Gospel Story Finder

In some parts of the world, Latter-day Saints are few and far between. Thomas Eberhardt is one of only seven Latter-day Saints living in Muehlheim, Germany, a town of 3,000 people. Because the majority of Thomas’s friends aren’t LDS, and because beer is such a common drink in Germany, he’s had many opportunities to say no.
“In Germany, they drink beer everywhere for every occasion. As soon as you enter someone’s house, they pour you a glass of beer.
“First, I thank them for offering. Then I tell them I’d rather not drink beer and explain why. I’ll ask them if they’ve ever heard of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They’ll answer no, so I explain a little about the Church and the Word of Wisdom. My friends then respect my beliefs, but I have to always be positive, not offensive.
“Soon after I was baptized,” says Thomas, “I was drafted into the German army. In Germany, all 19-year-old men must serve at least 15 months in the army. We soldiers lived in large communities, and I could not avoid being in situations that conflicted with the teachings and commandments I had recently gained a testimony of.
“It wasn’t long before I was offered cigarettes. I always tried to be polite, thank them for their offer, and then tell them I did not smoke. My fellow soldiers accepted it with no problem.
“However, I was invited to a friend’s birthday party, and at the party I was offered beer. I thanked them for their offer and told them I didn’t drink. My fellow soldiers got more pushy as the party went on. I finally could find no other way than to explain to them why I didn’t drink.
“I stood up and said to them all, ‘Thank you very much for your wonderful invitation to be here at this birthday party. Now I want to tell you all that I cannot drink beer or alcohol, and I want to tell you why. As you have probably heard, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Lord has commanded us not to drink alcohol, and that is the reason why I don’t drink.’
“After that, I had no more problems with being offered beer.”

This promise has been fulfilled for thousands of PEF participants, including Pablo Benitez of Uruguay. Pablo was working 12-hour days at a grocery store, barely scraping together a living, when he decided to change his life. He started attending school, but as the cost of tuition and fees increased, he found he was unable to finance his education alone.
Through PEF he was able to complete a degree in physical education. As a result, he has received several jobs over the years, each one improving his income. He even reports, “I often receive job offers for full-time work or substituting for others that I cannot accept because I do not have enough time. And all of this is thanks to the PEF and to the chances that opened up to me because of my schooling.”
Because of opportunities gained through education, Pablo can support his family while serving and building his community as a teacher.

In a speech Elder James A. Cullimore gave at BYU, he related an experience once told by religious writer Harleigh M. Rosenberger:
Several years ago a man was being interviewed on the radio. He had started to walk across the United States on foot, from California to New York. He had reached a point halfway across. Reporters asked him about his experience. Finally the question came: “Sir, what would you say has been your most difficult experience so far?”
The traveler thought long. Through his mind went the toilsome climb over mountain passes; hot dry stretches of desert. Sun. Wind. Then he said quietly, “I guess my greatest problem was that the sand kept getting into my shoes.”
So that was it. The sand in his shoes. Not some great crisis that he had faced. Not some danger that had almost taken his life. But sand; sand that wore blisters on the soles of his feet. Sand that ground its way into the pores of his skin and irritated constantly, that made every step an agony. Sand in his shoes. . . .
. . . Now there was one hint that the hiker suggested when the sand got into his shoes. He had to stop and dump the sand from them.13

Vicky kept going to the Rowes’ house for church every Sunday. Then Vicky shared the Book of Mormon with her mom. Soon her whole family was learning about the gospel from the Rowes. Vicky translated for everyone.
One day Mr. Rowe asked Vicky’s family a question. Vicky repeated it in Bosnian. “Will you follow the example of Jesus Christ by being baptized?”
Vicky waited. She wanted to be baptized. But she was nervous about what her family would say.
Finally, Vicky’s dad spoke. “Da.”
“Da,” her family said.
Vicky was so happy she felt like her heart was going to burst. “Yes,” she said to Mr. Rowe. “Yes, we will.”
A week later, Vicky and her family drove for five hours to the nearest Church building. Vicky felt happy as she stepped into the water to be baptized. She felt even happier when she was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Now she would have the Holy Ghost with her always.

A new bishop of a young single adult ward in Canada organized his own search-and-rescue program. Eighteen months later the ward had taken on a new feeling of spiritual enthusiasm. Of those who returned, 61 were invited into disciplinary councils. Old issues were discussed and handled, and 58 of the 61 became active. Marriages blossomed in the ward, with 99 percent of them being sealed in the temple.

