Gospel Story Finder

Following his mission to Uruguay and graduation from the University of Arizona, he began teaching high school music. When he saw that the football coach needed help, he offered to help teach the players some football fundamentals if the coach would send all the boys to chorus. The deal worked, and the football team and chorus enjoyed much success. “I loved working with those kids,” Elder Crockett says.

When I was 12 years old, I had an excellent Young Women leader named Sister Smith. She noticed that my friends and I loved to talk about all the popular music groups. We all declared that one boy band was definitely the most awesome music group since our favorite girl band had broken up. When the boy band came along, they stole all our hearts, and they became all we could talk about.
Sister Smith became concerned about us and our obvious obsession with these popular bands and their music. One Sunday, she expressed her concern. I remember speaking for my friends and myself when I said, “There’s nothing wrong with pop music, even if some of the words aren’t very good. It doesn’t really affect us.”
Giving me a skeptical look, Sister Smith said, “If you’re so sure music doesn’t affect you, let’s try an experiment.” She gave us all two crossword puzzles. Then she told us to do the first puzzle while listening to classical music. For the second puzzle, we were told to listen to our favorite pop music while completing it. We all wondered what she was getting at, but we agreed to do what she said.
The next Sunday, Sister Smith began by giving us the hints from the first crossword puzzle and asking us to give her the answers. We all remembered every answer. However, when she gave us the hints from the crossword puzzle we had completed while listening to pop music, we couldn’t remember many of the answers. That day I learned that good music could help inspire me to remember things, while music with words and fast beats distracted me and got stuck in my head, causing me to forget the things I had learned.
I learned that the music I listen to really does affect me.

Eleven years passed. I had just graduated from the medical university in Yerevan, the capital of Armenia, where I was a medical resident in ophthalmology. While doing some volunteer work, I met two Latter-day Saint missionaries and we became good friends. They were welcomed in our home just as anyone else, but as soon as they started to talk about God, the whole atmosphere became tense. My parents told me that missionaries “teaching their religion” were not welcome in our home. Personally, I was not interested in religion, but I had not stopped them because there was something different in the eyes of those missionaries—something so innocent, pure, and magnificent. I was very interested in finding the source of the light I noticed in their eyes.
After my parents expressed their disapproval, I avoided meeting with the missionaries and finally arranged to meet them at their church building but just to say I was too busy to proceed with our discussions. Arriving at our appointment one hour early, I entered a room with lots of chairs and about 15 people in it. As I sat quietly, trying not to disturb anyone, I was astonished by the unusual but unbelievably familiar feelings. I felt just like I had when I was five years old and could run home, hug my mom, and tell her all that I had done—certain that she loved me, that she would always be there for me, and that everything was all right. After the long years of wandering in spirit, I knew I was home.
That night for the first time in my life, I knelt and prayed to God. If there was a Heavenly Father, I wanted Him to answer me, to tell me if the things the missionaries taught were true, to show me why I felt so different. It is hard to describe what happened next. I had never before felt the presence of my Heavenly Father so tangibly. I knew He loved me. He knew me. He had always been there. I slept that night knowing with all the strength of my heart that I had found my way home.

