Gospel Story Finder

Near my home in the north woods of upper Michigan, there once stood an old turn-of-the-century home. For years it had been abandoned, its black, weather-beaten frame cracking with age and crawling with snaky tendrils of ancient vines that wrapped and coiled themselves across the windows and around the doors. Various out-buildings were scattered here and there, but they were barely distinguishable beneath the creeping tangle of brush and brier. The house towered three stories high and cast a forbidding shadow on the bleached and withered ground. This shadow had spread throughout the community and entered the fearful heart of every child around.
When I entered the ninth grade, however, I decided it was time to get over being frightened of the old place. I wondered if perhaps I couldn’t use it for a party. Now, being the only Latter-day Saint in my high school, I had heard and tolerated some pretty cruel things. I figured I could stand up to jokes and criticism for not smoking and drinking, but what I couldn’t take was hearing over and over again about how Mormons just didn’t know how to really have fun at parties. Because of that, my bishop (who was also my dad and a biology professor at the nearby university) came up with an idea to prove my friends wrong. On Halloween night he would temporarily move into the local neighborhood haunted house. But by then—thanks to the efforts of my dad, brother, and missionaries—it would be transformed into a terrifying realm of horror and fright. According to plan I invited about 20 of my closest nonmember friends. Since all of them lived in town, about six miles away, I assumed none of them had ever heard of the old Sutinen home. I assumed correctly.
At 7:00 the party began at my house; and after about an hour of games, pizza, and root beer, I suggested we visit a poor old man named Toivo. I explained he lived alone but always had treats ready for any trick-or-treater who dared venture down the lonely, overgrown trail that led to his home. My suggestion was enthusiastically received until they saw Mr. Sutinen’s home. Even I, who knew my dad waited within, felt a shiver of fear creep along my spine, like a spider on a web of nerves. We approached cautiously toward where the house loomed up, outlined starkly against the moonlit sky. To add to the eerie effect, a single light flickered from behind the drawn curtains. Ghostly wisps of fog clawed at our legs, and branches whipped wickedly against our faces. We were considering bravely marching on, when shrill laughter split the tomblike quiet. Some of the group turned, running wildly for home, while the rest huddled near and bombarded me with questions. “Are you sure this is the right house?” “How long have you known this man?” “Are you positive he’s harmless?” and finally, “If this is a joke, you’re gonna be sorry!”
Reassuring them that everything was fine, I boldly knocked upon the blistered door. Like something out of a horror movie, the door slowly creaked open, and I gazed into the red-rimmed eyes of a madman. With a start I realized this white-haired maniac was my father!
“Trick-or-treat,” my friends whispered as Toivo Sutinen ushered us into his parlor. This room was dimly lit by two flickering candles perched on large polished skulls. Nice touch, Dad, I thought as I gazed at the skulls, the cobwebs, and the coffin set back in a corner.
“Wall now, ain’t dis a surprise. Ten purdy gerls cum ta visit ol’ me,” muttered Mr. Sutinen in a slurred drawl. “Ah was jist gunna eat ma supper. Join me, hey?”
Carol, the Good Samaritan of our group, slapped “old” Toivo on the shoulder and heartily agreed. The rest warily glanced around. And Mary, still hovering near the door, asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Uh, Mr. Sutinen, what were you planning to eat?”
“Why, ma favorite,” happily responded Mr. Sutinen, “barbecued bat wings!”
Too late we noticed the dozens of murky specimen bottles crowding the counters and shelves of the kitchen.
“Unless, of course,” finished Mr. Sutinen, whacking something near him, “you want ta wait until Mabel here thaws out.”
Looking up, we saw a row of frozen cats hanging stiffly from the rafters!
This, of course, made sense when one remembered my dad was a professor of biology and used such things in his labs. But to my friends it was a ghastly spectacle and required a hasty exit by the nearest door—which was locked! Mary promptly began to cry, and several others looked like they wanted to. I begged my friends to stay and humor this crazy old man a little while longer, and they agreed.
“Wall, ah kin see yer not hungry,” cheerfully said the old man, picking up one of the candle skulls. “Why don’t ah take you on a tour of ma home?”
Happily accepting any excuse to leave the kitchen and its occupants, we followed Toivo Sutinen up the rickety, wooden steps and into a narrow hall.
“First room on the left here was ma dear Mildred’s” explained Toivo opening the door wide and allowing us to enter.
Except for a dusty end table on which lay a bloodstained knife, everything in this room was covered with enormous sheets. Avoiding eye contact with the knife, we halfheartedly listened to Mr. Sutinen reminisce about his dear departed wife. Uncomfortably we began to realize he was talking about Mildred as if she were still alive.
“Yep, ma heart was near broke, couldn’t stand it no more. So went out late one night and brought ma Mildred back home.”
With a flourish, Mr. Sutinen pulled back the bed sheet. And there, in all her skeletal beauty, lay the former “Mrs. Sutinen”!
That was too much; my dad had gone too far! Screaming frantically we ran from the bedroom and down the stairs. We must have triggered something because as we ran ghosts in Victorian dress swooped past, bats squeaked, and howls echoed through the empty corridors. The door was now wide open, but as we bounded down the steep steps, something huge and hairy jumped out from behind a nearby tree.
I don’t remember much after that except a lot of screaming and running. Within minutes we were safely back in the security of my home, breathlessly reliving each terrifying moment. My mother insisted I tell my friends the truth, but it took some doing to convince them crazy Toivo was not only my father but the “minister” of my church.
Later, when my dad, brother, and the missionaries returned, everyone wanted to ask them questions. I’m not sure that much gospel doctrine got discussed that night, but all in all the experience had a positive effect on my friends. Two of them later joined the Church and four others seriously considered it. The greatest result, however, was that from then on there wasn’t a single Church activity that wasn’t attended by as many nonmembers as members.
A couple of years ago, the old house burned to the ground. I’ll never forget that day. Standing with a crowd of interested bystanders and frustrated firemen, I remember thinking that no one would be sorry to see this place go. It had stood too long, frightening children, and reminding others of ghosts, goblins, and things that go bump in the night. With a crash the house collapsed, showering sparks and ashes on everyone. For a brief moment I felt a twinge of regret. And then it was all over. The firemen doused the glowing coals with buckets of water, and the crowd broke up.
As I wandered back down the path that led to my home, I thought once more of that terrifying, yet zany, Halloween party. It was ironic, but comforting to know, that a place of such indescribable horror had served as a site where good opinions of the Church had been formed and, I hoped, would be nurtured for many years to come.

