Gospel Story Finder

Sometimes it’s difficult to find the time to talk. If that’s the case, try some creative approaches. One young missionary told me, “I always wanted to talk to my mom. Oh, we talked about lots of things but never about anything serious or personal. We had a good relationship—we got along well—but we never really talked.
“There was so much that I wanted to tell her, so many questions I wanted to ask her before I went on my mission, but I just couldn’t do it.
“So I wrote her a letter, a long letter, and left it on her dresser. That really opened things up for us, and we had a couple of great talks before I left.”

After moving to Nauvoo, Emmeline got the fever and chills that plagued so many people living there. While she was finding the strength to recover, she asked the Apostle Brigham Young to give her a priesthood blessing of healing2: “Thou shalt rise up from this bed of affliction and live yet many years to do good.” The blessing had immediate effect; “it was like new life to her, and she laid hold of the promise, and began to gain strength.”3

My knees were aching from kneeling on the chair pulled up beneath the window. It seemed as if I had been looking out the window forever. “When will they come?” I asked.
My father looked at me over the top of his glasses. He was sitting at the kitchen table, mending one of his fishnets. “It’s getting late,” he said. “They should come soon.” He leaned over the table and opened the window.
The cool night air felt good on my face. It was almost midnight, but it was not very dark outside. Even this late in the summer, the nights in northern Sweden never got darker than a muted dusk. I could clearly see the big birch behind the house and the small boat shed next to it. And the lake, smooth and calm, mirrored the woods beyond it.
The rest of the family was asleep. Only my father and I were sitting in the dark kitchen, waiting. He had seen it many times, but I never had.
“When will they come back?” I asked.
“When the hunting season is over.”
“But how do they know when it’s over?”
My father came over and put his arm around me. “I’m not sure,” he said. “They just know.”
I thought about this for a while. At six, there were many things that I didn’t understand. “Maybe Heavenly Father tells them,” I said.
“Maybe.”
Father touched my arm. “Look, Brita,” he whispered.
I looked out the window and saw the first elk crossing our driveway and coming into the garden. He stopped for a moment, and I saw his magnificent antlers outlined against the sky. Then he resumed his pace and continued down toward the lake. There was hardly a ripple on the surface as he unhesitatingly walked into the water and began to swim toward the other side.
Then came the next elk, and the next. There were never two together. One at a time the animals passed by our window and went down to the water.
I knelt on my chair, spellbound. There was no sound at all. It was as if they weren’t real, but creatures created by the magic of the night. The proud head of the first elk had become just a dot far out in the water. Ours was a wide lake, and I marveled at the elk’s courage in attempting to swim all that distance.
We watched in silence until they were all so far out that even when I strained my eyes, I couldn’t see them.
“What if they don’t make it?” I asked.
“They will.” My father’s voice was confident. He went over to the stove and put more wood on the fire.
“How many were there?”
“Seventeen.” He paused. “Last year there were twenty-four. Maybe one day there will be none.”
No elk at all! I felt like crying, and all of a sudden I was very tired. I slipped down from my chair and walked barefoot across the kitchen floor. Then I thought of something and turned around. “Will no one kill them on the other side?”
My father was looking out the window, and I could see that his thoughts were far away. After a while he said, “It’s much safer there than here. There are no roads, no houses, and the forest is very dense. The elk know that they have a better chance to survive there.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “They always come back, though. I’ve often wondered why.”
I wanted to ask something else, but I forgot what it was. My eyelids were heavy. “Goodnight,” I said.
As I pulled the quilt over me and buried my face in the soft pillow, I remembered. How can such large animals move so quietly? I would ask tomorrow. …

With her permission, I would like to share part of a sweet letter I received from Sister Linda Seamon of the Flagstaff Arizona Stake.

“We are a young family. My husband and I are 33. We have three small children. This is a busy ‘family time’ for us in our lives. For months, Diana, our ward genealogy person, would call us on a regular basis to ask if there was anything she could do to help us get started on our family history.

“We of course thanked her for the call, but firmly replied that ‘Aunt Leona, Cousin Nellie, and Aunt Bertha have done all there is to do on our families.’ Then, intrigued by an article in the Ensign about the new 8½-by-11 forms for family history, I mentioned this to Diana and a week later she was at my door with the forms! I took a look and thought how neat it would be to fill in the forms with our own names in the blanks. This simple experience of a loving, persistent family history representative was what got us started.

“We both come from Mormon families several generations back. We thought the ordinance work for our ancestors had been completed. We were wrong! In the short months we have been collecting copies of family group records, we have had so many experiences that confirmed to us the Lord’s hand in this work: 44 baptisms, 45 endowments, 29 children sealed to parents, 16 marriage sealings. All of these from records that were supposedly ‘all done.’

“Words cannot express the joy we have felt in the temple performing ordinances for our ancestors. Family relationships, some estranged since childhood, have been healed. Our extended families have also become involved. We have sent names to five different temples so that we could be united in helping to complete the temple work.

“We believe that it takes just one temple experience for one’s ancestors to convince a person of the importance of this work. It is possible to become involved in this exciting work at any age. We’re committed to it!”

