women—have given us in what our new film states simply in another single word—Legacy.

In my first general conference message, I briefly shared how the transformative power of the Savior’s Atonement changed my father.
Today I would like to tell you a little more about how that change began. My father hit a very low point in his life when two ministering brothers began to visit him. One of them invited my father to come with him and his wife to the temple. He accepted the invitation. Each week they picked him up and drove to the next city to worship and serve in the house of the Lord. This continued for three years. Then my dad decided to become a temple worker.
I remember seeing changes in my father during that time. He became aware and attentive to the needs of others. He took better care of his health. He began to care about His relationship with God and subsequently all the relationships in his life. The change was real. He now had the Spirit with him, and I felt it.
Bless this ministering couple for helping my dad. They didn’t judge him for where he was in his life. They walked with him and helped him to develop his relationship with God. They are still my father’s closest and dearest friends.
Because these humble and devoted disciples of the Savior quietly ministered to a seemingly lost and dejected man, my family and I have been eternally blessed.

“This happened to me, and I was the one without any talent. I wanted to be a great artist just like my sister. I asked her how I was doing, and at first she just said, “Yeah, good.” Later she realized that this wasn’t what I wanted or needed. So she tactfully told me my work wasn’t really super, and she showed me how to improve.
“With my sister’s encouragement, patience, care, and great knowledge, she showed me how to draw much better. She also helped me to realize that drawing isn’t my greatest talent, and she did it because she really cares about my future. Even though it hurt a little to realize I’m not a great artist, I’m glad she told me, and I love her for it.”
Florence E. GardnerIrvine, California

Brother McConkie tells the story of Reed Smoot, who was the first Latter-day Saint to represent Utah in the United States Senate. During his service he became highly respected by his colleagues and was one of the men selected to help decide who would be nominated as a candidate for president of the United States.
“His party had won the presidency the last several elections, and most observers thought the trend would continue. It was almost conceded that this convention would name the next president of the United States. … During this convention the leaders assembled there said to Senator Smoot, ‘Senator, you may have the nomination if you want it. There is one stipulation: You will have to soft-peddle the fact that you are a Mormon.’ Senator Smoot is reported to have replied, ‘I would rather be a deacon in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints than be president of the United States.’” (P. 33.)

When my father was about three years old, he was diagnosed as deaf. From that point on, his parents did all they could to learn American Sign Language (ASL), and my grandmother fought for rights for her children and deaf children especially. She knew that mothers and fathers have the responsibility to provide for their children’s needs. Because of her efforts, my dad and his siblings had successful schooling experiences, and all communicate in ASL. When the family gets together, almost everyone signs and feels accepted and understood. Though this unique family unity certainly required a lot of effort and was not easy to achieve, my dad and his siblings have been blessed by their parents’ efforts.
My father (pictured with his sister when they were young) was about three when he was diagnosed as deaf.
Photograph courtesy of the author

