Gospel Story Finder

As a young newly returned missionary from the Nigeria Enugu Mission, to a family where my faith is strange to everyone, there were many ideas and plans running through my mind. Where and how to start was the only question I had. After a few days, I was added to the institute class in my ward on WhatsApp, where assignments were given every week for us to study.
I must confess that though we live in a world of hardships, where we have to battle with a deadly virus called corona (COVID-19), the Lord is still hastening His work of salvation (D&C 88:73). Studying scriptures every day has really boosted my spirituality level. After submitting an assignment on the First Vision and after a heartfelt prayer, I felt the impression that I should approach my elder sister and her family, who I am living with, and introduce them to the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and to His Church. I did it and I was so happy the many questions she had about the Church even before I left for mission were resolved by the help of the Holy Ghost. She has, for some time, stopped going to her church because of some misunderstandings. I used the opportunity to invite her to church and she promised to come after the crisis is calmed and controlled.
The institute class has really strengthened my faith and has shown me many means to invite others to the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. Despite the hardships and the oppositions, I know with all my heart that the work of the Lord will still move forward. Now, I have been able to create a plan to diligently assist the Lord in hastening His work. I know He is mindful of His children and I love Him with all my heart.

As John started down the hill toward home, fog mixed with smoke rolled over him in smothering waves. The frightened ten-year-old boy sat down to try to light the lantern Mr. West had loaned him to use in just such an emergency, but the dampness blew out the flame of the matches. John stood up, pulled his oilskin coat tighter about him, and tried to see ahead through the fog and darkness of the late afternoon.
Earlier that day John’s mother had sent him with a basket of food to the home of an old shepherd who lived alone about three miles northeast of Milnthorpe, England, where John lived with his family. It was the first time Mother had ever let John go on this errand alone, and he was both proud and excited. But he had stayed at Mr. West’s home too long, and when a dark cloud blacked out the sun before a soft rain started, John jumped up quickly and said goodbye to his old friend.
Mr. West offered to walk back with the boy to Milnthorpe, but John shook his head. “This is my first trip alone,” he explained, “and my mother wouldn’t let me come alone again if you had to take me home.”
Now John wished that Mr. West were with him. He imagined all kinds of strange sounds and movements in the fog that closed in thick around him. He had no idea where he was. Suddenly he came to a big iron gate that marked the end of the road, and from beyond the gate came the frightening growl of a dog.
John was almost paralyzed with fright. Then he remembered that his mother had told him that God was always near, even though he might sometimes think that he was all alone.
John dropped down on his knees and asked for help. As he did so, all his fear left; and he was not surprised a few minutes later to hear a voice call out of the mist, “Johnny, I’ve come to take you home.” It was Mr. West!
The young boy was John Taylor, who became the third president of the Church. Although he lived to be eighty years old, he never forgot the quick answer to his prayer as a frightened boy on that lonesome foggy evening.

Kimo stood at the sea’s edge and watched the waves gently toss the little boats moored in the cove. He turned to his yellow dog, Paka, and scoffed, “The sea is not such a scary thing.”
With curious brown eyes, Paka looked at his master.
Kimo continued, his voice full of scorn, “Because I am only nine, my parents and brothers say that I am too young to go out in a boat by myself and catch a fish. They say that the sea will swallow me. Well, they are wrong!”
Paka whimpered sympathetically.
“I’m almost a man, Paka, but they treat me as though I were a baby.”
Kimo dug his toes into the warm ground and watched a sand crab scuttle to its hole. “If I could just go out in the boat all by myself and catch a fish, the biggest fish my family has ever seen, then they would treat me like a grown-up!”
He imagined the faces of his parents and five older brothers when he showed them the gigantic fish he would catch. At first they would be surprised; then they would be proud of him. They would visit all the neighbors and say, “Come see the large fish Kimo caught by himself. No one in our town has seen such a large fish!”
He smiled at the pleasant picture in his mind. “I’ll show them,” he told Paka.
That night, Kimo waited until the others had gone to sleep. Quietly he crept outside. The moon overhead was full, casting a creamy light everywhere. “Paka,” he called softly.
Sleepily the dog padded toward him.
“Let’s go.”
In moments, boy and dog were at the seashore. Kimo went to the small grove of trees where he had hidden the things he would need: a rope, a knife, his father’s best pole, and bait. As he handled each item, his stomach knotted into a small, tight fist. For a moment he paused. Maybe his father was right. Maybe the sea was no place for an inexperienced nine-year-old boy. Kimo looked at the cove. The boats bobbed lightly on the water’s surface.
He lifted his chin. He’d been thinking like a baby. He picked up his provisions and whistled to Paka. Together they ran across the beach and waded into the shallow water to the family boat. It was small, like other family boats, but it suddenly seemed very large to Kimo when he placed his gear inside.
Untying the rope that held the boat to the mooring pole, he reached for Paka, who was shivering patiently, then crawled into the boat. “Good boy, Paka,” soothed the boy as he placed the dog on the boat’s bottom. “Everything is going to be just fine.” He began to row away from the shore.
Before long the shoreline was just a distant white sliver gleaming in the moonlight. Out on the water, Kimo felt powerful. He pulled the oars inside the boat and reached for the long fishing pole. He baited the hook just as his father had taught him to, then cast the line far out into the silvery water.
The gentle waves had nearly lulled him to sleep, when Paka began to pace back and forth. Suddenly Kimo heard a drumroll of thunder and saw lightning shatter the sky. He couldn’t believe it—it was going to storm! “Oh, Paka,” he cried, “we can’t go yet. I must return with a fish!” He squinted, impatiently looking for the slightest tug on his line. He saw none.
Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Kimo grew uneasy. He knew that he should begin rowing toward the shore before the storm got closer. But I can’t leave yet, he thought. Not without a fish.
Suddenly the boat was tossed and lifted higher and higher. As he struggled to maintain his balance, big wet drops pelted his head. Paka whined loudly. Another giant wave crashed over the boat, and his father’s fishing pole was ripped from his hands. He grabbed at it, but it was too late. The wave had snatched the pole, held it triumphantly out of reach, then swallowed it.
Kimo struggled inch by inch to row the small boat back to the cove. It seemed like hours before he finally made it. After securely tying the boat’s rope to the mooring pole, he trudged home, wondering what he would tell his father.
Then he heaved a sigh of relief. Of course! No one would think to ask him where the pole was. If he didn’t say anything, no one would ever know what he’d done. He ran the rest of the way home and quietly went to bed.
The morning sun finally awakened him. He could smell breakfast and hear the chatter of his family in the kitchen. A sick lump formed in his stomach. He knew that if the feeling was ever to go away, he would have to tell them everything. He rolled out of bed and, with his heart hammering, walked into the kitchen.
“Sleepyhead!” one of his brothers teased.
“Good morning, Kimo,” his father greeted him.
Kimo barely mumbled a reply.
“Hey, what’s wrong with baby brother?” another brother asked.
Kimo stared miserably at the ground. He gulped hard. “I must tell you something,” he finally said.
Seeing Kimo’s worried expression, his father nodded.
“Last night, I—” It was hard for him to tell them while they were staring at him.
“Yes,” his father gently prodded.
Kimo’s words finally broke loose. “I was tired of being the family baby. I wanted you to treat me like a man. So I decided to prove myself by going out in the boat alone and catching a big fish.”
Kimo saw his father’s face grow very grave, but he continued. “Paka and I took the boat while you were asleep. I rowed far from the cove. Then it started storming, and I lost the pole. I … I was very frightened.”
There was a long silence. Finally Kimo’s father spoke. “It is a wise thing to be frightened of a stormy sea. I would have been frightened myself.”
Kimo looked up wonderingly at his father.
“What you did last night, Kimo, was a very dangerous and childish thing.” Kimo bowed his head in shame. “However, it takes a man to accept the responsibility for his mistakes. I thank you for telling us. I am happy that I have an honest son. Now go and do your chores, and later we will decide together how you shall make amends.”
Kimo left the kitchen and went outside. Paka ran up to greet him. “I did it,” Kimo told the little dog. “Not in the way I expected to, but at least in one way I have become a man in the eyes of my father.”
And he did all his chores that day with a glad heart.

