Gospel Story Finder

It was unlike any other commencement or baccalaureate exercise I had ever attended or in which I had ever participated. There were 44 graduates, all male. They did not have traditional academic robes or caps or gowns. Each man wore a light blue denim shirt and dark blue denim trousers.
The ceremony was not held in a field house or a stadium or even a lovely auditorium. It was held in a modest interdenominational chapel at the Utah State Prison. The graduating class had successfully completed a year’s course of Bible study, which was sponsored by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints but open to all who cared to participate.
The opening prayer was given by a young man who looked more like a mere boy. He was frightened to death, but he gave a prayer from his heart. He was in prison for 10 years to life on an armed robbery charge. The closing prayer was given by a man who was 45 or 50 years old and who looked as if he could have been somebody’s uncle. He was in for a life term on second-degree murder.
A young man who had been released from prison had come back to get his certificate and to encourage his colleagues. He said, “Guys, the perspective in prison is really bad. It really looks better on the outside. Try to remember that.” Then he turned to the outsiders, to the friends and families who had come, and said, “You people are a light in a dark place. If it were not for love like yours, we would not be able to get from where we are to where we need to be.”
When the service was over, the inmate who conducted said, with some emotion in his voice and a little mist in his eyes, “This is the most auspicious occasion of our year. It’s better than Christmas. It’s better than Thanksgiving. It’s even better than Mother’s Day. It’s better because we’re enlightened, and that’s as close as we come to being free.”
Then the gates clanged shut behind my wife and me. That night we went home, and I confess I couldn’t sleep. That experience haunted me. In the early hours of that morning, I had feelings and thoughts and a response to imprisonment and freedom (and their relationship to enlightenment and love) that I never had before.

Victoria Ruvolo was driving home in November 2004 from a concert in which her niece had performed. As she neared her house, her windshield was suddenly smashed in by a twenty-pound frozen turkey, which had been thrown from a car traveling in the opposite direction on the two-lane road. The turkey shattered the glass in the windshield and bent the steering wheel before “crushing the bones in her cheeks and jaw, fracturing the socket of her left eye, causing her esophagus to cave in and leaving her with brain trauma.”1 Her friend in the passenger seat managed to stop the car and cradled her head until the ambulance arrived. Victoria didn’t wake up until weeks later in a rehabilitation hospital.

She learned that “her attacker was Ryan Cushing, an 18-year-old college freshman.”2 With Ryan facing a potential sentence of twenty-five years in prison,3 Victoria decided to reach out to Ryan’s lawyer to figure out a way for a more lenient sentence. Victoria said:

On the day we went to court, . . . [Ryan] walked in with his head hung down and looked so upset with himself. When I saw him there, my heart went out to him. To me he looked like a lost soul.

Once the case was over and it was time for him to walk out, he started veering over towards where I was sitting, and every court officer was ready to jump on him. They had no idea why he was coming towards me, but as he walked over to where I was sitting and stood in front of me, I saw that all he was doing was crying, crying profusely. He looked at me and said, “I never meant this to happen to you. I prayed for you every day. I’m so glad you’re doing well.” . . . All I could do was take him and cuddle him like a child and tell him, “Just do something good with your life. Take this experience and do something good with your life.”4

After Ryan’s release from serving six months in prison, he taught schoolchildren about empathy and forgiveness. Aunt Vicky—as Victoria was known to her family—extended her love to Ryan, her attacker, in a similar way that she shared her love with her own nieces and nephews.5 I see in Kirk Richards’s image the light of Aunt Vicky’s forgiveness just beginning to penetrate the distraught haze around Ryan.

Victoria later said, “Some people couldn’t understand why I’d done this, but I felt God had given me a second chance, and I wanted to pass it on.”6

That’s why it hurt so much when we had to bury him. One minute he was racing across the street to meet me. And then he was in Tom’s arms, quiet and broken and looking at me with large sad eyes as if to say, “I’m sorry.” His dying didn’t take long. The car had hit him a mean whack.