Illustration by Ben Simonsen
At my school a lot of people have boyfriends and girlfriends. On my first day of school as an eighth grader, I met someone named Paul. We got along well together. Paul was a great friend.
The next day after school he asked me out on a date. I told him I couldn’t, and he asked why. I told him I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and that we’re not supposed to date until age 16. Paul asked why, and I realized that I didn’t actually know.
That night I went home and pondered Paul’s question. I did research on LDS.org and read my scriptures. I found a quote by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008): “The Lord has made us attractive one to another for a great purpose. But this very attraction becomes as a powder keg unless it is kept under control. … It is for this reason that the Church counsels against early dating.”1
I also looked in For the Strength of Youth. It says dating “can help you learn and practice social skills, develop friendships, have wholesome fun, and eventually find an eternal companion.”2
The next day I showed Paul the For the Strength of Youth booklet. Other people saw Paul reading it, and my LDS friends helped me answer my classmates’ questions. I was happy to have an answer to Paul’s question.
For the Strength of Youth says that dating before age 16 and forming serious relationships in our youth can lead to immorality and limit the number of people we meet.3 My mother also tells me that we shouldn’t date before 16 because it can distract us from studies and opportunities that can be vital to success in the future. I’ve seen friends of mine become depressed because of an emotional breakup at age 13.
I was glad I was able to find out for myself why we shouldn’t date before age 16 and then give Paul an answer without hurting his feelings. I’ve made a great friend, and I hope we will be friends for a long time. I am thankful the Lord has given us friends and the opportunity to date at the appropriate age so that we may all one day find faithful eternal companions.

“Could I … uh …” The dark-haired elder in front of me shifted awkwardly. “I mean, I was wondering … if we could talk.” I had been teaching Sunday classes at the Provo Missionary Training Center for several months and had just finished my weekly lesson.
“No problem,” I assured him as we walked down the hall, away from classroom and companions. I had noticed this elder for the first time the previous Sunday. His eyes had been as shiny as his new Swedish knit suit. Now, both suit and eyes were showing the week’s wear.
“It’s what you said in class,” he began quietly. “You know, about faith. Well …” he hesitated. “Well, I …” he paused again. His averted eyes did little to disguise the tears that were welling.
“I always thought I knew the Church was true till now.” He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “I came on this mission to tell people that I know.” His voice was husky with suppressed emotion. “But now I’m not sure. I’m just not sure.”
“You’re not sure you know?”
He nodded. The tears glistening on his lashes brimmed over. Suddenly our communication went beyond the foreign language he was studying and the English language we shared. As I watched him I remembered when I, too, wondered if God was there and what on earth I was doing, literally.
My mind returned to the MTC and the young missionary before me. “I know you’ll think I’m a terrible elder,” he said. “I know you’ll think I’m wrong and weak …” His words shocked me. Wrong? Weak? Are doubts wrong? Are questions a sign of weakness? Didn’t Joseph Smith himself doubt and question as he learned?
For 30 minutes we talked about faith and testimony. “Someday, Elder,” I said at the close of our conversation, “when you hit the vein of gold we talked about, send me a postcard.” And not too long after our discussion, he did just that.

My new friend Paul testifies of this truth. Paul grew up in a home that was sometimes abusive and always intolerant of religion. While attending school on a military base in Germany, he noticed two sisters who seemed to have a spiritual light. Asking why they were different brought the answer that they belonged to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Soon Paul began meeting with missionaries and was invited to church. The next Sunday, as he got off the bus, he noticed two men dressed in white shirts and ties. He asked them if they were elders of the Church. They answered yes, so Paul followed them.
During the service, a preacher pointed to people in the congregation and invited them to testify. At the end of each testimony, a drummer gave a drum salute and the congregation called out, “Amen.”
When the preacher pointed to Paul, he stood up and said, “I know Joseph Smith was a prophet and the Book of Mormon is true.” There was no drum salute or amens. Paul eventually realized he had gone to the wrong church. Soon, Paul found his way to the right place and was baptized.
On the day of Paul’s baptism, a member he didn’t know told him, “You saved my life.” A few weeks earlier, this man had decided to look for another church and attended a service with drums and amens. When the man heard Paul bear his testimony of Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, he realized that God knew him, recognized his struggles, and had a plan for him. For both Paul and the man, “it fell on a day,” indeed!

