Gospel Story Finder

Years ago on Christmas Eve, a cousin lost a little five-year-old boy to quick-pneumonia. The family gathered around the casket for the family prayer. A small blanket, made by his mother, lay folded across the little boy’s feet.
Just as they were to close the casket, my mother stepped forward, put her arm around the grieving mother, and helped her unfold the blanket and tuck it around the little boy. The last his parents saw of their little son, he was asleep, covered with that favorite blanket. It was a very tender moment. That is what grandmothers do!

My friends at school wanted to know what made me stand out from other people. I told them that I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The next day, I brought them each a copy of the For the Strength of Youth guide.
I introduced those who were interested to the missionaries, and one of my friends got baptized! This experience helped me understand that I am a disciple of Jesus Christ, and by my example I can bring souls to Christ.
I am a disciple of Jesus Christ.

As bad as things were at school, they were worse at home. With Dad gone and Mom working so many hours, my brothers and I were left in charge of the house, inside and out. To my horror, even though we were doing our best, we got anonymous notes about what a mess our yard was and what a disgrace we were to the neighborhood. I had to agree. Our home and yard did not look as good as the others. I was ashamed to invite friends over.

When I started early-morning seminary, things changed. They got better. I was introduced to someone I could relate to—someone who had problems worse than mine. The difference was that while I felt sorry for myself, he stayed close to the Lord and refused to complain. The person I’m talking about is Nephi.

Sister Mortensen, my seminary teacher, pointed out that no one escapes heartbreak or pain in life—not even Nephi. What made Nephi great was that he never lost hope or his testimony while he battled one problem after another. Nephi helped me realize that my biggest problem in life was not my parents’ divorce or my bright pants or things and people beyond my control. My biggest problem was my attitude, something I have complete control over.

Nephi’s family had their world turned upside down. Unhappy that their dad led them away from their home and possessions, Nephi’s brothers began to murmur and complain. Nephi, on the other hand, prayed for understanding.

Nephi’s brothers took a lot of their frustrations out on him. They hit him with a rod, bound him with cords, and even plotted to kill him. Hearing how violent they were toward Nephi made me realize how insignificant Mike and the bullies in my life were. What’s amazing is that while I felt nothing but contempt for those who were unkind to me, Nephi was patient and loving and “did frankly forgive them all that they had done” (1 Ne. 7:21).

While most of my friends didn’t say much about my family situation, one friend called to say her mother no longer wanted her to be friends with me. Her mom said people like me who came from families with problems were a bad influence. I burst into tears and after that spent many nights crying myself to sleep.

Nephi also admits to crying himself to sleep. He said, “Mine eyes water my pillow by night” (2 Ne. 33:3). The difference was that Nephi, during the day, continually prayed for his family, something that hadn’t occurred to me because I was too busy wallowing in my tears.

While Nephi came from a family with many problems, he remained true. His way of dealing with pain and anguish was to lean upon Heavenly Father.

Nephi never fell into Satan’s trap of thinking Heavenly Father’s love could be measured by how well things were going for him. Nephi proved that while we don’t always have a choice about the bad things that happen to us, we always have a choice about how we respond to these problems.

Nephi explained, “I did liken all scriptures unto us, that it might be for our profit and learning” (1 Ne. 19:23).

A few years ago, I was one of a few Church members in my grade. People thought I was weird because I was dedicated to living all of the standards of the Church. So one day I decided that I could compromise my standards a little bit. When I did, I noticed that I had more attention from others. But after just a few weeks, I felt guilty and turned to the Lord for repentance. He did help me, and I had to make a lot of sacrifices, but it was worth it! I truly got to see the blessings of living the gospel at school. I did lose friends and attention, but I gained respect and happiness.
Sutton K., age 15, Texas, USA

I think Emily Hill, a handcart pioneer, understood the principle of cherishing and watching over another. As she and her sister Julia struggled over Rocky Ridge in terrible conditions-in a 27-hour, 15-mile march-they were in desperate straits. Julia's granddaughter later shared this dream she had about the sisters:

"I could see Julia and Emily stranded in the snow on the windy summit of Rocky Ridge with the rest of the Willie handcart company. They had no heavy clothing to keep them warm. Julia was sitting in the snow, shaking. She could not carry on. Emily, who was freezing as well, knew that if she did not help Julia stand up, Julia would die. As Emily wrapped her arms around her sister to help her up, Julia began to cry-but no tears came, only soft whimpering sounds. Together they walked slowly to their handcart. Thirteen died that terrible night. Julia and Emily survived."[8]

Before the temple was completed, the Prophet Joseph felt a growing sense of urgency to bestow upon the Brethren of the Church all the keys, knowledge, and endowments that would be necessary for them should anything happen to him.

Parley P. Pratt records that the Prophet said, "I know not why; but for some reason I am constrained to hasten my preparations, and to confer upon the Twelve all the ordinances, keys, covenants, endowments, and sealing ordinances of the priesthood, and so set before them a pattern in all things pertaining to the sanctuary and the endowment therein."[17]

Once he had done so, Joseph said, "the Lord is about to lay the burden on your shoulders and let me rest awhile; and if they kill me the Kingdom of God will roll on, as I have now finished the work which was laid upon me, by committing to you all things for the building up of the kingdom according to the heavenly vision, and the pattern shown me from heaven."[18]

But as the walls of the temple rose, so did unrest. The citizens of Illinois became alarmed as the political power of the Saints increased. Additionally, several key brethren apostatized and turned against the faith betraying those to whom they had sworn loyalty. A spirit of hatred, envy, and rage began to infect many in the area and, once again, the Saints of God found themselves the victims of prejudice and anger, turned out of their homes, robbed of their possessions, beaten and threatened.