“But, Mom! I don’t want to go!” There was no way she’d ever convince me. “Can you imagine what three days without showers or my cell phone will do to me? I’ll die!”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” My mother dismissed my worries like they were nothing. “It’ll be a good experience for you.” That was the end of it; my fate had been decided. I moaned and groaned for an entire month, but that didn’t change anything. I still had to go on pioneer trek with the youth in my ward.
We were scheduled for three days of wandering through what seemed a Wyoming wasteland, with only the “bare necessities” packed into a one-gallon paint bucket. I couldn’t believe other people were excited to go on a trip like this. I tried every loophole I could find to get out of going. All I got was a lecture on the “importance of my ancestors and understanding how they lived.” Personally, I appreciated the pioneers. I really did. But why did that mean going on trek? Couldn’t I appreciate them from the comfort of my own home?
The last week in June found me awake at four in the morning to help load the cars and drive across endless miles of desert for six hours into the Wyoming wilderness to reenact part of the early pioneers’ migration westward. Grumbling, I took my gallon bucket and sat sullenly with my other muttering friends.
Our leaders cheerily greeted us with a smile and handed everyone pieces of paper. Looking down, I saw a mournful face in a very bad, very old photograph on a paper. Next to the small picture was the story of Bodil Mortinsen. She had traveled with the Willie Handcart Company in October of 1856. I had been assigned Bodil’s name. I folded up Bodil’s biography and stuck it in my pocket.
“The handcarts are here!” someone called out. “Everybody get your buckets!”
I lifted my bucket into a handcart and waited for more instructions. I lost count of the number of times we were lectured on leaving the snakes alone. The phrase “DON’T GO OFF THE TRAIL” was engraved into our brains over and over again.
“And … ,” the voice of our tour guide wavered in the hot afternoon sun, “please remember why you’re here.” What could he mean by that? I knew why I was here. I was here because my parents had told me to come here. I was here because the pioneers had traveled this exact same road and apparently I had to too. I reached into my pocket and felt Bodil Mortinsen still there, limp from hours in the heat from my jeans.
“Off we go!” Brother Boulter called. He took hold of the first handcart, and moving with the methodical lethargy of a herd of cattle, the procession of teenage pioneers set off.
Nearly 48 hours later, I pushed my handcart from behind, completely exhausted. The sun hung high in the desert afternoon. It pulsed on my back, and I felt sweat trickling down my face. I felt the gritty texture of dirt mixed with the salty-sweet taste of sweat in my mouth but, surprisingly enough, didn’t complain. Suddenly, the caravan halted, and I wearily looked up. Brother Boulter had stopped at the opening of Martin’s Cove.
“We’re leaving the carts here,” he called out in a strained, hoarse voice. “Just bring your canteens and follow me.” We were led up a steep hill and came to several benches set up at the top of the mound. Gratefully, we dropped down and rested in the scorching midday sun.
“You are here,” Brother Boulter stated after a small pause, “to gain an understanding of what your ancestors went through. The Martin Handcart Company passed through this cove over 100 years ago. They suffered frostbite and scurvy and even gave their lives so that you could live in a better place. We are so proud that you have come with such a great attitude.” My friends and I exchanged sheepish looks. “You all have around half an hour to walk through the cove and see where the Martin Company took refuge from the blizzard that killed 50 people.”
A quiet stillness overtook us as we meandered along the trail. I imagined the pioneers a century ago trying to take shelter beneath their handcarts. I tried to imagine the feeling of freezing out here in the Wyoming wilderness, and my fingers became cold in the summer sun as I felt a nearness to my ancestors. Walking out of the cove, we took up our handcarts again. The story of Bodil Mortinsen was still in my pocket, growing steadily more limp.
We returned to Rocky Ridge. Here, the Willie Handcart Company had suffered a similar fate to that of the Martin Handcart Company until the rescue party from Salt Lake City found them. This time, the air hung heavy with rain, and we could smell the distant scent of wet sagebrush and sand.
Rocky Ridge was a small gully nestled between two grassy hills and cut in the middle by a quiet brook. A large boulder stood next to the trail with one word carved into it: “REMEMBER.”
“There,” Brother Boulter said, again at the front of our group and motioning to a point ahead of us, “is where the Willie Company buried their dead.”
Glancing up the trail, I saw two piles of rocks waiting at the crest of the hill. These graves were little more than two plots marked by jagged stones over their tops. The graves had been poorly dug, as it was wintertime when the Willie Company was here. The ground had been too frozen to make deep graves, and the pioneers had covered them with rocks to keep the dozen bodies from being destroyed by wild animals.
We stood there in silence. Suddenly, I realized that I had not read Bodil Mortinsen’s story. I carefully pulled out the wilted paper and looked again at the mournful black-and-white face. I read her story. I stood where she had stood and envisioned her grieving over a lost parent or brother or friend. At the bottom of the page, I read:
“Two of those buried at Rock Creek Hollow were heroic children of tender years: Bodil Mortinsen, age nine, from Denmark, and James Kirkwood, age eleven, from Scotland.
“Bodil apparently was assigned to care for some small children as they crossed Rocky Ridge. When they arrived at camp, she must have been sent to gather firewood. She was found frozen to death leaning against the wheel of their handcart, clutching sagebrush” (President James E. Faust [1920–2007], Second Counselor in the First Presidency, “A Priceless Heritage,” Ensign, Nov. 1992, 84–85).
I had imagined Bodil standing here, perhaps mourning the loss of a family member. Now I realized that she hadn’t stood here at all. She was buried here. Tears pricked at my eyes. A nine-year-old girl was buried here, and her family had been required to leave and move on. They walked and walked until they reached the Salt Lake Valley. After starving, freezing, and suffering, they had not been afraid to continue on. If they could keep walking, surely I could too.
These pioneers had been real people. Old men, young men, widows, mothers, young girls just like me. They had suffered and traveled away from everything they knew to live in a better place. I lived in that place. I had lived in a good place all of my life because of my pioneer ancestors. They were not just people who lived a long time ago, and I was not here just to see what they had done. They were my people, and I was here, standing in front of the graves at Rocky Ridge, to get to know them.
I went home after that adventure with a newfound respect and appreciation for my heritage. I can’t ever forget how it felt to stand at those graves. The boulder said “REMEMBER,” and I will forevermore.