It was Saturday morning. To Greg that meant cartoons on TV. He woke up early, even before his father and mother or his older brother Tony were up. Tiptoeing into the living room, he turned the TV on low so he wouldn’t wake anyone. He loved to see the strong, brave heroes fight the monsters who tried to wreck the world.
Tony woke up and asked Greg if he wanted to go outside and play baseball, but Greg said, “No, I want to see the end of this show.” But when that show was finished, an even better one came on the screen.
When his father woke up, he asked Greg if he wanted to help him work on the car, but Greg answered, “Not now. This is my favorite show.”
And after that show, there was one that seemed even better than the first two.
Breakfast over, his mother asked him if he wanted to go shopping with her, but Greg replied, “No, I’d rather stay and see this show.”
“If you don’t watch out,” his mother warned, “you’ll turn into a TV set.”
But Greg didn’t pay much attention to her because he was watching the adventures of Captain Plastic, a hero who could turn himself into any shape he wanted to be.
I wish Dad were Captain Plastic, Greg thought. And I wish Mom were Wonder Woman and could stop bullets with her belt. And I wish life were more like it is on TV. Then he curled up in the large rocking chair …
The next thing Greg knew, his father jumped into the living room wearing a red cape and blue tights with a big letter P on his chest. “Hi there, son!” his father said, hanging from the ceiling like a lamp. In fact, he looked like a lamp.
“Why are you wearing that funny suit and hanging upside down from the ceiling?” Greg asked.
“Because I’m Captain Plastic!” his father said proudly, still looking like a lamp.
“No, you’re not,” Greg laughed. “You’re my dad.”
“Well, to you I’m your dad, but to the world I’m Captain Plastic.” And with that, his father came down from the ceiling and turned into a piano. “I can fly to London and back faster than you can say, ‘Where’d he go?’ But today,” his father said, changing back to Captain Plastic, “I have a cold.”
“You should go to bed and get plenty of rest,” advised Greg, remembering the TV commercials.
“Well, yes, but when Captain Plastic—the world’s strongest man—gets a cold, it’s even more of a problem because when I …”
His father sucked in his breath before letting out a great big sneeze, “Aaaaa-choo!” And his breath blew a hole through one wall of the house.
“You see what I mean?” his father asked. “That’s what happens when Captain Plastic gets a cold. Boy! I’m sorry about the wall. It was one of my favorite walls too. Well, I guess we’ll just have to put a big window there.”
Then his father looked like he was going to sneeze again. “Dad, you’d better go outside.” Greg warned. “If you sneeze one more time, you’ll wreck our whole house.”
“I know, but I hate to go outside and just sit on the porch. Some people make fun of me when I’m wearing my Captain Plastic costume.”
“Then turn yourself into something else,” Greg suggested.
“OK. I’ll turn myself into a big truck.” And with that, his father marched outside, sat down in the driveway, and became a giant truck.
Greg went outside and walked around the truck, admiring its glistening chrome hubcaps and its bright, metallic color.
Dad would love to drive a truck like this, Greg thought. But then he remembered that his dad was the truck.
Greg became confused trying to figure out what was happening. A few minutes later his mother came home from the store. “Whose truck is that in the driveway?” she asked.
“That’s not a truck—that’s Dad,” Greg told her.
“I thought so,” his mother said. “When I walked by, it sneezed.”
“I hope you weren’t hurt,” Greg said.
“Oh, no, but the sneeze broke our elm tree in two. Poor Dad has such a bad cold.”
“What did you get at the store?” Greg asked his mother.
“I thought you’d never ask!” his mother shouted. Suddenly in the house—Greg didn’t know how it happened—there was a banjo player and a drummer and a man with a large TV camera aimed at his mother. And his mother, who usually didn’t even dress up for Halloween, was dressed like a giant potato. “Hey, kids! Be the first in your neighborhood to have your very own potato!”
“A potato?” Greg asked.
“Sure! A potato is so much fun! Look, you can throw a potato just like a ball!” His mother tossed a potato through the hole in the wall. “Do you think that’s all you can do with a potato?” she sang in time with the banjo player. “No, sir! Why, you can boil potatoes and then take them out of the water and step all over them. Do you know what we call that? We call that smashed potatoes!” His mother jumped up and down on a pile of potatoes and the banjo player and drummer did a fast song and the cameraman caught all the action with his camera.
“Are you really my mom?” Greg asked when they stopped.
“Well, to you I’m your mom, but to the world I’m Potato Woman!”
“If you’re not my mom,” Greg said, “you’d better get those smashed potatoes cleaned up, because my mom doesn’t like messes in her house.”
“Do you think that’s all you can do with potatoes?” his mother sang, looking into the TV camera. “No, sir! You can put them in a glass of water for a few days and they’ll grow long roots. Very scary!”
