Gospel Story Finder

Receiving my mission call to the Philippines Cebu Mission was a momentous occasion in my life. I had been preparing for quite some time, and I was ready to serve. Entering the missionary training center was a great experience. It struck me that the first thing that they do there is give you a name tag. But this is no ordinary name tag—it has two names. One is the missionary’s name and the other is the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Putting on that name tag was the start of a new understanding for me of what it really meant to be a representative of Jesus Christ.

It started, as such things often do, with an unkind remark. Something faded now, totally forgotten. And yet it turned her father away. Church became too long a drive, too inconvenient. Wouldn’t it be better to spend the time with the family? A cloud settled over Jean-Claude Ferland, something foggy and chilling.
Mother fretted, worried, talked to the branch president. She finally decided it was better to stay home. Marie Claude—always so constant—and Clément—tall, strong Clément, who used to tease the elders so—they stopped bothering with church.
Maybe it was the years in elementary school that made the difference for Christine, all those times of quietly defending what she knew to be true. Somehow, she would stand up this time, too.
She didn’t defy her family. She simply kept going to church. It meant hitching a ride into town with a member on Friday or Saturday night, staying with a family through Sunday. Sometimes she couldn’t get a ride back until Monday morning at 4:00 or 5:00 A.M. And then, if she missed the bus she’d have to pedal her bike for an hour to get to school.
But it also meant that she could keep her family in touch with the Church. In time, she was able to get Clément and Marie Claude to join her for meetings or activities. And mother fasted and prayed, and kept the hope alive that someday father would return to activity.
Christine stopped to catch her breath. She exhaled a cloud of white mist which slowly disappeared. Then she leaned against a green railing thick with chipped enamel. Out on the water, the sailboat maneuvered, tacking against the wind. She found herself wondering about the sailors on the boat. The gliding that seemed so effortless to her—was it work for them, the muscle-straining labor of tugging ropes and trimming sails, of leaning hard on the rudder? Did they find joy in the sailing, in the combat with deep currents and stiff winds? And it made Christine look to the past again, a deep look to a time when struggle seemed worthwhile.
Dinner at the Ferland’s was always a glorious affair—plates heaped with home-grown tomatoes, beans, and pickled beets, with lamb and potatoes browned together until the meat was tender and the vegetables sweet. In the wood-burning oven, an apple pie simmered. The room spoke of families and of love.
It was at such a dinner that father called his wife and children near. Christine noticed a happy mischief in his eyes, a spark of something that for too long had been distant.
“We have to make your mother happy,” he said, looking each teenager firmly in the eye. He let them guess what he was planning to do.
After a minute he said, “Whatever it takes, we’re going to the temple.”
Of course, saying and doing are two different things. But even when he wasn’t attending his meetings, Jean-Claude Ferland had never thought of himself as anything less than a Latter-day Saint. He was still friendly with people from the branch, still in contact with home teachers, still “active” in his heart. So when he decided to be involved, he gave full dedication.
Sunday meetings were not considered optional. Service projects, branch parties, cottage meetings, whatever was asked, the Ferlands would gladly participate. Callings were willingly accepted, instructions from the branch president explicitly heeded. Even tithing, which had been a struggle in the past, was now a privilege. Once, when it was paid twice by mistake, mother and father decided to “let the Lord keep it.”
Time passed quickly. In August 1986, interviews were held and recommends were signed. The dream was coming true.
Christine can see it still, every time she closes her eyes—the Washington D. C. Temple, its white spires bright against the woods. Inside, everything is calm and bright. People smile and share a great peace.
In a sacred room, maman and papa, dressed in white, kneel at the altar. Christine, Clément, and Marie Claude, also in white, kneel beside them. Hands are placed on hands, children and parents sealed. By the power of the priesthood they are given the promises of eternity.
It was a cold day, though the sun was bright and clear. Christine looked upriver now, searching for other ships. But the sailboat was by itself.
“I wonder if sailboats ever feel lonely?” she said to herself. “Do they ever wonder if anyone notices how well they turn, or how they bump when they hit a swell?” Clément might, she thought. Then again, so might father. They were both fascinated by movement.
From the day when father first brought home his truck, Clément was admiringly by his side. There was a wonder to all that chrome and steel, the thrill of thunder roaring under the hood. Clément wanted to climb in the cab, fire up the engine, shift the gears and roll through mile after mile of freedom. Whenever he could, he rode with his father, and he dreamed of the day when he would have his own rig and a route like his father’s to Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania.
Now, however, there was a competing dream. Not a barrier, not even a detour. A different road, but a good one.
“The prophet said it,” Mother would begin the conversation, like a dozen others already held in the kitchen. “All young men should serve a mission. You’re a young man. You should serve a mission.”
