Gospel Story Finder

We were traveling with family and friends in the south of Oman. We decided to relax on the beach along the coast of the Indian Ocean. Soon after our arrival, our 16-year-old daughter, Nellie, asked if she could swim out to what she thought was a sandbar. Noticing the choppy water, I told her that I would go first, thinking there might be dangerous currents.
After swimming a short while, I called to my wife, asking if I was close to the sandbar. Her response was, “You have gone way past it.” Unbeknownst to me I was trapped in a riptide and was being pulled rapidly out to sea.
I was unsure what to do. The only thing I could think of was to turn around and swim back toward shore. That was exactly the wrong thing to do. I felt helpless. Forces beyond my control were pulling me farther out to sea. What made matters worse was that my wife, trusting my decision, had followed me.
Brothers and sisters, I thought there was a high likelihood I would not survive and that I, because of my decision, would also cause my wife’s death. After great effort and what I believe was divine intervention, our feet somehow touched the sandy bottom and we were able to walk safely back to our friends and daughter.
From time to time I have an image that haunts me. What if that September day, while relaxing on the beach of the Indian Ocean, I had said to my daughter Nellie, “Yes, go ahead. Swim out to the sandbar.” Or if she too had followed my example and had been unable to swim back? What if I had to live life knowing that my example resulted in her being pulled by a riptide out to sea, never to return?

When Perla gained a witness of the Book of Mormon, she wanted to be baptized. But her parents wouldn’t hear of it. She was twenty-eight years old and didn’t need their permission, but she didn’t want to hurt them. Finally, she crocheted her own baptismal clothes and was baptized.

How to pay tithing was her next dilemma. For years, Perla had taught elementary school. As the only breadwinner in her father’s family, she had always given him her entire paycheck. And now she would not consider withholding either the paycheck or the tithing amount from him. Instead, she started crocheting for people after school, paying her entire earnings from crocheting as tithing on both salaries.

After serving a mission in Manila, Perla returned to teaching and met Luciano de Guzmán, a forty-seven-year-old bachelor who also taught elementary school. He studied the gospel and was baptized. They were married and now have two young daughters, Ruth and Esther.

Emily smelled something good coming from the kitchen. I know that smell, she thought. Mom’s making chicken soup. She watched her mom ladle soup from a big, steaming pot into a glass jar. “What are you doing with the soup?” she asked.
“Mrs. Jenkins isn’t feeling well,” Mom replied, putting the jar into a sturdy paper bag with a handle. “I was hoping that you would take it to her.”
“Sure. Your chicken soup always makes me feel better when I’m sick.”
Mrs. Jenkins was their neighbor. She was old and lived alone.
That gave Emily an idea. She raced to her room and hunted for her favorite storybook, “The Three Little Pigs.”
“What’s the book for?” asked Mom.
Emily buckled her sandals. “I thought I’d read it to Mrs. Jenkins while she eats.”
Emily rang Mrs. Jenkins’ doorbell. There was no answer, so Emily rang the doorbell again.
Mrs. Jenkins’ door finally creaked open, and Mrs. Jenkins peeked around the door.
She’s as white as a marshmallow! Emily thought.
“Good afternoon, Emily.” Mrs. Jenkins’ voice was barely above a whisper.
“I brought you some chicken soup that my mother made.” Emily held up the bag. “We hope it makes you feel better.”
“Please come in.”
While Mrs. Jenkins got a bowl from the cupboard, Emily set the soup on the kitchen counter. “I brought a story to read to you while you eat.”
Mrs. Jenkins sipped some of the soup.
“Once upon a time, …” Emily began.
Mrs. Jenkins sipped another spoonful.
“Is the soup good?” Emily asked.
“It’s wonderful.” Mrs. Jenkins smiled. “Now, please read on.”
Emily read. She made huffing and puffing sounds every time the wolf tried to blow one of the pigs’ houses down.
Mrs. Jenkins laughed every time Emily huffed and puffed.
By the time Emily had finished the story, Mrs. Jenkins had finished her soup. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes sparkled. The chicken soup had sure worked fast!
“Maybe you should have another bowl,” Emily said.
“Only if you read the story again.”
So Mrs. Jenkins had another bowl of soup, and Emily huffed and puffed some more.
“I feel much better,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Thank you. And thank your mom for me, too.”
“Mom, your chicken soup is amazing!” Emily exclaimed when she went back home. “Mrs. Jenkins already feels better.”
Mom gave Emily a great big hug. “I don’t think it was just the soup.”
The hug felt warm and good. Emily thought about Mrs. Jenkins alone in her big house with no one to share hugs with. “May I read another story to Mrs. Jenkins tomorrow?”
Mom smiled. “I’m sure she’d like that.”
Maybe it isn’t just the chicken soup, Emily decided. Maybe visits and stories are good medicine, too.

