Gospel Story Finder

My family wanted to focus on the Christmas spirit during the Christmas season, so we decided to do a secret “12 Days of Christmas.” We chose a family in our stake who were good friends of ours and had been going through a rough time. On each night of the 12 days leading up to Christmas, my four younger siblings and I prepared a gift with that day’s theme. For example, on the second day we used turtle chocolates for “two turtle doves,” and on the seventh day for “seven swans-a-swimming,” we used goldfish crackers and bubbles. We dropped off the nightly treats on the family’s doorstep, rang the doorbell, and ran and hid so they couldn’t find us.
On Christmas Eve, the 12th day of Christmas with “12 drummers drumming,” we brought the family a box of Drumstick ice-cream-cone treats and let them know who we were. They were so happy and thanked us for helping them feel love during the Christmas season.
Because that family felt loved they decided that they also wanted to show love to other families. My family also had such a positive experience spreading the Christmas spirit that we still continue this tradition. I’m grateful my family could focus on the true spirit of Christmas and help others feel it as well. Those nightly treat drop-offs have become some of my favorite Christmas memories.
Sydney J., Alabama, USA

A few years ago a Baptist minister friend and I were driving through Boston in an effort to get to the LDS Institute of Religion at Cambridge. As has been my custom most every time I have been to Boston, I was absolutely lost and had no idea where we were. We stopped several times for directions, and each helpful person would point to us the way and say with much assurance “You can’t miss it.” After having heard that phrase five or six times, I asked our seventh helper for directions and began my question with “Please don’t say you can’t miss it, because I assure you that we can, for we have done it again and again.” During our scavenger hunt of sorts, we chatted. My colleague commented on a matter that we had discussed several times, namely the idea that Latter-day Saints are more prone to rely upon feelings than tangible evidence for truth of religious claims. In response, I asked: “Do you believe in the literal bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ?” The look he gave me was similar to that which a sixteen-year-old would give to someone who had asked what the teenager felt to be an inane question. “Of course I believe in the resurrection, Bob; I’m an ordained minister.” I followed up: “Why do you believe in the resurrection? How do you know it really happened?” He answered: “Because the New Testament teaches of the resurrection of Jesus.” I shot right back “But how do you know that the New Testament accounts can be trusted? How do you know the Bible can be trusted? Maybe someone just made all of this up. Maybe the Bible is a giant hoax.”

“No,” he said, “There is strong evidence to support the truthfulness of the Bible.” “Like what?” I asked. “Well, there are archaeological, historical and cultural evidences that what is being described actually happened.” I then queried. “And so that’s how you know the resurrection is real?”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” he said. At this point my mind began to race. And I found myself saying something I hadn’t planned to say. “You know, I feel a great sense of sadness right now.” My Evangelical friend was surprised and asked “Sadness? Why are you sad?”

“I was just thinking of a good friend of mine, an older woman in Montgomery, Alabama.” My partner asked: “What about her?” I then said, “Well, I was thinking of how sad it is that this wonderful and devoted Christian, a person who has given her life to Jesus and studied and memorized her Bible like few people I know, a woman whose life manifests her complete commitment to the Savior, is not really entitled to have a witness of the truthfulness of the Bible.”

“Why is that?” he followed up. “Well, she knows precious little about archaeology or languages or culture or history or manuscripts, and so I suppose she can’t really know within her heart that the Bible really is the word of God.”

“Of course she can,” he said. “She can have her faith, her personal witness that the Bible is true.” I pulled off to the side of the road and stopped the car. I turned to him, smiled, and stated: “Do you mean that she can have the power of the Holy Spirit testify to her soul that her Bible is completely trustworthy and can be relied upon as God’s word?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.” My smile broadened as I added: “Then we’ve come full circle.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked. I said: “You’re telling me that this good woman, one who has none of the supposed requisite background or knowledge of external evidence, can have a witness of the Spirit, including deep personal feelings about the Bible and that those feelings are genuine and heaven-sent.” At that point my friend looked into my eyes and he smiled. “I see where you’re going with this.” We then engaged in one of the most productive conversations of our time together as friends. We agreed between us that it is so easy to yield to the temptation to categorize and pigeonhole and stereotype and even demonize persons whose faith is different than your own. It is so easy to overstate, to misrepresent, to create “straw men” in an effort to establish your own point.

We agreed that “traditional Christians” and Latter-day Saint Christians both base their faith upon evidence—both seen and unseen.

Spencer W. Kimball was baptized in Arizona on March 28, 1903, in the tub used to clean off the bristles and dirt from slaughtered hogs. The tub was also used as the family’s bathtub. It was large enough for only one person, so his father stood outside the tub, which some people felt was not a correct way to baptize. To be sure that Spencer was properly baptized, he was baptized again, when he was twelve years old, in the Union Canal.

In my youth I learned an important lesson about how our actions may limit our freedom. One day my father assigned me to varnish a wooden floor. I made the choice to begin at the door and work my way into the room. When I was almost finished, I realized I had left myself no way to get out. There was no window or door on the other side. I had literally painted myself into a corner. I had no place to go. I was stuck.
Whenever we disobey, we spiritually paint ourselves into a corner and are captive to our choices. Though we are spiritually stuck, there is always a way back. Like repentance, turning around and walking across a newly varnished floor means more work—a lot of resanding and refinishing! Returning to the Lord isn’t easy, but it is worth it.