When the camp committee told the girls in the Sandy Utah North Stake that one of their projects last summer would be to build a bowery, most of the girls responded with, “What’s a bowery?” After learning that it was a shelter made of tree limbs or boughs, they still felt a little hesitant, but they eagerly accepted the challenge of learning something new. The result was a beautiful, lashed bowery that became a permanent part of the stake-owned camp property. (Lashing means binding with twine or rope.)
Because very little information was available on building a bowery, many hours were spent in researching and planning the actual construction details. The leaders and girls agreed it was time well-spent, since it enabled them to complete the entire shelter in one afternoon. Before camp, four aspen trees were selected as the corner posts of the bowery, and it was determined that there was plenty of wood scattered throughout the camp that could be used as framework.
When the day to begin construction arrived, the 89 campers and their leaders were divided into three groups, one to gather wood, one to cut it into uniform pieces, and one to lash the framework. The roof was divided into three main sections, separated by two large, wooden braces. The wood pieces, about 3 1/2 inches wide, were lashed together to make a roof approximately 15-by-20 feet. The girls had learned lashing as part of their Campcrafter certification but until now had not attempted lashing anything larger than a small fence.
Bailing twine was used, and when at last the first two sections were completed, the roof was lifted up by the girls and lashed to the four trees. Additional supports were added along the sides and in the center beams, and the final section was completed after the roof was secured to the trees. They decided to finish only two sections before raising it because they were afraid it might be too heavy to lift. They discovered however, that with 89 girls, the entire finished bowery could have been lifted easily.
After its completion, pine boughs were piled on top and a wooden sign carved with the stake initials was made to identify the bowery. The pride of accomplishment radiated from the young women each time they looked at the bowery, a standing testimonial to the skills they had learned in the Campcrafter program. As stake camp director Chris Campbell said, “We had the knowledge that with our work, faith, and the Lord’s help, we could accomplish great things.” Their goal for next time? A log cabin!

Sunday morning. Brother Anthian is teaching Primary in Montréal’s Hochelaga Ward. Five of his eight class members are present—he teaches the boys from age 8 to age 11—and they are learning the Ten Commandments. Pierre uses his fingers to help the boys remember the Lord’s laws. One finger reminds them that God should be number one in their lives. Seven fingers mean a man should stay with his wife seven days a week. Pierre holds his hands out, palms down, and tucks his thumbs under. Eight fingers mean no stealing—because it’s difficult to steal without thumbs. Each commandment is there in the boys’ hands. Brother Anthian quizzes them, and five eager hands wave in the air. They all know the answers.

I couldn’t think of any good reasons why my brother Parry insisted on being a pest. He was almost ten and old enough to begin acting like a human being. Yet he continued to be a source of constant irritation and frustration in my life. He continued to repeat in a high nasal tone every syllable I uttered. He continued knocking things over in my room with his giant leaps. He continued yelling my name constantly: “Janet! Janet! Janet! Listen to this, Janet. Look at this, Janet.” And he continued telling mom and dad the things he thought he had heard me say in my phone conversations.

Sometimes he really did obnoxious things, such as the time he said to Jack Patrick, “Janet likes you second best to Ralph VanBorg, but she’s crazy about him. She’s always doodling his name on everything.”

“Why do you always have to be right around me?” I asked Parry once. “Having a brother like you is like always being plagued by some kind of a giant fly. You’re always buzzing around me, trying to irritate me out of my mind.” That statement proved to be a mistake. After that, Parry made it a point to buzz loudly in my ear every chance he got or to pretend to fly about my room.

I thought I had tried everything to get rid of the pest in Parry. I had shouted, bribed, and even cried, but nothing had helped. Mom and dad certainly never helped. Parry was their joy. He had been a surprise to them when they had given up hope of being able to have more children. “I’ll talk to him,” mom always said, “but I know he just wants your attention. He loves you so.”

“Sure he does,” I would say to myself. Then mom would say, “He’s such a good boy. I don’t know why you two can’t get along better.” My parents were slightly prejudiced. Slightly? They seemed to know a totally different Parry from the one I knew.

Just when I was sure there was no hope and that there was nothing to do but look forward to the day he left for his mission, my friend Susan, who is big on adages, reminded me that “you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

“How does that apply?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. I just thought that maybe if you were sweet to him, no matter what awful things he did, the shock might cause him to change into someone halfway decent.”

“There’s no way I could do that,” I said.

“Anything is worth a try, isn’t it?” Susan herself had been the victim of Parry’s obnoxious behavior whenever she came over to talk. She understood the problem but not the extent of it. I was desperate. I would try anything.

Although I had tried being nice before, it had never lasted for long. Somehow my good will died after 2 1/2 minutes around Parry. But maybe if I persisted … maybe if I mustered every ounce of self-control … It was worth a try.

The next morning I was determined that for one full day I would be nice to my brother. Nothing he did would bother me. Nothing. His teasing would not drive me berserk.

The morning started out with a bang. The room was a blur not only before I put on my glasses but also afterwards.

“Soaped,” I whispered. I was determined that this first test would not be my undoing. I gritted my teeth and walked to the nearest sink. Parry must have been waiting for my groan because he came into my room with a sheepish look on his face. By that time I had cleaned my glasses, washed my face with cool water, and had taken a few deep breaths. I was ready for the challenge.