I was taught by great elders. When I heard the message of the Restoration, I had an even greater confirmation that I should be baptized. But I wanted to know for myself the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. The elders marked Moroni 10:3–5 in my Book of Mormon and invited me to pray and ask God if it is true.

The next evening I remembered that I had not yet read the Book of Mormon. As I began to read, I felt a very strong spirit. I prayed, and before I was finished, I knew that the Book of Mormon is true. I am grateful to God for having answered my prayer. I was baptized in July 2006.

In the Rechnoy Ward of Moscow, Russia, Galina Goncharova, who was serving as the ward historian, slipped on some ice and broke both her arms. She was taken to the hospital, where her arms were wrapped in casts. She couldn’t feed or clothe herself. She couldn’t comb her hair or even answer the phone.
When her fellow ward members learned of what had happened, they immediately responded. Priesthood holders gave her a blessing and worked with the Relief Society sisters to create a schedule to check on this good sister and attend to her needs.
Vladimir Nechiporov, the ward mission leader, said, “We remembered a talk given in general conference about a statue of Christ that was missing its hands.5 Below the statue someone had placed a plaque that read, ‘You are my hands.’ For the few weeks this good sister was incapacitated, the members of the Rechnoy Ward felt a kinship to that story. We literally became her hands.”

My wife Susan once interviewed a fine father. This father loved and was proud of each of his children. This included a talented and hard-working son who was raising a good family while serving as a young bishop.
One day his son was brutally murdered.
The father said if the courts don’t nail my son’s murderer, I’ll see to it myself that murderer gets what he deserves.
One day the father and his family were arriving at the courthouse for a pre-trial hearing. A reporter pushed a microphone into one of their faces. Upset, the family member reacted aggressively.
It was then the father realized hate was starting to consume his family. He loved his family. He did not want hate to consume them. Perhaps he could not let go of hate for his own sake, but he would let it go for his family’s stake. He would let go of hate to hold onto love.
The father came to see his son’s murderer was himself a son, whose parents were faithful and devout community members. The murdering son had shattered not only his life, but also the lives of his now grief-stricken parents.
The father who had lost his son reached out to the parents who had lost their son.
In reaching out and letting go, the father again found faith and hope onto which he could hold in even the darkest hours.