Suddenly a giant potato with long arms sticking out of its body and with many eyes was slithering toward him.
“Potato Woman to the rescue!” his mother shouted. She took out a long, thin rope and lassoed the potato monster and flung it outside through the hole in the wall.
Just then Tony came into the room wearing a magician’s costume. “Hey, kids! Tired of the same old boring outdoors? The same old blue sky? And why do the trees always have to be green? It’s so boring. Right?”
“I like blue sky,” Greg said.
“Well, since you don’t want to go outside and play, we are changing things around. Now we bring you the new and improved orange sky!” Suddenly the sky turned a bright orange color. Greg thought it looked awful.
“And since you were so bored with the same green trees and grass,” his brother continued, “we now bring you the super sensation of the year—purple trees and purple grass!”
It looked horrible! Everything was the wrong color. “I think blue is the best color for the sky,” Greg told his brother.
“Well, thanks a lot!” Tony said disgustedly. “We went to plenty of work just to turn the sky orange and the trees purple because you didn’t like the color they were.”
“What makes you think I didn’t like the colors they were?” Greg asked.
“Because you wouldn’t go outside this morning to see them.”
Just then, his father the truck sneezed and knocked over three telephone poles. Greg ran outside to watch them crash to the ground. “Sorry,” the truck said.
“Dad, I don’t want you to be Captain Plastic anymore! You’re wrecking everything!”
“If you think this is bad, wait until I have the hiccups,” the truck said.
“Hey, kids!” his mother sang, now outside with the banjo player and drummer and cameraman. “When you’re hungry, ask your mom for chocolate covered potatoes!”
“I’m hungry now,” Greg wailed, “and I just want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich!”
“Oh, that’s so boring!” his mother exclaimed. “Here, try some super soup! It’s so thick that you can eat it like a lollipop. Here, try some!” His mother thrust the lollipop into Greg’s hand. “This will turn you into Plastic Boy, like your father. You’ll be the world’s strongest boy!
“I hope you don’t get a cold,” the blue truck moaned. “If you sneeze in school, you’ll turn your desk into a box of toothpicks.”
“I don’t want to be the world’s strongest boy! I don’t want to be Plastic Boy! I want everything to be the way it was before.”
“At least try it for a minute,” his father enticed. “Just take a lick of this super soup and think about becoming something. I know—think about becoming a TV set!”
Greg was sure he wouldn’t like that. But he took a lick of the soup lollipop and thought about being a nice color TV.
And before long he was a 17-inch color TV!
“A chip off the old block!” his father exclaimed proudly, standing next to his son and turning himself into a 27-inch color TV.
“I told you that if you watched too much TV, you’d turn into one,” his mother reminded Greg.
His father turned himself back into Captain Plastic again, put his arm around Greg, and picked him up in his arms. Of course, Greg was still a TV set. “Oh, look,” his father said, “he has an automatic channel selector.” Then his father looked like he was going to sneeze again …
“Dad, don’t sneeze!” Greg yelled through his TV speaker.
“Aaaaaa …” his father again breathed in sharply, raising his head high into the air.
“Dad, if you’re going to sneeze, at least put me down!”
“Aaaaaa … CHOO!”
When his father sneezed, he threw his arms into the air, tossing Greg high into the sky. Above the house and trees he rose, then above the mountains and even higher until he was above the clouds. A second later he zoomed past a large jet plane and saw the surprised looks of the passengers at seeing a 17-inch color TV set flying past them in the air.
I’d better think about being a plane, reasoned Greg. He knew that before long he would begin falling back toward the ground. And just then he did start back down. Before long he was below the clouds again, and he could see the purple ground coming toward him very fast. So he thought and he thought about being a plane until his feet turned into airplane wheels. I need wings most of all, he decided, now falling down below the mountains. But the wings were the hardest of all to think, and he was still falling … downward …
And then he suddenly woke up! He ran into the kitchen where his mother was making him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and he kissed her. “Mom, I’m glad you aren’t Potato Woman.”
“What did you say?” his mother asked.
Next he ran into the garage where his father was working on the car. “Dad. I’m glad you’re not a truck!”
“What did you say?” his father asked.
Then he ran outside and looked around. The sky was a brilliant blue and the trees were a cool green and Greg rejoiced in their beauty.
That afternoon Greg played baseball with Tony.
“Aren’t you glad the sky is blue?” Greg asked, lying back in the green grass and looking at the beautiful blue sky dotted with lacy clouds.
“I don’t know,” Tony said. “I’ve never thought about it much before. What other color could it be?”
“Orange,” Greg said, remembering his dream, “with ugly purple trees.”
And the next Saturday morning, Greg didn’t watch much TV. He was too busy playing outside!