“But the openings in the military won’t wait. Or I could take that job working on cars. Or I could drive with Papa …”
“And those are better ways to spend the next two years?”
Clément would review his options, again and again and again. The chances for work were exciting, all that he’d hoped for. But the mission? It was a better thing.
He prayed. He spoke to the branch president, then the district president. He submitted his papers. One by one the obstacles to serving disappeared.
The job with cars would wait. He couldn’t get a license to drive a big rig for at least two years. He had signed a preliminary agreement with the military, but turned it down the same day his call to the Louisiana Baton Rouge Mission arrived in the mail.
Then Christine thought of another day, just last October. It was overcast, gray, cool. The heavy air smelled of rain. Papa and Clément were up early, as usual on a Monday. The big diesel engine was already throbbing, mildly vibrating the entire house.
Clément stuffed the compartment behind the cab with blankets, canned pudding, instant soup, snack food. He ran inside to get some tapes, his earphones, and a tape player.
Then he thought again, and laid them aside. This was his last trip to Mechanicsburg for two years. He and father would be talking all the way there, talking about his mission.
The stairs were steep at the south end of the terrasse, but Christine took them easily. Hours of volleyball practice had conditioned her to run, and her lungs pulled in air that was crisp and pure. She reached a narrower boardwalk, the Promenade des Gouverneurs, which stretches along the cliffs to reach the Plains of Abraham.
The French love to tell of a great struggle here, when the Chevalier de Lévis, battling to reclaim Quebec, lured the British far from the city and beat them. But those assigned to cut off the retreat failed, and the rest of the army, too tired to pursue, let the enemy escape. British reinforcements arrived soon, and what should have been a French victory turned to defeat.
Christine breathed deeply and let the air out slowly. It surprised her when she thought of a scripture: “Look unto me, and endure to the end, and ye shall live” (3 Ne. 15:9).
“Endure,” she said aloud. “Sometimes you just have to endure.” And then she was remembering again.
It was a routine, the same routine Marie Claude had followed every morning for years. Get up early and care for the animals. Feed Daisy, Belle, and Lady, the horses. Feed Fido, the bull in the barn. Feed three pigs, three sheep, two dogs, four ducks, and any other animals calling the farm home at the moment.
From upstairs, Christine heard Marie Claude come in the house and bolt the back door against the wind. She could imagine her hanging her flannel coat on the peg in the kitchen. Then she heard her pull a chair across the floor and put breakfast dishes on the table.
For as long as Christine could remember, Marie Claude got up early to take care of the animals. But today the routine was different—the movements slower, the pauses longer, the sighs heavy and audible.
And Christine knew why. Last night, Marie Claude had finally told her boyfriend good-bye. He was a decent fellow, a nice man. But he didn’t understand. He’d had the missionary discussions, even been to church a time or two. But all this religion, meetings every Sunday, marriage in a temple—for him it just wouldn’t do.
And now Marie Claude, who loved him and had dated him for a couple of years, who had argued with him before, had sent him away. She sat at the breakfast table, numb, almost crying, wrenching solace from the everyday routine.
At the end of the promenade, there’s a gazebo. To get there, Christine had to mount steps again. Quickly she bounded up them, the end of her run in sight. And as she ran, her mind flashed ahead, like a video on fast forward.
Here was Marie Claude again, but this time she was smiling. Dressed in embroidered chiffon, she sat by a cheery window in a friend’s house, holding hands with an amiable young man in a blue sweater.
It was amazing. When they laughed, it was the same laugh. The smile was the same smile. They looked like each other, they talked like each other. They both had kind eyes. You’d think they were brother and sister, not fiances.
Yet there on the table was their wedding announcement, and it really did seem like a dream come true—“C’est avec joie que nous vous annonçons notre mariage qui aura lieu au Temple de Washington, D.C., mercredi le six mai.” (It is with joy that we announce our marriage in the Washington, D.C. Temple on May 6, 1987.)
André and Marie Claude. They met at church, and fell in love quickly. But after years of struggling to feel right about something that was wrong, it was easy for Marie Claude to do something that felt so true.
At the gazebo, Christine stopped.
She thought about the family. She pictured her mother, joking with the visiting teachers, happily discussing her hobby of decorating cakes. She saw Father, smiling broadly, the proudest sacrament meeting usher the Branche de Québec has as ever had. She imagined Clément, Elder Ferland, teaching missionary lessons in broken English. And she pictured Marie Claude, in her own home as a newlywed, so happy she was almost dancing.
Then she thought of spires of white, rising from a green woodland, and she cherished the promises of eternity.
Christine looked across the ancient battlefields. The rolling hills seemed to be resting, calm now as she was calm. In the distance, a calèche, a carriage, bobbed along the folds of green. From so far away, it seemed to be in slow motion. But in the evening air, she could hear the clip-clop, clip-clop of the horse’s hooves.
She turned and looked again at the river. It was shining still, but it was no longer silver. The setting sun had turned it to gold. And the sailboat, still a silhouette, pulled up to its moorings.
Dusk was past. The time for returning was here.