I was the instructor and president of the university scuba club. I had been diving for almost three years and thought I knew all there was to know about scuba diving. I think, too, that at the ripe old age of 20, I had the idea that I knew pretty much all there was to know about life as well. There had been a drowning in the scuba club at another of the state universities, and the administration of our school was pressuring for the abolition of our club. Naturally, I had been fighting that idea with all my might. In any event, I had received the word directly from the university’s president himself. “Be careful. Any accidents of any kind will result in the immediate revocation of your student club charter.” I was trying to be very careful when I first met Diane. Actually, I didn’t meet Diane right away. I met, instead, her two roommates. They came to the pool one evening during a session of the scuba club and sought me out to ask if their roommate, whom they described as a very good swimmer, could join the club. I replied that she certainly could, as long as she could pass the necessary entrance tests. They left, and when they returned the next week I was astonished to see them pushing a girl in a wheelchair. They shoved her through the door and onto the pool deck. I stared at them, aghast. She was literally tied into the wheelchair with a wide band of white cloth. Her head lolled from one shoulder to the other like a bowling ball on the end of a broom straw. Her arms and legs jerked and twitched without control. She wore a terry cloth bib tied around her neck because she drooled uncontrollably. While I was staring, dumbfounded, trying to think what to do, her roommates pushed the chair to the edge of the pool and waited for me to tell them what to do next. I told them. I first motioned them to one side where I could speak with them privately, away from the unfortunate girl in the chair. “What’s the idea?” I demanded. “I thought you said she was a good swimmer!” “She is,” one of the girls assured me. I looked hard at the girl tied in the chair. Her head lay propped on one shoulder, and she regarded me with a face twisted into a grimace that made my neck hairs rise. “You’re kidding,” I replied. “There’s no way in the whole green world that she could swim well enough to take scuba lessons.” I patiently explained, over their loud protests, the situation I found myself and the club in. I recounted the instructions the president had given me only a few weeks earlier. They tried to argue, but I stood firm. Stubbornly, I brushed aside their arguments until finally I lost my temper with their insistence. Trying to keep my voice low enough so that the girl in the wheelchair—who was staring holes through me with her twisted face—couldn’t hear, I shouted in a whisper, “Look, I’m in charge of this club. I’ve said no and I mean no. Now get her out of here!” They left, and I resumed instructing the class. I was quite proud of myself for having stood off such an assault single-handedly. My self-satisfaction didn’t last long however. The girl’s two roommates hounded me relentlessly for the next several days. There seemed to be no way I could get away from them—or rid of them. They ambushed me along the sidewalk on the way to classes two or three times a day. They waited for me at the end of the cafeteria line. They called me on the telephone. Their pleas were impassioned and often loud. But they fell on strong shoulders and deaf ears. I was proud of myself for resisting, and that made me even more determined than ever that such a wild idea would never find favor with me. Then, on Wednesday, the day before the next meeting of the scuba club, the girl in the wheelchair pulled out all the stops. The class period ended, and as the other students began to file from the room, they found their way blocked by a wheelchair occupied by a very determined young woman. She had set the brake on the chair’s wheels. I heard the commotion by the door before I saw her. Then I heard her voice, shrill, slurred, but I could understand what she was saying. “Where’s Lee Dalton? I want to see Lee Dalton!” Some of the other students, angry and anxious to get to their next classes, grabbed me and pushed me to the front of the little crowd. The girl stared at me for a long time while I grew more and more uncomfortable as I tried desperately to think of something—anything—to say. The other students shifted around me. They were being caught up in the drama of the confrontation, caught up, but anxious to have it ended before classes resumed. “Uh, what do you want?” I asked lamely. Slurred and garbled though her speech was, there was no mistaking what she said. “You know what I want!” she replied in a determined tone. I began frantically trying to explain to her the demands of safety and the ultimatum of the president. None of it impressed her. She sat impassively, wheels locked, barring the exit of my classmates, who were becoming more and more irate as the minutes passed. Even the professor of the class just finished was breathing down my neck. “Whatever she wants, Dalton, give it to her,” someone behind me growled. “Yeah, and be quick about it,” added another. “My next class is clear across the campus!” I turned desperately toward the crowd gathered behind me and tried to explain my situation. They regarded me with what I took for scorn—and growing impatience. The girl in the wheelchair delivered the clincher. With the assembled students watching and listening she asked, “You told my friends I could learn scuba diving if I could pass the test. Right?” “Right,” I confirmed. “But … but how could you pass a test like that? It’s very difficult.” “How do you know I can’t pass it?” she retorted, speaking carefully and slowly so I could understand her. “You haven’t even given me a chance to take it!” The others heard and understood her plea, and I began hearing another kind of angry muttering from behind my back. The girl in the chair spoke again. There was no hint of begging in her voice, just a tone of firm determination. “Give me a chance,” she asked. “Just give me a chance to pass the test—or fail it.” I felt an elbow poke me in the ribs. A voice from back there someplace said, “Yeah, Dalton, what’s so bad about that idea? You afraid she might prove you’re wrong?” I tried once more to argue with the mob but was shouted down. They were