An early pioneer woman named Eliza Cheney was able to put aside the things of the world because she had nurtured the seed of faith within her. While at Winter Quarters, Eliza received a letter from her parents offering her any amount of money to denounce her newfound religion and come home. She tightened the laces on her pioneer shoes. Even in such bitter conditions, Eliza’s faith burned bright. She wrote back to her parents:
“I have not the most distant idea [of returning], neither has Nathan … , our cause is just and must be onward. … I did not embrace this work hastily: I came into it understandingly. I weighed the subject, I counted the cost, I knew the consequence of every step I took. …
“If I could be among the numberless throng that John saw whose robes were washed white in the blood of the lamb[,] I must[,] like them, come up through much tribulation and instead of thinking it hard that I have these difficulties to pass through, I count it all joy that I am counted worthy to suffer shame for his name.”

A couple of years ago a young brother came up to me after a concert and asked if I’d ever seen the kid in the back of the room watching the man up front play his guitar, wanting with all his might to just open up like that and let his feelings out. And then he told me that he was the kid, that it was destructive to his spirit and hurtful to his head to feel the constant pressure of those dammed-up feelings and emotions and ideas. I didn’t doubt his sincerity, but I thought it might be just one more case of never having really tried. I asked him what he was doing to develop his talent. “Well, I’m studying voice right now, and I’ve been playing classical guitar for five years.” Obviously the problem had to be something else.
I invited him to come out to my house in Alpine (a small town in Utah County) when he could, and we’d talk about it. (Incidentally, his desire to share his light so touched me that I wrote a song about him that night before I went to bed—a song that a lot of my artist friends relate to really well, because they, too, frequently feel those “dammed-up” pressures.)
Not long after, we spent the day together in Alpine. The main element in his problem turned out to be a fairly simple misunderstanding. He somehow had the idea that those phrases and images that roll so easily off the singer’s tongue roll just as easily from the writer’s mind. He had begun hundreds of verses on hundreds of days, but whenever a word or picture got stuck in the pen, he felt that he had failed and quit. I have a song about swimming in a river. I sang him the lines:
You can see the fishes dancin’
Dancin’ silver rings around you and me.
Then I told him how I spent an hour a day for about three days writing those two lines, singing the song over and over, getting to that empty place and trying to hear those two lines, filling that place with a dozen different images, finally finding that image and saying it a dozen different ways, then singing it again and again, testing it on my tongue, my ear, my sense of balance.
He asked what the green book on the piano was—a rhyming dictionary. The blue one—a Thesaurus. And the cassette recorder—a recorder to tape four or five notes at a time, playing them back, seeing if the structure sounded fresh and yet inevitable. What was written in the pile of music notebooks? Melodies that didn’t work. The other notebooks? Lyrics that didn’t work. The filing cabinet? Ideas for songs. He wrote me a letter recently from the mission field in South America. The letter was in rhyme—not a hit song lyric, but real feelings breathing on the page.

Andrew turned back and climbed into the airplane’s small cabin. Although his father had taken some of the food on the sled, there was still a lot of canned goods left—much more than he would need. As he ate, Andrew thought of taking some food to the Eskimos, but he decided against it. If his father were delayed for some reason, the boy would need the food for himself.
Near the river the Eskimo boy chopped two holes through the ice. After fishing for several hours Ootah finally caught three small fish. He offered one to Andrew. “For your supper,” he said.
“Thank you, but I have food in the cabin of the plane,” Andrew reminded him.
Andrew felt terribly lonely when he returned to the plane and fixed something to eat. Before eating he prayed for his father’s safety and quick return. And as he prayed he remembered that his father had taught him to treat others as he would like to be treated. Guiltily he thought of the kindness of the Eskimo who had offered to share his fish even though they were all short of food.
Andrew flung open the cabin door and shouted for Ootah. When he came running, Andrew began throwing cans of food down to him.
On the sixth day an airplane mechanic flew in with Andrew’s father. While the mechanic repaired the plane, Andrew said good-bye to his Eskimo friends. He and Ootah solemnly promised to keep in touch with each other.
As the plane soared above the igloos, Andrew felt something pushing against his leg. He reached down and with a rush of joy picked up the little brown and white Husky puppy Ootah and his grandfather had left in the plane for Andrew to take home.