Katy skipped along the sidewalk toward the big oak tree at the corner of her street. The old tree made Nana’s house easy to find.
As usual, Nana was sitting in her living room, quietly braiding and sewing strips of bright cloth. The polished wooden floors of Nana’s house were decorated with beautiful rugs that Nana made herself.
“Hello, honey,” Nana said as Katy came in. Soon they were talking about what Nana called the “old days.” They looked at black-and-white photos together. Katy especially liked seeing the clothes and hairstyles her relatives wore when they were younger.
“Things were very different then,” Nana said with a sigh. “You know, we didn’t have cars or TV or cell phones.”
Katy couldn’t even imagine having to walk everywhere. “What did you do for fun, Nana?” Katy asked.
“We loved to sing together. We would gather around the piano in the evening and sing our favorite songs. Sometimes we’d sing ourselves hoarse! It was such a fun time.”
Nana looked off into the yard as if she could rewind the years and watch them over again.
Katy sat next to the coiled rug that spilled off of Nana’s lap. She traced the careful stitches with her fingers.
“I’ve been thinking,” Nana said slowly. “How would you like to make your very own braided rug?”
Katy jumped up and clapped her hands.
“I would love to, Nana! Can we start today?”
Nana chuckled. “Well, there’s something you need to do first. Go home and gather up old clothes that we can cut into strips.”
Her eyes twinkled as she leaned toward Katy, her voice quiet as if she were sharing a secret.
“That’s what makes the rug special. Because it’s made of clothes, the rug can tell the story of your life. Each braid is like a chapter in a book about you. Looking at the fabric of an old dress can help you remember the places you wore it and what you did when you had it on.”
Katy’s eyes widened. She pointed to the rug Nana was braiding.
“Do you remember all about the cloth in this rug?”
Nana smiled. “You bet I do! This red piece is from the dress I wore when you were born. I remember pressing my nose to the glass window in the nursery to get a closer look at you. You were still all pink and wrinkly.”
Katy and Nana laughed together as Nana continued to tell Katy stories from the rug. As soon as Katy got home that night, she and Mama set aside old clothes that Katy could use for her rug.
The next day, Katy took the cloth to Nana’s house. Nana showed Katy how to cut the fabric into long strips, braid them, and sew the braids together.
Every day after school Katy went to work on the rug at Nana’s house.
Little by little, the rug grew. As the days went by Katy learned many of Nana’s stories by heart. Some days she was the one who told stories to Nana.
One day, after adding a blue strip of cloth that used to be a favorite pair of jeans, Katy rubbed the palm of her hand against the colorful braids.
“Don’t you think that rug is about done?” Nana asked, looking up from her work.
“Not yet,” Katy said with a smile. She never wanted this time with Nana to end.

For the past three and a half years I have had the assignment to serve as executive administrator of the Australia/New Guinea Area. Although my assignment has recently been changed and the title of executive administrator is no longer used, I shall not forget the experience I had in New Guinea as the Church was first being established there.

Viba Rome and his wife, Mauveri, and their three children live in Papua, New Guinea. About three years ago a missionary couple taught the restored gospel of Jesus Christ to them in small Two-Mile Village, just outside Port Moresby. Two young boys led the missionary couple to the Wadega hut, where they found twelve people living in one small room. Viba and Mauveri were living there with Mauveri’s family, the Wadegas. The missionaries taught them the gospel. It was well received by the entire family except for Mr. Wadega, who was reluctant to join any church.

Viba and Mauveri desired to be baptized immediately. Baptism would require them, however, to forsake some long-established traditions of their culture. Fighting, gambling, and beating their wives were traditional and acceptable pastimes for the men of the village. Betel nuts not only colored their teeth and gums a bright scarlet hue but had a narcotic effect upon those who chewed them and made them lazy and lethargic. The women also had changes to make. Attending church meetings would require them to cover their nakedness, a practice contrary to the tradition of their society. The other women of the village ridiculed them and accused them of trying to act superior to them. The traditional role of the women was to be unseen and unheard in any public gathering except when participating in the dances and singing of their culture. Attending church meetings and participating with men in worship service required a very great change in their social relationships.

Viba and Mauveri were baptized in the Coral Sea several weeks after hearing the gospel taught to them. Three weeks following their baptism I had the privilege of conferring the Aaronic Priesthood on Viba and ordaining him to the office of priest. On that day he wore his first white shirt, given to him by the missionary couple, Elder and Sister Campbell. Viba bore his testimony to the congregation of about 200—most of whom were members of less than one year. These were his stirring words:

Before I accepted the message of Jesus Christ from the missionaries, my heart was as a boiling caldron and my life was filled with fighting and abuse to my family and others. Now my heart is filled with peace and I have only love for my family and I have no desire to injure anyone.

With their acceptance of the gospel of Jesus Christ, Viba and his wife and others have had the determination and courage to break away from the false traditions of their ancestors. The superstitions and voodoo like practices have been replaced with priesthood power and true gospel service. The relationship of husband and wife as a partnership, education, self-improvement, honesty, virtue, and monogomy were all new traditions to be established in the Rome’s lives. They have the desire and faith to live close to the Lord and they have the gospel of Jesus Christ and the programs of the Church as full resources to help them establish and maintain desired traditions of excellence.