President Young personally engaged in preaching and baptizing in the Manchester and Preston areas while he continued his various administrative and publishing activities. He had hired the huge Carpenter’s Hall in Manchester for meetings for one year and mentions preaching there “to an attentive congregation of about 1,500.”30 He also tells of organizing the priesthood in Manchester to gather on Sunday mornings and go out street preaching. This provided about 40 “preaching stations,” both for teaching and for notifying gatherers about the regular meetings in Carpenter’s Hall, a procedure that is a regular and effective Mormon proselyting tool even today. But Brigham didn’t just send the elders out. As he recorded, one Sunday in November he “went to the Priesthood meeting in the morning and felt impressed to tell the Brethren to go home. The police, who had been instructed to arrest all street preachers that morning [because of Methodist complaints against the Mormons], took up about twenty, who all proved to be Methodists. When the magistrate learned they were not ‘Mormons,’ they were dismissed.”31

Tucked away in the Uintah Basin of eastern Utah are several small communities. Jedadiah lives in one of these friendly towns. He is a handsome, blond 11-year-old. Jeddy loves academics and is extremely interested in sports. He is excited to soon be eligible to receive the Aaronic Priesthood. Jeddy’s body cannot do the many things that he would like it to do. The cystic fibrosis that exists in his lungs makes breathing rather difficult.

Amanda, Jeddy’s big sister, is a lovely 16-year-old who displays her love for him in a host of ways. She is a source of comfort when times are difficult. She is his link to school, seeing that assignments are brought home daily. A neighbor said, “Amanda is a real heroine in her family.” She understands the significance of “go, and do thou likewise.” Jeddy only travels to Salt Lake City to go to the hospital. For a special reason he is looking forward to October general conference. It is a family tradition that Grandfather takes his grandsons to Salt Lake for general conference following their 12th birthday. Jeddy can hardly wait; neither can Grandpa.

Recently, a sweet 93-year-old sister joined her eternal companion on the other side of the veil. They were blessed with four devoted children. This couple shared their musical talents on thousands of occasions. Many saddened spirits were uplifted in times of mourning as these good Samaritans blended their voices in strains of hope and encouragement. Many children will feel the love of the Savior as they sing Primary songs composed by this sweet sister. As her health declined, loving children spent much time and energy and emotion in meeting her needs. A valiant daughter devoted herself to her mother’s care. They will continue to “go, and do thou likewise.”

In a mountain valley, a small community is the home of a monastery with a declining number of aging monks. A stake Relief Society president, with many other compassionate service responsibilities, regularly checks on the well-being of the monks. She is the first to deliver goodies on days when they are permissible. She cares about their welfare just as she does about the members of her stake.

Bishops regularly call upon volunteer labor to grow and process commodities to fill bishops’ storehouses. Last year, nearly 270,000 days of labor were volunteered in keeping shelves filled and available for use by bishops. Many of us have fond remembrances of our time volunteering on welfare projects. I can still hear a farm manager’s cries of anguish as he observed the damage done to several acres of sugar beets because we had mistaken newly emerging beet plants for weeds. The blessings we received for our service turned out to be a “Scotch blessing.”

President Monson said, “We have a responsibility to extend help as well as hope to the hungry, to the homeless, and to the downtrodden both at home and abroad” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1990, 3; or Ensign, May 1990, 4).

Picture a small, one-room apartment which is home for a family of six. The room is dirty and cluttered. The family has not been to church in years.

As the ward welfare committee discussed the family’s needs, there was a feeling of discouragement, for bishops, over the years, had helped the family often. In the discussion, a new idea began to dawn. Perhaps, if the committee called upon the resources of the Lord’s storehouse—the talents and skills of ward members—even this difficult situation could be assisted.

The committee first focused on future possibilities as well as immediate needs. As possibilities turned to reality, hope and optimism replaced gloom and depression. Filled with hope, the family committed to help improve their own situation. The committee also went to work. A hairstylist gave the family haircuts. A dentist volunteered, and for the first time in years, a mother was not embarrassed to smile. A new pair of glasses allowed this mother to once again read to her children. A financial specialist worked with the family in budgeting their funds. A three-year-old received much needed physical therapy.