It culminated on a day, late in June of the year 1844 as Joseph agreed to surrender himself at Carthage and stand trial against yet another malicious charge. It was early in the morning when the Prophet set off for Carthage with seventeen of the brethren. He stopped for a few moments as he passed the temple, still only one story high and, looking out over his beloved city, he said, "This is the loveliest place and the best people under the heavens; little do they know the trials that await them."[19]

Joseph Smith knew that this would be the last time he would look upon his beloved city and his beloved people. "I am going like a lamb to the slaughter," he said, "but I am calm as a summer's morning. I have a conscience void of offense toward God and toward all men. . . . I shall die an innocent man, . . . and it shall be said of me, 'He was murdered in cold blood!'"[20]

At about 5:00 p.m. on the afternoon of June 27, 1844 an armed mob--painted black--of from 150 to 200 persons descended on Carthage jail.

"Hyrum was shot first and fell calmly, exclaiming: I am a dead man! Joseph leaped from the window, and was shot dead in the attempt, exclaiming: O Lord my God!"[21]

Willard Richards, who had witnessed the martyrdom sent a message to Nauvoo. "Joseph and Hyrum are dead," he wrote. "Taylor wounded. . . . I am well. . . . The job was done in an instant."[22]

The bodies of Joseph and Hyrum were placed in pine coffins and brought to Nauvoo the next day. "As the solemn procession approached Nauvoo," one historian writes, "sorrowing Saints filed out of the city to meet them. For more than a mile beyond the Temple the dusty road was lined with the bereaved citizens of Nauvoo. As the two wagons appeared in sight and the rude funeral trappings confirmed the report that their beloved leaders were slain, they gave vent to their emotions in weeping and lamentations. As the cortege approached in the heat of the mid-day sun, the cries and lamentations of the sorrowing Saints arose and fell like the deafening din of a distant cataract. The procession moved slowly to the Mansion House, where the bodies were given into the care of their kindred who proceeded at once to prepare them for burial."[23]

As a child of record, my commitment to the gospel’s principles has been something I try to pay keen attention to. However, there’s always been a lingering sense of inadequacy surrounding family history work. My wife and I would earnestly set goals each year, only to fall short time and time again. Opening my family tree brought a wave of discouragement, leaving me unsure of where to even begin. Then, a pivotal moment occurred during an employee devotional where a colleague from the Family History department delivered a poignant talk on the significance of this sacred work. It was like a spark ignited within me, propelling me to take decisive action. Immediately after the devotional, I reached out to my aging parents in the village, hoping to glean some insights despite their foggy memories due to illness.
Miraculously, as the call with my dad continued, it felt as though unseen hands were guiding me, directing my questions and what exactly to ask. This unveiled much history about my ancestors I knew less about. With each revelation, my excitement grew, and for the first time in ages, I felt a renewed sense of purpose for family history. Armed with newfound determination, I delved into tracing my wife’s lineage, eager to unearth connections that would bridge our family histories.
Calling upon her older sister, who had introduced her to the Church, proved to be a pivotal moment. Though initially unsure, she promised to assist and, after just a few days, inundated me with a treasure trove of ancestral information. Sharing this with my wife, I witnessed a radiant glow envelop her face as she discovered the names and connections of most of her ancestors for the very first time.
In that moment, the transformative power of family history work became abundantly clear. It wasn’t just about names and dates but also about weaving together the threads of our shared past and strengthening our familial bonds in the present. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards the colleague whose words had sparked this journey within me.
Through their inspired message, I found the courage to begin, and in doing so, unlocked a profound source of joy and connection that continues to enrich our lives to this day.

A few years ago my husband and I were enjoying visiting Australia. It was promising to be another beautiful spring day in the outskirts of Sydney. We were to be involved in a mission presidents’ seminar for presidents and their wives in that area of the world. However, at approximately 5:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning, the telephone rang and woke us from our sleep. My experience with middle-of-the-night telephone calls has been that they usually portend bad news. Thus, as my husband got out of bed to answer the phone, I was quite nervous and concerned. As he answered the phone, I heard him say, “Hello, Emma.”
I relaxed somewhat, knowing that Emma was his secretary in the Office of the Seventy. I knew that we were 16 hours ahead of Salt Lake City time and it was Tuesday during working hours there. My thought was that she just wanted to talk to him before he became involved in the meetings of the day. However, his response to whatever she was saying to him was a very shocked “Oh, no!”
Again I became very concerned and surmised that it was not good news but involved something or someone from the Church family and not our own immediate one. I recall that he hung up the telephone and came and said to me that Emma had just reported to him that two planes had hit the World Trade Center buildings in New York City. We were instructed to remain in Australia until further notice.
We, of course, got up and turned on the television and were filled with shock, horror, and great sadness as we saw and heard of the devastating attacks in our homeland. The seminar began that day, but, as you can imagine, it wasn’t quite business as usual. A great somberness filled all our hearts. I felt such a heaviness of spirit.
The day proceeded with an abbreviated schedule as well as phone calls by the participants in the seminar to their homes and families. We were also informed that we would be able to receive the audio portion of a program to be held that evening originating from the Tabernacle on Temple Square.
The time came to hear the broadcast from Salt Lake City. I cannot recall exactly what was said or sung that night; however, I can vividly recall how I was affected when I heard the voice of our beloved prophet, Gordon B. Hinckley, as he spoke from thousands of miles away. Just to hear his voice seemed to lift much of the sadness and gloom I was feeling. I will always remember and treasure the comfort and peace I felt from hearing the love and tenderness in his voice that day. Others in the meeting expressed having the same overwhelming feelings of calmness and solace as I did upon hearing his voice. This peace came from our knowledge that we had a prophet to lead and guide us and that if we but listen and obey the words of such a man, who speaks for the Master, all would be well in our lives—no matter what else happened.