When I was a young boy, about 12 years old, I loved to play baseball. The only piece of athletic equipment that we had around our house was an old baseball mitt. I thought the great moment in my life would be that I would be playing baseball for the New York Yankees. I would be playing for them in the World Series, the games tied 3 and 3. Now in the deciding game, guess who would get up to bat? As I stood at the plate, the pitcher would pitch the ball exactly where I’d want it, I’d knock it out of Yankee Stadium, and I would become the hero of the World Series. I thought that would be the great moment of my life. But I want you to know that that isn’t true.
A number of years ago I sat in the Los Angeles California Temple in a little sealing room with my wife, Ruby. We had our sons there with their wives—they’d been married for just a short time—and our sweet daughter was kneeling at the altar, holding the hand of the young man she was to be sealed to. And as I looked around the room, I then realized that this was the great moment of my life because I had in that room everything that was precious to me—everything. My wife was there, my eternal sweetheart and companion. Our three children were there with their eternal companions. And I thought, “David, in your youth you had things all wrong. You thought some worldly event of some kind might be the great event of your life.” But now, I was witnessing that great event. I was there, I was feeling it, I felt a part of it, and I knew in that little white sealing room—clean, sweet, pure in that room—with all of my family there that this was the great moment of my life.

Illustration by Eva Vazquez
After our nephew got into a serious accident, my wife, Ana María, and I talked about our desire to know the truth among so many different religions and beliefs. One afternoon I sat down on my bed and prayed, “Lord, please help me find a way to know which church is true.”
Five minutes later, the phone rang. A friend called to invite my wife and me to his home to learn about some nutritional products. We went, and while we were there, our friend gave us a Book of Mormon. On the title page was a personal note: “I hope this book helps you get closer to our Lord Jesus Christ.”
The next day, I looked at the book and prayed again, “Lord, tell me if this book is true. I don’t want to offend you by reading something bad.”
I began reading. As I read, I felt as if I knew the people in the Book of Mormon. When I reached the end, I was so pained by the destruction of the Nephites that I wept. I had read hundreds of books, but no book had touched me the way the Book of Mormon did. I knew it was true.
One Sunday I invited Ana María to accompany me to a nearby chapel of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I thought she wouldn’t want to come, but she agreed. We liked what we heard. Afterward, ward members asked if they could send the missionaries over. “Of course,” we replied.
The missionaries soon arrived with the Book of Mormon in hand and said they had a message to share with us. “That’s a beautiful book,” I said. “I’ve already read it.” This surprised them. Then Ana María surprised me. “And I’m reading it now,” she said. “I’m in Mosiah.”
She had found the book on the table where I left it every day before work and began reading herself. Later she surprised me again when she said that when I was praying for direction from Heavenly Father a few weeks earlier, she had been uttering the same prayer in another part of our home.
I told the missionaries I was ready to be baptized. They taught us the lessons, and two weeks later, my wife and I were baptized and confirmed. We are so thankful that the Lord sent us the Book of Mormon to help us know which church is true.

Principle Number 1: In our quest for holy wisdom, we must have the faith to lay our whole selves on the altar.
To echo the words of President Dieter F. Uchtdorf:
To sacrifice means to give something up in favor of something more valuable. . . .
. . . Our sacrifices show what we truly value.1
My parents have acted as a powerful example of this principle. My family decided to immigrate to the United States when I was six years old. At the time, my father worked at an international law firm—which allowed him to practice law in the U.S. with his Australian law degree. Unfortunately, just a few months after we had moved to Utah, the firm was suddenly forced into bankruptcy.

Initially my parents saw this as God closing a door, signaling a return to stable work in Australia. However, after prayer and reflection, they felt guided to remain in Utah. This choice required uprooting our lives, including sending my father to law school for a second time to become eligible to practice in the United States.

Over the next three years, my parents raised five children in a cramped, three-room basement apartment, surviving on meals supplemented with one too many cans of beans. In choosing to follow God’s will, despite discomfort, my parents taught me that no cost is too high to pursue the Lord’s will.
Each of you has incorporated sacrifice into your BYU education, whether it was relinquishing your free hour to crochet hats with Y-Serve or deciding to enroll in a challenging major based solely on revelation. Your sacrifice, like that of my parents, has taught you to love the things the Lord loves. Your sacrifice has purified your hearts, fashioning you into worthy instruments in God’s hands and preparing you to go forth to serve.

When I was a freshman here at BYU-Hawaii, young and just out of high school, my primary goal was to get my MRS. degree. Once I accomplished that, I felt that I was done with my education. It wasn't until a few years later when some of my friends started graduating from college that I realized that getting a degree was something I could have done, but I never made it a priority. By then I had two children and I felt that it would be almost impossible to finish college. Yet I kept contemplating that with three years worth of courses behind me, maybe it wouldn't be too difficult to get the last year of schooling done so that I could graduate. It was at that point in my life that I began the long journey of raising a family while pursuing my education. My educational journey has taken a total of 14 years...so far.

I'm sure you're wondering, "14 years?" Well, various contributing factors made it a total of seven years to obtain my bachelors degree. One of the main reasons it took so long was that I was only a part time student for the last four of those seven years.

I began teaching school after my youngest child entered kindergarten. When I applied for my first job the principal asked for my educational background and I proudly replied "I have my bachelor's degree." He said, "Is that all?" I thought to myself, is that all! IS THAT All! Do you have any idea how hard that was for me to do? How many years of sacrifice? How many long drives to Laie? How many late nights of study? What do you mean is that all! Luckily, I was hired but I was placed at the bottom of the pay scale. That interview inspired me to continue my education. So a few years later, I started graduate school which lasted another seven years.