It is this last point I would like to enlarge upon. I had the honor recently of being assigned to visit the Samoa Apia Mission and attend some stake conferences in that country. I found the missionaries all well and the work progressing. One afternoon following our meeting, the mission president, Patrick Peters—who is a native Samoan—said, “Elder Dunn, there is something I’d like to show you.” We drove a few miles from the mission home and climbed the brow of a small hill to a place that was isolated by palm trees and other tropical vegetation. I suddenly realized that we were in a very old graveyard. At the center of this graveyard was a plot that was surrounded by a cement wall low enough to step over. President and Sister Peters told me this was where some of the first missionaries in Samoa were buried. There were eight graves.
The thing that struck my interest was that out of the eight graves, four represented children under the age of two and one was a twenty-one-year-old wife and mother. What role could these have possibly played in missionary work in Samoa?
During the next two days, when time would permit, I searched the history of the mission for an answer. While I was unable to gather information on all of the eight, I did discover the following.
In the early days of the Church it was common for young married couples to be called on missions and some of these young couples were called to Samoa. The first person to be buried in that plot was Sister Katie Eliza Hale Merrill. She and her husband had only been on a mission for three months when she took sick and gave birth to a premature child. The child died the next day. The history says the following: “An hour after the death of the child, the mother called Sister Lee (wife of the mission president) to her bedside and, after thanking her for waiting on her during the sickness, said that she was ‘going to die’ that she ‘could not stay because they had come for her.’ She then talked with her husband, kissed him goodbye, and all was over. The mother and baby boy were buried in one coffin.” After his mission, Brother Merrill took the remains of his wife and infant son back to Utah for burial.
Elder Thomas H. Hilton and Sister Sarah M. Hilton were serving on a mission in Samoa, where they lost three of their children, between 1891 and 1894. Little Jeanette lived less than a year, George Emmett for only seven days, and Thomas Harold for a year and a half.
Of the death of Thomas Harold the record says: “On Sunday the 11th, he was not feeling very well. … For two days following he appeared to be improving, but on the morning of the 14th, his mother again became concerned about his welfare. From then until his death, on March 17, 1894, everything that loving hands could do was done for his recovery, but he grew rapidly worse. …
“Oh how loath we all were to believe that it was so! How sad to see our dear sister again bereft, and her so far from dear parents and friends who she has left for the gospel’s sake.
“Thomas Harold Hilton was about one and a half years old, a beautiful little boy and very dearly beloved by all the missionaries, as well as the natives who knew him. Much sympathy is felt for the bereaved parents and the blessings of the Lord are invoked upon them.”
At twenty-nine, Ransom Stevens was president of the Samoa Mission when stricken with typhoid fever, which was complicated by a heart problem. He died on April 23, 1894.
His widow, Sister Annie D. Stevens, started for home by steamer on May 23. She reached Ogden on Sunday, June 10, where she was met by President Joseph F. Smith and Elder Franklin D. Richards. On June 11, she had an interview with the First Presidency in Salt Lake City and then went on to her home in Fairview, Sanpete County, arriving at 6:00 p.m.
The history states, “The greetings by her friends were necessarily brief for Sister Stevens was ill and had to retire to bed early, and at 11 p.m., five hours after her arrival home, she gave birth to a nice boy.” She had gone through the whole ordeal in the advance stages of pregnancy.
Another entry was Friday, March 2, 1900, “Little Loi Roberts was given up to die by Dr. Stuttaford at the sanatorium [in Apia]. The patient little sufferer was administered to daily, and each time he would get relief. … His parents [Elder and Sister E. T. Roberts] were untiring in their efforts to allay pain and sufferings.”
Saturday, March 3, “Little Loi died at the sanatorium in Apia in the morning, making another sad day in the history of the mission.” Small wonder that the tombstone contained the words, “Rest sweet Loi, rest.” He was one and a half years old.
And that brings us to Elder William A. Moody and his bride, Adelia Moody. They were called on a mission from Thatcher, Graham County, Arizona, arriving in Samoa in November 1894. They must have had the same hopes and aspirations of any young couple just starting out. She gave birth to an eight-pound daughter on May 3, 1895. Three weeks later she passed away. The daughter, little Hazel Moody, was taken care of by local Saints while her father continued his mission. Finally, one year later we read the following about a steamer leaving for the United States, whose passengers included four returning elders and “also Elder Moody’s daughter, Hazel, one-year-old, who will be delivered to loving relatives in Zion.”
A price has been paid for the establishment of the gospel of Jesus Christ in the land of Samoa. It is interesting to note that much of that price was paid by little children. I suspect that there are many obscure cemeteries in many of the nations of the world similar to that little plot in Samoa. They are a mute witness to the trials and suffering that went into the beginnings of missionary work in this dispensation.
Because of advancements in the standard of living and medical technology, these kinds of trials are almost a thing of the past. In Samoa, for instance, I found the missionaries well. There are even health missionaries, including a young couple and their two children who are helping to improve the health standards of the members and looking after the health of the missionaries where needed.
The sacrifice today is mostly a sacrifice of time and money. A sacrifice of 24 months for a worthy young man to help move the cause of the Lord forward. Others gave their lives to get the work started, but the Lord only requires that we sacrifice some time and our means to keep his work moving throughout the world.
The story is told that toward the end of World War II an allied general came to the front lines one night to inspect his troops. As he walked along he would point out into no-man’s-land and say, “Can you see them? Can you see them?”
Finally, someone said, “General, we can see nothing. What do you mean?” He said, “Can’t you see them? They’re your buddies; they are the ones who gave their lives today, yesterday, and the day before. They’re out there alright, watching you, wondering what you are going to do; wondering if they have died in vain.”
My dear brothers and sisters, as members of this Church we can ask ourselves the same question, “Can you see them?” They are the ones who paid, and some with their lives, that the gospel of the kingdom might be established in these, the last, days. They are the Hiltons, and the Robertses, and the Stevens, and the Moodys, and many others—people like you and me, who answered a call from God. I am sure they are allowed to look in on us from time to time to see how the work is going, to see what we are doing with their spiritual heritage, to see if they have died in vain.
I wonder, young man, how successful you would be in convincing a young father who had buried three of his babies in an obscure graveyard halfway around the world because of the gospel of Jesus Christ that a mission is too much of a sacrifice because you want to buy that car or that stereo, or you don’t want to interrupt your schooling, or for some other reason.
As members of the Church, I wonder how convincing we would be in telling someone that we are just too busy and maybe just a little embarrassed to share the gospel with our neighbor, especially if that someone were a young father who had buried his bride while on his mission and sent his little girl home to be taken care of by relatives while he finished his service to the Lord.
Is it not time that we listen to a prophet’s voice? Is it not time that we lengthen our stride? Is it not time that we teach the gospel of the kingdom to the world, to our neighbor? In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Eye Care 4 Kids CEO Joseph Carbone fits Israel M. for new glasses.
The nonprofit foundation Eye Care 4 Kids offers free eye exams and discounts on glasses and contacts to children who wouldn’t otherwise have access to it. The foundation has eight clinics in Utah, Nevada, and Arizona, does vision screenings in California, and has made several international outreach trips.
Siblings Anel M., 16, and Israel M., 12, have received eye exams, glasses, and contacts from the clinic. Donations to the Light the World Giving Machines help make that possible.
“Every single time we’ve been in, they’ve always been really friendly,” Anel says. “When we’ve been to other places, the glasses are really pricey, and right here they’re affordable. My family isn’t the type of family that has a lot of money, and these are necessities.”
Anel M. gets fitted for glasses.
“The glasses have really helped me,” Israel says. “I couldn’t really see that good, and I can finally see the mountains and the sky.”

