Gospel Story Finder

Keeping the journal has changed Robbie in profound ways, like helping him recognize personal revelation in his life, but also in smaller, everyday ways, like helping him reach out to others at school. Another entry in his journal is a good example of how reading a specific passage in the Book of Mormon prompted Robbie to change his behavior. The entry reads:
“Beware of pride. I just started 4 Nephi today, and I need to be careful of pride. And I need to try to befriend more people and talk to more people in school.”
So Robbie decided to sit by people at lunch who didn’t have anyone to sit with. He also made it a point to meet new people at school each week. From this experience, Robbie learned that “when you forget yourself, you can make a big difference in people’s lives.”

While serving in Santiago, Chile, as a mission leader with my husband, who was a mission president from 2012 to 2015, I learned some life-changing lessons about the reality of miracles and how they come about. Accepting this calling put me way out of my comfort zone because of my inability to speak the language of our mission. I initially felt overwhelming inadequacy.
Early in the mission, a call from a family member helped me realize that I was focusing way too much on myself and my struggles. Remembering the advice that President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) shared from his father to “forget yourself and go to work,”1 I decided to change my focus. Whenever I was feeling discouraged, I would ask myself, “Whom are you thinking about?” The answer was always me. So I would repent and turn my thoughts outward instead. I chose to focus on the missionaries, those they were teaching, or my family.
I also tried to remember what I could do, not focus on what I couldn’t do. I could smile, give hugs, and get to work learning Spanish, even though that meant frequent failure. I went out with the sister missionaries often (rather than hide away in the mission home where it was safe), even when I felt like there wasn’t much I could add.
As long as I was willing to keep taking little steps of faith, I felt the strengthening power of Christ through His atoning sacrifice helping me to overcome my weaknesses (see Jacob 4:7). As I pondered over the experiences I was having, I recognized a similar pattern in the lives of my favorite people in the scriptures. Here is my journal entry from October 2014:
“Examples from scripture of people choosing to step out of their comfort zone are many—such as Mary the mother of Jesus, Ruth, Esther, Paul, Enoch, Lehi and Nephi, Alma, Ammon and his brothers, Samuel, Abinadi, the 2,000 stripling young Lamanites, Joseph Smith, and many others. These all embraced opportunities that made them vulnerable. They could not predict or control the outcome of their circumstances. They were placed in situations far beyond their comfort zones of familiarity, and the risk of danger, pain, suffering, rejection, and failure were all possible, creating a need to be rescued by the Spirit and gifts from God.
“The natural man [see Mosiah 3:19] wants certainty, security, and control, but I have learned that that is not generally the threshold in which God works His miracles. My experience here has taught me that when people choose to limit what they can and will do, based on what they are comfortable with or to avoid failure, they limit what God can do with them. He seems to work His miracles with us more often when we have made ourselves vulnerable [to His will], when we are willing to step out into the unknown … and lean more completely on our faith in Him and not in our own abilities. I have learned that if I am more concerned with the learning, growing, and becoming process than with risking failure, I open myself to the strengthening power that Jesus Christ’s Atonement offers me.”
Divine Discontent
“Of course, all of us will fall short of our divine potential, and there is some truth in the realization that alone we are not enough. But the good news of the gospel is that with the grace of God, we are enough. With Christ’s help, we can do all things. The scriptures promise that we will “find grace to help in time of need” [Hebrews 4:16].
“The surprising truth is that our weaknesses can be a blessing when they humble us and turn us to Christ. Discontent becomes divine when we humbly approach Jesus Christ with our want, rather than hold back in self-pity. …
“Have you ever felt your talents and gifts were too small for the task ahead? I have. But you and I can give what we have to Christ, and He will multiply our efforts. What you have to offer is more than enough—even with your human frailties and weaknesses—if you rely on the grace of God.
“The truth is that each of us is one generation away from Deity—each is a child of God.”
Michelle D. Craig, “Divine Discontent,” Liahona, Nov. 2018, 54.
One experience that helped me learn this lesson took place when Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles visited our mission, together with the three other missions in Santiago. There were over 1,000 missionaries gathered in our chapel where my husband had been asked to conduct the meeting. Elder Holland entered the chapel, took the seat next to my husband, leaned over to us, and said, “Okay, here’s what we are going to do. Sister Wright, you will speak first and represent all of the mission presidents’ wives here. Then President Wright will follow.”
I honestly didn’t hear the rest of the agenda. It had never occurred to me that Elder Holland would ask me to speak, so I had made no preparations. I prefer time to prepare to speak, time to gather my thoughts a little at least, but I would be speaking immediately after the opening hymn and prayer.
As my thoughts began to swirl, I felt the sudden desire to share my message in Spanish. However, though we were a year into the mission, and I had worked very hard to learn Spanish, I was still struggling with the language, and I was definitely not fluent in it. The translator was available to me if I spoke in English, but this was a Spanish-speaking mission, and I really wanted to speak in Spanish. Speaking would be a hard thing for me to do in English; speaking in Spanish felt like a giant leap. So amid the sound of 1,000 missionaries singing “Called to Serve” (Hymns, 249), I took a deep breath, confessed my inadequacies to my Father in Heaven, and pled for help to be rescued by the Spirit.
I told Heavenly Father that I had no idea what to say or how to say it in Spanish, but I promised Him that I would open my mouth and do my best, having faith that He would fill it (see Moses 6:32). In that moment, I felt a peaceful assurance come over me. After the prayer I rose to the pulpit and began to speak. Words I had pondered before came back in that needed moment, even in the foreign language I was struggling to communicate in. I sat down after my short three-minute talk, still feeling at peace but unsure about how effectively I had communicated.
After the meeting, the brother who had translated for Elder Holland approached me and said, “Sister Wright, I had no idea you spoke Spanish so well!” I replied, “I don’t.” He assured me that I hadn’t made any mistakes.
I am sure that none of those missionaries remembers anything about my short message that day. But for me it was a life-changing experience. I learned to put my trust in Heavenly Father and the Savior, that They could and would strengthen me despite my weaknesses when I was willing to take a leap of faith. If I had chosen the safe route and used the translator, I might never have learned how They rescue us when we open ourselves to letting God prevail.2
I have always loved this portion of the definition of “Grace” in the Bible Dictionary: “It is … through the grace of the Lord that individuals, through faith in the Atonement of Jesus Christ and repentance of their sins, receive strength and assistance to do good works that they otherwise would not be able to maintain if left to their own means.”
I felt His grace that day. Taking that leap of faith gave me the courage to leap out of my comfort zone again and again in the future. Failure will always be a part of the learning process, and I experienced plenty of that with the language for the rest of my mission. But when it mattered most, I felt Jesus Christ’s support and strength lift me above my natural abilities so that I could be the instrument in His hands that He needed me to be to bless others. My faith and trust in Him have grown exponentially, which is the greatest gift I took home from our mission. By the time we came home, I was able to speak Spanish fluently, and I am now able to use it to serve others as a volunteer in my community and in the Spanish branch where we currently attend church.
I have a testimony that “if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them” (Ether 12:27).

