Gospel Story Finder

When the various projects were well into their second year, Brother Kamauoha reported that the people really learned that a job is not done until it is complete. After building roads, bridges, and the steps to the waterfall, the people at Sauniatu had to put in a culinary water system. They wanted to pipe water from a spring. They had no money for pipe, so they dug up some old pipe that had been used years before and cleaned it in the river. Then they painted the usable pieces. They only had enough good pipe to make a straight line from the spring to the village. Seventy-five feet of lava bedrock lay in the path of their trench.
“I told them, ‘We have enough good pipe to make a straight pipeline. So if you want water and you want it badly enough, then you’ll have to cut through the bedrock to the spring!’ A big Samoan man named Faleow Itopi, who had worked extra hard on every project said, ‘Why, after what we have done, this little bedrock is nothing.’
“We worked into the nights with lanterns. Faleow’s hands were bleeding, but he set an example for the students and showed them how to work. He was that way in all of his projects. When he built roads, he always built them too long rather than too short. He never took a shortcut because his heart was in the right place.”

The clouds hung low and white over the small town of Liberty Bell that twenty-sixth day of December 1908. Sarah Moseley made her way from her family’s house at the end of the street toward the boardwalk, where her new dress would get a brief respite from mud-spraying wagon wheels.
Sarah’s family had been laboring under the stressful effects of no income in recent months, but her mother had managed to rummage up sufficient materials from an old attic chest to fashion a beautiful patchwork dress for Sarah. It was the only gift she had received for Christmas the day before, and she was fitly grateful for and proud of it.
As she continued along the street, she turned the collar of her frayed wrap up around her neck to ward off the biting chill of wind and lightly-driven snow. Suddenly someone wearing a tattered sheepskin coat stepped out in front of her. He had a tangle of red hair, and a crooked scowl on his face. Toby Wilder! Last week he had asked Sarah for some answers to a test in Miss Cornaby’s class, and Sarah had refused. Now he looked ready for revenge. “I would have passed that test if you had slipped me those answers,” he growled.
“There’s a right and a wrong to everything, Toby Wilder,” Sarah said, swallowing hard, “and cheating is wrong.”
Toby glared at her with a look that could have bent an iron poker, then pushed her back toward the edge of the boardwalk. “‘There’s a right and a wrong to everything, Toby Wilder,’” he mimicked. “You think you know all there is to know about what is and what isn’t, don’t you little Miss High-and-Mighty?”
“No,” Sarah told him, her body stiffening with growing fear, “but God does. And He’s told us in the scriptures about honesty.”
Toby glowered at Sarah. He glanced up and down the street through the haze of falling snow. No one was in sight. “Since you’re such good friends with God,” he said mockingly to Sarah, “why don’t you ask Him to keep you from falling down and getting mud all over your new dress?”
Shoving her roughly off the boardwalk, he laughed derisively and swaggered away as she pulled herself up from the street mire. Her eyes welled up with tears as she wiped at the icy ooze on her new Christmas dress and headed for the store.
The bell above the door jangled as Sarah stepped into John Walton’s Mercantile Store. The man behind the counter regarded her solicitously. “What happened, Sarah?” he queried.
“Toby Wilder,” she sighed.
Mr. Walton nodded. “That boy ought to be over somebody’s knee, getting redder than a near-set sun, if you ask me.”
“Yes sir!” Sarah heartily agreed.
“Warm yourself by the stove there.” When Sarah hesitated, he added kindly, “Go on child. There’s no sense in all that warmth going to waste, now, is there?”
“I guess not,” Sarah responded submissively. “It’s just that you’ve given us so much these past few months, all our food and such, that I just don’t feel right about hogging the only spot in front of your stove.” She motioned toward a customer who was stamping the snow from her high-button shoes just outside. “You have paying customers, Mr. Walton. They should be able to warm themselves before someone who—”
“Sarah Moseley,” Mr. Walton declared, “since when did I ever charge a body a cent for warming himself at my potbellied stove?”
Sarah smiled in gratitude and stepped in front of the stove. Mr. Walton came out from behind the counter, nodded to the woman who was making her way to a far corner, and pulled up a chair in front of Sarah. He sat down and spoke privately. “After that boxcar explosion at the depot last September, it’s a wonder your father is still alive. It’ll be a little while yet before he’s up and about.” He pushed a wisp of damp hair from Sarah’s eye. “Your father is a good man,” Mr. Walton continued. “He’ll pay me back when he’s able. Now give me that shopping list I know you have.” Sarah obliged him. “Besides,” he added as he stood with a little grunt, “it’s Christmastime, isn’t it? A time for giving? It would be a shame to deny a man the right to earn a celestial reward in the world to come.”
Sarah’s face wrinkled with curiosity. “What do you mean, Mr. Walton?”
“Christ gave His life for you and me, Sarah, not to mention for those that crucified Him. It seems the least I can do is give a can of beans and”—he checked Sarah’s list—“a box of baking soda and the like to people I love. Of course, that’s easy. The trick is giving to, or doing something for, someone you don’t like. Now there’s the real test. The problem is that I like everybody.” He laughed. “Well, almost everybody.”
Sarah watched Mr. Walton climb the ladder behind the counter. A ray of winter sun made his face radiant. “Why is it so important to be nice to people who are mean to you?” she asked.
Mr. Walton reached for a box of baking soda on a high shelf, then looked down at the girl below him. “Maybe because the Savior was. Maybe because it’s part of forgiving. It’s the same thing, wouldn’t you say?” He climbed down the ladder and began placing the few gathered items in a sack on the counter. “And maybe it’s because of a revelation the Prophet Joseph Smith received once that said, ‘For if you will that I give unto you a place in the celestial world, you must prepare yourselves by doing the things which I have commanded you and required of you.’”* He pushed the groceries across the counter to Sarah. “I have a sneaking notion that charity is one of those things, honey. And that forgiveness is another. What do you think, Sarah?”
“I guess you’re right, Mr. Walton,” Sarah answered, thoughtful.
It wasn’t until Sarah was outside again that she noticed something extra in her sack. A large candy stick. She puzzled over it a moment, then smiled at Mr. Walton’s kindness.
No sooner had Sarah started down the boardwalk in the direction of home than she spied Toby Wilder just ahead, leaning against a pole. His back was to her, and he was looking toward the sun as if he were aching for a little warmth on an otherwise bleak, unfriendly day.
Bracing herself, Sarah stepped up to him. “Toby?”
Toby whirled around. When he saw who it was, he growled, “What’s the matter, Sarah. Didn’t you get wet enough the first time?”
Sarah handed him the candy stick. “Merry Christmas,” she said.
Toby didn’t answer. He just stood there gaping.
Sarah glanced back in the direction of the mercantile store, where she could see Mr. Walton looking out the window, waving. She waved back, then turned and continued down the boardwalk toward home.

