Gospel Story Finder

In February 2017, my sister, and best friend, Sharon Mabuku, passed away while I was in boarding school. My twin brother and I received a message from the vice principal that our parents wanted to meet us on the way home. Most of our classmates walked with us to the school gate. They knew of the sad news about the death of my sister though they never told us that they knew. Instead, they only put on smiling faces.
The journey back home was not one to remember. We stopped at a small town called Mvuma because of a funeral car that overtook, and stopped, in front of the car we boarded. Suddenly I saw my father coming out of that same car. He walked to the car we were in and paid the driver. In a few minutes, a bus came by, and my father, with a sad face and red eyes full of tears, asked if we could get onto the bus. Tears started to stream down our faces as we boarded the bus and sat down by my mother. She then told us, “Be like men my children, be strong. She is gone.”
I cried because I was not able to see my sister during the viewing. Questions started to flow into my mind: Does God really exist? If so, why did He not answer our prayers? Instead, God answered my sister’s prayer when she cried, “Father, take my soul, I’m in pain.”
After that cry, everyone who was in the room stopped praying and saw Sharon pass away.

Thenceforth, I continued to walk leisurely, convinced that only dogs would act they way I had just witnessed. I was certainly saddened, in spite of my surroundings, when at a distance before me I saw two men locked in physical combat. I intervened, and they stopped at a point when one of them pulled a long knife. My presence was properly timed to prevent the certain death of the other who was apparently without any defensive weapon except his hands. I inquired what was wrong, and they began accusing each other. As a lawyer, I advised them that whoever won the fight is not a winner in the true sense because not only would he be deprived of peace of mind but that the authorities would see to it that he went to jail to pay for his crime.
The cause of it all, I finally found out, was that one owed the other the measly sum of $10.00 which he could not pay at the moment but promised to do so in an uncertain future. The latter, obviously drunk, became fed up with promises and so decided to settle it his way on the assumption it would solve his problem. Naturally, I remarked that it is the duty of the courts to collect debts otherwise impossible of recovery and that to take somebody’s life is too high a price for such an insignificant amount.
I left these two men shaking hands in renewed friendship, as I volunteered to pay the debt in behalf of the debtor.
The course taken by these two men was surely less forgivable than that of the dogs. Dogs are not expected to exercise self-control. But many of us act like dogs if we don’t.

Before being called as an Area Seventy, I faced one of the most challenging phases of my faith journey. Financial difficulties left us unable to purchase food, prompting the sale of all our possessions. Witnessing my wife part with cherished mementos from her grandmother and mother was particularly poignant. Since our car was out of gas, I was walking through our town in search of a pawnshop.
While walking, I remembered a conversation with a very good friend undergoing his own profound challenges. In my attempt to help, I advised him to cultivate gratitude. His response struck a chord: “In order for me to be grateful, I have to think of someone who is going through worse hardships than I am! It is very hard to find someone like that.”
I resonated deeply with his sentiment, feeling emotionally trapped amid my wife’s suffering and my children’s sadness. Despite having placed my trust in the Savior. He had told me: “Thou art mine”1. He had chosen me with His promises of making me a “special people unto himself”2 and “to make [me] high above all nations which he hath made”3. I had adhered faithfully to practices of tithing, fasting, prayer, and temple worship, the promised windows of heaven4 remained closed, and I felt abandoned.
In moments of heightened affliction, I adopted the practice of posing two fundamental questions to the divine: “O Lord, what is thy wish that I do? What is thy wish that I should learn?” Almost immediately, a thought surfaced: “And it came to pass that he built an altar of stones, and made an offering unto the Lord, and gave thanks unto the Lord our God.”5
This prompted a contemplation of the plight of Lehi, who, through no fault of his own, was compelled to abandon his home, leaving behind his possessions, including “his house, and the land of his inheritance, and his gold, and his silver, and his precious things, and took nothing with him.”6 Having spent his entire life in Jerusalem, leaving behind lifelong dreams and the fruits of his labor, Lehi faced a seemingly insurmountable challenge. Yet, gratitude was the principle by which he lived and sought salvation. “Great and marvelous are thy works, O Lord God Almighty!”7
For Lehi, gratitude was not contingent on circumstances; it was a decision with a specific focus: Jesus Christ. And so, I gratefully discovered, “If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.”8
In the midst of my own trials, I internalized the practice of building altars of gratitude daily through prayer. My aim was to be grateful without comparison, expectation, or dependence on external circumstances—a profound shift in perspective.
At the beginning of each prayer, I intentionally directed my thoughts toward the life and mission of my Savior. The process was transformative. The more earnestly I expressed gratitude, the more the Spirit bore witness to the truths of mercy and grace. Through this practice, I gained a testimony of the “intent of this last sacrifice”9 of my Savior and that his “bowels are filled with compassion towards (us)”10.
He perfectly knew me in His mercy. As my gratitude found expression, my faith deepened, and my soul rejoiced. I came to understand that these daily altars of gratitude were paving the way to the throne of grace.11. We were blessed both materially and spiritually in the days that followed. But, for everything I’ve been through, I wouldn’t want to trade places with any king. My trials led me to draw closer to and to know my Savior Jesus Christ. He lives!