“Killed by a bunch of long-haired hippies who didn’t even stop after they ran over him,” Tom sobbed when Mother came running out of the house. The boys had been long-haired all right, but I don’t think that had anything to do with it. Tom’s letting his hair grow now, and it hasn’t changed him much. I don’t think those guys meant to kill Joey, or to leave him lying there. They were scared maybe, because they came so close to hitting me.

For a long time after that, I’d go to bed at night and live it all over again. Sometimes I’d imagine that Joey didn’t get hit at all. Other times he’d only break a leg. But most of the time it would all happen the same way, except the boys wouldn’t say, “We got ’im. Let’s dig outa here.” They’d stop and say how sorry they were. And I’d say, “It’s all right fellows, I know it was an accident.”

My dad says it’s easy for kids to want to drive a car fast when school first lets out. I can see how that would be because I used to start running right from the school steps and never stop till I could see Joey with his nose poked through the hole in our fence, waiting for me. He never ran into the street even though it was hard for both of us to wait until I could hug him up again.

That day I couldn’t wait. “Here, Joey,” I yelled from the top of the street. “Come on, Joey.” He gave a leap through the fence and we both ran full speed. It seemed Joey was just a touch away when the car hit. And then he was gone forever.

Gianna Lall, 15, of the Manhattan Sixth Branch, joined the Church with her brother and mother about four years ago. She remembers the day that the missionaries knocked on their door. For five months they studied the gospel, asked many questions, and attended Church meetings. As their desire to be baptized grew, they knew that their mother faced a big hurdle. She had to give up cigarettes, coffee, and alcohol. “The first time we fasted for her, she had cooked everything we loved. We were going to have the missionaries over for dinner. That morning I didn’t think I could fast. For some reason, when I looked in the refrigerator, I didn’t have to eat the tempting food. I think that’s the only time fasting has been that easy for me. She had tried before, but this time my mother quit.”
Gianna; her brother, Roberto; and their mother, Maria, were baptized. Gianna has seen a great change take place in their home. “I have my own testimony. I know that the Lord is always there for me. I always get through whatever little problem I have. I don’t realize it, but it really does help just knowing that He’s there and is looking out for me. Knowing that, there is no problem or worry that I can’t get through.”
The gospel has made Gianna’s home a place of peace. “There’s not much tension anymore. There isn’t a bad feeling. It feels good to come home.”

It was 10 minutes until show time.
Piles of fake snow covered the stage. Shiny ornaments sparkled. It was the annual Christmas show, and Charlotte was the star. Well, that’s what Mom told her. But Charlotte knew the star of the show doesn’t stand in the second row of the choir.
She would’ve been the star if the director had given her the big solo.
Near the end of the show, one singer got to sing a song all by herself. Charlotte had wanted to sing that solo more than anything. But she didn’t get to. Brianna did. And it just wasn’t fair. Everyone said Brianna had a beautiful voice, but Charlotte didn’t think Brianna sounded that good.
Charlotte plopped down next to Anne, Stacey, and Jenny. They all wore the same glittery green dresses. Charlotte thought that together they looked like a giant Christmas wreath.
“Brianna is so lucky,” Anne was saying. “They’re going to have all the spotlights on her.”
Charlotte wished they were talking about her. That she was the one in the spotlights.
“She looks kinda nervous,” Stacey said. “Maybe she’ll pass out!”
They all giggled.
“I don’t know why she got the solo,” Charlotte said. “She can’t even sing that well.”
As soon as she said it, Charlotte felt guilty. She knew she shouldn’t say mean things about anyone. But she liked the way her friends grinned at her. They had all wanted Brianna’s solo too.
Just then, their choir director swept in. “Places!” she called. “It’s show time!”
They followed her to the stage, and the show began.
Charlotte was surprised at how much fun she had. She liked singing—even from the second row. And she had to admit, Brianna did a great job. But when the show was over, she saw Brianna run from the stage.
Was she crying?
Charlotte remembered what she had said about Brianna and felt guilty again. But Brianna hadn’t heard, so it didn’t matter, right?
So why was Brianna crying?
“I’ve gotta tell you something.” Stacey grabbed Charlotte’s hand and pulled her into the changing room. “Jenny told Brianna you said she’s a bad singer.”
Charlotte felt like a lump of coal dropped into her stomach. Maybe that’s why Brianna was crying. Oh no. She hurried out of the room.
Charlotte hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. She was just talking! Why would Jenny tell Brianna? It was all Jenny’s fault!
But that wasn’t true. Charlotte knew she shouldn’t have said what she did.
Charlotte felt sick. She wanted to go home. Maybe she could just avoid Brianna. Forever.
She sighed. She knew what she had to do.
Charlotte walked outside. She saw Brianna with her family. It looked like she was still crying. Charlotte really didn’t want to face them all, but this was the right thing to do. She prayed for help and walked toward them.
“Brianna, can I talk to you?”
Everyone looked at Charlotte. They didn’t look very happy to see her, but Brianna nodded and followed Charlotte.
“Brianna, I know Jenny told you what I said, and I’m sorry,” Charlotte said.
“It was mean,” Brianna said, looking down.
“I know. And it wasn’t true. You’re a great singer,” Charlotte said. “Can you forgive me?”
Brianna smiled a little. “Do you think I did OK?”
Charlotte nodded. “You were amazing! The star of the show!”
She gave Brianna a hug before she went to find her family. Charlotte looked back to see Brianna smiling.
“Hey, Charlotte!” Brianna yelled as she got into her car. “Merry Christmas!”
Charlotte smiled. Heavenly Father had answered her prayer. Her guilty, jealous feelings were replaced with happiness that sparkled as bright as any star.

