Gospel Story Finder

Examples of pure religion can be found on every hand. At a funeral about a month ago, I learned of a valiant young lady on a mission in a distant land who, after much prayer and many tears, wrote to her dying mom just before the terminal illness took its toll, and told her that even though she would like to be at her bedside, she would follow her mother’s teachings and stay in the mission field to finish her assignment and search out those who wanted to hear the gospel.

Dillon has a terrible problem: his greatest talent is also his greatest fear. “I love to sing,” the 16-year-old Tongan says, “but not in front of people. I get too scared.”
Imagine his mixed feelings when the Church in Tonga announced auditions for vocalists to record a Tongan version of the Old Testament seminary soundtrack. He was both excited and scared to death.
Three songs on the soundtrack require a male vocalist. After Dillon had sung the song for which he was auditioning, the producer surprised him by asking him to sing another of the songs on the soundtrack. As nervous as he was, he did it, and the producer said, “We found our boy.”
Much to his excitement—and dismay—Dillon was offered the opportunity to record all three songs.
Dillon, a member of the Nuku‘alofa Tonga Stake, excels in school. He’s one of about 10 percent of Tongan students selected to attend the government school. He also enjoys seminary. “He wakes us up early so he can get to seminary,” his mother, Malenita, says.
But singing is what he loves—though his family didn’t even know he could until he was asked to sing a solo during a Primary program one year.
“Dillon’s always been shy,” his mother says.
He did so well in the Primary program that he was asked to sing during a conference of the Nuku‘alofa Tonga Stake. After that he was hooked.
He told his mom, “One day I’m going to use my talent for God.” After he was chosen to sing on the soundtrack, he told her, “Mom, I used my talent.”
Dillon’s older brother, Sione, says he tries to encourage Dillon to sing. “I would love to have the talent he does,” he says. “Everybody wants him to share it.”
“I like it when he sings,” says his sister, Pea.
“I want to sing like him some day,” says his nine-year-old brother, Paula.
Dillon is grateful for his family’s support. “I love my family,” he says. “I’m sure that with their help, I can make my weakness a strength.”
As Dillon worked with the sound crew to record the songs, he struggled with one note. “I couldn’t hit it,” he says. “We rehearsed for hours.”
Finally, exhausted and discouraged, he went home that night, knowing that the next morning he’d have to record the song.
“I went straight to my room and prayed to my Heavenly Father to help me,” he says.
All he could think about was how important the soundtrack would be to the 50,000 members of the Church in Tonga, as well as thousands of others who speak Tongan around the world.
“It was one of the longest nights of my life,” he says.
After a long night of prayer and a little bit of sleep, Dillon walked into the recording studio and hit the note.
“Hallelujah,” he remembers saying. “I was happy.”
One of Dillon’s favorite scriptures is Joshua 1:9: “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”
Dillon put that promise to the test, and he learned it was true. “I tried my best. I put my best effort and heart into the songs so the listeners will be able to feel the Spirit.”
As Dillon grows out of his fear and into his talents, he recognizes he has received a lot of help—not only from his family but from his Heavenly Father.
“I know,” he says, “that God answered my prayers.”

Several years ago our family lived in Salt Lake City, Utah, for a short time, and while there, I served in the Young Women program in our ward. It was a profound learning and growing experience for me. One of my most vivid and memorable experiences was participating in a hike with the Olympus 7th ward Young Women. The chosen hike was the summit of Mt. Aire in Millcreek Canyon. Our guide was a sister in the ward, named Amy, who was a trained search and rescue professional who would lead us and ensure that we would safely reach our destination and also return home safely that afternoon. When this hike was proposed I thought to myself, “it’s a convenient location, with the trailhead only about a 15 minute drive from our house – how challenging could it be?”

Besides the relatively close proximity to civilization, the expected duration for the hike was only about two hours and again I figured, (for a novice hiker), that seemed reasonable. How bad could a two hour trek be? The girls were enthusiastic and eager to listen to Amy as she provided information about appropriate hiking clothing and shoes. She also reminded us to carry a light jacket and gave us a suggested quantity of water we should bring. Although it seemed like an inordinate amount to haul, I thought it best to comply since she was an expert and knew what she was talking about, but I couldn’t help ask myself, “how much is that water going weigh?”

Let me tell you what I learned about Mt. Aire during the hike. First off it should be called Mt. “No Air” or Mt. “Give Me Oxygen.” This is due to the fact that the summit is about 8,600 feet above sea level. For comparison sake, the Koolau Mountain Range here around us rises to a height of approximately 3,000 feet above sea level.

From the base of Mt Aire to the summit is a vertical climb of 2,000 feet. For those of us from sea level, a hike to over 8,000 feet in altitude presents very noticeable changes. You quickly observe a lack of available oxygen and the thinning of the air makes you feel out of shape, lethargic, and light-headed.

Let me share what I remember most about that mountainous climb. The 16 and 17 year old Laurels started out in front with Amy and stayed up with her all the way. They set a grueling pace for the rest of us (well for me). They seemed as sure footed as mountain goats, steady on their feet and moving with ease and elegance. Periodically they would stop to let the remainder of the group catch up, rest, and take a sip of water. It was easy to see they were more experienced and comfortable not only with the terrain but with themselves.