One Sunday morning, more than a year ago, we awoke to a beautiful day in Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic. The Caribbean sun was shining, and the sky was clear. A gentle breeze was blowing, barely ruffling the leaves on the trees; it was warm and peaceful and still. But far out to sea, beyond the reach of our physical senses that day, the deadly destroyer was coming our way, implacable and irresistible. The Hurricane Center, with responsibility to track and predict the path of Hurricane Georges, was constantly updating the information available on the Internet. In the peaceful, placid quiet of that morning, by virtue of those seeing eyes in the sky, I saw the predicted path of the storm, aimed like an arrow at the heart of Santo Domingo.
Within 48 hours the storm struck the island with intense and insensate fury, leaving in its path destruction, desolation, and death. The raw, elemental power of nature was astonishing. From the relative safety of our house, we saw trees doubled over by the force of the wind, which alternately shrieked and howled and roared; the punishing power of that wind drove rain into the house around the window frames, and the surging three-foot river of water in the street outside, brought about by the intense rain, finally crested and began to subside when it was within an inch of coming into our house.
Around the area where we lived, most of the trees were either uprooted or split by the fierce winds. Trees, branches, power lines, and telephone poles were down all over town. Streets were blocked, traffic was difficult, and power was cut off for more than a week. Although the damage was great, it would have been much greater but for the warnings from those who track and predict and counsel people to be prepared. Virtually all of those who were adequately prepared came through the hurricane relatively unscathed. I am grateful to those men and women who devote time and attention to track and monitor those storms. Their timely warnings and counsel save lives and protect people. Those who disregard the warnings pay the price of willful failure to listen to those guardians whose calling it is to watch and warn and save.