A friend of mine is having a difficult time in her life. Earlier this year she was struggling, and I didn’t know how to help her. In my prayers I asked my Heavenly Father to bless her and to help me to be her friend. One day she became angry with me, and I did not understand. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t want to say something wrong that might ruin our friendship, especially because this was a time when I felt she needed me. But after she became angry with me, I thought it would be too hard. I was considering giving up because I was discouraged.
One afternoon in seminary I came across a scripture in Mosiah that said: “And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing that ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another” (Mosiah 4:21).
I knew then that she needed and still needs of the substance I can impart: my friendship and my testimony. I decided then that I would not give up on my friend. I talk to her every day, remember her in my prayers, and have faith that something positive will come from my efforts. I am so grateful that I prayed and received this guidance through the scriptures.

Illustrated by Sal Velutto and Eugenio Mattozzi
In April 1844, President Joseph Smith called the Twelve Apostles to serve missions in the Eastern United States.
Joseph Smith: All of the Apostles except Willard Richards and John Taylor are called as missionaries to continue preaching the gospel.
Wilford Woodruff had already served as a missionary in England and America, but he was obedient to the Prophet. He packed his things and got ready to travel.
When he went to say good-bye to the Prophet, Elder Woodruff could tell that he was sad. Elder Woodruff felt sad too even though he didn’t know why.
Joseph Smith: You are about to start upon your mission. God bless you, Brother Woodruff. Go in peace.
Two months later, Elder Woodruff was preaching the gospel in Maine when he heard some terrible news.
Woman: Have you heard, Elder Woodruff? The Prophet has been killed! Joseph Smith has been shot in Carthage Jail!
Elder Woodruff immediately left to meet with the other Apostles in Nauvoo.
Elder Woodruff: Now I know why I was so sad before. That was the last time I would ever see the Prophet Joseph Smith here on earth.
Although many Saints were worried that the Church would not be able to go on without the Prophet Joseph Smith, Elder Woodruff was not afraid. He was asked to go and comfort the Saints in Europe and lead them until a new prophet was called.
Elder Woodruff: Though our Prophet has been killed because of his testimony, the keys of the kingdom of God are still here upon earth. The heavens are not closed.
Elder Woodruff: Heavenly Father will still speak to us and direct His disciples. Be humble and faithful, and the Lord will bless you.

I realized the significance of a testimony of the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith, and the Savior and how it affects your choices when I was 15 years old.

My brother, Joe, was 20 years old. It was during the Korean conflict and only one young man in each ward could go on a mission. The others had to be available to be drafted into the military. A young man in our ward had gone on a mission early in the year; my brother’s birthday was in September, so he didn’t think he would get the opportunity to serve a mission.

Our stake president called my brother in and told him that one of the wards had not used its allotment and he might be able to go. Missionaries were called at 20 years of age in those days and my brother had just filled out his application to apply to medical school. He was a good student. My father, who was not active in the church, had made financial preparations to help him with medical school and was disappointed when he learned of the conversation with the stake president. He counseled him not to go and suggested that he could do more good by going to medical school.

This was a big issue in our family. That night my brother and I talked about the choice. He was five years older so it was mainly his thinking. As we reasoned it out, we concluded: If Jesus Christ was a great man but not divine, if Joseph Smith was a wonderful teacher but not a prophet, or if the Book of Mormon had wonderful counsel but was not the Word of God, then dad was right – it would be better to go to medical school. But, if Jesus Christ is divine, if Joseph Smith is a prophet, and if the Book of Mormon is the Word of God – then it would be more important to accept the call and proclaim the gospel.

That night, more than ever before, I wanted to know the answers to these questions. I had always believed in the divinity of Jesus Christ. I believed in Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, but I wanted confirmation from the Lord. That night, as I prayed, the Spirit bore witness to my soul of the Savior and the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. My brother received the same witness and made the choice to serve a mission. Incidentally, when my brother returned from his mission, he went to medical school. When I reached my 20th birthday, my father was happy to see me serve a mission.

Many years ago in the ward over which I presided as the bishop, there lived a couple who often had very serious, heated disagreements. I mean real disagreements. Each of the two was certain of his or her position. Neither one would yield to the other. When they weren’t arguing, they maintained what I would call an uneasy truce.

One morning at 2:00 a.m. I had a telephone call from the couple. They wanted to talk to me, and they wanted to talk right then. I dragged myself from bed, dressed, and went to their home. They sat on opposite sides of the room, not speaking to each other. The wife communicated with her husband by talking to me. He replied to her by talking to me. I thought, “How in the world are we going to get this couple together?”

I prayed for inspiration, and the thought came to me to ask them a question. I said, “How long has it been since you have been to the temple and witnessed a temple sealing?” They admitted it had been a very long time. They were otherwise worthy people who held temple recommends and who went to the temple and did ordinance work for others.

I said to them, “Will you come with me to the temple on Wednesday morning at 8:00? We will witness a sealing ceremony there.”

In unison they asked, “Whose ceremony?”

I responded, “I don’t know. It will be for whoever is getting married that morning.”