My thanks to the fellow who asked a question about his mother’s death in the April 1990 issue. It seems that the New Era knows everything that is happening to people. I am on a mission and my mother died a few months ago. I was given two days to go to the funeral. I came back to the mission field, and even though I knew where she was going, it was hard to endure.
Later, when I was transferred to the city I am at now, the first gift I got was the New Era. I opened it to the Question and Answer column. The ideas and experiences shared by the New Era and its contributors helped me. I very much appreciate the way you answer questions and I hope your magazine will continue, for it provides good services.
Elder Akpan, Okon ImohNigeria, West Africa

Because he is blind, when Richard Cowan plans to go anywhere he hasn’t been before, he usually makes a special map of the area. He calls them “raised-line maps,” and they are ingenious guides to everything. On his maps, highways are “drawn” with cord, streets with thin thread, bodies of water and parks with different kinds of fabrics. All points of interest are different to the touch.
Brother Cowan, a professor of Church history and doctrine at Brigham Young University, Provo, Utah, likes to share these creations. “When I went to Mexico City,” he explains, “I made a whole series of maps of the city and the country. I had several copies made, took them with me, and presented them to an organization for the blind with the hope that they would help someone.” Brother Cowan now has these maps reproduced in plastic that has the feel of the original fabrics and are much more durable.