“Good morning, Parry,” I said with a lilt in my voice.

“Hi,” he mumbled. “Didn’t you find a surprise this morning?”

“Uh huh, and here’s one for you.” I ruffled his hair and planted a big kiss on his forehead.

“Ugh.” Parry fell to the floor. “Ugh, I’m turning into a frog.” He began hopping out of my room. Even though he was croaking in agony, I thought I had seen an underlying look of pleasant surprise on his face.

“This just might work,” I said quietly to myself. “He’s gone. At least for a while.”

At breakfast I pretended not to notice that my egg had sugar on it and my cereal had salt on it. Parry eyed me with curiosity.

“Are you going to ball practice today?” I asked.

“Why? Are you wondering when you’ll be getting rid of me?”

“No, I just wondered. You’ve been pitching really great lately.”

“How do you know? You never go to the games.”

“I’ll have to start going. From what I’ve seen in the backyard, you’re really great.” Parry grunted and tried to hide a pleased smile.

By lunch time Parry couldn’t handle the curiosity. “You’re sure in a good mood today for a change,” he said.

I smiled. “Yes, I am.” He just sat staring at me, and I could tell he was totally confused. I decided that while I had him at a disadvantage, I would double-dose him with so much honey that he wouldn’t know what had happened to him.

I walked down the hall to my room and picked up my phone. Just as I had hoped, Parry followed me and stood outside my door, hitting the wall with the rubber ball he had been carrying around the house with him lately. Today I wouldn’t let the dull thuds bother me, because today I wanted him to eavesdrop.

“Hi, Sue. How did you like that book I loaned you?” I asked the time and temperature man. “Oh, uh huh. Yes, I think so too. No. Yes. Uh huh. Oh, Parry? He’s fine.” At this point I began whispering, but I kept my voice just loud enough for Parry to hear. “I can tell he’s really growing up. He’s grown about three inches this summer, I think. And he’s really athletic.” I swallowed before I continued, winced, then said the words: “I’ve never told him this, but I do love him. I know I don’t act like I do, but I do.”

Parry had stopped hitting the ball against the wall and seemed to be listening intently. I congratulated myself on my great idea. Surprisingly, it really hadn’t hurt that much to say the words. I was convinced that this much honey was bound to smother Parry in stickiness for the rest of his life. But contrary to my calculations, Parry burst into my room and began grabbing at my phone. “Gimme that.”

“What are you doing? Quit it! I’m trying to talk to Susan. See you, Susan,” I said loudly, but it was too late. Parry had the phone close enough to his ear to hear the dial tone.

“I knew it,” Parry said miserably. “What did you do, call the time?”

“None of your business. Why don’t you get out of here and give me my phone,” I shouted, totally losing my cool. “Who do you think you are?”

“I knew there was something funny going on,” Parry said. “You must think I’m pretty dumb with all that phony stuff. Well, I didn’t believe any of it. You think I can’t tell when you’re faking it? I know you hate me, so don’t try to fake it.” Parry slammed the door to my room, and then I heard the ball crash into the entry.

“Oh, oh,” I said aloud. “Mom’s vase.” If Parry had broken my mother’s delft, he was in trouble.

Sure enough, the next thing I heard was my mother’s cry. “Ohhhhhh. Oh, Parry, my best … ohhhhh, I could cry. My only nice … ohhhhh.” The tone of her voice changed for a moment. “That does it, young man. You’re grounded for the week. Ohhhh, it’s ruined.”

Parry must have gone straight to his room because I heard his door close. Then I heard a strange muffled sound coming from behind it. Finally I realized that Parry was sobbing into his pillow. Parry never cried. He was the type to hide his feelings behind some goofy act.

“Oh shoot,” I whispered, feeling rotten. There was no doubt Parry would be mortified if he knew that I could hear him, so I sat still. “Oh shoot,” I whispered again. “Now he’s really done it.” Parry and I both knew that when mom grounded us, she meant it. Very rarely did she change her mind. She could be mighty stubborn. That meant Parry would miss the important game coming up, the game he had been talking about for weeks. “Well, I can’t think about it now, or I’ll get my headache back,” I decided. My stomach ache would do for now. I tried not to think about it for the rest of the day, but I couldn’t help myself, especially when I admitted that I was partially to blame for the predicament Parry was in.

That night was mom and dad’s date night, and I had cooked dinner with the help of the casserole left over from the night before and the spaghetti left over from the night before that. Parry obviously wasn’t planning to speak, and I kept quiet too, not really knowing what to say anyway. But when I brought out the pudding and Parry mumbled, “Oh good!” I warmed up.

“I’m sorry about what happened today,” I said. Parry shrugged. “And I guess it was pretty phony of me to call the time. That part was phony, anyway.”