“You’ll go up with Fritz,” the gliding club commander says. He looks me in the eye. “You nervous?”
“Nah.” A little white lie for bravado.
I am still in college at the time. Well, actually I’m working the summer before my senior year as an intern on an Alberta daily newspaper. On Friday a call comes into the editorial offices looking for someone to give the gliding club a little publicity. I volunteer.
Fritz arrives. He is dressed simply, in a golf shirt and slacks. I had expected a dirty leather jacket and goggles.
He raises a finger, checking for wind. “Get in,” he says to me. We strap ourselves into the glider’s belly. The clouds are gray and thick above us. Fritz looks at them with stern concentration. He seems to want to chase the clouds from the sky.
The gliding club doesn’t have a tow plane, just a winch with a long cable that catapults us upward. Suddenly we are being pulled with frightening velocity into the sky. In seconds we are two, then three thousand feet above the wheat fields. The cable breaks loose and there is nothing holding us up except balsa wood and fiberglass. I’m holding my breath. My fingers are white from gripping my seat.
I release my fingers and breathe deeply. The sound of the wind rushes by, the creak of the rudder as we turn. “Relax,” says Fritz. He’s looking for lift in the warming day.
I can’t see my pilot, but I know he’s there. I feel him controlling the plane. Mustering my bravest voice I ask, “How do you find the thermals?” Thermals are warm air currents that rise, allowing birds and gliders to gain altitude.
“You just know where they are,” he says from behind me. “I’ve done this a million times.”
We’re circling. I watch the horizon, perpetually tilted. Then a bump. “Ha,” says Fritz, “watch this.” The warm air lifts us, we circle faster, in a tighter loop. The ground passes by, round and round. The lift comes from nowhere. We are alone, soaring on air, climbing higher, circling faster.
From my seat I get an ever increasing view of the world. I forget my nerves. My pilot has given me a rare thrill, to be lifted on nothing more than air currents, to new heights.
The tilting earth levels, and Fritz and I prepare to land. Green, brown, asphalt gray rush below as we descend. Above, the clouds have parted. There is only blue sky where we have been.

Thelma Taylor was happy with her calling at her local family history center in Mesa, Arizona, USA. For 17 years she assisted, guided, and supported men and women in their quests to find their ancestors. A move to Coolidge, Arizona, in 2005, however, put 40 miles (64 km) between her and the family history center whose patrons she had faithfully served.

Nearly blind and unable to drive, the 83-year-old woman feared her inability to travel to Mesa would mean the end of her family history service. Then a thoughtful leader offered a solution to this problem in the form of a Church-service mission Sister Taylor could perform from home. Since 2006 she has served as a FamilySearch Support missionary for the Church, using her home computer to help people do their family history work.

“It has blessed me beyond my ability to count all the blessings,” she says of her experience. “I’ve grown so much in that area in family history and in my ability to serve.”