I had finally come to know myself. I remember a day when, 15 and confused, I borrowed Sandy’s jeans. Sandy was everything I wished I was—cute, popular, self-confident. Somehow I guess I thought that if I wore her jeans, I’d be more like her. But her body, shapely for 15, was about three sizes bigger than my wiry one. I guess I looked pretty silly with her pants hanging on me like a bag, held tight around my waist with a belt, then ballooning out like a clown’s costume. I remember Grandpa’s face, so serious, so gentle: “Honey, why do you wear Sandy’s clothes? Why do you talk like her and laugh like her?” Embarrassed I looked to the floor, at the pants that hung inches past my feet.
“Why not be yourself?” he said.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I sobbed. “How can I be myself? I don’t even know who I am.”
Grandpa held me on his lap as if I were a child again, quietly, till the crying stopped and the tears dried. With a smile he looked into my eyes. “You used to know,” he said. “But we all forget sometimes. Take Sandy’s pants back to her. Together we’ll rediscover you. Then you can be yourself.”

On a visit to London, Stephens first stumbled over his future in the form of Descriptions of an Ancient City, by a Capitán Del Rio, who had visited a strange, ruined city in Mexico called Palenque. He later learned of a second lost Mexican city, Uxmal. In 1835, he eagerly pounced upon a professional journal describing a ruined Honduran city, Copan.
Palenque, Copan, Uxmal. His mind now stirred with visions of nebulous civilization that had existed in Central America. Amazingly enough, he seemed the only one interested. “Instead of electrifying the public,” he wrote, “little notice was taken [of the Copan article].” Nonetheless, he announced his intention to search for those lost cities.
“Nonsense!” roared scientists and public alike. Indians had never progressed beyond savagery. Americans of that age could believe in almost anything other than an “Indian” civilization, in spite of evidence from the conquest. Such proofs were either ignored or downgraded as Spanish public-relations puffery. Scholars and historians held fast to their antiquated beliefs and scorned Stephens’ efforts.
There was, in truth, little documentary evidence to counter what scholars supposed. Joseph Smith’s detractors would vilify him for plagiarism, for example, when there was nothing to plagiarize. Even in 1839, the very well-educated—and rich—Mr. Stephens had great difficulty scraping up any real evidence of an ancient American culture. His meager references were poor in detail. And in Joseph Smith’s time, records were even poorer—or nonexistent.
This dearth of information made even the irrepressible Stephens a bit skeptical, but he had high hopes. In company with a kindred spirit—and accomplished artist—Frederic Catherwood, he set sail for Central America.
Their first goal, Copan, was a sickly village of mud-walled huts. But discovery loomed near. A native guide led them through the jungle to a riverbank. Opposite reared a hundred-foot-high stone wall—the edge of ancient Copan and of a new era in history. Quickly crossing the river and scaling the wall, they found themselves amid the fallen relics of a forgotten civilization.
“Working our way through the thick woods,” Stephens wrote. “we came upon a square stone column, about fourteen feet high … sculptured on all four … sides … in very bold relief … they were works of art … some equal to the finest monuments of the Egyptians.
“America [said historians of the 1830’s] was peopled by savages; but savages never built these structures, savages never carved these stones. When we asked the Indians if they knew who made them, their dull answer was ‘Quién sabe? [Who knows?]’”
The scholars and historians of the Western world could not have answered any better. Copan—and the Mayas—surged to their lofty level of art and culture while Europe descended into the gloom of the dark ages. They conquered the jungles and strung their cities through Yucatan like sparkling gems on a jeweled collar. But for the Old World, their deeds and histories were as quiet as the silent jungle they lived in.
Sometime before A.D. 900, however, the Mayas abruptly and mysteriously stepped off the stage of history. For a thousand years, Copan lay buried by the thick, heavy Honduran jungle until disturbed in 1839 by Stephens and Catherwood.
The pair could not see it all—the jungle was too thick. They concentrated on the unburied “idols,” or stelae. These were huge, thirty-ton monoliths carved with an incredible profusion of figures, flowers, and animals. Erected on set dates to commemorate events unknown to us, they climaxed the Mayan genius.
In a two-year journey, Stephens and Catherwood discovered and rediscovered Copan, Palenque, Uxmal, Chichén Itzá, and forty other ruined Mayan sites. The mystery deepened, and Stephens’ reactions were rhapsodic. At Palenque, he said:
“Here were the remains of a cultivated, polished, and peculiar people, who had passed through all the stages of the rise and fall of nations; reached their golden age, and perished entirely unknown. The links which connected them with the human family were severed and lost, and these were the only memorials of their footsteps upon earth … In the romance of the world’s history, nothing ever impressed me more forcibly than the spectacle of this once great and lovely city, overturned, desolate, and lost; discovered by accident, overgrown with trees for miles around, and without even a name to distinguish it.”
The dedication of the two explorers in uncovering these mysteries baffles the modern mind. In an age when gentlemen stayed at home, these two suffered hunger, malaria, myriads of insect attacks, extreme physical discomfort, and near brushes with death. To accomplish what?
History judges Stephens among the great. His contribution is rated equal to Jean Francois Champollion (1790–1832), French Egyptologist who discovered a stone that had writing in three languages. From the stone, he was able to decipher ancient Egyptian writing; or to Heinrich Schliemann (1822–1890), German archeologist, who excavated the city of Troy in Anatolia, proving this legendary Greek city actually existed.
From our point of view. Stephens’ importance is momentous: John Lloyd Stephens and Joseph Smith never met, but the Book of Mormon’s cry in the wilderness was now reinforced as Stephens’ physical testimony of Lehi’s people swept over the world.

