Gospel Story Finder

I can’t remember the exact day I decided to quit BYU. But I do remember definitely deciding to quit. I was in the testing center and had just been handed a departmental test that didn’t resemble in the least the class notes I had spent the previous three days studying. I entered the main room, took my usual seat by the western wall—I call it the wailing wall—and began.
Four hours later I looked down at my half-empty answer sheet and, with a sigh, began randomly filling in the leftover circles.
I then joined the rest of the outpatients in the recovery room, where the computer printout of my mistakes diagnosed my condition as being far from healthy.
Once outside the testing center and in my car, I realized I was not having fun. School and learning were not turning out to be the soul-exhilarating, mind-stimulating, and heart-vibrating experience I was promised in my freshman orientation pamphlets.
“It’s not worth it!” I told my wife that night. “I’m just sick of all of it. I’m quitting.” I thought my wife would be thrilled at the announcement and release me with a vote of thanks. After all, life would be easier for her without having to pay my tuition and books.
Instead, Debi asked, “Did you attend the devotional this week?” I hadn’t because I had spent the time studying for the test I had just bombed. Debi continued, “President Jeffrey Holland gave a whole talk on enduring and not giving up.”
“Great,” I thought. “That’s all I need right now.” But as it turned out, that was all I needed. We got a tape of the talk, and I listened to President Holland’s words:
My concern this morning is that you face some delays and disappointments at this formative time in your life and feel that no one else in the history of mankind has ever had your problems or faced those difficulties. And when some of those challenges come, you will have the temptation common to us all to say, “This task is too hard. The burden is too heavy. The path is too long.” And so you decide to quit, simply to give up. [My how well President Holland understood.] It is simply a truism that nothing very valuable can come without significant sacrifice and effort and patience on our part. … My plea is to stick with it, to persevere, to hang in and hang on, … I am asking you this morning not to give up “for ye are laying the foundation of a great work.” That “great work” is you.
President Holland then went on to tell about how our forefathers persevered, about Brigham Young, who on July 28, 1847, planted his cane in the Salt Lake soil and declared, “Here [we will build] the Temple of our God.” President Holland then told of the 40 years it took to complete that project. I had no idea that the foundation alone took over 9,000 man-days of labor to finish, only to be filled entirely back in when Johnston’s army came. After that threat was over, the Saints had to begin digging all over again.
The task of precisely cutting the granite stones out of the mountain and hauling them one at a time to Salt Lake was so arduous that it took three more years just to finish the first layer of stones around the foundation. When Brigham Young died in 1877, the temple stood only 20 feet high. More work was followed by more government persecution and intervention until finally, on April 6, 1893, the temple of God was complete. It was a grand, awe-inspiring structure. President Holland concluded by saying, “Know ye not that ye are the Temple of God?” (“However Long and Hard the Road,” BYU devotional talk delivered 18 Jan. 1983).
That was the perspective I needed. “Dear President Holland,” I wrote in a thank-you note, “You’ll never know what your talk did for me. Yesterday I felt like my foundation had been filled in and forgotten. Today, I started digging it out again. I will see you at graduation.”

I was a few months into my mission in the Illinois Chicago South Mission and still serving in my first area. The sisters’ area next to us had recently been closed, so we had responsibility for all of the Spanish-speaking investigators from that area. Among them was a woman named Rebecca.
The first time we met Rebecca, I was impressed by her faith. She lived in the basement of a house, so we had to knock on her window for her to come open the door for us. The previous missionaries had begun to teach her after she requested a Church video. If she had not called for a video, the missionaries may never have found her.
I could tell from what she told us that Rebecca had a hard life. She had once been a very happy person, but now she was separated from her son and other family. Although she was in humble circumstances, I felt the Lord’s love for her.
As we taught her, I could tell she was feeling the Spirit. Our visits would lift her mood considerably. Unfortunately, she lived far away, and it was hard to visit her as often as we would have liked.
One Friday when we had zone conference, we planned to go out to that part of our area afterwards since we were already halfway there. We asked Rebecca if she would be home, but she said she would be working. We decided we would still visit other investigators we had in the area.
We ended up with some extra time there, and we weren’t sure what to do. Then my companion said, “I think we should go see if Rebecca is home.” This suggestion didn’t make sense to me since Rebecca told us she would not be home. It was then I heard a voice telling me, “Go back and visit her.” I felt as if my body was literally being pulled in the direction of Rebecca’s house. It was the strongest impression I have ever felt.
I told my companion to turn the car around, and we went to Rebecca’s house. We knocked on the windows twice, and no one answered. I was so disappointed because I knew there had to be a reason the Lord sent us. I suggested we knock one more time. We waited, and then just as we were about to leave, Rebecca answered the door.
She was home because she had just been fired from her job, and she really needed someone to talk to. She had been praying that we would come. She told us we were her angels. We were able to talk to her and help her feel better by teaching her more about the gospel.
I’m so glad Heavenly Father cares for each of His children and listened to Rebecca’s prayer, and I’m glad we could follow the prompting to go visit her, so we could be that answer. Our Heavenly Father knows all the things that are going on in each of our lives, and when we rely on Him and ask in faith, He will help us with the things we need.