I would guess that many of you were baptized into the Church when you turned eight years of age. I was. As I read the scripture and contemplate the kind of decision I made, I conclude that I really did not make much of a decision on that day. My mother and father, to whom I am grateful, felt that I should be baptized. I can remember my interview with the bishop when I was eight, and I can remember the coaching from my mother before the interview. I remember her telling me, “Now, the bishop is going to ask you why you want to be baptized.” I listened to her with great interest to hear what answer I should give the bishop. She also told me that I would be asked about receiving the Holy Ghost and being confirmed. She taught me why that was important. I went to my interview and passed it with flying colors for an eight-year-old; all of the questions were exactly as my mother had said they would be, and I gave all the right answers. But I really did not make much of a decision.

My family and I saved our money during the COVID-19 pandemic and in December 2023, we were able to travel to Utah to visit our daughter and the many temples available there. After five years of not being able to do work for our ancestors, we had prepared 65 names to take to the temple during our stay.
It was a challenge to line up appointments for all the temple work we had planned for Utah. We were desperate to help our ancestors, and as our return date approached, our incredible adventure began—we secured four baptism sessions in four different temples on the same day.
We entered the baptistry at the Provo Utah Temple early in the morning, and I begged Heavenly Father to provide a miracle for the work we needed to do. I had faith that He would also want to see my ancestors baptized.
The patrons at the baptismal font were moving slower than usual that morning, but I explained our situation to a sister working in the temple, and she invited other willing patrons to help perform the work with us.
It was an incredible and emotional experience to witness all 65 ancestors baptized by proxy, one by one, after the significant effort we had made to find them! We were so grateful for this first miracle. The Spirit was strong, and we could feel the relief, gratitude and happiness from those 65 precious souls.

The Persian marketplace looked like a giant circus of brightly colored tents. It sounded like one too.
Jonas Hanway had come to Persia to buy wool to take back to England in his ships. But before he could begin trading with the wool merchants, a royal parade stopped everything.
“Make way for the Prince of Persia!” a courtier announced.
As the prince passed, the people bowed low as was their custom, but Jonas did not. He wanted to see everything that was happening. Four strong men were carrying the prince in a velvet-draped sedan chair. They held him on their shoulders high above the heads of the people. Over the prince’s head another servant held a strange shade to keep the sun away.
“What a wonderful idea!” exclaimed Jonas. He soon learned that the prince’s shade was called an umbrella.
How helpful it would be if everyone in Persia had an umbrella of his own, Jonas thought.
Soon Jonas had a number of umbrellas made to shield the sun’s rays from the heads of common persons. But when the prince heard about it, he ordered Jonas to come to the palace.
“You must stop making umbrellas,” commanded the prince. “I forbid it. Only princes and kings may carry an umbrella in Persia. It is a sign of royalty.”
The prince shook his finger angrily at Jonas and shouted even louder, “This is the way it has always been in Persia and this is the way it will stay. Take your umbrellas and go home!”
Jonas returned to his home in England, stored the umbrellas in his attic, and became so busy that he forgot about the prince.
Then one day as Jonas was leaving his home it began to rain. In minutes all the covered chairs and horse-drawn coaches were taken. Jonas was left wet and cold on his doorstep.
In those days riding in a covered chair called a sedan was an easy way to travel. Two or four men carried the chair between them on two long poles. When it rained everyone jumped in a sedan chair to keep dry.
All the people riding in chairs reminded Jonas of the Prince of Persia.
If an umbrella can keep the sun off the prince of Persia, maybe it will keep the rain off me! he thought.
Jonas ran to his attic and found an umbrella. Holding it over his head, he walked down the street.
“Look at that crazy man!” cried the children as he passed. Few Englishmen had ever seen an umbrella before.
Jonas carried his umbrella every time it rained. He gave umbrellas to his friends to carry too.
The chair men became angry. They tried to run over Jonas and some threw rocks at him.
But the people liked Jonas Hanway’s strange new idea. It was not long before many people in England were carrying umbrellas. And as the new idea spread to other parts of the world, the umbrella became known everywhere as man’s best friend—when it rains!