The next Sunday, Cole sat with Mom and watched conference. Dad was upstairs watching basketball. Cole listened to the prophet talk about his life as a little boy. He was surprised to learn that President Nelson’s parents didn’t go to church either when he was young.
Then President Nelson talked about how he had longed to be sealed to his parents in the temple. Cole froze, listening closely. President Nelson had to wait for many years, even after his parents were 80! But then they were finally sealed as an eternal family.

I really like fishing because I can get out in nature and just get away from life and be calm. I started going when I was about 10 or 11. I caught a really big fish, and that got me really excited to go out fishing with my dad. Now my dad and I compete in tournaments pretty often, and I’d like to become a professional bass fisherman someday.
To get really good at fishing, you have to spend time on the water. You have to try to educate yourself as much as possible by doing things like watching videos and talking to as many people as you can, and then just going fishing. It takes a lot of practice.
Just like with fishing, if you want to get a testimony and maintain it, you have to keep practicing—keep reading the scriptures and going to church and going to seminary and studying.
I’m the only member of the Church in my school. I drive to another town every morning for seminary where we have about 20 students. It’s been hard being the only member in my school, so I’ve just had to separate myself from some things. Fishing gives me something positive to do so I don’t have to feel like I have to be involved with other bad things.
Josh A., 16, California, USA

As young adults, you are at an excellent stage of life to cultivate a love of service. You are energetic and healthy, able to appreciate hard work; you are creative and industrious, able to see what needs to be done and capable of finding ways to make it happen. Do not believe anyone who tells you this should be a selfish time of your life! Instead, seek out ways to help others on campus, in our community, and around the world.

When I had been home from my mission only a month, I started dating Margaret. One day, soon thereafter, my mother wasn't feeling well. She asked me if I could fulfill her assignment at Welfare Square and can peaches with the Relief Society sisters. I was happy to do it, and while I've never done any canning since, I enjoyed that opportunity. That evening, I was surprised to realize the impact it had on Margaret when I was late for our date. She was not unhappy with me, as I had feared; on the contrary, she was impressed by the reason for my tardiness. This experience served as a great foundation for us to begin building a service-based eternal relationship together.

After I received my mission call, my parents and I traveled to the Mesa Arizona Temple so I could receive my endowment. As we prepared to climb a set of stairs that led to the temple’s ordinance rooms, I saw on a wall above a doorway the Savior’s words: “Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:8). The Spirit immediately bore witness to me that I was in a sacred place doing a sacred work.
I didn’t understand all the symbolism in what I saw and heard that day. But I felt the Spirit as I made covenants and received further light and knowledge essential for my eternal progress.

