Gospel Story Finder

Twelve-year-old Ramon placed the steel ring up around the bottom of the pear to determine its size. The ring slipped easily about it. No, Ramon thought, this pear won’t do—it’s still too small.
He tried another pear, and the ring wouldn’t fit around the fruit’s greatest width. “Good,” he said out loud to the old dog, Cleveland, lying in the shade at the bottom of the tree. Ramon picked the pear and placed it in the almost-filled sack that hung over his head and shoulder.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat off his face. A little breeze wound its way through the long rows of fruit trees. It felt good—but not as good as the cold lemonade his grandmother had made for him.
Ramon climbed down the ladder, placed his pickings in a basket, and sat down beside the dog. He unscrewed the lid from the canteen and took a long drink. Resting against the tree, he stroked the big dog and gazed down the length of the big orchard. From where he sat, he could count twelve baskets of fruit. “Not bad for one morning, huh, Cleveland? Grandpa Alban will be happy. He’ll have a lot of fruit for his stand today.”
The boy dug in his shirt pocket and took out a small, worn photograph. Posed beside him in the picture was his mother. He ran his finger across her countenance, and his eyes misted. It was the first time since he’d been adopted that he’d been away from her. Linsey and her husband, Peter, had taken the legal measures to make him a part of their family when he was only two years old. Now Peter was dead.
Ramon rested his head against the tree trunk and gazed down the road that wound past the orchard to his grandparents’ home. About two months before, he had ridden down that road with his mother. It had been a two-day trip by car from Horsely Springs, where he and his mother shared a small apartment.
More than once while they traveled, his mom’s eyes had welled up with tears at the thought of not seeing him for the summer. But a decision had been made after earnest prayer, and she knew that he would be in good hands with her parents. Her lack of education and experience had made the going rough for them, but a special three-month training class being offered back east would qualify her for a better-paying job. “I know I can do it, Ramon,” she assured him. “With God on our side, there isn’t anything we can’t do.”
Ramon admired and took great comfort in his mother’s courage and faith. He was trying to build up his own faith. He was sure that the pear ring on the ground beside him would easily fit around his faith, but he was confident that it would grow, just like the fruit that the old man had nurtured so well. The two young missionaries who had brought the restored gospel of Jesus Christ to him and his mother last year had promised that, with effort, it would, indeed, grow.
A little cloud of dust above the far end of the orchard told Ramon that Grandpa Alban’s flatbed truck was on its way to collect the baskets of picked fruit. Ramon warmed at the sight of his grandfather.
Grandpa Alban poked his head out the truck window as he neared, his eyes rounding at the sight of the long row of baskets brimming with fruit. “I said it before, young man, and I’ll say it again: I’ve never seen a better picker in all my days!”
Ramon chuckled and pointed to the old dog at his feet. “Well, Grandpa, I have a good helper.”
A hearty laugh burst out of Grandpa. “I figure you have a raise coming, son.”
“You pay me enough already, Grandpa.”
The old man smiled but insisted, “Didn’t your sweet mama ever tell you that it’s easier to argue with a fence post than with your grandpa? Besides,” he added, “you’ve earned it.”
“I’ll put it toward my mission,” Ramon relented with a happy enthusiasm that puzzled his grandfather.
“You really feel strong about that church you and your mama joined, don’t you? Most kids your age with money to spend would sink it into video games, movies, or whatever.”
“I won’t save it all for my mission, Grandpa,” Ramon assured him. “Ten percent of it goes to tithing, and a little more of it I’ll give you toward gas to drive me to church each Sunday.”
Grandpa shook his head. “This church of yours requires a lot of sacrifice, it seems to me.”
“The missionaries told us that sacrifice brings blessings. Like Mom is sacrificing now so she can get a better job to take care of us. It isn’t easy for either of us, but …” Ramon hesitated, searching for the words to explain. Then he said, “You have a beautiful orchard, Grandpa, with a lot of beautiful fruit.” He held up the sizing ring. “Almost every piece of fruit I held this ring to was too big to go through. You had to sacrifice, Grandpa, for this orchard to grow the way it has. You had to spend a lot of time working and tending it—” Ramon picked up a large piece of fruit from the basket—“but look what your sacrifice brings.”
Grandpa smiled. “Hey, Ramon, who’s teaching who here?”
That night the high-pitched whine of a mosquito awoke Grandpa. He slapped at it, then lay waiting for sleep to again overtake him. He noticed a light shining beneath Ramon’s door across the hall. Lifting himself up on an elbow, Grandpa Alban gazed at it curiously. The creak of the bed awoke Grandma. “What is it, honey?” she asked.
“That light under Ramon’s door. It’s—” he glanced at the clock—“it’s after eleven o’clock! What could Ramon be doing at this time of night?”
Grandma smiled. “He does the same thing every night.”
“Does what, Francie?”
“Reads.”
“Reads?”
“From a book of scriptures he has, called the Book of Mormon. Go back to sleep dear, he’ll be just fine.”
How can anyone work all day and then stay up so late reading? he wondered as he drifted off to sleep.
The screech of a hawk circling above cut through the silence of the noonday sky like a paring knife. Ramon took the handkerchief from his pocket and tied it about his head to keep the sweat from running down into his eyes. He climbed down the ladder, filled a basket, and picked up the container of lemonade. He was about to take a swallow, when he spied what looked like his grandfather seated under a tree at the far end of the orchard. That’s unusual, he thought. Grandpa never just sits. He’s always busy doing something. Maybe he’s sick.
Ramon walked quickly to where his grandfather sat. Grandpa Alban was gazing off into the hills, his eyes wet with tears. When Ramon made his presence known, Grandpa tried to mend his composure.
“Are you all right, Grandpa?”
“Actually, no,” he said, his open candor taking Ramon aback. “I’ve just been pretending far too long that I am all right.”
Ramon sat down beside his grandfather. After a heavy silence, Grandpa went on. “I’m a proud man, Ramon. I always have been, I guess—too proud to ever own up to my mistakes. On top of that, I’ve always figured it would be too hard and painful to change. But something you said yesterday got me thinking. …”
What can I say? Ramon wondered. I don’t really know what he’s talking about. The boy offered a silent prayer for Heavenly Father’s help. Suddenly repentance and the Lord’s great plan of redemption that the missionaries had taught came to Ramon’s mind, and words came to his lips. He was so moved that he began to cry. This, in turn, deeply touched the old man, and he clung to every word that his grandson spoke.
It was two days later, just after Ramon had loaded two baskets of fruit into a customer’s car, that Ramon’s sapling faith began to flower. As he turned back toward the fruit stand, he saw a look on his grandfather’s face that he had never seen before. It was a look of sweet resolve, of courage. “What is it, Grandpa?”
“Would you mind if I went to church with you next Sunday, Ramon? I’d like to ask the missionaries to come talk to me.”
Later that afternoon, as Ramon picked fruit, he paused and gazed at the ring he held in his hand. He wondered if it would still fit around his faith—and his joy. He doubted it.