surging against me, pushing me out of the room. I was caught between them and the girl in the wheelchair with the locked brakes. “All right,” I heard myself whispering. “Be there tomorrow night. But remember, you’ll have to pass the test just the same as everybody else. No breaks!” She nodded silently and unlocked the brake. I was as jumpy as a trout all the next day, and when time for the club meeting finally arrived, I had worked myself into a fair dither. I had discussed the problem with the other club officers, and we had finally agreed that we really had no choice but to let her take the test. But we’d be ready with all the available rescue equipment to pull her out before she drowned completely. The door to the women’s dressing rooms opened, and the two girls who had visited me the previous week and who helped make my last week so miserable pushed the chair with its tied-in occupant onto the pool deck. They shoved the chair to the very edge of the pool and paused. “Ready?” one of them asked. I looked around. Several of the other club members had taken up stations around the pool. Two of them grasped the long lifesaving poles with the shepherd’s crooks on the ends that usually hung in the brackets on the wall. A couple of others were pulling off their T-shirts getting ready to go in after her if necessary. I nodded, and one of them reached down and untied the cloth that held the girl imprisoned in her chair. Then they tipped the chair forward over the edge until she splashed unceremoniously into the water. We all stared, jaws slack, at the miracle in the pool. Freed from the pull of gravity against her body, the girl was immediately transformed into a thing of beauty and grace. She didn’t just swim through the water. She glided and surged with a precision that few of the rest of us could match. She swam to the side, executed a flip turn and swam back to stop at the edge of the pool at my feet. Looking up at me, she asked, “What do you want me to do first?” I noticed then for the first time how much effort it took for her to speak. Her entire body seemed to enter the effort of forming words, and her face twisted and creased as she fought to get the sounds out. “Swim five laps using a crawl stroke,” I said. And as I watched her sliding through the water, I suddenly found myself feeling terribly ashamed of myself. Ashamed because I had been secretly planning to rig the test against her by demanding far more of her than I would normally require of any new member. I knew then that I couldn’t do such a thing. She swam eight laps instead of five. And when I asked her to swim across the pool underwater, she not only swam across, she also swam back without stopping. Instead of bringing up one five-pound weight from the deepest part of the pool, she brought up two. In fact, in every task I required of her, she did more than I asked. When finally she swam to the edge of the pool and looked up at me to ask, “Well, did I pass?” there was only one answer I could give. Diane became one of the best divers in the club. She took part in all our outside dives including some difficult open water dives in the cold, murky waters of Lake Erie. She swam with us when we cut holes through the ice of our favorite limestone quarry to dive beneath it. She even helped us a couple of times n the unpleasant task of recovering the bodies of drowning victims. We learned to ignore the grotesqueness and learned to understand her garbled speech. And it seemed only natural that as we all grew to know Diane, we also grew to love her. She was a prisoner. Imprisoned not in a prison of stone and steel, but in a prison of skin and bone—and a somehow scrambled nervous system that shot random signals throughout her body. But in spite of all that, her spirit remained free, and about her radiated an infectious happiness and enthusiasm that lightened even the darkest days. We soon understood why her two roommates—friends of Diane since grade school—could sacrifice so much to give her the constant care she needed away from home. And, as we came to know Diane, we also learned of her dream. Like all of us, Diane had a dream she held close to her heart. It wasn’t a very spectacular dream like most of us carried in our youthful enthusiasm. Her dream was really rather simple. She wanted to teach. Diane wanted to teach other children like the child she had been, children held prisoners by their bodies or their minds, children twisted and deformed as she was. She wanted to help them find their places in the world. She wanted to help them grow to become all that they could become. And as we learned of Diane’s dream, we learned, too, of another obstacle she had to face—the same obstacle she’d had to face with me when she dreamed of learning to scuba dive. Even among those who worked as educators of the “special” children of the world, Diane found a wall of skepticism and doubt that prevented them from giving her the chance to show how well she could swim. She had finished her bachelor’s degree and had found all the job doors closed to her. Now, she was finishing her master’s degree, but still the doors were slammed and locked. The last time I saw Diane, she was in the swimming pool surrounded by a flock of laughing, splashing children. They paddled around her, shouting their happiness until it rattled off the rafters. Only the halting slurring of their speech gave away the fact that all of them, like Diane, were prisoners within their bodies. As I watched them splashing and laughing, I found myself praying silently for Diane—for all of them for that matter. I found myself praying that she—that they—would someday find the opportunity needed to reach the fullest potential they could reach. I never saw Diane again, never heard from her or of her. But even today, some 20 years later, I find myself praying that someone else, someplace, gave her another chance to show how well she could swim. And for those who didn’t, I can only feel sadness, sadness for those who deprived themselves of a great blessing. For we were all blessed in our opportunity, blessed because we gave ourselves a chance to come to know and to love a twisted, drooling, jerking girl named Diane. Now, too, I wonder how often we—all of us—have turned aside the opportunity to be blessed in a friendship with another person who, at first appearance, seems to be different in some way.