This story happened in Brazil.
“Jacob, do you know the answer?” Mrs. Lelis asked.
Jacob opened his eyes and lifted his head off the desk. All his classmates were looking at him. His teacher was staring at him too. He felt his cheeks get warm. He had fallen asleep in class again!
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lelis,” he said. “Can you please say the question again?”
“Sure. But please stop napping in class.”
He shrunk down in his seat. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jacob came to his new school just a few weeks ago. He loved to learn, and his classmates were nice. But there was one problem—he was always so sleepy! His new school was far away, so he had to wake up very early to be there on time.
At first, it was easy to focus in class. But it got harder and harder. Sometimes Jacob was so tired he fell asleep.
The next day, The school principal asked Jacob and his parents to meet with her. She smiled and welcomed them into her office.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Jacob is a great student. But his teacher says he’s not interested in his classes. Sometimes he doesn’t focus, and he seems very tired. Is he OK?”
His mother nodded. “Jacob worked hard to be able to go to school here, but it’s far from our house. He needs to wake up early every day. So he gets sleepy in his morning classes.”
“Oh, is that all?” the principal said. “You should try coffee drops! Put a few drops of very strong coffee in Jacob’s drink each morning. That will keep him awake.”
Jacob frowned. “But our family doesn’t drink coffee, ma’am.”
The principal looked confused. “It will be hard for you to learn if you keep falling asleep. You should at least think about it.”
When they left the principal’s office, Jacob’s thoughts were mixed up. He wanted to do better in school, but he wanted to follow the commandments too.
That night, his family read about the Word of Wisdom in the scriptures.
When it was Jacob’s turn, he read, “And all saints who remember to keep and do these sayings … shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge. And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint.”
Then he had an idea!
He stood up from his chair. “Instead of coffee drops, I’ll use faith drops!”
“What do you mean?” his father asked.
Jacob smiled. “Every morning before breakfast, we can say a prayer and ask Heavenly Father to bless me so I don’t feel so sleepy. Our prayers will be like drops of faith!”
Mom and Dad smiled too. “That sounds like a great idea!” Dad said.
The next morning, their family knelt and said a prayer that Jacob would have the energy to stay awake. They did the same thing the next day. And the day after that. Each night, Jacob tried to go to bed early too. And each morning Jacob’s family had faith that Heavenly Father would help him.
Over time, their drops of faith worked. Jacob could focus for the whole day! God had answered their prayers. And Jacob knew He was proud of him for following the Word of Wisdom.
“Ready for class, Jacob?” Mrs. Lelis asked one morning as he walked into the classroom.
Jacob nodded with a big grin on his face. He had his drops of faith before school. He was ready for anything!