We can let the light within us show in many different ways. It may be as simple as a smile. I recently read the account of a man in the northwest United States who used to drive past a bus stop on his way to work. He began to notice a young girl among some children waiting for the school bus. Even when it was raining, she would smile and wave as he drove by. He said: “The young girl was tall and slim and about 13 years old. She wore a mouthful of braces and I could see them glisten in the glare of my car lights.” Her effort to be friendly gave his day a good start and was something he looked forward to.

This man’s name was Hankins, and he had a daughter, Cheryl, who was about the same age as the girl at the bus stop. One day Cheryl asked her parents’ permission to attend an activity at a local church. A neighbor girl, Vicki, had invited her to attend. The activity was MIA, the forerunner to the Young Women program! Cheryl enjoyed MIA and after a while told her parents that Vicki was a Mormon. It wasn’t long before Cheryl came home from school and said that Vicki was sending two young men over—missionaries—to tell the family about her Church.

The elders arrived, taught them about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith, and bore their testimonies of the Restoration of the gospel. As a family they began to read these new scriptures and were soon captivated by them. Mr. Hankins finally met Vicki. She was the smiling girl he had seen so many times at the bus stop. She was present when he and two other members of his family were baptized.

Looking back on Vicki’s actions and those of other young people, Brother and Sister Hankins became convinced that “the greatest potential for missionary work lies in the youth of the Church.” Brother and Sister Hankins have since served as missionaries themselves. They relied upon the referrals and good example that the youth supplied. Vicki—the girl at the bus stop who smiled every day, even when it was raining—changed their lives forever.

Bright lights. Screaming crowds. Thousands of fans on Facebook. When 17-year-old Gerson Santos became a top-10 finalist in the Portuguese televised musical talent competition Ídolos, he had to adjust to the fame and attention that came with his success. Gerson decided to embrace this unique opportunity to preach the gospel and quickly became known across the Portuguese media as the “Mormon competitor” willing to answer questions about his faith.

Ídolos was a television show I really enjoyed watching. I have always liked performing and hoped to someday enter a music competition. This year I didn’t hesitate; I simply signed myself up for the show and went to the audition with my dad. I guess you could say I’ve been preparing for Ídolos my entire life. Every experience I had with Ídolos was amazing, without exception. I tried to take advantage of every opportunity that came my way.

Once during a dinner with the other contestants, we talked a little bit about religion, and I spoke about my faith and the standards of the Church. Later I gave each of the finalists a copy of the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet so they could better understand what I believe. Some said the Church’s standards seemed really conservative, but others praised me for having such high standards in these days.

I continued to say my prayers, read my scriptures, participate in seminary, and take the sacrament every Sunday. I am currently preparing to serve a mission, which is something I’ve wanted to do since I was little. I serve in my ward as ward pianist, ward missionary, and assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. I had to dedicate almost all my time to the competition, but I made sure to first dedicate time to the Lord.

SHAWN: In elementary school I was diagnosed with learning disabilities, and I had a real hard time with the kids teasing me about it. In the sixth grade I started smoking cigarettes because there was a group of people there I could relate to. They let me into their crowd, and all I had to do was smoke cigarettes.

SHAWN: I remember my parents saying to me: If you use drugs, you’re going to be a freak. You aren’t going to be normal. I used drugs. I felt pretty normal. I decided they had been lying to me.