This principle was made clear in a story told by David O. McKay at a Relief Society general conference meeting in 1947. He related the testimony of one of the survivors of the ill-fated Martin Handcart Company. A man was speaking to a group of people and questioning the wisdom of the Church leaders in letting a group of converts cross the plains with no more protection than handcarts could afford. A man in the audience stood up and said, “I ask you to stop this criticism. You are discussing a matter you know nothing about.” He stated that he was a survivor of that company. He said,

We suffered beyond anything you can imagine and many died of exposure and starvation, but did you ever hear a survivor of that company utter a word of criticism? Not one of that company ever apostatized or left the Church, because everyone of us came through with the absolute knowledge that God lives for we became acquainted with him in our extremities. [David O. McKay, “Pioneer Women,” Relief Society Magazine, January 1948, p. 8]

Thus we see that the fruits of enduring in the Lord is the miracle of testimony, and testimony helps us to endure to the end.

All of you will recall that during the last few years of his life President Hinckley always had a cane with him. He would walk to his seat in the Conference Center while waving to the crowd with his cane or using it to tap someone on the shoulder. President Hinckley and I for years went to the same doctor, and during one of my visits a few years ago, the doctor said to me, “Could you please do me a favor? President Hinckley should use his cane for walking because it steadies him. The last thing we want is for him to fall and break a hip, or worse. Instead, he waves it around and doesn’t use it when he walks. Tell him the cane has been prescribed by his doctor, and he needs to use it as it was meant to be used.”

I listened to the physician’s request and then replied, “Doctor, I am President Hinckley’s counselor. You are his doctor. You tell him!”

Jacob Spori, the first principal of the Bannock Stake Academy, which later became Ricks College, and now BYU-Idaho, invoked the image of a mighty oak tree when he prophesied concerning the academy: "The seeds we’re planting today will grow and become mighty oaks and their branches will run all over the earth."
Jacob Spori was a highly educated Swiss immigrant and served as principal of the academy from 1888 until 1891. The academy struggled financially in its early years. During one of those early years, Brother Spori applied his salary to the debt of the school and took an additional job with the railroad. The salary he made with the railroad was then used to pay the teachers at the academy. He was an example of sacrifice and service, and never lost sight of his vision for this place and students that attend. Jacob Spori was a “mighty oak.”

