Gospel Story Finder

Melanie’s family lives in Utah, and she boards with LDS families in San Francisco. But because she has been performing since she was nine years old she has been exposed to a lot of different lifestyles.
“I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had as a dancer,” she said. “But it’s also been tough. There are lots of temptations. When I was 12, I went on tour for five weeks with a ballet company. I was offered wine at Thanksgiving. No one there knew what my beliefs were. I didn’t have to refuse the wine, but I knew my parents trusted me, and I knew what they expected. Similar temptations still confront me, and I can only thank my parents because they taught me and prepared me, when I was still young, to think for myself and to make correct decisions. I know I can be the best at ballet that I can be and still live the gospel. I have to know my limitations and not put myself in situations that make the struggle too difficult. And I rely heavily on my family. My best friends are my family.

Among the Christmas experiences that are etched most sharply in my memory are the ones spent away from home and loved ones while serving in the mission field or in military service. Each Christmas when I was in the military in World War II, I wondered when the terrible suffering and agony of war would end and we could all go home. And as we sang, “Peace on earth, goodwill to men,” I wondered if the Germans and the Japanese who were Christians were also singing this familiar refrain with the same yearnings in their hearts. Then it all ended 59 years ago after the dropping of two atomic bombs on Japan. Mankind had never before seen such destructive power. There was a concern in our hearts about the beast that had been unleashed.
I would like to recount a story told by Kenneth J. Brown, who was serving as a U.S. Marine in Japan following the dropping of the bomb. His moving story about a Japanese Christian he met at Christmastime in Nagasaki is as follows.
“I watched him turn from the street and climb the path leading to our shelter. He was groping, hesitating. As he came near he folded his umbrella and stood quietly a long moment. His thin coat soon dampened from the cold rain that was falling from the same sky that had brought death to nearly half his townspeople three short months before. I concluded that it must take some special courage to confront one’s conquerors without invitation. It was little wonder that he hesitated.
“His polite bow to me was no bow of submission. Rather his squared shoulders and lifted head let me feel as if I were looking up at him even … though I towered over him a foot or more. I recall being disturbed that I hadn’t yet become used to the near sightless eyes of those who had looked heavenward that morning when the bomb dropped. …
“… I respectfully asked if I could be of service. [In his clear English] he introduced himself as Professor Iida. …
“‘I am Christian,’ he said. ‘I am told this is the head minister’s office. Are you a Christian? It is good to talk with a follower of Christ; there are so few Christian Japanese.’
“I took him to the inner office of the division chaplain and waited while the two men conversed. Professor Iida stated his request briefly. He was a teacher of music in a Christian girls’ college until it was closed by imperial command. … He had been imprisoned because of his professed Christianity. After being released he had returned to Nagasaki and continued his music instruction in his home even though it was forbidden. He had been able to continue a small chorus and would be pleased if … they [could] sing a concert for the American Marines.
“‘We know something of your American Christmases,’ he said. ‘We should like to do something to make your Christmas in Japan more enjoyable.’
“I felt sure the chaplain would give a negative reply. Our unit was one of hardened fighters, four years away from home, who had fought the enemy from Saipan to Iwo Jima. … Yet there was something about the man that bespoke sincere desire to do a good deed so that … permission was granted. The concert would be Christmas Eve.
“The rains had stopped and a calm settled over the atomic bowl reminiscent of the calm that night long ago. The concert was well attended; there was nothing else to do. The theater … had been cleared of its fallen roof and men were sitting on the jagged walls. The usual momentary hush fell over the audience as the performers filed on stage. …
“The first thing we noticed was that they were singing in English and we became aware that they didn’t understand the words but had memorized them for our benefit. Professor Iida had taught his students well; they sang beautifully. We sat enthralled as if a choir from heaven were singing for us. … It was as if Christ were being born anew that night.
“The closing number was a solo, an aria from ‘The Messiah.’ The girl sang with all the conviction of one who knew that Jesus was indeed the Savior of mankind and it brought tears. After that there was a full minute of silence followed by sustained applause as the small group took bow after bow.
“Later that night I helped Professor Iida take down the trimmings. I could not resist asking some questions that propriety forbade but curiosity demanded. I just had to know.
“‘How did your group manage to survive the bomb?’ I asked.
“‘This is only half my group,’ he said softly, but seemed unoffended at my recalling his grief so that I felt I could ask more.
“‘And what of the families of these?’
“‘They nearly all lost one or more members. Some are orphans.’
“‘What about the soloist? She must have the soul of an angel the way she sang.’
“‘Her mother, two of her brothers were taken. Yes, she did sing well; I am so proud of her. She is my daughter.’ …
“The next day was Christmas, the one I remember best. For that day I knew that Christianity had not failed in spite of people’s unwillingness to live His teachings. I had seen hatred give way to service, pain to rejoicing, sorrow to forgiveness. This was possible because a babe had been born in a manger [and] later taught love of God and fellowmen. We had caused them the greatest grief and yet we were their Christian brothers and as such they were willing to forget their grief and unite with us in singing ‘Peace on earth, goodwill to all men.’
“The words of Miss Iida’s song testimony would not be stilled, ‘Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.’ They seemed to echo and re-echo over the half-dead city that day.
“That day also I knew that there was a greater power on earth than the atomic bomb.”