Brant sat on the curb and ran his fingers through his hair. “Look at this stupid report card!”
At the corner, they turned down the alley. “How am I going to handle this report card?” Brant said.
“What’s to handle? You usually get good grades.”
“Yeah, right! Then how do I explain a D in math?”
Willard laughed. “That will take some explaining!”
“Not funny, Will.”
“It is to me. I’m the one with bad grades. What happened to you?”
Brant shrugged and looked ahead toward his house. “Math happened. I’m lost.”
Willard patted Brant’s shoulder. “I don’t even show my folks my report card. Try that.”
Brant frowned. “Yeah, right! Hide it for a whole year? Get serious.”
“That’s what I do.” Willard flipped the ball in his hand. “My folks are too busy to even notice.”
“My folks know when report card day is. And if they forget, Randy reminds them.” Brant nodded toward the end of the street, where his little brother was walking home with a friend.
“Hi!” Randy called excitedly. “I got my report card!”
Brant jabbed Willard’s side. “See what I mean?”
“Wanna see my grades?” Randy offered eagerly. He shoved his report card into Brant’s face. “All A’s except one B!”
Brant patted Randy’s head. “Good work, Ran.”
“I get a dollar for every A,” Randy announced proudly.
Willard leaned close to Brant. “How much for a D?” he snickered.
Randy looked up quickly. “I didn’t get any D’s. After I tell Mom, I’m calling Dad at work and telling him my grades!” He raced toward the house.
Brant’s head throbbed. He knew he was slipping in math, but he hadn’t expected a D! Was this his year to hit his head against a brick wall? Please, Heavenly Father, he prayed silently, help me convince Mom and Dad I haven’t been goofing off. He opened the door and heard his brother’s excited voice.
“Yeah, Dad, all A’s and a B! Thanks! Do you want to talk to Brant?”
Brant shook his head and shivered, but it was too late. Randy shoved the phone into his hand. “Here, Brant, Dad wants to hear about your grades.”
At dinner everyone listened as Randy babbled about his good grades. Brant knew that Dad and Mom would wait till they were alone to drop the ax. After dinner, Randy ran out to play, leaving Brant alone. He wished he could disappear too. Instead, he went out onto the deck, where Dad was restringing the lawn trimmer.
As Brant slumped into a lawn chair, Dad looked up. “OK, so what’s with the D?”
Brant shrugged. “I’m having trouble with math.”
Dad leaned back and wiped his hands with a rag. “That’s no news flash.”
“I’ll do better next report period.”
“Good, but how do you plan to do that?”
Brant squirmed. “I’ll spend more time on my homework.”
Dad smiled. “That’s a step in the right direction. Another is no more after-school street hockey—homework first. No friends in, and no TV while you’re doing it. Plus, doing homework doesn’t mean rushing through and putting answers on paper. It means understanding how to solve the problems. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get your homework, and we’ll look at it. I used to be pretty good at math.”
The following morning, Willard and Brant hurried to school. “How’d it go with the report card?” Willard asked.
Brant shrugged. “I’m kind of grounded till I get this math thing right.”
“What’s ‘kind of grounded’?”
“It means that homework gets top priority. Dad explained some things, and I understand the math a little better already. What happened with you?”
Willard grinned. “Nothing. I told you I’d get away without showing them my report card.”
Brant frowned. Willard got away with everything! Then they passed Mr. Lawson’s home, and he remembered how Willard had wanted him to get the ball because “you handle stuff better.”
Brant smiled to himself. If he did handle stuff better, it was because his folks took the time and trouble to show him and Randy the right way to do things. Thank you, Heavenly Father, he prayed silently. Thanks for giving us parents who love us enough to not let us get away with anything.

I know one BYU graduate who is a great example. He points out that there is a mirror quality to conversation. If we talk about the weather, people respond by talking about the weather. If we talk about sports, they respond by talking about sports. This friend says he asks people he meets about their school and listens intently. After they respond by asking him about his school, he tells them about BYU and then shares his testimony of the gospel. Then, in a positive way, he offers to let them learn more from the missionaries. He has been very successful in sharing the gospel. He has also remained on excellent terms with his friends who do not respond to his challenge because he genuinely loves them and is interested in them.

Note how carefully we have been instructed on how to confer priesthood authority. When I turned 12 years old, my father, Charles Oaks, and my bishop, George Collard, laid their hands on my head and conferred upon me the Aaronic Priesthood and ordained me a deacon.

Several years later, then Elder Gordon B. Hinckley used this same heavenly directed procedure to ordain me a Seventy. Each ordination reflects additional divine trust and a new opportunity to serve on the Lord’s side.