The Holy Ghost recently helped Camila make an important decision about her standards. “I wanted to dance in a presentation,” she says, “but the costumes all the girls were wearing were short skirts. I talked with my mother, and she said to pray about it and choose the right. I thought a lot about it and talked with my dance teacher. She said I could wear a longer skirt, and my grandmother made me one. As I danced I felt happy, and I felt the Holy Ghost with me. I was the only girl wearing a longer skirt, but nobody made fun of me. Some of my friends said they were learning from me.”

When I was a little girl and throughout my youth, my father would come into my room each night and ask me about my day. I can’t remember much of what I said to him; I just remember that he would listen. He showed he cared enough about me to give his time to me. Because of that, I adored my father and trusted the things he said. Just by being kind and interested in me, he made me feel like I put the moon in the sky!

Recently, I spoke with a Laurel from the United States. I quote from her email:
“This past year some of my friends on Facebook began posting their position on marriage. Many favored same-sex marriage, and several LDS youth indicated they ‘liked’ the postings. I made no comment.
“I decided to declare my belief in traditional marriage in a thoughtful way.
“With my profile picture, I added the caption ‘I believe in marriage between a man and a woman.’ Almost instantly I started receiving messages. ‘You are selfish.’ ‘You are judgmental.’ One compared me to a slave owner. And I received this post from a great friend who is a strong member of the Church: ‘You need to catch up with the times. Things are changing and so should you.’
“I did not fight back,” she said, “but I did not take my statement down.”
She concludes: “Sometimes, as President Monson said, ‘You have to stand alone.’ Hopefully as youth, we will stand together in being true to God and to the teachings of His living prophets.”11

A story told by President Steve Studdert at a session of the Mount Timpanogos Temple dedication dramatically illustrates this. I repeat it with his permission. Before the temple dedication, the First Presidency invited the residents of the Utah State Developmental Center to a special open house of the temple. This center houses severely mentally and physically disabled sons and daughters of our Heavenly Father. I now quote from President Studdert’s account:

There was a man in his mid-sixties in the center. He had been there since age eight, and it had been 15 years since any family members had been to visit him. They had understandably quit coming because he never spoke to them, never showed any indication of recognition, and never expressed anything whatsoever to them. But on that morning the Spirit worked on this man’s brother, also in his mid-sixties, that today was the day for that overdue visit.