Unlike most of the students at the Catholic University of Temuco, Heraldo Torres, originally of the city of Lajas, was a Latter-day Saint. His classmates observed that he was courageous in sharing his views on moral questions—even in the mandatory theology classes, where his opinions sometimes lowered his grades. But eventually he won the respect of many of his professors and fellow students.
Heraldo’s roommate and longtime friend, Roberto Jiménez, was also a Church member and had just come back to school after serving a mission. Like many converts, he was the only Latter-day Saint in his family. His successful return to the university laid to rest the concerns of many friends and relatives, who had tried to convince him not to interrupt his studies for a mission.
“When are you going on your mission?” Roberto sometimes teased Heraldo.
“Soon. When I graduate,” was the usual reply.
“Oh, you mean in ten more years?” Roberto would joke.
Before long the two roommates, both students of English, met another young man with the same major. His name was Luis (“Luchito”) Cornejo, and he was from the capital, Santiago. Although he was thought to be shy, Luchito accepted an invitation from Roberto and Heraldo to attend ward meetings and institute classes, and he found the gospel message very agreeable. At about the same time, he began boarding with the Hernández family, who were Latter-day Saints. His heart was softened by their many tender acts of kindness, and he decided to be baptized.
Luchito was only the first in a series of conversions—the first in this particular story of links of love. On one of his trips home to Santiago, he persuaded his mother and his sister to start learning about the Church. Both were baptized. He extended the same invitation to another classmate, Luis Soto, who also followed his footsteps into the waters of baptism.
At the time he joined the Church, Luis Soto lived at the same boardinghouse as Richard Spichiger, a student of auto mechanics who was a descendant of Swiss immigrants. Richard was very impressed by his neighbor’s manner and conduct. His favorable opinion opened the way for the full-time missionaries—who also lived in the boardinghouse—to teach him the discussions. After Richard was baptized, he accepted a call to the Chile Osorno Mission, where he, in turn, baptized dozens of people.
But back to Luchito. Even before Luis Soto and Richard Spichiger joined the Church, he had shared his new testimony with another friend—a young woman named Liliana Salazar. Like Heraldo, Roberto, Luchito, and Luis, Liliana was an English major. She would be honored that year as the top student in her class. But more important, the changes she was observing in Luchito’s life prompted her to study his beliefs. After a few months, she, too became a Latter-day Saint. Then, at her invitation, her father, mother, and sister Patricia heard and accepted the message of the Restoration. And then Liliana introduced a sixth student—her friend Guillermo Rosales—to the Church, and he also joined.
Through her activity in the Church, Liliana met another recent convert, Néstor Bravo, whom she later married in the temple.
Long before he joined the Church, Néstor had had a strong desire to succeed in his chosen field—dramatic arts. He had a job organizing theater workshops for university students in the southern city of Valdivia. His conversion began when he met Alejandro Arangua, a student of veterinary medicine and a faithful Church member. A beautiful rapport developed. Néstor recognized at once that his new friend was different from other young people. Guided by the Spirit, Alejandro shared his testimony with him.
After Néstor was baptized, the two began traveling throughout Chile together, giving mime presentations at Chilean seminaries and institutes. They found beautiful and artistic ways to incorporate principles of the gospel into their productions. In addition, both men bore their powerful testimonies to all who came to see them.
Eventually Alejandro moved away to accept employment. Néstor remained and was called to serve as stake clerk and then as a teacher of early-morning seminary. He created dramatizations of the lives of Nephi, Mormon, Alma, and Jesus Christ that left an indelible imprint on the minds of his young pupils. Professionally, Néstor became well known as a rising talent in the theater—and his mime group, Antumimik, toured several cities in Chile and Argentina. He was liked and admired as an educator as well, and in time he accepted a post at Universidad de la Frontera in Temuco.
One of Néstor’s students there, Carolina Urrutia, was particularly impressed by him. She felt that he was different, somehow, from other gifted people—so much so that she decided to find out why. Néstor was very willing to tell her about the gospel of Jesus Christ, and as a result, he had the privilege of baptizing her. Subsequently, she and Néstor were influential in the conversion of another of his students, an actress and teacher named María Reiñanco.
Carolina affirms that the gospel has increased her love for her Heavenly Father and for other people. One Sunday while she was taking a taxi to church, the driver became interested in the books she was carrying—her standard works. Their polite conversation grew cordial, and after arriving at the meetinghouse, Carolina invited him to attend services with her and to meet the missionaries. As he learned about the Church, the taxi driver, Luis Campos, was deeply impressed with the importance given to the law of chastity and with the idea of a living prophet. Two months later he was baptized.
Meanwhile, Carolina’s mother, living in the city of Chillán, joined the Church after hearing her daughter’s testimony during a visit at home.
How many people have been baptized because of Heraldo Torres, Roberto Jiménez, Néstor Bravo, and the others in this beautiful chain? Each year the question becomes more difficult to answer. More and more family members are being baptized. And many of the new converts are serving full-time missions and sharing the gospel with their friends—who, in turn, share it with other friends. It is a never-ending circle.
Little by little, member by member, links of love continue to be forged in the hearts of thousands of converts throughout Chile—as they are throughout the world.
And what happened to that university student, Heraldo Torres, who promised his friend that he would serve a mission when he graduated? He kept his promise. After receiving his degree, Heraldo accepted a call to the Chile Santiago South Mission. His letters home bore ample witness of the joy he felt as he continued to share his light with others.
It is interesting to note that this phenomenal growth of the Church in Chile took place even as Latter-day Saints were suffering heavy persecution and were being harassed by anti-Mormon attention in the media. But nothing succeeded in weakening the faith of the people. Like links in an ever-extending chain, members old and new have been united in love, in testimony, and in appreciation for the blessings of the gospel.
As the people of Chile have accepted the restored gospel, the Lord has blessed our land with peace and prosperity. Each day we come closer to seeing the fulfillment of the prophetic vision of President Spencer W. Kimball, who had such great love for this people and who promised that the Lamanites would blossom as the rose.
Of these people the prophet Nephi wrote, “The gospel of Jesus Christ shall be declared among them; wherefore, they shall be restored unto the knowledge of their fathers, and also to the knowledge of Jesus Christ, which was had among their fathers” (2 Ne. 30:5).
The links of love that unite us—that unite all of us as members of the Lord’s Church—are only the beginning of our Heavenly Father’s work to bring about the immortality and eternal life of man.