Viba has a job at a cane furniture factory and is striving to establish an independent home and the traditions of an LDS family. This is not easy for him, because leaving his traditional home has meant taking from his family and the family of his wife their source of income. In New Guinea, when one has a job, all of that person’s resources are used to support all family members living in that single dwelling.

Though Viba believes the custom of paying for his bride is not a good one, he will honor the marriage contract he made with Mauveri’s father before he received the gospel. Because of the higher value placed on female offspring, Mauveri’s value increased as each of their three daughters was born. Viba has determined that he will not carry on this tradition with his own daughters, however, even though their value would make him a very prosperous man. I think it should be noted here that Mauveri’s father delayed setting her final price for five years until he found her true worth: how many daughters she could bear.

Viba now knows the true and eternal value of his family. A little over a year after their baptism I met Viba and Mauveri again, this time in the New Zealand Temple, and had the unforgettable opportunity of performing their sealing ordinance. Their trip to the temple for that special blessing was made possible for them by their gospel brothers and sisters in Brisbane, Australia. For the first time in their lives they rode in an airplane, wore shoes, slept in beds, and ate with forks and spoons from a table set with linen and fine chinaware. They experienced for the first time cold weather and the warmth of borrowed sweaters and the unfeigned love of their brothers and sisters in the temple surroundings.

Viba and Mauveri came forth from the temple endowed with the promise of celestial blessings through their faithfulness. They go forth as the first of their people to be sealed for time and eternity. They will set the eternal traditions before their people and establish among them the true traditions of excellence.

Viba has taught the gospel to his father’s family in the village of Garibu. Today, Viba’s father is the Garibu branch president. He has expressed his great love and appreciation for his son and the joy of receiving the gospel truths through him.

I’ve seen this in my own family. My great-grandfather Martin Gassner was changed forever because a humble branch president answered the Savior’s call. In Germany in 1909, times were tough and money was tight. Martin worked as a welder in a pipe manufacturing plant. By his own admission, most paydays ended in drinking, smoking, and buying rounds at the pub. His wife finally warned him that if he didn’t change, she would leave.
One day, Martin’s coworker met him on the way to the pub with a crumpled religious booklet in his hand. He had found it on the street and told Martin that he felt something different after reading the pamphlet entitled Was wissen Sie von den Mormonen?, or What Do You Know About the Mormons? I’m certain that title has changed.
An address stamped on the back was just legible enough to decipher where the church was located. It was a considerable distance away, but they were moved by what they read and decided to take the train that Sunday to investigate. When they arrived, they found that the address was not the church they expected but a funeral home. Martin hesitated—because, really, a church in a funeral home sounded a little too much like a package deal.
But upstairs, in a rented hall, they found a small group of Saints. A man invited them to testimony meeting. Martin was touched by the Spirit and was so impressed by the simple, fervent testimonies that he bore his testimony. And it was there, in that most unlikely place, that he said he already knew it must be true.
Afterward the man introduced himself as the branch president and asked if they would return. Martin explained that he lived too far away and couldn’t afford the weekly trip. The branch president simply said, “Follow me.”
They walked a few blocks to a nearby factory where the branch president’s friend worked. After a short conversation, Martin and his friend were both offered jobs. Then the branch president led them to an apartment building and secured housing for their families.
All of this happened within two hours. Martin’s family moved the following week. Six months later they were baptized. The man once known as a hopeless drunk became so ardent in his new faith that people in town began calling him, perhaps not so affectionately, “the priest.”
As for the branch president, I cannot tell you his name—his identity has been lost to time. But I call him a disciple, ambassador, Christian, good Samaritan, and friend. His influence is still felt 116 years later, and I stand on the shoulders of his discipleship.
“There is a saying that you can count the seeds in an apple, but you can’t count the apples that come from one seed.” The seed planted by the branch president has produced countless fruit. Little would he have known that 48 years later, several generations of Martin’s family on both sides of the veil would be sealed in the Bern Switzerland Temple.

With life somewhat back to normal, Peyton was eager to play sports again, especially basketball. “I really wanted to play, but I didn’t know if my back could handle it. I knew I had to take my question to God. I prayed a lot. Then I started having dreams about playing basketball and getting hit and becoming paralyzed during a high school game. At first I just brushed it off, but I kept having them. Then I started having dreams about me being a dad in a wheelchair.
“I decided I shouldn’t play basketball because one day I wanted to be able to play and do stuff with my kids. I felt like I was following a prompting.”

One day at recess, Isabella saw a girl who was crying because someone had said something mean to her. Isabella felt bad for the girl and walked over to comfort her. “Would you like to play with me?” she asked the girl.
That day Isabella served with her heart. She followed the example of Jesus Christ and showed love to someone in need. We can show our love for Heavenly Father by serving others with our heart, our might, our mind, and our strength. We can serve with our whole selves!