The first day of school was like most first days. We were standing around saying hello to those we had not seen since spring, noticing new clothes, and watching each other in case someone wanted a date. We lived in a small town in southeast Idaho. Our high school was not large compared to many. Six hundred students are probably too many for everyone to know each other well, but it was possible to know nearly everyone’s name because we had gone to school with each other for years. I was the student body president, and, like others, I was looking forward to the year because we were going to have good football and basketball teams. It was my last year.
While we were talking, a large bus pulled up in front of the school. Soon some students that no one knew stepped off. Of course, the rest of us wanted to know what was going on. After asking around we learned that the school district had decided to bring in about 40 students from Swan Valley, a lovely small town about 50 miles from the school. None of us stepped forward to say hello to them as they came off the bus. They stood in two or three small groups until the bell rang. I can still remember the looks of uncertainty on their faces.
It was not long until jokes began to circulate about the “Swan Valley kids,” jokes that made fun of their style of dress, speech, and other mannerisms. Few of us thought much about this situation because we were all busy doing the things we had planned for. We were known and were “in”; they were unknown and were “out.” There were dances, games, dates, and many other activities, and it was easy to forget about how 40 students might feel being strangers. They were not included on dance committees or ball teams or in student clubs. Everything had been organized the previous year, and there were few opportunities. Besides, most of them never came to the dances or games. I assumed it was because they had to travel too far and simply chose not to.
One day that winter I had been meeting with two students in the faculty lounge regarding student discipline. The meeting had just ended and I was about to leave when the door opened and a girl entered. She asked if I would talk with her. Nodding my agreement I sat back to listen.
Her name was April, and she was my age. She had lived in my home town for a few years. She was a member of my ward, rode on the same school bus I did, and although she was not a member of my circle of friends, we had been to many of the same activities. She had one of those bubbly personalities which some thought was a little too much at times. She was just insecure and talked fast to let off some of the tension she felt.
She was of average height, slender, with dark hair and blue eyes. Few of us came from wealthy families, and she was no exception. But her clothes were always clean, and she kept herself neat and well groomed. I can see her in my mind’s eye standing on the corner waiting for the bus as we approached from the other direction. She had a ready smile for everyone and sometimes she visited with the other kids who were waiting at the corner. But often she stood alone and then sat alone on the bus as we rode to school. She sometimes made attempts to start a conversation or join one that was going on. Often she was met with a chilly reception, suggesting that she was not yet a full-fledged member of the group.
That year in senior English we had been assigned to write an in-class paper on “A Person I Admire.” I sat at the end of the same row as April. When it was time to turn the papers in, the teacher asked if I would gather those from the students in my row. As I placed the papers in the pile on the teacher’s desk, I noticed, to my surprise, that April had written about me.
My reaction indicates how truly insecure I was about friendship. Instead of feeling flattered, I was embarrassed. I suppose I was worried about what my buddies would say and how they would tease me if they knew April admired me. So I was glad that no one but the teacher had seen those papers. Several days passed, and then came the conversation in the faculty lounge.
She started talking as soon as she sat down, and she started crying too. She said she did not have any friends. I weakly asked, “What about Jackie, or Phyllis?” They were her sometime companions and were Laurels in our ward. “Oh,” she replied, “they are all right, but they are not really close friends.”
I don’t remember much else of the conversation except that she cried most of the time. It was a hard cry. I could have recognized this was something that I could have done something about. Today, I better understand the loneliness, the disappointment, and the bone-aching unhappiness when there are no friends and we do not belong anywhere. But then, I was uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure what to do with all the emotion in that room, and the thought even crossed my mind that if the guys saw us together alone, they would really get on me.
I tried to listen to her and even made some suggestions, but they were not very useful. She arose after several minutes of conversation. It must have seemed useless to her. Turning at the door, with tears still flowing, she said, “I am going to get friends any way I can.” After she left, the bell rang and I went to my next class.
We had a pep assembly that afternoon, and since it was my responsibility to conduct it, my mind turned that direction and to the game our team had that evening. The incident in the faculty room was forgotten. Forgotten at least until one Sunday morning a few weeks later.
It was early in the morning when the Laurel teacher came. I was returning from feeding my father’s cattle when she found me, a strained look on her face. “April has had a serious accident and is in the hospital. A group of us are going to see her after church today, and we want you to come.” I agreed, thinking the accident must not have been too serious if we were going to visit her. Her teacher explained that she had been out the night before with a boy who had become drunk and hit a semitrailer. The small car he was driving provided little protection, and he was killed instantly. April had survived the accident but was in critical condition.
I changed clothes and went to priesthood meeting. It was held in the morning, followed by Sunday School, and sacrament meeting was later in the afternoon. After priesthood meeting a few of us were talking about April and telling what we each knew about the accident. You see, April was not the type of girl who would ordinarily date a boy who drank, and yet she had and she was hurt badly. As we were talking, the Laurel teacher came into the room, grim faced, and whispered, “April died a little while ago.” There was much soberness in our ward that day.
The next day at school there was a lot of talk about what had happened. Some knew April; many didn’t. I don’t think anyone was as affected as I was. I went through my classes not knowing what to say or feel or do. That evening, April’s father called. He said he knew that April admired me and asked if I would consent to be a pall bearer at the funeral.
Two days later I sat by myself in the old wooden choir seats, looking down at April’s family and relatives in the audience. They mourned her loss, something I had not had to do with any of my family. It was easy to see how much they cared for her. Their collective grief made them seem as if they were closing, circling, defending themselves against any other possibility of pain.
The funeral ended. With the other pall bearers I carried the casket to the hearse and joined them in a car for the ride to the cemetery. In a short ceremony the grave was dedicated, and the speaker tried to comfort April’s parents. The crowd milled around for a moment, then started to move toward their cars. They walked a few steps but stopped as they heard the sounds of the casket being lowered into the grave. April’s mother broke from the comforting touch of her husband, turned to face the grave, and began sobbing aloud. She walked toward the grave until her legs gave way and she fell to her knees. “My baby! My baby! Don’t take my baby!” The sorrow and agony in her voice made everyone turn. She was pleading through her cries that somehow she would not be separated from her daughter.
It had all happened so quickly that no one had reached her, but then her husband gathered her in his arms, raised her up though she was weak and had difficulty standing. The other family members quickly gathered, giving support while they escorted her to a car. That scene is clearly and lastingly implanted in my memory. Even incidental details—the hour of the day, the weather, the color of clothing, the style of cars—are stored in my mind.
I went to school the next day and found that a student council meeting had been scheduled. I had been so concerned about other things I had forgotten it. We talked about the funeral; nothing else seemed important. We talked about what we had done or not done for her that could have motivated her to seek out the people she was with on the night of the accident. During this discussion I recognized that she, and perhaps many others like her, might look happy on the outside and yet feel very lonely. It occurred to us that the students from Swan Valley might feel as she did. The discussion turned to what we could do for them and should have done weeks earlier. We tried to find several ways to involve every person. We committed ourselves to learn all their names and to say hello to them—a very simple thing really, but one so important to those who are new or who feel left out.
Pretty soon there was a change in our school. There were no new kids or old kids. There were just kids, all of us together. Later I remember being at a basketball game one Friday evening. I noticed one student after another enter the door. With their parents, they were driving 50 miles each way to attend a basketball game at their school, just to belong, just to be a part of what everyone else was doing. As they walked over to find seats, I saw them greeted by other students. People moved over along the benches to make room. They were smiling at one another as they removed coats and settled in for what would be a fun and exciting game.
I think of April whenever I hear about a group of Beehives cliquing together and leaving someone out, or a teachers quorum failing to include a new member. I occasionally hear of adults who are no wiser and do not want some individuals to belong to their group. I have had other conversations like the one with April. I have been able to recognize the deep and enormous need we all have to belong. It is so easy to say hello, to ask a question, to invite someone who is shy to dance. It is not difficult to remember every member of a quorum or class and make certain each is welcomed. Everyone can make a new ward member feel welcome and give a small amount of warmth. It only takes a bit of courage to let the person know they are welcome. Everyone benefits. In all of it, we discover that in the Lord’s eternal family, everyone belongs and is wanted.