Summer means Summiteer outings. The culmination of the Campcrafter program offers young women a chance to face a new challenge. Summiteers in Bremerton, Washington, took to the water in canoes while the Summiteers in Colorado Springs, Colorado, climbed Pikes Peak.
The Colorado Springs Colorado Stake tackled the trail to the top of Pikes Peak. It was the first Summiteer trip ever attempted by the stake for Young Women. Although the young women were aware of the difficulties, they found the stamina and strength to make the top and received a great sense of accomplishment and love for nature.

What do you imagine when someone says the best gift ever? Toys? A bike? Some new clothes? Well, I got something better! I watched my adopted sister get sealed to my family forever.
Six months ago my family adopted a baby girl, Ava. This little infant brought so much love and joy into our house. We loved her so much that we wanted to have her sealed to our family, but we had one problem.
In our state a baby has to be six months old before you can finalize an adoption. When the court date finally arrived, we went to the judge. He said, “This baby will be yours, just as if she had been naturally born to you.” Ava was officially adopted! Jumping for joy, we got back in the car and drove to Utah to get Ava sealed to us.
I was so excited as we drove to the Bountiful Utah Temple. I was going to the temple! Ava and my older sister, Bailey, and I were taken to the children’s center in the temple. When I told the temple workers the size for my white dress, I finally realized that this was really happening.
When we walked into the beautiful sealing room, right away I felt the Spirit. I knew this was an experience that most children don’t have. I was able to be in the sealing room when Ava was sealed to my parents.
Afterward, the sealer let the five of us stay in the sealing room by ourselves. My dad pointed out the mirrors on both sides of the altar. When you stand in between both mirrors, you can see hundreds of your own reflections looking like they go on forever. This reminds us that now we are sealed for eternity. Seeing the five members of my family standing there made me feel like we would all be together forever.
Now that I have gone through this experience, I know how important temples are. When I grow up, I want to get sealed to my husband and have our children sealed to us for time and all eternity.