We have a rich tradition of the work of the Twelve as we have traveled throughout the world proclaiming the gospel of Jesus Christ. For example, it was on Sunday, the 4th of June of 1837, that the Prophet Joseph Smith approached Heber C. Kimball in the Kirtland Temple and whispered to him, saying, “Brother Heber, the Spirit of the Lord has whispered to me: ‘Let my servant Heber go to England and proclaim my Gospel, and open the door of salvation to that nation’” (quoted in Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball [1945], 104).

The account of Heber C. Kimball and Brigham Young leaving their homes for England certainly shows the sacrifice they were willing to make for the callings they had received. The account reads:
“September 14th, [1839], President Brigham Young left his home at Montrose to start on the mission to England. He was so sick that he was unable to go to the Mississippi [River], a distance of thirty rods, without assistance. After he had crossed the river he rode behind Israel Barlow on his horse to my house, where he continued sick until the 18th. He left his wife sick with a babe only three weeks old, and all his other children were sick and unable to wait upon each other. Not one soul of them was able to go to the well for a pail of water, and they were without a second suit to their backs, for the mob in Missouri had taken nearly all he had. On the 17th, Sister Mary Ann Young got a boy to carry her up in his wagon to my house, that she might nurse and comfort Brother Brigham” (quoted in Life of Heber C. Kimball, 265).

Heber C. Kimball’s family were also ill. Charles Hubbard sent his boy with a team and wagon to help them on their way. Elder Kimball records: “It appeared to me as though my very inmost parts would melt within me at leaving my family in such a condition, as it were almost in the arms of death. I felt as though I could not endure it. I asked the teamster to stop, and said to Brother Brigham, ‘This is pretty tough, isn’t it; let’s rise up and give them a cheer.’ We arose, and swinging our hats three times over our heads, shouted: ‘Hurrah, hurrah for Israel.’” Sister Young and Sister Kimball came to the door and waved a farewell which gave Brother Brigham and Brother Heber much comfort as they continued “without purse or scrip” towards England. (See Life of Heber C. Kimball, 265–66.)

I shall ever remember the bewilderment of one boy from down on the farm when he first gazed at the skyscrapers in Toronto. He inquired of me: “President, how many people in this here town?” I answered: “Oh, about a million and a half,” to which he responded, “Goll-ee! There are only 80 in my home town.”
That evening at our traditional get-acquainted testimony meeting, some of the veteran missionaries expressed themselves regarding the difficulty of the work. “Doors will slam in your face, abusive language will be hurled toward you, you’ll get discouraged and downhearted, but when it’s all over you will say, ‘These have been the happiest two years of my life.’” My missionary from the small town was more hesitant than ever as he spoke falteringly: “I’ll be glad when the happiest two years of my life are over.”
This young missionary was short in stature but tall in testimony. Together with his companion, he soon called at the home of Elmer Pollard in Oshawa, Canada. Feeling sorry for the young men who, during a blinding blizzard were going house to house, Mr. Pollard invited the missionaries into his home. They presented to him their message. He did not catch the Spirit. In due time he asked that they leave and not return. His last words to the elders as they departed his front porch were spoken in derision: “You can’t tell me you actually believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God!”
The door was shut. The elders walked down the path. Our country boy spoke to his companion: “Elder, we didn’t answer Mr. Pollard’s question. He said we didn’t believe Joseph Smith was a true prophet. Let’s return and bear our testimonies to him.”
At first the more experienced missionary hesitated, but finally he agreed to accompany his “green” companion. Fear struck their hearts as they approached the door from which they had been turned away. A knock, the confrontation with Mr. Pollard, an agonizing moment, then with power, a testimony born by the Spirit: “Mr. Pollard, you said we didn’t really believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Mr. Pollard, I testify that Joseph was a prophet; he did translate the Book of Mormon; he saw God the Father and Jesus the Son. I know it.”
Mr. Pollard, now Brother Pollard, stood in a priesthood meeting some time later and declared: “That night I could not sleep. Resounding in my ears I heard the words: ‘Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I know it. I know it.’ The next day I telephoned the missionaries. Their message, coupled with their testimonies, changed my life and the lives of my family.”