During a drive to amass warm clothing to ship to suffering Saints, Elder Harold B. Lee and Elder Marion G. Romney took President George Albert Smith to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City. They were impressed by the generous response of the membership of the Church to the clothing drive and the preparations for sending the goods overseas. They watched President Smith observing the workers as they packaged this great volume of donated clothing and shoes. They saw tears running down his face. After a few moments, President Smith removed a new overcoat that he had on and said, “Please ship this also.”
The Brethren said to him, “No, President, no; don’t send that; it’s cold and you need your coat.”
But President Smith would not take it back.
The Apostle Paul’s admonition surely was fulfilled that day: “Be thou an example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity.”

While I was at my friend’s birthday party, we were voting on movies to watch. There were two out of the five that I knew I shouldn’t watch. I told my friend that I didn’t want to watch those two movies. She wasn’t very happy about that, but she did respect my values. We ended up watching a movie that I felt was appropriate. I am glad I have the gospel standard to follow: “I will only read and watch things that are pleasing to Heavenly Father.”
Kaitlyn M., age 11, Washington

When I was in my late teens, I received a telephone call that would change my life—my eternal life.
A good sister from my ward called to invite me to perform a dance number at a Mutual activity evening that was being held in a couple of weeks. Dancing was a hobby of mine, and I was studying ballroom dancing at a studio in Salt Lake City. I had never been to a Church dance before, and I was excited to accept the invitation to perform.
My partner and I arrived on the appointed evening and were greeted enthusiastically. I was surprised to find that we were the only ones on the program. It was an exciting experience, and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.
The following Sunday morning, I decided to go to church in our ward for the first time since I was ordained a deacon. At that time, none of my family was active. I found people who welcomed me warmly, and they demonstrated a genuine friendship and caring. These experiences started me on the road to activity and service in the Church that has been a joy to me throughout the years.
A group of brethren took me under their wing, and we became good friends. A wonderful returned missionary taught me the basics of the gospel and helped prepare me to serve a mission. During this same time I was asked to help teach dancing in the ward, which gave me a feeling of being needed, and it also gave me a responsibility.
The next 15 months flew by, filled with growth and happiness as I progressed. I soon received a call to serve a mission in Mexico. I quickly grew to love the language, the country, and its people. Sharing the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ gave me a foundation upon which to build the rest of my life.
That evening so long ago when I was invited to share my talent, the door opened to a wonderful new world of friends and activity in the Church. I am grateful for those who reached out with a warm hand of fellowship, invited me in, nurtured me, and blessed my life.

Unfortunately, all such carefree adventures soon came to an end when our paying passengers arrived from the United States for the scheduled raft trip. We had to disappoint them because a serious drought had made the raft expedition impossible. Instead, we decided to motor up the Cuyuni (Ku-you-knee) and Chicunan (chee-kuu-non) rivers in a 30-foot dugout canoe, hike over a mountain range, and then float down the Carrao River past Angel Falls, the highest falls in the world.
As we motored up into the jungle, dragging the heavy canoe bodily upstream over rocky rapids, I prayed for protection from rocks, electric eels, and piranhas. The river got lower and lower. Soon we had to get out and push, pull, and dig for clearance in the sand as we waded through the dark, infested waters from deep pool to deep pool. The going was so slow that we began to wonder if we would make it. The scenery, however, was beautiful, and we saw an incredible array of wildlife—everything from capuchino monkeys to caimens (a kind of crocodile) to orange-breasted falcons to giant click beetles—and a whole army of other jungle citizens of the feathered, furry, and scaly kinds.
All the hard going put us two days behind schedule. Worse, in the process of pulling, pushing, and straining the canoe up the almost dry river, I tore a major muscle in my back. The pain was almost unbearable. We finally made it to the crossing, a mountain range covered with jungle. Everyone had his own load to carry, so I had to carry my own 80- to 90-pound load. I couldn’t take any pain killers or I could never have gotten over the range. So I hung in the back of the group and cried with pain the first day. The next morning I got up earlier than anyone else and had Terry help me on with my pack. All alone I marched up the small creek bed we were using as a trail. The pain was the worst I’ve ever experienced. I sang hymns to myself and prayed the whole way up. I was in such pain that I couldn’t stop to take my pack off or bend over or anything. So I trudged on. Shortly my prayers were answered. My back became numb. My leg stopped bleeding, and before I knew it I was over the mountain, lying on the river beach. I know that my Heavenly Father eased the pain and lifted me with energy to march up over that hot, steep, 2,000-foot mountain with seeming ease and comfort. The rest of the trip the passengers, all non-Mormon, called me Moses as I hobbled around with the help of a large wooden staff. They asked why I didn’t drink coffee or rum, and that gave me a chance to tell them about the Church.