I was in college, had a good part-time job, and was engaged to be married within a few months. My life was exciting, and the future looked bright.
I was surprised when my stake president approached me one Sunday morning. He said, “The Lord wants you to serve a mission.” I felt powerfully impressed that this was a call from God. I acted upon that impression and immediately committed myself to serve.
I was called to serve in the Southern States Mission, and I began my preparation with difficult tasks. I quit my job, left the university, postponed my wedding two years, and said good-bye to my loved ones. It seemed that I was leaving everyone and everything that mattered to me.
I traveled by train many hours with missionary companions to Atlanta, Georgia. Two missionaries picked us up and drove us to meet the mission president. He greeted me for a few moments and then told me that I must leave immediately by bus to Montgomery, Alabama, where I would be given instructions about my field of labor. The same elders who had picked me up took me to the bus station and handed me a piece of paper with an address on it. They told me that the missionaries in Montgomery would tell me what to do.
I walked tentatively into the bus station, bought a ticket, and boarded the bus. It was getting dark, and I began to feel very alone. I found an empty seat next to a window and tried to ignore the growing discouragement from not knowing where I was going, whom I would be with, or what I would do.
When the bus driver took his seat, he stared at me in the rearview mirror. He walked to where I was sitting and shouted, “What are you trying to do, boy?” I was shocked that he would shout at me with all the people on the bus watching. I had no idea why he was angry. I barely whispered, “I’m just riding the bus.”
He yelled, “Are you trying to start something here?” He pointed to a white line on the floor of the bus that I hadn’t noticed before. He told me to sit in front of that line or he would put me off the bus. I was terrified and moved immediately. I did not know, until much later, that in those days white lines divided the areas where white and black people could sit. There had been a lot of dissension in the southern United States over segregation of whites and blacks, and the bus driver thought I was trying to start a protest.
I rode for several hours, huddled in the bus, trying to fight off fear, loneliness, and embarrassment. By the time I reached Montgomery, my trembling hands could hardly lift my suitcases. The bus arrived late at night, so the bus station was almost empty, and no one was there to meet me. The only information I had was the address the missionaries had given me in Atlanta. I had no idea how to find the address.
I awakened a taxi driver sleeping in his taxi and asked if he could take me to the address on the paper. He was irritated. He told me how much it would cost, and I promised to pay the fee, even though it seemed very expensive. He drove me fewer than 100 yards (90 m) and announced, “This is it!” The driver demanded his fee and left me and my suitcases in front of a small white house.
The house was dark. I carried my suitcases to the porch and knocked on the door. Nobody came. I knocked more loudly. After a few minutes, a sleepy-eyed missionary opened the door.
“Who are you?” he asked.
When I told him who I was and why I was there, he said that he didn’t know I was coming, and he didn’t invite me in. I apologized and told him I was doing only what I was told to do.
“We don’t have any room for you,” he said, still leaving me on the porch.
“What do you want me to do, Elder?” I cried. “I have been sent here, and I have nowhere else to go.”
He finally invited me into the house and told me I would have to sleep on the kitchen floor. Then he disappeared into his bedroom. Never had I felt so alone, unwanted, and discouraged.
I put my suitcases on the filthy floor and turned out the light. I was too discouraged to sleep, so I stood at the door and peered out the window. I could see the bus station that I had left only a few minutes before. I could easily walk there and buy a ticket for home. I had just enough money left. All of my joys, hopes, and dreams were at home. People there loved me. I could have my old job back, go back to school, see my family, and get married. Over and over again I thought, “Go home. Nobody here cares about you. Nobody here wants you.”
Then I asked myself, “Why did I come here in the first place?” My stake president’s words came back to me: “The Lord wants you to serve a mission.” I had felt a powerful impression when he said that to me. That feeling had been so strong that I postponed my wedding, quit my job, and left the university so I could serve a mission. I had known that the Lord wanted me to serve.
However, being in the mission field was not at all like I thought it would be. I had been sure once, but now, when I needed divine reassurance the most, those powerful feelings seemed a distant memory.
My introduction to the full-time mission field had been an unexpectedly difficult struggle for me. Yet I knew I was on the Lord’s errand. I had once known without doubt that it was His will that I serve a mission. The absence of a profound witness at that darkened window in the missionary apartment didn’t change that knowledge.
I was in the process of making a very important choice. It was a choice between what I wanted to do and what the Lord wanted me to do. It was the first time in my memory that I had ever recognized so clear a choice.
I spoke to myself: “I will never, never quit the calling I have accepted. No matter what happens, I will stay on this mission.” As I said the words, peace came to my heart for the first time since arriving in the mission field.
Now, many years later, I recognize that the Lord was guiding me through this experience. I learned that the Lord blesses us with confirming peace only after we demonstrate a willingness to obey. I shall always be grateful for the blessings of that choice. It changed my life forever.

When he was a very young boy, my great-grandfather, Benjamin Lillywhite, came from England with his parents after they joined the Church. When they arrived in St. Louis, his father and little sister died of cholera. His mother did not have enough money to buy a wagon to travel the rest of the way to the Salt Lake Valley, but she wanted her son to go to where the Saints were gathering as soon as possible. So she sent six-year-old Benjamin with another family, and under their care, he walked to the Valley. I was told that when his shoes wore out along the trail, he wrapped his feet in rags. But in spite of their hardships, he made it to the Valley.