It was a hot summer day and the neighborhood boys were preparing to engage in their favorite pastime, shooting their BB guns. On the fences surrounding the fields around our neighborhood, many a tin can had met its demise as a sharp-shooting rooster-tailed boy drew aim and gently squeezed the trigger of his Daisy Red-Ryder lever-action BB gun. This day would be like many others as the boys embarked on their excursion.
Being the only five-year-old boy in the neighborhood left me with no one to play with most of the time. I needed to belong, so I would often tag along with my older brother and his friends despite their insistent pleas for me to return home. Again, this day would be no exception. Time after time I hunted them down, only to have them try to ditch me again.
As their obvious attempts to relieve themselves of my presence failed, they turned to more cunning tactics. My brother approached me. I should have known by the gleam in his eye that deception was in the wings. “Dane,” he said manipulatively, “if you will go home and make us all a peanut butter and honey sandwich, we will let you shoot our guns.” My heart leaped at the prospect of firing one of those choice weapons. I raced home. My legs had never known such speed.
At home, I noticed that my mom had company and that she wouldn’t be able to make the sandwiches for me. Too bad, I thought to myself. Another obstacle had been placed in my pathway. But I would overcome. I would not be denied the opportunity to master the Red-Ryder.
While sloppily spreading peanut butter on the tearing bread, I began to be prodded by my conscience. My mother’s words of warning echoed through my mind. “Dane, you’re too small to get the bucket of honey from the top shelf by yourself.”
As I finished with the peanut butter and dropped the sticky knife on the carpeted floor, I ignored my conscience and headed for the shelf. Opening the door and looking up, I saw the two-gallon bucket of honey looming overhead just within reach of my fingers. Reaching up and inching the bucket toward the front of the shelf, I was not at all prepared for what happened next. As the honey arrived at the edge of the shelf, the bottom of the bucket caught on the ridge at the front of the shelf, became upended, and came hurtling down, upside down, onto my head.
My first thought was, What should I do about the mess? The situation, however, quickly got serious as the sticky substance covered my eyes, leaving me unable to see. The vacuum effect the bucket had on my head made it impossible to remove. I strained and struggled, but to no avail. The honey descended, covering my mouth and nose, making breathing very difficult. Panic stricken, I staggered into the living room. Blowing honey bubbles out my nose and mouth in an effort to breathe and trying to peer through the haze that covered my eyes, I saw my mother and her friend laughing hysterically.
My mother finally gathered herself enough to show the necessary compassion. As she shoved my sticky, honey-covered head under the bathtub faucet, she said something I have never forgotten. “If you are going to do things you know you shouldn’t,” she said, “you must face the consequences that accompany your actions.”
While humorous, this experience has had a very profound effect on me, helping me realize the importance of obedience. Fortunately for us, valuable lessons can sometimes be learned through harmless incidents. Learning obedience through a childhood mishap has benefited me greatly.

