Gospel Story Finder

As soon as I had finished my education, June resumed hers, and the completion of her bachelor’s degree was an important family project during most of our years in Chicago. She had supported me magnificently during my education, and I felt I an obligation and privilege to give support and cooperation in the completion of hers. I firmly believed that an education is just as important for a woman, married or single, as it is for a man. (I urge you to give careful consideration to a statement I will publish on that subject in the Universe later this week.)

During our first years in Chicago, June attended Roosevelt University, Wheaton College, and Elmhurst College. She also came out to BYU several summers to take courses in Summer School while I stayed in Chicago, though I joined the family briefly for the weeks permitted by my vacation. During these summers in Provo, June and the children lived in rented student apartments, including one summer in an apartment in Heritage Halls, where I also lived for a week during my vacation. She also took the maximum number of hours permitted through BYU Home Study, and the sight of her studying or at the typewriter in our home was a familiar one to all of us. A favorite experience that characterized this period was the time that our oldest son, then five or six years old, came up to his mother and showed her a shirt that was missing a button. “Mother,” he asked sweetly, “will you sew on this button after you have graduated?” Finally, in 1965, fourteen years and five children after she had enrolled at BYU, June received her bachelor’s degree from Brigham Young University. All of us consider that one of our family’s finest achievements. In the meantime, the boy learned how to sew on his own buttons, which will help him on his mission.

My little sister, Becki, was only four, and one of those rare people who fear nothing. She was strong, curious, and independent. I often wished she were different, because one of my big-sister fantasies was to rescue her. Little could I know that my daydream would come true that summer afternoon.
I was ten. Our family was traveling from California to Salt Lake City, Utah, on vacation. About halfway there was the city of St. George, Utah, where we decided to stay overnight. Daddy chose a motel with a pool, and it was only a matter of minutes to my first delicious leap into the cool water. I loved to swim, even though my best effort was a clumsy dog paddle.
I was lounging in a big inner tube, pretending that I was a glamorous movie star at a Hollywood party, when I heard a shout from my sister. “Watch, Daddy!”
I rolled over in the water, with one arm still wrapped securely around the inner tube. Becki was lying “through” a smaller tube, splashing her arms and legs like crazy. I knew she thought that she was really swimming. Daddy called encouragement from his deck chair.
Just then Becki’s tube slipped down her wriggling body and scooted several feet behind her. She was in the deepest end of the pool.
I started to kick furiously, pushing my own inner tube in front of me, hoping I could get it to her before she sank. It was only a few feet, but it seemed ages before the tube was finally within her reach. In my desperation to kick fast enough, I hadn’t wasted any breath calling for help, but I knew that Dad was there and would help me if I needed it.
Becki lunged wildly at the inner tube. To my horror, her sudden attack jarred it from my own grasp and sent it skittering out of reach.
Suddenly I felt Becki’s tiny but steely fingers clutch at my neck. She was kicking and thrashing like a miniature hurricane, making it impossible for me to see through the water she was churning up. I felt my mouth fill with water, and I realized that with Becki’s weight around my neck, I was now struggling beneath the surface.
As her grip tightened chokingly, the thrashing lessened. In a flash of clarity, I understood that Becki trusted me to save her now. Here was the chance I’d always wanted. But it was nothing like I’d imagined! With a sickening panic, I thought, I’m not good enough to save anybody! I can’t swim well enough, and I can’t even breathe myself!
I could see the surface of the water just an inch or two beyond my face. Every thought stood clearly in my mind, while my body acted almost independently at racing speed. I had been kicking for all I was worth, trying desperately to get my face out of the water, at the same time holding Becki’s head in the air.
Meanwhile I wondered about Daddy. I knew that he was right there, and yet he hadn’t come into the pool to help us. Was he going to just sit there watching while both of us were about to drown? I remembered that not only was Dad a super swimmer but he had learned lifesaving skills in the Navy. Why didn’t he do something?
Although I was now swallowing water, I kept kicking. I didn’t try to loosen Becki’s trusting hug. I knew that she was depending on me. I still wanted to save her, even if I died trying.
That was my final, foggy thought as her grip suddenly relaxed and my head bobbed up to see Daddy lifting her out of the pool. I’d managed to reach the pool’s side with all my frantic kicking. Gasping, I grabbed hold of the edge. I was dizzy, relieved, and weak.
“Good girl, Linda,” Daddy said, smiling down at me. “You saved your little sister!”
I stared at him. He squatted down to me, his expression full of emotions I couldn’t read. Reaching under my arms, he hauled me into that special hug that only a dad can give. Hugging back weakly, I still struggled to breathe normally. Finally I pushed away to ask the question burning inside: “Why didn’t you help me? I almost couldn’t do it! I nearly drowned both of us!”
Daddy shook his head. “I could see you, remember? You were moving toward the side of the pool the whole time. I knew that you would make it.”
He must have seen my unbelief and shock, because he continued, “You were doing fine! You did fine!” He patted my shoulder, then turned away to watch Becki, who was already heading back into the water.