At the beginning of the hike I started somewhere in the middle of the pack but as it got steeper the air grew thinner. It became more difficult for me to fill my lungs with oxygen, but no one else seemed affected like I was. I tried to pretend everything was OK, but I started breathing through my nose and mouth to force more oxygen in to my lungs. Each step became more laborious, and I was preoccupied with looking for a place I could stop for a few seconds to catch my breath. I was not engaging in conversation or appreciating the majestic scenery for which the Utah canyon-scapes are famous. I was focused on staying alive.

All the while the Beehive girls flitted around checking out the flora and fauna like they were romping in a field of daisies laughing and having a wonderful time—you know the awe and joy that God’s creations hold. They were having a blast with not a care in the world. Not wanting to spoil their fun I waved the girls on, and they ran up ahead to join their friends but then a few minutes later they ran back to check on me.

One little girl said, “would you like me to carry your jacket sister Wright?” I thanked her and told her I was fine. At one point my daughter who could see I was having a difficult time came up behind me put two hands on the small of my back and pushed me until I felt a renewed commitment and energy to push to the end.

This little beehive group stayed with me and stood around me as I caught my breath. Although I invited them to go ahead, in part because I was embarrassed at having such a hard time, but I couldn’t shake them loose. They kept on chatting with each other and moved along the trail slower than they could have but not so far ahead that I had an excuse to call out “I’ll wait for you here pick me up on your way down.” So in the end I buckled down and decided I wasn’t going to give up. Instead, I continued to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and then continued with each successive step, and so on until we reached the Summit where the trail blazing Laurels and leaders had finished their rest and were ready to head back down the mountain. All I could think of was, “I made it!”

Nikolas and Sergey Chemezov and their parents are also helping the Church grow. And they have seen their own family become closer and closer since embracing the restored gospel in 1992.
Of course, like all brothers, they have similarities and differences. Sergey is 20, Nik, 12; but Nik is the taller of the two. Nik is quiet; Sergey is bolder. Both are athletic, lift weights, and love helicopters. Both are musicians: Nik plays piano; Sergey, violin. Both love the gospel and all it stands for. And both are fiercely loyal to each other and to their parents, Sergey Sr. and Valia.
That loyalty was tested when Valia and the boys returned from an extended visit with her parents and found that Sergey Sr. was investigating the Church. But he persuaded them to listen to the missionaries, to learn what he was learning, and to give it a fair chance.
“I can say the gospel saved our family,” Sergey Jr. says. “I decided to be baptized because of the example of my father. I saw a very big change in him when he joined the Church. He became so nice, so loving. It was a testimony for me.”
“Before,” Sister Chemezov explains, “the family didn’t come first. But now we understand we are an eternal family, and we appreciate one another on a whole new level.”
“I used to think because I was the big brother, I always had to lead the way,” Sergey says. “But now when I stand next to Nik, I see that he is taller than I am. I know that sometimes he teaches me, that when I need help I can count on him.”
Nik has been there not only for Sergey but for his parents as well. “From the time he was baptized, he’s been saying, ‘I want to pass the sacrament; when can I start?’” Brother Chemezov explains. “That kind of excitement has strengthened our own testimonies and our faith. Helping other people and helping his family—Nik understands that’s what the priesthood is all about. He was very happy when he turned 12 and I ordained him a deacon.”
Nik was also happy when the family was sealed in the Freiberg Germany Temple. “After finishing the sessions, we had free time,” Brother Chemezov says. “Other people went to the city and went shopping. I asked the family, ‘Do you want to go to the city?’ and Nik said of the temple, ‘This place is so good; I don’t want to go to another place.’”
“The priesthood has the highest position in my life,” Nik says. “It helps me live as Jesus Christ says we should. I know if we will honor it, God will help us and make us better.”
That’s a reminder Sergey thinks of every day, especially now that he is serving full time in the Japan Tokyo North Mission. Nik, of course, hopes to someday follow his example.

My wife’s grandfather James B. Keysor has always impressed me with his own mighty change of heart. Born of faithful Latter-day Saint pioneer ancestors in the Salt Lake Valley in 1906, he lost his mother at a young age and struggled throughout his youth. His teenage and young adult years were spent away from the Church, during which time he acquired a number of bad habits. Nevertheless, he met and married a faithful woman, and together they raised five children.

In 1943, following the difficult years of the Great Depression and during World War II, Bud, as he was called by friends and family, left Utah and moved to Los Angeles, California, to look for employment. During this time away from home, he lived with his sister and her husband, who was serving as the bishop of their ward.

With the love and influence of his sister and brother-in-law, he started to revive his interest in the Church and began to read the Book of Mormon each night before going to sleep.

One night, while he was reading in Alma chapter 34, his heart was touched as he read the following words:
“Yea, I would that ye would come forth and harden not your hearts any longer. …
“For behold, this life is the time for men to prepare to meet God; yea, behold the day of this life is the day for men to perform their labors.”