1. Did you notice how focused this is? When you’re telling a story, just cut to the chase! Your listeners will appreciate it, and you’ll help them know what to look for as they hear the story.
2. Check out how this sentence sets the stage for the entire story without giving away the ending. That’s classy storytelling.
3. Now that’s a great balance of details-enough to explain the situation but not so many as to distract the listeners from the main point of the story.
“There are many ways bishops and quorum members can help to relieve the suffering and anxiety of the unemployed. 1Phil’s Auto of Centerville, Utah, is a testament of what priesthood leadership and a quorum can accomplish.2 Phil was a member of an elders quorum and worked as a mechanic at a local automobile repair shop. Unfortunately, the repair shop where Phil worked experienced economic trouble and had to let Phil go from his job. He was devastated by this turn of events.3
4. In just a couple of sentences, Bishop Edgley captures the essence of brotherhood in a priesthood quorum.
5. By showing how members of the quorum became actively involved, he helps listeners understand that the priesthood is a principle of action. He also gives ideas for how others can help in their quorums.
“On hearing about Phil’s job loss, his bishop, Leon Olson, and his elders quorum presidency prayerfully considered ways they could help Phil get back on his feet. After all, he was a fellow quorum member, a brother, and he needed help.4They concluded that Phil had the skills to run his own business. One of the quorum members offered that he had an old barn that perhaps could be used as a repair shop. Other quorum members could help gather needed tools and supplies to equip the new shop. Almost everyone in the quorum could at least help clean the old barn.5
6. See how he points out the blessings that came through the priesthood. There’s not dramatic fanfare or extra detail, but this story shares a powerful message.
7. Bishop Edgley’s closing ties the whole story together and reminds us of the main point of the experience.
“They shared their ideas with Phil; then they shared their plan with the members of their quorum. The barn was cleaned and renovated, the tools gathered, and all was put in order. Phil’s Auto was a success and eventually moved to better and more permanent quarters—all because his quorum brothers offered help in a time of crisis.6 Priesthood quorums can and must make a difference.”7
Bishop Richard C. Edgley, former First Counselor in the Presiding Bishopric, “This Is Your Phone Call,” Ensign, May 2009, 54.

Amanda and I have been married for 15 wonderful years. Yet I can still remember, like it was yesterday, the conversation we had in the first few weeks of our young marriage. I had just graduated from Ricks College with an Associate's degree in business and enrolled at Idaho State University to finish a bachelor and master's degree. I was ready to take on the world and I had a beautiful, loving and supportive wife by my side.
Our discussion of the future drifted to children and when that process would begin. It became very clear to us then that what we wanted more than a promising career in business was to raise a righteous family, and that we didn't want to wait until we completed our schooling. From that moment on, we embarked on a journey of ups and mostly downs and a multitude of doctors' visits and procedures from Pocatello to Rexburg to Phoenix and back.
For six years, we rode the rollercoaster of infertility until one day Amanda finally convinced me that if I wanted to be a dad and raise a family, we needed to adopt. This was not easy for me. At that moment, I viewed adoption as giving up and I had not given up on anything in my life that meant so much to me. However, the decision to adopt was not giving up, it was heeding the promptings of a loving Heavenly Father. We were soon blessed to adopt two boys in three years. I love being a dad, and having the opportunity to raise my boys.