It was about 5:00 in the evening when mother announced that she had to run into town, which was about four miles away. She would barely have time to purchase a few necessities before the store closed at 5:30. Since mother did not drive, my older brother was summoned from the field to chauffeur her.

“Running into town” was always a treat if one lived on a farm, so my brother just younger (almost 11) and I (about 13) coaxed to go. Mother consented, with the stipulation that I get the cows in the corral for the evening milking without making her wait.

As we tore out into the yard, my brother and I decided how we could manage it, and we agreed that if he did the running, with luck we could finish in the six or seven minutes that it would take for Mother to get her things on.

He yelled for me to open all the gates and to clear everything out of the way as he scurried over the canal to head the cows down the lane. If they were headed in the right direction, they would not escape, for Father’s fences were notoriously strong and always in good repair.

Through the thick cloud of dust I could see the cows running full speed with their tails flying high in the wind and my brother close behind, grinning broadly, for he could see that the car was still in the yard and success was near. He ran around the haystack into the corral to close the middle gate while I fastened the one by the stack and then made a dash for the car.

Mother was in her place in the front seat, and my older brother had started the car and was circling the yard when I came in sight, so they slowed down, and I jumped into the back seat, breathless but triumphant! Eagerly I leaned out the right window of the car to watch for my younger brother who only had to fasten the middle gate and then cut kitty-corner across the corral to the main road to meet us.

My elation over seeming success was short, for my brother was having difficulty with the gate. It was made of poles strung between barbed wires, and they were tangled! I had seen this happen often when someone flung the gate wide instead of laying it down carefully. In my hurry I had thrown the gate down, and the possibility of it becoming tangled had not even crossed my mind! Frantically he worked at the wires, but hurrying only made things worse. Now he needed me, and where was I?

Sitting in the car and feeling sick! I pleaded with Mother to wait another minute, but after quickly surveying the situation, she said, “If we wait, it will be too late to shop at all, for the store will be closed. Drive on!”

As my older brother revved up the noisy motor, so my aching heart beat faster, and I was in agony. I now realized that in making the run for me, my little brother had not only done my work, but had done it at the sacrifice of the trip.

“Let me out!” I cried. But stopping again would only use up more of the precious time, so I curled up in my miseries and hated myself.

I knew then that I would not get out of the car when we arrived in town. But more than that, I would never be able to forget the helpless look of desperation on my brother’s face, and all because he wanted to help me. It was at that moment I learned that unshared success is no victory.

I once attended a meeting with President Joseph Fielding Smith. Someone asked President Smith about a letter that was then being circulated by an apostate who claimed that the Church had lost the priesthood because certain words had not been used when it was conferred. President Smith said, “Before we talk about his claim, let me tell you a little about the man himself.” He then described the character of the man and concluded, “And so you see, that man is a liar pure and simple—well, maybe not so pure.”

Several years ago as our extended family gathered for a holiday dinner, my father began playing games with many of his grandchildren. Suddenly and without warning, he collapsed and quickly passed away. This unexpected event could have been devastating, especially for his grandchildren, raising questions that are difficult to answer. However, as we gathered our children around us, as we prayed and read the words of Book of Mormon prophets about the purpose of life, the Holy Ghost comforted each of us personally. In ways that are difficult to describe with words, the answers we sought came clearly into our hearts. We felt a peace that day that truly surpassed our understanding, yet the witness from the Holy Ghost was certain, undeniable, and true.

Joseph Smith gave enthusiastic support to a “Young Gentlemen’s and Young Ladies Relief Society of Nauvoo,” which developed under Heber C. Kimball’s guiding hand. It began simply as a small and casual discussion gathering. But week by week more youth came and bigger and bigger meeting places were arranged. Once when the group met in the large room above the Prophet’s store, he came to speak to them. He praised Elder Kimball for helping organize this “good and glorious work,” complimented the youth on their good conduct, “and taught them how to behave in all places, explained to them their duties, and advised them to organize themselves into a society for the relief of the poor.” Specifically, he asked them to fund and then build a house for a brother who was lame. In response, the youth drew up a constitution, elected officers, called monthly meetings, and opened their membership to anyone under age thirty in Nauvoo, LDS or not, including young men and “the tender, lovely, and beautiful females of our city.”