I remember holding my daughter Nikki in my arms for the first time. She looked beautiful and perfect. My heart and mind filled with loving dreams of nurturing her. I looked forward to sharing my love of books, music, and art. I would spare no effort to support her in developing her talents and abilities.
I could not have imagined at that time that she would never be able to read above a fourth-grade level; calculate beyond simple, single-digit arithmetic problems; or learn to drive a car. It was only after six difficult years of fears, frustrations, medical evaluation, and psychological testing that I learned Nikki was intellectually impaired.
Adjusting to having a child with a disability is a process, not an event. Ten percent of all children have a disability or a long-term chronic illness. Although it is a reasonably common experience, most parents are not prepared to hear, “Your child has a serious disability.” It takes some time to learn how to deal with the confusion, physical demands, behavioral challenges, extra expenses, and feelings of embarrassment and loneliness. If you have experienced or are still going through this process of adjustment, it is important for you to know that many of your responses and reactions are normal.
You may find it very difficult at first to assimilate the information that your child has a disability. You may need some time to understand what the diagnosis means. We all have images and stereotypes of children with intellectual impairment or mental illness. These diagnoses may not match what we see in our child, particularly if the child looks normal. It is helpful to learn about the disability. Find out as much as you can about your child’s diagnosis. Seek information from reliable sources, such as professional organizations that focus on the specific disability.
Denial is a psychological defense mechanism we utilize when we feel overwhelmed and unable to cope. In a way, denial can be a gift that allows us to accept the truth a little at a time and make it more bearable. Denial often comes from fear—fear due to uncertainty about the future or concern about the impact this child will have on other family members. Denial can lead to a frantic search for a cure. Parents may believe if they can only find the right doctor, the right medicine, the right program, or the right learning approach, then the child will be made “normal.” This process of searching is useful in the sense that it can help you locate resources that might help your child, yourself, and your family. Sooner or later, however, you have to confront the child’s limitations and accept your own inability to undo the disability. You must also release other people from that responsibility.
Acknowledging the reality of the disability may lead to feeling anxious. Anxiety is the body’s way of responding to fear and mobilizing resources. If a great beast were to come into your room, you would probably have an anxiety response. Your body would release adrenaline, and you would be prepared to fight, flee, or freeze. These are common responses when people are threatened in some way. As you begin to realize this child needs special care and protection, that anxious energy can mobilize your resources. Get information. Talk with other parents. Pray and talk with priesthood leaders. Seek help from professionals. Activity that reduces the feeling of powerlessness is a good way to use that energy. Self-care is also important in managing anxiety. Get adequate sleep, eat right, and take time for activities that help you relax and enjoy life. Parents need occasional respite from the heavy responsibility of caring for a child with a disability.
Belief in a just world sometimes produces unwarranted guilt. We want to believe that our world is predictable and controllable. This belief protects us from our fears. We convince ourselves that bad things happen to bad people and good things happen to good people. This seems just. The downside of this belief is that when something does hurt us, we tend to feel we are somehow to blame. Comments by well-meaning but insensitive people can trigger these feelings. Comments such as “You must have needed this particular experience for your salvation” or can lead parents to have painful and unwarranted guilt. They start asking, “Why me? Am I so bad that I needed something this severe to shape me up? I wanted only to be a good parent.” Questions may also come from people who believe they can protect themselves from this same experience if they can only discover what you did “wrong.”
You will need to find your own spiritual meaning concerning painful events and not allow others to impose their answers as to why these things happened. It takes years to fully understand, and sometimes the answer doesn’t come in this life. Trust that Heavenly Father is a God of love and does not delight in punishing you. That way, you will be able to find more accurate meaning in the adversities you face.
Strong emotions result from losses. If you have a child with a disability, you may feel the loss of the child you thought you would be raising. You may also feel grief over the loss of what you may have envisioned as an ideal family. Indeed, you may have to reframe your definition of an ideal family.
When I was a young mother with four children, my husband was serving as a bishop. It felt wonderful to be part of my idea of an ideal Latter-day Saint family. But my husband died of cancer, and I was left to raise my children alone. I had to return to school, finish a degree, and work. I had to reframe what I perceived an ideal Latter-day Saint family to be. I later married a man with six children, and we became a blended family with ten children. Once again I had to reframe what I thought an ideal LDS family was.
Learning how to grieve and then go on with your life can build strength. When you can acknowledge and work through painful feelings, you develop emotional, spiritual, and psychological skills that can help you in other areas of your life. Your capacity for empathy can grow through a personal acquaintance with grief.
We need to make sense of what we perceive as injustice. Raising a child with a disability can give you a close view of the cruel side of life. Creating a new definition of what is fair and just, however, can reduce anger. For example, when my daughter was 10 years old, she attended a Sunday School party. She came home scraped and bleeding. One of the boys in the class had called her a “stupid retard” and pushed her down. I felt angry that my child was hurt. Angry feelings can be a message that something needs to be done. Anger can alert us to dangers, problems, and offenses that may need some correcting. We can make decisions, however, about how we act on those feelings. We can deal with anger in a constructive way.
My husband and I visited the boy’s family. We sat with the boy and his parents and calmly talked about what the word retarded meant. We asked the boy how he would feel if he were unable to do the things he enjoyed. This boy became one of our daughter’s strongest allies. That experience ultimately helped another person to grow. This seemed “fair.” Retaliation would not have produced justice. Although anger may come from experiences with injustice, we can turn them into good experiences for ourselves and others.
Children with disabilities have a harder time mastering routine behaviors and activities. Learning emotional skills is even more difficult. They experience more frustration than other children. If the disability affects brain functioning, the child will find it harder to think through problems rationally. My husband refers to behavior resulting from this difficulty as “the law of the universe”: If you cannot talk it out, you are going to act it out. In other words, what cannot be verbally expressed will be acted out in some way, even if it is just through having a stomachache. Often the child’s misbehavior is simply an attempt to cope with some other problem.
For example, when my daughter was 18, she would not go to bed and insisted on leaving her light on all night. She would get very angry and say, “I don’t want to go to bed because there are missionaries hiding in my dresser drawer.” I recognized this as clearly delusional.
Rather than being angry, I tried to understand. What would cause her to be so frightened? As I thought about it, I realized that many of her friends were getting married. She had attended bridal parties where they had received beautiful things they would put in their dresser drawers. They were getting married, leaving her, and were no longer available as her friends. She also longed to have those same experiences and had expressed concerns: “Will I ever marry? Will anyone ever love me? Will anyone ever give me a bridal party and beautiful things?” Her friends had married returned missionaries. She could see that returned missionaries were great husbands. Somehow, all of this went together. She was also poignantly and painfully aware that she lacked the skills and the ability to manage the demands of a marriage. She was unable to verbally express those conflicts or even fully understand them, so all we heard was a delusion about missionaries hiding in the drawer. Once I began to understand her inner experience, I was able to talk it through with her. We worked together to verbalize her conflicts and grieve the sorrow of not being able to marry. The problem behavior stopped, and she was able to sleep peacefully.
Parents sometimes find it difficult to identify the source of a disabled child’s misbehavior. Disabilities differ in the kinds of challenges they create. Children’s natural dispositions, strengths, and weaknesses vary. The circumstances surrounding incidents of misbehavior are unique to each family. These factors make it difficult, but if you can determine the meaning of the misbehavior, it becomes easier to know which problems need to be solved. Becoming angry and frustrated with the child is counterproductive because these reactions generally prevent parents from identifying the real source of the misbehavior.
One fairly common source of misbehavior is attention seeking. The child may be trying to get your attention because he or she is hungry, tired, scared, overstimulated, bored, frustrated, sick, or having an allergic response to food or the environment. If a child doesn’t have the skill to talk it out, he or she will act it out. This is particularly true for children who have disorders that compromise brain functioning, such as attention deficit disorder, intellectual impairment, bipolar mood disorder, or schizophrenia. The child may feel overwhelmed and may not be able to verbalize the distress. Parents need to be alert to what is going on in the child’s life that may cause him or her to seek attention.
Strategies that do not work in managing misbehavior include (1) making discipline rules and not enforcing them; (2) yelling—the child learns not to listen unless somebody yells; (3) insulting and name calling, which only shame the child; (4) withdrawing privileges that have no relationship to the misbehavior; and (5) physically or verbally abusing the child. These strategies usually increase misbehavior rather than help the child learn how to manage difficult situations and emotions.
Many blessings come from raising a child with a disability. I realize the important role Nikki has played in my personal and spiritual growth. The experience has brought me to my knees on many occasions because I needed further instruction from a wise Heavenly Father. It has opened my heart to truths I had desired to better understand. I do not yet have all the answers to “Why me?” or “Why her?” I do, however, have an increased understanding of many principles—an understanding that is priceless to me.
One of the most beautiful realizations is the knowledge that my child’s spirit is not disabled. I have become aware that she experiences a rich spiritual life. She is often the first in the family to feel the presence of the Holy Ghost on sacred occasions. She frequently shares spiritual insights that her limited intellectual abilities could not have generated.
When Nikki received her patriarchal blessing, she was told she had been given this special experience in mortality because of the greatness of her soul. She helps others learn compassion and understanding. I am grateful for all the good she has done for our family as well as for many others. Nikki teaches us that love, kindness, and charity are not just for the swift or the strong, but they are also for those who struggle. I have the firm hope of an eternal relationship with Nikki. I know that when she is finally healed of her disability, I will learn yet more from the greatness of her soul.