On the following Wednesday at the appointed hour, we met at the Salt Lake Temple. The three of us went into one of the beautiful sealing rooms, not knowing a soul in the room except Elder ElRay L. Christiansen, then an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve, a General Authority position which existed at that time. Elder Christiansen was scheduled to perform a sealing ceremony for a bride and groom in that very room that morning. I am confident the bride and her family thought, “These must be friends of the groom” and that the groom’s family thought, “These must be friends of the bride.” My couple were seated on a little bench with about a full two feet (0.6 m) of space between them.

Elder Christiansen began by providing counsel to the couple who were being married, and he did so in a beautiful fashion. He mentioned how a husband should love his wife, how he should treat her with respect and courtesy, honoring her as the heart of the home. Then he talked to the bride about how she should honor her husband as the head of the home and be of support to him in every way.

I noticed that as Elder Christiansen spoke to the bride and the groom, my couple moved a little closer together. Soon they were seated right next to one another. What pleased me is that they had both moved at about the same rate. By the end of the ceremony, my couple were sitting as close to each other as though they were the newlyweds. Each was smiling.

We left the temple that day, and no one ever knew who we were or why we had come, but my friends were holding hands as they walked out the front door. Their differences had been set aside. I had not had to say one word. You see, they remembered their own wedding day and the covenants they had made in the house of God. They were committed to beginning again and trying harder this time around.

Thomas (that is not his real name) was one who had lost his way. We became acquainted at a special fireside attended by members one doesn’t normally see on Sunday. He was then 35 years old and had not been active in the Church for some 20 years. The day before, Thomas’s father had invited him to attend the fireside. Thomas said, “I’ll think about it.” I quote now from a letter written by his father:
“Thirty minutes before the fireside, [Thomas] called and asked me to pick him up. I can’t explain the anticipation I felt as we walked into the room [to join] you and about 40 others. There was a special feeling and spirit there that touched [Tom’s] heart and he went home determined to read again the passages in the Book of Mormon that you had outlined.
“This led to a reading of the whole book and the beginning of his payment of tithing. He began to see his life in a different light. … He stopped using drugs and caffeine. He continued to read, not only the Book of Mormon, but also the Doctrine and Covenants. He started to attend sacrament meetings and … literally began to be a different person. In fact, we jokingly asked him, ‘What have you done with our son?’
“The great blessing to us was when he was interviewed by the bishop … to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. This has truly been an answer to prayers which have been offered in his behalf for almost 20 years” (personal letter, 1 Aug. 1997).

Many other leaders helped me throughout my life. One of my Primary teachers gave me extra help to finish my requirements to graduate from Primary. She also taught my class the Articles of Faith, and she taught us about the lives of the members of the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. Little did my teacher know that one day she would be my mother-in-law—I married her youngest daughter!

William Shakespeare’s play The Life of King Henry V includes a nighttime scene in the camp of English soldiers at Agincourt just before their battle with the French army. In the dim light and partially disguised, King Henry wanders unrecognized among his soldiers. He talks with them, trying to gauge the morale of his badly outnumbered troops, and because they do not realize who he is, they are candid in their comments. In one exchange they philosophize about who bears responsibility for what happens to men in battle—the king or each individual soldier.
At one point King Henry declares, “Methinks I could not die any where so contented as in the king’s company; his cause being just.”
Michael Williams retorts, “That’s more than we know.”
His companion agrees, “Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the king’s subjects: if his cause be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes the crime of it out of us.”
Williams adds, “If the cause be not good, the king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make.”
Not surprisingly, King Henry disagrees. “Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own.”1
Shakespeare does not attempt to resolve this debate in the play, and in one form or another it is a debate that continues down to our own time—who bears responsibility for what happens in our lives?

This next experience was shared by a member of the Church whose father took his life after an extended period of illness. The references to recent discoveries by medical science are enlightening.
“I will never forget telephoning home that morning in 1977 and having a police lieutenant answer, informing me of my father’s suicide. My father was a sweet, kind man who never intentionally hurt anyone. He always thought his body was a temple. Yet something had become wrong with Dad’s body, and he had been a very sick man.
“Then, in 1980, I experienced a terrible physical change in myself that gave me some insight into my father’s state of mind during the weeks preceding his death. I was diagnosed as having hyperthyroidism. My body went through many of the traumas that Dad experienced. I spent a four-month period without sleep. Sleeping pills gave no relief. If I did fall asleep, I awoke soon after, soaked in perspiration. Many of the symptoms were emotional ones. I was frightened and suffered a deep depression. For eighteen months I received medication, and the disease was finally brought under control. I am thankful that I had a doctor who could help me.
“Living through my experience helped me to understand my father’s death better. I spent hours doing research and found that little information on hyperthyroidism could be found before 1979. Thyroid disease can be hereditary, and since my experience, we have discovered it in two of my cousins on my father’s side. I also found an article by a doctor who wondered how many people have been in mental institutions with chemical imbalances that could have been corrected.
“Maybe Dad had this same disease. With everything I’ve studied, I choose to think he did. It helps me deal with his death. For a man who took such good care of himself to fail so fast and become ill so quickly makes me believe he had an undiscovered disease.
“Dad believed in the Lord with all his heart and had a strong, solid testimony. His cause of death may have spoiled his entrance into the spirit world, but not the beautiful life he had led for fifty years.
“I know my Heavenly Father loves me and watches over me and gives me the peace I now enjoy.”

Most of the men bore the burden of the march in faith, but some complained and caused contentions. Sylvester Smith—no relation to the Prophet—complained that Joseph’s watchdog kept him awake at night.

On May 17th, Joseph Smith asked the men to humble themselves and be peacefully united. He told them that if they didn’t, they would meet with misfortunes before they left that place.

The following morning the men woke up to find that nearly every horse was either sick or lame. Once more the Prophet told the men that if they would humble themselves and repent of their discord, the horses would be healed. Most of the men did, and by noon all but one of the horses were healthy again. That one horse, Sylvester Smith’s, died.