On Friday, May 30, Elder and Sister Kearon assisted Primary children in packing hygiene kits for less-fortunate children at the Las Piñas Stake Center. Elder Kearon shared that he was “very grateful to see such wonderful children showcase values of service,” and expressed hope that “more children of our church around the world are able to help and give that service to more people.

Those words brought back memories to nine-year-old Natalie Sumagpao: “I remembered that one Christmas, my family and I drove around to give food to kids on the streets. I’m grateful to be able to meet Elder and Sister Kearon, guiding us through service and bringing us closer to Jesus Christ.”

I nearly flew out the door when the train stopped at the Huntersville station. In a wink, I was swallowed up by one of Grandma’s big hugs.
“Look how you’ve grown!” Grandpa exclaimed. “You’re not my Itsy-Bitsy anymore.”
“You’ll just have to think of a new nickname for me,” I said.
As soon as the car stopped at their farm, I jumped out, ready to explore. I was just about to the back gate when Grandma called, “Rachel, change into your playclothes first.”
“But I want to see the barn!”
Grandma put her hands on her hips and gave me that “don’t argue with me” look, so I headed for the back porch. As I went through the screen door, I let it bang shut to let her know how I felt.
By the time I got to the barn, Grandpa was already milking Babe. Long, slim streams of milk sprayed into the pail. “Pring, pring,” the milk sang in steady rhythm. As the bucket filled, the sound changed to a “swirt, swirt.” Milking Babe looked like fun.
“Can I try, Grandpa?”
“It isn’t as easy as it looks—you have to have really strong hands to milk a cow.”
How hard can it be? I thought. Grandpa just squeezes—left hand, right hand, left, right. “Please,” I begged.
“Maybe next time. I don’t think Babe would like someone new taking over halfway through her milking.”
I wanted to try, though, so I went on the other side of her and started squeezing as hard as I could. Startled, she jumped sideways, kicking over the pail. The milk made a foamy puddle on the cement. I jumped up and raced out of the barn before Grandpa could scold me.
I ran straight to the old apple tree by the pasture and climbed to the limb where someone had nailed a metal seat from a farm machine. No one would find me sitting up there.
I stayed in the tree until my stomach started to rumble. Grandpa would be done with the chores, and Grandma would have dinner ready.
I climbed down and walked slowly toward the house. No one was in sight, so I sat under the open kitchen window. The aroma of fried chicken drifted out. Dishes rattled. I heard Grandpa’s deep voice blessing the food. I wanted to go in, but I couldn’t. What would Grandpa say? I sat there for the longest time, my tummy rumbling louder every second.
Then I heard Grandma. “Pie for dessert.”
“Rhubarb pie! My favorite!” Grandpa said.
Rhubarb pie? I’d never heard of it. But I’d tasted some of Grandma’s other pies—cherry, apple, and peach—yum! Rhubarb pie must be really good. I just had to have some! I took a big breath, walked up the back steps, and opened the kitchen door.
“Why, here’s Rachel,” Grandma said. “Sit down. I’ll get your dinner.”
No one said a word about the spilled milk.
Grandma set a plate in front of me—mashed potatoes, fried chicken, stewed tomatoes, and spinach. Spinach? Yuck! In no time I cleaned up the rest of my plate.
“Pie for you, just as soon as the spinach is gone.” Grandma set the pie just behind my dinner plate. It looked so good, the crust all golden and sprinkled with sugar, pink juices oozing out the sides. I pushed my dinner plate away.
Grandma frowned. “I said, ‘As soon as you eat your spinach.’”
“I hate spinach.”
“Eat just a bit then. You have to at least taste it.” Grandma was determined.
I scowled at her and then at my plate.
Grandpa started to laugh. “You look like you just swallowed a lemon, whole,” he said. “Maybe your new nickname should be Sourpuss.”
I wanted to get up and stomp away from the table, but that pie held me like a magnet. Finally I forced down two tiny bites of spinach, and Grandma took my plate.
The pie was delicious, the crust so light it could melt in your mouth, the fruit sweet and tart at the same time. “It’s my favorite,” I told Grandma. “It’s even better than apple.”
The next morning, Grandma made me help pull weeds in the garden. I wanted to play on the rope swing, but she said there’d be plenty of time for that later. As we went out the door, Grandpa said, “Hi, little Sourpuss.”
I frowned at him.
In the garden, I saw a strange plant with giant umbrella leaves and long red-green stalks. “What’s this, Grandma?”
“That’s rhubarb, Rachel. It’s what I made last night’s pie from.”
“Oh, yummy! May I eat a piece?”
“You won’t like it. It needs lots of sugar to make it taste good.”
But I remembered the pie. Rhubarb had to be good. “Please, Grandma,” I begged.
She took the little knife she keeps with her garden tools and cut off a stalk. I took a big bite.
My mouth shriveled. My eyes watered. “Oooh, sour!”
Just then Grandpa walked by. “What are you so sour about now, Rachel?”
“Rhubarb!” I answered, holding the chewed stalk up for him to see.
Grandpa started to laugh, a deep belly laugh that just kept going. When he finally got to the chuckling stage and could talk, he said, “I think I’ve found the perfect nickname for you—Rhubarb Rachel.”
“Oh, Grandpa,” I protested, “that isn’t any better than Sourpuss. It means the same.”
He winked. “Not if you add a little sugar. Then you could be my Rhubarb Pie.” He turned and walked away, whistling.
That started me thinking. Maybe Grandpa was right. I had been acting pretty sour. But how could I add sugar? I thought about it as I pulled the weeds from the rest of the row. Then I forced the corners of my mouth up into a little smile. It felt good. Next I tried whistling. It felt even better. After a while, I went over to where Grandma was thinning carrots. “I’m sorry I’ve been so cross. And I’m sorry about the milk.”
Grandma grinned. “I know you are. But you needed to say it. How about cutting some more of the rhubarb stalks—I’ll make another pie for dinner tonight.”
“Sure,” I said. “Can I help you make it?” I wanted to know all about turning rhubarb into rhubarb pie.