Learning to discern the teachings of the Spirit is an important part of helping faith become a reality. My daughter Karen shared her experience. She said: “When I was just a little girl, I started reading the Book of Mormon for the first time. After many days of reading, I came one night to 1 Nephi 3:7: ‘I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.’” Karen continued: “I didn’t know this was a famous verse, but as I read that verse, I felt strongly impressed. I was impressed that Heavenly Father would help us keep His commandments, but the deep impression was really more of a feeling. I had seen my parents mark verses in their scriptures with red pencils. So I got up and searched through the house until I found a red pencil, and with a great sense of solemnity and importance, I marked that verse in my own Book of Mormon.” Karen continued: “Over the years as I read the scriptures, that experience was repeated time and time again—reading a verse and feeling deeply impressed. In time I came to recognize that feeling as the Holy Ghost. As a missionary I saw others read verses and feel deeply impressed to the extent that they were willing and able to change their lives and accept the gospel.”

I was really scared to get baptized because I don’t like going under water. My mom showed me a picture of a girl getting baptized who looked really happy, and we read articles from the Friend about baptism. My mom gave me a jar of gumballs and told me that every day she would talk about baptism and then I would get a gumball. I felt a little better about my baptism after that.
Arianna S., age 7, Alaska, USA

In recent days we have had the honor of having again in our home as a guest a noble, quiet man from Mali, West Africa, an elder in the Church, who has taught his people how to dig wells for themselves and how to use the water on gardens which miraculously produce fresh vegetables and grain that grow on land which heretofore has grudgingly yielded only meager crops of millet. Literacy and health programs have been introduced.

Many other special examples of the strength of Christ’s mission crowd the memory. I share just one or two. Some years ago I was privileged to dedicate a chapel built by the Church in the Kalaupapa leper colony on the island of Molokai in the Hawaiian Islands. The experience was tender and touching and unforgettable.

A musical number by the branch choir, comprising most of the members of the branch, was a poignant highlight. They came forward haltingly from the congregation, many being helped by others to the front of the small, attractive building. They arranged themselves in choir grouping, some of them literally leaning for support against each other. The sight was one that will linger in memory. Many were blind and many halt and lame. They literally supported each other as they sang hymns of praise and thanksgiving to God.

There were a lot of tears at Kalaupapa that day.