Though her eyesight is poor, Sister Taylor—who now supports six fellow missionaries—can increase the font size on her computer enough to read patrons’ e-mails and respond to their questions.

Sister Taylor didn’t learn how to operate a computer until she was 66 years old, but she says it is a beneficial, useful skill. “Your age doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re not too old to learn how to use a computer.”

“This is an ideal situation for me because I can continue to learn and serve,” Sister Taylor said. She said her Church-service mission has helped her to feel useful at an age when her options are limited.

The work is fulfilling and contagious. “The spirit of this work gets into you and doesn’t turn you loose,” Sister Taylor said. “No matter your age, you can be of real service as a FamilySearch Support missionary.”

Illustrations by Jim Madsen
“The Lord my shepherd is …” Music swirled around Jane Elizabeth Manning, but she couldn’t focus on the words. She was looking at her hands, deep in thought.
She had joined the Presbyterian church a year ago. But she still felt like something was missing. I’m searching for something more, she thought. But what could that be?
After the church meeting ended, Jane drifted outside with the rest of the congregation. The leaves were beginning to turn red and gold. Sunlight glinted off the nearby Norwalk River.
“A traveling missionary has come to town,” a man was saying. “He’s a Mormon, and he says God is speaking to prophets again.”
Jane stopped to listen. Could this be what she was searching for?
“Prophets?” another man scoffed. “Like from the Bible? Who would go listen to such a message?”
“I would!” Jane blurted out. A few people turned to stare at her, including the pastor. Jane felt her cheeks grow warm.
The pastor frowned. “I don’t think you should go hear him. It’s foolishness, that’s what. Do you understand?” When she said nothing, he nodded and moved to speak with someone else. Jane watched him leave and then hurried home.
Home wasn’t where Mamma and her brothers and sisters lived. It was at the Fitches’ farm. She had gone to live there as a servant when she was just six years old. Every day she worked hard, helping Mrs. Fitch with the washing, ironing, and cooking. She usually got up before the sun. She built the fire, kneaded bread, and churned the butter. Whenever she could, she went to visit her own family.
A few days later, Jane was still thinking about the missionary while she was hanging up Mr. Fitch’s shirts to dry. The clothes flapped in the brisk breeze.
The pastor had told her not her to go, and yet … she needed to. She needed to see if this Mormon could help her find the truth she was searching for. By the time she finished hanging the clothes, she had made up her mind. She would go to the meeting, no matter what anyone else said.
On Sunday, Jane woke at dawn, put on her nicest dress, and walked alone to the meeting hall. She quietly slipped onto a wooden bench at the back of the hall. Jane smiled when she saw how many people were there. It seemed she was not the only one looking for something more!
The room quieted when Elder Wandell stood. The next hour passed quickly as he spoke about the Book of Mormon and a prophet named Joseph. He said people could be baptized by immersion, just as Christ was. And he talked about the Saints gathering to a faraway city called Nauvoo. By the end of the meeting, Jane’s heart felt so full she could hardly breathe.
That night, Jane visited her family.
“And what did you think of the missionary’s message?” her mother asked when Jane explained how she had spent her Sunday.
“I am fully convinced he presented the true gospel,” Jane said. “I must embrace it. I am going to be baptized next Sunday.”
“Baptized? You’re joining another church?” her brother, Isaac, asked, pulling up a chair.
“Yes! It’s what I’ve been searching for. It’s true.”
Isaac could tell she was serious. “So what happens next?” he asked quietly. “What will you do after you’re baptized?”
“I’ll gather with the Saints,” Jane said. “I’m going to Nauvoo.”
To be continued …

Erin K., from North Carolina, USA, and her family (left) have always had one goal in mind: to become an eternal family. However, Erin’s father was not a member of the Church.
“Of course my mom and siblings wanted my dad to share in the blessings of the gospel. The gospel of Jesus Christ made us happy, and we wanted Dad to share in that happiness. We also all desperately wanted to be sealed together as a family,” Erin says.
Determined to become a forever family, Erin and her siblings and mother did all they could to keep the commandments and develop strong faith, and they prayed together for their father’s heart to be touched by the gospel.
Though it took several years, Erin’s father was finally baptized and confirmed. Ten days after his baptism, he was able to baptize Erin’s younger brother and sister. Soon their family will reach their goal of being sealed in the temple.