In elementary school, I always heard about the “popular” kids. Being popular wasn’t something you did, it was who you were—and by the beginning of my first year in middle school, I was at the top of the middle school popularity chain. I hung out with the popular kids in the popular part of the hallway, had the same popular brand clothes, and most importantly, ate lunch with them at the exclusive Popular Table in the cafeteria.
The Popular Table had the perfect location, right by the lunch line but far away from the teachers. Even better, it was the only table where boys and girls sat together. I felt so cool as I sat with them, and we talked about our TV shows and our clothes.
But one thing was just a little off—these popular kids weren’t really that nice. When I was with them I felt popular, but I didn’t feel happy. Sometimes we all gossiped or made fun of others. There was a lot of swearing and talking about things I knew were not appropriate, and I didn’t feel like they cared about me. My “friends” rarely did anything really nice for me, and eventually I began to feel like a doormat.
“You should try to make some new friends,” my older sister said. “By the time those kids get to high school, they’ll probably be drinking and maybe even doing drugs. That’s what happened to a lot the popular kids from my middle school.”
I was shocked. “These are my friends,” I thought, “and they’re not going to do anything that would bring me down. Besides, even if they aren’t that nice, at least they still let me hang out with them.”
One day, as I was walking to my lunch table, I saw Cindy, a girl from church who was in the grade above me. She sat on the complete opposite side of the cafeteria.
“Hey there!” Cindy called to me. “Do you want to sit with me and my friends?”
“Ah … no thanks,” I said, “I have my own lunch table.”
But one day, at the Popular Table, one of the girls was rude to me. She hurt my feelings, and I was tired of feeling like my friends just tolerated me. But where else could I go?
Then I remembered Cindy’s offer.
“All right,” I thought. “I’m going to sit with Cindy. But just today.”
I picked up my lunch tray and tried to hold back the tears as I walked away from the best table in the cafeteria.
Cindy saw me, smiled, and said, “Hey, Meredith! Want to sit with us?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Sure,” I said and sat down at her table.
Cindy and her friends welcomed me to their table and were really nice. It was a completely different feeling from sitting with the popular kids. I was surprised. Not only were these girls nicer, but we also had similar standards, and that made it easier to go through lunch without having to listen to swearing or crude stories.
I decided to eat with them the next day, and the day after that, until eating with Cindy and her friends became routine. I was still nice to the popular kids, and we got along fine in class, but I stopped hanging out with them in the hallways.
One day, at the end of the year, Cindy and her friends had a field trip and were gone during lunch. I walked over to the popular side of the cafeteria and sat with my old friends again. During lunch, there was all the old swearing, telling crude jokes, and making fun of people, but now they were also talking about drugs and immoral activities. I couldn’t believe how much they had changed over the course of the year, and I was so grateful I had moved to the other side of the cafeteria when I did.
My sister was right; their standards were different from mine, and it would have become more difficult to follow the counsel of the prophets and stay close to the Lord if they had been my only friends. That year I made friends who were not of my faith but who shared a lot of the same standards and made it easy for me to practice my beliefs. They stayed my friends all the way through high school.
I’m grateful for my friend Cindy, who invited me sit with her, and to the Lord for giving me courage to change lunch tables. It seemed like such a big deal, but having friends with different standards was an even bigger deal.
The Lord blessed me to find friends who were fun, encouraging, and shared my standards. Trading being “popular” for being happy was definitely worth it.

Years later I received a similar call late at night in a hotel in Japan. I was then the new commissioner of education for the Church. I knew that President Gordon B. Hinckley was staying somewhere in that same hotel on his separate assignment to Japan. I answered the ringing phone just after I had lain down on the bed to sleep, exhausted by having done all I thought I had the strength to do.

President Hinckley asked in his pleasant voice, “Why are you sleeping when I am here reading a manuscript that we have been asked to review?” So I got up and went to work, even though I knew that President Hinckley could give a better review of a manuscript than I could possibly do. But somehow he made me feel that he needed my help.

The second thing you can do is to be a friendshipper. A friendshipper is a person who tries to be a friend to people and invite them out to church activities. Sometimes it’s hard to go to a new place when you don’t know anyone there. But if you have a friend, it makes it much easier. This lesson I learned with one of our daughters.
As school was about to begin for the year, she was a little nervous because she had to go to a new school. Sister Dunn and I told her everything would be fine, but on the morning when she had to go she was frightened. She didn’t know if she would be accepted or if she would make new friends or if her teacher would like her. She announced, “I don’t think I had better go to school today.”
I said, “Why not?”
She answered, “I think I’m going to get sick.”
We decided that it would help if I took her to school. But when we got there she didn’t want to get out of the car, so I helped her out. As we walked up the sidewalk she grabbed my leg, and by the time we were inside she had both legs. She was really scared. Then a wonderful thing happened. Along came a friendshipper. She saw my frightened daughter and came running up and said, “Hi, Kellie. How are you?” And in about five seconds my daughter forgot all about being afraid. I remember that as she left me she stopped a few paces away and said, “You can go now Dad—I don’t need you anymore.” This wonderful little friendshipper took Kellie’s hand and now everything was all right.