On October 6, in the year 1536, a pitiful figure was led from a dungeon in Vilvorde Castle near Brussels, Belgium. For nearly a year and a half, the man had suffered isolation in a dark, damp cell. Now outside the castle wall, the prisoner was fastened to a post. He had time to utter aloud his final prayer, “Lord! open the king of England’s eyes,” and then he was strangled. Immediately, his body was burned at the stake. Who was this man, and what was the offense for which both political and ecclesiastical authorities had condemned him? His name was William Tyndale, and his crime was to have translated and published the Bible in English.
Tyndale, born in England about the time Columbus sailed to the New World, was educated at Oxford and Cambridge and then became a member of the Catholic clergy. He was fluent in eight languages, including Greek, Hebrew, and Latin. Tyndale was a devoted student of the Bible, and the pervasive ignorance of the scriptures that he observed in both priests and lay people troubled him deeply. In a heated exchange with a cleric who argued against putting scripture in the hands of the common man, Tyndale vowed, “If God spare my life ere many years, I will cause a boy that driveth the plough, shall know more of the Scripture than thou dost!”
He sought the approval of church authorities to prepare a translation of the Bible in English so that all could read and apply the word of God. It was denied—the prevailing view being that direct access to the scriptures by any but the clergy threatened the authority of the church and was tantamount to casting “pearls before swine” (Matthew 7:6).
Tyndale nevertheless undertook the challenging work of translation. In 1524 he traveled to Germany, under an assumed name, where he lived much of the time in hiding, under constant threat of arrest. With the help of committed friends, Tyndale was able to publish English translations of the New Testament and later the Old Testament. The Bibles were smuggled into England, where they were in great demand and much prized by those who could get them. They were shared widely but in secret. The authorities burned all the copies they could find. Nevertheless, within three years of Tyndale’s death, God did indeed open King Henry VIII’s eyes, and with publication of what was called the “Great Bible,” the scriptures in English began to be publicly available. Tyndale’s work became the foundation for almost all future English translations of the Bible, most notably the King James Version.

I remember a woman in my ward some years ago when I was a bishop. She and her husband were having marital problems. As they spoke with me, she began to tear down her husband in all the key areas that a man needs praise in order to respect himself. She talked of his inadequacy as a father, his inadequacies in marital relations, his inadequacy as a provider, and his inadequacies socially.

I asked her, “Why do you do this to a man you should love and sustain?”

She replied, “It’s much better to argue with someone you love because you know where you can hurt him the most.”

And she meant it.

When my friend Fernanda (not her real name) didn’t show up to class one Friday, I wondered what was wrong. “Is Fer feeling sick? Is she OK?” I asked as I ran over to some friends at the end of the day. “She isn’t sick,” another friend answered, “she just had to go to a psychologist.” When I asked why, she told me that Fernanda was suffering from depression and had been hurting herself. Shortly after I found out, Fernanda was admitted to the hospital for treatment, and we didn’t see her for a few weeks.
Even though we were friends, she hadn’t shared that part of her life with me. She had been hiding it from everyone because she was ashamed. She later told me that she didn’t want others to pity her or her situation. But I didn’t pity her—I just felt compassion.
That first day, I lay on my bed after school, my face buried in a pillow. I was emotionally exhausted but too anxious to sleep. My world was in chaos. I felt like I was in the middle of a storm, and so many thoughts and feelings whirled in the wind. I felt confused, lonely, and, most of all, so powerless to help.
What could I do or say to help her? How could we as friends pull together and lend our support? I couldn’t find any sort of solution to comfort my friends or myself. I prayed for inspiration but felt like my prayers just weren’t getting answered.
But the next week I had an epiphany. I was sitting in my early-morning seminary class when my teacher reminded us of the First Vision and how Joseph Smith asked Heavenly Father directly for help with his difficulties and concerns. My teacher then said, “If we seek out the Father and ask Him, He will answer us. We will never be alone.”
I realized that in my sadness, I had closed my heart off to my Heavenly Father. Even though I was trying to pray often, it wasn’t enough—I still had too much fear to find peace. I knew that He understood exactly how I felt and that He could help me. But I needed to open myself up to Him and truly trust that He could do it—I needed to exercise faith.
So I did. Over time, as I continued to pray and read my scriptures, striving to let the Savior take my burdens, I came to understand that eventually my friend’s depression would end. Despite the fact that the external chaos continued, I felt calm, balanced, in harmony. My mother kept encouraging me to seek out peace, saying, “Your friend will be OK and so will you. Stay strong in the gospel, and it will all work out.”
When Fernanda finally came back to school, I was able to provide strong support for her, but only because I had sought out and found peace through Jesus Christ myself. I tried my best to be a good listener, to be positive, and to share the gospel. I felt confident when I explained the plan of happiness and when I told her that our Father wants us to find joy, despite our challenges. It may take time, but it is possible for every one of His children.
There have been many situations in my life in which I have felt anguish and sadness, but because of the gospel I always remember where I come from. I know that I am a daughter of God and that He has a plan for me—and for Fernanda. We all walk distinct paths, but each is for our good because He loves us. Each path, each trial, has a purpose. And if we can find peace in those trials, we can share the peace we gain with others.