A true story from the USA.
Myra clicked the mouse as fast as she could. Her character, Galina the elf queen, was trying to defeat the huge ice dragon. Her friends from school were online too. They were playing elves and fairies in the game.
Flashes of color burst all over the computer screen. This dragon was tough!
“Almost there, almost … Yes!” She jumped up and pumped her fist in the air.
The chat box on her screen lit up with messages.
“Awesome job!”
“Let’s do it again!”
Myra smiled. She loved playing Quest Planet with her friends. “Just need to drop off this treasure first,” Myra typed.
Ping. A new message popped up. “Pancake1000 would like to be your friend,” she read.
Myra frowned. She was only supposed to play online with friends from school. But maybe this was someone else she knew. She clicked “Accept.”
Ping. “Hi! I’m Jackson. What’s your name?”
I don’t know any Jacksons, Myra thought. But maybe it would be OK to talk to him.
She bit her bottom lip. “I’m Myra,” she typed.
For the next few days, Myra played and chatted with Jackson online. He was really good at the game and showed her where to buy supplies for her character.
“Where do you go to school? I go to Jefferson,” Jackson said.
Myra paused. That was a school near hers. Maybe he knew some people from her school. She started to type “Woodberry.” But then she got a sick feeling in her stomach. She remembered how her parents always said not to share any personal information with people she didn’t know—like her full name, address, or school. She also knew to never send pictures of herself.
Jackson said he was her age and lived nearby, so maybe it was OK to talk with him. She still wasn’t sure, though.
So instead she typed, “Do you want to visit the Enchanted River? I need some vanishing stones.”
Pretty soon Myra noticed a pattern. Whenever she chatted with Jackson, he’d start out talking about the game, but then he’d ask questions about her real life. He always asked her for more information.
One day Jackson wrote something that made Myra really uncomfortable. She tried to change the subject. “I’m going to the Fairy Realm for some unicorn hair.”
Ping. A message popped up. Then another. And another. Myra ran out of the room to find Dad.
“Dad?” Myra said.
Dad looked up from a book. “What’s up?”
“I was playing my game …” Myra gulped and looked down. “Someone is sending me bad messages.”
Dad looked at the messages while Myra tried to look anywhere but the screen. Her insides felt like they were being squeezed. She wished she had never accepted Jackson’s friend request.
“I’m glad you told me. I’ll report him to the website and block him from your account. I’ll call his parents too. Is he in your class?”
Myra’s voice was soft. “I don’t know him … I’m sorry.”
Dad hugged her. “Do you remember why you should only play online with friends you know in person?”
Myra nodded. “To stay safe.”
“That’s right. It’s easy for people to lie about who they are online. I’m sure there are lots of nice kids on Quest Planet. But it’s safer to only play with kids you know.”
Myra was quiet for a few moments. “When Jackson first started asking me questions, I felt really uncomfortable. I think the Holy Ghost was warning me. I wish I had listened.”
Dad gave her another hug. “I think you’re right. The Holy Ghost was trying to keep you safe. And it’s good that you listened to Him in the end and came to talk to me about it. That took courage! I’m proud of you.”
Now Myra really felt brave, just like Galina the elf queen!

While helping Gard plant some seeds in the spring, Nathan curiously asked Gard why he didn’t attend church. Gard replied that he hadn’t been to church for many years, partly because he didn’t feel that he was needed there.
The next morning in scripture study, Nathan’s family read John 21 in the New Testament. In verses 16 and 17 Jesus instructs His disciples, “Feed my sheep.”
That caught Nathan’s attention, and Dad explained. “Jesus was often referred to as the Good Shepherd. His followers were people who believed in Him, and were sometimes called His sheep. Before He left them, He made sure that each one of His sheep, or followers, was loved and cared for.”
Dad continued as Nathan listened with interest. “Jesus knows and loves each one of us. As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we must also help watch over His sheep by loving and caring for one another.”
Nathan thought for a few moments. Then he said, “Gard is one of Jesus’s sheep, and He would probably like us to help Gard come to church. Is that what Jesus meant about feeding His sheep?”
Dad nodded. “I think that is exactly what Jesus would like us to do.”
“But where do we start?” Nathan asked.
Dad explained that the first step was as simple as just being a friend. “I think that we have already become good friends with Gard,” he said. “Now let’s include him in our prayers and ask Heavenly Father to help us know what we can do next.”
A few months later, Dad was called to serve as the high priest group leader in the ward. In his prayers, he asked Heavenly Father who should serve with him. He felt impressed that he should ask Gard to serve as his secretary.
Nathan’s family was thrilled when they learned that Gard had accepted the call and would be riding to church with them on Sunday.
As Gard continued to attend church, Nathan decided that the feeling he had inside was even more exciting than delivering a surprise Christmas tree!

Two Scouts from the Virginia Beach Second Ward, Norfolk Virginia Stake, received commendations for saving the life of Harvette Kaneakua during a Sunday School class party.
The medals and certificates for heroism were presented after Brad Alexander and Brian Casson endangered their own lives to save their friend’s. At a beach party, the undertow pulled several of the group out into deep water. Brian helped Harvette stay afloat while Brad towed them both to shore.