I will always be grateful for the wonderful example Margaret's father, John Steele, provided in this regard. We had been away at graduate school only a few short months when Margaret dropped me off at school one morning but then on the way home had an accident. Knowing how little money we had in our budget, she was in tears and went to the nearest phone and called her father. I can still remember his response: What are you calling me for? Steve's your husband. Don't call me, call him! Thus while he loved his daughter dearly, he was wise enough to know that Margaret and I needed to trust and rely on each other, whatever the situation. We needed to cleave unto [each other] and to none else.

“Triple, tap, step. Triple, tap, step.” Tanya could hear Mrs. Nimitz’s dance students in the adjoining room clicking their tap shoes in time to her instructions.
For as long as Tanya could remember, she had wanted to take tap dancing lessons, but her parents had never been able to afford them. Now she had a chance to earn them for herself.
Today while Mrs. Nimitz was teaching her advanced class, Tanya was baby-sitting for her. If everything went well, she would have the job of tending two-year-old Cathy from three until five on Monday and Wednesday afternoons.
Mr. Nimitz came home early on Fridays, so he watched his little daughter during his wife’s class for beginners. And Tanya intended to ask Mrs. Nimitz if instead of paying her, she would allow her to be a member of that Friday afternoon class.
Nine-year-old Tanya had never baby-sat before, but she was sure that she could do the job.
Cathy was napping, so Tanya relaxed and decided to fix herself a snack. Mrs. Nimitz had said that it would be OK.
Tanya carefully lifted the lid of the cookie jar and smelled the sweet aroma of butter and cinnamon. As she reached in for a cookie, she thought how good it would taste with a cup of hot chocolate.
I bet I could make some, she decided. I’m sure Mrs. Nimitz wouldn’t mind, as long as I clean up after myself.
She measured a cup of milk into a saucepan and placed it on the stove. She had just turned the burner on, when slam!
That sounds like the bathroom medicine cabinet! Tanya thought as she dashed down the hallway. “Cathy?” she called. “Is that you?”
She found Cathy standing on the clothes hamper by the sink, peering intently into the medicine cabinet mirror.
When Cathy saw Tanya’s reflection in the mirror, she said, “I like lipstick!” Turning to face Tanya, she added, “See! I pretty!”
Tanya couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t heard a sound until the cabinet door slammed, but there stood Cathy, her face painted bright red from cheek to cheek. Her hands were streaked with lipstick, and the bathroom sink was ringed with red fingerprints.
If Mrs. Nimitz sees this, Tanya thought, I’ll never get my lessons. Oh, how can things go so wrong so quickly!
“Cathy! Look at you! You’re a mess!” Tanya scolded.
“Mess?” Cathy giggled as she held two chubby hands out to have Tanya help her down off the hamper.
Tanya smiled in spite of herself. “Come on, let’s clean you up before your mother sees you.”
She had the lipstick off Cathy’s face and was starting to scrub her hands when she heard a splashing, sizzling sound. “The milk!” Tanya cried, dropping the washcloth and racing into the kitchen.
The pungent odor of scorched milk stung her nostrils. She grabbed a pot holder and was taking the smoking pan from the burner when the kitchen door opened and Mrs. Nimitz peeked in.
“I thought I smelled something burning,” she said.
Tanya wished that she could sink out of sight. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Nimitz. I was heating some milk for hot chocolate when Cathy woke up. I went to get her and forgot about the milk. I’ll clean it up.”
“Mama!” Cathy cried out as she toddled into the kitchen. “See! I mess!” Then she held her lipstick-red hands out to her mother. Mrs. Nimitz walked past Cathy and into the bathroom.
Tanya choked back the tears. “I’m sorry, I …” But Mrs. Nimitz didn’t seem to hear Tanya.
“Never mind. I’ll have to clean it up later,” she said, greatly irritated.
As quickly as she had appeared, Mrs. Nimitz disappeared, shutting the door hard behind her.
Tears of disappointment spilled down Tanya’s cheeks. She slumped into the nearest kitchen chair and began to sob as if her heart would break.
“Don’t cry.” Tanya felt a tiny hand patting her arm.
She pulled the little girl to her and gave her an affectionate hug.
“It’s OK,” she said through her tears. “I guess I just expected everything to go perfectly.” Then, trying to be cheerful, she added, “Come on, Cathy, let’s see what we can do to straighten things up around here. I may not get any dance lessons, but at least I won’t feel like running and hiding every time I see your mother coming.”
Tanya gently scrubbed the lipstick from Cathy’s hands and arms. Then she put a heavy plastic bib on the little girl and let her help scour the bathroom sink.
In the kitchen, Tanya assigned Cathy to rinse out the cleanup cloths. Cathy was so enthusiastic that Tanya had to mop up the spills. But as the mop was returned to the closet, Cathy clapped her hands and proclaimed, “All clean!” Everything was too. Not a hint of lipstick or scorched milk could be seen.
An hour later the kitchen door opened. Tanya braced herself.
Mrs. Nimitz glanced at the kitchen range. “I’ll get my purse and pay you for today,” she said as she started down the hall.
Mrs. Nimitz paused just a moment outside the bathroom doorway before going on to her bedroom. As she came back down the hall, Tanya watched intently. But Mrs. Nimitz’s expression told her nothing.
“Tanya,” Mrs. Nimitz began in a serious tone. “I can’t believe what a responsible little girl you are. If I hadn’t peeked in earlier, I wouldn’t have ever guessed that you had had any trouble today. You did a fine job of cleaning up. And Cathy hasn’t even been at the door once crying for me.” She smiled at Tanya. “Yes, I think that you’re just the girl for this job. Would you like me to pay you each time you come or by the week?”
“Pay me? No. I mean … I’d like to … Oh, Mrs. Nimitz, could I take dance lessons instead of being paid?”
“Dance lessons? Why, yes. A lesson for one day’s work would be a good trade. But I’ll pay you for the other day. All right?”
“That’s great!” Tanya exclaimed, hardly able to keep herself from jumping up and down.
As she skipped home, she thought, I guess dreams really can come true. You just have to work at them a little.