Slowly the family began to believe their life could be different. The apartment, once dirty and disorganized, began to show signs of order and cleanliness. Curtains went up on the windows. Just a year later, invitations were extended by this family to an open house for their three-bedroom home.

A wounded family was found by the side of the road, a family suffering just as much as the traveler from Jerusalem in Jesus’ day. The family’s cries were heard, and their wounds were bound. The modern good Samaritans followed the divine injunction to “go, and do thou likewise.” Spiritual lives were also rescued. Today, this family is active in the Church and preparing to receive the blessings of the temple.

Many who hold the Aaronic Priesthood realize it is a preparation for a lifetime of service. Gerardo Emmanuel Bagnati, 12, of the Floresta Ward, Buenos Aires Argentina Liniers Stake, says: “I always looked forward to receiving the priesthood. I loved asking my father and grandfather about it and listening to their experiences. When my ordination day finally arrived, I woke up early and thanked the Lord for His confidence in me and promised Him I would never willingly disappoint Him. When my father put his hands on my head and ordained me a deacon, I felt I had ceased to be a child and had become an adult. I’ll never forget it.”

The youth and adults of the Farmington Utah Stake presented an original musical production about the exasperation leading to the organization of the Primary. Entitled “Oh, Those Boys!”, the musical showed boys killing bats during Sunday School in the attic of the Church. A chorus of young girls sang the pleasures and responsibilities of being “at the end of the row.” (In early Primaries, older, well-behaved children were placed at the end of the row to set an example and control the other children.)

“Oh, Those Boys!” played two nights, and most of the audience went away informed, entertained, and amazed at the job the young people had done.

A few weeks later, my mom and I went for a vacation to Idaho with her sister. A couple of my cousins invited me to a youth dance at the church, and I had a great time. I danced with a young man who had received a mission call to Korea. He asked if he could write to me, and I agreed.
In his first letter, this young man shared missionary experiences with me and bore his testimony of the gospel. I don’t know whether I was swept off my feet by him or the Spirit. But after all those years of inactivity, I decided to go back to church and check things out.
I roped one of my older brothers into going with me so I wouldn’t have to sit alone. I don’t remember the meeting at all. I just remember thinking, “Everybody must be looking at me and saying, ‘Look, Gretchen is at church. I wonder why.’ ” I was so uncomfortable by the end of the meeting that I planned a quick escape as soon as the closing prayer ended.
That’s when something happened that changed my life forever. Four girls I remembered from Primary ran up and surrounded me. They were so happy to see me at church, and I felt their sincerity. They asked if I would come back later that night to a youth fireside. I agreed and then left for home.
I talked my brother into going with me again. At the fireside, a man stood to speak and said he felt impressed not to give his prepared talk but to share his testimony and then let us do the same. All of a sudden, my whole being felt on fire. I don’t know how long it took me to get up, but I stood and bore my testimony that now I knew why I had been feeling unhappy and lost. It was the gospel that was missing in my life. I knew I needed to make some changes.
Now, almost 30 years later, I am still grateful to those young women who didn’t let me escape the chapel that day. I later met and married a returned missionary in the Idaho Falls Temple. We have four children, three of whom have married in the temple. Our oldest son served a mission, and our last is now planning to go on his. I have served in the Young Women program of the Church. Each time I teach a lesson on service, I share my life-changing experience in hopes that the same will be done for others as was done for me.
I believe my simple prayer was answered on that mountaintop. Heavenly Father does hear and answer our prayers. And my prayer was answered because four girls chose the right. They put their arms around a lost soul and invited her back. There are Gretchens out there who need to be brought back. You never know whose life can and will be changed forever if you will just reach out and be a loving, caring friend.

Eighteen-year-old Keri Ainge of Sutton Coldfield, England, barely caught her breath after baptism before she was totally immersed in missionary work, both for the living and for the dead.
Keri helped the missionaries teach her own mother, and then together she and her mother started sorting out their family history. They’ve researched six generations back into the 1700s. “We searched one graveyard at Hockley, Birmingham, for three days hunting for one great-grandparent’s grave,” said Keri. “It was amazing when we found the right one.”
Keri has also spent several weeks helping the sister missionaries in Coventry and Northampton. This helped her love the work so much she’s determined to serve a full-time mission of her own just as soon as she turns 21.