In time, when the children are away from home and family, prayer can provide the shield of protection the parent will want so much for them to have. Parting can be hard, particularly when the parent and the child know that they may not see each other for a long time. I had that experience with my father. We parted on a street corner in New York City. He had come there for his work. I was there on my way to another place. We both knew that I probably would never return to live with my parents under the same roof again.
It was a sunny day, around noontime, the streets crowded with cars and pedestrians. On that particular corner there was a traffic light which stopped the cars in all directions for a few minutes. The light changed to red; the cars stopped. The crowd of pedestrians hurried off the curbs, moving every way, including diagonally, across the intersection.
The time had come for parting, and I started across the street. I stopped almost in the center, with people rushing by me. I turned to look back. Instead of moving off in the crowd, my father was still standing on the corner looking at me. To me he seemed lonely and perhaps a little sad. I wanted to go back to him, but I realized the light would change and so I turned and hurried on.
Years later I talked to him about that moment. He told me that I had misread his face. He said he was not sad; he was concerned. He had seen me look back, as if I were a little boy, uncertain and looking for assurance. He told me in those later years that the thought in his mind had been: “Will he be all right? Have I taught him enough? Is he prepared for whatever may lie ahead?”
There were more than thoughts in his mind. I knew from having watched him that he had feelings in his heart. He yearned for me to be protected, to be safe. I had heard and felt that yearning in his prayers—and even more in the prayers of my mother—for all the years I had lived with them. I had learned from that, and I remembered.

I was baptised on 26 September 2004. I know for sure from that week onwards I was regular to the church. Both my daughters, Annie and Jenny, and I did our best in all our callings.
After few years of our membership in the Church, we had to move to Tirupur due to my daughter’s job and there was no branch in the town. We used to make two and a half hours trips by train to Coimbatore or Semmedu to attend sacrament meeting. My husband had an accident and time made it very difficult for us to attend church regularly.
We still kept our faith, prayed both personally and as family. We prayed and fasted for a branch in our town. It was three long years without sacrament, no gospel had been taught, no missionaries, no people then to visit. This filled us with unhappiness and heavy hearts. Our material blessings kept us alive but still our souls were always hungry and thirsty for spiritual food and comfort.
To our surprise and wonder it was announced that there is going to be a home group in our town. I felt so happy and my soul rejoiced.
It was a fast Sunday and we were about 70 members, each of us testified how merciful and mindful the Lord was of His children. Now, our life is blessed. Now our generations will grow in the Church, follow Christ and hold on to the iron rod as we follow the principle of obedience. I know that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true Church on this earth. The Book of Mormon is a true word of God. I know President Nelson is called of God.

Prayer at Gethsemaneby Del Parson“For, behold, the Lord your Redeemer suffered death in the flesh; wherefore he suffered the pain of all men, that all men might repent and come unto him” (D&C 18:11).
Del Parson
Christ is my hero. I love to read about Him and His life. It is humbling to try to portray Him in art.
My art has been greatly influenced by the guidance given in my patriarchal blessing. It gave direction for my work. Early in my career, my wife and young daughter were in a car accident. At that time I felt as if the Holy Ghost showered me with comfort and God’s love. This love is what I try to express in my paintings of the Savior.

As a Kenyan teenager, Jastus Suchi Obadiah once vowed to his friends that he would physically harm any white South African he happened to meet. “My friends and I often read in the newspapers about the injustices of apartheid, and we hated white South Africans,” he explains. Fortunately, Jastus forgot his hateful vow before he ever met a South African.
As a young man, Jastus was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by his cousin, a Church member. “I’ll never forget the first missionaries who taught me; one was a black African, and one was a white elder from the United States,” says Jastus. As Jastus observed these two young men working together in harmony, “I learned there were many good people no matter what their color.
“As they taught me, the principle of love came into my heart. I realized that to be like God, you really must be loving. My sense of love grew—even for my enemies.” Two years after his baptism, Jastus was himself a missionary, serving in the Kenya Nairobi Mission.
Jastus and his senior companion seemed to work particularly well together; they shared a strong mutual respect and quickly became the best of friends. One day, as Jastus was looking into the white face of his South African companion, the long-forgotten vow made in his teens came rushing back to him. “It really affected my heart when I remembered what I had said. Then I realized how wonderful the gospel is, because it brings people together, no matter who we are or where we come from.
“And I felt how wonderful it is to teach this gospel together with my white companion,” he says. “The gospel changed the course of my life.”