When my wife, Regina, and I returned home to Brazil after serving in the Angola Luanda Mission from 2016 to 2019, we had an important decision to make. We had sold our house before our mission. A year after returning home, we had to choose between buying or renting a house. How would we choose what was right for us?
In deciding whether to buy or rent a house, my wife and I prayed, pondered, and talked a lot about it. Eventually, the feeling came to our minds and hearts that we should not buy a house. We followed in faith according to the answer we received, not knowing what was about to happen in our lives.
About 18 months later, in April 2022, I was called as a General Authority Seventy. After the April 2022 general conference, we had only three weeks to leave Brazil for our first assignment. Living in a rented house at that time made the process of moving much easier. Today, Regina and I can clearly see that the Lord guided us in our decision.

I had prepared long and hard for the entrance exams for a special school in my city of Chiclayo, Peru. I hoped to enter the elementary education program and learn to use my musical and dancing abilities to teach children. In fact, I was so determined, that I had spent my three-month vacation after high school graduation preparing for the exams.
Like all the best schools in Chiclayo, the school I was interested in was affiliated with the Catholic church. But this school, which offers courses from kindergarten through university age, had earlier accepted my five-year-old brother. So my mother and I assumed that I wouldn’t have a problem being accepted, even though I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Finally, the day of the entrance exams arrived, and I took the talent portion of the exam—in which we sang, played, and danced with children.
Later, when the time came for my personal interview with a panel of judges, I prayed before going into the room. The three judges began asking about my talents and background. I told them that I belonged to the Municipal Ballet of Chiclayo, that I had finished twelve cycles on the piano, and that I had placed first in the Marinera and Huayno—folkloric dances.
Then they asked me what church I belonged to. I answered, “I am a Mormon.” The judges looked very surprised, but I felt peaceful inside. They asked me if I knew that no one outside of the Catholic religion could be admitted. I replied that I knew God and Jesus Christ lived—therefore, I was a Christian. I concluded by saying that I believed in free agency and knew that I had chosen the truth.
Looking me in the eyes, they told me that I could definitely not be admitted because of my religion, and they asked me if I wasn’t embarrassed for what I had said. Words of the Apostle Paul came into my mind: “I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ” (Rom. 1:16). Then they told me that I could leave the room.
All my dreams seemed to have shattered in front of me. I thought of how long I had waited for this opportunity and of all that my mother had sacrificed to help me achieve it. But still, my testimony of the Church was strong. I knew that it was worth far more than my entrance into a school.
When I arrived home and told my mother what had happened, she left for the school. There, she asked the assistant director why I was disqualified when my little brother had been allowed to enroll. The woman replied that five-year-old Luis Enrique wasn’t responsible for what he believed, but that I, a sixteen-year-old, was.
My mother then spoke to the judges. She told them about the Church and about our beliefs in God and in his Son, Jesus Christ. She told them some of our experiences since becoming members in 1983—and about the changes that had occurred in our home as a result. The judges told her, “Don’t worry. We will follow up on this.” Then my mother returned home.
She told me that we should trust in the Lord and that everything would be fine. She also suggested that we both begin a fast.
Later that afternoon, we discovered that I had passed the talent portion of the exams! Now I needed to pass the knowledge test the next day.
I stayed up all night studying. Before starting the test early the next morning, I prayed with great faith. The exam seemed easy. I was one of the first students to finish it, and I quickly went home to be with my mother and aunt. We waited all afternoon for the hours to pass—and for the results to be posted.
That evening, I left for school to see the results, praying all the way there. When I got to the office, I read through the acceptance list. My name was on it! The Lord had answered our fasting and prayers.
Now busy at my new school, I carry my scriptures with me all the time. One of my favorite verses is Matthew 5:16: “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” [Matt. 5:16]
I know more than ever that I must never hide my testimony. I must always be proud to say “I am a Mormon.”