My name is Mili, and I’m eleven years old. My sister, Eli, is ten. We have always lived with our abuelita (beloved grandmother). Our city is surrounded by green hills, and its streets are straight and clean. In the city are many beautiful churches, such as Santo Domingo, where we rest in the quiet coolness after our shopping on Saturdays.
Abuelita doesn’t go to church or anywhere else because of the pain of her arthritis and because she is almost deaf.
Maybe the deafness is the reason she couldn’t listen to the two missionary sisters who came to the gate of our courtyard one day last summer. Abuelita has told us not to open the gate for strangers, but she unlocked it and let them in. Abuelita is always kind, and they looked very hot and tired—and sweet and harmless.
Eli and I stood back quietly when they came in and sat down in our cool sala (living room). We brought them cold lemonade and pan dulce (pastry), as Abuelita has taught us to do for guests in our house. When we sat down and listened to them, they told us wonderful things about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appearing to a boy named Joseph Smith in the woods, and about the gold plates and the Book of Mormon. And they gave us the book!
Eli and I read to each other every night that week. We liked the stories and the way we felt when we read them. Abuelita doesn’t read.
When the missionaries came back, we were happy to see Abuelita quietly unlock the gate for them. Later they took us with them on the bus to their church. Eli and I liked the way we felt in that church, even though it was a very plain chapel and not so beautiful as Santo Domingo with its colored windows and gold statues. When we asked Abuelita if we could be baptized, she kissed us, said yes, and told us that we were good girls and that she knew that we would follow a good path.
So Eli and I became Latter-day Saints. We went to church every Sunday, and the missionaries didn’t have to come for us, because we knew how to go to the zócalo (town square) and take the bus to the church. We learned to pray to Heavenly Father morning and night and to pay our tithing on the few pesos Abuelita gives us each week for our school supplies and lunches. And we don’t let her put coffee in our milk anymore.
We also learned that we should fast on the first Sunday of the month and give the money to el obispo (the bishop) so he can give it to the poor.
We have many poor people in our city, and Eli and I wouldn’t have minded missing our breakfast and lunch on that one day. But Abuelita doesn’t understand about fasting. She says that we must eat before leaving for church, and she won’t give us money instead of food.
We talked to el obispo about it. He is a very nice man and is very wise. He read to us in the Book of Mormon where Nephi said that if God gives a commandment, He will provide a way to obey it. We had read that before, but when we went home that day, we underlined it in our Book of Mormon. El obispo said that we would find a way to keep the commandment.
One Sunday morning as we walked to the zócalo to catch the bus, we saw a man sitting underneath a big tule tree. He was old and very thin and raggedy. When he held up a dish for money, we saw that the joints of his hands were swollen and knobby like Abuelita’s. He looked sad and tired.
He probably had been there many times when we passed, but this time we really saw him. I told Eli how thankful I was that Abuelita didn’t have to sit on the street and beg, that she had her warm bed and good food. We didn’t have any money to give him, so we walked on, but Eli and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. We talked about him, and when we said our prayers, we prayed for him.
The next Sunday was fast Sunday. Eli and I said our morning prayers and began to get ready for church. Then I had an idea. I told Eli, and she liked it.
Abuelita had our breakfast ready for us, but instead of sitting down to eat, we began to put the tangerines, bananas, a beautiful mango, our empanadas, and our boiled eggs into a small bag. When Abuelita asked us what we were doing, we smiled and asked, “Please, may we take our food with us?” and she let us.
As always, before unlocking the gate of the courtyard to let us out, she kissed us both on each cheek. It’s one way she shows her love for us.
We hurried to the zócalo and looked for the sad beggar. He was there under the tule tree. When we handed him the bag of food, he looked puzzled but opened the bag. Then he saw the beautiful food, and his eyes lit up with happiness. “Gracias, muchachitas, gracias” (“Thank you, young ladies, thank you”), he said. We smiled back, then ran for the bus.
Someday we’ll pay our fast offering to el obispo as others do. Someday Abuelita will truly understand the gospel. God provides a way.

Like Jim, as a young man I was privileged to have “goodly parents” (1 Nephi 1:1). They taught gospel principles and values to our family by precept and example. As a young boy I thought I had a testimony. I believed! Then came some personal spiritual experiences through faith, prayer, scripture study, and especially father’s blessings in our home that caused me to think more seriously about the principles I had been taught and believed—but even more deeply about what I was beginning to feel. I will be forever grateful to parents who helped coach me through those precious spiritual experiences. They have had a lasting impact on me and on the strength of my testimony.

Then one day in the spring, we found Bimbo stretched out in the backyard as though he were dead. Does he have scarlet fever? I wondered. On the way to see the veterinarian, I remember praying as hard as I could that Bimbo wouldn’t die. The veterinarian told us our dog had been poisoned and would have to stay in the hospital for several days. Later when we took Bimbo home, we gave him love and attention and continued to pray for him. Our prayers were answered.