“We didn’t have many modern conveniences. We had kerosene lamps, and rest room facilities were about fifty paces from the back door. In back of the house was a cellar where Mother stored all her canned fruits and vegetables. We had a vegetable garden, a berry patch, and fruit trees.
“I remember that my father once said to me, ‘You know, it would help if you weeded the garden.’ I thought I would surprise him and do it, but I hoed down all of the potatoes he had planted, thinking they were weeds! That was about the extent of that.”

“My transition from Young Women to Relief Society was a wonderful experience because of service,” says Tagen Spencer of the Princeton Ward, Pocatello Idaho East Stake. “Even though I started my Relief Society experience in my home ward, where most of the women were elderly, they were all very welcoming to me. When I served with them on a humanitarian project, many of the widows in the ward were there. We were assigned to sort used clothing. One sister called and offered to pick me up. She even took me to lunch after the service project. Every time someone came across a used wedding dress, she would pull it out, give it to me, and start laughing. We had such a good time. It strengthened my testimony of service as well as helped me bond with the sisters.”

When I was in graduate school many years ago, our third child, Lindsey, was born. And I invited several of my classmates to come to church with us for her baby blessing, and to come to our little home afterward for refreshments. In our home, my good friend John saw a picture of the Salt Lake Temple on our wall.

He asked me, “Jason, what is this a picture of?” I explained, “That is where Stefani and I were married” He then exclaimed, “Wow, how much did it cost you to rent that wedding chapel?”

As someone not of our faith, John saw the temple as simply the location of our marriage. That may be understandable for him. But I worry that sometimes even those of us who should know better fall into this way of thinking, mistakenly believing that a “temple marriage” simply refers to where a marriage takes place.

Sabine Isaksen would like to teach the world to sing.
She’s made a pretty good start in her corner of Norway. When she was a little girl, she taught Primary songs to her nonmember friends. They would all swing on the playground equipment and sing songs at the top of their lungs about being sunbeams and families being forever.
As she grew up and became more serious about her music, she translated lyrics of Young Women songs from English to Norwegian and set a goal to teach one of the songs to the Young Women of the Hokksund Branch. After the young women performed the song in sacrament meeting, Bernt Isaksen, the branch president and Sabine’s father, said, “I think they surprised themselves. They sound good when they sing.”
“I have this joy inside when I play or sing,” Sabine says. “I love to teach music; then others can share the joy.”
Sabine’s joy has expanded as her own testimony of the gospel has become strong. “I felt I had to know for myself if what I believe is the right thing. I also decided to receive my patriarchal blessing. I did a lot of praying and searching and talking to people and asking questions and finding out for myself. But everything fits. You get this feeling inside that, of course, this is the right thing. It is so amazing.”
One scripture that especially speaks to Sabine is in Doctrine and Covenants 88:63. [D&C 88:63] It talks about seeking and finding, asking and receiving the answers, knocking and opening. For her, it works. “It’s so clear. If you do this, that will happen.” And as Sabine finds the answers and draws near to the Lord, she brings her friends with her, introducing practically everyone she meets to the gospel. Missionary work is so natural to her; it’s just a part of her life.
For a moment Sabine is sitting and talking about serious things, but it’s rare to find her so still. A few moments later, she has to run. She has promised to accompany a friend on the piano as he sings, and they have to practice. She’s late for her Young Women activity. She’s leaving the next day on a school trip. Her friends are waiting in the car. She becomes a blur. But as she whirls past, there’s the distinct sound of music.
Terje Kristian Pedersen loves music. To him, the emotions in classical music best express his own feelings. “When I have problems, I can feel some of the feelings in the music. I can get them out and leave those expressions behind in the music.”
And his feelings may be a little more complicated and sophisticated than other teens his age. He has had to overcome some prejudice and harassment by his peers both for being a Latter-day Saint and for being born without one ear. Yet he has endured by learning from the faith of his parents. Through kindness he has turned the very ones who were teasing and harassing him into his best friends.
Terje, as he is called at school, was named after his father. That’s why he answers to Kristian at home. His parents are deeply involved in music. His mother studied music both in Norway and in the United States. His father is a music teacher in the schools. Although they taught their son and their two young daughters to love music, their most important family heritage is in the Church. Kristian is a third-generation member. His family has been involved in the Church in Norway for many years.
Even so, Kristian has searched out the gospel for himself. He has found great power in the words of Isaiah. To Kristian, the prophet’s words reverberate down through the centuries and speak to him of Jesus Christ. In Isaiah 53:3–12 [Isa. 53:3–12], Isaiah speaks of the Savior bearing our grief and carrying our sorrows. Kristian could understand these words at a young age. “Christ went through the suffering, so he understands what we are going through here,” says Kristian. “It brings us closer to him. Our sorrows become easier because of him.”
Working through some of the obstacles in his life has made Kristian kinder and more empathetic. He’s the one who is a good friend to people of other religions. He is the one who sticks up for others that may be overlooked or teased. Now that he has turned 18, he can help other young men make good choices as he serves in his new calling in the Sandvika Ward as second counselor in the Young Men presidency in charge of Scouting.
Kristian and his father sometimes play piano duets. It seems appropriate. His dad was the one who taught him to play and love the music. His father and mother were also the ones to teach him the gospel. The theme of love and testimony continues and strengthens into the next generation.
What a choice Heidi Heistø had to make! Should she become a doctor or a professional musician? Both paths were open to her. Both were wonderful ways to serve her country and her fellowmen. Both were traditions in her family. Both seemed attainable. She has the talent in both areas.
So Heidi didn’t choose. She decided to pursue both. She had completed her high school years with a fine academic standing and was accepted into three medical schools and auditioned and was accepted into music conservatory. Soon she was spending every minute either at school or studying or practicing. After two quarters of this killer pace, she was tired and confused. She felt she was not giving either school her best. When she asked friends and relatives what she should do, the answers were of little help. Some said, “Oh, if you have the possibility of going to medical school, you must do that.” Others said, “Oh, you are so talented in music. Of course, you must do that.” Heidi was very confused.
Heidi had been taught by her mother, Karin, and her grandmother how to search out the guides in her life. She had learned in church that she had an eternal friend who will always listen. She turned to Heavenly Father in prayer. She also asked for and received a blessing from her home teacher. The blessing said that she had her agency and that she should pray about her decision. As she prayed, her answer became more clear. She should devote herself to music. Her fears about not being skilled enough lessened.
She turned to her patriarchal blessing, which encourages her to develop her musical talent. She had started with the violin at age seven even though she had been begging to start much earlier. Then her instructor suggested she change to the viola because the warm, somber tones of that instrument complimented her technique and temperament. And Heidi found she preferred the beautiful tone. Now she has chosen her course and is devoting her schooling to music.
The enduring note in Heidi’s life is the gospel. In a class taught by a favorite teacher, Heidi and her classmates were asked if anyone was a member of another church besides the Norwegian state church. Heidi and another boy were the only ones who raised their hands. She was then asked if she would take class time to answer questions. She talked about the Church and answered questions for a solid hour. Then the class requested a second hour. Heidi had lived and learned in such a way that she was prepared for this opportunity, just as she was prepared for the other opportunities that have come to her.
What does heaven sound like? Maybe Sabine, Kristian, and Heidi have a clue. They seem to hear it when they perform and study music. For each of these three, testimony of the gospel resonates in their lives like an eternal chord.