My niece Katie was a hopeful 20-year-old university student with many talents and plans for the future. Four years ago Katie died in an auto accident. Though our family still feels much homesickness for her, we know that we will be with her again, and we are not worried about her. In Katie’s wallet was her temple recommend, given to her by her bishop so she could be baptized for her ancestors. Katie was worthy. Not long before Katie died she wrote these words: “If this were my last day on earth, this is the record I would leave. Make each day meaningful. … Stay close to the Lord. Gain all the knowledge you can about the scriptures, the gospel, the creations of the Lord. … Give of yourself … and always remember Christ for His example and His Atonement and strive each day to be like Him.” Katie had entered in the way that leads to eternal life, and she had stayed in.

Last summer when I was away from home, a fierce wind and rainstorm blew through our neighborhood. A huge tree had fallen from my neighbor’s yard, filling my yard and knocking down power lines. The tree needed to be removed before the damage could be repaired and power restored to my home.
Early in the morning I called my brother, who planned to find some equipment and come as soon as he could. I also called my bishop. Within minutes my bishop, home teacher, former stake president, and 10 men from my ward were there with their chain saws and made quick work of this disaster. My visiting teachers brought in dinner that evening. Many more men from the high priests group, the elders quorum, and the neighborhood came on subsequent evenings to assist me and my family in cleaning up the mess.
I was needy on that occasion. I needed help from others. My discouragement turned into joy and gratitude. I felt loved and cared for. These people were quick to recognize one in need. They lived their testimony and demonstrated the reality of their covenants.

Illustration by Dilleen Marsh
“Will you accept this challenge?” the missionaries asked.
The missionaries were focusing on me. After dinner with our family, they left us with a spiritual message and the challenge to read the Book of Mormon and pray to know if it was true. I accepted the challenge without thinking much of it.
I’m an ordinary girl, with an ordinary life, and I pray every night. But I had never actually prayed to find out for myself if the Church is true. I believed it with all my heart, but I had never known that what I believed was true. I thought about this for a while and then committed myself to take the missionaries’ challenge seriously.
On Monday night I read and I prayed, and I didn’t get any kind of confirmation. I began to think, “Be patient, Rachael, the Lord will reveal His answers when it is pleasing to Him.”
This went on for a week. Every night I would end my day by my bedside, where I read and prayed for an answer. By Saturday, I was worn out and could hardly keep my eyes open to read. I was trying so hard to live the gospel and to be an example, yet I was getting no answer.
These feelings began to weigh me down, so I did what I had always been taught. I knelt down and prayed. Nothing happened. So I continued praying, and I poured out my soul to my Heavenly Father. My heart began to ache because I wanted to know if all my efforts were worth it.
With tears streaming down my worried face, I opened up my Book of Mormon to the third chapter of Mosiah and began to read. As I read, the verses quickly caught my weary eyes. I put my name into the scriptures and read aloud, “My [Rachael], I would call your attention, for I have somewhat more to speak unto you. … And he said unto me: Awake, and hear the words which I shall tell thee.” By now my eyes were as big as apples. I was being told to awake and listen to the scriptures. I kept reading as my heart was filled with the Spirit. “For behold, I am come to declare unto you the glad tidings of great joy.
“For the Lord hath heard thy prayers, and hath judged of thy righteousness, and hath sent me to declare unto thee that thou mayest rejoice” (see Mosiah 3:1–4). The Spirit filled my entire room. I knew. I knew without a doubt that this Church was true, for the Lord had heard my prayers.
Some may call it coincidence, and others may call it luck, but I know my Heavenly Father was listening to His daughter here on earth. I know He knows my heart and what I feel. He wants all of us to return to Him. I know this Church is true. The missionaries’ challenge blessed my life.