When Nick H. was thinking about ideas for an Eagle Scout project, he knew he wanted to do something meaningful and personal—something that represented a unique contribution from him.
“I remember sitting on my couch in my living room and thinking, ‘We all have talents and skills and abilities. How can we use those gifts from Heavenly Father to bless the lives of others?’” says Nick, 19. As this question went through his head, he thought of his love of running and then asked himself how he could combine serving others with running.
And thus was born an event that has become an annual Christmastime tradition in Nick’s community in southern Indiana.
For his Eagle Scout project, Nick organized a 5K run and partnered with a local charity that helps fulfill the needs and Christmas wishes of disadvantaged children. Those who signed up for the race received information about specific children’s needs and pledged to fill them. Through an arrangement with a local store, racers could also get discount prices on the items they purchased for the children. In addition, Nick organized donations for a Christmas dinner at his ward’s meetinghouse for the families of the children, who would be presented with their gifts there.
About 15 runners participated in Nick’s Eagle Scout project four years ago. But everyone who participated felt it was so worthwhile that it should be held again the next year. A nonprofit organization was created, and the event has been held each year since. Both Latter-day Saint youth and non-LDS youth have organized the event, which had 300 participants last year, as well as a great deal of community support, including offers from other local churches to host the dinner.
Other lessons have come through this service as well. For Nick, who is now serving a mission in Honduras, the story of this Eagle project that grew into so much more is a lesson about what youth can accomplish. “I’ve noticed the fire of the youth spirit,” he says. “It doesn’t set boundaries. It doesn’t say, ‘Oh, this isn’t possible.’ Teens are innovative, they’re creative, they’re young, they’re vivacious. When they have a righteous goal and have the right mindset, they’re going to accomplish it.”

As he grew up on the farm, Ezra, or “T” as he was nicknamed, learned the value of work. At age four he could drive a team, and he was soon herding cattle, thinning beets, milking cows, and doing general farm work. When Ezra was 12, his father was called on a mission. The family sold half the farm and shared their two-room home with the family that operated part of the remaining acres. President Benson’s mother was left to care for seven children, and the eighth was born shortly after his father arrived in the mission field.
“Never did I hear a murmur from her lips,” President Benson recalls.
In this time of hardship, the family pitched in. Ezra was known as a “tease” at school, but he worked hard. He also found time to trap muskrats to help meet expenses, and to round up cattle in the mountains. At 16, he single-handedly thinned an entire acre of sugar beets in one day. He loved sports, especially basketball and baseball, and was a friend and teammate of Harold B. Lee, who later became the 11th President of the Church.

While taking part in Sunday meetings a couple of weeks ago, I had the chance to meet a brother who was attending for the first time after many years of being away. He was accompanied by his wife, who was not a member of the Church.
When I asked him why he had decided to return, he replied, “My friend Fernando and this good bishop invited me to come, and I did. I found the Church many years ago, and I have a small flame still burning within my heart. It may not be strong, but it is there.”
I concluded, “Well, as your brethren, we shall blow that flame together to keep it alive.” Then we gave each other a hug.

May I share with you a recently published letter to “Dear Abby” that seems to clinch a point in this area of vision and values.
“Dear Abby: Cold chills ran up my spine when I read the letter from the heartbroken mother, whose daughter, a nurse, was marrying an amputee. (He lost both his legs when he stepped on a mine in Vietnam.) The mother said her daughter was beautiful and could just as easily have married ‘a whole man.’ I am sure many people think my husband could have married ‘a whole woman’ instead of me. You see, when I was three I was shot with a .22 rifle. Thank God I am still alive, although my left side is paralyzed. I can walk and do most things other women can do. But best of all, a wonderful man thought I was ‘whole’ enough to marry. He is handsome, kind, and faithful, and he treats me like a queen. We’ve been happily married for ten years. I still can’t believe my good luck. Sign me, Freddy’s wife.”
“Dear Freddy’s Wife: It’s more than ‘luck.’ You must have a lot going for you. Congratulations.”
May I add my congratulations to you, too, Abby, for taking someone by the hand and giving her a lift.