Jill Read’s daughter would be a Laurel right now. She’d be learning to drive a car, going on her first date, and thinking ahead to high school graduation. But sadly, Sister Read’s baby girl lived only a short while before dying of sudden infant death syndrome more than 16 years ago.
When Sister Read was given the chance to hold her baby one last time, the baby’s tiny body was wrapped in two large, crisp hospital sheets. “I couldn’t feel her; I couldn’t see her,” says Sister Read.
Easing the pain of losing a child is difficult, if not impossible. But after hearing Sister Read tell her story during a youth conference meeting, and hearing another talk given by Kevin Capener, a young father who lost an infant son, the youth in the North Ogden Utah Ben Lomond Stake were eager to do anything they could to help. So, as a youth conference activity, they decided to “blanket” a local hospital with service.
The nearly 400 young people attending the conference spent an afternoon making more than 500 infant quilts to be given to parents whose newborn babies have died. After the parents have held their baby in the blanket for the last time, the blanket can be kept as a reminder to the parents.
“I hope that this blanket will be used, held, and cherished,” says Mark Miller, a priest. “I want [the parents] to know that there is someone out there who cares about them.”
In just a few short hours, the youth had a stack of quilts ready and waiting to be presented to a representative from Ogden’s McKay Dee Hospital.
It may seem a little thing, making tiny quilts for parents to use after the loss of a child. But sometimes the things people do aren’t measured by the size of their service, but rather, by the size of their hearts.

A good example of using this principle in my own life occurred in September 2008. My oldest son, Geoffrey; his wife, Kerstin; and their son, Cameron, invited me to hike to the top of Mount Timpanogos. Since coming to BYU 22 years ago, I have always wanted to do that—every time I looked up at that most beautiful mountain north of our campus. I agreed to go, but then discovered the hike was almost 12 miles round trip. And of course the first six miles were all uphill! And this was in the heat of the summer.
I was close to 60 years old at the time and not in very good physical shape. But I figured if I took it easy and drank a lot of water, I could make it. And Geoff and Kerstin were experienced backpackers, so I felt safe with them. Plus my other son Dillon agreed to take my 40-pound backpack most of the way up the trail for me.
We hiked for a whole day, and by the time we arrived about one mile from the summit and pitched camp, I found myself exhausted. I had been stopping for a breath about every 75 yards for the last hour. I saw the top of that beautiful mountain and thanked God that I was there! But I also realized that I did not have the physical stamina to go to the very top the next day, plus hike down six miles with a full backpack, most likely in the middle of a rainstorm that was forecast for the next day.
At that moment I changed my expectations! I wisely decided, “I have climbed my mountain! I have seen the top! I have survived a hike I was not sure I would survive!” I was joyous, but I had to fight off the normal protests from my son that I was only one mile from the summit and I might someday regret not going to the very top. I told him, “That’s okay. You guys summit tomorrow. I have climbed my mountain!”
Now some of you may be thinking that I wimped out by changing my expectations in the middle of the hike. That’s understandable. However, had I gone on, I might not have been here today making this speech. Little did I know at that time that the breathing problem I was suffering was due to two clogged arteries in my heart that were 95 percent closed—a problem that was not diagnosed and treated until just two months ago. Had I continued to the top of Timp that day, I might still be there—buried with a great view!
A funny thing happened later: my cardiologist, who did not know this story, told me after surgery in May: “You can pretty much exercise the way you were before, but don’t go climbing Timp this weekend!”

