Gospel Story Finder

During this difficult period, Jirí and Olga sought legal permission many times to leave their homeland, citing religious persecution. But their requests only triggered new interrogations and further persecution. Since there was no private enterprise in Czechoslovakia, Jirí was a government employee, devoting his career to agricultural and water research. His own supervisors were summoned by Communist leaders and were told to financially punish him. “Heavenly Father protected us,” says Jirí. “Our bosses were our good friends, so we weren’t harmed financially.”

In 1968 they abandoned their efforts to leave Czechoslovakia. “We felt we needed to stay in our homeland because our brothers and sisters would need us,” Jirí says. “We couldn’t leave them.”

Seven-year-old Íngrid Fabiola Martínez Barredo knows something about temples. When she was five years old, she and her parents were sealed as an eternal family in the México City México Temple. The trip took eighteen hours each way on a bus crowded with members from their ward and stake. Like many members in Tuxtla Gutiérrez, she is thankful to have a temple just minutes away in her own city now.
Even though the long trip to the temple was uncomfortable, Íngrid and the other Primary children accompanying their parents to the temple did their best to make it pleasant. “They sang their favorite hymns and songs on the way, such as ‘Count Your Blessings’ and ‘I Am a Child of God,’”* her dad, Javier, said. Several members on the bus thanked the children for helping make the trip more enjoyable.

A dear friend shared how she gained her precious testimony of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. She grew up believing sin always brought great punishment, borne by us alone. She pleaded to God to understand the possibility of divine forgiveness. She prayed to understand and know how Jesus Christ can forgive those who repent, how mercy can satisfy justice.

One day her prayer was answered in a spiritually transforming experience. A desperate young man came running out of a grocery store carrying two bags of stolen food. He ran into a busy street, chased by the store manager, who caught him and began yelling and fighting. Instead of feeling judgment for the frightened young man as a thief, my friend was unexpectedly filled with great compassion for him. Without fear or concern for her own safety, she walked straight up to the two quarreling men. She found herself saying, “I will pay for the food. Please let him go. Please let me pay for the food.”

Prompted by the Holy Ghost and filled with a love she had never felt before, my friend said, “All I wanted to do was to help and save the young man.” My friend said she began to understand Jesus Christ and His Atonement—how and why with pure and perfect love Jesus Christ would willingly sacrifice to be her Savior and Redeemer, and why she wanted Him to be.38

During construction of the Rio de Janeiro Brazil Temple, I walked by it nearly every day. I would tell my friends, “One day, I’m going to get married in this building.”
“Man, you say the same thing every day!” they said.
I said it every day because I knew that the temple was getting closer to being completed, and I wanted to remind myself to keep doing the right things so that our family could be sealed together. This is the desire of my heart.

The missionaries did reap an important harvest in Ohio. En route west, they had visited Sidney Rigdon, a former Campbellite preacher and friend of Parley P. Pratt. At first skeptical, Rigdon studied the Book of Mormon, invited the missionaries to address his congregation, and soon asked for baptism. So did about 130 other persons in the area. Rigdon would not be satisfied until he met the Prophet. In December, he and a young hat maker, Edward Partridge, traveled together to the Smith home in Waterloo, New York, to meet Joseph Smith. The Prophet was impressed by Rigdon’s abilities and soon received a revelation stating that the Lord had prepared him “for a greater work” (D&C 35:3). The former preacher soon employed his oratorical skills in explaining the gospel to others. He soon began to serve as scribe to Joseph Smith in an inspired revision of the Bible and served as a counselor in the First Presidency.

I’ve had many blessings in my life—spiritual blessings. I had good parents, a good education, material blessings like a good home. I always had enough to eat, always a bed to sleep in, and many, many other blessings. I had the opportunity of working in business capacities, and in this capacity, of seeing the world, seeing many people. I have had many opportunities, but the greatest blessing that has come to me came through humble missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I want to express gratitude for all that I have to these young men that came to our home—not only that they came, but that they had love enough not to give up. I was a very hard case. I had thought that through my education, and through my background, and my history, and my family that I would be superior. I felt pity for the missionaries. I said, “Well, this fine young man, with such a poor message!” They didn’t give up. They came again and again and again. And I felt an authority radiating through them that was stronger and more than all the knowledge that I had in my previous life—the authority of the true love of Christ. I want to give thanks to this generation of missionaries who did not give up and to the mission president who had concern enough not to withdraw the missionaries from me. It was Elder Theodore M. Burton. I will never forget that.
I will tell you that I’m deeply convinced that this is in my life the most important blessing I have ever received. It changed my life totally. I began to realize that a man can know nothing important in this world unless he has knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ restored by his prophet, Joseph Smith, and follow-through by a living prophet, Spencer W. Kimball. Without this message I would not have a family like I have now. I would not have the love for my lovely wife that I have now, and I would not be able to be so proud of my children.