Several British men returning from armed service developed health complications and died during the pandemic. George Bradley was baptised a Latter-day Saint at age eight and had been valiant in his Church service throughout his youth, as well as during his military service. While returning from active duty in France, he became ill and passed away on 2 February 1918.12 A well-attended military funeral was held for the twenty-eight-year-old, who had been serving as the president of the Derby branch at the time of his death.13 George had enlisted in the Royal Garrison Artillery (RGA) in 1916 and left his young widow, family, and friends behind. Many people followed his elm casket, covered with the Union Jack, as he was carried by fellow soldiers from the RGA. In addition to his local congregation, friends from the Nottingham branch and other member friends sent flowers to his family as a token of respect and sympathy.14

Illustrations by Maryn Roos
Saturday morning at the Cooper house
Don’t tell me Matt and Dad are still sleeping. I thought I was the lazy one on Saturdays.
Oh, they’ve already had breakfast and left. They went to see Matt’s new friend, Franco.
He has a new friend already? That’s not fair. I haven’t found any new friends yet. I wish we hadn’t moved!
We’ve only been here a week. Just give it time. You made lots of friends at your old school. You’ll make friends here too.
Remember, if you want to have a friend …
I know, I know. If you want to have a friend, be a friend.
Meanwhile, at Franco’s house …
Hi, I’m Josh Cooper.
I’m Hector Delgado.
Some of these rocks are really cool. What’s this one?
That’s a geode. Lots of them are hollow, and some have awesome crystals inside. My dad says geodes are like some people—not much to look at on the outside, but pretty cool inside.
If they’re like people, are any of these rocks musical?
What do you mean?
Because then we could have a rock concert!

It is not difficult to apply these principles in a family setting, especially to our children. Parenting is good training to become good Christians; occasionally children think of their parents in that context. Years ago, Jack Smith told of a poignant story of two young boys at Christmastime.
“I didn’t question Timmy, age nine, or his seven-year-old brother, Billy, about the brown wrapping paper they passed back and forth between them as we visited each store.
“Every year at Christmastime, our Service Club takes the children from poor families in our town on a personally conducted shopping tour. I was assigned Timmy and Billy, whose father was out of work. After giving them the allotted [U.S.] $4.00 each, we began our trip. At different stores I made suggestions, but always their answer was a solemn shake of the head, no. Finally, I asked, ‘Where would you suggest we look?’
“‘Could we go to a shoe store, Sir?’ answered Timmy. ‘We’d like a pair of shoes for our Daddy so he can go to work.’
“In the shoe store the clerk asked what the boys wanted. Out came the brown paper. ‘We want a pair of work shoes to fit this foot,’ they said. Billy explained that it was a pattern of their Daddy’s foot. They had drawn it while he was asleep in a chair.
“The clerk held the paper against a measuring stick, then walked away. Soon, he came with an open box. ‘Will these do?’ he asked. Timmy and Billy handled the shoes with great eagerness. ‘How much do they cost?’ asked Billy. Then Timmy saw the price on the box. ‘They’re $16.95,’ he said in dismay. ‘We only have $8.00.’
“I looked at the clerk and he cleared his throat. ‘That’s the regular price,’ he said, ‘but they’re on sale; $3.98, today only.’ Then, with shoes happily in hand the boys bought gifts for their mother and two little sisters. Not once did they think of themselves.
“The day after Christmas the boys’ father stopped me on the street. The new shoes were on his feet, gratitude was in his eyes. ‘I just thank Jesus for people who care,’ he said. ‘And I thank Jesus for your two sons,’ I replied. ‘They really taught me more about Christmas in one evening than I had learned in a lifetime.’”1

At Church activities I would ask myself, “Why don’t I have friends?” I felt sad and alone and went to God in prayer. I asked my Heavenly Father to send me good friends. It hasn’t been easy, but over time I’ve made many great friends. I’m not afraid to talk anymore and to get involved with groups of girls. I realize that Heavenly Father answered my prayers and that I was never alone.
Daiana I., age 16, Corrientes, Argentina