As I reflected on this visit, I remembered that it was just five years ago when my wife and I were here in Hawaii in a very different capacity. I was presenting academic research on innovation and change at an conference in Honolulu. Remarkably, we were with President and Sister Wheelwright at the same event. Both of our families then lived in Boston, and we had very different professional and personal responsibilities than either of us do today. I am sure neither of our families could have imagined the changes that would soon take place in each of our lives.

Since that time, Christine and I have completely changed our plans and circumstances to follow a different path, a better path, that the Lord would take us on. Our first move was from Boston to Rexburg, Idaho. At the time we had four children, an expanding career and a comfortable life in New England. When we were invited to join the administration at BYU-Idaho, we had to uproot our family, reinvest in a new community, and learn a whole new set of administrative and professional skills. We grew to love the community and the mission of the university. But less than three years after our transition to BYU-Idaho, we were again invited to redirect our plans. In the fall of 2009, I was asked to lead several initiatives for the Church-owned media companies in Salt Lake City, Utah. The changes from Boston to Rexburg, and from Rexburg to Salt Lake City were dramatic for our family. Both transitions were disruptive to comfortable patterns and removed us from places where we felt a deep sense of identity. But in both cases, we knew the changes were the will of the Lord. We also knew that changes happening in these institutions were so dynamic that they would offer unprecedented opportunities to learn and grow.

As with many new challenges, I was able to embrace some aspects of each change, while others were more difficult. This was true for me personally as well as for the institutions that were undergoing a dramatic reinvention of their culture and mission. During my university transition, I learned a lesson that has impacted me forever. I was going through a period where I had to significantly rethink the skills and models that were most familiar to me. In a large setting, much like this, university President Kim B. Clark taught me a lesson I will never forget. At the conclusion of a discussion about changes happening at the university, he made the following statement: If you want to know the Savior, go to the frontier because that is where you will see him in action. It is at the frontier where he does His work. Suddenly, all of the personal changes and sacrifices seemed less of a burden because I realized the opportunity I had been given. The Savior was inviting me to be part of His work, but I would have to go places I had never been. I would have to go to the frontier.

Five years ago, my husband and I decided to start a YouTube channel, where we began to genuinely share the way we live as members of the Church of Jesus Christ. Our idea was to talk about our beliefs through our lifestyle.
We have had the great blessing of receiving inspiring messages from several of our followers telling us about going to church for the first time or even getting baptized! These messages have filled us with so much joy.
We are very grateful for the enriching experiences that social networks have offered us in spreading the message of the restored gospel just by sharing our lives. But while social media can generate incredible experiences, help us develop meaningful relationships, and allow us to share our testimony of the gospel, it can also give us experiences that weaken us spiritually, lead us to judge others in unrighteous ways, and lose sight of who we truly are.

However, I think most of us would perhaps more identify with a "rank and file" member of the Church named Joseph Millett.

After serving a difficult but fulfilling mission to Canada, Brother Millett returned to his home with a strong testimony of the Lord and a peace borne of conversion in his soul. Years later, Brother Millett, now the father of a large family was suffering through very, very difficult times. In his journal he wrote:

"One of my children came in and said the Brother Newton Hall's folks was all out of bread, had none that day."I divided our flour in a sack to send up to Brother Hall. Just then Brother Hall came."Says I, 'Brother Hall, are you out of flour?' "'Brother Millett, we have none.'""'Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you was out.'""Brother Hall began to cry. He said he had tried others, but could not get any. He went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord, and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett.'"'Well Brother Hall, you needn't bring this back. If the Lord sent you for it you don't owe me for it.'"

That night Joseph Millett recorded a remarkable sentence in his journal:

"You can't tell me how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew there was such a person as Joseph Millett."[38]

This is the peace of the Savior that can and must needs be in each of us continually. Not because we are entitled to it as bespeaks our conversion from the pre-mortal life, but from what we have become in the mortality we all experience now.

A member wrote to me from England. When her bishop asked if she would accept a call to teach early-morning seminary, he told her she’d better pray about it before she accepted. She did. She accepted. When she met the parents for the first time the bishop stood beside her. She announced that she felt the program should go to five days a week. Some parents looked doubtful. One person said, “They won’t come. They’ll vote with their feet.”
Well, the doubt was half right. The students did vote with their feet. But their attendance in those cold and dark morning hours is now above 90 percent. That teacher and her bishop believed that if the students would start to come they would be strengthened by power more than their own. It came. That power will protect them when they go to places where they will be the only Latter-day Saints. They will not be alone nor without strength, because they accepted the invitation to gather with the Saints when it was not easy.
There is another simple thing to do. The Lord’s Church has been restored, and so any call to serve in it is a call to serve Him. That bishop in England was so wise. He asked the woman to pray about her call to serve. He knew what answer she would receive. It would be an invitation from the Father and His Beloved Son. He knew what she has learned by responding to the call from the Master. In His service the Holy Ghost comes as a companion to those who try to do the best they can. She must have felt that as she stood before the parents and when she saw the students vote with their feet. What looked hard, almost impossible under her own power, became a joy in the strength of the Lord.
When she reads and ponders over the scriptures and prays to prepare for those classes, she knows that the Savior has asked the Father to send her the Holy Ghost, just as He promised His disciples He would at the Last Supper, when He knew what trials they would face and that He must leave them. He did not leave them comfortless. He promised them the Holy Ghost, and He promises it to us in His service. So, whenever the invitation to serve comes, take it. It brings with it help to pass tests far beyond those of that call.