A BYU–Hawaii student, working as a tour guide at the PCC, also shared the following story just a few weeks ago, “I took a father and his four sons on a tour last year. The father let me know that he was a former Church employee. Upon learning this, I was happy and eager to spend my day with someone who understands the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and to share my culture with him. However, when I started sharing some information about the Church here in Laie, to my surprise, he stopped me and told me they did not want to hear anything about the Church. He then told me how he just woke up one day and decided they didn’t believe in the Church anymore, so they left. I was taken aback, feeling awkward and embarrassed. Usually, when someone stops me while I’m talking, especially about the Church, I feel a bit defensive. But I didn’t. I felt calm. So, throughout the day, instead of mentioning the Church directly, we talked about our families. I shared with him how part of my family had also left the Church. He asked me, “What made you stay?” I had never really thought about what made me stay so the only words that came out of my mouth were “my testimony.” I have been in touch with him and his family ever since. Fast forward to last weekend, the father and three of his children were rebaptized as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Had I been defensive about how he stopped me at the beginning of the tour, I would never have had the chance to share with him what made me stay.” [20]

In a high school in Utah, a young mentally handicapped student we will call Frank wanted so much to be accepted by the popular crowd. He would follow them around, always on the outside looking in, hoping to be included but never achieving it.
One day in the cafeteria, some of the more popular boys and girls encouraged Frank to get up on the table and dance. Thinking he would please them, he did it. In his awkward way, he twisted and twirled. The group yelled, clapped their hands, and laughed. They were laughing at him, and Frank thought they were laughing with him.
A few tables away, Dave was eating lunch with a friend and watching it all. He courageously leaped up, faced that crowd of tormentors, and through clenched teeth said, “I’ve had as much of this as I can stand!” He helped Frank down and said, “Frank, you come and have lunch with us.”
At a 20-year high school reunion, one of the graduates had a surprising conversation with one of her classmates that went something like this:
“I came to this reunion after all these years hoping you would be here so I could thank you. My high school experience was hard for me. You may not have known it, but you were the only friend I had in high school. I wondered if maybe the seminary teacher had assigned you to be nice to me. Did he?”
“No, he didn’t assign me.”
“Well, you didn’t know it, but every day I looked for you because I knew that you would talk to me. You made me feel better about myself. Now I am married and have a large family. During these past years I have thought many times of what you meant to me, and I wanted to tell you that.”

Some years ago while our family was eating dinner with another couple from our ward, we received a phone call from the emergency department of our local hospital. An official asked my husband, who was serving as stake president at the time, if someone from our Church could come see a 17-year-old youth who had suffered a serious head injury.
Upon arriving, my husband learned that the young man had fallen from a balcony onto a cement sidewalk 30 feet (9 m) below. He was unconscious and not expected to live.
My husband and the brother who ate dinner with us gave the young man a blessing. His family, who lived a thousand miles (1,610 km) away, was contacted and apprised of his condition.
Miraculously, after a few days of intensive care, the young man regained consciousness and began to heal. For four weeks his parents visited him daily in the hospital. Then they flew him home to Arizona, USA, so he could complete his recovery.
How marvelous it was to witness the healing power of the priesthood work in a way to give this young man a second chance at a healthy future. And how grateful I was for a husband and other ward members who are prepared to perform priesthood service and act with divine authority.
I felt deeply for the young man’s parents, who were so far from their son during his crisis. I was glad, however, to know that they felt somewhat reassured when they learned that their son had received a priesthood blessing and that Church members were glad to help.

How do you remember to choose the right? Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles tells a story about a young boy and his friends who found a package of cigarettes: “They decided to go down on the cliff alongside some large boulders and smoke. … They lit up, and the young man said that as he was looking down at the smoldering cigarette that he held between his fingers, he saw his CTR ring. He quickly put the cigarette out. … He chose to choose the right, as he remembered what the emblem stood for” (Ensign, Nov. 1993, 66).

Last year I too was led on an unexpected path. During Christmas break, just before the winter 2013 semester began, a colleague and I were talking in the hallway about an interesting project someone was working on. I commented that when I retired I would love to work on a project like that. After a few follow-up questions and some offhand remarks in answer to his questions, my colleague informed me that there was a possible project that matched my interests.

I did not recognize this as an inspired opportunity until a few months later when a leave had been approved and I was scheduled to go to Vienna, Austria, for six weeks to work on the project. I knew I was being led by the Spirit because I kept waiting for the feeling of terror that usually accompanies an idea that is not correct. However, I felt peace and the prompting to continue forward with the project.