For six months we visited a father who was the only member of the Church in his family. Despite our efforts and although we were always well received, we didn’t have success in activating him or baptizing his wife and three children. We were then inspired to involve the children by picking them up on Sundays to take them to church. This became my companion’s special responsibility.
Our efforts began to have an effect. The children loved being at church and were soon baptized. The whole ward worked to involve the parents, but it was still necessary for the Spirit of the Lord to touch their lives.
One time my companion, who had scarcely said a word during our monthly visits, spoke up and bore his testimony in a very emotional way. He had experienced great difficulty in his life, and now he shared how marvelous it was to be in the arms of the Lord. His testimony was so sincere and powerful and the Spirit was so strong that all of us were touched. That same week the wife decided to hear the missionary discussions and was finally baptized. The husband became active again.
Today the family remains active and totally integrated in the ward, and they have been sealed in the Lord’s temple. My companion continues to progress rapidly in the gospel. He married a wonderful young woman in the temple, and they now have two children. They are happy and contribute valuable service to our ward and to the Church.
Six people were converted to the gospel as a result of that experience. A collective miracle! I felt the joy described in the scriptures:
“And how great is his joy in the soul that repenteth!
“Wherefore, you are called to cry repentance unto this people.
“And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!
“And now, if your joy will be great with one soul that you have brought unto me into the kingdom of my Father, how great will be your joy if you should bring many souls unto me!” (D&C 18:13–16).

Years ago I served on a stake high council with Emery Wight. For 10 years Emery had served as bishop of rural Harper Ward. His wife, Lucille, became our stake Relief Society president.
Lucille told me that one spring morning a neighbor called at her door and asked for Emery. She told him that he was out plowing. The neighbor then spoke with great concern. Earlier that morning he had passed the field and noticed Emery’s team of horses standing in a half-finished furrow with the reins draped over the plow. Emery was nowhere in sight. The neighbor thought nothing of it until much later when he passed the field again, and the team had not moved. He climbed the fence and crossed the field to the horses. Emery was nowhere to be found. He hurried to the house to check with Lucille.
Lucille calmly replied, “Oh, don’t be alarmed. No doubt someone is in trouble and came to get the bishop.”
The image of that team of horses standing for hours in the field symbolizes the dedication of the bishops in the Church and of the counselors who stand by their side. Every bishop and every counselor, figuratively speaking, leaves his team standing in an unfinished furrow when someone needs help.
I have passed that field many times over the years. It is a reminder of the sacrifice and the service of those called to serve in bishoprics of wards and of their wives and families, without whose help they could not serve.

The year after I was baptized, I became a volunteer firefighter. I kept the Word of Wisdom even though my friends offered me tobacco, alcohol, tea, and coffee. When they asked me why I refused these things, I told them it was because I was a Mormon. Most of them mocked me and laughed.
One day we were required to take a three-hour physical exercise test to determine who could stay on as firefighters. We each wore a heavy uniform and boots and carried breathing equipment. Before the test I saw the others smoking and laughing at me because I was only a teenager and they thought I wouldn’t be able to pass the rigorous test.
First, we had to run laps around a field, carrying extremely heavy hoses. After the first lap my legs and body ached, and my co-workers laughed at me. It was then that I remembered what it says in Doctrine and Covenants 89: “All saints who remember to keep and do these sayings, walking in obedience to the commandments, shall receive health in the navel and marrow to their bones; … and shall run and not be weary” (vv. 18, 20).
I knelt down and prayed to the Lord, asking Him for faith to see the promise fulfilled. Several men came over to see if I was OK, and I told them I was fine. Then we started running again. Right away the pain left my legs. I ran and ran and realized that the others had fallen to the ground with fatigue, but I didn’t even feel like stopping. I passed the test, while my co-workers had to repeat the exercise.
I know that thanks to my obedience to the Word of Wisdom, I was able to get through that test. I know that God was with me that day and that if we obey His commandments, He will bless us with His infinite mercy.
Cristian Castro Marin, Santiago, Chile

The story of Olga Ková?ová of the former Czechoslovakia is an example of member missionary work from our Relief Society history. In the 1970s, Olga was a doctoral student and hungry for a deeper spiritual life. She noticed 75-year-old Otakar Vojk?vka, a Latter-day Saint. “He appeared to me seventy-five in his age but in his heart nearer to eighteen and full of joy,” she said. “This was so unusual in Czechoslovakia at that time of cynicism.”