One of grandfather’s finest qualities, and the one that I’d like to make the focus of this article, was his ability to forgive. Examples from his journal are many. Reading them has not only built up our love and respect for him, but it has given my family a greater desire and determination to live this same principle.
In grandfather’s journal dated September 28, 1906, we find the following: “As I piled my hay and did my work, I took twelve piles and stuck over the fence to my neighbor, as they had no hay for the horse and cows; and we could see a little gone from our area the night before.” He declared, “I would rather give them a little than have them steal.”
The Savior taught us this principle of forgiving and how important it is in our lives. He said: “Wherefore, I say unto you, that ye ought to forgive one another; for he that forgiveth not his brother his trespasses standeth condemned before the Lord; for there remaineth in him the greater sin.
“I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.
“And ye ought to say in your hearts—Let God judge between me and thee, and reward thee according to thy deeds.” (D&C 64:9–11.)
When we forgive men in our hearts and let the Lord judge the acts of men, we create a condition whereby men can live in peace with one another. Forgiving others frees us of ill feelings toward them. It lifts the burden of grudges from our heads, and it puts us in a position of seeking forgiveness from the Lord for our own sins. A spirit of forgiveness enables us to remain in control of our thoughts, words, and actions. An attitude of forgiveness generates a feeling of peace and optimism about life. Being forgiving helps us to keep from being easily offended, and we are less likely to judge the intentions of others in a negative way. We are also ready to accept correction and criticism ourselves. In times when we may be wronged or mistreated, we can, in the spirit of love and peace, work out solutions to the problems. We can determine a positive course of action. If an honorable agreement cannot be reached, the attitude of forgiveness provides us the strength to turn the other cheek in the spirit of love.
On one occasion some men were constructing a watering gate in a canal on grandfather’s farm. He noticed that they were placing the gate in the wrong location. He tried to persuade them to put the gate in a location that they had originally agreed upon. The foreman became angry. He said, “Johansen, that will be enough from you. We’re going to do just as we please.” Grandfather replied, “And so will all robbers.” Then he began to sing the words of a Danish song that begins, “Be careful what you say.” These words were a reminder to him to remain forgiving. The men continued to build the watering gate, but the gate did grandfather very little good. He never mentioned the wrong that these men had done to him, but he often recorded how he had to pray for rain because he could get so little water from the canal. He also records that the rain came.
Yes, prayer is a very important part of the spirit of forgiveness. We must ask the Lord to forgive those who offend us and soften our hearts toward them. Through prayer we may find the strength to forgive others and leave their judging in the hands of the Lord. We also receive comfort and direction for our own lives. Grandfather Johansen’s life has demonstrated the value of living the principles of forgiveness and obedience. His faith in the Lord enabled him to live a full and happy life, a life which has left his posterity a rich spiritual heritage. I am grateful to him and to my Heavenly Father that my family are the beneficiaries of that righteous man.

I remember distinctly the time and place I found my spiritual second wind, my more sure witness of the Book of Mormon. I was in Scotland in my first assignment as a missionary in a little town called Barrhead just outside of Glasgow. I had been challenged by a Scotsman asking me how I knew the Book of Mormon was true. It was at that point I realized I had never received a sure witness or even put the book to the test as Moroni challenges us in Moroni 10:3–5. You first have to have a sincere desire to read the Book of Mormon; then you study and ponder the message with real intent and pray in faith, asking the Lord if it is true—something I had not yet done.
It was later one evening as I was kneeling by my bed in humble prayer that I received a feeling so powerful, so sweet, and so warm that it was as if I had just reached the crest of a hill in my spiritual race for truth and understanding. The Holy Ghost bore witness to my soul that the Book of Mormon was true. Like my physical second wind, no one can tell me that I imagined this witness. It was real! I knew it, and no one could take it away from me. From that point on, I had no problem bearing testimony of the Book of Mormon, living prophets, and the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I could never deny it!

We learn of the dedication which was given to the seminary program in its very beginning by reading from a diary of John M. Whitaker, one of the early instructors of the seminary program. In April of 1915 he was employed as an instructor in the Granite Seminary with a salary of $1,500 per year. He found little to work with as he assumed his new position. His diary records:
“I had to start without the least scratch, or outline, and I thought out many approaches to the new problem before me. I had taught several years at the University of Deseret. But there I knew my course well, but to commence a course now, where here-to-fore the Bible alone had been the guide, and to meet the need of the hour when students of the age coming into high school and junior work, with strict outlines and supervision, with everything before them and now coming from the discipline of high school requirements, into religion class work where they could come if they desired or remain away, … but to take religion which was frowned down upon during the week days, only for Sundays, was a task too great to undertake alone. So I did as I have always done when presented with a task, went in humility and prayer to my Father in Heaven and in my simplicity told him my problem and asked for inspiration, guidance, wisdom and courage for the task before me. … I was unknown to most of the Faculty and students of the Granite High and so during the summer I thought out how best to make a beginning.”
He became enthusiastic about the beginning of the year in teaching at Granite High School and looked forward to registration day, on September 3, 1915. A crowd of students was on hand, and his journal entry describes the event: “Commenced a very important period of my life and one that will, I am sure affect the destiny of thousands of the youth of Zion, if the plans maturing in my mind blossom into fruition” (quoted in Lyman Clarence Pedersen Jr., “John Mills Whitaker: Diarist, Educator, Churchman” [master’s thesis, University of Utah, 1960], 167).
His diary records events step-by-step which led to the tremendous success he had in carrying forward this program over the years. Significant is the statement of the late S. Dilworth Young, one of the Seventy, who was one of Brother Whitaker’s earliest seminary students: “Had Elder A. Theodore Tuttle been clairvoyant, he would have seen in the year 1914 a fourteen-and-a-half-year-old stripling entering the first seminary instituted by the Church. Across the street from Granite High School a building had been constructed—one room in size—a teacher employed, and the school opened to students. I was that stripling. There died yesterday the third teacher of that particular seminary. The teacher was John M. Whitaker.
“I should like to make a short tribute to Brother Whitaker. He likely did not know the profound influence he had upon me as a boy, as I studied minutely under him and Guy C. Wilson before him, the detail of the Bible, the Book of Mormon, and the Doctrine and Covenants. I look back upon it now, realizing that there was where I got my first detailed knowledge of these standard works. Could I have enough influence I would see to it that every boy and every girl in the Church had a like experience under a man of faith” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1960, 80).