When we got to the pile of junk, we had to lift off an old bedspring so that we could sift through the smaller things underneath. Ed found a rusted shovel he could sharpen and fit with a new handle. And I dug out a powder compact with a mirror. There was a pretty good washbasin that could be fixed by pulling a rag through the hole, and one or two bottles to add to my collection. We found a stove poker and a coal scuttle that were better than the ones we were using at home, so we decided to take them to Mama.

We put the other treasures inside the coal scuttle and sat down on the edge of the bedspring to talk. “You’re lucky you’re not going to school,” Ed complained. “There’s always some big bully who wants to beat you up at recess. And the teacher is mean. If you don’t know the answers, he cracks your knuckles with a ruler, or makes you sit in the corner, or has you write I WILL NOT FORGET TO STUDY MY LESSONS a hundred times on the blackboard after school. Just think of all the fun you can have outside while I’m cooped up at school!”

“It’s no fun being all alone,” I disagreed. “Besides, I want to learn to read.”

“What for? Who needs to read?”

“I do. There are places to find out about that I’ll never see and lots of things to learn that are written down.”

“It’s not fair that you get to stay home.” Ed accented each word with a bounce on the springs. “Say, these are pretty good springs. Couldn’t we use them?”

“There’s no place to put them,” I replied.

“That’s too bad,” he said, jumping higher.

“We could take them to our Indian grandma,” I suggested. “Then she wouldn’t have to sleep on that hard ground.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“Maybe I could make her a mattress with corn shucks like Mama made.”

The more I thought about it the more I liked the idea. Piecing together the scraps for the mattress would help fill the days when everyone else was at school.

Ed picked up the coal bucket with our treasures, and we hurried home to ask Papa if he’d pick up the springs with the wagon.

All of a sudden I felt anxious for school to start so I could get on with my project for Grandma. Mama was glad I had something to keep me busy and helped me find plenty of scraps of heavy material to stitch together for the mattress. She was true to her promise about the ABC’s, too, and took me to the store the first day everyone else was back in school. She hesitated a little over the cost, and Mr. Younger said, “I have another set I can let you have for less because the box got lost when they were displayed in the window, and I had to put them into another box.”

Mama said that would be fine, and he climbed up his ladder to get the box off a high shelf. It had a picture of a beautiful lady in a wide-brimmed hat, and I liked it better than the proper box that only had a picture of the ABC’s that were already inside. The letters were printed in black on blue cards, and some of them had faded in the window, but that didn’t matter. Mr. Younger said there were four sets: lower and upper case in printing and cursive, with extras of the most-used letters.

“She can make words until the cows come home,” he said.

That’s exactly what I intended to do. I didn’t know what he meant by cursive and upper and lower case, but I knew right where I was going to hide the box in the loft so no one else would find it and lose any letters.

The days went fast while the others were at school. I made words with my cards the same as the ones in the nursery rhyme book and practiced copying the letters on a piece of blackboard I’d found at the junkyard. When I got tired of that I’d come down from the loft and sew on the quilt pieces until Caroline and Ed came home.

To make sure I could go to school the next year, I practiced talking while I sewed. I learned to say things like, “Peter Piper picked a peck of prickly, pickled peppers,” or “Bumpy rubber buggy bumpers.” Sometimes I could say them better than Ed.

After I’d pieced together the top and bottom for the mattress, Mama showed me how to put the clean, dry corn shucks between the layers of cloth and tack it together in enough places so they stayed where they should. Corn shucks make a nice, friendly mattress that whispers and sighs all night, like someone is keeping you company. It would keep Grandma from being lonely while she slept.

Each spring we got more of our land under cultivation, and by the third or fourth year it was producing abundantly. The pastureland was fenced, and the eucalyptus trees we had planted for shade and as a windbreak were starting to do their job. The orchard was growing bigger, both in size and number of trees, and we had more horses, cows, chickens—even some new pigs. Every penny Papa earned went back into improving the farm.