SHAWN: In the seventh grade I started using alcohol, and in the ninth grade I added marijuana and speed. Before I started using drugs, and for a while afterward, I danced, I sang, I played baseball, I wrestled. As the drug use progressed, I stopped dancing. I quit baseball. I backed out of everything. In the ninth grade I started backing away from the Church, even though I was the teachers quorum president. I slipped right off the deep end into devil worship. It was a frightening experience, but I was too numb to realize it at the time. I didn’t feel anything. I got more and more depressed. I had my first suicide attempt about the middle of my ninth grade year. At the end of that year I was arrested for possession.

I really started fighting hard with my parents. Every single day when I woke up it was a fight. Lying became a way of life. I lied so that I could keep using.

I went on to LSD. On a bad trip I beat myself up and stabbed holes in the wall. I remember seeing the walls in the house literally eating the flesh off my friends.

I started needing drugs many times each day just to survive. I still looked like a straight, clean-cut kid, but I was taking anything I could get my hands on, just to see if it would get me high. Once I overdosed and almost died.

In tenth grade I quit school and started looking really different. I wasn’t Shawn anymore. I was drugs. If I talked it was drugs. If I walked it was with drugs. Everything I did was drugs.

When I finally was forced into treatment I weighed 97 pounds. After being hospitalized for three weeks I weighed 130. That’s what drugs do to your body, and they injure your mind and spirit even more.

I wasted five years of my life that I’ll never have back. It’s gone, just gone.

SHAWN: I had totally lost control of my own life, but I still didn’t think I had a problem. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing wrong with me. I just blamed it all on my parents for being so strict.

When you’re using, there’s a gut feeling, a pain like someone’s just drilled a hole right through you, and you want to fill it up. It seems as if the only way you can do that is by denying everything to yourself and using more and more.

SHAWN: The hardest part of my treatment was when they said, “You’ve got to find God.” They called it “a higher power,” because not everybody has a religious background. I thought, There’s no way; He’ll never forgive me after what I’ve done. I can’t even forgive myself. I had been in the program two or three months before I finally understood that he forgives everyone who repents. You’ve just got to give him the chance and be willing to change. Changing is hard, but you don’t have to do it alone.

SHAWN: Even after treatment, staying sober is a day-to-day struggle. You wake up every morning and the first thing you say is, “God, help me make it through the day.” And for the rest of the day you’re working on it. It gets easier, but you never forget that you’re an addict.

I’ve been sober for a year and a half, and I still wake up in the morning and think, “Go get some speed; you need something to pump you up.” It almost breaks me in two sometimes.

Vivian loved to write notes on colored paper. She left them around the house for her family.
One day Mommy had a surprise. “Grammie is coming to visit,” she said.
Vivian was very happy. Grammie was her grandma. She lived far away. She couldn’t visit very often.
“I can’t wait!” Vivian said. “When will she come?”
“Tonight after your bedtime,” Mommy said. “You will see her tomorrow.”
That night Vivian was very excited. It was hard for her to fall asleep.
The next morning when Vivian woke up, Grammie was there. She would be staying for five whole days!
Vivian and Grammie did lots of things together. They made cookies. They read books. And they played lots of games.
One afternoon Vivian saw Grammie putting her clothes in her suitcase.
“Are you going home?” Vivian asked.
“Yes,” Grammie said. “I am going home tomorrow. Your grandpa misses me.”
Vivian didn’t want Grammie to go. Then she had an idea. She went to find her paper and her markers.
The next morning Grammie said, “I’ll be gone when you get home from kindergarten.”
“I’ll miss you!” Vivian said. She gave Grammie a big hug.
“I’ll miss you too,” Grammie said. She looked sad.
Vivian was sad too, but she had a happy secret.
The next day, the phone rang. Mommy answered it. Then she handed it to Vivian. “It’s Grammie,” Mommy said.
“Hi, Vivian,” Grammie said. “When I got home, I found a surprise in my suitcase. Can you guess what it was?”
“A note!” Vivian said. “I put it there when you weren’t looking.”
“Your surprise made me feel so happy,” Grammie said. “It said that you love me. And I love you too.”