I remember loading up our children in a station wagon and driving to Los Angeles. There were at least nine of us in the car, and we would invariably get lost. Instead of getting angry, we laughed. Every time we made a wrong turn, we laughed harder.
Getting lost was not an unusual occurrence for us. Once while heading south to Cedar City, Utah, we took a wrong turn and didn’t realize it until two hours later when we saw the “Welcome to Nevada” signs. We didn’t get angry. We laughed, and as a result, anger and resentment rarely resulted. Our laughter created cherished memories for us.

With the trusting nature of a child, four-year-old Chitalu Kennedy from Lusaka, Zambia ran into the open arms of Jesus! The moment was later captured on canvas by Latter-day Saint artist Liz Lemon Swindle in a heartwarming painting entitled Worth of a Soul. Since 2008, this painting has found a place in our hearts. We see the Savior draw this young, trusting child to Him. As we look into this young child’s eyes it may really be ourselves that we see. If we allow the Spirit in, it will testify that it is really each one of us that is cradled in His arms.
Kennedy was orphaned when both parents passed passed away from undiagnosed diseases just a couple of months apart. They left behind eight cherished children, the youngest just three weeks old. The lives of Kennedy and his brothers and sisters were forever changed. The emptiness and loss robbed him of hope. That feeling would follow him for many years. His Spirit craved acceptance, love and belonging.
Two years after his parents’ passing, on a sunny day in Lusaka West, Zambia at the Mothers Without Borders Children’s Center, where Kennedy and some of his siblings were being cared for, a man portraying the Savior arrived with the artist and a photographer where an environment was created with the desire to photograph African children with the Savior so that a much-needed painting could be created.
Kennedy was then four years old. With the innocence of a child, and fully believing this man to be the Savior, he broke loose from the grip of his sister Bridget’s hand and ran toward him. He jumped into his outstretched arms. Throughout the day, Kennedy rarely left his side. Was the Spirit whispering to him that something here was familiar?
As a young orphan, Kennedy depended on others for survival. Prior to being brought to the children’s center, he and his siblings were scattered among relatives. As with most experiences in life, some of the times were good, some desperate. Throughout it all, and despite separation from each other, the siblings remain bonded together. His older brother Bwalya was ever present in his life and took on the role of father and protector even though he was only two years older than Kennedy.
Kennedy was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when he was nine and became a baptized member at the age of eleven. Five siblings were also baptized.
As a young teenager, life became difficult for Kennedy when no funds were available for his continued housing, food and much desired education. It was at this time that BJ Warnick, Sandra Peters, and Anthony Mulenga—who had all known Kennedy since he was four—were able to take him into their care. Through their Heart to Hands Foundation, he and Bwalya were immediately adopted into their flock. While it was obvious that Kennedy needed the basics required for daily survival, what he really needed was hope and love and they had plenty of that to offer. Kennedy said while he was not officially adopted, it was even better. He now had two moms. With his new family’s help, he was able to complete grade twelve, obtain a driver’s license and complete auto mechanic school. Again, he was wrapped in the arms of his Savior, but it was through the acts of others. Kennedy remarked, “I don’t know who I would have become without the continual love of my enlarged family and friends who have dedicated so much time to me.”
It was a year ago that Kennedy made the decision to serve a mission and to become those arms of the Savior for others. His ‘better than adopted family’, his brother Bwalya and his determined Bishop Michael Simbeya in the Libala Ward helped him prepare. While at the Ghana MTC, before departing to the Kenya Nairobi mission, miracles occurred and he was able to attend the temple and take part not only in his father’s ordinance work, but also to participate in the sealing of his parents and finally his sealing to them for time and all eternity.
Now, as Elder Chitalu, in the mission office he met Sister Stacie Sturt, mission leader for Kenya Nairobi West Mission. She captured this beautiful photo of Elder Kennedy Chitalu standing in front of the picture of his much younger self, cradled in the arms of his Savior. Now he wears a name tag as a representative of Jesus Christ. It is his turn to wrap his arms around others and help bring them to Christ. He testifies: “I know and stand as a solemn witness that Jesus Christ is our Savior, and I know that His Atonement has healing power for all kinds of afflictions”.

In my personal life, I hear Him and His whisperings when I am striving to keep the commandments of God. In all instances when I have heard the whisperings of God, it was in still and quiet moments. One experience stands out early in our marriage. We were living in Wahiawa, and I was a teacher and coach at Leilehua High School. In the Wahiawa Ward that I grew up in, I was called as a young counselor in the bishopric to my former Boy Scout leader, Bishop Wayne Chang. Circumstances for our family changed when the home we were living in and renting at the time suddenly became unavailable to us. We needed to move and to move quickly. We did everything we could to find a place to live, but nothing seemed to be available. Our stake president even gave us permission to look within the stake boundaries, and he said he would grant approval for us to continue serving in the Wahiawa Ward. Despite this offer, we were unfruitful in our efforts to find a home to live in. I remember lying in bed one evening, and in my frustration, mentally shaking my fists towards Heaven complaining to God on high, “Why aren’t you helping us? I’m doing everything that I can. Why won’t you help us?”