Opra Ouma says that remembering the Young Women values gives her the strength to live the gospel. “Even if I’m not with the LDS young single adults, when I’m out in the world, I can apply the Young Women values and still be safe,” she says.

Opra first learned these values before she was baptized. When she was 17, Opra saw the missionaries on the street one day and wondered who they were. She studied the gospel for a year and was baptized after she turned 18. The community of Latter-day Saints fortifies her spiritually.

“When I’m at the church with fellow young single adults, I feel safe, but when I’m outside there, I don’t feel very safe because most of the time I’m the only Latter-day Saint among the group,” she says. “Sometimes it’s challenging because the standards of the world and the standards of the Church are totally different.”

“Mom, do you believe in miracles?” I asked my mother later that morning as I helped her clean the family room.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“What do you think a miracle is?”
Mom thought for a moment. “I suppose a miracle is something that doesn’t normally happen, and when it does happen, it’s because the Lord helps it happen that way. For example, when you had an earache in the middle of the night last year and there was no way to get you to the doctor, Dad gave you a priesthood blessing. Right away the pain stopped, and you went to sleep. That wasn’t a huge miracle, but it was a miracle.”

Brother Yáñez believes that the Lord answered his prayer and allowed him to be Paola’s donor in order to change his heart. “If they had operated on my wife instead of me, I believe I would have gone on living the same life,” he says. It was not a life he is proud of—drinking, smoking, and gambling. He overcame his addictions, he says, because of the answers he received to his prayers. But it was very difficult; he acknowledges that only God could have helped him change.

He served a full-time mission in the Texas South Mission. His testimony was further strengthened during his mission when he met a minister of another religion who told the young missionary that the only people who were to go to heaven were the members of his small church in Texas.
“I couldn’t imagine our Heavenly Father being that unkind to the rest of us. That night as I prayed to my Heavenly Father, He bore witness to my spirit that His plan and His love were for everyone. I knew then our message to the world was true.”