“It was all pretty phony,” Parry said.

“No, not what I said.” Parry didn’t look up. “Just for the record, sometimes I can’t stand you, you know that. But, well, that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, because I do. What I said on the phone is true.” I paused. “And … I’ll talk to mom about the game you’ve got coming up. I’ll tell her it was my fault and see if I can get her to change her mind. I know that game is important to you.”

Parry grinned and began slurping his pudding happily. “Glurk! Glurrrrrrrk! That’s a frog sinking into a sea of mud. Glurrrk! Glurk! Glub, glub, glub.”

He’s hopeless, I thought.

After the dishes, I went to my room to read, and I decided to let Parry stay up as late as he wanted to. I didn’t need a hassle with him tonight. I could hear him watching the movie The Ant from Outer Space, and as long as he was watching that, he wouldn’t bother me. But he had only watched it for about a half hour when I heard him click the TV off. I half-expected him to burst into my room as the ant from outer space, making an orgh sound and leaping at me from the doorway. But he didn’t. Instead he paused at my door, knocked, and said, “Goodnight, Janet.” I put down my book when I realized what had happened. Parry had been just plain Parry, a regular, normal, courteous human being. He hadn’t been a fly or a frog, or even an ant. He hadn’t been any pest at all, and he had knocked, showing respect for my privacy. He had knocked! I couldn’t believe it! As far as I was concerned, it was as good as saying “I love you.” I sighed before I turned out my bedside lamp. Then I smiled. There was hope after all.

I’m driving my husband to a chemo treatment. It’s midmorning in early September, and the road is so drenched in water and fog that the white line on the side of the road is almost invisible. Wind rocks the car, and my fingers hurt as they grip the wheel. In another life, just a few weeks ago, we’d never have left the house in a downpour like this. But we have a 10:00 a.m. appointment with a small bag of poison, and not going isn’t an option.

Ahead is a stretch of road that lies low in the valley. It collects the fog like a bowl, and the water pools on the freeway there. I’m terrified of hydroplaning, but just before we hit the dreaded spot, the fog lifts a little. My windshield wipers catch up with the water, and a calmness settles in my chest. The rain drenches us for the whole 25 miles, but we make it in one piece.

Later, when we are done and the sun is elbowing through gray clouds outside the treatment center, my husband, Jacob, tells me he wasn’t afraid as we drove.

That’s all fine. But he wasn’t the one behind the wheel.

Jacob doesn’t leave it there. “The Savior has control over the elements. He walked on the water and calmed the seas.”

My heart lifts at the thought: Jesus walking on water (see Matthew 14:22–33), Jesus rebuking the storm (see Matthew 8:23–27). “The Master of ocean and earth and skies.”2

Jacob’s voice is breathy and scratchy—a side effect of all the treatments. “I knew we were going to be OK. I could tell that you were nervous, though. I prayed, ‘I know Thou canst control this water. If it be Thy will, please lift the rain a little so she can see.’”

I remember the easing of the rain and the peace settling inside me.

Until last year, Danny had a hard time communicating. Even those close to him had a hard time understanding his speech. But now Danny talks with his eyes—well, with a laser that’s attached to his glasses. Using the laser, Danny can activate keys on a small, talking computer. Now that he’s able to communicate more easily, collecting fast offerings becomes as easy as pushing a button.
“Hello. I’m from the Church. Do you have any fast offerings today?” When the envelope is returned to him, Danny pushes another button, and the electronic voice says, “Thank you!” He’s also used his new voice to give talks and bear his testimony.

Today I tried to slip out the door and get to school before my mom could catch me. I knew if she caught me, she’d make me go. And going to the annual youth canyon fireside was the last thing I wanted to do. Even though my mom says she only wants what’s best for me, and honestly thinks she’s trying to help, she just doesn’t understand how hard these things can be. Testimony meetings are the hardest, everyone breathing and shuffling around in silence, wondering what, if anything, I’ll say.

My mom was called to be the Young Women president in my ward last year, so when I skip meetings, it’s pretty glaringly obvious. When I was 13, I could get away with not going to Mutual because I would just conveniently forget to tell my mom about things, but now she knows everything. Everything. And so does everybody else. I can imagine the Young Women presidency discussing the less-active girls, all of them avoiding my mom’s eyes when they come to my name. I know that people talk. I also know that many of them think I don’t care what they say, but I do.

So today I walked extra carefully down the stairs, skipping the one that squeaked. And right as I put my hand on the doorknob and almost felt safe enough to breathe, I sensed her behind me.

“Leslie,” she said, and she put her hand on my shoulder. She was wearing dusty rose polish, and I could still smell it fresh on her fingertips.