“I hear you’ve got a big date for the prom,” my younger brother Max commented at dinner.
“Who said I had a date for prom?” I asked casually, continuing to eat my potatoes and gravy. I could feel Mom’s and Dad’s eyes on me, but I didn’t look up.
“Oh, I heard some of the guys talking,” Max answered. I noticed a mischievous glint in his eyes. Max is only 11 months younger than me, but he towers over me four and a half inches. Therefore, he likes to think of himself as Mean Max. Already as a sophomore he has quarterbacked our varsity football team to a division championship and is now playing first base for the varsity baseball team. “How’d you get Dale Beecher to ask you?” he snickered. “I know Dad can’t afford to bribe him.”
“Max,” I cut in, glowering over at him.
“I heard Dale tell Cory Crandell,” Max insisted.
“But I haven’t told him yes.”
“What?” Max asked, setting his fork on his plate.
“I’m just not going with him,” I shrugged.
Max finished chewing. “Any reason? Or do you have so many dates nowadays that you can afford to turn down lowly guys like Dale Beecher?”
Even for a younger brother, Max really is good looking. More than once my best friend Sandra Bentley has joked about taking Max out.
“Line me up with your brother Beau, and I’ll line you up with Max,” I would bargain jokingly.
“You’ve got a deal. When do you—”
“Don’t you dare say anything to Beau,” I’d threaten. For about ten years I’d had this terrible crush on Beau Bentley. He was a freshman in college, and every girl in town was in love with him. He had been a football and basketball hero, seminary president, and last year’s senior boy voted most likely to succeed.
“Max,” Dad cut in, “let Denise worry about her own dates. Maybe this Beecher fellow isn’t good enough for Denise.”
“Dad, about the time she gets that picky, she won’t ever have a date. Why, I can think of a hundred girls that Dale could—”
“Max,” Dad cautioned from the end of the table.
“So you’re going to turn him down?” Max asked. He looked down the table at Dad, held up his hands in surrender and added, “I’m just asking, not hassling her. Why can’t you go?”
“It’s not like money is our most abundant commodity, Max.”
“Money? Why do you need money to go to a stupid dance?”
I didn’t want to explain what Max already knew. Since Dad had been laid off things had been tight around our place and would be until he returned to work at the end of May, the week after prom.
“A prom isn’t like a regular dance,” I explained impatiently. “You don’t just wear a dress to the prom,” I pointed out. “It has to be a formal, something nice. You have to buy a flower for the guy. I would definitely need new shoes.”
“I think we could help you out,” Mom volunteered.
“Mom, we can’t even buy a jug of milk. We have to drink that putrid powdered stuff from our food storage, and you think we can waste money on a prom formal?”
“It’s your prom, Denise,” Mom went on. “We’ve all planned on your going. You’ve put so much time and work into it, being on the prom committee and all. It wouldn’t be fair if you stayed home.”
“Yeah, we’ll help you, Denise,” Melanie called out.
“Thanks,” I smiled, amazed that the family would really volunteer so willingly, “but I couldn’t feel good about letting you do that.” I could feel a warm blush on my cheek. “This isn’t the last dance of my life. It’s just prom. We really can’t justify throwing money away on the prom.”
“Sometimes there are things a family needs to sacrifice for,” Dad said.
“You don’t go around sacrificing to go to a stupid prom,” I smiled. “Don’t worry. I haven’t planned on going. Really. It’s just no big deal.”
I was proud of the way I handled things at the dinner table. I had been indifferent about the whole thing. I almost thought I’d convinced myself—until I got to my room, closed the door, and was alone. Then I bawled for the next 45 minutes nonstop.
It was a little after 8:30 P.M. when a knock sounded on my door. “Come in,” I said, quickly wiping away my tears.
The door pushed open and in walked Max. “So, how’s the family martyr?” he greeted, plopping down on my bed.
“What?” I gasped.
“Oh, don’t sacrifice for me,” he began to mimic me, daintily clasping his hands in front of his chest, batting his eyes furiously and using a high-pitched voice. “Sacrifice for everyone else, but oh mercy don’t sacrifice for me.” He snickered, shook his head and then asked in his regular tone of voice, “What are you trying to do, play Cinderella?”
I glared at him. “Max, I’m really not in the mood for your jokes; I have a ton of homework.”
“So you don’t really want to go to the prom?” he asked. “You just want the rest of us to go into mourning.”
I hesitated and bit down on my lower lip. “I’m not going.”
“You don’t want to go?” he persisted, studying me.
For a moment I thought I detected a hint of compassion in Mean Max’s teasing eyes. “If things were different here at home.”
“Denise,” Max cut in. He placed his forearms on his knees. He knit his fingers together and stared at the floor. “How much would it cost to go? I don’t mean if you went out and bought a fancy formal,” he added quickly. “Mom could make you something if she had some material. What would everything cost?”
I shrugged. “Maybe $25 or $30 for material. I really don’t know, though. About the same for the shoes. But I’m just making wild guesses because—”
“You could get by with $80 then?”
I stared at Max, completely baffled. I nodded once. Max stood up, reached into his pocket and pulled out four twenties and tossed them to me. I stared dumbly down at the twenties, unable to think. I knew Max had a little money put away. “I can’t take your money, Max,” I stammered. “You’re saving for a set of weights.”
“Hey, it’s not a gift, Denise,” he said, starting for the door. “I just don’t want you to go around broadcasting our poverty. It’s a loan.” He coughed nervously. “Until you get some bucks to pay me back.”
I could feel tears in my eyes, and a lump as big as my fist in my throat. “And what if I can’t ever pay you back?” I asked, totally bewildered and struggling to keep the sob out of my voice.
He turned and jabbed a finger in my direction and in his best Mean Max tone said, “You’ll pay me back, Denise. I don’t handle charity cases.”
Laughing and crying at the same time, I ran over to Max and threw my arms around his neck and said, “Thanks, Max.”
“Now don’t slobber and bawl all over me,” he growled, pushing me away. “You don’t have to get so emotional over a lousy loan.”
The whole family pitched in after that. Mom started on the dress. Sanford, Valerie, and Melanie pooled baby-sitting money and insisted on buying the boutonniere. Mom fixed my hair. And Dad surprised me by getting me a pair of earrings and a necklace. I knew they must have broken him, but he acted as if it were nothing. And all the while, Mean Max groaned and grumbled about all the fuss over a stupid junior prom.
Friday morning, the day of the prom, during breakfast the phone rang. It was Dale Beecher. “Eh, Denise,” he stammered nervously, “something’s come up.” I held my breath, sensing that my magic was about to crumble. “My Grandmother Hansen died late Wednesday night. Her funeral’s tomorrow in Arizona. Because I was out of town yesterday to the baseball game, I didn’t find out about it until late last night.” He paused. I closed my eyes and fought back the tears. “We’re leaving this morning. I know that’s crummy, especially for prom.”
“I’m sorry,” I heard myself say, “about your grandmother.”
“Whose funeral?” Max asked, looking up from his bowl of cracked wheat cereal as I returned to the table in a dismal, disappointed daze.
“I guess I’m not going to the prom after all,” I answered.
“Huh?” Max grunted in surprise.
“Dale’s grandmother passed away,” I said, reaching for a slice of toast. “The funeral is tomorrow in Arizona.”
The rest of the day I agonized behind a facade of fake smiles and fast chatter, never mentioning to any of my friends that my prom night would never be. After school I went straight home, shut myself in my room and made a weak pretense of study, but mainly I just stared at the wall and told myself I wouldn’t cry.
A little after six there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” I called. Max walked in carrying a corsage in a white box. He tossed it on the bed in front of me. “There’s a flower for you,” he said gruffly.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
He cleared his throat and stuffed his fists into his pockets. “I really don’t care about the money, Denise.” He cleared his throat. “I know you want to go, and—well—you would have probably done the same for me.”
“But the flower, Max?”
“I figured I could take you—if you wanted to go. I know I’m no Dale Beecher, and you might think it’s dumb to show up to the prom with your baby brother,” the words gushed out, “but at least you’d get to see what it’s like.” He blushed. “After all, it’s your prom. You ought to at least show up.”
“But, Max.”
“Hey, if it would embarrass you, I could grease my hair back, paste on a bushy mustache and long sideburns, and wear dark glasses so no one would know who you were with.” He grinned sheepishly and dug his hands deeper into his pockets.
The tears I’d held back so well suddenly broke loose. I rushed to Max, threw my arms around him and squeezed, and this time I didn’t let him wriggle away from me.
“Now don’t go get all emotional,” he complained brusquely, trying to pull away.
I grinned through the deluge of tears. “Your asking means more than a hundred proms. But I know how you feel about proms. I won’t put you through all that.”
Max shrugged, relieved. “I figured you’d turn me down, so I have plan two.”
“Plan two?”
“All you’re doing up here is staring at the wall and trying not to bawl, so I came up to rescue you.” Before I could utter a protest, Max took me by the arm and dragged me to the kitchen where Mom, Dad, Melanie, Valerie, and Sanford were sitting around the table with a big bowl of buttered popcorn and cans of pop. He pushed me into a chair, shoved the popcorn in my direction and announced, “After tonight you’ll never want to go to a prom.”
“Where did all this come from?” I gasped.
“We’re having banana splits at midnight,” Sanford called out.
I looked at Max, who avoided my gaze. “Something tells me somebody’s not going to get a set of weights right away.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes a guy’s got to sacrifice. The others chipped in too.”
For the next two hours we forgot all about the prom and gorged ourselves on pop and popcorn. We played Uno and Rook and laughed until we were sick. I had never realized I could have so much fun with my family, especially on prom night.
At 8:30 P.M. when we were just getting ready to set up Trivial Pursuit, the doorbell rang and Sandra rushed in. “Why didn’t you tell me Dale was out of town?” she demanded. “Tami Roth just called and said he had to go to his grandmother’s funeral. Why didn’t you say something? You’ve got to go,” Sandra burst out. “You put the whole prom together.”
“But, Sandra, I don’t—”
“You don’t have time to sit around and gape,” Sandra cut in. “I’ve got a date lined up for you. Beau’s home for the weekend, and he just overheard me saying you didn’t have a date. He spoke right up and said he’d take you, that he’d love to take you. I didn’t pressure him at all. Honest!”
“You’ve got a date with Beau Baby,” Max called out, thumping the table with his hand and standing up. “You landed the big one without even trying.”
Everything was happening so quickly. A few hours earlier the prom had meant everything to me. But the last two and a half hours altered my feelings. I guess the last two weeks had changed that. I could feel tears well up in my eyes. They weren’t even tears of excitement because I could go to the prom with Beau Bentley. They were tears of joy, and I was suddenly glad about Dad’s layoff and Dale’s absence because those seemingly devastating circumstances had helped me discover my family in a way that I never had before.
“What about it, Max?” I smiled over at him. “You spoke first.”
Max took a deep breath and pondered for a moment with that teasing glint in his eye. “Well,” he drawled, “since Beau Baby’s howling at the door, I’ll back out this time.” He shrugged. “I know that will be a real step down for you, but I guess we’d better give Beau a break this time.” Sighing deeply, he dug his fists into his pockets. “I’ll even let him borrow my corsage. I doubt he thought of that.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, smiling.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll sacrifice this time. After all, I’m getting used to sacrificing now. But,” he added, raising a finger, “we will expect you home for banana splits. You can even bring Beau if you want.”
I laughed, gave him a quick hug and said, “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Promise.” He swallowed and tried to duck his head. The Mean Max mask was gone. I saw a trace of mist in his eyes, and I knew I would be the luckiest girl at the prom, not because I was going with Beau Bentley but because I had the greatest family in the world.