The summer I was 16 we lived in Las Vegas. I was hoping to spend the three months of vacation spending time with friends, but my dad had other ideas. If I wanted to date or put gas in the car, I needed a job. So, along with a couple of buddies, I applied for a summer position with the city.
Both my friends got the jobs they’d requested—one as a lifeguard, the other as a youth counselor at an elementary school. But I was offered a position as a recreational assistant for handicapped children. Like many teenagers, I was uncomfortable around disabled kids. But when I learned that the job paid $1.75 an hour more than my friends were making, I decided to give it a try. I’m glad I did. Besides learning patience and unconditional love, I was taught an especially important lesson by a blind boy named Russell.
Because of his disability, Russell needed a lot of help. And for some reason, he selected me as his helper of choice. Roller skating, bowling, hiking, whatever we did, he wanted me there guiding him through it. Except when we swam. Russell was terrified of water. He spent every swim day seated against a wall by the pool, refusing to go in.
One afternoon I hopped out of the water and slid over next to him. He was alone and seemed to be contemplating.
“What are you thinking about, Russell?” I inquired.
He paused, then asked, “Bryant, do you know how to swim?”
I considered myself a pretty good swimmer, so I exaggerated, “Russell, I’m the greatest swimmer in the world.”
As soon as I had responded, Russell leaped to his feet and half jumped, half fell into the diving end of the pool. Startled, I dove in after him, pulled him out, and laid him on the concrete. He was coughing, but luckily he was okay.
I was upset. “Russell,” I yelled, “why did you do that?”
“You said you could swim,” he replied, choking. “I believed you. I knew you would come in after me.”
Now, I’m not saying that was a smart thing to do. But I learned a significant lesson that afternoon. Russell had faith. He had asked, believed, and acted. He knew I wouldn’t let him drown.

Another entry was Friday, March 2, 1900, “Little Loi Roberts was given up to die by Dr. Stuttaford at the sanatorium [in Apia]. The patient little sufferer was administered to daily, and each time he would get relief. … His parents [Elder and Sister E. T. Roberts] were untiring in their efforts to allay pain and sufferings.”
Saturday, March 3, “Little Loi died at the sanatorium in Apia in the morning, making another sad day in the history of the mission.” Small wonder that the tombstone contained the words, “Rest sweet Loi, rest.” He was one and a half years old.

I have learned from personal experience that spiritual preparation for the coming of the Lord is not only essential but the only way to find true peace and happiness.
It was a crisp fall day when I first heard the words “You have cancer.” My husband and I were stunned! As we drove home in silence, processing the news, my heart turned to our three sons.
In my mind I asked Heavenly Father, “Am I going to die?”
The Holy Ghost whispered, “Everything is going to be OK.”
Then I asked, “Am I going to live?”
Again, the answer came: “Everything is going to be OK.”
I was confused. Why did I receive the exact same answer whether I lived or died?
Then suddenly every fiber of my being filled with absolute peace as I was reminded: We did not need to hurry home and teach our children how to pray. They knew how to receive answers and comfort from prayer. We did not need to hurry home and teach them about the scriptures or words of living prophets. Those words were already a familiar source of strength and understanding. We did not need to hurry home and teach them about repentance, the Resurrection, the Restoration, the plan of salvation, eternal families, or the very doctrine of Jesus Christ.
In that moment every family home evening lesson, scripture study session, prayer of faith offered, blessing given, testimony shared, covenant made and kept, house of the Lord attended, and Sabbath day observed mattered—oh, how it mattered! It was too late to put oil in our lamps. We needed every single drop, and we needed it right now!
Because of Jesus Christ and His restored gospel, if I died, my family would be comforted, strengthened, and one day restored. If I lived, I would have access to the greatest power on this earth to help succor, sustain, and heal me. In the end, because of Jesus Christ, everything can be OK.