That whispering of the Spirit led me to Vienna, where my work strengthened my testimony and helped me recognize the guiding hand of the Lord. I was invited to enter the home of a wonderful family: Johann and Ursula Wondra. Through their inspired service and leadership they have been instrumental in the growth of the Church in Central and Eastern Europe. They have kept personal and Church records since 1958. My role was to index the records they had so carefully preserved so that their records could be digitized.

There were many obstacles to this project, but the Lord placed people at the appropriate places and times to help me succeed. First, I lacked experience. I had never done a project like this before and did not have the professional skills needed to complete my part of the project. Through the expert teaching and mentorship of Matt Heiss at the Church History Library, I was able to learn enough to do the work.

The second challenge was that I did not speak German. I had a mother and grandparents who spoke German, and I had taken classes in high school and college, but I had forgotten everything. However, there were many kind people who spoke English when I needed help.

The final obstacle, and the one that turned my heart to complete trust in the Lord, was that I was going alone to a country I did not know and would need to take care of my living arrangements such as housing, food, and transportation. In preparing for the trip I found an apartment on the Internet that turned out to be in a safe location and near grocery stores and public transportation. I can testify that when the Spirit prompts us and we are obedient, the Lord provides the blessings we need.

I spent six miraculous weeks working on this project with the Wondra family. They opened their records, their home, and their hearts to me. They taught me about faith and commitment to the gospel no matter what the struggles and challenges. Their example and instruction sustained me through my own struggles and my feelings of inadequacy.

When our youth group was planning to do baptisms for the dead, I wondered what it would be like in my Heavenly Father’s house. With great anticipation, I stepped inside the Los Angeles California Temple. I was overwhelmed at the feeling of peace there. Nothing could have been more opposite from my earthly home. I almost didn’t dare breathe for fear the feeling would go away. But it was constant and calm.
I loved being in the temple. In His house, I did not need to be afraid. It was safe, calm, peaceful, and comforting. I wanted to live there. Heavenly Father’s house was full of love. I was so happy. I promised myself I would be worthy to come back to His house again.