One young man I’ll call Damon wrote: “Growing up, I struggled with pornography. I always felt so ashamed that I could not get things right.” Each time Damon slipped, the pain of regret became so intense, he harshly judged himself to be unworthy of any kind of grace, forgiveness, or additional chances from God. He said: “I decided I just deserved to feel terrible all the time. I figured God probably hated me because I wasn’t willing to work harder and get on top of this once and for all. I would go a week and sometimes even a month, but then I would relapse and think, ‘I’ll never be good enough, so what’s the use of even trying?’”
At one such low moment, Damon said to his priesthood leader: “Maybe I should just stop coming to church. I’m sick of being a hypocrite.”
His leader responded: “You’re not a hypocrite because you have a bad habit you are trying to break. You are a hypocrite if you hide it, lie about it, or try to convince yourself the Church has the problem for maintaining such high standards. Being honest about your actions and taking steps to move forward is not being a hypocrite. It is being a disciple.” This leader quoted Elder Richard G. Scott, who taught: “The Lord sees weaknesses differently than He does rebellion. … When the Lord speaks of weaknesses, it is always with mercy.”
That perspective gave Damon hope. He realized God was not up there saying, “Damon blew it again.” Instead, He was probably saying, “Look how far Damon has come.” This young man finally stopped looking down in shame or looking sideways for excuses and rationalizations. He looked up for divine help, and he found it.
Damon said: “The only time I had turned to God in the past was to ask for forgiveness, but now I also asked for grace—His ‘enabling power’ [Bible Dictionary, “Grace”]. I had never done that before. These days I spend a lot less time hating myself for what I have done and a lot more time loving Jesus for what He has done.”
Considering how long Damon had struggled, it was unhelpful and unrealistic for parents and leaders assisting him to say “never again” too quickly or to arbitrarily set some standard of abstinence to be considered “worthy.” Instead, they started with small, reachable goals. They got rid of the all-or-nothing expectations and focused on incremental growth, which allowed Damon to build on a series of successes instead of failures. He, like the enslaved people of Limhi, learned he could “prosper by degrees.”

“In our council, we talked about how music can invite the Spirit,” says Jocelyn Herrington, a Primary teacher in the same Minnesota ward. “Later, I was teaching the Sunbeams. I thought, ‘I’ll sing while they’re coloring, and it will be nice.’ I started to sing, and they all stopped and listened. So I kept singing. It did bring the Spirit, and when I was done, they were reverent, waiting for me to speak. We had talked about that [in council] too, to bear your testimony when the opportunity comes. So I bore testimony in words they could understand.”

Ray Hedgecock, 15, walked out of a stereo shop to get on his bike and head for home, then decided to go back in and look at some tapes. Moments later the lights went out, the ground began to rumble and shake, glass shattered out of windows, and stereos bounced off of shelves. The beam Ray was standing under protected him from falling light fixtures. Thirty-two seconds later, his bicycle was buried under a pile of bricks, the building across the street was ablaze with fire, and most of the buildings within four blocks were reduced to rubble. “All you could hear was the ground rumbling, it was so loud. There was so much dust you couldn’t even see across the street,” Ray recalled.

The young freshman student seated across the desk from me slumped despondently as he rehearsed a series of recent disappointments. The final blow had been his first semester’s grades. In every case they had been below his expectations, and he was beginning to doubt his ability to benefit from the college experience he had looked forward to since childhood.
Opening one of the books on my desk at random, I asked him to read a few paragraphs for me. He made it through about 50 words doggedly, without expression and with awkward pauses that betrayed how little he was understanding what he was reading. Gently, I asked him what magazines he read regularly and what the name was of the last book he had thoroughly enjoyed. His answer to both questions was simply a shake of his head and muttered comment about how “hard” reading had always been for him.
I suggested that he have one of the campus clinics check to see if he had a functional disorder that made reading unusually difficult for him, but I assured him that such conditions were relatively rare and that quite probably his was a case of never having learned to read well enough to enjoy it and thereby turn reading into the basic learning tool it should be.
Knowing that he had been recruited by the university as a long-distance runner, I suggested that he had never brought himself to the stage in reading that he routinely achieved in running, the point at which he caught his “second wind.” I reminded him that making it through to the point that heart and lungs suddenly returned to their normal operation was painful but that he could count on it, and it was very much a part of his success as a runner.
Happily, in learning to read easily and well—however difficult the process—he could achieve a permanent “second wind” that did not have to be struggled for each time it was used. I assured my young friend that, although many successful students had learned to read easily and well in grade school, he was far from alone in college in attempting to increase both reading speed and comprehension. Fortunately, there were remedial courses to help, and I suggested that he not delay in bringing his reading to a collegiate level.
A semester later, a smiling young man brought his latest grade report to show me. Obviously, he now was competing well—and he knew how to do even better.