The very next day, I recall sitting alone in my classroom at Leilehua High School. It was during my prep period when I had no students, and I was staring at the sun shining through the open classroom door. In that state of quiet reflection, I heard the Spirit whisper to my mind, “Apply for graduate school at BYU.” I heard that whisper in my mind, and felt an excitement in my heart knowing that this communication was from God. I immediately got online and looked at the only graduate program I had thought of one day completing, a master’s degree in educational leadership. I was disheartened to see that the date for applying for this program had already passed. As soon as I noticed that date, the Spirit whispered again to me, “Call that number and see if the date is correct.” The whisper to my mind was clear. It was not an audible voice I heard with my ears, but like President Nelson stated, words were placed in my mind, coupled with a feeling of inspiration in my heart. That is how God whispers to me. I felt enlightenment upon hearing those words, so I immediately called that number. I still remember the secretary's name that answered my call. Her name was Bonnie. When I expressed my interest in applying for graduate school, but explained that I had seen the date had already passed, she said in a matter-of-fact way, “Oh, that date is not correct. We have to update the website. The deadline has been extended by two weeks. But here are the things you need to do.” I could barely contain my excitement as she listed the things I needed to do, like take the GRE, secure letters of recommendation, etc. As difficult as those things were to complete in such a short time frame, I had no doubt that I would be able to meet these deadlines because this was revelation from the Lord. And, I had great faith that I would be accepted because I knew this is what God wanted me to do. When the acceptance letter from BYU came, it was confirmation of the faith I had in the revelation that was given to me through the whisperings of the Holy Ghost. I hear His whisperings when I am striving to live the commandments and in still and quiet moments.

Left to right: Caeli (sister), Cameron (dad), Crystal (mom), Cara, Cohen (brother)
My mom has been sick since I was four. At first, no one knew what it was, but we had family and friends praying and fasting for our family to figure it out. After many years of surgeries and tests, we found out she had Chiari malformation, blood cancer, and several other illnesses that there isn’t a cure for.
Watching my mom be so sick, I began to be upset with God. I knew He had the power to heal her, so I couldn’t understand why He didn’t. I thought all the prayers, fundraisers, and fasting had gone to waste.
But as I watched the October 2021 general conference with my family, I heard Elder Brent H. Nielson of the Seventy say, “The Savior’s healing power [is] not just His ability to heal our bodies but, perhaps even more important, His ability to heal our hearts.” When the resurrected Savior invited the people in the Book of Mormon to be healed, He “was not referring to a physical healing but rather a spiritual healing of their souls” (Liahona, Nov. 2021, 57).
These words helped me realize that God wasn’t ignoring me. I just wasn’t seeing how He was healing my mom in a more important way than taking away her illnesses.
My mom still hasn’t been cured, but Heavenly Father has been there for her in her lowest points. He helps her when she truly is feeling the worst she ever has in her life. Now when I reflect on this experience, I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know exactly what I am feeling and going through.
Cara C., 13, Rhode Island, USA
Likes to hang out with friends and invite them over to play games.

On one occasion, a missionary in the final week of his mission reminded me that I had given him clearance two years previously to serve a mission. The clearance had been extended with some reservations on my part because he had indulged in a number of transgressions before his mission. He said: “Elder Asay, you allowed me to go into the field after due repentance and after I promised that I would be strictly obedient and would work diligently. I can assure you that I have worked hard and have obeyed every rule.” Then he said something very significant. “I feel that my sins have been forgiven. I feel perfectly clean.” He had been cleansed through selfless service and by developing a close association with the Holy Spirit. He had been through the refiner’s fire, and impurities had been burned away.

One bishop shared a similar experience with me. One Sunday, he had had an unusually heavy day of interviews, meetings, and visits. It was near 10:30 P.M. when he had a chance to walk through the chapel past the pulpit. He felt so overwhelmed with the weight of his responsibilities that he dropped to his knees in the dimly lighted chapel and plead with God for strength to carry the load. While praying, a voice came to his mind: “Bishop, you’re so tired! Why don’t you go home and go to bed?” The thought startled him at first, but as he reflected on it, he knew it was as direct an answer to prayer as the ones he received when praying about whom to call to Church positions.