While he was reading these verses, a powerful feeling came over him and he knew that he had to change, to repent, and he knew what he must do. He got up from his bed and knelt down and began to pray, pleading with the Lord to forgive him and to give him the strength he needed to make changes in his life. His prayer was answered, and from that time forward, he never looked back. Bud went on to serve in the Church and remained a faithful, committed Latter-day Saint to the end of his life. He was changed in every way. His mind, his heart, his actions, his very being were changed.

In his ward Dale met a young woman named Ruth. She was the daughter of a member of the stake presidency, Merlin R. Lybbert, who later served in the Seventy. Dale’s recollection is that he mustered the courage to ask Ruth out on a date, but she said no. When he tried again a few months later, she said yes. Ruth’s version is a little different. She remembers that when he spoke in sacrament meeting about his mission, she was impressed. They got better acquainted, and she was thrilled when he asked her to go on a date, but she was hosting a party that required her to decline. She was pleased to accept when he asked again.

As the only active teen in her branch, Gina took home-study seminary. She started it a few months before she was baptized. She studied the scriptures on her own, then met with her teacher at the church once a week. When Gina’s teacher moved out of the state, Gina’s mother volunteered to teach. They had seminary every morning at 6 a.m.
Gina enjoyed being the only student because she didn’t have to compete with other students to ask questions. “My mom and I grew so much closer,” Gina says. “We had that connection. I absolutely loved doing seminary with my mom.”
As a new member, Gina wanted to get as much from seminary as possible—to catch up for all those years without the scriptures. What was supposed to be an hour-long lesson sometimes stretched to two hours. Gina says the Book of Mormon and Doctrine and Covenants “are the two most important books that I’ve grown up without. To be able to learn about them in depth was wonderful. To get my mom’s insight along with my study was an experience I would never want to give up.”

Mom and I live with Grandma and Grandpa now. At least for a while. Until Mom can make enough money at her new job, or until Dad gets better. Dad has a drinking problem. It got pretty bad, and he wouldn’t get help. We prayed and prayed for him, but Mom said Heavenly Father can’t help us if we don’t try to help ourselves. I know she’s right, because once I asked Him to help me on a school test that I hadn’t studied for. I failed it anyway. Mom said that if we do all we can do for ourselves, then ask Heavenly Father for help, He will then assist us.
One day my friend Barry said that if his dad were like mine, he wouldn’t love him anymore. Because if my dad cared about us, he wouldn’t keep drinking.
I couldn’t sleep too well that night. My mom came into my room and asked what was wrong. When I told her, she explained some things that helped me to feel better.
The next day when Barry and I were looking for arrowheads in Baker’s Canyon up behind the yellow field, I told him I still loved my dad. When he asked me why, I said, “Remember when your brother didn’t tie up the chain that was hanging way down from the siren on his bike?”
“Yes,” Barry said, “and I told him it could cause an accident if it got caught in the spokes, but did he listen to me? No!”
Last month Barry borrowed that bike. He was flying down a hill when, sure enough, the chain got caught in the spokes of his front wheel. All of a sudden the bike stopped, but Barry kept going, right over the handlebars. He banged himself up pretty badly. In fact, his arm was still in a cast.
“Do you still love your brother?” I asked.
“Of course I do.”
“Why?”
“Well, because … because he’s my brother. He didn’t want me to get hurt. He was just being careless.”
“I’m sure your brother feels bad about it,” I said. “My dad feels awful, too, after he sobers up.”
Barry and I sat down on a rock to drink from our canteens. Grandma’s cold lemonade tastes so good that it makes getting thirsty fun. Dad always said, “On a hot day your grandma’s lemonade takes all the discomfort out of being alive!” And he was right.
I looked at Barry seriously, trying to get the deep down inside of him to listen. I had written down some of what Mom said the night before so I wouldn’t forget. Now I read it to Barry: “‘God loves all of us, even when He doesn’t love all of our actions. It’s called charity—the pure love of Christ, and we need to try to love like Jesus does.’”
Barry nodded his head and smiled. I could tell that he knew my mom was right. Her words made me feel good inside, too. About my dad. About a lot of things. It was as good a feeling as Grandma’s lemonade going down on a hot summer day.
Mom and I kept praying for Dad. He stopped drinking, and he’s in a special program that’s helping him. He’ll be coming home in a few weeks. He says he wants to play hide-and-seek with me in the tall yellow weeds. And he wants me to win, because he misses those chocolate milk shakes as much as I do!

Last spring my husband and I attended a soccer game of our four-year-old grandson. You could feel the excitement on the field as the players ran in every direction chasing the soccer ball. When the final whistle blew, the players were unaware of who won or who lost. They had simply played the game. The coaches directed the players to shake hands with the opposing team members. Then I observed something quite remarkable. The coach called for a victory tunnel. All the parents, grandparents, and any spectators who had come to observe the game stood up and formed two lines facing each other, and by raising their arms they formed an arch. The children squealed as they ran through the cheering adults and down the path formed by the spectators. Soon the children from the opposing team joined the fun as all the players—the winners and the losers—were cheered on by the adults as they ran the path of the victory tunnel.