As Easter time approaches, let me share with you the tender story of an eleven-year-old boy named Philip, a Down’s syndrome child who was in a Sunday School class with eight other children.

Easter Sunday the teacher brought an empty plastic egg for each child. They were instructed to go out of the church building onto the grounds and put into the egg something that would remind them of the meaning of Easter.

All returned joyfully. As each egg was opened there were exclamations of delight at a butterfly, a twig, a flower, a blade of grass. Then the last egg was opened. It was Philip’s, and it was empty!

Some of the children made fun of Philip. “But, teacher,” he said, “teacher, the tomb was empty.”

A newspaper article announcing Philip’s death a few months later noted that at the conclusion of the funeral eight children marched forward and put a large empty egg on the small casket. On it was a banner that said, “The tomb was empty.”

Joseph turned the page in his book. He frowned. He had two more pages to go.
“Are you OK?” Mamá asked.
“I like to read,” Joseph said. “But I am so slow. How can I learn to read better?”
“I know!” Mamá said. “Read a chapter of the Book of Mormon every day. It will help you learn to read better.”
Joseph tried. At first it took a long time. He had to sound out the long words. But he kept reading. Soon he could read more than one chapter.
Two weeks went by. Joseph’s bookmark moved from 1 Nephi to 2 Nephi. Then it was in the book of Jacob!
One night it was Joseph’s turn to give the lesson in family home evening.
“I know what to do!” Joseph said. He found the Book of Mormon Stories book. It had words and pictures. He turned the pages until he found the perfect story.
Joseph read the story to his family. He read short words, like ship. He read long words, like commanded. Prophets wrote these words long ago. The words were easy to read.
When the story was over, Mamá had tears in her eyes.
“Are you OK, Mamá?” Joseph asked.
“I’m happy,” Mamá said. “You have worked hard.”
Joseph smiled big.
“I read every day.” He showed Mamá his Book of Mormon. His bookmark was in the book of Alma!
Someday Joseph’s bookmark would be at the end of the book. And then he could start over!

At Philadelphia, Elder John E. Page lost the spirit of the mission and Orson continued on to Jerusalem alone. During his travels Orson met many notable personalities, some of whom were amazed at and interested in his mission. He enjoyed his travels through Europe and while waiting for his visa in Munich, learned to write and speak German.
Tired and weary after several months’ travel of nearly 10,000 miles, Orson’s enthusiasm was revitalized as he finally arrived at the sacred city of Jerusalem. Here he carefully walked along a dark, narrow street, avoiding the heavily loaded camels that traveled toward him. In the early morning hour he passed through the ancient gate in the old decayed wall near the brook, Kidron. As Orson crossed over the small brook and climbed up the gentle slope of the hill, bright rays of sunshine encompassed the Mount of Olives. It was a magnificent sight as he gazed upon the surrounding countryside from the top of the mount.
There, alone, on Sunday, October 24, 1841, Orson wrote and offered the prayer dedicating Palestine for the return of the Jews and for the building of a temple in the future. For the first time in 1,800 years, an apostle stood again on the Mount of Olives. After his prayer Orson Hyde built two stone altars patterned after those of ancient Israel for memorials. The first memorial was on the Mount of Olives and the second on Mt. Moriah.

One first noticed the dark glasses and the deep scars on his face. Then came an awareness that he had no hands; only stubs protruded from the sleeves of his coat. Soon it also became apparent that this man was blind. The dark glasses did not protect his eyes from the sun, for he had no eyes. Instead they spared others the shock of seeing only gaping holes where his eyes once had been.
This man, Cory Hanks, visited our home in Phoenix, Arizona, when I was a boy. Having been a university classmate, my father had invited him to dinner to visit and to reminisce. On entering the home, he was taken through all the rooms and made acquainted with the location of the doors and furniture. Thereafter, he moved about as if he could see. At dinner, my mother put all his food on one plate. A bracelet with a spoon attached was then slipped over one of his arms which enabled him to feed himself. We learned that special clothing with snaps instead of buttons and zippers enabled him to dress himself. At the time of his visit, he was a noted lecturer who traveled extensively, usually alone. He trusted clerks, waiters, or travel agents to take the right amount of money from his wallet to pay for any purchase. By asking how much was in his wallet, he knew whether the last person had been honest. He exuded an air of confidence and self-possession and an uncomplaining acceptance of the terrible handicaps with which he lived.
We learned, however, he had not always acted this way. There was a time when he tried desperately to commit suicide. There were also times when, rebelling against his fate, he was either wild and ungovernable or withdrawn and morose. On learning the circumstances of the terrible accident which had blinded and maimed him, one could sympathize with such conduct.
The tragedy occurred at a remote mine high in the mountains. Young Cory was working there through the summer to earn money to continue his education at the university. A rain the night before had dampened the dynamite caps used in blasting. As Cory laid them out in the sun to dry they exploded, mangling his hands and ripping his eyes and face. A companion, hearing the explosion ran to Cory to find him covered with blood and writhing on the ground. With no means of getting him off the mountain alone, the companion tied tourniquets around the stubs of his arms to prevent Cory from bleeding to death and ran for help. Regaining consciousness while his friend was gone and realizing he was blind and had no hands, the wounded miner tried to tear the tourniquets off with his teeth so he would bleed to death. Help came before he succeeded.
There followed a long period of anguish, pain, and self-pity. Cory thought his usefulness was ended, and he could see no purpose in living. He was disagreeable, angry, and argumentative, making himself and everyone around him miserable and unhappy.
But in time, a remarkable change occurred in him. It began when he realized that although he had suffered a terrible disability, he still had resources which, if used properly, would enable him to live happily and productively. It began when he discovered that his mind was unimpaired and that by using it and diverting his thoughts in proper channels, his actions and outward circumstances could be altered accordingly. This change led him back to the university and, ultimately, to a rewarding life of lecturing and travel.