Illustration by Allen Garns
Our family has a Christmas tradition of giving gift bags of food, gloves, hats, and other necessities to those in need. In 2016, Christmas Eve was especially cold for the area of California, USA, we live in. We were bundled up, but we were still shivering!
As we drove to a park near our home where many people who are homeless stay, we saw a man huddled in the meager shelter of a bus stop, covered in an old blanket. My husband, Dennis, stopped the car and took our son, Jonathan, with him to give the man a gift bag. Our daughter, Abbey, and I stayed in the car and watched.
The man lifted his head as Dennis handed him the bag. A huge smile spread across the man’s face. They shook hands and began to talk. This was unusual because normally there isn’t much of an exchange.
After several minutes, Dennis returned to the car and opened the trunk.
“Is everything OK?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m giving him my parka. He needs it more than I do.”
I was speechless. This was a really nice parka that Dennis had worn only a handful of times! Dennis went back to the man and helped him put on the warm parka. The man’s face was beaming. Dennis and the man continued talking.
I felt compelled to meet this man. I opened my car door, and Abbey followed me. Dennis smiled as we approached, and he introduced us to the man. I extended my hand and asked for his name.
He took my hand, smiled warmly, and replied, “Jesús.”
My family continued the conversation, but I didn’t hear much after that. I kept thinking of the significance of this sweet man’s name: Jesús—the name of our Savior. In that moment, I was reminded of the Savior’s teaching: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40). That experience forever changed me.

I have anxiety, so I go to therapy every week. In the first few sessions, I avoided talking to my therapist about my beliefs. I’ve been bullied for being different, and I was afraid of being vulnerable again.
Last January, though, my dad traveled from California, USA, to New Mexico, USA, to ordain me to the office of a teacher. My parents are divorced, so my therapist wondered why my dad would come 1,000 miles to see me and my brothers for only a couple of days.
I thought, “OK, here it goes!” I explained that my dad ordained me to the priesthood and how special that is.
That opened up the floodgates! We started talking more openly about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I found out she has relatives who are members of the Church. She told me that hearing my beliefs and experiences helps her understand the Church better.
There’s no amazing conversion story that’s come out of this. My therapist isn’t interested in joining the Church. But it’s big for me—talking with my therapist has given me the confidence to not stay quiet about what I believe.
I used to be afraid of talking about religion, but with lots of practice, I can just jump straight into it. I have no doubt that Heavenly Father has a work for me to do. My work may be different from what other people are doing, but who else can share the gospel with the people I know, like my therapist? That’s my work.
We were all placed on this earth to learn and to grow. We can be Heavenly Father’s hands as we love other people and plant little gospel seeds in their hearts. So, whenever a missionary opportunity comes up, I take it because I feel the Spirit with me—and I love every minute of it.

About one year ago my wife, Alessandra, got a text message on her phone from a sister in our home ward in Brazil. It had been more than two years since they had last met. This sister wrote: “On one of the worst days of my life, I don’t know how I got to church. When I did, you saw me. You held my arm and told me to sit by you. I talked to you. You listened and counseled me.”
This seemed to be a simple conversation at the time. But it turned out to be an opportunity for my wife to be an instrument in the hands of the Lord. She ministered to that dear sister who was going through a challenging time. Alessandra didn’t really think about it. She simply felt prompted to listen and to offer comfort, and she acted on the prompting. Now, more than two years later, she received this text message from that sister, expressing her gratitude.

After his mother died, Gordon B. Hinckley felt responsible for his younger brother and sisters and helped them in many ways. He worked hard and saved money for his schooling. When it was time for his sister Ramona to graduate, he realized how important it would be to her to have a new dress for that special time. Thinking more about her needs than his own, he used some of his hard-earned money to buy her a beautiful new dress.

I have thick, curly, wild hair. It has more volume than the tuba section at a middle school band concert. It’s huge. Unfortunately, super silky, straight hair was the trend in high school, so I lived in fear of frizz and bought tool after tool to hide my unruly locks—hair straighteners, blow drier attachments, smoothing oil, smoothing cream. When I got home from school every day, I would go to my room, plug in my straightener, and spend the rest of the afternoon flattening my hair while I did my homework.
Despite my best efforts to have soft, movie-star-straight locks, my hair usually came out looking pretty fried and bumpy. I started to hate the way I looked, and I often wished I could magically change that one thing about me. I just wanted to fit in and look “normal” for once.
Then when I was 16, I was cast in a musical that was set in the 1980s. As we were nearing the performance, the director showed us photos of how our characters would have worn their hair.
When the pictures got to me, I was astounded.
What was I seeing?!
Poofy hair? On such gorgeous women? I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe having wild hair wouldn’t be such a bad thing for once.
Before our performances, while all the other girls were ratting their hair and hosing themselves down with hair spray, all I had to do was let my hair air-dry and run my fingers through it. I couldn’t help being proud—for the first time, my wild hair was awesome!
And you know what? Other people thought so too. They started complementing me on how it looked. “Is that your natural hair?” a lot of my friends asked. “Why don’t you ever wear it like that?” “It’s different! It’s cool!”
After the play, I decided that I was going to just let my hair be. Even if it was different from what was popular, it was me—the real me. I started leaving my hair straightener on the shelf more and more, and I eventually gave it away.
And something else happened too. Learning to accept how I looked, frizz and all, helped me stand up for the other things in my life that made me unique, namely things related to my faith.
In my high school, I was one of only two Church members. As I let my locks go natural, I realized I didn’t have to be scared of standing out in a crowd. I shared the Book of Mormon with some of my choir friends—and to my surprise, they were interested in learning more! For prom, I designed and wore a unique, modest prom dress that definitely made me stand out. I started speaking out about bad language in the locker room at track practice. I felt happier than ever—all because I decided to love who I am.
I still straighten my hair sometimes, but to be honest, I like it better curly now. Besides, it’s a reminder for me to stand out and be who I really am—no matter what.