I was born in the town of Sharon, Windsor County, Vermont, on the 23rd of December, A.D. 1805. When ten years old, my parents moved to Palmyra, New York, where we resided about four years, and from thence, we moved to the town of Manchester. My father was a farmer and taught me the art of taking care of animals. When about fourteen years of age, I began to reflect upon the importance of being prepared for a future state, and upon inquiring about the plan of salvation, I found that there was a great clash in religious sentiment; if I went to one society, they referred me to one plan, and another to another; each one pointing to his own particular creed as the supreme good from which all others are derived of perfection. Considering that all could not be right, and that God could not be the author of so much confusion, I determined to investigate the subject more fully, believing that if God had a Church, it would not be split up into factions, and that if He taught one society to worship one way, and administer in one set of ordinances. He would not teach another, principles which were diametrically opposed.
Believing the word of God, I had confidence in the declaration of James—“If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.” (James 1:5.) I retired to a secret place in a grove, and began to call upon the Lord, while fervently engaged in supplication, my mind was taken away from the objects with which I was surrounded, and I was enwrapped in a heavenly vision, and saw two glorious personages, who exactly resembled each other in features and likeness, surrounded with a brilliant light which eclipsed the sun at noon day. They told me that all religious denominations were believing in incorrect doctrines, and that none of them was acknowledged of God as His Church and kingdom: and I was expressly commanded “to go not after them,” at the same time receiving a promise that the fullness of the Gospel should at some future time be made known unto me.

Our mission president had been admonishing the missionaries in the Ghana Accra Mission to “stay focused.” He was famous for using this phrase. At one of our zone conferences, he suggested ways we could do this, and a key point in his list was having a favorite hymn.
He told us to select a favorite hymn, memorize it, and sing it at times we may be tempted or down. This statement echoed in my memory throughout the day.
I was homesick. Nobody in my family had written to me recently, and I felt depressed. I had been less focused. This was the moment I needed to select a hymn to uplift my spirit. I was familiar with many hymns in our green hymnbook, but which did I love the most?
That night, I took an old hymnbook and flipped through the dog-eared pages, searching for a hymn that had a comforting meaning to me. Immediately, I had an idea. Elder Sheldon F. Child of the Seventy, then Africa West Area President, had visited our group in the missionary training center and spoken about the Atonement. He concluded, “If all you young missionaries understood the Atonement of our Lord Jesus Christ, there would be no need of mission rules.”
That was the kind of hymn I needed. I was no longer confused. If I had a hymn about the Atonement, I would feel the love of my Savior, be comforted, and stay focused on what He wants me to do.
I finally chose hymn number 136, “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.”
Today I am grateful to my mission president for his wise counsel. Now I have a favorite hymn memorized, which I ponder always and remember to sing in times of depression, trials, and difficulties. “I know that my Redeemer lives. What comfort this sweet sentence gives. … He lives to bless in time of need.”

After joining the Church, her daily life was surrounded by home, school and Church activities. A few years after joining the Church, her father had a massive stroke which left half of his body paralyzed and he lost his voice of speech.
This incident did not allow Sabita and her sister to have much freedom in life anymore. They had many dreams but were obliged to work for the family while their mother attended to their father’s needs and the household, not forgetting their two little brothers who were still attending school.
Sometime after this incident, their branch president approached both sisters and asked if they would be willing to serve missions for the Church. They couldn’t readily say yes because of their circumstances. As they went home, they discussed with each other regarding this opportunity. Usha offered to stay home and work for the family to allow Sabita to serve a mission.
She was very happy for what her sister had said, but was also worried, thinking that Usha would be alone to meet the family expenses with her meagre salary. Their mother was not happy with this. As the news spread to their relatives, one of their first questions was, “What’s in it for you?
As Sabita was struggling to decide what to do, she happened to receive the answer through one of her regular institute classes. Her teacher quoted President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018), “Do your duty; that is best; Leave unto the Lord the rest!”1
Sabita immediately decided to leave home to serve the Lord as a full-time missionary and was called to serve in the India Bangalore Mission in 2002. She said, “My family was taken care of. Miracles happened. The one and a half years that I served the Lord selflessly has been a lifetime experience of mine.”