Why do we need the Book of Mormon when we already have the Holy Bible? I’ve thought about this question a lot. As a teenager I was curious about the Book of Mormon, but I didn’t have the motivation to read it. For one thing, nobody encouraged me to read it at home because I was the only member of the Church in my family, except for my grandfather who had passed away.
One Sunday at a testimony meeting, many members testified about the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon, which I had recently begun to doubt. They challenged those who hadn’t read it to gain their own testimony that the Book of Mormon is true, that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the kingdom of God on the earth.
I pondered if my testimony of the Church and of Joseph Smith was strong enough to withstand the temptations and enticements of Satan. I realized that it wasn’t. My testimony was weak because I had depended only on the testimonies of Church leaders and members. I promised myself that starting that day, I would seek my own testimony.
I decided to read the Book of Mormon. In the introduction I read, “We invite all men everywhere to read the Book of Mormon, to ponder in their hearts the message it contains, and then to ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ if the book is true. Those who pursue this course and ask in faith will gain a testimony of its truth and divinity by the power of the Holy Ghost. (See Moroni 10:3–5.)” I knew I was personally being invited to read the Book of Mormon. As I continued reading, I felt the warmth of the Holy Ghost testifying of the book’s divinity and truthfulness.
I found that the Book of Mormon does testify of Christ, and I was ashamed for doubting its truthfulness. At school I had learned how judges of the law carefully study a case’s evidence before passing judgment. I had done the opposite with the Book of Mormon: I had judged it before I read it.
I finished reading with a humble heart and courage to defend what I believe. Also, I’m happy because I have a companion as I read the Book of Mormon again. My grandmother was baptized shortly before I finished reading the Book of Mormon the first time.
I have a firm testimony that Jesus Christ is my Savior, that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true and living Church of God here on the earth.

I scooted across an old twin mattress and braced my back against the Toyota Land Cruiser’s cab. Jean jumped in at the same time, almost knocking off her gray Akubra hat. Jean was 15, one year older than I am. I’d met her here a week ago, on the first day at my new school in Alice Springs. Even though she was LDS, and there aren’t many Mormons here, her khaki shirt, olive neckerchief, and camouflage pants made her seem so tough to me that I didn’t think we’d ever be close friends.
“Ouch!” said another Aussie, this one seated near the rear of the truck. Her name was Cherie. She looked up at me like I was guilty of something. But it was Jean who spoke.
“Liz,” she said, “you’ve got prickles.”
Prickles, I thought, what are prickles?
Her comment sent my mind into a whirl. So here I am in Alice Springs, Northern Territory, Australia. When your dad’s in need of work, you go where you have to go, even if it’s all the way from Massachusetts to Australia. There are other Americans here, mostly with the military. I can get along with them. But what I really want is to be friends with the Australians. I’ve been here a week and it seems like a year. How will I ever fit in?
I looked at Cherie again. She was so pretty. I wanted to exchange my straggly brown hair for her luscious strawberry blonde. I felt my pale face, knowing it was smeared with sunscreen. I compared it to her tan complexion. She was certainly no stranger to the sun.
You’re the one with prickles, I thought, almost maliciously.
But as quick as I thought it, Jean was speaking to me again, pointing at my feet.
“Prickles,” she said. “In your stockings, mate.”
I looked down at my white cotton stockings. They bristled with burrs. But what was worse, I’d infested the entire mattress with the clinging black barbs, and Cherie, climbing in after us, had been stabbed by one in the palm of her hand.
Prickles, I thought. Australian for stickers.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, and started pulling the stickers out of my socks.
This time it was Cherie who spoke. “Make room for me, mate,” she said, indicating a place between us. Now I was surrounded—Jean on one side, Cherie on the other, off the highway on a dirt road, on the edge of the outback headed to the sandy, silty, dry bed of the Hugh River. A couple of youth leaders were driving this truck; another Cruiser with more young men and women followed behind. Using four-wheel drive, the utes (short for utility vehicles), lurched forward through the soft earth.
To maintain balance, I grabbed a metal rod that supported the bed’s steel roof. I held on tight. Wheels ground over gravel. Dust flew. I coughed. Cherie bounced on the mattress.
“Yahoo!” Jean squealed. My knuckles were white from hanging on. My stomach threatened to foam over like a warm Pepsi (caffeine-free, of course). Just as I prayed for the truck to quit this nonsense and take us back to Alice, we stopped.
“So, howdja like bush bashing?” Jean asked.
“Um, I …” I never got a chance to finish the sentence.
“Bet you’ve never done this either, Yank,” she continued, pointing to a metal sled the young men were attaching to the rear bumper. “Here, let Liz go first.”
I got a quick explanation of how to ride the sled. I also got a quick impression that now Jean was out to get me, too. I felt like some sort of alien, at the mercy of my captors.
Then Cherie rescued me. Sort of. At least she came and sat on a second sled opposite to mine. She had a neckerchief knotted over her mouth, handed me one, and indicated I should tie it the same way.
“Scrunch up to the front of the sled,” she said. I obeyed.
Everyone checked to make sure the path was clear, and that we were in an area of smooth, soft silt. Cherie signaled the driver.
“Let ’er rip,” she said.
Jean let out a whoop and the sleds started skidding over the sand. My heart galloped, but I hung on. Surprisingly, it reminded me of water skiing on Chesapeake Bay back in the States. Look at me, I thought, I’m doing this!
That’s when the sled tipped sideways. I lost my water skis! Flumpf! I hit the dirt and was surprised how soft it felt, how instantly I was no longer moving, how much of the riverbed silt was now packed inside my T-shirt and my jeans.
I heard someone yelling, “Stop the ute! The Yank got dumped!” Cherie, Jean, and all the others were laughing. I’d had all I could take.
“You did that on purpose!” I yelled at Jean when she walked up. “You made me go first so you could all laugh at me!” I could see my whole existence turning into misery. But when I looked in Jean’s face, I knew I was wrong.
“No, Yank,” she smiled. “We let you go first because it’s an honor. You did great for your first ride. Everybody gets dumped—that’s part of the fun!”
And you know, it was. We kept sand sledding through the rest of the morning, and we only stopped when it was nearly noon and we knew we had to eat and drink or we’d wilt from the heat. All of us got dumped. All of us were covered with dirt. But all of us were laughing and talking and joking together. People kept telling me how well I’d done for my first time sand sledding.
I deliberately backed away from the group and looked around me for a while. We were in a beautiful location. Gum trees all around. Beautiful red rock country. A blazing blue sky. Hot, yes. Dry, yes. A lot different than my humid, green home in Massachusetts. But these were good kids here, Mormon kids just like me, having fun, trying to help each other live the gospel. How would I fit in in Alice Springs? Just fine, thank you.
I made my way back to the campfire.
“Make room for me, mate!” I said, wiggling my way between Jean and Cherie. One of the boys, Ian, was using a long-handled metal gadget to squish two pieces of bread and some sort of filling together and toast sandwiches over the flames.
“They’re called jaffles,” he said. “And the first one is for Liz.”
I picked it up and took a big bite. My jaffle was filled with spaghetti.