Together with his wife, somewhat apprehensively the brother walked into the room of his handicapped younger brother, not knowing what to expect. The brother, who we will respectfully call Fred, was dressed in his best clothes and waiting somewhat impatiently in his wheelchair. Seeing his older brother, Fred immediately broke into a wide smile, stood up, and embraced him with a not-so-gentle bear hug. There was sweet recognition for the first time ever.

So with a happy eye toward the temple, they ventured out. As Fred’s wheelchair was pushed across the street, he began to become increasingly unsettled. His brother became concerned, recognizing that Fred had not left his residence for many years and that maybe this unusual experience or the crowds were too much for him. They considered returning Fred to his residence, but the Spirit whispered, “Carry on.” As they entered the temple, Fred seemingly grew even more agitated. But they felt impressed to continue.

About 50 feet behind the temple recommend desk is a beautiful painting of the Savior depicted as a shepherd lovingly holding in His protective arms a small black lamb, symbolic of a tender lost lamb. This particular [Minerva Teichert] painting had never before been displayed in any temple.

As the three of them approached this powerful painting, Fred stopped his wheelchair and looked upward at the painting. And then in a voice as clear as any voice ever heard, [he] spoke one simple word: “Jesus.” This was the first understandable word anyone had ever heard him speak in his entire life, and he did so with certainty, clarity, and knowledge. He then folded his arms in the same manner as the Savior’s arms in the painting.

In that moment he grew silent and calm; peace flooded over his anxious mind and nervous body. His arms relaxed and remained firmly folded as were the Savior’s. They proceeded on the tour of the temple, quiet and reverential.

On the wide sidewalls of the magnificent celestial room are large mirrors. As they reached that point in the tour, Fred stopped the wheelchair and stood. Without movement or speech, he looked for several minutes into those mirrors. It was as if he were looking into an unseen eternity. [And, if I might interject, possibly seeing a time in the future when the Resurrection will make him whole.] Then he sat in his wheelchair, again folded his arms as did the Savior in the painting, and remained quiet all the way back to his room. . . .

Since that day in the Lord’s house, Fred has never again spoken an understandable word. The only word he has ever spoken is “Jesus.” [Stephen M. Studdert, personal account]

Food Banks
Along with other areas of the country, people struggled to make ends meet on reduced incomes due to being furloughed or losing their jobs. Members of the Telford Ward and the local community generously collected over £5,000 worth of food for three local groups: the Telford Food Bank, the Interfaith Emergency Food Service (Interfaith Council), and KiP@Maninplace, who assist the homeless. Bishop Pointer was also able to draw on funds from the Church’s COVID-19 Emergency Relief programme to provide additional food for the Interfaith Council children’s breakfast project. This project provides breakfast (and lunch) to about 1,250 children on Saturdays to the value of £5,000. Members, including his own children and the full-time missionaries, assist the bishop (working alongside numerous faith groups) in sorting out the breakfast provisions every Saturday morning and delivering breakfast parcels to families who are unable to collect them.

Youth in the Walla Walla Washington Stake participated in a service-project youth conference last summer, but most youth will agree that it’s hard to say who had more fun—those who gave service or those who received it. They visited a camp for disabled children at a nearby mountain retreat and helped with a day of sports, craft activities, and a dance.
The highlight of the evening was a “prom,” complete with modest formal dresses for the girls and boutonnieres for the boys. Because some of the campers have hearing impairments, the music was played full-blast—something that both the hearing and nonhearing participants seemed to enjoy.
At the conclusion of the day, when the campers were off to their cabins, the LDS youth prepared to leave by holding a testimony meeting. They agreed that going to the camp wasn’t just a service experience; it was a fun experience—one they want to repeat very soon.