I’m from France, but my sister and I spent a year in the eastern United States as exchange students. During that time, we met lots of people, but the one who left the biggest impression on me was a girl named Destiny. She became one of my best friends. We did all kinds of things together, during school and after school and with my sister. Destiny was always happy. That was the thing I liked most about her.
Then one day I saw her in a troubled mood I had never seen her in before. I asked her what was wrong. She said she didn’t want to talk about it. Then I noticed a paper in her hand. I took it and read it.
Someone had written unbelievably mean things to her. The anonymous note said she was ugly, that no one liked her, that she didn’t have any purpose for being alive, and that she ought to go and kill herself. I would never have believed someone like her could be attacked like that. It affected me deeply to know the pain she was going through.
From then on, I made an even bigger effort to be Destiny’s friend—not just to spend time with her, but to always be there for her, and especially to be sincere. I explained to her that she is a daughter of God, blessed with a divine nature, worthy of admiration and capable of great things.
It’s difficult to try to love yourself when others treat you badly and criticize you. As I befriended Destiny, I learned that sometimes the best way to help others is just to love them and to help them know who they truly are.
At the end of the year, when I had to return to France, Destiny told me something I will always treasure. “Emma,” she said, “you saved me. Before you came, I wanted to kill myself. But then you and your sister helped me a lot, just by caring. Today I love myself, and I love you.”

I would like to share with you young men tonight one very unhappy recording in my mind of a promising young man aboard ship in wartime, who chose the beginning of a road that led him to a destination that was one of the last places in the world he really wanted to be. His initial mistakes were understandable; he was young and away from home and friends and familiar standards, and he wanted to be independent. His intentions were not evil, but because he was a little arrogant and proud, he rejected good counsel and let himself be led away by individuals who were described perfectly in the Book of Mormon, thousands of years ago, in their sinful persuasion of others. It is written of them that “they do it for a token of bravery” (Moro. 9:10).
Imitation men being imitated; these “macho” visions of life, so pitifully empty, can lead only to tragedy.
There is good, and there is evil, and there is a way to help us all tell the difference:
“All things which are good cometh of God; and that which is evil cometh of the devil. …
“… My brethren, it is given unto you to judge, that ye may know good from evil; and the way to judge is as plain, that ye may know with a perfect knowledge, as the daylight is from the dark night.
“For behold, the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil” (Moro. 7:12, 15–16).
A new picture comes on the screen and rivets our attention. A strong-looking young football player is responding to questions from sportswriters about his development from a disappointing earlier career to one of great promise. What had brought about the change?
“You know,” he said, “in high school you can sort of make up your own world, and be king of it. In the real world, you’re with everybody else, and you’re just part of it.”
He seems to be wisely using his agency now to follow a more constructive path. He had been on a road that seemed to be leading where he really did not want to be, and he had been mature enough to turn around and choose a better way.

Mitch Dunford has been a member of the high priests group in the Santee First Ward, Santee California Stake, for most of the 11 years he has lived there. “Our high priests group has studied the scriptures together and done missionary work together,” he says. “We’ve given blessings to each other and to others’ family members. Our camaraderie is a natural outgrowth of helping each other honor callings in the priesthood.”
On the night of Sunday, October 26, 2003, the high priests in the Santee stake, along with most residents of San Diego County, found themselves under attack by the largest wildfire in the history of California. For nearly 24 hours, 50- to 70-mile-per-hour (80- to 110-km-per-hour) winds had pushed 100-foot (30-m) flames and burned hundreds of homes, killing 13 people.
Mitch Dunford stood alone in the hills behind his home with a garden hose in one hand and a shovel in the other. Earlier he had taken his wife, Cathy, and their five children to a hotel. When the evacuation order was lifted, he returned home to see what he could do.
“The fire was 4 feet [1.2 m] high and 30 feet [9 m] wide,” says Brother Dunford. “It was coming from two directions. It was so quiet. I just stood there, wondering if I could really stop this fire by myself.”
Meanwhile, stake president Chris Allred was atop the stake center with binoculars. With flames coming toward the Dunfords’ house, he began making phone calls.
“I was alone,” says Brother Dunford, with more than a little emotion in his voice, “and then one by one they came—the ‘boys’ from the quorum and their sons, each with a shovel. I was overwhelmed, yet it seemed just the way it ought to be.”
Fifteen minutes later the first wave of fire swept through.
“We beat the fire down and tossed dirt on it,” says Steven Schimpf, 15, who came with his dad, Bishop Randall Schimpf.
After the first wave was out, the second wave came. They beat back that one too.
A news cameraman climbed up to the group and was amazed to discover they were just some men and boys from a church helping one of their own.
“It was touching to have our home saved by my priesthood brethren,” says Brother Dunford. “It is so typical of the way they are. My neighbors couldn’t believe all those men and boys just showed up to help. But we know it’s what you do when you’re a member of a priesthood quorum.”