As a young man I came across a Mormonad that really struck me: “Adversity can make you strong.” I never imagined I would later find in this phrase the strength to go forward during challenges of my mission.
The town in the Argentina Buenos Aires North Mission where my companion and I were working was filled with people who viewed two boys in white shirts and ties with distrust. We knocked on many doors, with no result.
On one particularly hot and difficult day, when our tired bodies felt like they could go no further, it began to rain. Mud developed and stuck to our shoes, making tracting even more difficult.
We wanted to return home, but then I remembered the phrase from the magazine and told my companion, “Come on, Elder. All this adversity is going to make us strong.”
We offered a prayer and felt we should look up an old referral we had never been able to find.
We arrived at the house, and again the woman was not there. But another woman, Anita, was. We gave her a Book of Mormon, and she promised to read it. We felt great happiness because we knew the Spirit had led us to her.
As we began to teach Anita, she accepted all the principles. However, when it was time for the fourth discussion, she told us she didn’t want to be baptized and asked us to leave. My companion and I were disappointed, but we were prepared for opposition. We invited Anita to ask Heavenly Father if she should be baptized, and trusted she would receive an answer.
When we went back the next day, Anita had indeed received an undeniable answer of peace in her heart. Ten days later, she was baptized.
I have since learned that one year later, Anita made covenants in the temple and became a source of referrals for the missionaries and a great example to the members of her community.
I value the opposition we had because that was how we found the strength to serve the Lord in the best way we could. Even now that I’ve returned home to Chile, I don’t become discouraged with problems because I now know how adversity can strengthen us.

William knew there would be weight restrictions on baggage, so he packed the cloth traveling bag accordingly. There was only room for necessary items. He lifted it, walked a little with it clutched in his right hand, then set it down, and after a moment’s pause, slowly removed the concertina, carefully placing it back on the shelf near his mother’s small pump organ. He would miss playing it, but he would send for it once he got settled. He would miss a lot of things, especially family singing time in the evenings before the babies were put to bed. The singing served as an elixir, soothing, refreshing, and calming everyone’s spirits, preparing them for a night’s rest from the duties of the day.
He checked the remainder of the bag’s contents to see if anything else could be removed. No, he would need the two changes of clothing, one light weight and the other heavy. The hand-me-down boots his father had given him must stay. “They’ll be good for walking, William. Good support for the ankles.” William knew his father felt badly because he could not afford to buy his son a new pair of boots. No matter. He would have to stuff the toes a little with cotton, but they would serve their purpose—again. He knew they had once belonged to an anonymous foot soldier, deceased no doubt, of the British Royal Army in which his grandfather had been a cavalryman.
The pen and paper were indispensable. They would be used for recording the events of the journey and for an occasional letter home.
Surely the bottle of homemade, all-purpose healing salve would be useful for sunburned skin or blisters on the feet. Then there was the small amount of money his mother had tenderly wrapped in a handkerchief, money in addition to his passage that the family would “glady do without in order to help our son get to America, to Zion,” she had said. He wanted to give the money back to her, but he knew she had saved it for this very purpose and would not have it any other way.
In the bottom of the bag there was a musical instrument resembling the fife or flute. It looked very much like the kind the soldiers in George Washington’s army had played while marching to and from battle. It is not known when or how he obtained the tin whistle, a very inexpensive, shrill sounding instrument, but it is known that William could play it very well. It, too, was a necessary item.
The early morning mist was heavy, as were the thoughts on his mind, that 23rd day of May in 1866 when William Moroni Blair, 15-year-old son of Isaac and Ruth Suddery Blair, boarded the sailing ship bound for America.
He watched from his position near the ship’s railing as the families and friends of some of the other 349 passengers gathered at dockside to bid their farewells. He looked from face to face of his loved ones, giving his eyes plenty of time to capture the departure scene for permanent recording in his mind. He saw his mother blow him a kiss and then bury her face in the coat sleeve of his father who was holding fast to the wiggling five-year-old twins, Ruth and Isaac. Baby Albert, wrapped snugly in a woolen shawl crocheted by his mother, was too tiny to notice anything. But William noticed how tightly he was being pressed to his mother’s bosom. Three-year-old Rosa, wide-eyed and especially quiet this morning, was perched high up in Samuel’s arms. She didn’t really understand all that was going on. Samuel would soon be 14 and was the second oldest in the family. He must now assume the role of the oldest. William suspected thoughts of envy and relief were passing through Samuel’s mind simultaneously, for had he been the firstborn, he would now be the one waiting to sail.
William reflected on last evening’s events when Rosalie, 12, and Henry, 10, had quietly slipped through the curtained doorway of the room he shared with Samuel. Assuming correctly that he would not yet be asleep, they sat upon his bed. It was Henry who asked, “Are you afraid, Will?”
“Not really.”
Then Rosalie: “When will we see you again? Whenever I ask mother or father, they just say, ‘Someday soon.’ Will we all really get to Zion and be together again?”
William recalled his answer: “Yes, we will, someday soon.”
The following morning before light touched the sky, the Blair family knelt in their familiar places within the walls of their humble home while Father Blair led them in prayer. Special assistance was asked for on William’s behalf.
The boarding plank was up. The ship creaked and groaned as it was loosed from its hold on the pier. Last-minute instructions were issued by the captain and then relayed by the first mate to the other crew members. As wood and canvas slowly moved away from the docks at Liverpool, William mustered up his best grin and waved vigorously to his people who were doing the same amid shouts of, “Take care!” “Don’t delay in writing!” “Pray always!” and “Godspeed!” Then as the Alesto slipped into the deeper waters of the bay, someone on board began to sing “Isle of Beauty, Fare Thee Well.” Others lent their voices to the singing until the soloist was accompanied by a full choir. Music changed to silence when the “Isle of Beauty” vanished in the fog. That was to be the very last view of Old England for many of those sailing away from her shores that day. It was William’s last.