In France, military service is obligatory. My 20-year-old younger brother, Loïc, decided to go to reserve officers’ school to become a lieutenant. At the end of his schooling, there was a swearing-in ceremony for new officers. Each in turn is to recite the regimental slogan. Then he is to drink a glass of champagne containing a rose—consuming both. This tradition started with Napoléon Bonaparte, and no officer since then had failed to participate.
Loïc told the colonel that his religious principles did not allow him to drink alcohol. An icy silence followed Loïc’s request for an exemption. The colonel stood up. Instead of forcing Loïc to drink the champagne, he congratulated him for keeping his principles despite the pressure, saying he was proud to welcome this man of integrity into his regiment. They replaced the champagne, and Loïc participated in the swearing-in ceremony.
Pierre Anthian, France

When I was getting my hair cut, one of the ladies there gave me a cup of tea. I said, “No thank you.”
She tried to give it to me again. I still said, “No thank you.”
Morgan’s mother writes: “The lady cutting Morgan’s hair was very insistent, trying to get her to drink the tea. I was very proud of her. She was very polite, while sticking to her belief in the Word of Wisdom. She wanted to share this in the Friend. I think she’s a wonderful child!”

Linahei not only uses her voice for music and prayer, but she also speaks up about helping family members on the other side of the veil.

“I had a dream one night where I saw hundreds of people, but none of them could communicate with each other,” she says. “I thought I recognized them, but I wasn’t sure.”

Linahei didn’t know what to make of the dream at first. Then she had an exciting thought: “Before the COVID-19 lockdown, I had performed over 100 baptisms for my ancestors—these people in my dream could represent those family members!”

Feeling more excited about family history than ever, Linahei did all she could to help move those names along in the temple to receive their additional ordinances. Soon after, Linahei and her mom were called as family history consultants in their ward.

“We helped a woman in our ward access her FamilySearch account. When she saw her family tree, she was so happy—it was the first time she had seen all of her ancestors!”

“I used to feel nervous going up to people in my ward,” Linahei admits. “But now that I have my mom with me, I feel more confidence teaching people about family history.”

Now Linahei looks forward to helping people learn about their ancestors. “I love seeing how happy people are when they do their family history. And I think our ancestors are happy that we’re interested in them and in performing their ordinances.”

In her calling as a family history consultant, she recently organized an activity for her ward’s young women. Not only did she help them find family names to take to the temple, but she also helped Primary children set up accounts so that they can participate.

“We are going to the temple soon,” she says.

“I like the joy that comes when you do family history.”

Want to be as cool as Linahei? Don’t worry, it’s definitely possible. “Young people can advance the errand of God by using technology,” Linahei says. “Anything that helps us think of our ancestors is wonderful. I know doing family history will bring everyone more joy in their lives. Family history has brought me closer to my ancestors and to Christ at the same time.”

With all the work she’s doing for her ancestors, one thing’s for sure: Linahei’s family is definitely not just history!

All Latter-day Saint pioneer women in Arizona were frontierswomen. Many were also trained midwives. LDS women believed that their medical needs should be looked after by women doctors rather than by men, and for this reason the Mormon communities of the West boasted the largest number of women doctors and midwives in the nation. It was common for the Relief Societies to band together to send some of their sisters East to become doctors. Upon their return, these sisters not only practiced medicine but conducted winter classes, sponsored again by the Relief Societies, where other women underwent training in the crafts of nursing and midwifery. One woman doctor was Sarah Indaetta Young Vance.8

After years of frontier life and several children, Sarah, at thirty-four, decided to fulfill her “dearest childhood ambition” and study in Salt Lake to become a doctor like her father. She enrolled in a class of obstetrics under Dr. Ellis R. Shipp. John took charge of the four older boys in Arizona, while Sarah kept her three youngest sons in a rented room across the hall from Dr. Shipp. The oldest boy, age seven, sold newspapers. After six months, she completed the course in obstetrics, was given a blessing by Elder Abraham H. Cannon, member of the Council of the Twelve and advisor to the school, and returned to Arizona with her boys. Shortly after her return to Arizona, she gave birth to twin girls. One of her daughters was kicked by a horse, another child nearly drowned, but somehow they survived. Two more girls were born, and when she was forty-three, Sarah gave birth to her last child, a healthy twelve-pounder.