I was born in a small southern Mississippi town in 1950. My father was a career army officer. As a result, although not completely due to his career, I became the product of a broken home. It was not until my teens that I became aware of this. It was a traumatic period in my life.
My parents were strict, and I often was denied opportunities that many youth take for granted. One privilege I was allowed was to attend a local Baptist church where I gained an independence of thought and action. I felt I was somebody and had something to contribute to the world. I became a youth minister and had hopes of gaining a scholarship so I could attend a ministerial school. But the deteriorating conditions at home and diminishing faith in my religious beliefs changed that. I had increasing questions about life. I suppose at this point I simply felt sorry for myself.
At 17 I left home. All I took with me was the memory of ruined yesterdays and a fear of uncertain tomorrows. I left in anguish and bitterness. Later I joined the United States Air Force. The first place they sent me was to Vietnam. This was a startling contrast to the sheltered environment I had experienced as a child. Needless to say, rather than helping to find peace and remedy my doubts, the futility and endless agony of life there served only to create more questions and to reinforce my defeatist attitude. I began to doubt there was a God or that there was any dignity or purpose in life. Was life just the means to an uncertain end? Where and why did it all begin? I found myself wishing that I had never been born.
I left Vietnam physically well, but I was almost spiritually dead. However, something inside seemed to urge me to give God another chance, and I did in hopes that he would do the same for me.
Upon my arrival in Misawa, Japan, I went to a Baptist missionary, but he was unable to answer my questions. He encouraged me to rely on faith, but I could no longer live on the innocent faith I had as a young man. The reality I found in the world as an adult was simply too great. I had to find the answers and I had to find them now.
I was becoming desperate, so a friend asked me to accompany him to the Far East Conference of the Southern Baptist Convention in Shimoda, believing that these learned men would be able to answer my questions satisfactorily. Enroute to the convention, my friend made what he later determined was a great mistake. We stopped in Tokyo to see his friend, Bill Head, whom he had met in Thailand. Upon meeting Bill for the first time, I realized that he was different. Without him even saying a word I knew that he had something that I wanted. He radiated confidence, peace of mind, a love for life, and a love for people. He seemed to know who he was and where he was going. He had the answers I needed so desperately.
I asked him why he was unique. Bill replied, “I am a Mormon.” He gave me some pamphlets to read, and I took them with me to that convention in Shimoda. I read the material. At first the Joseph Smith account seemed ridiculous, preposterous, almost absurd. I wanted to believe that God spoke to men today. I wanted to believe that the heavens were not closed and that God was real. I wanted to believe that he lived and cared about his children and had not left us alone to drift aimlessly through life for some mysterious end. I also knew that if ever the world needed another witness of Jesus Christ it was now. But because it was so new and because it had been such a long time since God had manifested himself to the ancients, I was skeptical.
The next morning I attended a seminar at the convention. The seminar’s purpose was to discuss the anti-Christ ideologies. The first religion they attacked was not communism or some other godless ideology, but Mormonism. They had decided among themselves that Mormons worshiped Joseph Smith and ignored the fact that the formal name of the Mormon church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If that name implied anything, it implied that Mormons were Christians of the highest degree, for they were the only people I had found who claimed the name of Jesus Christ. It wasn’t the Church of Joseph Smith, John the Baptist, Paul, Mary, John Wesley, or Martin Luther. It was the Church of Jesus Christ.
I felt the Mormons were being misunderstood so I attempted to defend them. Now I probably made somewhat of a fool of myself in the minds of those learned people, but in the process of this defense, a still, small voice said, “You’d better find out more so you can do better next time.”
I left the convention that day and returned to Tokyo. I found Bill and told him I wanted to learn more. He introduced me to a young couple, the Fredericks, who taught me the missionary discussions in two days. During that glorious two-day period the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle in my mind fell together and I found myself and my true identity.
“I am a child of God!” I exclaimed to myself. “I began with him. There is purpose and dignity to life, and a great destiny beyond!” I began to realize for the first time that I didn’t have to doubt, worry, be confused, or tossed to and fro by every wind of doctrine because there is a prophet of God and twelve apostles on the earth today, just as there was anciently in the Church of Jesus Christ. I had found his Church!
Less than two weeks later, on August 12, 1970, I was baptized in Kunsan City, Korea. I know that the gospel is true. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that we are sons and daughters of God.
Since my conversion I have been reunited with my family and ordained an elder in the Lord’s Church. I am currently serving as a missionary in the Idaho Pocatello Mission. Like Bill, now that I am converted, I am strengthening my brethren.