Olga asked Otakar and his family how they found joy. They introduced her to other Church members and gave her a Book of Mormon. She read it eagerly and was soon baptized and confirmed. Since that time Olga has been an influence for good in a world of political oppression and religious persecution. She served as Relief Society president in her little branch and helped save the souls of others by bringing them to Christ.3

I am Raja Munusamy of Chennai, Tamil Nadu. This is my testimony. Before joining this church, my family and I belonged to another religion. In August 2014, I had a cardiac arrest and was hospitalized for few days. Post the discharge I rested for 20 days from my work, and during that time I was introduced to sister missionaries, Sister Shelly Arora and Sister Fernandez. They visited our family regularly and prayed for us to receive comfort and for me to recover soon.
I also felt the Spirit and peace of mind during their course of teaching about Heavenly Father and His son Jesus Christ, but soon I was thinking that they were planning to convert us. Thinking so I requested them not to come back to teach the gospel. Nevertheless, they were so valiant in the gospel. They didn’t want my family to lose the blessings. They constantly came to us. One time I felt the Spirit was strong when they asked me to pray and “ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true” (Moroni 10:4). That night we prayed as a family and went to bed.
Nearing midnight I suddenly woke up from my bed and asked my wife, “Are the missionaries teaching correct principles?” She replied that they were teaching correct principles and added more strength to it by affirming that our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are living. This answer made me think, and I had faith. The next morning, I asked her what she said last night. She replied that she didn’t know because she was in a deep sleep. Then I came to know this was the answer to our prayers that we received through the Holy Ghost.
That day we decided to join the church. On the 21 September 2014 we were baptized as a family: my wife, Usha Raja; son, Siddharth Raja; and daughter, Sangamitra Raja. My faith and character made my mother Kanaga Munusamy decide to be baptized on 7th December 2014.

An old Jewish legend tells of two brothers, Abram and Zimri, who owned a field and worked it together. They agreed to divide both the labor and the harvest equally. One night as the harvest came to a close, Zimri could not sleep, for it didn’t seem right that Abram, who had a wife and seven sons to feed, should receive only half of the harvest, while he, with only himself to support, had so much.
So Zimri dressed and quietly went into the field, where he took a third of his harvest and put it in his brother’s pile. He then returned to his bed, satisfied that he had done the right thing.
Meanwhile, Abram could not sleep either. He thought of his poor brother, Zimri, who was all alone and had no sons to help him with the work. It did not seem right that Zimri, who worked so hard by himself, should get only half of the harvest. Surely this was not pleasing to God. And so Abram quietly went to the fields, where he took a third of his harvest and placed it in the pile of his beloved brother.
The next morning, the brothers went to the field and were both astonished that the piles still looked to be the same size. That night both brothers slipped out of their houses to repeat their efforts of the previous night. But this time they discovered each other, and when they did, they wept and embraced. Neither could speak, for their hearts were overcome with love and gratitude.

As I looked around the classroom into the faces of self-conscious but eager 12-year-old girls, I thought of the first line of the Young Women theme: “We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us.”
I wondered, “How do these young women know Heavenly Father loves them?” So I asked them.
Many bowed their heads or nervously shuffled their feet, not wanting to be called on. It was obvious to me they needed some time to think about the question and perhaps some privacy for their response. “Think about it throughout the lesson,” I said.
At the conclusion, I handed out pieces of paper and had the young women write anonymously how they knew that Heavenly Father loved them. As they struggled to write, I heard such comments as “This is so hard” and “I’m not sure I do know.” I was particularly struck by Jocelyn, who had been in tears through most of the lesson. When I privately read their answers, I knew which crumpled paper was hers. She said simply, “Because He saved my mom.”
Her mother is one of my dear friends, and I too had been fervently praying for her. She had just successfully undergone surgery for a heart condition and was about to be released from the hospital when an artery in her spleen burst. Within minutes she was at death’s door. A team of doctors feverishly worked to revive her enough to prepare her for emergency surgery. Miraculous is the only way to describe her recovery. It was an answer to many prayers, including Jocelyn’s and mine. It was a powerful witness of God’s love.