“A Latter-day Saint missionary couple at the trading post baptized my husband when he was ten years old, and he attended Church services from that time on. He was selected to be part of the Church’s placement program and was to be sent to Utah to live with a foster family and go to school. An hour before the bus was to leave, a friend, Brother Bloomfield, put a bowl on his head and gave him a quick haircut. All of his belongings were put into a shoe box—he had no shoes. There were more holes in the Levis he was wearing than there was denim material. He was put on a bus at night, given two dollars by Brother Bloomfield, and told that he would arrive there by morning.”
At this point, I was thinking how difficult it must have been for that little boy to leave his family to go all alone on a bus to a place with a different culture where he knew no one. The only tie that he had with them was that he was a member of the Latter-day Saint Church.
The General Authority’s wife continued: “On the first day at his new school in Utah the children all gathered round my husband. They had never seen an Indian before. ‘Where’s your war paint?’ they asked. ‘Where are your moccasins?’
“The new foster parents were concerned because their Indian son was so shy. In fact, the only words he spoke to them during the first three months were yes and no. At Christmastime they gave him some new clothes—two pairs of pants, four shirts, two pairs of stockings, etc. The mother asked him to go upstairs and try them on. After quite a while he came downstairs with all of the shirts, pants, and socks on at the same time. It was difficult to get used to a new language and customs.
“Even though my husband’s now very busy, he enjoys football and basketball. When he’s hot, he has a great corner shot and can’t miss! When he has spare time, which isn’t often, he loves to play the harmonica. Last Christmas he played for the General Authorities at their Christmas party.
“My husband believes that family home evening is a great time to train children to be leaders. He always has one of our children conduct. One of them will assign the prayers and choose the hymns. At the conclusion, the one conducting thanks all those who participated. Usually the person who gave the lesson is sincerely complimented. Then the closing song is announced and the name of the one to give the closing prayer.
“One morning the children’s father had to leave at 5 A.M. for an early meeting at the Church offices. Later he called when the children were just getting up and we all had family prayer with him on the telephone.”
His small children had these comments: “When Daddy comes home, he tells me that if I eat my dinner he’ll give me a horsey ride. Sometimes he’ll give my friend a ride too!”
“Dad is helping me to save money for my mission.”
“My daddy shows us how to clean. He always tells us to clean the counter when we wash the dishes.”
“He’s kind.”
“When he plays football with us, we all have to speak nicely.”
When asked about her husband’s favorite topic to speak on, she said, “He always says that we’re all God’s children, no matter what color we are, and that our church has no room for prejudice. When he speaks, he represents the whole Church, not just the Lamanite people.”