“Leslie, honey, I really feel you should come tonight. You don’t want to miss this. I promise.”

I shouldn’t have glanced up at her face, because that’s when I saw the look. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen it before. I see it almost every Sunday when I decide I want to stay asleep, those weekend nights when I come in late and she is wrapped up in the old blue blanket, waiting. I see it all the time. But at that moment, I looked up at my mom, and it struck me hard that she was a little bit scared. Of me. Of what I’d say. And you know, most teenagers like me would have thought they were powerful, making their moms look that way, but I didn’t like it at all. It must have really thrown me off, because somehow my mouth popped open and the words, “Okay. Okay, I’ll go,” came out.

I kicked myself throughout the school day for saying okay because now I was stuck—really stuck. I kept seeing the relief on my mom’s face when I said okay. I knew that I wasn’t terrible enough to change my mind on her, and the knowledge that I had gotten myself into something that I couldn’t get out of sat and simmered at the bottom of my stomach all day long.

As my mom and I drove to the activity, she hummed to the radio and tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. She kept looking at me and smiling, just barely, like she was excited but didn’t want to be too excited in case she’d scare me off. It was a look I remember from when I was a little girl and we went camping and she got a squirrel to eat out of her hand. She talked to it softly, smiled quietly, and tried to stay as still as possible so she wouldn’t break the spell. I remember the squirrel snatched the food from my mother’s hand but didn’t run away. His curious eyes were fixed on hers as they stood inches apart, his hands tucked up against his chest. I remember reaching out my hand to pet him, but when I moved, he scampered away. “They have to trust you quite a bit before you can touch them,” I remember my mother telling me.

When we stepped out of the car onto the gravel parking lot of the campsite, I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets and studied the ground, avoiding all the eyes that I knew would be staring my direction. Then I heard my name being called. “Leslie!” “Hey, Leslie, it’s great you came!” “Leslie, long time no see!” Six or seven girls came toward me, waving their arms, smiling and squinting into the dusky sunlight. I remembered all the lessons—fellowship the less active. Let them know you care. When they came close enough for me to see their eyes, I searched them for the insincerity I knew I would find. Maybe it was the setting sun casting shadows across their faces, but I studied their expressions, and their smiles seemed genuine.

Megan and Natalie grabbed me by the wrists, pulled me over to the refreshment table, and started loading me up with chips and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and orange slush. They were my friends once, before I hit my “stage.” (That’s what my dad calls it, my stage.) As a matter of fact, they were the ones that took care of my hand when I slammed it in the van door. I still saw them at school, and they always said hi, but I was never sure if they meant it or if I was just another “service project.” I wasn’t sure now, either. In many ways, I wanted to sense they were being false. I remembered the countless Sunday mornings complaining to my father, “I know they don’t like me, Dad. Nobody likes me there.” I had used that justification so often that I had begun to believe it. But here they were, talking with me, laughing, like there wasn’t one thing wrong with me and never had been. Amazingly, I found myself laughing right along with their jokes, almost feeling like I belonged, a little bit afraid that I’d have to come up with a new excuse for my dad on Sunday mornings.

Night fell quickly, and the leaders managed to get everyone in a circle around the fire. Already huge and bright and hot, the flames cast themselves on everyone’s faces, lighting up their eyes. Shining in the glow of the fire, our faces seemed transformed, like we weren’t the teenagers who just 20 minutes before had been getting in water fights and toilet papering the bishop’s car. The dark and silent forest surrounded the circle of people, and all we could see or hear was each other.

For the first few minutes everyone was quiet and shifted in their seats, just like I’d expected. I sat as still as possible, staring at my hands in my lap, listening as the fire popped and crackled and everyone breathed. Then I heard a rustle, and someone stood up. I didn’t look to see who it was. But once I heard his voice, I knew. It was John Caldwell, the star football player. Big John, scary John, John who had been gone all summer so he could work out some problems and had just come home.

He cleared his throat. I could hear his feet shuffle nervously in the dirt.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said. “I’m not too good with words, really. But I have something to say that you all need to hear.

“The last year of my life has been really rough. One night I felt really bad. So bad I didn’t think I wanted to see the morning. That feeling scared me a lot, so much that I did something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid. I got down on my knees.

“I was scared to pray, almost too scared to even try. I wasn’t sure if there was a God, and if there was, I didn’t know why He’d want to listen to me. But I needed to do something. Anything.”

I lifted up my head and looked up at John. He was staring straight out into the fire, and his face was lit up and shining. For the first time, I looked at his eyes. Dancing and sparkling, they reflected the light from the fire, and he looked more alive than I had ever seen him.