Mala opened one eye and saw that dawn had lighted the sky. Then she opened the other eye and carefully turned her head from one side to the other. All about her she could see the rest of the family still sleeping on the stone floor of the fale. This was good!
Holding the edges of her sleeping mat closely, she rolled like a cocoon to the open side of the fale. Last night she had put her mat close to the open side so that she could slip out early and alone. She even had a good-sized rock waiting to put on her mat so it would not blow away.
She straightened up and glanced around the village. No fire smoke yet rose, no dog had begun wandering, no pig was yet rooting, and only one chicken was out scratching.
Mala smiled her special secret smile as she silently stole past her friend Fea’s fale, and then just as she was about to slip into the dim shelter of the forest, she heard her mother’s voice, soft and clear, calling, “Mala.”
Instead of answering, Mala dropped to her hands and knees and disappeared under the broad taro leaves. Finally she stood up and reluctantly turned back toward home. By this time many people were awake, and Mala tried to slip back without being seen in order that no one would know she had left her fale early so she would not have to do her share of the work.
But she was too late. Her mother was already caring for the baby, and her big sister, Lila, was ready to scold. Mala hung her head in shame and embarrassment.
“You don’t like to tend the little ones or cut the grass or gather firewood or carry water or gather coconuts or learn to make mats and baskets. You’re a lazy girl, Mala! You don’t like to do anything.”
Mala’s head came up in a flash. “No,” she cried, “that is not true. I like to do many things.”
“Oh? What many things do you like to do?”
“I like to play with the baby. I like to serve my father his food and go to Church meetings in my white dress. I like to sing in the bus going to town, and I like to swim in the sami and try to catch fish. When it’s dark and the grownups are singing and dancing, I like to go in the shadows and dance siva siva too. And most of all I like—”
Mala faltered and stopped because everyone was laughing at her. Even Lila was shaking her head and saying in her grown-up voice, “I think with Mala it is useless to try. I give up on her.”
Embarrassed, Mala dived into her father’s arms and hid her face against his chest. She was glad she hadn’t finished telling her likes, for what she liked most of all was to climb high to the top of Mount Olotele in the early dawn and play with her friends, the little white birds. The birds were so used to her that they would swoop down in a soft flutter of wings and catch the crumbs she threw to them. Then they would play together, girl and birds, darting among the trees and chasing and calling one another.
“My father does not laugh at me,” Mala whispered to herself, safe in his arms. “He taught me how to be friends with the white birds when I was just a little girl.”
Then Father turned her face to his. “Eat some banana, child,” he said kindly. “Then do your work before you play. Today you are to go with your mother and sister and gather matapisu. The good matapisu are at Sliding Rock, but you know that is a very dangerous place.”
“I know,” Mala said, her eyes round with wonder that she would be allowed to go there. “I’ve never gone there before because you have told me I must not.”
“That is so,” Father agreed. “But I think you are big enough now. I am trusting you to be careful. I am also trusting you to work hard,” Father continued. “You can climb the rocks easily because you are small and utu. Go now and help your mother.” And Father gave Mala a hug.
The flat stretch of shore called Sliding Rock is a smooth rock shelf. A low cliff rises on the land side. On the sea side the ocean waves slap at the rock when the tide is low, but when the tide is high, the great waves bash like thunder and come churning hungrily up and over the rock all the way to the cliff. When the tide is high, only a strong swimmer can pull out through the wild waves and swim around the high jutting point, Black Rock, to the quiet tidal pool on the other side.
On Black Rock point Mother and Lila found matapisu most plentiful. Mala soon learned how to pry the little umbrella-shaped shells just right so that she could flip them into her basket.
Mother and Mala worked together.
“I will climb down the ledge, Mala,” Mother said. “You stay here to hand my basket down.”
When the basket was nearly full, Mother called for Mala to take the basket. “The tide is coming in,” she explained, “and I must climb back up before the waves reach me.”