I recently noticed my tendency to use electronics during church and youth activities. It had become a habit. Anytime I saw my phone, I immediately had to grab it and check to see if I had any new notifications or text messages. The solution? Hiding my phone from myself. Whether it was in a bag, under a chair, or even with a friend—if I couldn’t see my phone, I wouldn’t be tempted to use it.
Taryn M., age 15, Florida, USA

The fresh mountain air cooled my lungs as I laced up my boots. Next to me, my horse whinnied impatiently.
“I know, girl. I’m coming,” I said soothingly, as I stroked her reddish-brown mane.
I finished fastening the saddle, mounted, and was off. As I rode up the mountain, I thought of all the troubles that were weighing on my mind. I was a junior in high school—worried about friends, sports, final exams, and where to apply for college. Hundreds of thoughts swirled around in my brain. There were simply too many problems; I would never be able to solve them all. That’s really why I had come to the mountains. I needed to escape for a while.
After a time, I arrived at my favorite spot—a small out-of-the-way clearing that overlooks a mountain valley. I stopped my horse and said a small prayer in my heart.
“Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “I am so tired and so overwhelmed. Please give me some comfort. I just need a little peace.”
The answer came almost immediately. “Look up.”
As I raised my eyes, I was met with a scene of such astonishing beauty that I could scarcely breathe. All of my problems seemed to melt away as I soaked up the view. The farms in the valley were laid out like squares in a patchwork quilt, and on that day in May many of the fields had come to life in brilliant shades of green. What struck me most, however, was not the green. Throughout the fields of green were generous smatterings of the most vibrant yellow I had ever seen. The effect was mesmerizing, and it sparked my curiosity because I knew that there weren’t any local crops of that color.
I rode faster on the way down, eager to get to the valley floor and discover the source of that captivating yellow. When I reached the fields, I was astonished to find that the beauty that had so enchanted me didn’t come from anything exotic. The fields were filled with simple, unassuming dandelions.
I picked one small dandelion and brought it close to my nose. It was amazing to me how much difference perspective had made. From high above, I was quite taken in by the beauty of something that most people on the valley floor would call a weed. I would never have recognized its worth if I had not been prompted to look up and find the beauty in it.
I realized that I sometimes treat people the way most people treat the dandelion I held in my hand. I decide that they aren’t really worth my notice, without pausing to get to know them better or to think of how greatly the Lord values them. God knew that the dandelion was beautiful in its simplicity, even when most people couldn’t see it.
It occurred to me that I was much like the dandelion. Small and imperfect—but important and cherished in the eyes of my Heavenly Father. Elder Neal A. Maxwell of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles (1926–2004) once said that “sometimes with smudges on our cheeks, dirt on our hands, and shoes untied, stammeringly but smilingly we present God with a dandelion—as if it were an orchid or a rose! If for now the dandelion is the best we have to offer, He receives it, knowing what we may later place on the altar” (That Ye May Believe [1992], 100).
Since that day I have never looked at a dandelion the same way. When I look at those little yellow flowers, I don’t see something to be stomped on, plucked up, or sneered at. I see effortless charm and loveliness. I will be forever grateful for the lesson I learned on that day—never judge someone or something until you have tried to see them from the Lord’s point of view, because the Lord, from His perspective high above mine, has a far better view and can much more easily judge the worth of flowers and of souls.

In 1992 Nathan Siriga was a provincial planner for the government. He had heard unflattering rumors about the Church that were circulating in his town of Popondetta, located on the north coast. “I had the responsibility to investigate and make a report,” he recalls. “If those rumors were true, I, as a government agent, wanted to stop the Church.”

Nathan Siriga took his questions to a fellow government worker, Benson Ariembo, who was second counselor in the Papua New Guinea Mission presidency. Brother Siriga admits that his interest in the Church wasn’t strictly official. “For fifteen years, I had been looking for the truth,” he says. “One question led to another. After a few minutes, I found out that Latter-day Saints knew more than I did about life after death and about the second coming of Jesus Christ.”

After studying the Book of Mormon and the Doctrine and Covenants for several months, Brother Siriga decided to be baptized. The evening before his baptism, he prayed about the truthfulness of the doctrines. That night, he dreamed that he was surrounded by people in white who were praying for him. “I was in the middle of them,” he recalls, “filled with joy, praying and crying at the same time. I felt like I was in the middle of the company of heaven.”

Brother Siriga, now second counselor in the Popondetta Branch, works hard to share his testimony of the gospel and to dispel rumors about the Church. “I had never experienced the feelings of the Spirit that I do with Church members or in sacrament meetings,” he says. “We have the duty and responsibility to tell our people about the Church.”