“I don’t know how to explain it, really,” he said. “I don’t know what to say except that it felt like a blanket. I didn’t even have to try to say the right words. I just got down on my knees, and I could feel Him, and He was all around me. Right then, I knew everything would be okay. Somebody loved me, even if I didn’t even like myself, and for the first time I felt like I had the strength to go on.

“Now I want to make something out of my life. I still have a long way to go, but there’s one thing I can say without a doubt. I know there’s a God. He watched over me that night, and He’s been with me ever since.”

John sat down and it was quiet again, but not the quiet like before. It was something more than silence. It was a hush. I felt a peacefulness surround my body that I hadn’t felt for a long time—a peacefulness I had forgotten how much I missed.

The rest of the night passed, and people stood up and bore their testimonies. I couldn’t stop thinking about John. I kept seeing the light in his eyes, the way he looked so powerful and so sure when he said, “I know there’s a God.” I was shocked to see what I had been trying to find for so long—real faith and conviction—embodied by a humble football star who learned how to pray.

At the end of the meeting, we all sang “I Need Thee Every Hour.” I even remembered the words. As I sang, I looked across the fire at my mom. She looked around the circle at everyone, smiling, and I sensed how much she loved us all. I was glad for the chance just to watch her, to see her as a person on the outside would. She was so beautiful, and so happy, and for the first time in much too long, I was proud to claim her as my mother.

The drive home was dark and quiet. There was no radio. No sound, really, but the hum of the tires along the pavement. Then we turned up the hill that led to our street. I saw the light coming from the windows of my home, and I knew I had to say it. I hadn’t felt the love and peace and power of that night for so long, and I didn’t want to let those feelings go again. By saying four simple words I’d kept locked inside me for so long, I knew I’d soon find myself on the path I never should have left.

I laid my hand on top of my mother’s.

“I love you, Mom,” I said.

She was silent for a moment, and then I saw her smile.

“I know,” she said. Then she took my hand in hers and squeezed it, tight, and neither one of us tried to let go.

Some time ago, I felt impressed to embark on a road trip to visit family in Salt Lake City, an eight-hour drive from our home in Colorado. With little planning, I loaded up our three young daughters and began the trek. We left later in the day than was wise. My husband stayed behind due to prior commitments. It was an unseasonably warm October day both in Denver, where we lived, and in Salt Lake, so I grossly underestimated the wintry roads ahead as Interstate 80 crosses Wyoming.
We started our journey uneventfully, but temperatures dropped quickly as we gained elevation. I became nervous and full of doubt. Our van had new tires but no four-wheel drive. I hadn’t packed warm clothes or blankets. I was terribly unprepared for something to go wrong. I pulled over to check road conditions and decided to press forward, but a few hours later I was white-knuckle driving in the worst snowstorm of my life.
I laughed and sang with my kids so they wouldn’t sense my unease. I knew this stretch of interstate was no stranger to terrible weather-related accidents. Large snowflakes streaked past the windshield in heavy sheets and blurred my vision. I could hardly make out a landmark anywhere on the road.
I dreaded the occasional 18-wheeler throwing snow and slush across the windshield as it passed. I watched several vehicles slide off the road into ever-deepening snowbanks. I knew I was in trouble. The pressure I felt to keep my girls warm and safe weighed on me as we crept slowly along in the dark.
Suddenly, I felt my phone buzz with a notification.
I had been ignoring my messages to focus on the road but glanced down and saw that my brother, who I thought was home in Texas, had texted me: “We are passing through a bad blizzard in the middle of Wyoming.” I was surprised to learn that my brother and his wife were just a few miles ahead in the storm. They were en route to Idaho in a vehicle much safer than mine and well prepared for cold weather. Our intersection was no coincidence. The storm persisted, but I was not alone.
I called them. Relief washed over me as they talked me through the blizzard. At times, they didn’t have good news. At one point, fatigued from the tedious driving, I asked if the roads ahead had cleared up. “It’s pretty bad around mile marker 280,” my brother responded. “Take your time.”
Soon, I completely lost visibility and resorted to keeping my right front tire along the rumble strip on the side of the road. For many long minutes I continued forward, trusting only the sound of those vibrations to keep us safe on the road. Finally, the skies cleared, and I stopped for the night at a hotel, too exhausted to go on.
I never saw my brother and his wife, but I knew they were there. I didn’t realize how panicked I would have felt without their guidance until my kids were safe and warm in our hotel room. My brother’s knowledge of the specific path ahead gave me the perspective I needed to keep moving forward. Without him, my fear of the next snowy mountain pass might have left me highly reactive, and one anxious tap of the brakes could have sent us off the road.
Here I was, trying to make it to the safety and familiarity of my parents’ home, and my older brother showed up to trudge the path before me. How sad it would have been if I had driven this road never knowing that he was ahead and never accessing the peace available to me. Just as our Savior is there for us, my brother was there even when I couldn’t see him.