I squirmed in my chair. The missionaries were staring at me. My older sister said to me, “Sis, just throw your cigarettes into the fireplace.”
I was learning about the Church at my sister’s house. Baptized a few weeks before, she now wanted me to join. The missionaries had just taught me a lesson about the Word of Wisdom, but our grandfather smoked, our parents smoked, my sister had smoked before she joined the Church, and I smoked.
It wouldn’t be that difficult to throw the cigarettes away. My sister and I both knew I could easily get more. It wasn’t that big of a deal, or so I thought.
Even though I didn’t like my sister telling me what to do, it was nice that she cared about me and was trying to help me. And I didn’t want to disappoint the missionaries. But more than that, I wanted to know if this Church was true. It all seemed so good, a better life. There didn’t seem to be any sense to the life I was leading, and I wanted to be a better person. I had attended many other churches and prayed often to my Father in Heaven to help me to find the true Church. Now smoking stood in my way. I had tried to quit before, but I could never stop. I knew it was a terrible habit, but it seemed impossible to break. I didn’t think I was strong enough.
When I hesitated, the missionaries told me that if I prayed to Heavenly Father with faith, He could help me quit. They added that while the true Church requires much of its members, Moroni 10:4 promises if I ask with a sincere heart, God will let me know whether the Church is true.
My sister said, “I know you have some cigarettes in your purse. Just throw them away.”
After what seemed like an hour of thinking about it, I threw them into the fireplace. Even though it didn’t seem like such a big thing to do, it turned out to be a turning point in my life.
I could have gone directly to the store on the way home and bought another pack, but because I really wanted to know the truth about the Church, I didn’t. When I got home, I opened my Book of Mormon and reread the promise in Moroni. Then I poured out my soul to Heavenly Father. I had prayed before, but this was one of the most sincere and intense prayers I had ever offered.
On my knees, I pleaded with the Lord to help me to know the truth and give me strength. When I stopped and listened, I knew that the Church was true and my searching was over. I felt calm and positive that the Lord was telling me I was heading in the right direction. I had received an answer!
I never smoked again. Miraculously, I never even had the desire. I thought I would still have cravings for cigarettes, but I didn’t. And more importantly, I now had a testimony of the Church and that Heavenly Father cared about me and would listen and answer my prayers.
My life had been blessed immeasurably. The Lord led me to the right Church and told me it was true. I had always wanted to know the truth and to have a more fruitful life. Now I did. Thankfully, I opened my heart, listening to the missionaries and a sister who was trying to help me. I am grateful to Heavenly Father for answering my prayer and giving me a testimony of the restored gospel.

At 13, I was a brand-new ice-skater with high hopes. Apparently I showed some aptitude, because after I had had a couple of group lessons, the teacher suggested I take private lessons. My parents agreed, and my ice-skating dream began in earnest. This was great!
To begin with, lessons were once a week, but I practiced more often. Soon I became friends with Jacque. She was short like me but with curly red hair and smiling green eyes. She was a good skater and had taken lessons since she was three. She could do figure eights and other complicated precision skating as well as the fancy jumps, hops, and spins for freestyle. I soon realized that I was “old” to be starting competition skating, but I practiced hard to learn my freestyle routine and precision skating.
Freezing-cold fingers and toes, falls on cold ice, and the tedium of performing the same moves over and over were all part of skating, but the effort was worth it. I loved the exhilaration of jumping, twisting in the air, and successfully landing and of gliding across smooth ice on one foot with my arms extended and cold air rushing past my face.
That winter, Jacque and I enthusiastically watched the Olympics, continued to practice, and even went to a competition where I passed off preliminary figures. She and I did a lot of things together that spring and summer. I tried to share the gospel with her once, but she wasn’t interested. All her thoughts were on skating.
Then one day Jacque said something that nearly took my breath away. She didn’t notice and kept chattering while lacing up her skates, but her words struck at my heart. She had said how much fun we would have at our morning practices when school started in the fall. That was the moment when I realized that skating would conflict with early-morning seminary. That had not occurred to me. I would be a freshman that year and would be eligible for seminary, which was held every morning before school. I could continue with my dream of skating, or I could go to early-morning seminary, but I couldn’t do both. I felt sick. What was I to do?
Though it seemed much longer, in reality it took only a few seconds for me to make a choice. I had been taught correct principles my whole life, and God and Church came first.
I gave up my skating and went to early-morning seminary. Jacque and I drifted apart. But I never regretted my decision. I made more friends and gained a testimony of the scriptures. I have wonderful memories of seminary that I wouldn’t trade for any honors I might have received from ice skating.

As a child living in the suburbs of Taipei, Taiwan, I never knew about the missionaries. So the first time I came in contact with them, I was curious about their message. It didn’t take long before I was eager to follow their teachings and put the gospel into practice in my life. I felt that this was a way for me to find out if there really is a God.
Within a month, I had been taught the gospel and the commandments that are taught before baptism. Peace came to me through prayer, I received personal revelation from studying the scriptures, and I never missed a Church meeting. I decided that I should be baptized.
The biggest challenge I faced at that time were problems that had emerged in my relationships with some of my friends because they opposed my involvement with the Church. I prayed a great deal about these problems, but our relationships seemed to only get worse.
I invited my friends to my baptism, but they completely disregarded my invitation. I really did not know what to do. Before my baptism, I sat alone on the sofa in the foyer of the chapel, praying that my friends would miraculously appear so I could tell them about the positive changes I had made in my life and prove to them that I was making the right decision by being baptized.
My friends never showed up, but while I poured my heart out to God, I felt an impression. At that point, I felt great love from my Heavenly Father. I knew that He was there and had truly listened to my prayer.
I originally wanted to be baptized simply because of all the wonderful things happening in my life, but at that moment, I came to understand the purpose of my baptism.
The impression I received was like the voice of the Lord speaking tenderly and directly to me, saying, “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. You just need to prove to me that you are willing to come unto me and stay true to my gospel for the rest of your life.”