Rambo, who adopted her unique English name several years ago, also credits her sister’s influence in her own conversion. “Belle has been a great example to me in my life,” she explains.
Because Rambo is the youngest Wong daughter, her parents were hesitant at first to allow her to join the Church. “When I was younger, I began going to church each Sunday even though I hadn’t been baptized,” she recalls. “At first, my parents didn’t want me to join the Church. So I would go with Belle every Sunday, but I wouldn’t take the sacrament.”
This is where the story takes on an ironic twist.
“A lot of members of the ward would look at me and think I was a member,” she continues. “They would ask me to be a fellowshipper for the missionaries’ investigators even though I was still an investigator myself. As I got older, my testimony began to develop and I learned more about the Church.”
When Rambo was finally baptized in 1990, she joined Belle in teaching gospel principles to older sisters Mandy, May, Angela, and Agnes, as well as to Simon. She also continued “officially” fellowshipping other investigators at church each Sunday. “When I was a kid, I liked to play and have fun. But when I got older, I received a testimony—a true testimony—and I wanted to share it,” Rambo says.

It was when he turned 18 that Enoch faced a bigger challenge. Wanting to grow his knowledge and understanding of the gospel by learning what the world thought of his faith, he began to encounter ideas and philosophies that caused him to question his beliefs. He began to wrestle with his testimony, becoming more and more confused by what he was finding. He tried to find his own answers to resolve the growing confusion, but they were not forthcoming. He turned to others with his questions, but they couldn’t resolve his doubts. Finally, he approached the missionaries, challenging them to answer his questions, but they declined to give him easy and quick answers, which he found surprising. Instead, they returned the challenge and gave him a Book of Mormon with the promise that if he read with a sincere heart, asking God in faith, his confusion would be resolved. He accepted their challenge.

Enoch devoured the Book of Mormon in 10 days. Frequently, as he encountered stories of conversion such as those of Alma, King Lamoni, and others, the Spirit moved him to tears. In his reading he recognized the same Spirit he had felt in reading the New Testament in his youth. He felt a calming comfort that helped him remember and renew his relationship with his Savior, and his confusion began to fade. The answers to some of his questions never came, but he didn’t worry as he realized that his questions didn’t have to be answered. What mattered was his knowledge of the truthfulness of the plan of salvation and of the divinity and role of Jesus Christ, and especially of the Saviour’s love for him. He regained his footing on the covenant path with a newly strengthened relationship to God.

At a Young Women in Excellence event in her ward, Lily was recognized for completing her Individual Worth value project. For this project, Lily participated in Special Olympics. She competed in three track-and-field events and three swimming events. She worked very hard to prepare for her competitions and learn the proper techniques.
When Lily first started learning how to throw a rubber javelin for a track-and-field event, it was a bit tricky. But Lily practiced hard, and when the day of the event came, Lily was not nervous at all because she knew just what to do. When the results came in, Lily earned the gold medal!
Lily’s participation in Special Olympics helped her learn that she can do hard things, that she can develop her talents, and that she has great worth.