My testimony that this is the true Church began in my childhood. One of my earliest memories is of a conference meeting. A man was speaking whom I did not know. I knew only that he was someone sent to our little district in the mission field by someone who held the priesthood. I do not know what he said. But I received a powerful, certain witness before I was eight, even before I was baptized, that I was hearing a servant of God in the true Church of Jesus Christ.
In my teen years, I felt the power of priesthood quorums and of a loving bishop. I still remember and can feel the assurances that came when I sat in a priests quorum next to a bishop and knew that he had the keys of a true judge in Israel.
That same witness came early in my life on two Sundays. In each case I was present on the day that a stake was organized. Seemingly ordinary men whom I knew well were called as stake presidents. I raised my hand on those days and had a witness come to me that God had called His servants and that I would be blessed by their service and for sustaining them. I have felt that same miracle countless times across the Church.
I saw that those stake presidents were lifted up to their callings. I have seen the same miracle in the service of President Monson as he received the call to preside as the prophet and President of the Church and to exercise all the keys of the priesthood in the earth. Revelation and inspiration have come to him in my presence, which confirms to me that God is honoring those keys. I am an eyewitness.
I bear you my solemn witness that this is the true and living Church of Jesus Christ. Heavenly Father will answer your fervent prayers to know that for yourself.

President Marion G. Romney stated it well:
“It is an easy thing to believe in the dead prophets, but it is a greater thing to believe in the living prophets. I will give you an illustration.
“One day when President Grant was living, I sat in my office across the street following a general conference. A man came over to see me, an elderly man. He was very upset about what had been said in this conference by some of the Brethren, including myself. I could tell from his speech that he came from a foreign land. After I had quieted him enough so he would listen, I said, ‘Why did you come to America?’
“‘I came here because a prophet of God told me to come.’
“‘Who was the prophet?’ I continued.
“‘Wilford Woodruff.’
“‘Do you believe Wilford Woodruff was a prophet of God?’
“‘Yes,’ said he.
“‘Do you believe that his successor, President Lorenzo Snow, was a prophet of God?’
“‘Yes, I do.’
“‘Do you believe that President Joseph F. Smith was a prophet of God?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“Then came the ‘sixty-four dollar question.’ ‘Do you believe that Heber J. Grant is a prophet of God?’
“His answer: ‘I think he ought to keep his mouth shut about old age assistance.’”

Illustration by Ben Simonsen
I grew up in the Church. My family and I went to church every Sunday, and when I turned 12, I started going to Mutual every week. Even though I was active in the Church, I still relied mostly on my family’s testimonies. I liked going to the activities, but I mostly went out of habit. Sometimes I wondered why I went at all.
One Mutual activity very clearly answered that question. We went to a local food bank and started by sorting through giant bins of food that had been donated. After a little while we divided up into groups to deliver food to different families in need.
We all chatted as we drove from one place to another. The families had big smiles on their faces when we gave them the food. At one point we all got out of the car to deliver the food together. The air was crisp as we walked toward the building. We crowded into a small staircase of a rundown apartment building.
We knocked on the door and waited for a bit, shivering, until the door opened just a crack. I could see a woman’s eyes peeking out. Someone in our group said a few words but stopped when the woman almost closed the door. We stepped forward with a box of food. She told us to wait and closed the door. The other girls and I stared at each other, wondering what was happening.
We waited for what seemed like forever. Finally, a man came to the door, the little woman right behind him with a baby wrapped in a big blanket in her arms. Tears of gratitude were in her eyes as we gave the food to her husband. Warmth started in my heart and filled my entire body, and I started to cry. I looked at the little family, and I didn’t know what was happening. I’d never felt anything like it.
Walking away from that humble apartment, my heart still felt so full. The snow on the ground looked more beautiful than before. I was more grateful for my family. I felt like I was going to burst with love.
When we got back in the car, I was quiet, thinking about how I didn’t even know those people, but I was so happy and full of love. I sat there bewildered until it hit me like a stampede—it was the Spirit giving me that warmth and love. The words of King Benjamin came to my mind: “And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).
My mouth nearly dropped open with the realization of how much God loves His children. He had just allowed me to feel a little bit of that love. He is aware of His children’s needs. He has a plan for us. It is a plan that I’d learned about since I was a little girl. It means that He loves me! In that moment the Spirit burned within me. I knew that I was supposed to be at Mutual that night so that I could learn that lesson of God’s love. And I didn’t have to rely on anyone else for that testimony.

Doodles covered every scrap of paper in the Sorbonne home from the time Ellesse, now 20, could hold a crayon. Recognizing her talent, Ellesse’s parents enrolled her in art lessons at age five, and she began to develop her skills in drawing and painting. During junior high, Ellesse began her first apprenticeship as a painter, and that’s where her real education began.

“I remember the first time I went to my teacher’s studio,” she recalls. “He told me I needed to start to relearn how to draw, and I was a little offended because I felt like I had been studying art forever. But actually, I could never be more grateful for that. Having to go back to the basics was very humbling. The experience was so good for me.”

Eventually, Ellesse left that studio and went on to apprentice with another painter. Her experience there proved equally valuable. She came to appreciate the value of watching a master at work. Her new teacher, who is also a member of the Church, helped her to recognize the source of true beauty. “Everything he taught me was an acknowledgement of truth and beauty and how that’s not just within us. It’s from a greater source—from the Greatest Master.”