There is a better gift, but it will take effort now. My dad, when he was a boy, must have tackled the rowboat problem, and lots of others. That was part of the equipment he needed to become a scientist who made a difference to chemistry. But he also made a difference to me. Our family room didn’t look as elegant as some. It had one kind of furniture, chairs, and one wall decoration, a green chalkboard. I came to the age your boy or girl will reach. I didn’t wonder if I could work the math problems; I’d proved to my satisfaction I couldn’t. Some of my teachers were satisfied that was true, too.
But Dad wasn’t satisfied. He thought I could. So we took turns at that chalkboard. I can’t remember the gifts my dad wrapped and helped put under a tree. But I remember the chalkboard and his quiet voice and even his not-so-quiet voice as he built up my mathematics, and me. It took more than knowing what I needed and caring. It took more than being willing to give his time then, precious as it was. It took time earlier when he had the chances you have. Because he spent it then, he and I had that time at the green board. And because he gave me that, I’ve got a boy this year who has let me sit down with him. We’ve rowed that same boat up and down. And his teacher wrote “much improved” on a report card. But I’ll tell you what’s improved most: the feelings of a fine boy about himself. Nothing I will put under the tree for Stuart this year has half the chance to become a family heirloom that his pride of accomplishment does.

Several years ago, in my mid-twenties and single, I moved to Boston seeking a change of scenery and new opportunities. I was employed part-time at two jobs while seeking full-time employment. The first was planting flowers (especially tulips) at the Boston Massachusetts Temple. I loved that job! The other was working in the Student Life program at an all-women’s Catholic College. One day in a meeting, I was asked about my other job by some of the Catholic sisters, who were dressed at the time in common clothing, not their traditional cloaks or habits. When I revealed that I worked on the grounds at the Latter-day Saint temple, they immediately became very inquisitive.
Two things stand out to me from that conversation: the first was their reverence for not only the ceremonial clothing worn at the temple as a symbol of purity, but their obvious respect for the garment worn daily as a constant reminder of our covenant connection to Jesus Christ. Finally, they asked, “Are you recommended?” I was grateful to acknowledge that I did hold a current temple recommend; and took it from my purse to show them. They passed it around the room, and each examined it with such carefulness, as if it were a valuable treasure. And in fact, it is.

Just last week a sprightly fellow accidentally jabbed my foot with his umbrella. Physical pain can cause anger, and I winced and gritted my teeth. I expected him to mumble an “excuse me” and rush off into the crowd, but he stopped dead still.
“Oh, I’m so very sorry, miss.” His accent was English. “Are you quite all right?”
“Yes, I think so,” I said.
“Are you quite sure? I do hope so!”
“I’m fine,” I said smiling. It wasn’t the charm of the accent but his total sincerity that melted away my pain and anger. Perhaps we could even say that an apology is not really an apology without sincerity, for if we speak words without the heart strings attached, we are easily recognized as hypocrites and our apology is just a series of hollow words without meaning. Only the sincere apology can melt the heart and help repair the injury. And it usually does just exactly that.

When Elder Quentin L. Cook was 15 years old, he had a talk with his big brother, Joe. Joe was trying to decide if he should go to medical school instead of going on a mission. They talked long into the night. They talked about the gospel. They talked about testimonies. They talked about serving a mission.

Joe knew that going to medical school and becoming a doctor was a good way to help people. But he also knew that Jesus Christ truly lived, that Joseph Smith was really a prophet, and that the Book of Mormon was really true. So he knew that going on a mission first would be a better choice. Quentin learned that night that his brother Joe had a strong testimony.

5 Facts about Elder Cook
Born on September 8, 1940
The L stands for LaMar
Played basketball, football, and baseball in high school
Served a mission to the British Mission
Became an Apostle in October 2007

Quentin decided that he wanted to have a testimony too. After they finished talking that night, Quentin went to another room to pray. He had always had a testimony of Jesus Christ. And he believed that Joseph Smith was a prophet. He believed the Book of Mormon and the Church were true. But he wanted a spiritual witness from the Holy Ghost. As he prayed, a powerful witness came to him that swept away any doubts he had forever.
Now Elder Cook relies on that strong testimony to help him with every choice he needs to make.

A friend of ours in South Africa shared how she came to this realization. When Diane was a new convert, she attended a branch outside of Johannesburg. One Sunday, as she sat in the congregation, the layout of the chapel made it so that the deacon did not see her as the sacrament was passed. Diane was disappointed but said nothing. Another member noted the omission and mentioned it to the branch president after the meeting. As Sunday School began, Diane was invited to an empty classroom.

A priesthood holder came in. He knelt down, blessed some bread, and handed her a piece. She ate it. He knelt down again and blessed some water and handed her a small cup. She drank it. Thereafter, Diane had two thoughts in rapid succession: First, “Oh, he [the priesthood holder] did this just for me.” And then, “Oh, He [the Savior] did this just for me.” Diane felt Heavenly Father’s love.