When Ron was about 17 and I was about 12, his teacher told him that he needed to gain a testimony of his own. He said to me, “I intend to find out for myself if the Church is true. I’m going to pay any price to know for myself.”
Over the next few weeks, I watched him. I’d find him on his knees praying. I’d see him reading the Book of Mormon. I was amazed at how diligent he was.
One morning a few weeks later, I found Ron lying on his bed with his knees tucked up on his chest. He had great pain in his lower right abdomen.
My mom called for an ambulance. As we stood there over my brother, Ron said to my dad through gritted teeth, “Please, I need a priesthood blessing.” I didn’t know if my dad knew how to give a priesthood blessing. I’d never seen him do it. But he laid his hands on my brother’s head and pronounced a blessing of healing. About the time my dad said, “Amen,” Ron jumped off the bed and said the pain was totally gone. He was absolutely thrilled that the Lord had answered his prayer through that blessing.
My parents still took my brother to the hospital to be checked. All the doctors could say was that Ron’s symptoms sounded like he had had a ruptured appendix, but now they could find no trace of a problem.
Later that day, Ron told me, “Gene, I now know that the gift of healing is real. When Dad put his hands on my head, I felt the Spirit of the Lord go through my whole body. I know the priesthood is real.”
Then he said, “I also now know for myself that the Church is true. Not because of the healing, but because of what has been happening to me in reading the Book of Mormon. I’ve got my testimony by reading and praying over every page. I know all that we’ve been taught in the Church is correct, and I am going on a mission.” I’d never heard Ron say that before. It was evident to me, even as a young boy, that he had really been impacted by something.

When I moved from Peru to the United States to be a live-in nanny, everything felt so foreign. The language, culture, food, and weather were all so different.
It was also the first time I’d been on my own. Growing up, attending church was simply part of my family’s life. I loved it, but it was easy to rely on my family to stay spiritually strong.
It wasn’t until I moved that I began to understand what it meant to be spiritually self-reliant.
When I moved, I didn’t know anyone and couldn’t speak English. I felt lost, disconnected, and alone. It was terrifying.
When I’d shared my concerns about living in a different country with my mom, she’d advised me, “Wherever you go, look for the Church.”
So that’s exactly what I did: I located the nearest chapel and found my ward. Little did I know that this simple step would be a turning point in my journey of spiritual self-reliance.
My first Sunday in this new country was overwhelming, but being welcomed by the members of my new ward was a true miracle. One sister invited me to attend institute, and through that, I not only improved my English but also expanded my circle of friends.
Thanks to institute, I attended a nearby conference for young single adults in the Church and connected with other young adults who were striving to live the gospel.
I truly felt my spiritual self-reliance growing as I prayerfully lived my covenants, took the sacrament each Sunday, and served others.

I attended many general conference sessions in the Tabernacle, always being edified and inspired by the words of the Brethren. Then, in October of 1963, President David O. McKay invited me to his office and extended to me a call to serve as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He asked that I keep this sacred call confidential, revealing it to no one except my wife, and that I be present for general conference in the Tabernacle the next day, when my name would be read aloud.

The following morning I came into the Tabernacle not knowing exactly where to sit. Being a member of the Priesthood Home Teaching Committee, I determined that I would be seated among the members of that committee. I noticed a friend of mine by the name of Hugh Smith, who was also a member of the Priesthood Home Teaching Committee. He motioned for me to sit by him. I couldn’t say a thing to him about my call, but I sat down.

During the session, the members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles were sustained and, of course, my name was read. I believe the walk from the audience to the stand was the longest walk of my life.

When I was in high school, I decided it was time that I gained a testimony of my own, instead of relying on the testimonies of my parents.
I wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. So one night as I was kneeling by my bed saying my prayers, I asked the Lord to let me know whether or not the gospel was true. Then I jumped into bed and went to sleep.
The next day, and for the next few days after that, I did the very same thing. Needless to say, I was not gaining a testimony.
I decided to try a different approach. Instead of just praying and jumping into bed, I would pray and then wait on my knees for the answer to come to me. It didn’t.
Something had to be done. I had just finished reading the Book of Mormon. The people I had read about were constantly gaining testimonies. It just didn’t seem fair that I couldn’t get an answer. What was I doing wrong?
Then one night I read Doctrine and Covenants 9:7: “Behold, you have not understood; you have supposed that I would give it unto you, when you took no thought save it was to ask me.” [D&C 9:7]
I realized then that I had been going about gaining a testimony all wrong. Instead of just expecting it to be given to me, I needed to find one.
I looked up all the cross-references I could find on the subject of testimonies, talked to my bishop about it, and talked to my parents and others.
After studying and fasting, I prayed and asked the Lord to help me know the truth. My testimony started to grow.
But I was wrong when I thought that my first prayer hadn’t been answered. Doctrine and Covenants 9:7 was what I had prayed for. Although it was not a testimony, it was telling me the way I could find one for myself.