Nicky rushed through the house, looking for Old Nono. Finally he found him sitting in a rocking chair on the back porch, enjoying the warm spring sunshine. “Hello, Old Nono,” Nicky said as he went up to his great-grandfather and put his arms gently around the old man’s neck to give him a hug. As Nicky bent forward, his backpack slid under his arm and banged into Old Nono’s chest.
“Ooooph!” Surprised, the old man gasped for breath, then smiled at Nicky and laughed his rumbly laugh. “That’s a heavy bag of seeds you have there, Nicky.”
Nicky laughed, too, and let the backpack slide down onto the porch floor. “Sorry.” He bent over to kiss the wrinkled cheek. “Are you ready?”
Old Nono smiled at Nicky through his watery, cloudy, 102-year-old eyes. They were kind eyes, understanding eyes that had seen much during his lifetime. “You bet I’m ready!”
By the time Nicky changed into his work clothes and went back outside, Old Nono was already in the garden with the wooden flats filled with the tomato plants that the two of them had started weeks earlier from seeds. “Why don’t you build your muscles by carrying the water,” Old Nono said, pointing to the metal bucket by the water faucet. He grinned and raised his skinny arms as if he were a muscleman. “My muscles are already too strong.”
As soon as Nicky had carried a bucket of water to the garden, Old Nono started forcing his thick, pointed stick into the soft soil and pulling it to one side to form a hole. Nicky poured water into the hole, then held a six-inch tomato plant in it while Old Nono tamped the soil around the plant’s roots.
When they finished the second row, Old Nono paused. He picked up a handful of the black dirt and slowly straightened up, a faraway look in his eyes. Some of the dirt trickled between his fingers. Nicky looked at Old Nono’s gnarled knuckles, swollen and misshapen by arthritis, and he wondered if old age hurt. Then Nicky looked up into Old Nono’s face and saw that it wasn’t pain that had caused him to stop. It was his memories.
Old Nono had been just a teenager when he’d left his parents in Italy and had come to live in Illinois. It had taken many years of hard work before he’d been able to buy a small vegetable farm just outside Chicago. Last fall Old Nono had taken Nicky to the place where, for almost five decades, Old Nono had had a partnership with the land in raising millions of tomatoes and other vegetables. Now that land was covered with streets and lawns and trees and homes.
Old Nono bent over and patted his handful of black dirt around the last small tomato plant.
“I wish I could grow up to be a truck farmer like you were,” Nicky said with a sigh.
“Things are different now, Nicky. Farming isn’t simple any more.” Old Nono straightened up slowly. “Let’s hurry and clean up here, Nicky, so that we can go tend our magic garden.”
Fifteen minutes later they were upstairs in Old Nono’s room. Except for the door, the closet, and the window, all the walls of Old Nono’s room were covered with bookshelves filled with books that the old, cloudy eyes could no longer read.
“Your mind is a magic garden,” Old Nono often said to Nicky. “It’s a magic garden because anything that you plant there grows either seeds or weeds. Every day you choose which one you plant in your magic garden.”
Old Nono sat down in an overstuffed chair and used his hands to lift his feet onto the ottoman. From the table next to him he took a small framed picture of his wife and held it at an angle a few inches from his eyes. Nicky had never known Old Noni. She had died more than twenty years before Nicky was born, but Nicky could tell from the pictures and the stories that he’d heard about her that she had been a beautiful woman in many ways.
Nicky sat in his chair on the other side of the table and opened up Old Nono’s Bible to the bookmark. The ritual was the same every day, and the first thing was for Nicky to read to Old Nono from the scriptures.
Nicky found the next marked verses, and read aloud: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
“A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.”*
As Nicky closed the Bible and put it back on the table, Old Nono said quietly, “Isn’t that beautiful, Nicky? That’s one of my favorite passages.”
Nicky nodded, although he wondered if he’d really understood what he’d just read. He decided to think about it later. For now, he’d continue with their ritual. “We finished Huckleberry Finn yesterday, Old Nono. What do you want to read now?”
“That one,” Old Nono said, pointing.
Nicky got the large book, opened it to Chapter One, and started to read: “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” Nicky glanced again at the title at the top of the page—David Copperfield—then at Old Nono, who had his eyes closed and a happy smile on his face.
Several weeks and 850 pages later, Nicky said a sad good-bye to his friend David Copperfield, a true hero who had planted many seeds of persistence and integrity in Nicky’s and Old Nono’s magic garden. Their next hero was clever King Odysseus, who shared with them the adventures he faced and the problems he solved while traveling home from the war at Troy.
Throughout the spring, Nicky and Old Nono pulled weeds in the outside garden and supported the growing tomato plants with wooden stakes. By summer the little yellow flowers on them became green tomatoes that grew larger every day. Nicky and Old Nono bet each other a hot fudge sundae on which of two tomatoes that they were especially watching would ripen first.
The day came when Old Nono’s tomato was fully ripe. As soon as Nicky’s baseball practice was over, he hopped on his bike and pedaled hard for home. They were going to pick Old Nono’s tomato, eat it with their lunch, then walk to the ice-cream store, where Nicky would buy the sundaes. But when Nicky pulled into the driveway, his mother was outside waiting for him.
“Nicky,” she said softly, “something has happened to Old Nono. Dad went with him in the ambulance a few minutes ago, and I’ve been waiting here for you.”
Nicky dropped his bike on the lawn and got into the car. As his mother started to back the car out of the driveway, Nicky called out, “Wait!” He got out of the car, ran back to the garden, and tenderly picked Old Nono’s tomato.
The hospital was only three miles away, but the drive seemed to take forever. Maybe it’s nothing serious, Nicky hoped.
At the admittance desk Nicky’s mom asked the emergency room nurse about Old Nono. The nurse glanced at a clipboard, then excused herself to go back into the work area. A few minutes later a young, curly-haired doctor came through the metal swinging doors with Nicky’s dad, whose eyes were red from crying.
“There was nothing more we could do,” the doctor said. “But if it’s any consolation to you, Mr. Mariani seemed to die peacefully.”
Nicky’s mom started to cry, and so did Nicky. Finally, when his tears subsided, Nicky realized that he was still holding Old Nono’s tomato. He took it to the nurse’s desk. “Maybe somebody here would like to have this,” he said, handing her the tomato and trying to smile.
The nurse took the tomato and smiled back kindly.
The morning of the funeral the sun shone brilliantly in the blue sky. A farmer’s day, Nicky thought as he walked between the rows of tomatoes—Old Nono’s last crop. Just a few months ago Old Nono had poured a bunch of tiny seeds into the palm of Nicky’s hand. Now those seeds had turned into rows of healthy plants with bushels of beautiful tomatoes on them.
Nicky went to Old Nono’s room to wait while his parents finished getting dressed for the funeral. He walked past the bookshelves, stopping to read some of the familiar titles. Books. Hundreds of books that Old Nono loved. Thousands of seeds for their magic garden. He wondered if Old Nono missed these books. Nicky sat in the overstuffed chair, picked up the picture of Old Noni, and studied her smiling face. Wherever Old Nono is, he decided, he’s with Old Noni, and they are happy together.
He glanced up at the books again as he suddenly understood the real magic of Old Nono’s magic garden. The books were still here in this room, but Old Nono had taken the “seeds” in them with him!
A similar thought came to Nicky in the cemetery as he watched the casket being lowered into the grave. It wasn’t really Old Nono inside that casket; it was just the body that Old Nono had left behind, on old, worn-out body. And that body was being placed into the earth that had been Old Nono’s partner in life.
As the casket settled into the grave, tears clouded Nicky’s eyes, and a dull ache persisted. He was really going to miss Old Nono. But through the pain, some familiar words came into Nicky’s mind: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” When he had read them before, they were only words. Now those words had meaning. “A time to be born, and a time to die …” Other seeds that had been planted in Old Nono’s magic garden came to Nicky’s mind: “For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.”**
Suddenly it was all clear to him. Everything has a purpose. Even death has a purpose, and it is not really that scary. When he had been helping Old Nono plant seeds in his magic garden, he had also been planting his own magic garden. And the fruit of his magic garden tasted wonderful.