An army of protesting Brigham Young University students recently invaded the sleepy little town of Santaquin, Utah. Many called it “their day of violent protest.” They violently protested against those who riot—and they actively demonstrated that students can change things within the system and at the same time make the world a much better place for others.
About one thousand students, divided into well-organized work details, shoveled, hoed, scraped, painted, pruned, and picked up as block by block they transformed Santaquin.
Before October 10, Santaquin, to many, was dying. Established in pioneer times as a small farming community and manpower pool to help defend against Indians in neighboring areas, it hasn’t grown much since. Its population today is about one thousand—many too old, too young, or too infirm to help much with the town’s problems. The younger inhabitants have a habit of leaving for steady jobs or more urban opportunities in their lives. Those who have stayed have become increasingly frustrated with their efforts to maintain and improve the town.
Before October 10, many of the students interviewed weren’t sure that constructive voluntary action was really possible. Many had served before on other less successful projects and were dubious about whether a project could be so meticulously planned that it would be of substantial value.
“I guess I first tossed this out to a political science class when we were talking about voluntary action one day,” said Dr. Doyle Buckwalter, assistant professor of political science at Brigham Young University, the man credited with sparking this idea among the students. “I told them that Santaquin has a fine spirit, and that all it needed was a little manpower, organization, and material help. They grabbed the ball and have been running with it ever since. One student body officer even made it a part of his campaign platform.”
At the end of the day, Santaquin had several acres of new park, complete with sprinkling system, fifteen picnic tables, and a fireplace and barbecue pit; new tennis courts; and dozens of shiny new street address markers. Many old homes were sanded down and painted; and old, dilapidated barns and other buildings were torn down and hauled away. Vacant lots, some on the town’s main street, were cleaned, and flower bulbs were planted in what had been widows’ weed patches.
“What a paradox!” said Chris Mould, a U.S. Housing and Urban Development executive who was representing Secretary George Romney at the Santaquin Day operation. “You know, the classic example of voluntary help in the United States has always been barn raising. This is the reverse—people volunteering to tear down old barns. It’s great! I’d much rather be here than back in Washington.”
At the end of the day, Cam Caldwell, BYU vice-president of student relations, summed up the day’s activities: “We can see that voluntary effort really pays off. We tapped a little student power, and now the community is improved and we have seen success. This kind of program has great potential. Already we have seen what it has done to motivate other people in the community to make contributions on their own. We hope this kind of program will catch on at other universities. We challenge them and urge them to try to save our communities—to protect and help them so that they will be better places to live.”
University Personnel
“I was in St. Louis yesterday for a convention of college presidents. Two of us left early; I came here to see you rebuild Santaquin, and the other president went to see what was left of his ROTC building. This is the kind of voluntary militancy that all students throughout the country should be engaged in.”
—President Ernest L. Wilkinson
“The old and infirm become totally frustrated when trying to accomplish a task like this.”
—Dr. Doyle Buckwalter
Students
“This is one of the most exhilarating things I’ve ever done. I’m totally ecstatic! Just think what the consequences would be if we established a national precedent today. I mean, if every college or school did this, just once a year, can you imagine what would happen?”
“I think it is great. I have been involved in projects like this before, but never this well organized. This is really meaningful.”
“I’ve seen activity on this scale in the Bay area—but then, the riots weren’t exactly approved.”
“I volunteered for painting, but somehow I ended up on the demolition bus … so that’s why I am the only girl helping to tear down this old barn. But it’s kind of nice!”
“It feels good for a change. In school you don’t really get the chance to get out and actually work with your hands.”
“To help someone else helps me inside. In a way, it’s almost selfish.”
“People who say that people don’t care for each other just haven’t tried this.”
“It’s good to think of someone else for a change, because in school one gets a little self-centered, worrying about his own problems.”
“I love it. This morning I pulled weeds and now I am painting.”
“As a physical therapy major, I’d say this is the best kind of therapy.”
“As a physics major, I am studying the force vectors of digging this ditch. Seriously, this is great! I think it is out-of-sight that so many people will come out and do something to improve their environment, rather than just sit around and complain.”
“To me, it’s a kind of peaceful protest.”
“I think it’s a good way to show that things really can be done through the system. You know, a lot of people have lost the vision of how to work through the system.”
“You get a great feeling of brotherhood by all working hard together.”
“This is a great chance to really practice a little of the charity that the Savior talked about; the chance really doesn’t come often enough.”
“It’s neat—no protests, just action.”
“I wish it would catch on around the world, but that means that people would have to think about others before themselves.”
“It’s good exercise, after nothing harder than making your bed. It really feels great.”
Townspeople
“This will unite the people of Santaquin more than anything we have ever had.”
“It sure changed my image of youth today.”
“I’ve tried to paint my house myself, but my leg has been so bad. I painted for two years and only got the front porch done.”
“I think it is something for these young people to get out and mix with us.”
“It’s really different from what you see in the news about college kids.”
“It’s wonderful, boy; just beautiful.”
“Few people, even those who live here, will recognize how much was done this day.”
“These kids are doing a swell job. It just has to change people’s ideas about kids nowadays.”
“It is sad that the other kind of activity is getting so much publicity.”
“Man, they sure made a difference in my neighbor’s lot. I’d better hurry home before they tear my whole house down!”