“Ah, come on,” called Mike impatiently. “It’s going to be time to go home before we get started.”
“All right! Don’t rush me,” Jerry called back. Jerry, who never liked to be hurried, came out of the house dressed in a pirate costume.
“Hey, you look super,” Mike said.
“So do you, Mike. Where shall we start?”
“Let’s start with the Andersons next door,” Mike answered.
When the door opened, Jerry said, “Give us a treat or we’ll give you a trick.”
“Goodness,” said Mrs. Anderson in mock surprise, “I certainly don’t want a trick. Wait here and I’ll get you a treat.”
The door closed and Jerry started to giggle. “Wouldn’t it be fun if she refused to give us a treat and we could play a trick on her?”
“What would you do?” asked Mike.
“Something that would really make her cross.” He laughed again. “She really looks funny when she’s excited.”
“Sh-h. Here she comes,” cautioned Mike.
Mrs. Anderson returned with a bowl of apples. “Will these do?” she asked, offering each boy an apple.
“Thanks,” they called as they ran down the driveway.
An hour later Mike peered into his bag.
“Look at all this stuff!” he exclaimed. “Let’s go home. It’s getting kind of cold.”
“Why the big rush?” asked Jerry. “There’s still a lot of houses we can go to.”
“I guess I should have worn a heavier jacket,” complained Mike.
“Let’s go to just one more house, then we’ll go home,” Jerry promised, turning into the next driveway.
“All right, but not this house,” said Mike walking on.
“Why not?” asked Jerry, hurrying to catch up with him.
“Mr. Johnson lives there and he’s an old grouch.”
“I know he is,” said Jerry, “but Dad says it’s probably because his wife and little boy were killed in a car accident a few years ago.”
“But why should he take it out on us? We didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I know,” said Jerry. “But Dad says that when some people are unhappy, they take it out on everyone around them.”
“He sure gets after us,” Mike complained. “The other day we walked across his lawn and you should have heard him. You’d have thought we were digging it up instead of just walking on it.”
“Dad says he used to be a real neat guy. He spent lots of time teaching the neighborhood kids how to play football.”
“Boy, has he changed! You wouldn’t catch him doing anything like that now,” Mike groused. “Say, I have a great idea. Since Mr. Johnson has been so crabby with us, let’s give him a little surprise.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“Let’s pile leaves against his front door so that when he opens it, a mountain of leaves will pour in on him.”
“That would be fun,” agreed Jerry, “but we’d better not. If my Dad found out, I’d be a goner.”
“Then what can we do?” Mike questioned.
The boys walked on in silence. “I know something we can do,” said Jerry finally.
“What?” asked Mike.
“The neighbors have given us lots of stuff, haven’t they?”
“Yeah?”
“We could fill a basket with some of our treats and leave it on Mr. Johnson’s porch. That would be a real surprise!”
“What kind of an idea is that?” Mike grumbled.
“Come on, Mike,” Jerry coaxed. “Let’s do it and see what happens.”
“Well, OK,” agreed Mike reluctantly, “but I think it’s a dumb idea.”
At Jerry’s house the boys found an old Easter basket and filled it with treats.
“Should we put a note on it or something?” Mike asked.
“Let’s write ‘Happy Halloween’ on a piece of paper and sign it ‘your friends,’” suggested Jerry.
At Mr. Johnson’s house the boys put the basket on the porch, rang the bell, and quickly hid behind some bushes. Mr. Johnson opened the door and peered out. When he realized no one was there, he scowled. “A prankster again. I should have known,” he muttered. Mr. Johnson started to close the door when he spied the basket. “What’s this?” he asked, picking it up. He read the card. “My! My!” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “What a surprise! Who would do such a nice thing?”
“He surely seems pleased,” whispered Mike.
“He does, doesn’t he,” answered Jerry.
The next morning Mr. Johnson was sitting on his porch when Mike and Jerry passed on their way to school. The basket was beside him. “Good morning,” he called, “would you boys come up here for a minute?”
Mike and Jerry exchanged glances. They started to walk across the lawn, then they changed their minds and walked on the sidewalk.
“Thank you for walking on the sidewalk and not across my lawn,” said Mr. Johnson. “I have a terrible time making it look decent with all these shade trees. Did you get lots of treats last night?” he asked.
“Yes sir, we did,” said Jerry.
“So did I,” said Mr. Johnson. “My treats were delivered in this basket,” and he lifted the basket up onto his lap. “It brought back a lot of memories. It reminds me of a basket my little boy once had. He used to fill it with treats for his grandmother then secretly leave it on her porch. Could you help me eat some of these goodies?”
The boys looked at each other and then helped themselves to a cookie. As they ate, Mr. Johnson went on talking. “Thinking about my little boy made me remember how I used to kick a football around with him. Maybe you boys would like to go to the park Saturday with me. I used to play a lot of football.”
“That would be neat,” said Mike.
“Yeah,” said Jerry, “we’d like that. Can we stop by on our way home from school and make plans?”
“You bet,” Mr. Johnson answered. “I’ll be expecting you.”
The boys started toward school but stopped to wave good-bye to their new friend before they turned the corner.
“Jerry,” said Mike just before they entered the school building, “I’m glad we didn’t do that dumb thing I suggested about piling leaves on Mr. Johnson’s porch. It was a lot more fun surprising him with the basket. I can hardly wait until Saturday!”

About the time she entered school, our daughter Anissa, who is nick-named Niss, began greeting each day with a negative attitude that affected the entire family. So I started calling her “Happy Niss.” That may seem strange, but it wasn’t a lie because I knew that happiness was and is an innate quality of her spirit.
“Good morning, Happy Niss,” I’d call in my most cheerful voice; and she’d call back, “I’m not happy. I’m just Niss.”
But I persisted in calling her Happy Niss. Things began to ease, but she still had grumpy mornings. Then one night as I tucked her into bed I said, “Do you know what I love, Happy Niss?”
“What?” she asked.
“I love to see that beautiful, bright, big smile of yours first thing in the morning. My whole day goes better when your smile is the first thing I see.”
She didn’t say a word. The next morning I was preparing breakfast when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see straggly haired, sleepy-eyed Anissa with the strangest forced grin stretched across her face.
“What is the matt—” I started, then stopped, remembering my words of the night before. “Oh, that smile!” I cried, and threw my arms around her. “I just know it’s going to be a good day now!” And it was.
The real climax to that experience came in a recent home evening when each of us was asked to describe one trait that made us unique or special. Anissa’s immediate response was, “I’m always happy.” The idea had now become part of her self-image.