Now, around the fire in Whitehorse after a Sunday of worship and a delicious meal with the Whitehorse Saints, we were reliving the experience one more time before starting home the next morning. As the fire died away, the chill went unnoticed in the warmth of the Spirit. A theme of priesthood and prayer threaded the testimonies.
“The last day as we were rushing to meet the train, we stopped at a rock outcropping to rest, and Brother Woolley asked me to say a prayer. As I knelt upon the earth, tears streamed down my face and an overwhelming feeling of sweet humility filled my being. I felt an overpowering desire to always be close to my Heavenly Father and live so I would please him. The words poured from my mouth and I prayed publicly for the first time in my life by the Spirit. I was prompted to ask for strength and that we might make the train on time. We did. I also asked for a special blessing upon the girls behind us. It was incredible, but they reached the station only 15 minutes to a half hour behind us. I’m so very thankful I had this camping experience and the opportunity to rely so heavily on the Lord.”

Then one day my father dropped another bombshell. He’d decided to leave BYU—Hawaii to take a position at the University of Wisconsin. My heart began to thud. How could he? How could he be so cruel as to take me to a state only a lake away from Michigan? There wasn’t a dry eye among us when we boarded the plane.
But here I was in Wisconsin—my sobs and pleas had fallen on deaf ears. I shot the mirror another grim glare and turned away resolutely. No, this time I wouldn’t start a new junior high with secondhand clothes and expectant smiles. I’d grown up a lot since Michigan and knew better than that.
My ploy worked. I didn’t look or act like a nerd and found friends instantly—of the wrong variety. This was the crowd who had an ever-present cigarette on their lips and an expletive to fit every occasion. They were happy to draw me into their circle.
“Wanna drag?” became a phrase I was to hear repeatedly that year as someone in the crowd lit up and offered to share their nicotine.
Did I want a drag? Of course I did. More than anything in the world I wanted to fit in and be a part of this crowd. But I couldn’t—I was a Mormon. And that made me mad. It wasn’t cool to be a Mormon. There were only three Mormons at my junior high, including myself and my brother. I was okay, but in my estimation, the other two didn’t have a chance of being accepted. I didn’t want to be connected with either of them in any way. I kept my religion squashed as far under a bushel as I could. When kids offered me a cigarette I didn’t say, “No thanks, I’m a Mormon and we don’t smoke.” I said, “No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“Why not?” they often asked.
“I don’t know,” I’d mutter uncomfortably. “It’s bad for your health, I guess.”
“You’re smart,” they’d respond thoughtfully, happily continuing to puff. I looked on in misery.
This crowd loved dancing to the music of Jimi Hendrix and “The Doors” and so did I. They also liked having parties in kids’ basements when their parents weren’t home. The lights were dimmed, the cigarettes glowed, and kids paired off. I wandered around pretending to fit in.
How I longed to do what the others were doing so I could truly belong. I clung to the memory of those happy years in Hawaii, marching barefoot down Moana Street to the beach with a slew of friends surrounding me. In Michigan it was different. I hadn’t fit in because my clothes were outdated and I looked like Popeye’s Olive Oyle in cat glasses. But that wasn’t the problem here. Now I was an identical clone of my Wisconsin friends, and I still wasn’t one of them. Outwardly we looked alike, but inside we were miles apart. I was like one of those Idaho Spud candy bars my dad loves so much—dark and rough on the outside, but full of fluffy, white, squishy marshmallow on the inside. I was a good kid trying to look bad. It wasn’t much fun.
I didn’t want to give up my friends, but how was I to fit in when I didn’t smoke, drink, swear, or pair off? Although I wanted to participate, I could never bring myself to that point. Something always stopped me. Still, the daily contact with these friends took its toll.
My parents watched me change from a cheerful, studious eighth grader to a belligerent, hostile ninth grader. I refused to attend early-morning seminary and Mutual activities—when I could get away with it. In our family, missing Sunday meetings wasn’t an option, or I would have done that, too. Because I was exposed to so much crude language, swear words came involuntarily to my mind each time something bad happened.
Like a brand, I carry the memory of the day one of those words found its way out of my mouth. I was strolling home from school with several friends when a male acquaintance snuck up behind me and playfully yanked my long hair. Shocked and angry, I whirled around to face him. The word popped out before I had a chance to think. Everyone used that word in such situations, but my friends stared at me in disbelief. I tried to pass it off, but inside I was terribly ashamed and made sure it never happened again.
My report card suffered when I figured out it wasn’t cool to get good grades. I’d always been very competitive and at the top of my classes. Now it was an embarrassment to admit I’d earned an A on a test. I became lazy and sloppy.
I don’t like to think what might have happened if my father hadn’t dropped another of his now famous bombshells—this time a happy one. He’d taken a position in higher education in the San Francisco Bay area, and we would soon be on our way to California! It wasn’t as good as announcing that we were returning to Hawaii, but the prospect of becoming one of those California girls the Beach Boys were always singing about appealed to me. I had no regrets about leaving Wisconsin. I was growing weary of the pretense. I’m not sure how much longer I could have kept that scowl on my face and in my heart without snapping.
It was a good move, and I found friends both in and out of the Church with solid values and morals. I’ve reflected many times since on that year in Wisconsin. I’m grateful I’ve never again been so sorely tempted and wonder what kept me from becoming as dark and rough on the inside as I was on the outside.
Maybe it was the 15 years of gospel teachings I’d internalized at home and church that I knew deep down were true. Maybe it was knowing how disappointed my parents would be if they found out I’d done something wrong. Maybe it was because I knew they trusted me. Maybe it was their righteous and sincere prayers in my behalf. Maybe it was because somehow I always knew I wasn’t like those kids.
I’m not proud of my behavior and attitude, but in any case, I weathered the year without any terribly serious mistakes.
Meanwhile, I’ve decided that while living the gospel can seem at times a chore and a bore, if I can hang on and trust what I’ve been taught is true, I’ll be grateful—sometimes rather quickly. In my case I’ve found I don’t have to wait until I die (like I used to think) to be glad I made good choices.
A year later, away from the influence of those friends, I was profoundly grateful I hadn’t given up important gospel standards. In fact, I’ve been grateful all my life.