Sarah continued her work as midwife for forty-five years until her death in 1940. During this time she delivered 1,500 babies and never lost a child or mother. Upon the urging of her patients and friends, she took other cases as well—typhoid fever, stomach trouble, and diphtheria. She wrote that she never lost a case of this type either.

When applying to serve as senior missionaries in Apia, Samoa, Arouma answered one of the questions, explaining, “I can walk about 15 minutes, and my husband can walk about 30 minutes before having to stop and rest, but we don’t need a wheelchair.”
Gose corrected her by stating, “I can walk an hour. Whatever the mission requires us to walk, we’ll walk. It doesn’t matter how far.”
Spend a little time with the Mata’utias and you will quickly learn that this is how they approach life. One step, one day at a time.
Gose and Arouma Mata’utia grew up in Samoa, married, and then raised their seven children, and three other children they call their own, in Australia. They also have 10 grandchildren. They say with big smiles, “Our children complete our joy.”
In 1993, they were involved in a severe car accident with six of their children. It took many months to recover from serious injuries, including brain injury, broken bones, and the loss of one of their children’s arms. They could not understand how something so terrible could happen to them, but they came to realise that they were “very blessed to survive.”
While still recovering, Gose accepted the request by Church leaders to be president of a Samoan branch in Canberra, Australia. He did that from his hospital bed for about a month, and then continued to serve as the branch president for 10 years.
After that life-changing accident, they both believed their lives were spared, and it strengthened their commitment to live the gospel. Arouma said, “We felt the need to give back to the Lord.”
They encountered more challenges when Gose suffered a stroke in 2015. After an extensive time recovering from that, their oldest daughter became sick and died three years later at the age of 38. At the time of her death, Arouma recalls, “Words came to me that Heavenly Father was telling me, ‘She is my daughter, too.’” They were comforted.
When contemplating whether to serve a senior mission, they describe their love of a scripture, Matthew 19:29, “And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my name’s sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life.”
Gose and Arouma decided to serve a senior mission for the Church of Jesus Christ after President Russell M. Nelson visited Australia and spoke about missionary service. They were called to serve in 2020 as welfare and self-reliance missionaries in the Australia Sydney Mission.
Although COVID affected the world during that time, they were able to continue their mission in Sydney. They learned to teach via video calls and taught English Connect as a pilot program.
Another daughter died from cancer in 2023, also at the age of 38. The Mata’utias remember her as especially faithful. Arouma said, “She desired and continually encouraged us to serve a second mission.”
They expressed gratitude to be returning to their homeland of Samoa to serve their second senior mission. Gose said, “We will leave it to the Lord, and He will bless us and our family.”

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.”

One dear sister had been a faithful member of the Church all her life. But she carried a personal sorrow. Years before, her daughter had died after a short illness, and the wounds from this tragedy still haunted her. She agonized over the profound questions that accompany an event such as this. She frankly admitted that her testimony wasn’t what it used to be. She felt that unless the heavens parted for her, she would never be able to believe again.

So she found herself waiting.

There are many others who, for different reasons, find themselves waiting on the road to Damascus. They delay becoming fully engaged as disciples. They hope to receive the priesthood but hesitate to live worthy of that privilege. They desire to enter the temple but delay the final act of faith to qualify. They remain waiting for the Christ to be given to them like a magnificent Carl Bloch painting—to remove once and for all their doubts and fears.

The truth is, those who diligently seek to learn of Christ eventually will come to know Him. They will personally receive a divine portrait of the Master, although it most often comes in the form of a puzzle—one piece at a time. Each individual piece may not be easily recognizable by itself; it may not be clear how it relates to the whole. Each piece helps us to see the big picture a little more clearly. Eventually, after enough pieces have been put together, we recognize the grand beauty of it all. Then, looking back on our experience, we see that the Savior had indeed come to be with us—not all at once but quietly, gently, almost unnoticed.

This can be our experience if we move forward with faith and do not wait too long on the road to Damascus.