As the farm grew, so did the family. Soon we had three more girls, and they, too, were named in alphabetical order—Helen, Ida, and Janice.

Janice was a weak little girl with a bad heart. If she cried hard or got too excited, she couldn’t get her breath and went into a fainting spell.

One time Papa and Mama took Janice to the doctor in Harmony to see if anything could be done for her. The three boys and I were trying to think of a game to play while they were gone.

“Want to play hopscotch?” I asked as I scratched the pattern in the dirt with a stick.

“Naw, that’s a sissy game,” Ed scoffed.

“Besides, it makes you too hot,” Frank said.

“Let’s go over to Grandma’s then,” I suggested, “and see if she still likes her mattress.” Even after all this time I could get excited just thinking about how much I’d enjoyed making it and how pleased she was when we took it over to her.

Doni had a reputation for success. She played varsity basketball and volleyball. She ran track. She was a cheerleader. And she was an excellent student and graduated as valedictorian of her high school. She also was the recipient of a national $20,000 scholarship that, combined with her athletic scholarship, will cover most of her college expenses at Brigham Young University.
She was one of 50 students across the nation to receive the top scholarships offered by a big soft drink company. The competition was incredible, with 50,000 students applying for the scholarships. Doni’s chances seemed minuscule.
Again, if Doni herself had said that she didn’t have a chance, many might have agreed with her. After all, Pine Ridge, South Dakota, on the reservation of the Oglala-Sioux, is in one of the poorest counties in the nation. The high school is small and doesn’t offer as sophisticated an education as larger schools. But Doni had already learned some lessons from her sports about accepting a challenge. “Sometimes small towns can’t offer the latest technical background, so the only way you can really improve is to challenge yourself and to challenge your teachers. It can earn you a chance.”
Doni and her dad found out about the scholarship by reading through books that described different scholarships offered each year. Her application was accepted. Then began a grueling series of essays, with half of the applicants eliminated after each round.
Doni got tired of writing essays. Sometimes she felt like she had nothing to say. When that happened, her dad would sit at the kitchen table and talk when it was her turn to do the dishes. He would guide the conversation until Doni was telling him what she thought about the future and about the things she was studying. Then, when the dishes were finished, he would say to her, “Okay, that’s what your next essay is about. Go write down what you just said.”
Doni made it to the last 100 contestants. Then she had to appear in person before a panel of judges who questioned her about her essays. There was no way to prepare. You just had to go in and do your best. She did it and was one of the final 50 to receive the scholarships.

A few years ago, while teaching a missionary prep class at BYU, I asked students to practice extending commitments every week of the course. I explained that I did not expect them to invite someone to be baptized, just help someone else do what that person really wanted to do but had not yet been able to do without some outside help. One student explained to me how she had called a non-LDS friend in her home state just to see how she was doing. Her friend told her that she had developed a drinking problem and that she was thinking of dropping out of school and returning home. She said that she had become so discouraged, she was thinking of taking her own life.

My student asked her if she wanted some help. Becoming emotional, her friend consented. My student then said to her friend:
In our Church we have the Book of Mormon. One verse we've been studying talks about some missionaries who got so discouraged they wanted to give up and go back home, but then they prayed and fasted and the Lord comforted them and said, "bear with patience thine afflictions, and I will give unto you success" (Alma 26:27). I know that the Lord will help you. I know that he can help you overcome your drinking problem. I know He can help you succeed. Will you pray that He can do that?
Her friend agreed to pray. Later my student then said to me:
I can't actually believe I did that. I didn't know if she would be offended or if my invitation to pray would help her, but I felt that it would, so I did it. A week later my friend called me back and said, "I just want you to know that you saved my life. I'm getting some help with my drinking problem, and I've decided to stay in school. I'm not so discouraged anymore. You really saved my life."

This student was building up the soul of her friend.

One sister told of her preparation to receive a General Authority guest in her home for stake conference. Everything was to be perfect. Extensive cleaning and cooking were done. Her ten children were prepped as to what their roles should be. She worked hard! By the time he arrived she was exhausted and couldn’t enjoy his visit. Too late, she realized that spiritual preparation was “needful” also.