Imagine waking up to the smell of smoke, the sound of screams and gunshots, the sights of looting and beating. Imagine racially inspired violence so dangerous that schools close and curfews are imposed for days.
This tragic scenario might seem like something you’d see in a movie—the kind your parents and leaders would probably recommend you avoid—but during late April and early May this year LDS youth in the Los Angeles area actually lived it. They saw the rioting. They knew people who looted. They watched familiar buildings burn to the ground.
Yet even while the ashes were still smoldering, the Young Women of the Los Angeles area were busy putting the finishing touches on a long-planned multistake conference that would unite nearly 500 LDS young women of various ethnic backgrounds and affirm that the gospel offers peace to everyone.
The six-hour conference featured an address from Young Women General President Janette Hales. Her message focused on how the fundamentals of personal religious behavior, things like reading the scriptures, praying, and keeping the commandments, can get you through life’s trials and keep you close to Heavenly Father, no matter what is going on in the world around you.
The conference also included 15 workshops covering subjects like dating, preparing for a mission, self-defense, sign language, and baby-sitting. It was just what the doctor ordered for the girls after the tragedy of the weeks before. But the memories for some of the young women were still vivid.
“We went to the store before they burned it to get some food,” said Virginia Smith of the Inglewood Stake. “It was crowded. All of a sudden people were screaming and running to the back. Someone said there were people there with guns. So my mom said to get on the floor, ’cuz if they shoot, they’re not going to shoot down there. Then someone said they went out. The next chance we got, we headed for the door, got in our car, and left.”

It was 11:00 at night, and I was in my bedroom after being out with a few high school friends. I knew I hadn’t made the best decisions that night. “But,” I reasoned, “I hadn’t made the worst ones either.”

Frustrated, I picked up a homework assignment. I was so tired that I just wanted to get it over with and go to bed. “I still need to read my scriptures. But I’ll just skip them tonight,” I thought.

I began thinking of everything I was expected to do. Read my scriptures, attend early-morning seminary, attend church and Mutual, get good grades, be involved in extracurricular activities, have a part-time job … The list went on.

I felt so much pressure in every area of my life, especially as the only female Latter-day Saint in my high school. I reminded myself again and again that I might be the only female Latter-day Saint my peers ever met, so I had to be a good example. Yet I knew I was starting to slip.

“I wish I could be carefree like my friends,” I thought. I also wished I didn’t feel so awful when I went to a party or said a bad word, but the truth was I did. It made me feel physically sick when I made choices I knew weren’t the right ones. For some reason, though, I continued to make them.

It was almost midnight when I finished my homework assignment. In five hours my alarm clock would be beeping. I would wake up, drag myself to seminary, and try to get through another day of high school.

Then it dawned on me. I didn’t have to obey all the rules. I could stop attending church, seminary, and Mutual if I wanted to. Just because my family went, it didn’t mean I had to.

It was such a liberating thought. I crawled into bed and was almost asleep when I had a strong impression to read the scriptures. “No,” I thought. “I’m done.”

Again I felt it. This time I thought, “Maybe just one last time.”

In seminary that year, we had been studying the New Testament. I turned to where my marker was in James chapter 1. This was the chapter Joseph Smith had read that inspired him to go to the Sacred Grove and pour out his heart to Heavenly Father. “How ironic,” I thought. I started reading.

Verse 5 was familiar to me: “If any of you lack wisdom …” But it was verse 8 that opened my eyes that night. It said, “A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.” I froze. Then I reread it.

I was being double-minded. I claimed to be a Latter-day Saint, but my actions were beginning to say otherwise. And if I continued, no matter what path I chose, I would be unstable and unsure and thus very unhappy.

I needed to know if the gospel was true. I needed to know if getting up every morning at 5:00 a.m. to study the gospel was worth it. I needed to know that I was trying to live my life to the best of my ability, despite at times being ridiculed, because it truly would bring me the most happiness and joy.

It was almost 1:00 in the morning then, but I knelt beside my bed and poured out my heart to my Father in Heaven. I asked Him to help me know what was right, to know which path to take, to lead me by the hand and take away the confusion I was feeling.