When I served as mission president in eastern Canada, there was a lovely lady who served as the secretary of the genealogy committee in one of our fine districts. How she labored in her assignment! This dear woman was responsible for much of the genealogical research that had been done in her area of Canada. But she had come to a seemingly insurmountable barrier which she could not penetrate. She went to her Heavenly Father, poured out her soul to Him, and literally made a plea that somehow He would intervene, somehow the way would be opened. Without waiting for a specific answer, she continued her research.

One day she was traveling down the main street of Belleville, Ontario, and came to an old bookstore. She felt compelled to enter the bookstore, and as she perused the countless array of books, her eye caught a two-volume set on a top shelf, and she knew she had to see those books. She asked the clerk for assistance, and when he handed them to her, she read the titles: Pioneer Life on the Bay of Quinte, volumes 1 and 2. She turned to the first page, the second, and the third. Those two volumes contained nothing but family history from the first page to the last. One volume supplied the key which opened the lock to the mystery which had frustrated her work.

She was elated until she asked the price, and then her elation turned to doubt. “Two hundred dollars for the two rare volumes,” said the clerk. However, the quorum of elders in the district was able to purchase those two volumes after their worth had been verified. The books were sent to the genealogical archives in Salt Lake City, and it was reported that they also provided some of the missing keys to the research of the late President Henry D. Moyle of the First Presidency, for some of his forebears had come from the Bay of Quinte near Belleville, Ontario. A great blessing had been realized because a dear woman with “faith, nothing wavering,” had performed her duty.

9:28 A.M.
Elder Darren Majeran and Elder Josh Graham say a prayer, grab their bike helmets, and head out the door. No car for them. They need to get to Bonnie Brae Street for an appointment with an investigator, but they have a little time before that so they go on two callbacks to people they’d met last week. They pedal down the driveway and onto the street.

9:55 A.M.
There is no answer at either home, so back on the bikes they go. Their investigator on Bonnie Brae likes what he has heard about the Church, but he is having a problem understanding the concept of the priesthood and authority. They’re prepared to try to answer his questions.

10:07 A.M.
The investigator seems happy to see the missionaries. He has read two of the pamphlets the elders left with him on their last visit, and he’s prepared to discuss them. He seems very earnest in his desire to learn. He’s just not sure he can accept what they are teaching.

11:20 A.M.
“I thought it went okay,” Elder Majeran says after the meeting. “It’s just going to take some time.”
Next stop: the corner of Harvard Street and Ramona Avenue. The missionaries lock their bikes to a stop sign and begin going door to door. Elder Majeran and Elder Graham go to 19 houses, but very few people are home, and nobody invites them in.

12:15 P.M.
The missionaries break for lunch and talk about what just happened and what’s ahead. Elder Graham has been a missionary for about seven months, and he’s settled into a daily routine. “I guess the work has been the way I expected it to be. I haven’t done quite as much teaching as I thought we would,” he says. “But when you do, and you see people make changes in their lives and know you’ve been a part of that, it’s great.”
He continues: “If we tracted for a whole day and did nothing else, we’d probably get in maybe two or three doors.”
“We do a lot of talking through screens,” Elder Majeran adds. “But we usually have pretty good success once we get in.”
Today won’t be one of those days, however.

1:22 P.M.
It’s more of the same in the afternoon, although there is something to look forward to tonight. A family committed to receive baptism is scheduled for a sixth discussion, and another family in the ward has invited the missionaries to dinner.

7:03 P.M.
With dinner concluded (“The chicken was really good. Sister Wilson is a great cook,” Elder Graham says), the missionaries end up teaching a discussion to a person referred to them by a member. That is followed by the discussion to the family scheduled to be baptized.

9:35 P.M.
Another day is complete. Elder Majeran is tired but happy. “Not bad. We got a lot done today,” he says. As they change from their proselyting clothes and get ready for bed, they make phone calls to the zone leaders and the ward mission leader.