Years ago when I was a young mother, my heart was broken when my husband left the Church, then left me. I pulled my two little girls close to me and centered our lives in the gospel.
I prayed for my children daily and involved them in wholesome activities. Home teachers and bishops assured me that these little ones would be mine in the eternities and would appreciate my sacrifices for them. I took comfort in the fact that because my children were born in the covenant, they would be heirs to promised blessings. Three years after the divorce, I married a faithful Latter-day Saint, and I felt sure all would be well.
But soon we began having severe problems with my younger daughter. She had been happy and full of energy as a young child, but as an adolescent she became demanding, defiant, and belligerent. She began smoking, drinking, experimenting with drugs, and shoplifting. She used vulgar language and became sexually active. She challenged all authority and eventually dropped out of high school.
This was as difficult a challenge as any I had faced. My husband and I desired for her to repent, gain a testimony, and feel peace in her life. I became despondent and inconsolable—I couldn’t bear the thought of “losing” another loved one.
We fasted and prayed, pleading with Father in Heaven not to allow this child to be lost. My husband and I counseled together and sought advice from our bishop. We put her name on temple prayer rolls. Although my patient husband was a great help to me, he was largely ineffective with my daughter because she refused to accept him as an authority figure.
During this time I received numerous priesthood blessings. I spent hours attempting to talk with my daughter. I read the scriptures and books on dealing with difficult children. I asked for advice, consulted with friends and family, and pled with youth leaders for help and influence.
I wondered, “Where is the joy in family life? When will these problems cease?” We feared almost every contemporary nightmare: teen pregnancy, sexually transmitted disease, drug addiction, death in a drunk-driving accident. Finding no resolution to the problem, I lost all confidence in my ability to be a good parent. I felt desperate, sorrowful, frantic, angry, and helpless.
Then, after several years of frustration, I began to realize that I needed to make changes in my own life. I began to see that in my efforts to help my daughter, I was acting out of terror, not out of faith. The way of the Lord is not frightened frenzy. Jesus Christ brings hope, not despair. Satan is the author of discouragement and unhappiness. I had been listening to the wrong voice.
I decided to go back to the basics of the gospel and build a stronger, more solid spirituality. I wondered when, for instance, I had last offered prayers of gratitude. Had I completely forgotten my many blessings? Had I actively looked for the good qualities of my struggling daughter? Did I appreciate the obedient members of my family? Did I acknowledge the joyful moments in my day? Did I enjoy a beautiful sunset or a soft rain?
I was ashamed. I had become so negative and unhappy that my thoughts and actions did not reflect my testimony of Jesus Christ. My countenance didn’t show my love for and hope in the Savior.
I chose to change. I concentrated on filling my soul with positive thoughts and feelings. I read uplifting books and stopped watching content-empty television programs. I became diligent in a personal exercise program, which relieved stress and lifted my spirits.
But most important, I changed my scripture study routine. My mind is most alert in the morning, so I began reading the scriptures early. Sometimes I read just a few verses, other times a few chapters. In my car, I turned off the radio and pondered what I had read that morning. The spiritual experiences I had right there in my car more than made up for the news and traffic reports I missed.
Amazing things began to happen. Impressions began to pop into my mind: I received ideas about how to handle day-to-day obligations and how to prepare for Church assignments. And I received inspiration about how to interact with my precious daughter.
One day I felt that my conversations with my daughter should turn to the positive things we had in common. Sure enough, our shared interests in music, art, and old movies provided us with nonthreatening topics of conversation. This change was a helpful first step in repairing our damaged relationship.
Another morning I felt a strong impression that continued over the next few months: Force is not the answer. I tearfully asked Heavenly Father to forgive me for forgetting that agency is a basic part of His plan. I realized that it is not appropriate to attempt to make someone do something, even if that thing is righteous. That was Satan’s design.
Change didn’t happen overnight. It was difficult, and I had to do a lot of it. I had setbacks, but I kept trying. As parents, we still had to set standards for what was acceptable in our home, but our daughter began to respond more positively because I was now more confident and less emotional.
The continuing spiritual impressions we received were a great blessing. Line upon line, the Spirit taught us what to do and when to do it. When we obeyed, we were blessed. When we struggled, we were gently reminded.
On one occasion, the Spirit reminded me that true conversion comes through the Lord. So instead of merely praying for my daughter to do what I told her, I began asking that she would be blessed with a change of heart. And I looked for moments to talk with her about the Savior. She agreed, for instance, that a violent world needs more of His gentle ways.
As the Spirit taught me, I began to recognize more of Christ’s great mercy in my own behalf. One day I thought, “Perhaps my experiences with straying family members can help me realize that I, too, stray when I don’t put my whole faith and trust in Him. Maybe our family’s struggles with this prodigal child can ultimately be for our benefit. Perhaps our weaknesses, though not as visible as hers, also need refining.”
As I began to think such thoughts, I became more grateful than ever for Christ’s Atonement. And as my gratitude increased, so did my faith in His ability to touch my daughter’s life. I developed a firm conviction that He will keep entreating her and trying to bring her back, for He loves her even more than I do! My role now is to be close to her and to strive to become the best example of the Savior I can be.
Today this daughter is still not active in the Church, but she has a good life. Recently she married a good man, and she is a responsible and capable worker in a good career. She and I have a great relationship, and I have a bright hope that she will someday return to the teachings of her childhood.
Through these difficult times I have learned that we have the right to inspiration in our own lives. I firmly believe the Holy Ghost can help us as we prepare ourselves to hear His promptings and act on them.
The experiences I have had with this daughter have also brought me closer to the Savior. They have taught me to search my own soul, to seek the Holy Ghost for guidance, to rely on the Atonement, to be grateful for what I have, and to hope for the future.

A young man who was the son of a Pentecostal Minister had invited his parents to attend his baptism and the baptismal service was delayed while awaiting their arrival After awhile, the telephone rang and his father told the young man that they would not be attending the baptism. Furthermore, his father said that the young man would not be welcome in their home if he went through with the foolish notion to become a Mormon! The young man responded, "I want you to know that I love both of you very much and have tried hard to be an obedient son. However, I know that this is the correct decision and I would not be loyal to God if I am not baptized today." He was then baptized and became an active member of the Church.

“I grew up in the city, but each summer I stayed with a farmer in our branch for two or three weeks, and I learned to enjoy farming. One day while we were working in a field and the cows needed to be brought up the hill to pasture, the farmer said, ‘I’ll take the wagon down to get the cows.’ I asked, ‘Can I do that?’ He replied, ‘Do you think that you can do it?’ I was small for my age, but I was happy that he thought that I could do the job.”

“Hans, Mein sohn, was machst du da?”
“Vater, Ich studiere.”
“Hans, Mein Sohn, das kannst du nicht.”
“Vater, Ich probiere.”
“Hans, my son, what are you doing?”
“Father, I’m studying.”
“Hans, my son, that you cannot.”
“Father, I am trying.”

“That was one of the first readings that I learned in school. Because it included my first name, Hans, it was very meaningful to me then, and it still is. I’m still trying today.”