One morning when I was serving as a young missionary in Beaumont, Texas, my companion became ill and needed to rest. Following the counsel of our mission president for such situations, I pulled a chair up by the open window in our fourth-story apartment and began to read in the Book of Mormon.
Soon I became immersed in the scriptures, and after a time I came to Alma chapter 29, verses 1 and 2:
“O that I were an angel, and could have the wish of mine heart, that I might go forth and speak with the trump of God, with a voice to shake the earth, and cry repentance unto every people!
“Yea, I would declare unto every soul, as with the voice of thunder, repentance and the plan of redemption, that they should repent and come unto our God, that there might not be more sorrow upon all the face of the earth.”
As I pondered on Alma’s words, they became deeply personal. My companion and I had knocked on hundreds of doors in Beaumont, offering to share our message, but with limited success. In my mind’s eye, I began to imagine what it might be like if I were an angel and could cry repentance with a voice to shake the earth. I looked out the window at the people coming and going on the street below. I imagined what it would be like if I were standing there shining like an angel, with my hands raised, speaking with a voice of thunder. I envisioned the buildings shaking and people falling to the earth. Under the circumstances I imagined, they might have a sudden desire to listen to what I had to say!
But then I read the next verse: “But behold, I am a man, and do sin in my wish; for I ought to be content with the things which the Lord hath allotted unto me” (v. 3).
I was humbled to realize the Lord loves all His children and has a plan for His work. My job was to do my part.
I was also humbled to realize something else. In that moment, I knew that what I was reading was not fiction—it was real. Quietly and peacefully while I was reading, I had been filled with light and with the realization that this Alma was an actual person, that he had lived, and that he too had deeply desired to share the gospel message with others.
If you had asked me in that moment, “Do you know this is true?” I would have replied, “Absolutely!” At that point, it became clear to me that I was receiving a spiritual witness of the truth of the Book of Mormon.
As I have read back over my journal entry to understand and learn more from the experience I had as a missionary, I have realized that although I had read in the Book of Mormon before, what happened in Beaumont that morning was different because I was different. As inexperienced as I was, at least on that occasion I was sincerely trying to seek and to feel, and my intent was to act in faith on what I learned. I know now that such witnesses are available to each of us on a regular basis if we will receive them.

One night Moisés came home late from Papá’s shop. Mamá was sitting at the table. She looked worried.
“Is everything OK?” Moisés asked.
Mamá sighed. “Yes, we will be all right.” She gave Moisés a tired smile. “Money is tight this month. I’m worried that we can’t afford to pay tithing.”
Moisés remembered what the missionaries taught them about tithing. They said it was giving 10 percent of your money to God to help do His work.
Mamá put some pesos in an envelope and sealed it closed. “This is sacred money,” she said. “We need to pay our tithing.”
Moisés thought about the pesos he had earned at the car shop. He pulled them out of his pocket. “Can I pay my tithing too?”
Mamá smiled. “Of course you can.”
After that Moisés always paid his tithing. Sometimes it was hard. But Moisés had faith. He was a pioneer! He kept paying his tithing, and his family always had enough. Moisés was grateful for the ways Heavenly Father blessed him for being obedient.

Matthew gingerly fingered a few pages into the little book, stopped, and began to read aloud: “March 18. Our Conestoga left without Ma’s piano. There just wasn’t any room, and the oxen were put upon enough as it was. Baby Jess nearly took a joyful fit when a butterfly lit on her cradle in the back of the wagon.”
The boy turned a few more pages. “March 29. Saw some Indians not too far from our camp today. Brother Ezekiel said they were Crows. They didn’t look as though they meant us any harm, but Ma took on fearful and then became prayerful. Pa tried to comfort Ma and told her not to worry because God would see to it that all of us got to the valley in one piece.”
Digging into the diary a little deeper, Matthew read: “April 3. It rained some today. Old Sister Weber died this morning. Found me a real arrowhead in the skull of a dead coyote. Brother Beacon’s boy said he’d give me his gold watch for it but I’d rather keep the arrowhead. Baby Jess has taken to coughing something fierce.”
More pages were turned. “April 19. We only made about a mile today. Pa took time out to bury Baby Jess. Didn’t see Pa cry but he put his arms round Ma in the holdingest kind of way. Then he walked off somewhere by himself for the rest of the day. Once I thought I heard someone crying off aways. Maybe it was just the wind coming down off the butte.”
“April 20. Brother Ezekiel shot a wild pig that came into a place where Sister Gunnerson was digging some Indian Soapweed. The pig was acting crazy and bubbling at the jaws like he had a devil in him. And before it was killed it horned a place across Ma’s leg—just a scratch but there’s some folks looking unusually mournful. Pa and Nephi Cole administered to Ma. Flora Clanton found some berries and said she’s going to work up something special for the one that sings the loudest tonight at the camp sing.”
Matthew fingered ahead. “May 2. They had to tie Ma down in the wagon today.”
“May 3. Ma died this morning. Just before the end she told us good-bye. I think I heard her tell me to be strong and to praise God.”
On another page Matthew read: “May 4. Cold all day—colder than ever before. We found some little wild flowers to put on Ma’s grave.”
Matthew rubbed his arms, looked up at the snow falling against the little attic window, then he flipped the page. “May 6. We’ve been trying to catch up with the rest of the wagons. Pa told me to try to stop looking so stretchy-faced over Ma being gone. He says we’ll all get to the valley, only we’ll have to take Ma and Baby Jess with us in our hearts. He said they’ll live forever because things eternal never die. And maybe it’s so.”
Matthew turned one more page. “May 7. The wind is most howly and wild today, guess that’s why Pa’s been holding me tighter than I can ever remember.”