Her realization that the Savior’s sacrifice was just for her helped her feel close to Him and fueled an overwhelming desire to keep that feeling in her heart, not just on Sunday but every day. She realized that although she sat in a congregation to partake of the sacrament, the covenants she made anew each Sunday were individually hers. The sacrament helped—and continues to help—Diane feel the power of godly love, recognize the Lord’s hand in her life, and draw closer to the Savior.

As the two boys, nine and eleven years old, hurried toward their home, they were remembering every detail of the past week so they could tell their family.
The Christmas holiday that they had spent with one of their father’s friends in the country, was over. There had been snow and gifts and laughter and fun. But best of all, there had been plenty of food to eat, and the farmhouse was always warm.
Riding back from the country on the bus, the boys talked about how things at home used to be when Father was well and there had been plenty of food and their house had always been warm. Mother laughed often then as she cared for their lovely home.
Now they lived in an old house and there wasn’t even one rug on the cold floors. But riding toward home on the bus, the boys cautioned each other not to talk about the warm comfortable farmhouse they had just left, and especially not to mention the bright and beautiful carpet in the living room.
Once before, the previous summer, the boys had been invited to spend a few days in the country. When they returned, they told the, family about the fun they’d had. Mother s face had been sad and quiet when they talked about how the carpet in the living room had made the whole farmhouse beautiful and about how warm and soft it felt to their feet.
“Someday,” she said, “we’ll have a beautiful warm carpet, too. I promise you.
The boys were almost home, now. They were anxious to share their gifts, to tell about their holidays, and to be with their family again.
The elder of the two boys was first to reach their front door. He ran into the living room and then stopped suddenly, looking down in amazement. There on the floor was a beautiful turkey-red Oriental carpet!
Mother hurried to greet her boys whose eyes were wide and questioning as they looked first at her and then at the floor. Finally, she said, “It s probably silly, but this is my Christmas present to us. I painted it. It won’t keep your feet warm but it is pretty, don’t you think?”
The boys looked at her again, and there at the floor where she had painted a brilliant carpet design over the rough boards. Their eyes filled with tears. The rug was more beautiful than anything they had seen in the country, and suddenly their feet felt almost as warm as their hearts.

Chelsea Beattie and Liz Christensen, two Mia Maids in Boise, Idaho, know a little something about building a temple from the ground up. As part of a school assignment for their history class, students were assigned to report on a historical event that was an example of both tragedy and triumph. Since the girls were studying Church history in Sunday School, learning about Nauvoo and especially the temple, it made sense for the girls to expand on their knowledge for their project. The girls made a replica of the Nauvoo Temple from mat board, cardstock, tape, glue, and clay.
“Recognizing the tragedy and the triumphs that were present in the city of Nauvoo has taught both of us that the people who came before us sacrificed for us, and for that we are eternally grateful,” says Chelsea.

Eole Montredon, 15, comes to seminary every school morning, even though she isn’t yet a member of the Church. “In many ways,” she says, “it’s like I’ve been a member my whole life because I’ve grown up around the Church, and I’m familiar with the gospel.”
She says she loves to come to seminary because “it’s good for us as young people to study the scriptures together, even if we have to get up before the sun to be there.” Seminary starts at 6:00 a.m., so she gets up at 5:00. “Some of my friends think I’m crazy, but then when I explain what we’re doing, they think it sounds all right. Besides, I feel the Holy Ghost when I’m there. It’s a good feeling that I remember all day long.”
One of her favorite Bible stories is David and Goliath. She says it gives her courage to know that the Lord will help small people conquer big problems, because she faces a challenge that sometimes seems as large as Goliath to her. Her parents are separated, and although her mother is an active member who would love to see her become a Latter-day Saint, Eole’s father insists that she wait. And so, to honor her father, she is waiting, patiently living the gospel, and praying that someday his heart will change.
“If I could give a message to the youth of the Church,” Eole says, “it would be to come to seminary every weekday and to church every Sunday, because the more you do, the more you will see how good it is and how it makes you strong.” Even though Eole can’t enjoy the heritage of multiple generations in the Church—not yet—she knows she can work today to build that heritage for generations to come. “I know I need to start now,” she says, “and if I remain faithful, good things will happen.”