Most of us have been asked musically if we know the way to San Jose, and except in a general sense, most of us don’t. A lot of good Latter-day Saints call it home, however, and this article is about some of them.
Except that it isn’t about San Jose. It’s about San Francisco. There are a lot of fun things within easy reach of the young people in San Jose—everything from beach parties, to ski trips, to camping, to sailing, to sports and cultural events, to San Francisco, which is why this story happened.
San Francisco is about an hour from San Jose, just far enough to make it adventurous and close enough to make it convenient, and that’s how the priests and Laurels of the San Jose Seventh Ward came to make the trip one bright morning.
Their first stop was the Golden Gate Park, a giant green finger pointing out of the Pacific toward San Francisco Bay. They strolled in the shade of the gigantic trees and spent an hour in the lush beauty of the Oriental Tea Garden. They could easily have spent a day seeing the Park’s other attractions, but there was a city of 42 hills and 42,000 adventures waiting for them.
They visited the Golden Gate Bridge, standing on a windswept observation point and watching the vast red span stretch away from them. The intense blue of the bay was dotted with sails, and wave-swept Alcatraz Island looked foreboding in the middle of them.
Next they visited the quaint brick buildings of Ghiradelli Square and ate their lunches on the steps of a fountain there. Then, refreshed by the rest, they ambled along to Fisherman’s Wharf, passing on the street artists who sold their handiworks and street musicians who played in the open air, glancing hopefully now and then into guitar cases and hats where people would occasionally throw money.
One man sat in the back of a pickup truck parked by the curb and played an upright piano. Another innovative fellow climbed inside a painted box and billed himself as a human juke box. People put money in through a slot, and he played a wandering trumpet for them.
They walked along Fisherman’s Wharf, talking to the fish vendors and looking at the stacks of fresh crabs, lobsters, shrimp, and other seafood. Some of it looked back at them and snapped angry claws.
After spending some time observing the long rows of docked fishing boats, they boarded a cable car and rode up the steep hills to Chinatown. They walked up and down the steep streets lined with exotic buildings with upturned roofs, neon signs in Cantonese and English, and shops filled with the pungent aroma of unfamiliar foods.
By then the sun was getting low, and knowing the way to San Jose very well, they returned home.
Although San Francisco and San Jose are very nice places to know the way to when that’s where you want to go, these fine young Latter-day Saints also know the way to somewhere more important. They know the way home to their Father in Heaven, and they all bear testimony of their dedication to him and of the truthfulness of the gospel. When it was suggested, tongue in cheek, that it isn’t really possible to live the gospel fully outside of Salt Lake City, Utah, the whole group rose up in righteous indignation and explained almost simultaneously that there is no better place in the whole world for being a true Latter-day Saint than in San Jose, California.
They know the way in San Jose.