Then, in late 1977, Lien learned that her husband was in a refugee camp in Malaysia. He had managed to leave Vietnam on an old fishing boat after finally being released from Thành Ông N?m. Now he was ready to reunite with his family. All he needed was a sponsor.
Lien began working even more hours to save enough money to bring The to the United States.
In January 1978, Le My Lien sat nervously in a car headed for the Salt Lake City International Airport. She was on her way to meet her husband for the first time in nearly three years.
After arriving at the airport, Lien joined other friends and Church members who had come to welcome The.
Before long, Lien saw The descending an escalator. He looked pale and had a lost look in his eyes. But at the sight of Lien, he called out to her. Emotion welled in Lien’s chest.
She pulled The into a hug. “Thank God in heaven,” she whispered, “you are home at last!”

The second experience also involved the loss of an ox and the ill treatment of Mary Fielding Smith by a wagon master who had had personal differences with her. Whenever people are thrown together in such a manner as they were in pioneer companies, tempers in some are prone to flare, and frictions may develop. Almost every boy who has attended a scout camp or national guard camp, or girl a girl’s camp, is aware of this problem.
So, it was almost inevitable that friction would arise among pioneer companies.
The difference of opinion in this case had arisen from the fact that the supervisor had felt Widow Smith was not prepared with sufficient supplies and equipment to reach the valley and that she would be a burden upon any company she joined. Finally, he concluded, “I will have to carry you along or leave you on the way.” To which Mary Fielding Smith replied, “I will beat you to the valley and will ask no help from you either.” And thus the verbal battle lines were drawn and the company set off. All proceeded about as well as possible until about midway between the Platte and the Sweetwater Rivers, at which time one of Sister Smith’s oxen laid down in the yoke as if poisoned. To all outward appearances the ox was in the throes of death. It stiffened out spasmodically, and all supposed it would die momentarily. The wagons behind were also brought to a stop as the captain of the company came running forward, “blustering about, as if the world were about at an end.”
“There,” said he, “I told you you would have to be helped and that you would be a burden on the company.” But in this he was mistaken. Producing a bottle of consecrated oil, Widow Smith asked her brother and James Lawson if they would please administer to the ox just as they would do to a sick person, for it was vital to her interest that the ox be restored. Her earnest plea was complied with. These brethren poured oil on the head of the ox and then laid their hands upon it and rebuked the power of the destroyer. Immediately the ox got up and within a very few moments again pulled in the yoke as if nothing had ever happened. This was a great astonishment to the company. Before the company had proceeded very far, another of her oxen fell down as the first, but with the same treatment he also got up, and this was repeated the third time.
Through all of these proceedings young Joseph F. was an observer, sensing the power of the priesthood being exhibited by his uncle, but also noting the deep faith of his widowed mother, a woman who was to leave a deep impression upon his life. Four years after entering the valley—at the age of fourteen—he was to lose his mother to death, and then was without father or mother.

If you’re ever asked how you’re dating, I hope that “intentionally” is one of your first responses. Let me try and illustrate this with an example.
More than half of my and my wife’s time dating was long-distance. I met Catherine while we were in school in Santiago, Chile. We started dating, but she moved back home to Antofagasta before I finished my degree. Because we wanted our relationship to develop, once or twice a month, I made the 20-hour bus ride back to Antofagasta on Thursday afternoons, spent weekends with Catherine (including church services), and took the bus another 20 hours back to Santiago to be at my 8:00 a.m. class on Monday morning.
On the days we couldn’t be together, we talked on the phone. Since we didn’t have cell phones at that time, I bought a phone plan that allowed me to make unlimited calls on public phones. I spent hours tethered to a phone booth, and if anyone else needed to use it, I would have to hang up and call Catherine back as soon as they were done.
Throughout this experience, because of the many obstacles in our relationship, I had to learn to be intentional about how I communicated with Catherine.
I invite you to make dating deliberate and intentional. President Russell M. Nelson has asked us to be intentional with our discipleship. We can also seek to be intentional in the way we date.
We should ask important questions:
What do you think about life, family, and most importantly, the Savior?
I know what kind of things you do and don’t like to do, but what are your feelings about the gospel?
What are your standards and morals?
Intentional questions should be accompanied by doing a variety of intentional activities. Have fun, but be sure to do spiritual things together too. Do activities that will help you understand and truly get to know each other.
After you’ve been dating for a while, it can seem like a daunting decision to choose to get married. I was still nervous right up until the moment Catherine and I were married!
Choosing to get married might be a hard decision, but it’s not a decision you make just one time. Choosing to get married means choosing to recommit to your eternal companion throughout your life and strengthening that commitment together.
When you have questions about marriage or the gospel, you should “study it out in your mind; then you must ask [the Lord] if it be right” (Doctrine and Covenants 9:8) You should also ask yourself, “Am I willing to choose to be part of this for the rest of my life?”
When I got married, some people asked me if I was nervous that I would end up getting divorced like my parents. My answer has always been no. When I got married, I decided that I would do whatever it took to make my marriage work out. That meant choosing every day to follow the Savior and be joyfully married to my wife. I chose not to let fear of divorce drive me away from a good and righteous decision.
President Jeffrey R. Holland, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, said: “Once there has been genuine illumination, beware the temptation to retreat from a good thing. If it was right when you prayed about it and trusted it and lived for it, it is right now. … Face your doubts. Master your fears. ‘Cast not away therefore your confidence.’”
The reality is that there are many of you who have very good and sincere desires to find a companion. You know this is a good and righteous desire, but when you’re struggling to find someone you’re compatible with, you feel stuck in your progress on the covenant path.
Regarding this, Sister Kristen M. Oaks said: “If you find yourself marking time waiting for a marriage prospect, stop waiting and start preparing. Prepare yourself for life—by education, experience, and planning. Don’t wait for happiness to be thrust upon you. Seek out opportunities for service and learning. And most important, trust in the Lord, ‘calling on the name of the Lord daily, and standing steadfastly in the faith of that which is to come’ [Mosiah 4:11]. And I promise as you do, happiness will come to you.”
Your journey on the covenant path has not stopped because you are not married yet. You still have your covenantal connection with the Savior. If you are struggling with rejection, loneliness, or fear, bring Him into your struggles. He will succor you. He will help you.
For some, dating with the intent to find an eternal companion will not bear fruit immediately. For others it will. No matter what, I know that God will fulfill every single promise He has made to us if we are intentional and trust in Him.
No matter where you are in the world or what is happening or not happening in your life, because of Jesus Christ, you can have joy in all circumstances. He and His teachings are always the answer.