In addition to her painting, Ellesse is now pursuing an interest in photography through an internship with a portrait studio in her hometown. As evidenced by Ellesse’s experience, apprenticeships and internships are available in a very broad range of fields. Apprenticeships and internships are often part of a school program to enhance in-class learning. They can take place in your hometown or halfway around the world, and you can gain experience in teaching, public affairs, carpentry, journalism, fashion design, and accounting, just to name a few of the choices.

“Anyone who has the opportunity to apprentice or intern should go for it,” says Ellesse. “There’s so much you learn from doing and observing that you can’t get from books.”

And if you’re not sure yet what you want to do, don’t worry. “Take whatever you’ve been given and learn more about it, because the intelligence you gain will take you places,” says Ellesse.

She was always there, like a great stone face looking down on them from the prominent pinnacle of her own importance. She was the vast image superimposed on their horizon, the ever-present shadow on their youthful, sunburned shoulders. She was Bobby’s mother, Sister Eustacia M. Broderick, stake Relief Society president and stalwart Mormon matriarch par excellence. She was also the first person Kelly Sue thought of whenever she felt guilty, and in spite of Peru and Bobby’s new haircut and all the excitement of anticipation, Kelly Sue felt guilty now.
It wasn’t, certainly, that Bobby was unworthy of his mission, or that Kelly Sue had somehow sullied his honorable intentions by some inappropriate word or deed. Thank heaven she did not have to answer for anything like that! Outwardly she had given Bobby nothing but encouragement about his mission. And discounting a gentle arm across the shoulder, an affectionate clasping of hands, and an occasional kiss usually stolen beneath the birch tree that dominated the south corner of Bobby’s yard, their friendship had been what it was always meant to be, innocent, fresh, uncomplicated.
Except that for as long as Kelly Sue could remember, Bobby had been there, across the cedar fence which separated their back lot gardens, shooting marbles at eight, baskets at ten, and leaning on the gate at seventeen to tease and flirt and finally win the heart of the girl next door. And now the boy next door was leaving, going clear to Peru for 18 months, while his mother, Sister Eustacia Broderick, stood valiantly by, eager for him to fulfill the Lord’s call, as firm and resolute as Kelly Sue was miserable, as vocal as Kelly Sue was silent, as proud as Kelly Sue was ashamed. Bobby was marching off to serve the Lord, and Kelly Sue wondered gloomily if she might ever be forgiven for being so unhappy.
“There was never any question about whether Bobby would go on a mission,” said Sister Broderick from the pulpit. It was Bobby’s last Sunday at home, and the pews overflowed with family and friends and well-wishers, and Kelly Sue sat transfixed by Bobby’s new pinstriped demeanor. He sat to the right of his father with his new set of scriptures on his knee, looking oddly mature for his 19 years. “The prophet has decreed that every young man should serve a mission,” Sister Broderick declared. “Every young man. And Bobby has never considered doing otherwise.” Kelly Sue spotted the natural arch of Sister Broderick’s left eyebrow and noted how it always seemed to be raised in judgment, even when she smiled. Kelly Sue had always been in awe of this woman, Bobby’s mother, and now her words rang convincingly across the chapel pews. “There was never any question,” she repeated, “about Bobby following the advice of his leaders, about his going into the mission field to serve the Lord in bringing the gospel to others.”
Sister Broderick paused for only an instant and then stepped back to begin anew. The arch of her brow seemed higher than ever to Kelly Sue and her tone did not soften. “There is a birch tree in the south corner of our yard,” she said, “as straight and tall and fine a tree as any backyard could wish for. Through the years we’ve carved notches in the bark of that birch to mark the growth of our son Bobby.”
Kelly Sue saw Bobby’s shoulders stiffen proudly against the back of his chair as he watched his mother and knew what she might say. Kelly Sue stiffened too, but her pride in Bobby was overshadowed by the cold ache she felt and could not smother in spite of Sister Broderick’s stirring words. “There’s a mark on that tree about this high,” she declared, measuring up from the floor with her hand. “That’s the day Bobby started Primary 16 years ago. There’s a special notch a little further up that we made the day he was baptized, and another to mark his being ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood.” Sister Broderick paused again, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin before she continued, “We carved the latest notch in the birch tree last week when Bobby was made an elder. He’s grown so tall I had to stand on tiptoe to see the mark was straight.”
Kelly Sue closed her eyes and envisioned the little family ceremony in her mind. Bobby had stood self-consciously but proudly against the tree with his dog Max yapping happily around his feet, while his mother had indeed reached on tiptoe to mark the tree just at the top of his head. His father had snapped pictures of the two of them and then had carved a more conspicuous notch in the tree with his pocket knife. “I remember the day Bobby started Primary,” Sister Broderick had told Kelly Sue, rubbing her fingers across the first notch. “He bawled like a baby and didn’t want to go, can you imagine?” Her fingers lingered momentarily at the notch, but she moved away when she caught Kelly Sue’s eye. “Yes, he did,” she said. “He cried like a baby.”
“Seems to me,” drawled Brother Broderick, “he did the same thing when he was eight. He was scared to death of the baptismal font. Cried all the way to the stake house.”
Bobby, who was pleasantly taking all of this while leaning against the tree with his arm draped around Kelly Sue, looked casually at the new notch nearby. “I won’t cry over this one,” he said. “I’ve never been so excited in my life.”
Back in the chapel Kelly Sue decided that Bobby’s mother was pretty excited too. “That birch tree has always pointed to the stars,” she was saying, “and so do the notches measuring Bobby. He has grown into as straight and tall and fine a young man as any family could want, and as a mother I could not be more proud to send him to Peru and follow the voice of the prophet!”