During the Great Depression, Harold B. Lee, serving then as a stake president, was asked by the Brethren to find an answer to the oppressive poverty, sorrow, and hunger that were so widespread across the world at that time. He struggled to find a solution and took the matter to the Lord and asked, “What kind of an organization will we have … to do this?”

And “it was as though the Lord had said [to him]: ‘Look, son. You don’t need any other organization. I have given you the greatest organization there is on the face of the earth. Nothing is greater than the priesthood organization. All in the world you need to do is to put the priesthood to work. That’s all.’”

I had just turned 21 and was working as a server in a local ski resort’s restaurant. One afternoon as I finished cleaning the dining room, another server handed me a book and said he wanted me to have it. I thanked him and accepted it.
I looked at the cover: the Book of Mormon. My curiosity was sparked, so I decided to go into the kitchen to check it out. Inside the cover I found a note that the server had written to me. In it he said the Book of Mormon was a true book of Jesus Christ’s gospel and that he knew it would touch my heart. I decided to start reading it right then.
As I read, a strange, peaceful feeling enveloped me. I hadn’t felt that feeling while reading any book other than the Bible. My initial intent to read a few pages quickly turned into a few chapters. I couldn’t put the book down. Then I came to 1 Nephi 15:11: “Do ye not remember the things which the Lord hath said?—If ye will not harden your hearts, and ask me in faith, believing that ye shall receive, with diligence in keeping my commandments, surely these things shall be made known unto you.”
I had to know if this book was true. I didn’t know how to address God in prayer, so I simply looked up at the kitchen ceiling and asked, “Is this book from You?” Immediately I felt a firm reply: “Yes.” I remember thinking, “Wow. I guess I’ll finish the book!”
Three months later, having finished the Book of Mormon, I drove to visit my father in California. Not far from his house I passed a building with a mosaic on its front that I recognized. I quickly turned into the parking lot and found a man outside.
“What is Lehi’s vision of the tree of life doing on your building?” I asked. He then introduced me to his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I retrieved my Book of Mormon from the car and began asking him questions about all the passages I had circled as I read. He slowed me down and explained that the Church had missionaries who devoted two years of their lives to answering questions like mine.
I gave him my father’s address, and later two elders came to visit me. I was impressed that they were eager to answer all of my questions. I was even more impressed that the new concepts they taught me felt like familiar things I was remembering again. Five weeks later I was baptized a member of the Church.
Thirty-two years have passed since then, and I still read the Book of Mormon daily. It has been a continuous source of light and direction for my family and me. How grateful I am to the ancient prophets who etched the words of God onto the golden plates, to Joseph Smith for enduring persecution and trials in order to translate and publish its truths, and to a server who had the courage to give me a Book of Mormon that day.