Once I had to choose between attending a Church activity and going to a friend’s party. It was a difficult decision. I didn’t want to disappoint my friend, but I felt that attending the Church activity was more important. I prayed about it, and I felt peace about choosing the Church activity.
My friend was disappointed at first, but she understood my decision when I explained my reasons. My experience showed me that when I put God first, everything else falls into place. It also strengthened my belief that God will guide me when I seek His help through prayer.

The light flickered, blinked, flickered once more, and then the room went dark. Marta blinked and rubbed her eyes, but there was no seeing through the blackness.
“Now what?” Lisa asked in a shaky voice.
Outside, the wind sang and whistled as it rattled the windows of the old house the family had recently bought. It was the family’s goal to restore the old place to its original splendor, but so far not much had been done with it.
“Methinks ’tis winter,” Marta said, trying to make her words sound Old English and funny. But no one laughed. “Where has your sense of humor gone?” Marta asked.
“It went with Daddy,” replied seven-year-old Peter, his voice choked with fear.
“I wish Mom and Dad had fixed those old windows,” Lisa said nervously. “That rattling is scary.”
“I wish Mom and Dad were home,” Peter whimpered.
For a moment no one moved or spoke. The wind heaved and buffeted the house, died mischievously to a tickle on the window-panes, then rushed again with horrendous screams as though it was demanding to be let inside.
For as long as Marta could remember, there had been terrible windstorms in the valley—at least two or three times a year. Once, in their old home down the street, a winter wind had exploded through a window, shattering glass on the carpet and making its icy way into every corner of the house. Most of the time the wind wasn’t so violent, and Marta, though she didn’t exactly know why, had come to enjoy the storms. Maybe it was the eerie darkness that resulted when the electric circuits were shorted out. Or maybe it was because she remembered enjoying the stormy-night fires her father started in the fireplace and the way the family huddled around the blaze, wrapped in blankets and holding cups of hot chocolate. Her father always seemed to make an adventure out of storms.
Tonight, however, her parents had gone across town on an errand. A little while ago they’d called to say that they would have to wait until the snowplows cleared a path for them to get home.
The wind gasped, beat viciously against the house, then moaned pitifully.
Marta chuckled to herself, but Lisa shuddered and Peter began to cry. Marta never remembered her older sister being frightened of storms before.
“Isn’t anyone going to get some candles?” Marta asked.
“I—I will,” Lisa stammered, but she didn’t move.
“That’s all right; I’ll get them,” Marta said. She started feeling her way through the darkness. It was like playing blindman’s buff. First she felt the piano bench, then the banister, the hall wallpaper, and the buffet; then she groped her way through the doorway into the kitchen. Finally she found the right cupboard. It seemed strange not to be able to see even her hands in front of her. Opening the cupboard door, Marta’s fingers groped through its contents—paper napkins in a noisy cellophane package, rattly boxes of cold cereal, two long, smooth candles and their holders.
“Now for the matches,” Marta muttered, reaching farther back into the cupboard. “I know they’re in here.” Way back in the corner she felt the raspy side of the matchbox. Marta quickly shut the cupboard door, struck a match, and lit the candles. Slowly she walked back to the living room.
“Marta, Marta, is that you?” Peter called out.
“Of course, Peter,” Marta said cheerfully.
“This house is all ghosty,” Peter whispered.
“It’s all right, Peter.”
Marta heard Lisa trying to comfort their brother, but the words were not convincing. It seemed strange to be enjoying something that frightened her brother and sister. What can I do when even my big sister is scared? she asked herself. Quickly Marta placed the candles on the mantle.
“There, Peter. See, it isn’t so bad,” Lisa said.
As if to prove her wrong, the wind knocked viciously against the house. The candles flickered, then burned brightly again. Marta looked at Lisa’s face. Usually it was a happy, princesslike face, but now it only mirrored fear.
“Shall I start a fire?” Marta asked.
“No!” Lisa answered abruptly. “This wind is worse than most. It could blow down through the chimney and start the house on fire.”
Marta had never heard of such a thing. “What?” she asked.
“Last year in a storm like this, two homes burned,” Lisa explained. “The newspaper account said that it had something to do with downdrafts. I’m not exactly sure how the fires started, but we’d better not light one.”