Most recently I have returned from spending two and a half years in West Africa, where I was sent to help with a research project.
As I lived among the Nigerian people, I thought, “Wow! Imagine living like that!” I often watched my neighbor, Violet, a 16-year-old Latter-day Saint. It was hard not to think about the life I lived at age 16. My life had been extremely extracurricular. I was a member of almost every high school club I could find time for, I was very involved in sports, I was a student-body officer, I sang in a choir, I attended early-morning seminary, and I fulfilled Church callings. My life was a whirlwind of activity—fun activity.
Violet’s life was very different. She was the oldest of five living children. Three younger family members had died in infancy. Her mother had married at age 14, and Violet was born a short time later.
Violet’s parents spent most of their time doing farm work. As the oldest child, Violet was expected to help with the work needed to sustain the family. Because of family needs and the expense of school fees, Violet was not able to attend the village primary school every year. Some years she had her turn; other years her brothers and sisters had their turn. Violet completed about four or five years of schooling, and she probably would not receive more, as she was at the age when most Nigerian girls are given in marriage.
The village area Violet and I lived in had no electricity or running water. The walls of her home were made of mud clay packed between bamboo poles. The roof was of palm thatch. A wall made of sticks and thatch separated her compound from mine. As I lived by and learned from Violet, I discovered a principle that has had a profound impact on my life. I call it my principle of Difference Relativity.
When I was first asked to go to Nigeria, I was under the impression that I would be going into the bush of Africa to save the dying children. My colleague and I arrived on the scene with our cases and boxes of supplies and comforts and equipment and stuff. And in our books and materials, we thought we had all the answers to the world’s problems. We were ready and willing to find and point out all of the problems of the Nigerian people so we could proceed to solve them.
It didn’t take us long to realize that we were the ones that needed help. We were the ones having a hard time surviving. We were the ones having a hard time coping with life in Nigeria, not the Nigerians. I began to realize that differences are relative. Slowly, as the months went by, I began to see that I was just as different from Violet as she was from me, and I discovered an equality in our differences.
The differences in our lives started first thing in the morning, every morning. My co-workers and I had access to generated power each morning for two hours, and during that time, we bustled and hustled to use our electric typewriters, our computer, and our copying machine to record collected data and to prepare materials for the coming work day.
While we were doing this, Violet and her brothers and sisters were making their way back from a small stream about a half mile away. Every morning, at first light, they went to collect water for their family’s daily needs. Much of West Africa is a tropical rain forest, and so during the wet season, the children don’t have to walk quite so far to collect water. Violet could powerfully hoist a ten-gallon container on her head and then gracefully carry it all the way home without spilling a drop. I could just as gracefully make an entry in my computerized journal describing that feat.
Several times in the week Violet and her brother went out into the bush with their machetes to collect firewood. They usually returned at dusk with large bundles of sticks and wood balanced on their heads. This wood was used for the cooking fire. And then Violet and her mother prepared their usual gari and soup, made almost entirely from ingredients grown in their compound and on their small farm. Violet and her mother knew what it meant to be self-sufficient. My limited experience in such survival skills was a result of a week spent at girls’ camp several years before. I had much to learn from Violet and her mother.
I loved to go over to Violet’s compound on Saturday evenings while her family was preparing for the Sabbath. The children took turns helping each other bathe, the older ones would pour the water while the younger ones lathered themselves with soap. Violet’s father prepared the iron by filling it with hot coals from the fire, and Violet would press the clean white shirts and their dresses and wrappers so they would look their best at church in the morning. Water for the sacrament was boiled and cooled. And by the light of a bush lantern, scriptures and lessons were studied and prepared.
The more I observed Violet, the more I saw the differences between us. But I gained perspective and understanding. I imagined how hard it might be for Violet to live in my home environment. I thought of all the wonderful things she would miss—the sunsets decorated by lacy palms, the quiet of night where the only interruptions are made by choirs of frogs singing and distant drums, the daily contact with family and extended family who lived in the surrounding village. I thought about Violet’s physical strength and her young, supple body and what might happen to it if she were introduced to junk food and lazy habits. I thought of her cooking skills and farming skills and her ability to care for her younger brothers and sisters, and wondered how much of that would be lost if she were transplanted into my home environment.
And most often, I wondered about our thoughts and our feelings about our heavenly home. Violet’s world was different from mine. Our differences were great—she did things I couldn’t do, and I did things she couldn’t do. But we did have one most important thing in common: we were both daughters of our Heavenly Father. And because we both knew that, our differences didn’t separate us; they drew us together, and we learned from each other and we shared with each other, and both of our lives became fuller. I am a better person because of Violet’s differences, because she shared them with me. And I hope Violet is a better person because of my differences.