My friend Kimber came to school on crutches. I asked her what had happened. She said that she was playing soccer and when she tried to kick the ball she kicked a big fat root in the ground instead. I felt bad for her, so I helped her the whole day. I said a prayer that her foot would get better. As I left school, I felt that I had done a good thing. The next day she said that her foot was better. I gave her a big smile. I knew that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer.

I never realized how important patriarchal blessings were until my family and I lived with my grandparents for three months while our new house was being built.
My grandfather is a patriarch. And his home, where people receive their patriarchal blessings, is dedicated to the Lord. For my brother, sister and me, this meant that while we lived there, we often had to be quiet, help clean the house, and try not to quarrel. If we ever argued, we were sent outside, because contention makes the Spirit of the Holy Ghost leave. You can tell my grandparents’ home is different. It’s always clean, and it seems to have a glow about it.
Whenever someone was scheduled to receive a patriarchal blessing, we would clean everything really nice the day before. We’d wash the windows and the floors, sweep the deck, and vacuum everywhere—even places where no one would be. Until after the blessing was given, we weren’t allowed to wear shoes in the house, because they would make tracks. When we finished cleaning, it was the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen. It was basically the closest thing I’ve ever felt to heaven on earth.
The day someone was coming to receive a blessing, we all planned to either stay downstairs or leave to visit relatives. Grandpa would then prepare to give the blessing. First he would put on his suit. Then he would spend time praying, reading the scriptures, and listening to appropriate music.
Before giving anyone a blessing, Grandpa always talks to them to make sure they feel at ease. He wants to make sure they understand who is giving them the blessing. He tells them that the blessing is not from him but from Heavenly Father.
Although I never knew who came to get their blessings, and though I couldn’t hear what was said, I could feel the Holy Ghost—even downstairs.
After the blessing had been given and recorded, my grandma would type the blessings, using headphones and a transcribing machine. She went over the blessing several times to make sure she had it exactly correct.
My grandma says that when she types the blessings, she feels just about everything that the person feels because she knows for a fact that the blessing is from God. Sometimes she just starts crying because it’s such a beautiful blessing. She says that after she’s done typing, she usually doesn’t remember which blessing is whose. And she’s glad that’s the way it is, because the blessings are really personal and shouldn’t be shared with everyone. It takes my grandma a lot of time to type everyone’s blessings, and I’m not sure many people realize how much she contributes to my grandpa’s calling.