When I walked into the house, the first thing I saw was the letter, propped on the narrow table in the front hall, my name typed on the white envelope and the Brigham Young University letterhead in the corner. With trembling fingers I tore it open. I was accepted! And the scholarship my counselor at the University of Wisconsin had recommended I apply for had been granted! I read the words again and again, unable to believe that the dream was really coming true.
I looked up and my mother was standing in the doorway watching me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s inside the letter,” she said. “I can see it in your face.”
“Mother—” I began, but her eyes were blazing and she interrupted me angrily.
“You really think you’re something, don’t you? Cocky and smug and sure of yourself. Just like my sister, Beth. That’s how she was, you know. And she walked out on us, just like you’re going to do.”
“Mother,” I cried desperately, “I’m not walking out on you. I’m just going away to college. Nine months at the university. That’s all.”
“That’s what you think, Michelle. But what if you never come back? Beth never came back.”
“But that was different! She had done something disgraceful. Grandpa Hunter sent her away; he wouldn’t let her come back!”
She stood staring at me, with the strangest look in her eye. “The minute you joined the Mormon church, you turned your back on us and all we stand for. You’re not one of us any more, Michelle. When you go out to Utah, that will break the last tie.”
“Mother, no! Please don’t say such things.” I stepped toward her, but she moved away.
“How could you do this to me?” she cried. “How could you be so selfish and cruel? Beth was my big sister and she turned her back on me. She left me when I needed her the most. You’re just like her, Michelle; you’re just like her!”
I ran past her and through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the quiet yard. I was trembling all over and cold, though the summer night was mild. I had never dreamed that my mother compared me to her lost sister, Beth. I’d always known the old story about the mysterious sister who was disowned by her stern father and who disappeared to live her life in shame and seclusion somewhere. As a child I had thought it a romantic story, sweet and sad. But I had never dreamed of myself as becoming the main character in such a story. How could my own mother think of me that way? Was she ashamed of me? Did she want to disown me, as her father had once disowned the sister she loved?
Later that night when I was alone in my room, my younger brother, Paul, came in. “I just want to tell you what a creep you are,” he said. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“You know what I mean. You upset mother, and she screams and takes it out on all of us, then ends up crying half the night. All you do anymore is cause trouble, Michelle.”
“That’s not true, Paul!” I defended myself. There was a hard knot growing in the middle of my stomach, and I felt humiliated having to apologize for myself every time I turned around. “I never mean to cause trouble.”
“Well, you do. I hope it’s worth it to you, making your whole family miserable just so you can do what you want!”
He stomped out of the room without giving me time to reply. Hot tears began to gather behind my eyes. His words were unkind and unfair. But how could I make him understand what was really happening, what I really felt?
Later, when my little sister, Katy, came in to kiss me goodnight, she looked up with wide, innocent eyes and asked, “Why do you want to go away and leave us, Michelle? Mommy says you don’t really love us anymore or you wouldn’t go away.”
I pulled her into my arms and hugged her fiercely. “That’s not true, princess! I love you dearly! And it will be fun for you when I go away because I’ll write you a letter every week and send surprise packages in the mail.”
She brightened a little, and I hugged and kissed her half a dozen times before I let her go. Finally I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. What was my mother trying to do? Why did she have to punish me for being different from what she thought I ought to be?
After that the days seemed to drag, gray and dull, one after another. Part of the time I felt defensive and angry at my mother, wanting to hurt her back. But at other times I felt small and frightened, like a little girl, longing for her to hold and comfort me and dissolve my fears. She had taken the excitement and anticipation out of the whole thing, and sometimes I weakened and felt that maybe I shouldn’t go after all. But too many of my prayers had been answered, too many signposts pointed that this should be the direction my life ought to take. I kept telling myself that things would work out. Perhaps it would be easier for my family if I went away. If I weren’t so close, such a source of conflict and friction, it might be easier for them to understand, to get a broader, kinder perspective. Perhaps they might even miss me and appreciate me a little.
But I was afraid. And there was no one to understand. Lori could only see that I had the world at my feet, that I was going to Zion, Mecca, where everything would be sunshine and happiness and dreams-come-true. But I had never been to Utah before. I didn’t even know what a mountain looked like in real life. I didn’t know a single person in all of Utah, much less at BYU. What were other Mormons like? Would they laugh at me if I was different, if I did things wrong? Our little branch was so casual, so experimental. What would it be like in a congregation of hundreds of Latter-day Saints? What if they all knew ten times more about the gospel than I knew?
Finally, suddenly, the long days were past, and it was time for me to leave. The day before the bus came that would take me to the airport in Madison, I prayed and fasted all day. I couldn’t bear to leave my mother like this, with her hating me and thinking that I was deserting her, rejecting her as, somehow, her older sister once had done.
That night I had a dream. In the dream I was a little girl again, with long pigtails and a dirty face. Some mean little boys were chasing me down the sidewalk and I fell and scraped my knee. I stumbled back up and ran across the lawn, sobbing for my mother, screaming for her to come. Suddenly she was there, sweeping me into her strong, soft arms. She smoothed back my hair and kissed my cheek, and cleaned my scraped knee, painting it with iodine, then sticking a big, beautiful band-aid on top. I woke suddenly, feeling still her gentle fingers against my skin, seeing the smile of love on her face.
I sat up in bed and it came to me that my mother didn’t know how much I needed her! How long had it been since I’d asked her advice or her help? In her eyes I seemed efficient, self-contained, and sure of myself. Mormonism had excluded her from my life, and I had done nothing to compensate for that—to let her know I still loved and needed and valued her! And all these months I had been thinking it was all her fault, that I, alone, was the wounded party!
The next morning I called her into my room and asked if she would help me pack. She’s very neat and efficient, and I knew she could organize and fit in all my last-minute things in a way I never could. I told her so. I talked with her and I praised her, and soon the look of guarded puzzlement left her face and we both began to enjoy being together. It didn’t work miracles; there wasn’t enough time for that. I still couldn’t tell her how frightened I was, how much I really loved her and would miss her. But the look of cold anger had gone out of her eyes, and she came to the bus station, and when I pushed the note I had written into her hands and reached out to hug her, she reached out, too, and held me close a minute and kissed my cheek. It was all I could do to hold back the tears. I looked through the glass and waved to my family, wishing they knew how very much I loved them.
By the time my plane approached the Salt Lake airport, I felt worn out with the traveling and emotions of the day. The plane had crossed the high Rockies, which in the early sunset presented a fairy world of peaks and crevices, clouds and shadows in changing, shifting patterns before my eyes.
But now, as the plane touched down, as I moved with the press into the crowded terminal, it seemed everyone had someone to meet them and some place to go. I hesitated, uncertain what to do or where to go next. I noticed a woman approaching, an older woman, very attractive, with rich brown hair and a lovely face. As she drew closer, I thought she looked familiar, so I glanced at her again. It looked as though she was coming directly my way. I shifted my feet and stared down at the floor, and when I glanced up again the woman was standing right beside me. She smiled, and the feeling that I had seen her somewhere before grew stronger.
“Michelle?” she said, with a little question at the end of the word. “You are Michelle Briggs, aren’t you?”
“Why … yes …” I stammered.
“I thought so,” she said. “You look very much like your mother, Michelle; you have her beautiful eyes.” She smiled again. “I don’t mean to alarm you, my dear, but I’m your Aunt Beth.”
“I don’t understand,” I cried. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me … or … or that I exist at all?”
“Your mother, Michelle,” she said, and took my hand gently in hers. “All these years I have written to your mother, but not once did she reply.”
“You, you mean, my mother’s known where you’ve been all along?”
“She’s known, but she hasn’t wanted to admit it. Your mother was very young when I went away, and your Grandpa Hunter did a good job of poisoning her mind. By the time she was old enough to understand … well, it was too late.” “Understand? Understand what?”
She paused, and her eyes began to sparkle. “When I was a girl I defied my father and joined the Mormon church. I was young and unwise. I hurt his pride, and he refused to forgive me. When I left and went to Utah, he refused to tell anyone where I had gone or what had really happened to me. He died without knowing that I had married and that he had three grandchildren he had never seen and another one on the way.
“But, you see, Michelle, I kept taking the Franklin City paper and I read about your mother’s wedding, and I wrote to her faithfully, hoping that sometime something would touch her heart and she would respond to me.”
“All these years?” I breathed in amazement.
“All these years. And all these years I have prayed that the Lord would soften her heart; and he has answered my prayers, Michelle, through you.” The sparkle in her eyes was wet now and her hand tightened over mine.
“But what …” I stammered, “how …” I still didn’t understand.
“Your mother wrote to me telling me you had joined the Mormon church, telling me you were coming to BYU and asking me to take care of you.”
“My mother … did that … ?”
My aunt nodded. “She told me what a special girl you were and how much she loved you.”
I couldn’t see too well, for my own eyes were clouded with tears and my throat ached trying to hold them back. My prayers and Aunt Beth’s prayers—and the prayers of a mother whose concern had overcome her pride and prejudice, and who could still teach me something about sacrifice and love! I smiled at the lovely woman who held my hand.
“I’ve got a long way to go,” I said.
“You’ll make it,” she replied, and I felt she understood all the things I was unable to say.
“Yes, yes,” I agreed, “I have to make it. I want to be a real Latter-day Saint. I want to make my mother proud of me.”