Sister Broderick sat down, but for Kelly Sue the remainder of the meeting was a blur. Even Bobby’s farewell speech, so sweet and determined and sincere, left her feeling weak. She longed to escape the reality of his leaving. She longed for a return to those warm summer evenings, walking hand in hand with Bobby around the lilac bushes or through McCarty’s orchard as they took a shortcut from school. She longed for the feel of laughter by the lake, the burn of wind on the ski lift, the taste of homemade ice cream on the patio in July. She wanted to be chased across the ball field, to end up rolling in a wild, bruising tackle executed by either Bobby or usually Max, yapping at the top of his canine lungs. She yearned to stroll around the birch tree alone with Bobby and carve her own memories into its pale gray trunk. She yearned for all these things and felt ashamed and guilty because of them. Sister Broderick was right. Bobby’s bent was toward the stars; how could she ever want to hold him, clinging to the past?
“It’s not that I don’t think he’s doing the right thing,” Kelly Sue said to her mother the morning Bobby was scheduled to leave for the Mission Training Center in Utah. “I know he is.” She was watching from the front window as Brother and Sister Broderick were busily loading their car with Bobby’s luggage and books. Bobby himself, carrying a garment bag containing his new suits, waved to her from the street and motioned for her to join him. Kelly Sue was planning to go with him to the airport, but she hesitated now, pondering the car through the window, the car with all of its trappings of imminent departure, and Sister Broderick valiantly standing by, orchestrating the whole affair as if she had planned it for a lifetime. And indeed she had.
“I know he’s doing the right thing,” Kelly Sue repeated, and her mother joined her at the window, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “But I’m young, and I’ll miss him,” she added, suddenly releasing a flood of emotion. “I’ll miss him so much that down deep in my heart I wish he weren’t going, and I feel terrible about it, just terrible.”
“We’ll all miss him, Kelly Sue,” her mother whispered, pressing a finger to the girl’s cheek to catch an errant tear. “You needn’t feel guilty about that.”
Kelly Sue faced the window again, focusing her eyes on Sister Eustacia Broderick as she efficiently packed the last piece of luggage into the car. “She’s so strong,” Kelly Sue breathed. “How can she always be so strong, so faithful? Bobby adores her. He wishes I were more like her. I know he does.”
“Sister Broderick is a wonderful woman,” returned her mother quickly. “I’ve seen her raise Bobby from a child into a fine young man, and I’m sure she loves him, but people show love in different ways, just as Bobby loves you for yourself just as you are.” Kelly Sue’s eyes were still on Sister Broderick standing across the drive, and her mother’s final words, though lovingly said, cut into her heart more painfully than she could imagine. “Try not to feel anger or resentment toward Sister Broderick for somehow taking Bobby away from you and sending him on a mission. She’s really not to blame.”
The words tiptoed through her mind for the remainder of the day. She remembered them as she stood with his family and waved him out of sight amidst the farewell chorus of a dozen familiar, happy voices. And at the center of it all was Sister Broderick, straight and determined and tearless, bidding her only son good-bye, and Kelly Sue suddenly knew that her mother was right. She had resented Sister Broderick, just as she had been intimidated through the years by her constant presence in the backyard of Bobby’s life as well as her own. Her steadfast attitude regarding Bobby’s mission was the final straw. Surely there was some room for wistfulness, for nostalgia, for the longing and ache that is naturally part of a long farewell. Yet, Sister Eustacia Broderick displayed a need for none of these, so firm was her faith in what Bobby was doing.
Kelly Sue said her prayers early that evening. Alone in her bedroom, still fully clothed, with the last rays of an orange sunset still flooding her window, she knelt down to come to grips with her feelings. She was determined not to cringe in Sister Broderick’s shadow for the next 18 months, not to be burdened by her presence, not to let anything negative come between herself and the yard across the back fence. Finally, in the midst of her prayer, she knew she wouldn’t have to. She imagined Bobby in Peru, saw him greeting people and loving them. She saw how his unique charm was brightening their lives, as it had hers for as long as she could remember. And suddenly she was proud, too, proud to share her own best friend with all those people who needed him.
“Thank you, Sister Broderick,” she said aloud, as the warmth of understanding and reconciliation swelled within her and a genuine smile played along her lips for the first time in days. “You knew it all the while, didn’t you?” she added triumphantly, still speaking to the woman from the house next door, who was no longer a threat but an example.
From across the fence, Kelly Sue heard the Broderick’s back door open and knew someone had come out. With new resolve she bounded down her own stairs, determined to complete the reconciliation by telling Sister Broderick how she felt, by apologizing, by making peace at last, if only within herself.
She hurried through the grass by her own yard, past the garden and the clothesline, straight to the gate of the high cedar fence, hoping to keep the light for a few minutes more. She moved quietly through the gate and looked curiously toward the house which seemed veiled and silent, even gloomy in the twilight. No one seemed to be around. Even Max had apparently retired to his favorite corner of the garage.
“He never was a very good watch dog,” Kelly Sue laughed inwardly, happy now in the warm evening air. She looked over Bobby’s backyard, filled with so many memories, for one last time, just as the darkness settled in, and she was about to turn again to her own gate when she was caught short by an odd sound coming from the south corner, through the lilac bushes, by the birch tree.
It began as a whimper and at first Kelly Sue thought a kitten may have become tangled between the fence slats at the end of the yard. She moved silently now, not wishing to disturb the house, and it was only as she neared the birch tree that the form huddled against the trunk became apparent in the shadows. It was Sister Broderick, slightly illuminated by the silky white bathrobe she wore, so that even in the gathering darkness Kelly Sue could see the woman’s cheek pressed against the bark of the tree as her fingers ran gently over a notch of memory carved nearby. Sister Broderick was weeping, softly, controllably, but most assuredly weeping, as though her heart would crack. And the silent old tree stood beside her, straight and unswayed in the darkness.
Kelly Sue crept quietly back to her own gate, her own yard, her own bedroom. From a window there she viewed Bobby’s birch tree for the next 18 months, standing straight and tall in the corner of his yard, realizing somehow that she was no longer very young anymore.