Everyone can find ways to offer Christlike service. My counselor Sister Carol F. McConkie recently told me about her 10-year-old granddaughter Sarah who, when she realized that her mother was ill, decided on her own to be of help. She got her little sister up, helped her dress, brush her teeth, fix her hair, and eat breakfast so her mother could rest. She quietly performed this simple act of service without being asked because she saw a need and desired to help. Not only did Sarah bless her mother, but I am sure that she also felt joy in knowing she had lightened the burden of someone she loved and, along the way, strengthened her relationship with her sister. President James E. Faust said: “Serving others can begin at almost any age. … It need not be on a grand scale, and it is noblest within the family.”4

After graduation Michael knew he wanted to prepare for his mission. His birthday was in December, so he decided to stay home from college and work to earn money for his mission. His dad helped Michael get a job with him working with a tugboat company. As the rookie, Michael got all the jobs no one else wanted—cleaning up, painting, picking up supplies.
Two more things Michael learned. Sometimes you have to put up with jobs you don’t like to earn the goal you do want—going on a mission. And as a bonus, Michael learned to take righteous pride in the kind of man his father is. Michael said, “Working around tugboats is a rough environment. There’s a lot of bad language. But Dad’s not different at work than he is at home. He always lives what he believes.”

It is a wonderful blessing for my wife and me to be with you today. I will never forget coming here 34 years ago. It was a few weeks after a devastating flood had surged through this area as a result of the Teton Dam failure. A large group of us from the Salt Lake area came to Rexburg to help. When we arrived we were assigned to help clean up houses.
As we traveled to Sugar City, I saw mud caked on buildings. Topsoil had been stripped from farmland. Large power poles had been swept away from a pole yard by the raging flood and were laying around everywhere. They had become like torpedoes and damaged buildings in their path.
We spent the day cleaning up the basement of a home. As we pulled paneling off of the walls, water and mud trapped behind the paneling gushed out. It was an unbelievable and unforgettable mess.
At the time, I wondered if this region would ever be restored to what it was before the flood, and even if it could, be how long it would take.
Today, it is so impressive to me to see how this community and the surrounding area have flourished. Ricks College has been transformed into a vibrant university. This campus is beautiful. You have a magnificent temple.

María Coj was a 17-year-old member of the Church in Guatemala, the oldest of eight children. She was sick with cysticercosis, a parasitic infection that comes from eating contaminated food; with time it spread to her brain, causing terrible headaches and then blindness. To give her relief from the pain, it was necessary to move her from her home in Sololá to Guatemala City. Because of convulsions caused by the advance of the illness, her condition worsened, and it was only with life-support systems that she was kept alive. It was evident that she could not live long under those conditions.
At this same time, Erika Alonzo, age 12, a partially blind member of the Church, traveled 22 hours by bus from Honduras to Guatemala City to receive an eye operation. For two weeks she waited for a cornea from the United States to be transplanted to her eye, but none was available.
In the meantime, María died. Because her blindness was caused by pressure on her brain, her corneas were healthy. María’s father and mother authorized the cornea donation. The operation was a success.
On 12 July 1993, Erika traveled to Sololá to meet the Coj family for the first time. The surprised family asked her, “Can you see?” She answered, “I see everything clearly.” It was a spiritual meeting. Sister Coj, who did not understand much Spanish because her native language is Cakchiquel, felt the love and the spirit of the conversation. Because of the donation of María’s corneas, Erika can now see and enjoy everything around her. The death of one person and the love of her parents blessed the life of another. The medical miracle of one person being able to look through eyes of another is a surprising reality.

My husband, Alvaro, entered his first marathon while he was in high school in Colombia. Much to his surprise, he won!
After that, he decided to start running more seriously. But he needed a pair of running shoes, and they were expensive. His parents were struggling to support their family of eight, and he hesitated to ask them if they would buy the shoes. However, when they realized how determined he was to run, they bought the shoes.
Alvaro joined the high school track team and trained daily. But as his first competition approached, the shoes began to wear out. Two weeks before the race, the soles tore away from the tops of the shoes. Alvaro didn’t want to ask his parents for another pair of shoes, so he found some thread and sewed them back together.
On the day of the race, Alvaro started off strongly and stayed comfortably with the group of runners as they circled the track. With only a few laps to go, he pulled away from the other runners to take the lead. At that same moment, the wire worked loose from the sole of his shoe and began to dig into his foot. Despite the pain he felt as the wire pierced his skin, he thought to himself, “I can’t give up.”
He didn’t. Running with determination, he crossed the finish line in first place—but with his foot cut and bleeding in several places.