I also came here in 1988 thinking I would come for a semester. I had studied at BYU in Provo for a year and wanted a change of pace. I remember getting off the campus shuttle in front of Hale 2 and looking around in awe at the beauty of the campus with the simple buildings and gorgeous landscaping. The feeling of the humidity and sweet tropical fragrances were all so new to me. All of my senses felt alive, and I loved it here from that first moment. Again, I had the same feelings I had as a young girl going to Primary for the first time and feeling something beautiful.
I was assigned to be roommates with Charlene Goo, a local girl whose parents were serving in the Hong Kong Mission. Charlene showed me a picture of her family in the mission home. They were standing in front of a large picture of Jesus Christ. That picture touched me, and I remember thinking how amazing it would be to serve a mission in Hong Kong.
Of course, I didn’t stay here for just a semester but quickly decided that BYU–Hawaii was the place for me. The next two years flew by, and I loved my classes, professors, ward, friends, and everything about the BYUH culture. Though I dreaded leaving, I’d always wanted to serve a mission, so I put my papers in. My call came to serve in the Hong Kong Mission. I remember getting that call and feeling overwhelmed by my Savior’s love and mercy. I was beginning to see patterns in my life and how He was guiding me. He had been guiding me all along, making things possible that would otherwise seem impossible.

It started out as an ordinary Primary lesson. I was standing in front of my class of eight-year-old boys and girls, telling them a story about one of the latter-day prophets. When I finished, I began to question them about the moral the story taught. Everyone in the class wanted to answer my question—everyone, that is, but Robert.
I thought nothing of it. He was new in the class, and I thought he was probably just shy about speaking out on his first day. But as the answer was given and as we talked about it, I noticed that Robert’s face got more and more troubled. He wasn’t understanding the idea.
The week before, I hadn’t had time to finish the lesson I had prepared. I knew there wasn’t much time again now, and so I told myself I couldn’t make the other children wait until I had explained it again for Robert’s sake. I decided to go on. After all, I told myself, we will probably go over this idea again some other time.
I made one quick look around the room to make sure the rest understood. As my eyes passed by Robert’s, my heart froze. In an instant it seemed as though his face faded away and in its place I saw that of my three-year-old son, Sam. Startled, I just stood there, staring at Robert as if I expected the transformation to happen again. It didn’t then, or ever again.
Later that evening as I thought about the incident, I began to feel guilty about what I had done. Suddenly I was looking ahead five years from now; Sam was sitting in what had been Robert’s chair, and I had been replaced by another teacher. She was telling the same story I had told and was getting the same response from my son that I had received from Robert.
She looked at Sam and saw that he didn’t understand. But she proceeded right on with the lesson anyway, saying to herself, “We will probably go over this idea again some other time. Maybe he’ll understand it then.”
I watched Sam sitting alone on his chair, his feet not even touching the floor. I watched him as the rest of the class hurried on with the lesson, leaving him bewildered.
Then I realized the impact of what I had done. I had passed over a child of God simply because I couldn’t be bothered. I had lost an important teaching moment. I had been given the opportunity to place a child closer to his Father in Heaven, but had turned my back.
I’ve never forgotten the lesson I learned that day—that only when I have done my best on behalf of all the children I teach can I pray for the best from another teacher on behalf of my own child.