As a deacon I learned my responsibilities thanks to the support of my parents and leaders and working with the goals in the Duty to God booklet. As a teacher I learned more by going to do visits as a home teacher, participating in the open houses on the missionary days, sharing banana bread, attending Mutual, and participating in ward and stake activities.
Now as a priest I get to focus more on missionary work. Working with the Young Men president and as an assistant to the bishop, I have learned much more about my responsibilities as a priesthood holder.
Our leaders constantly invite us to come with them and the full-time missionaries so that we can become familiar with missionary work. They also exhort us to read the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon. All of these experiences motivate and prepare me to receive the higher priesthood and to serve a full-time mission.
Isaac G., 17

At one time and at great sacrifice, my mother and I went to the temple. There we said many prayers for our family, especially for my younger brother who had not been active in the Church for five years. On our return home, we discovered that at the very moment we were praying in the temple, my brother was asking the full-time missionaries to help him and his friend live better lives. In time, he was able to baptize his friend, and now both of them are preparing to serve missions.
Celeste Mongi, Los Olmos Branch, Villa María Argentina District

In my last conference message, I related my devastating experience many years ago when, as a heart surgeon, I was not able to save the lives of two little sisters. With permission of their father, I would like to say more about that family.
Congenital heart disease afflicted three children born to Ruth and Jimmy Hatfield. Their first son, Jimmy Jr., died without a definitive diagnosis. I entered the picture when the parents sought help for their two daughters, Laural Ann and her younger sister, Gay Lynn. I was heartbroken when both girls died following their operations. Understandably, Ruth and Jimmy were spiritually shattered.
Over time, I learned that they harbored lingering resentment toward me and the Church. For almost six decades, I have been haunted by this situation and have grieved for the Hatfields. I tried several times to establish contact with them, without success.
Then one night last May, I was awakened by those two little girls from the other side of the veil. Though I did not see or hear them with my physical senses, I felt their presence. Spiritually, I heard their pleadings. Their message was brief and clear: “Brother Nelson, we are not sealed to anyone! Can you help us?” Soon thereafter, I learned that their mother had passed away, but their father and younger brother were still alive.
Emboldened by the pleadings of Laural Ann and Gay Lynn, I tried again to contact their father, who I learned was living with his son Shawn. This time they were willing to meet with me.
In June, I literally knelt in front of Jimmy, now 88 years old, and had a heart-to-heart talk with him. I spoke of his daughters’ pleadings and told him I would be honored to perform sealing ordinances for his family. I also explained that it would take time and much effort on his and Shawn’s part to be ready and worthy to enter the temple, as neither of them had ever been endowed.
The Spirit of the Lord was palpable throughout that meeting. And when Jimmy and Shawn each accepted my offer, I was overjoyed! They worked diligently with their stake president, bishop, home teachers, and ward mission leader, as well as with young missionaries and a senior missionary couple. And then, not long ago, in the Payson Utah Temple, I had the profound privilege of sealing Ruth to Jimmy and their four children to them. Wendy and I wept as we participated in that sublime experience. Many hearts were healed that day!
On reflection, I have marveled at Jimmy and Shawn and what they were willing to do. They have become heroes to me. If I could have the wish of my heart, it would be that each man and young man in this Church would demonstrate the courage, strength, and humility of this father and son. They were willing to forgive and let go of old hurts and habits. They were willing to submit to guidance from their priesthood leaders so that the Atonement of Jesus Christ could purify and magnify them. Each was willing to become a man who worthily bears the priesthood “after the holiest order of God.”
Are we willing to pray, fast, study, seek, worship, and serve as men of God so we can have that kind of priesthood power? Because two little girls were so eager to be sealed to their family, their father and brother were willing to pay the price to bear the holy Melchizedek Priesthood.