Then, one day your Sunday School teacher asks you who your heroes are. That’s exactly what Sunday School teacher Mark Graham of the Manhattan Second Ward asked his class. Well, that wasn’t exactly the question. Actually, the whole thing started with a discussion of greatness. The first question really was “What makes a great person so great?” From there it progressed to a class project to discover their real heroes and the qualities they have.
This being a Sunday School class, naturally the focus is on spiritual qualities of spiritual heroes—and even more specifically, people who influence your life personally. So rule out the athletes and performers, the millionaires and politicians. As one of the class members, Ben Cottam, explains: “In the beginning when we started this project, we talked a lot about people doing big things, but really, the most important thing that goes into being a great person is the love and the caring. If you love people and care about them, that’s going to make you great.”
Other qualities the class listed included determination, commitment, service to others, modesty, humility, courage, and love of God. Once class members knew what qualities they were looking for, heroes start turning up pretty close to home. Very close. In fact, the list included a number of parents, several Young Men and Young Women advisers …
Before we go any further, remember where we are: Manhattan. The chapel is on Broadway, across from the Lincoln Center. These kids attend schools all over New York. Many of them are headed for distinguished universities all over the country. They are bright and articulate and aware. Typical New Yorkers, they are not easily impressed. And here they are, listing their heroes as parents, advisers.
Janna Beck picked her mother “because of her service to me and to my whole family.” Beyond service to the family, “Mom always volunteers in the schools. She is also a volunteer at the state women’s prison to help prisoners set their lives on track.” Besides, “She’s always reading the scriptures. I want to have that quality.”
Kara Beck chose her dad, Gary, who’s an attorney in the Coast Guard. “Dad is always concerned about other people. He’s always positive. I’ve never heard him say anything bad about anyone. He gives copies of the Book of Mormon to everyone and does it in such a way that people aren’t offended.”
Myung Lee is Korean by birth. He’s stayed behind in New York to finish his schooling while his father—his hero—has returned to Korea with the rest of the family to serve as a mission president. Myung Lee says of his father, “He constantly has good thoughts on his mind, thoughts of Christ. My dad really seems to be focused. His faith in Jesus Christ is that He can guide him through anything and that my father will always follow. That’s how he leads his life every day, and that sort of tells me to lead my life that way.”
Neylan McBaine’s mother, Ariel Bybee, has had a distinguished career singing with the Metropolitan Opera Company. An accomplished musician herself, Neylan understands just how great her mother’s career achievements are. Yet it’s her mother’s spiritual qualities that make her a hero to Neylan, qualities like compassion, awareness of others’ needs, working hard at Church callings. But then it really gets personal. “She’s always been willing to put the career second, to cut down on the time that’s needed to have a full star’s career to always come home and be with me, fix me dinner, be there when I get home from school. I’ve always known that if she had to choose between me and a career, she would choose me.”
Love of the Savior, love of the family, love for others—the picture of a real hero begins to emerge as class members talk about what they have learned. Others reinforce that image.
Jeremy Vogelmann chose his mother “because she’s a really strong woman. She stands up for everyone. She has a really big heart. If she sees someone in need, she will go and feed them or do whatever she can.”
Kevin Vogelmann, Jeremy’s younger brother, selected Serge Bushman, his priests quorum adviser, for his compassion, humility, devotion to the quorum members, and spirituality. After watching his adviser, Kevin defines a hero as “someone who is always trying to make himself better.”
Obviously, any human hero is going to have faults. If you pick distant heroes, like famous people, those faults may not be obvious. But when you live with someone like a parent, or watch someone week after week like a teacher or adviser, you are going to see flaws. For example, after he spends several minutes talking (in her presence) about how great his mom is, you ask Benjamin Cottam if his mother is perfect. “No, of course not,” he jokes. “That’s why my first choice was Santa Claus.”
That’s also why humility is one of the foremost traits the class listed for a hero. You’re not going to find a perfect human being to imitate, but you can find good people who continually improve their own lives at the same time they are reaching out to others. You can find people who are honest with themselves about their faults. And you can find people who have been wise in their own choice of heroes.
Take Marsha and Gary Beck, for example. Remember, Janna and Kara picked them as their heroes. But who are Mom’s and Dad’s heroes? “The Savior,” Sister Beck answers simply. Brother Beck adds a new twist to this hero thing: “My kids are my heroes. And my parents, my Primary teachers—everybody that I’ve ever had a chance to rub shoulders with—there’s a little bit of heroism in all of them, and I have always tried to find what that is and to incorporate that into my own life.”
Can you really be a hero to your hero? Well, Gary Beck isn’t the only “hero” in this study who feels that way. Kristin Baxter is the Laurel adviser in the Manhattan Second Ward. She was picked as a hero by Leslie Mantillas, a recent convert to the Church. Leslie, who went through some tough times after her baptism, credits Kristin with always being there for her. “She never judged me. Her love always showed through.” But Leslie is something of a hero to Kristin, too. (As the two of them talk about it, tears well in their eyes.) “I think it goes both ways,” Kristin says. “I think she’s a hero, too. A hero is someone you look up to, even if they have a couple of faults. You know their heart.”
Maybe Adam Fennimore sums it up as well as anyone. Adam, who’s now serving a mission in Madrid, Spain, says, “A hero is someone whose characteristics you would like for your own. You find people who are like you want to be.”
Heroes like these can be found anywhere—in the smallest of towns and in the smallest of families. You’ve probably never heard of most of these heroes before, and maybe you’ll never see or hear their names again. That’s okay. Maybe no one’s ever heard of your heroes, either. It doesn’t matter. If they make you want to be better than you are, if they lead you closer to the Savior, if they make you want to be someone else’s hero in turn—those are things that matter.