I was the only member of the Church in my high school, and some of the other students began to ridicule my standards and test my resolve to keep them. I played on my high school all-star soccer team. My teammates usually used bad words, but they accepted the fact that I spoke according to the teachings of the Church. And when a disagreement started during a game, they knew that my position would be that of peacemaker. They tested me with liquor, with immorality, and with other temptations. But when they discovered that I was really serious about my commitments, they respected me.

The young women in the Paradise Ward, Adelaide Australia Modbury Stake, found a great way to combine service and fun when they organized a Wake-a-thon.
The girls wanted to earn money for John Stevens, a member of their ward who had recently become a paraplegic, and his wife and children. Sixteen girls and six leaders committed friends, relatives, and neighbors to pledging money for every hour they stayed awake during a "sleep-over."
Then they designed activities through the night to focus on the seven different Young Women values. These activities included ironing clothes for busy mothers, writing to missionaries serving from their ward, preparing a Young Women sacrament program, and making toys for patients at a local children’s hospital. They also watched a movie about the true story of a paraplegic woman.
When the sun came up, the girls discovered they had stayed awake long enough to earn over $550, which was almost half the cost of a wheelchair. And they discovered that it is possible to serve and have fun at the same time.

I had gone to escape the painful realities of my life, I told him. Nine years earlier my brother had died. The following year my parents were killed in a car accident. A year later to the day, my grandmother died. Within a short time, I had lost several of the most important people in my life. I was devastated.
I inherited a large sum of money upon my parents’ death, and I used it to try to escape my grief. I spent it on expensive clothes, cars, drugs, and trips to faraway places.
On my most recent trip I climbed a pyramid in Tikal, Guatemala. There, even though I was physically on a high place, I remember feeling the lowest I’d felt in a long time. I couldn’t live the way I’d been living anymore. “God,” I said, “if You’re there, I need You to change my life.” I stood there for several minutes, silently pleading for help from a being I wasn’t sure was real. When I climbed back down the pyramid, I felt at peace. Nothing had changed in my life, but somehow I felt that things were going to be all right.