But Mother soon discovered that climbing up was not as easy as getting down had been.
“It’s no use,” she called to Mala. “The tide is too rough. Call Lila to come quickly. Maybe she can reach her arms over to help me. I’ll get beneath the rock crevice out of the spray till she comes. Hurry, I’m afraid I’ve stayed too long.”
“Lila! Lila! Come quickly. Mother will soon be in the sami.”
Lila could not hear Mala’s words, but she knew that her younger sister was frightened. Lila scrambled up and ran to see where Mala was pointing.
The girls flung themselves down as Mother crept out and held herself against the rock. All three strained to reach each other’s hands, but it was no use!
“Run, Mala,” Lila screamed in her ear. “Run for Father while I stay with Mother; I can’t run as fast as you.”
Down over the rocks Mala dashed and scrambled, ignoring all the cuts and bruises on the way. Off across the watery Sliding Rock, slipping, skidding, falling, up and on she went. Finally she was over the treacherous Sliding Rock and racing up through the forest. Vines and bare roots seemed to reach for her nimble feet.
What a long way it is to Father, she thought, and the same long way back to Mother. And then Mala ran even faster—as if the sea were right at her heels.
As she came crashing through the forest, dogs began to bark, pigs ran squealing, and chickens squawked and flopped out of her path.
The people came running to see what was happening. Mala’s father dropped the net he was mending and caught her in his arms.
“Mother!” gasped Mala, “Black Rock! Go, Father—the sami will take her. Run! Run!”
Father let Mala go and ran, shouting to Grandfather without slowing down or looking around. Grandfather dropped the coconut he was husking and ran after Father!
Women and children babbled with questions, but Mala sank down exhausted and weeping in Father’s net. Then as if the net were hot, she sprang up again, gathering it frantically into her arms as she sobbed, “No rope! They have no rope!”
With the net held in a big wad against her chest, she staggered and stumbled away from the fale. Then, getting her balance, she fled through the forest, calling for Father and Grandfather to wait for the net. Already the two men with their strong legs were deep in the forest, and so Mala had to run with the net herself.
When she reached the sami, she could see them far ahead splashing across Sliding Rock, now awash with water. She could see Lila almost lost in spray at the top of Black Rock. Mala’s heart went stone cold, realizing that the waves must be beating at the rock where Mother crouched.
Taking no chances and praying with all her heart, she made her way carefully to the highest places and finally to the top of Black Rock. Looking like a straggle of seaweed, she flopped close to Grandfather.
Grandfather and Lila were holding Father’s legs while he slid farther and farther over the edge of the rock, trying to reach Mother’s hands. Seeing the net, Grandfather shouted and dragged Father back. In an instant the net flew up and out like a round wing of gauze. It flew over the cleft of the rock and landed between waves exactly at the right instant.
It seemed almost forever before Mother’s precious head finally appeared over the edge, and the two strong men carefully pulled her up as she clung to the net. Mother was scraped and cut and half-drowned, but she smiled gratefully.
In the cool dark that evening, friends came from all over the village to hear Lila tell the whole adventure again.
“And after Father and Grandfather pulled Mother out of the sami, we had to get away fast,” recounted Lila. “They carried my mother in the net, for she was sick and badly hurt. The doctor said she must stay in the hospital at least a week.”
“I’m going to help Lila take care of the children and the house,” spoke up Mala.
“Good!” Lila smiled and put her arms around Mala. “I’ll need my sister to help. She is a very brave and clever girl, this Mala. Besides, she’s not fat like me. She is skinny like a spider, and she can run very fast.”
“She can run faster than a spider,” one of the boys laughed. “When I saw her come out of the forest, scaring the dogs and chickens, I thought she was a crazy wild pig.”
Everyone laughed. Then Mala’s father lifted her onto his lap.
What a nice place Father’s lap was for his weary and aching little girl. Snuggling close, warm and happy and sleepy, Mala heard her father say, “I do not think this girl runs like a spider or even like a wild pig. When I saw her zooming out of the forest this morning, she was not running at all. She was flying through the forest like her little white bird friends on the top of Olotele.”