Marta felt helpless. Why can’t Peter and Lisa feel like I do about storms? she wondered. Why can’t they relax and laugh at the weird sounds of the wind and makebelieve fun things about the dancing shadows the candles make on the wall? Aloud she said, “I’ll get some blankets then. At least we can keep warm until the heat comes back on.”
Marta walked out of the dim candlelight and felt her way down the hall to the linen closet. The blankets were stored on the top shelf, so she had to jump to get them down. When she managed to get three, she returned to the living room. “Lisa, you can curl up on the couch,” she said, “and Peter and I will lie down on the floor.”
“No,” Peter said.
“Why not?” Marta asked. “It will be like a slumber party.”
“No, it won’t.” Peter started to cry again.
“It’s all right,” Lisa said, hugging Peter to her. “Come on. Let’s have a slumber party.” She tried to sound excited, but the words came out stilted.
“Or we can pretend we’re pioneers,” Marta said, “It’s a game, Peter. We’re pioneers, and it’s nighttime, so we have to go to bed.”
“Pioneers didn’t have windstorms like this.”
“Yes, they did!” Marta countered. “I’ve read about them. And they were outside in the storms, not inside like we are.”
Lisa climbed onto the couch, and Peter reluctantly lay down on the braided rug. Shadows from the candles danced on the walls and ceiling of the tall, drafty room.
“Well, what did the pioneers do?” Peter asked.
That’s it! Marta realized. That’s how I can help Lisa and Peter. Aloud, she told Peter. “They prayed and did things to keep their minds off the storm.”
“That’s a good idea,” Lisa said. “Let’s say a prayer for us—and for Mom and Dad too.”
“After we’re through, I’ll tell you a story,” Marta added.
Peter prayed with them, but he stopped to look around every time another rush of wind rattled the house.
“This storm may last five more minutes or all night,” Marta said after they finished their prayer, “but we’ll have fun telling stories.”
“I hope it’s only five more minutes,” Lisa said.
Marta’s mind was racing. What story can I tell that will help Peter and Lisa? First she thought of some fairy tales, then of some stories she’d heard in school. But none of them seemed to be the kind that would give comfort … That’s it! She remembered the scripture story she’d heard in Primary last week that had filled her with a secure and comforting feeling.
Marta smiled at Lisa and Peter, then began: “One time Jesus and His Apostles were traveling in a boat when a fierce storm started tossing and turning their boat about. The Apostles became frightened, but Jesus slept through the whole noisy, scary storm.”
Outside, the wind whistled and screamed and rattled the windows and doors, while inside, Marta told the story of how Jesus had awakened and commanded the storm to stop. Marta tried to make her voice sound reassuring and comforting, but even if her voice wasn’t, she knew that the story would ease their fears.
When Marta finished, she looked over at Peter. In the dim candlelight she could see that he was already asleep.
“I’m glad you’re here, Marta,” Lisa whispered. “You’re a lot like Dad.”
Surprised by her sister’s remark, Marta didn’t say anything.
Soon Lisa went on, “It’s not that either of you really likes storms or that you wish they would come to hurt us or to do damage; but when they do come, you both manage to make the most of the situation. I wish I had such a gift.”
Marta was surprised. How often she had wished for Lisa’s long, thick hair instead of her own thin, wispy hair. Marta had never imagined that Lisa would ever be wishing for something that her younger sister had.
Lisa snuggled down on the couch, and Marta pulled her own blanket up to her chin and thought once more about the scripture story. “Peace, be still. …” Marta thought of the words from the story, the words Jesus had used to still the stormy waters. As she listened to the noises around her, Marta smiled.
Marta’s thoughts drifted to Lisa and what her sister had just said. It felt so good to comfort and to be comforted. She smiled again and then let herself relax and listen to the music of the wind as it accompanied the dancing shadows on the wall.

The first and most important truth about navigating this journey is that you are not alone. Heavenly Father and the Savior will always strengthen us as we turn to Them. There were times when Kay was struggling so much, and I (Stephen) was so exhausted. She didn’t know who I was for three years, and every day was painful. Sometimes I look back and wonder how I managed to get through those difficult times, and then I realize I was only able to endure the pain by fully relying on the Savior (see Matthew 11:28–29).

Always remember that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are very much aware of what you are going through. President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, reminded us of this truth: “You are being nourished and comforted by a loving Savior, who knows how to succor you in whatever tests you face.”1 Regularly make time for prayer and temple attendance, and invite the Spirit into your home. As you do, you will find guidance, peace, and the sustaining strength you need to keep moving forward.