Let me tell you one student’s story. In 1997 Alicia’s family moved to Jerusalem as a result of her father’s assignment to teach at the BYU Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies. While there she had the opportunity to travel to Jordan and attend church meetings with the members of the Amman Branch. She was frustrated that she could not speak with them and vowed that she would learn Arabic. True to her word, she enrolled in Arabic 101 the first semester of her freshman year here.

Like many students Alicia found Arabic challenging, but she pushed on, looking forward to returning to Jerusalem in January of 2001 to participate in our winter/spring intensive Arabic program. Less than three months before our scheduled departure, violence broke out in Jerusalem and quickly spun out of control. No students have been sent to Jerusalem since. As a result of remarkable prior events, however, our students ended up spending winter semester in Syria, a land where few Americans go.

Once in Damascus, the students applied themselves to learning Arabic. With the help of excellent teachers and good friends they gradually acquired facility in the language. Syrians are particularly proud of their language and were deeply impressed to see Americans striving to learn it. Thousands, if not millions, came to know about our students, who were regularly featured on radio and TV and in newspapers. Everywhere the students went, people recognized them.

All of the students spent time serving in the community. Of one such experience Alicia wrote in her journal:

This morning before classes we did service at the handicapped school again. As we entered the gates, as with all other mornings, about 20 or so little Down syndrome kids raced toward us with huge smiles and outstretched arms. We began the routine of the morning with exercises and the national anthem of Syria and then went off to class. As we filed away to classes I was pulled away by a messenger who had been sent to tell me that the director of the school wanted to see me. I followed her to a room where the director and other administrators were anxiously waiting. . . . The principal informed me that their school was to participate in a Mother’s Day program where numerous government officials would be in attendance. He asked if I knew any children’s songs about mothers that the children could perform. . . . All that I had to draw from were the Primary songs of the Church that I had learned and sung to my mother as a child.

“Yes, I know some Mother’s Day songs,” I replied.

“Good. Will you sing one for us?” he asked.