At the rear of the sun-drenched chapel, behind the last row of chairs, a man squats on the floor happily bottle-feeding a baby. It’s not his baby. He’s just “borrowed” it from its mother. It gives her a chance to concentrate on the Gospel Doctrine lesson and gives him the pleasure of cradling a baby in his arms.
The man is Wisit Khanakam, president of the Chiang Mai District, Thailand, and the loving care he gives the baby is typical of the loving care he gives the five hundred members in the three branches he serves.
The members know that President Khanakam lives the gospel principles he teaches. In his home the day before, he said, “If there is one thing that helps me and my family stay active in the Church, it is living the gospel. That’s not just praying, not just studying the scriptures, not just serving in a calling, but applying all the gospel principles to our daily lives.
“For example, the Church teaches us how to build love and unity in the family—mother and father and the children helping each other. Just like today,” he says, “my wife had to go to work this afternoon. I had to work in the morning, but I came home in the afternoon to care for our two children, do some laundry, and wash the dishes.”
As he speaks, his seven-year-old daughter, Wisuchalak (nicknamed Buang), sleepily walks into the room from an afternoon nap. Seeing her father is busy, she turns on the television. Although she chooses a children’s program, it contains some rather frightening animation. Her father walks over to her, puts his arm around her, quietly explains that the program really isn’t suitable for her to watch, and successfully encourages her to go outside and play with her eight-year-old brother, Wisoodthiporn, or Ben. “We call him Ben after King Benjamin in the Book of Mormon,” explains President Khanakam.
“There are many things to do in the home,” he says. “It is the activities we do together as a family that help build our testimonies and strengthen us spiritually. For example, my wife is very good at preserving the oranges and mangoes we grow. We get the children involved in gathering the fruit and preparing it for storage. We also work together to keep family records—individual journals, as well as a family history.”
Teachers by profession, President and Sister Khanakam used family prayer and their training to help their son overcome what appeared to be a learning disability. “His teachers said he was very slow intellectually, and so we first thought of providing him with a tutor at home. But then we prayed about the problem, and we realized that the best teachers for our son were his mother and father. Our decision, based on the answer to our prayers, is turning out well. Ben is happy that his mother and father understand his needs and want to help him. As we help him with his school work, he is improving and learning faster. And it gives us the opportunity to grow closer together.”
The closeness of the family now is in contrast to the separation that employment forced upon Brother and Sister Khanakam after they were married in 1981. “A month after our marriage, we were sealed in the Tokyo Temple. When we came home, I returned to Chiang Mai, where I had a good-paying teacher’s position, and my wife returned to her family home in Mahasarakham 830 kilometers away. We lived that way for about a year. But the full-time missionaries would keep asking me, ‘Wisit, do you have the faith the Lord will bless you if you keep your temple covenants? You need to be with your wife.’
“So I quit my job in Chiang Mai and found one in Mahasarakham. I was earning less than half what I had made in Chiang Mai. That’s when we learned to apply welfare principles in our family. We learned how to budget our income, to work with our hands, and to raise a family in the gospel.
“I was called as president of the Mahasarakham branch, and my wife was called as Relief Society president. I was the only male member in the branch. It took a couple of years for the membership to grow. Now they have a chapel of their own—not because of anything we did, but because of the love and unity that the people there have.”
Before moving to Mahasarakham, Brother Khanakam served as Chiang Mai District President, a calling he received again when he returned to Chiang Mai three years ago to teach at the local high school.
The Khanakams live in a house outside the city of Chiang Mai on family property that contains fruit trees and about three acres of rice paddy. “We hire some people to grow the rice and then give the crop to my mother.”
His relationship with his mother is greatly improved from the days twenty years ago when he first made contact with Latter-day Saint missionaries.
He was introduced by a friend to the English language classes the missionaries presented. That led to the discussions and an invitation to attend Church.
“I attended the investigators’ class. What I heard there made little sense to me at first. I was an active Buddhist in a family of active Buddhists. But the name of Jesus touched my heart. I remember as a boy hearing Protestant missionaries talk of Jesus and Christianity. My parents and relatives did not like Christians and they said harsh things about them and about Jesus. I couldn’t help but wonder about this man Jesus. What happened to him? Why did my family talk only of bad things about him?
“So when the missionaries talked to me of Jesus, I decided to invite them to my cousin’s home where I was living while going to school. He and his family listened to some of the discussions, but then stopped.
“I continued with the discussions and with attending church, and I finally gained a testimony.
“I was baptized when I was eighteen years old.
“When I told my mother that I had been baptized, she became very upset, and she cut me from the family. I was the ‘baby’ in the family, with three older brothers and an older sister. From that time on, I suffered a great deal of persecution from my family, and I left home.
“Knowing of my situation, the branch president wisely counseled me that if I loved God I would want to obey his commandments and show love and respect for my parents. The Lord would bless me, the president said, if I would return home and be an example of Christian living to my family.
“When I went home, my mother said, ‘What do you need? A mattress, pillows, or anything? I’ll give them to you, but you can’t stay here with us.’
“But I told her I loved her and my father and my brothers and my sister, and I wanted to stay. The family was very upset, and no one would talk to me. But apart from going to school, I stayed home and worked very hard doing whatever I could around the house, or around the property.
“When I completed high school I wanted to go to the university. My mother said, ‘Tell me you are not a Mormon and I will let you go to the university. If you tell me you are a Mormon, you will never go to school.’ I said, ‘Mother, I am a Mormon.’ ‘That’s enough,’ she said.
“I didn’t even try to take the entrance examination.”
Instead, Brother Khanakam studied at the English Language Center in Chiang Mai, and eventually he successfully applied for a position with an American professor studying in Thailand. Later, with his mother’s approval, he attended the university in Bangkok for almost four years.
“Although my father died at this time, the university was a good experience for me. But I always made sure that the campus activities would not interfere with my church attendance. My friends urged me to serve a mission. Although I didn’t have a personal testimony of being a missionary, I encouraged others to go.
“After the university, I taught in public schools to earn some money and then decided I would go on a mission. When I told my mother, she was very, very angry with me. She contacted her attorney and had me cut from her will. She told me, ‘Choose what you want: your family or your church.’ I told her I wanted to serve a mission for the Lord. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but you’ll get no support from the family.’”
Brother Khanakam served in the Thailand Bangkok Mission, where he had “many good experiences.” One of these experiences involved his mother and his sister. They were visiting in Bangkok, and Brother Khanakam invited them to a fireside where Elder Jacob de Jager of the Seventy was speaking.
“I was asked to be his interpreter. I knelt with him and prayed for my family. In his talk, Elder de Jager made some complimentary comments about my family. I looked at my mother, and she was crying. Even my sister, who had been so opposed to my joining the Church that she almost shot me, was crying, too. After the fireside my mother said if there was anything she could do to support me on my mission I was to let her know. I know that she was touched that day by the Spirit.
“My relationship with my family is good now. They love me, and they love my wife and children. My mother lives in a house close to us.”
While on his mission, Brother Khanakam first met a newly called lady missionary, Sumamaan Srisarakham. Three years after his mission, he made contact with her again through a mutual friend, and they began a correspondence. When they started talking of marriage, Sister Srisarakham prayed for guidance and felt as though “the Savior’s hand was on my head confirming my decision to marry and have a family.”
Currently, Sister Khanakam serves as the district Relief Society president and teaches a Primary class in the Chiang Mai Branch.
“What we do within the four walls of our home is most important to us and to those we can influence for good,” says President Khanakam. “For example, a neighboring couple has been taking the missionary discussions and now permits their son to attend church with us. This has come about because they liked what they saw in us as a family. As a family, as Latter-day Saints everywhere, we can perfect our lives through living the gospel.”