When he was fourteen, Joseph’s family moved to Manchester, New York, where they were soon caught up in the religious excitement of the period. Some of them joined the Presbyterian church, but Joseph could not decide which church was true.
One day he read James 1:5: “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not, and it shall be given him.” He decided to follow this advice.
It was a spring morning in 1820 when Joseph walked to a woods near his home to ask God which church was true. He later wrote about what happened, saying, “I saw a pillar of light exactly over my head, above the brightness of the sun, which descended gradually until it fell upon me.
“… When the light rested upon me I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!” (JS—H 1:16–17.)
When Joseph asked which church he should join, Jesus answered that he should join none of them.
Joseph’s family believed him when he told them what he had seen and heard, but others in the community began to persecute him because he would not deny that he had seen a vision.
Three years later, on the evening of September 21, 1823, the Angel Moroni appeared beside Joseph’s bed while the young man was praying. Moroni told Joseph, among other things, about a record written upon gold plates and hidden in a hillside. He said that Joseph was to translate it. The angel appeared to Joseph three times that night, each time repeating the same message. The next day Joseph went to the place he had seen in the vision, and there he found a stone box containing the plates.
Joseph was not allowed to take the plates and translate them until four years later. When word got out that Joseph had some gold plates, the persecutions against him increased and many people attempted to steal the plates. But Joseph always managed to keep them safely hidden.
On May 15, 1829, a part of the plates Joseph was translating was about baptism for the remission of sins. Curious, he and his scribe, Oliver Cowdery, prayed about it. John the Baptist appeared to them and conferred the Aaronic Priesthood upon them and told them to baptize each other. Joseph baptized Oliver, and then Oliver baptized Joseph. They then ordained each other to the Aaronic Priesthood. Later they received the Melchizedek Priesthood from Peter, James, and John, the ancient apostles.
On April 6, 1830, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was formally organized. Its membership grew rapidly. In 1831, Joseph and his wife Emma moved to Kirtland, Ohio, where many of the new members were gathering. While there, Joseph prepared for publication the revelations he had received so far. This Book of Commandments was later expanded and published as the Doctrine and Covenants.
On March 27, 1836, Joseph dedicated the Kirtland Temple. Only two years later he and other faithful followers were forced to flee to Far West, Missouri, because of persecutions.
When the Saints first arrived at Far West, they were accepted by the local citizens. But as their numbers and political influence grew, mobs persecuted the Saints and burned some of their homes. Governor Boggs sent thousands of troops to Far West with instructions to kill all of the Saints if necessary to restore peace. The Saints were forced to give up their guns, and mobs entered Far West and ransacked their homes. The Saints were then told to leave the state before the next spring or be killed.
Meanwhile Joseph and several other Church leaders had been taken prisoner. After spending about six months in various jails without being legally charged with any offense, the guards allowed them to escape. They fled to Quincy, Illinois, where many of the Saints had gone after being driven out of Far West.
In May 1839 Joseph directed the purchase of a large piece of swampland in Commerce, Illinois, and a great many Saints began to move into the area. Commerce was later renamed Nauvoo.
Nauvoo grew. The swampland was drained and cleared, and buildings were completed. Among other things, Joseph oversaw the building of a new temple, edited a newspaper, ran a store, and served as mayor of the city and head of the Nauvoo militia.
Once again the neighboring communities came to resent the Saints because of their strength, prosperity, and political influence. The Nauvoo Expositor, a local newspaper, added to the Saints’ trouble by printing lies about the Church leaders.
On June 10, 1844, a group of men under orders from the city council destroyed the newspaper’s press. Joseph and some of the other brethren were charged with inciting a riot, but were later found not guilty.
Governor Ford wanted Joseph to be tried again at Carthage, Illinois, Joseph felt that if he went there, he would probably be killed, so on June 23, 1844, he rowed across the Mississippi River to avoid arrest. In a letter, Emma pleaded with him to return and surrender. Joseph also learned that some of the Saints were calling him a coward for leaving. “If my life is of no value to my friends,” he said, “it is of none to myself.” He returned to Nauvoo, and on Monday, June 24, he and the others charged in the case went to Carthage to surrender.
When they got to Carthage, they were released on bail until a circuit court judge could hear the case. Joseph and Hyrum went to talk to Governor Ford. While there, they were rearrested on charges of treason.
Joseph and Hyrum were again jailed; John Taylor and Willard Richards went with them.
On June 27, 1844, shortly after 5:00 P.M., a mob rushed up the jail stairs to the room where the prisoners were being held. The culprits tried to break through the door, but were unable to. Shooting through the door, they hit Hyrum, who fell, saying, “I am a dead man.”
Joseph went to the window where he was shot twice from inside the building and twice more from outside. He fell out of the window to the ground and died. John Taylor was shot four times and lay under a bed, severely wounded. Willard Richards was not injured during the shooting.
After the martyrdom, John Taylor wrote, “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it. … He lived great, and he died great in the eyes of God and his people; and like most of the Lord’s anointed in ancient times, has sealed his mission and his works with his own blood …” (D&C 135:3).

Every summer I get to go all by myself for one week to visit my grandma and grandpa. One day when I was there, Grandma, a friend of hers, and I went to the store. Grandma ordered coffee for herself and her friend (they are not members of the Church) and hot chocolate for me. When the lady put the first cup on the counter, Grandma told me it was the hot chocolate and to take it. I took it and went outside to a table. Something kept telling me, “Don’t drink it, don’t drink it.” I thought, Why? I’m thirsty! So I opened the lid and saw that it was coffee. I knew it was the Holy Ghost warning me. I’m so glad I was baptized and have the gift of the Holy Ghost to help me!

One day in October 1992 as I was coming home from my school in Cape Verde, I noticed two young men dressed in white shirts and ties. I decided to speak to them. As we talked, I could feel great love emanating from them. They told me their names and the name of their church: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Then they invited me to become acquainted with their families by showing me photographs. They also expressed an interest in coming to my house and meeting my family.
When they came to my house, my mother was courteous, but she was not interested in their message. Still, I liked the discussions immensely; each one seemed better than the last. The testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the news of the restored gospel were the most marvelous messages I had ever heard. They truly changed my heart. Eventually, the missionaries mentioned baptism. My mother was not pleased with my desire to join the Church and would not permit me to be baptized.
I continued to investigate the Church and to attend every Church meeting and activity. But I was also obedient to my mother. Many times the elders explained to her the importance of my being baptized, but she would not change her mind.
One day in sacrament meeting, a sister missionary spoke on the subject of prayer. Her words touched my heart deeply, and later at home I meditated on what she had said. Prompted by the Holy Ghost, I decided to pray. I went up on the porch of our house and prayed out loud, opening my heart to my Father in Heaven. I fervently told Him of my desire to join His Church and asked Him to touch my mother’s heart so she would let me be baptized.
It was a prayer I will never forget. Then I went into the house and opened the subject of baptism with my mother. Without a single objection, she responded, “If this is your desire, you may be baptized.” My heart was filled with happiness and praise to God. I knew without a doubt He had heard and answered my prayer.
I was baptized on 13 February 1993 on the island of São Tiago, Cape Verde. A little over a year later, after many more fervent prayers, I baptized two members of my family, my Aunt Edna and my Aunt Ana. In June 1994 I received one of the greatest blessings of my life when I baptized my mother.
Our Father in Heaven is loving and kind. And He always answers our prayers in the way He knows is best for us.