We arrived at seminary ten minutes early. I hurried to the bathroom before anyone noticed the tears starting down my cheeks. It wasn’t just that I had proven once and for all what a klutz I was, or even the fact that right triangle theorems totally confused me. I could handle total embarrassment and complete failure. The thing that kept flashing through my mind was the scent of clover and the feel of Topie’s warm breath at my shoulder as I lay in summer grass. I heard the soft earthen echo of Topie’s hooves when he followed me out of the wildflower-clad pasture. I remembered riding on winter days when the world was white and the sky steel blue.
“Tracy.” The accented voice of Sister Wong, my seminary teacher, scattered my thoughts. “Why are you in here alone and crying?”
“It’s nothing,” I said, gulping in my tears, “just a bad morning.” I hoped she didn’t think it was self-pity. I had a great deal of respect for Sister Wong. She had grown up in Hong Kong. She had overcome leukemia and many other obstacles. She hated self-pity. She called it a destructive parasite sucking energy from the soul. “Learn to live life with energy, wisdom, and joy,” she would say.
“Tracy, Tracy,” she began. “Did you know that your very beautiful inside shines through to the outside more each day? Please tell me what happened to make it such a bad morning.”
First I told her about the problem I had with geometry.
“Tears over something such as this are a waste of time,” she told me. “You are bright. You are capable. Memorize the theorems. Try a tutor or more study time to pull you through. Do not sorrow over something you can change.”
Then I told her about my dirty boots in Sisters Montgomery’s car.
Involuntarily smiling, Sister Wong went on. “Learn to laugh over such things,” she said. “The Montgomery’s car is a much too clean, carbon copy of a hundred other cars. Your addition of life’s debris will give it character and variety. And think of how you rescued the passengers from a barrage of boredom!” She got some paper towels and began helping me clean off my boots.

When I was in Grade 4, I changed schools. At the new school, things were OK until one day our gym teacher told us that we would be taking swimming lessons. But I had already taken swim lessons at my old school. So after class I told the teacher that. “Oh, lucky you, then,” was her response.
No, I thought. Not lucky me, more like unlucky me. Ever since I was little I had hated swimming lessons. I was terrified of them. So now that I had to take swim lessons twice in one school year, it seemed like the worst thing in the entire world.
The night before swim lessons, after my mom tucked me in, I sat on my bed and asked Heavenly Father to help me somehow, because I really did not like swim lessons and I needed His help.
The next day I was really nervous as we went to the pool and got ready for swim lessons. As I sat on the pool deck, still cold from the showers, they began to call names and put kids in groups depending on their swim level. As they called my name, I realized that I had been put in a group where the swim teacher was a lady who was in my ward.
When the lessons were finally over, I found out that I had not passed the level I had been in. But this did not matter to me because I knew that Heavenly Father had helped put me in the group with that swim teacher in order to help me—and it had. Having that swim teacher there gave me strength.
I know that having that swim teacher there was no accident. Heavenly Father knew my struggles and cared about me. I know that no matter who we are or where we are, Heavenly Father knows us. And if we need His help, all we have to do is ask and He will help us.

My parents have served in the temple for more than 30 years—Dad as a sealer, Mom as an ordinance worker. They also served five full-time missions together—in Riverside, California; Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia; Nairobi, Kenya; the Nauvoo Illinois Temple; and the Monterrey Mexico Temple. In Mexico they worked hard to learn a new language, which wasn’t easy at 80 years of age. But they sought to do the will of the Lord rather than to pursue their own desires in life.