Simply, clearly, and peacefully, the thought came to my mind, “You already know.” And I did.

I got off my knees, shut off my light, and went to sleep. Four hours later my alarm went off. Sleepily, I shut it off. A minute later I was up getting ready for another day, early-morning seminary included.

It has been years since that wonderful midnight experience. My testimony still continues to grow. Sometimes it is stronger than at other times. The difference is I know and I have never once looked back.

Upon completing my bachelor’s degree in math education, I was hired to teach part-time in the math department at BYU-Idaho. I felt so blessed, and it truly met the needs of my family. Before long, I received a prompting to get my master’s degree. I began investigating master’s programs in math. It made sense. The twist came when I had a strong feeling to go into a technology field! Wait! I loved math. I loved numbers. I loved teaching. Where in the world would a master’s in technology land me? I looked into a program and knew I would hate it. I knew very little about technology, and programming terrified me. I wanted a master’s in math. Even though the math degree would require a three-hour commute, and the technology degree was conveniently online, I still wanted to study math. After a lengthy wrestle with my desire versus the prompting, I humbled myself and decided to trust in the Lord.

Trusting the promptings that I had received about pursuing a technology degree and relying on God’s power meant that I had to put aside doubts and fears about my abilities to learn it. I needed to trust the direction I was receiving and trust in God’s power to help me succeed.

I chose to enroll in the technology program, and access to the Savior’s power was exactly what I needed. Because of my busy life and many responsibilities, I usually did my schoolwork late at night. Some nights I was frustrated, overwhelmed, and discouraged. I thought that I would never use what I was learning. Why was I killing myself to learn this stuff? My tired brain couldn’t handle any more! I persevered, and with God’s help, I made it through—one class at a time.

This scripture in Helaman certainly held true for me: “We can see that the Lord in his great infinite goodness doth bless and prosper those who put their trust in him.”

I had no idea when I was prompted to go back to school, and then again prompted to get a master’s degree, that a few years later I would become a single parent. However, the Lord knew, and in His infinite goodness He provided the safety net that my family needed. The timing of my promptings and what I was guided to do didn’t make sense at the time. But as I put my trust in the Lord, accessed His power, and followed the plan He had for me, He greatly blessed my life. He positioned me right where I needed to be, when I needed to be there, so that I was able to obtain a great job to support my family.

When heavy rains in southern Germany caused flooding so severe that many homes were underwater up to their rooftops, the Latter-day Saint youth in the area knew exactly what to do: they rolled up their sleeves and got to work. There certainly was plenty of work to go around.
Some youth helped directly with the aftermath of the flood. They swept away mud and helped clean out homes and gardens. Others worked to sort and distribute toys that had been donated for children affected by the flood.
The youth worked side-by-side with members of other faiths throughout the cleanup. “I felt the Spirit’s presence as we were serving,” says Nathaniel S., a young man who participated. “I know the reason the Spirit was there was because we were all unified as children of God helping each other.”

As Sister Shumway and I completed our service in Bolivia, Sister Shumway thought it would be a nice gesture to take Florentina, a mission home employee, along with her five-year-old daughter and another young friend, Aurora, to McDonalds. The young girls had a good time: happy meals, ice cream, and play land. Upon departing, Aurora took the hand of Sister Shumway, looked into her eyes, and said, "Oh Sister Shumway, thank you so much for taking us to McDonalds. I never thought I would have the chance to eat here." Kind of puts the abundance so many of us have in perspective, doesn't it?

One evening in June 1978, Billy Johnson returned to his home in Cape Coast, Ghana. He and other members of his congregation had been fasting, as they often did, but the fast had done nothing to lift his spirits. He was tired and discouraged because more believers had stopped worshipping with him and returned to their old churches.
Billy longed to feel spiritually and emotionally strong again. A couple of months earlier, a member of his congregation had told him about a revelation she had had. “Very soon the missionaries will come,” she had said. “I have seen white men coming to our church. They embraced us and joined us in worship.” Another woman announced that she had received a similar revelation. Billy himself had dreamed of some white men entering his chapel and saying, “We are your brothers, and we have come to baptize you.” Afterward, he had dreamed of Black people coming from far and wide to join the Church.
Still, Billy could not shake his discouragement.
It was getting late, but he couldn’t sleep. A strong impression overtook him to listen to the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) on the radio—something he hadn’t done in years.
He found the radio, a brown model with four silver knobs near the base. The radio crackled to life as he turned it on. He fiddled with the knobs, and the red pointer glided back and forth across the dial. But he couldn’t find the broadcast.
Then, after an hour of searching, Billy finally made out a newscast from the BBC. The reporter announced that the President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had received a revelation. All worthy men in the Church, regardless of race, could now hold the priesthood.
Billy collapsed, bursting into tears of joy. Priesthood authority would finally come to Ghana, bringing all the blessings of the gospel to his people.
Missionaries arrived in Cape Coast later that year, baptizing Billy Johnson and hundreds of other believers. Since that time, the Church has spread rapidly throughout Ghana and neighboring countries in West Africa. The Cape Coast Ghana Temple was announced in October 2023; it will be the third temple in the country.