Let me tell you how I met my wife. We were both students at BYU and lived in the same ward—but I did not know her. For several weeks I noticed a very pretty girl walk into Sacrament meeting, usually during the opening song. The doors to the chapel were in the front of the room, so she had to walk in front of everyone to take her seat. I noticed her as she walked in. She was very attractive, but for some reason unknown to me, I did not pursue getting to know her. This scenario was repeated on many Sundays.

During this same time I was serving in the Elder’s quorum presidency. Each month I interviewed a particular home teacher who went faithfully to his homes every month. Whenever he reported visiting with a certain Lynne Cowan, it made a big impression on me. Her name stuck in my mind—Lynne Cowan. I did not know who “Lynne Cowan” was. Now I had two mysteries that plagued me—who was Lynne Cowan and who was the pretty girl that came into church during the opening song?

By the end of the semester I was determined to discover exactly who Lynne Cowan was. My roommate was a know-it-all kind of a guy—kind of like the home-teacher-at large to all the girls in the ward. I said to him, “Larry, who is Lynne Cowan?” He burst out laughing and said, “You don’t know who the prettiest girl in the ward is?” He was nearly aghast that I didn’t know her. He said, “She is that attractive girl that comes into sacrament meeting during the opening song.” In that explanation he quickly solved my two mysteries in one statement—who was Lynne Cowan and who was the pretty girl at church.

At the ward closing social, as I was leaving with another girl, Lynne was arriving. I spoke to her for the first time. I said, “Hi, Lynne.” She appeared shocked that I knew her name. At that moment I wished that I was not committed to leaving with the other girl.

Two weeks after I graduated from BYU I returned from Idaho to the BYU campus to get certified as a school teacher. Immediately I called Lynne and asked her out. We had a date every night for three weeks, and then I proposed to her. She accepted. We were married two months later. We were so happy!

It was not until sometime after we were married that it came clear to me how carefully I had been guided and prompted by the Spirit to find her. It had never occurred to me during this long process that I was receiving thoughts and feelings from the Spirit. I see it now. It is obvious to me. I am so grateful for the guidance I received then and have sought diligently to more readily recognize the promptings of the covenantal gift of the Holy Ghost.

Photograph courtesy of Josh C.
Josh C., a 13-year-old from Alberta, Canada, loves hanging out with his tight-knit group of Church friends as often as possible. All in the same deacons quorum, they love to play basketball, hit the ski slopes, and do all sorts of other activities together. They also look out for and support one another.
About a year and a half ago, when Josh’s life took an unexpected turn, his deacons quorum was there for him every step of the way. Toward the end of sixth grade, Josh began having small seizures. Despite trips to the doctor and antiseizure medication, the seizures grew worse over the summer. Several months into seventh grade, Josh had to drop out of school for health reasons.
Throughout this time, his friends helped him every chance they could—even if that meant just taking him treats and playing games with him when he wasn’t feeling well enough to leave the house. “I feel lucky,” Josh says about his quorum members. “They are always there for me.”
Ultimately, neurologists recommended surgery to remove the lesion in Josh’s brain that was causing the seizures. Josh’s friends decided as a group that they would fast for him on the day of his surgery. The eight-hour surgery took place during a school day. His friends went to school and spent lunch together as they normally did, but they didn’t eat. “It was neat they thought of doing it on their own,” says Josh.
The surgery was a big success. While Josh’s recovery hasn’t always been easy, his friends have stayed by his side all along.
Now in eighth grade, Josh hasn’t had a single seizure since the surgery 14 months ago. He feels so grateful for his friends and for the gospel. “People are there for you. Heavenly Father is there for you,” he says. “Look at your blessings—not at your trials—and see how Heavenly Father is helping. You don’t have to be afraid.”