When I was in grade four, some of the kids in my class said that every recess they would play a game in the school field, but only a few kids were allowed. A bunch of kids, including me, were left out. For a couple of days I was bored because the friends I usually played with were playing with the kids in the school field. During those days, I played with some of the other kids in my class I didn’t know very well. I got to know them better, and I even became good friends with one of them! One day, one of the kids who played in the school field invited me to play with them. I asked her if my new friend could play too. She said my friend wasn’t allowed. I told her I couldn’t play with them. At recess I played with my new friend. I felt good inside, and I knew I had made the right choice.

Moeaki began art while attending Liahona High School in Nuku’alofa, Tonga. He once placed third in a Danish international art competition, and later gained a bachelor of fine arts from BYU-Idaho in the United States. He has been teaching art for the last nine years at his alma mater, Liahona High School.
Moe works in oil, acrylic and watercolour and describes his art as abstract expressionism. He is most interested in drawing things that are “beyond the veil.”
“I had some near-death experiences when I was a child, which have influenced me. When my father was a mission president, he asked me to do a drawing of the plan of salvation as a missionary tool. . . . It really fired my imagination to think about what it is like beyond the veil.”
His selected work is a tapa collage and acrylic on cardboard entitled, “All Are Alike unto Christ.” A unique feature of this piece is that it includes a strip of tapa cloth.
“Tapa is a very important part of Tongan culture. Newborn babies are wrapped in it, brides and grooms wear it on their wedding day and caskets are draped with it at funerals. It literally is the fabric of our lives,” Moeaki says. “To me, it is an actual veil between this life and the spirit world so it’s important that it is included in my art.”
In his painting, tapa separates our mortal life and a heavenly existence. Beyond that veil, ministering angels are depicted eager to reach out and bless those in times of great need.
“All are alike unto God. . . . We all long for peace, love, and comfort,” Moeaki says, “we all feel that we are being ministered to by the Saviour and His angels in times of need.”

Melody scratched her puppy behind the ears. He wagged his tail. “Just wait, Buddy,” Melody said. “Soon you’re going to know how to do tricks!”
“Time to go,” Mom said. Melody gave Buddy a quick hug goodbye and ran to their family’s van. With her favorite outfit on, Melody was ready for her second 4-H meeting. She couldn’t wait to learn all about growing a garden, painting ceramics, and sewing. But most of all, she was excited about the dog-training project.
For as long as she could remember, Melody had loved animals. She imagined for the hundredth time how great it would be to take Buddy on the dog course and teach him all sorts of tricks.
They arrived at the fire station where the meeting would be held. Melody listened closely to the announcements.
“Sewing will be this Saturday at my house,” the group leader explained. “Ceramics will be next Monday after school, and the dog project is this Sunday at 2:00 at my house.”
Melody’s heart sank. Sunday! Sundays were special days for church and family. It wasn’t a day for shopping or going to the movies. But what about dog training?
All the way home she stared silently out the window. At home she went straight to the backyard and began brushing Buddy’s fur. She didn’t want to talk with anybody.
Later that night Melody sat on the couch with tears filling her eyes. Why did the dog project have to be on Sunday? It wasn’t fair!
Mom sat down next to Melody on the couch and held her hand. “What do you want to do about the dog project?” Mom asked. Her parents had talked it over and decided to let Melody make her own choice.
Melody didn’t answer at first. She’d thought about the problem all day long. She kept trying to tell herself it would be OK to do the dog project. After all, it was scheduled after church. But every time she thought this, she felt kind of squirmy inside.
“I don’t know,” Melody said. “I know I want to train Buddy. But I also want to do what’s right.”
“Keep praying,” Mom said. “You’ll know what to decide.”
Mom gave her a kiss on the forehead and left the room.
Melody went to the backyard to brush Buddy’s fur some more. She said a silent prayer for help.
She looked into Buddy’s eyes. He would be so good at learning tricks—she just knew it! But she also knew that she didn’t feel happy inside about attending the project on Sunday. She knew how peaceful the Holy Ghost felt, and that wasn’t how she felt when she thought of doing the project.
Melody realized that was her answer. If she didn’t feel good about it, she wouldn’t do the dog project.
A warm feeling grew in Melody’s heart as she made her decision. Then she had an idea. She could probably find a book about dog training at the library! Probably a couple of books. Maybe they could even learn together as a family.
“Guess what, Buddy? You’re going to learn tricks after all!” Melody tossed a stick for him to fetch. He just looked at her with a goofy grin. He didn’t run after the stick even a little bit.
She grinned. “Don’t worry, Buddy. We’ll learn together.”