Resting on the stone steps of the ancient ruins of Dzibilchaltún in Mexico, Sandra Hernández and Meily Tolosa quietly consider the scattered ruins of a city nearly 1,500 years old. The silence around them is almost as heavy as the humid tropical air. But the peaceful moment doesn’t last long.
The silence shatters as Samuel Hernández comes hooting and hollering out of the thick jungle, which grows right up to the edge of the small pyramid. His friends Jorge Tolosa and Wilbert Agosta follow right behind him.
“Oh, I thought I was going to die,” he laughs as he throws himself down onto the steps and tries to catch his breath. Picking their way through the jungle, Samuel and his friends had been making their way toward a partially overgrown structure when they startled a flock of hidden birds. The birds weren’t the only ones startled. “Oh, my heart,” Samuel says, laughing.
Samuel, Meily, and other youth from the Canek Ward, Mérida México Centro Stake, are spending the day exploring some of Mexico’s ancient ruins. Dzibilchaltún is just one of the thousands of crumbling settlements left throughout the Americas by ancient inhabitants.
The land from central Mexico to Honduras (also called Mesoamerica) has been home to many thriving civilizations. On this trip to Dzibilchaltún, the youth are grateful that ruins of some of their ancestors’ cities have been preserved so they can explore where their ancestors lived. “It’s interesting to learn what my ancestors did and what happened to them,” says Jorge, a deacon.
In the same way, these youth are thankful that the record of the family of Lehi has been preserved so they can learn from its teachings and experiences. “I’m grateful the Lord preserved the Book of Mormon for us to learn from,” Jorge says.
Many Nephite prophets, such as Nephi, Enos, and Mormon, prayed that the Lord would preserve their testimonies of Jesus Christ to help their descendants (see 2 Ne. 25:21; Enos 1:16–18; W of M 1:8).
As He promised, the Lord preserved their records and brought them to light again through the Prophet Joseph Smith. Now the Book of Mormon is bringing the descendants of Book of Mormon peoples—and other people from all around the world—to Jesus Christ.
“I’m so grateful for the Book of Mormon,” says Carmen Hernández, a Mia Maid who hopes to thank the Book of Mormon prophets someday. “When I meet them,” she says, “I will say, ‘Thank you for helping so many people find answers and come to Christ.’” (See 2 Ne. 33:11; Jacob 6:13; Ether 12:38.)

“I was happy when my parents, my brother, and I were sealed in the temple,” says Juanita León, 12. She explains that her father used to own a restaurant and would drink a lot. “Then one day, a boy came by and talked to my father about the Church. We received all the discussions and were baptized two weeks later. A month after our baptism, my father was called as the president of the San Benito Branch. A year later, we were sealed in the temple. My father doesn’t drink anymore!”

Kevin and Brandon had also made a firm commitment to keep the Sabbath day holy. For them, that meant no practices or games on Sunday. “No exceptions,” Kevin says. This particular decision was tested regularly. But they never faltered.

“Like most sports, lacrosse has a lot of tournaments on Sunday,” Kevin explains. “I’ve missed countless tournaments.”

Brandon and Kevin helped each other keep that resolve. “Once we made the decision, it was simple,” Kevin explains. Over the years, coaches and teammates have grown to respect the brothers’ commitment. Sometimes their team had to play without one or two of its star players, but Brandon and Kevin know where their priorities lie. “We really do believe in the commandments,” says Kevin.

I will always remember the sight of the temple the day I arrived to receive my endowment. I was filled with deep respect and reverence. I was humbled by the thought that I would go inside and make sacred covenants with my Father in Heaven.
I had arrived dressed in my Sunday best, knowing that my outward appearance reflected my inward respect for the house of the Lord.
“Welcome to the temple,” I was greeted as I showed my recommend and walked inside. Everything about the temple was beautiful. It felt like a piece of heaven on earth, and the friendly temple workers seemed like angels.
I remained in awe at the Spirit I felt. While I didn’t immediately understand everything that was taking place, I did realize the importance of the covenants I was making. It was clear to me why my bishop had spoken of the temple the way he had. The endowment I was receiving would extend not only far beyond the two years of my mission but even into the eternities. More meaningful to me than any of the advice I had received from various people was a scripture I had read as part of my preparation, “And that all people who shall enter upon the threshold of the Lord’s house may feel thy power, and feel constrained to acknowledge that thou hast sanctified it, and that it is thy house, a place of thy holiness” (D&C 109:13). I knew that the temple was the Lord’s house, sanctified and holy. I went expecting to feel God’s love, and I did.