A few months after my stepfather passed away, I told my mother about my baptism. That did not go as well. Nevertheless, when I went to the Netherlands to visit Dutch family members on my mother’s side, I shared my conversion with them. That’s when I learned of another family connection to the Church.
During my visit, my uncle approached me. “I have something to give you,” he said. Then he handed me a first edition of the Book of Mormon in Dutch, published in 1890.
“It belonged to our family long ago,” he said. “I want you to have it.”
These two family connections to the Church were very comforting to me. Today, I treasure that Book of Mormon in Dutch. It reminds me of those first missionaries who visited me. It reminds me of how important teaching the Book of Mormon was to my conversion. It reminds me of my late father’s respect for the Church and that some of my ancestors had accepted the restored gospel.

“Wake up, girls. The neighbor just came with a message that we need to go to the ranch right away.”
Mom’s voice was quiet but filled with urgency. We were in the process of moving to a ranch several miles away, and Dad was living there by himself until we could join him.
“Why do we have to go to the ranch?” I thought. But the reason for going didn’t really matter as I pulled my nine-year-old body into the pickup truck and went back to sleep.
As Mom pulled the truck up to the house I woke up and saw Dad coming out. He went to Mom and in a low voice told her something that made her gasp, then cry. What was it? There was a stillness in the air that seemed to shout at me, a deathly stillness. My heart began to beat a little faster though I couldn’t understand why.
We walked into the house to find Grandpa seated on the couch. Why was he here, and where was Grandma? Suddenly I knew, without being told, why the stillness was so empty and why my grandfather was sitting there without my grandmother. I found myself hoping against hope that I was wrong.
The next few minutes were spent in listening to my father call the mortuary (a foreign word to me) and trying to get rid of the big lump in my throat. I wasn’t going to cry; I was simply scared. Soon Dad took us upstairs to put us to bed. I silently waited for what was coming, still hoping I was wrong.
“Girls, something happened to your grandma today. She was in a car accident, and she was killed. We won’t see her anymore.”
Simple, quiet, direct, and powerful. Oh, how powerful! I started crying but not just for the loss of my grandmother. Something more consuming had entered my mind. The lump returned to my throat and my heart began to beat even faster.
Was she really dead? Of course she was. But was she really? What was death? Could she feel anything now? Could she see me thinking about her? Was she just floating in space? I couldn’t imagine her life just ending and nothing more. Something inside me told me it wasn’t right for death to be so permanent. I imagined myself dying, and panic seized me. It didn’t seem possible that when I died I wouldn’t feel, hear, think, smell, see, or anything. The thought was unbearable to me, and I slammed a door against my fear, locking it away.
Six years later as I lay in bed, my thoughts wandered aimlessly back to that quiet June night. I could almost hear my father’s voice telling us Grandma was dead. Grandma! Like lightning the door of the mind opened, and my fear was released. “No!” I screamed silently, turning over in bed and closing my eyes. Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to imagine what death was like. There were no pictures to imagine, only darkness and emptiness. And again something inside me told me that darkness wasn’t right.
I arose, went to my window, and gazed into the night, concentrating on the shadowy forms of trees and distant sounds of crickets and cattle. Soon the fear was behind its door again. But for how long?
Summer passed, school started, and before I knew how it happened, my best friend had introduced me to the missionaries, I had no prior religious affiliation, and I was not really aware of who they were, but they were friendly and I couldn’t help but like them.
One day, late in the fall one of the elders approached me. “We have a movie we’d like you and your family to see,” he said. “Could we set up a time when we could come to your home and show it?”
“Well,” I hesitated, “I don’t know if my dad would like that or not.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” continued the missionary. “We’ll only come if he wants us to. We’d like to show it next Monday night if we can.”
“Okay,” I said, inwardly eager for my parents to meet these two young men. I was sure they would like them if they met them. But would they want to meet them? I approached my father cautiously that night, expecting a negative reply to my request, but to my surprise and delight, he consented to have the missionaries come the following Monday evening. The next day I contacted them and told them the good news. I then began to look forward to their visit wondering what kind of movie they were going to show, having no idea of the effect it would have on my life.
Monday evening came, and at the appointed time there was a knock on our door, I let our guests in and introduced them to my parents. The two young men talked easily with them while setting up their equipment. I was disappointed as I watched them prepare a filmstrip projector instead of a movie projector. “This looks like something we’d see in history class,” I thought.
“Where did I come from? Why am I here? Where am I going?” The words rang through my mind. As I watched the movie and my fears were let loose again, there were answers to greet the fears. I imagined death, and this time there were pictures in my mind—pictures of people, waiting together. There was no more darkness, and the something that had been telling me all along that darkness wasn’t right was now telling me that the pictures in my mind were right. I felt a burden lifting.
“What did you think?” asked one of the elders at the conclusion of the filmstrip.
“Very nice,” my parents commented politely. I had no comment. I was still thinking of all I had just heard. I felt a peacefulness I had never felt before, and I wanted to know more.
The missionaries returned to our home with the discussions, and within a few weeks I was baptized. A whole new life began for me. No longer was I living from one day to the next, wondering when my fear of death would overtake me. No more did I feel terror at the thought of death.
Now I knew that end was only another beginning.

First, allow me to share the parable of the green chalkboard.
We might come home one day to a child who says something like “I hate school.” (None of you here would ever say that!) President Eyring explained that after some digging, we might come to realize it’s not school itself the child hates but rather the fear of failure. President Eyring admitted that he had experienced similar feelings after concluding he couldn’t do math.

Luckily, in the Eyring household there was a single decoration in the family room: a green chalkboard.

If that seems strange, let me read a brief passage from an article published on the Nobel Prize’s website about President Eyring’s father, Henry Eyring, a world-class chemist.
The article reads:
[Henry Eyring’s] brilliant theory for the rates of chemical reactions, published in 1935, was apparently not understood by members of the Nobel Committee until much later. As a compensation the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences gave him, in 1977, its highest honor, other than the Nobel Prize, the Berzelius Medal in gold.
In other words, the Nobel Prize’s own website acknowledges that the only reason President Eyring’s father didn’t win a Nobel prize was because his theory was simply not grasped by even the Nobel Committee itself! Not too shabby.
In short, maybe we would all do well to incorporate a green chalkboard into our family room decor.

Well, there at the family chalkboard, father and son toiled together on math problems.
President Eyring reflected:
I didn’t wonder if I could work the math problems; I’d proved to my satisfaction that I couldn’t. . . .
But Dad wasn’t satisfied. He thought I could do it. So we took turns at that chalkboard. I can’t remember the gifts my dad wrapped and helped put under a tree. But I remember the chalkboard and his quiet voice.

The Westerlind family of the Orland Park Ward, Chicago Heights Illinois Stake, is establishing a tradition of perfection in early-morning seminary.
Teresa Westerlind set the example by achieving perfect attendance for her entire four years of seminary.
Then her brother Victor followed suit with perfect attendance, but he also achieved a goal to receive perfect scores on all scripture chase tests during his four years of seminary.
Erik, the next to follow the Westerlind tradition, has had perfect attendance for two years and so far has had perfect scripture chase scores. He was also on the team that took first place in the stake scripture chase.