I remember reading a story in the Friend about how scared a little girl was on her first day at a new school. Then a new girl, McKenna, joined my kindergarten class. I sat by her at rug time so she would have a friend. Every time I tried to sit by her, she scooted away from me. I went home and told my mom about it. She was proud of me because I had tried to be friendly, even though McKenna was shy. Now McKenna is one of my friends. I am looking forward to having other new kids join our class.

My name is Mardi Datakasi, I’m 16 years old, and I go to Mt. Barker High, where I’m in year 11 and study maths, (Australians use the plural), English, chemistry, modern history, geography, drama, Australian studies, and biology.
I am currently the state champion and third in Australia for BMX (bicycle motocross) racing. I just returned from Holland after competing in IBF championships, where I came in sixth. This was a great experience and an opportunity to meet people from other countries, as there were 32 countries competing.
My day is very long. I get up at 5:30 A.M. to arrive at the chapel for seminary at 6:15. That’s a 20-kilometer trip. We finish at about 7:10. I eat breakfast, then go to the local fitness center and do my morning training for BMX, which includes weights and swimming. At 8:30 I leave there and walk to school. After school I train on my bike and do my homework. Every Monday and Thursday night I work at the Meadows take-away (fast-food restaurant) and get home about 10:30 P.M.
On weekends I race BMX bikes and go to church. I have just completed my third year of seminary and am a Laurel.

Lying flat on my back, staring at the mechanical paraphernalia of an X-ray machine, was not what I had expected as part of my experience in the Language Training Mission. But there I was, my right ankle all puffed and swollen; another casualty of physical activity time.
Fifteen minutes before, I had been in the middle of a very exciting soccer game. My district was ahead with only one minute left. Suddenly, our defense weakened and the ball shot toward the goal. I ran forward as Elder Duran, my best friend on the other team, fell to the ground to block my kick. Snap! A sound like the cracking of a branch wrapped in a towel made everyone cringe. I crumpled to the ground, holding my right leg, and screamed for a doctor.
I tried to get up, but the pain in my leg convinced me to just lie there and grit my teeth. The ambulance came, and soon I was lying on the X-ray table, hoping my injury would be a mere sprain or dislocation. However, my hope for a miracle was destroyed when through the partially closed door, I overheard a nurse say, “That’s the worst break I’ve ever seen.”
No one would touch me for 45 minutes. Then a specialist arrived and confirmed the nurse’s comment about my ankle. By 11:00 P.M. I was semiconscious in a hospital bed, still groggy from an operation to insert a screw into my ankle. My only thought at the time was that I would be left behind when the 21 elders in my group left for the Guatemala-El Salvador Mission two weeks later.
After four days in the hospital, I hobbled back to the LTM (Language Training Mission) on crutches. I don’t know if words can describe what it was like to be in the LTM for five weeks after I had learned all the lessons. I could say them backwards and forwards, in my sleep, in the shower, upside down, and in-between.
A group of missionaries were scheduled to leave for Guatemala four days after my cast was removed, but I still had two weeks of therapy ahead of me. By the power of fervent persuasion that only a missionary has, however, my doctor was convinced I could go as long as I didn’t do any excessive walking for the first few weeks.
Finally! The excitement in my body must have been the healing factor in my bones. By the time I got to the airport, I was hyperactive. To prove my ankle was as good as new, I hopped on one foot, danced around, and showed everybody the 20 centimeters long scar on my right ankle. I can’t remember all I did, but my antics were enough to bring gasps and concerned looks from my mother and comments like, “He hasn’t changed a bit,” from my friends.