I was startled. They all sat quietly and waited for the impromptu performance. I motioned to my colleague across the hall to come join me. Then she and I stood and sang. With no practice or prior notice we sang our hearts out. And as we did so, I felt certain that our voices were amplified by the power of heaven. We sang with the voices of angels resonating through the stone-arched walkways of this little school. A spirit of peace descended upon all present. At the close of our performance the director complimented us and asked if we would teach our songs to the children to perform on Mother’s Day. We accepted and went to work. For months we practiced, and finally the day of performance arrived.

As we waited for our turn to perform, we watched the performance of other schools. Instead of the sweet love-filled holiday I had expected, this had played out instead to be a political rally. Mothers and children, infuriated by their separation from one another by the Israeli occupation of the Golan, chanted out calls of war and pledges to reclaim what had been taken from them.

The children walked on stage with guns, flags, and signs of protest. The listening crowd cheered. I began to panic, realizing that it was almost our turn to perform. What we had to offer was such a contrast to what had been presented thus far. Yet there was nothing to do but to simply go on and pray that all would go well. . . . We stood on stage and . . . thanked God in heaven for sending us to our dear mothers. We sang of goodness, light, and peace. . . . A silence fell on the crowd, and for a brief moment the anguish and hate were lifted.

All in attendance felt of the peace that emanated from our simple Primary songs. Though it was just a Mother’s Day program, for me it was a grand experience. During this performance I came to understand a portion of the pain that these Syrians had experienced, and through our songs we offered to them the healing balm of the Spirit and peace. A bridge of understanding had been built between us, and our message to each other was burned into each others’ hearts.

In April our group spent a few days visiting Lebanon. We met with the Beirut Branch for church meetings. The room that serves as the chapel was filled to overflowing. The students were thrilled to hear (and understand!) talks given in Arabic and to participate in Sunday School. In a combined priesthood/Relief Society meeting, Nabil Assouad, the branch president, spoke for a few minutes and then turned the time over to the students to share their testimonies. One after another they rose and bore testimony. The Spirit was powerfully present. Alicia spoke of how she had prayed in her first visit to the Amman branch that she would be able to learn Arabic and participate in the meetings. She wept as she thanked God.

After the meetings and after some delicious food provided by the members, students and members got to know each other better. Both the Lebanese Saints and the students were hungry for each other’s company, the Beirut Branch being small and the students having had little or no contact with other members of the Church. The students had also missed having access to a piano, so one student soon began playing hymns and Primary songs. A number of students began to sing along. Other students and local members pulled up chairs to listen. Later that day I wrote in my journal, “I was very touched at the sight. Here we were, in Beirut, symbol [for the West] of all that’s gone wrong in the region, but we were united in love and peace, praising God.”

We returned to Damascus to participate in a symposium on Islamic philosophy jointly sponsored by Damascus University and BYU. Syrian professors, students, dignitaries, and media representatives packed the large room and stood in the hall as President Bateman emphasized the common values and the deep faith in God that the Syrian people and the Latter-day Saints share. Dr. Mouaffak Daaboul, academic vice president of the University of Damascus, opened the conference by expressing his admiration for BYU and for the Church and its members, recounting personal details of his visit to Utah to attend the Conference on the Family. He reflected on memories of a family home evening here that, left him deeply touched. He concluded his talk by expressing his love for the BYU students and then reading from letters that they had written in Arabic to the president of Syria about their experiences.

One student had written, “What surprised me was the friendliness of the Syrians—in my view the Syrians are the gentlest nation I have ever met. Syrians always have the time to sit and talk with us. People are the most important thing in their lives.” Dr. Daaboul concluded his remarks by holding the students up as an ideal for all to emulate in order to build bridges of understanding between the peoples of the world.

A few days later the students bid farewell to Syria, some to return to the U.S. and others to continue on for additional study in Jordan, Egypt, Morocco, and Spain. In each of the three branches of the Church in Jordan the students presented special programs. Returning to Amman meant that Alicia had come full circle and was finally able to communicate with the Saints there. Members and their friends thrilled to mingle with young American members who spoke their language and valued their culture. One of the senior missionaries serving there told me that the students accomplished more in a few days than he would in 18 months. We went on to similar experiences with the Saints in Cairo. Many of the students commented that these opportunities to strengthen Arab members of the Church were the high point of their Study Abroad experience.

Our students returned home just two months before the tragic events of September 11. I am convinced that they were sent to Damascus and other places by a loving Father in Heaven who knows all things. They softened many hearts, and their hearts were filled with love and understanding. Individuals can make a critical difference in the course of history. I believe that the world is a better place and that it will be a better place because of what these students and others have done, what they are doing, and what they will yet do. Many of them are or will be in positions of responsibility that will allow them to be a force for good, for peace, for understanding. They will likely make an even greater contribution through their children.

Weeks after her return to the U.S., Alicia left to serve in the Singapore Mission, from which she returned in January. She recently wrote me:

For the first year of my mission I served among the Muslim people in countries ruled by Islamic governments. Although we were not generally permitted to teach Muslims, there were numerous occasions where I had opportunities to build bridges. . . . I attended several Islamic conferences and was able to speak with the conference participants (often in Arabic) and tell them of my experiences in Jerusalem, Syria, and other places. . . . They were interested in our Study Abroad program. They were interested in my love for the Muslim people and expressed a desire for future programs to their countries so that students will likewise come to understand and love them as I do the people of Syria. I was daunted by the fact that I would be the sole representative there. However, I was comforted by remembering that the Lord had prepared me through experiences such as the Islamic Translation Series Conference in Damascus, where I, with the other students, was able to represent our student program and answer questions that I would later be asked again as I stood on my own in Malaysia. I have no doubt that those experiences were in the plan of the Lord and that He prepared me for them.