“One day two missionaries got into my taxi,” says Garry Guanilo of Peru. “They asked me if I knew that families could be eternal. That question really had an impact on me. And they spoke to me about the Prophet Joseph Smith. I went home and told my wife, María, about it. We invited the missionaries to our home. During the first lesson, they sang ‘Families Can Be Together Forever’ ” (Hymns, no. 300).
María adds, “Since our baptism, we are progressing in many ways. It’s like a staircase—we keep climbing higher and higher, and less important things are dropping out of our lives.”
Garry continues, “I want to marry my wife for eternity in the temple and to have our daughters sealed to us. We had no idea this world existed!”—Garry and María Guanilo, Peru

This verse also helped me make a difficult decision. My friend and I had been inseparable for five years. We played sports together, went on trips together, and hung out every weekend. But she began hanging out with an older group of friends who I didn’t want to be around. In the end she made me choose between having her as a friend or sticking to my beliefs regarding the Word of Wisdom and the law of chastity. I was devastated. I never knew that standing up for what I believed could be so hard. But I chose to make new friends, always keeping in mind Heavenly Father’s promise to Joseph Smith that everything would work out all right.

Julia wiped her brow. Then she picked up her shovel and started digging. Right now, the ground around her was a patch of dirt. But soon it would become a beautiful garden.
Times were hard for Black people in South Africa. Laws there kept Blacks and Whites separate. Many Black people had been forced to leave their homes and live in certain areas away from White people, and they couldn’t vote. There had been violence in the township where Julia lived, and the schools were closed because of it. Sometimes it was dangerous to be outside.
But that didn’t stop Julia. She wanted to do something to bring goodness to her community. That’s why she was starting a garden.
Some children saw Julia working. “Can we help?” they asked.
“Of course,” said Julia. She handed them each a shovel. She showed them how to loosen the soil and dig up weeds.
“Let us dig the soil of bitterness, throw in a seed of love, and see what fruits it can give us,” she said. “Love comes only by forgiving others.”
Weeks passed, and more plants grew. Other people came to work in the garden. They pulled tall weeds. They planted more seeds. They watered the plants. It made Julia happy to see so many people helping.
One day Julia met two young men. Julia was surprised because White people rarely came to her neighborhood. They said they were missionaries. She invited them to share a message in her home.
When Julia’s son heard they were coming, he was shocked. “Why did you invite them?” he said. “They are White. It’s not safe.”
But Julia trusted the missionaries. “These men are different,” Julia said. “They are preaching peace.”
When the missionaries came, Julia welcomed them in. One of them noticed a photo on the mantle. It was from Julia’s wedding.
“Who is that?” the missionary asked, pointing to the photo.
“My husband, John.” Julia looked down. “He died in a car crash.”
The missionary nodded. “We believe families can be together forever, even after they die.”
A feeling of peace washed over Julia. She felt happy to learn about God’s plan and kept meeting with the missionaries. Love for the gospel grew in Julia’s heart, just like the plants in her garden. Soon she decided to be baptized.
At church, Julia met lots of new people. Some were Black. Some were White. But they all served and learned together.
Julia showed the children at church how to help in her garden. “We must be soft in our hearts, like this soil,” she said. “We must make a place for the gospel within us. We must make a place for love.”
Thirteen years after Julia’s baptism, the laws separating Black people and White people in South Africa ended.
There are almost 70,000 members of the Church in South Africa today.
South Africa has 11 official languages.
Julia helped start Women for Peace, a group to promote unity and peace in South Africa.
She was one of the first temple workers in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple.
Julia was a teacher. She taught children to read when they worked in her garden.

Roland Denny, a Navajo student on the Church’s Indian Placement Program, has two families. And he tries to make the best of both worlds in which he lives. During the school year he lives with the Alan Mecham family in Salt Lake City, where he attends Hillside Junior High School. He plans to be either a doctor or a dentist when he grows up. For now, when he isn’t doing schoolwork or practicing the piano, Roland enjoys swimming or playing baseball.
An active member of the Parley’s First Ward deacons quorum, Roland can be counted on to pass the sacrament and to collect fast offerings. In the Mexican Hat Branch, where he passes the sacrament in the summer with his brother Brent, members live so far apart that they must bring their fast offerings to church themselves. And because it is an area where daytime temperatures often soar to well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, drinking water must be drawn from deep wells, put into fifty-five gallon drums, and hauled by pickup trucks to the homes.
Bobby Denny, Roland’s father, attended Navajo Community College at Tsaile, Arizona, and for fourteen years was director of instructors in the Navajo Adult Education Program. Brother Denny is first counselor of the Mexican Hat Branch. Alice Denny, Roland’s mother, is a trained nurse and works for the Utah Navajo Development Council. She has worked in leadership positions in her branch Relief Society. The Denny family was elated last year, when Roland, his three brothers, and his two sisters were sealed to their parents in the Jordan River Temple.
When Roland returns to his natural family in Mexican Hat for the summer, he keeps busy with family chores and his flock of chickens, ducks, and turkeys. He also started a snow-cone business last summer to earn some spending money. In July he and other Mexican Hat youngsters participate in the Mad Hatter’s Fling, a riotous, four-mile-long race down the San Juan River. They ride inner tubes, homemade boats, or anything else that will safely float.
Sometimes, when the open-air shade house in the garden at home doesn’t provide enough comfort for sleeping, Roland’s family makes an excursion to Cedar Mesa, a cool, wooded area to the north of Monument Valley, where Roland’s grandfather, Julius Denny, lives. A traditional Indian herbalist, Grandfather Denny is also a miner and a rancher. Roland likes to help him with his herds of Rambouillet sheep, Charolais cattle, and Angora goats. Roaming the vast reaches of Monument Valley, with its gigantic, storied sandstone formations, helps Roland understand and appreciate the Creator’s wondrous handiwork.