She stated, “It is because of our spiritual preparation that we can find answers to our everyday challenges. It is because of our spiritual preparation that we can find joy in enduring and overcoming our trials. It is because of our spiritual preparation that we can feel the greatest joy of all, a nearness and closeness to our Savior and Father in Heaven.”

I was in the city of Torreó, Mexico, and was being driven about in a beautiful and expensive automobile. It belonged to a man named David Casteñ. At one time he and his wife and their children lived on a little rundown farm. They owned 30 chickens, two pigs, and one skinny horse. They walked in poverty.

Then one day two missionaries called on them. Sister Casteñ said, “The elders took the blinders from our eyes and brought light into our lives. We knew nothing of Jesus Christ. We knew nothing of God until they came.”

They moved into the little town of Bermejillo. Circumstances led them to the junk business. They bought wrecked automobiles. This led to association with insurance companies. They gradually built a prosperous business in which the father and his five sons worked. With simple faith they paid their tithing. They lived the gospel. They served wherever they were called. Four of their sons and three of their daughters filled missions.

Through their influence some 200 of their family and friends have joined the Church. More than 30 sons and daughters of family and friends have served missions. They donated the land on which a chapel now stands. At the time I met them, the children—now grown to maturity—and the parents were taking turns going to Mexico City each month to work in the temple. They are a shining and inspirational example of the miraculous power of missionary work. Think of the wonderful consequences of their being taught and receiving the teachings of the gospel from two humble missionaries. Such miracles are occurring today all across the world.

Later, as I sat in sacrament meeting thinking about the dreams, I silently prayed for guidance that I might be able to find the information necessary to do my Choctaw ancestors’ temple work. I felt impressed to acquire a copy of a record I had seen some twenty years earlier at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. It was the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll of 1831, and it contained records of the Choctaw before their trek over the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. This census had on record some 3,000 heads of families and represented about 17,000 people. I had photocopied the pages from it that dealt with my ancestor named Betsy.
I wrote to the National Archives, requesting a microfilm copy of the entire record. I also contacted the Church Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah, and asked whether temple work could be done for people listed on the record. I then asked for and obtained permission to help do name extraction work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll.
I also went to Philadelphia, Mississippi, as I had been prompted. There, on the Choctaw reservation, I learned the story of the Nanah-weya. Archaeologists think that the Choctaw are probably of Mayan descent—from Central America—because their language, customs, and culture are similar to those of the Mayans. Choctaw legends tell of their migration from their old lands, where they had been persecuted. A prophet had told them of a land waiting for them, where they would be safe. Two brothers, Chataw and Chickasaw, led the people out of the old land.
The people followed the “leaning pole,” a sacred pole placed in front of the leaders’ camp each night. Some legends say that a sacred medicine bag was tied to the pole. Each morning, the people traveled in the direction the pole leaned. They carried their ancestors’ bones with them.
When they reached the area that is now Northern Mississippi, there was a tremendous rainstorm. The people thought that in the morning they would find the sacred pole flat on the ground because of the rain. Instead, the pole stood straight, its shaft buried deep in the mud.
That is where the people stayed. In the new land they held a great council to decide what to do with their ancestors’ bones. The decision they made was to build a large mound and bury them there. This mound, called the Nanah-weya, means “leaning mountain,” or “mother mound.”
I asked a Choctaw from Oklahoma if he knew the meaning of the word Nanah-ku-chi. He told me that it means “to bring out of the mountain.”
“You have said it just the way the Choctaw would say it,” he told me. “Nanah means mountain; Ku-chi means to bring forth.” I concluded that the words I had heard must have meant that the names of the Choctaw dead should be brought out of obscurity so that the Choctaws’ temple work should be completed.
My trip to Mississippi bore great fruit. There, in a courthouse, a woman gave my aunt and me a copy of some family records. Later, when I read through it, I was amazed. Before, I had had only three names on that particular family. Now I had more than sixty pages of information! There, at the beginning of the line, was the name of Ikenaby, an Indian chief who had lived during the early 1800s and who had married a white woman by the name of Kearney.
I continued to help with the work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll. Lorraine Nievar of Ardmore, Oklahoma, whose ancestors are Choctaw and French, also helped with name extraction work on the record. When the work was complete, 1,500 names from the record were sent to the temple in Dallas, Texas, so that Sister Nievar and her family could help perform their ancestors’ temple work. Another 1,500 names were sent to the Logan Utah Temple, where many of my friends and neighbors have helped with the work.
I believe that many members of the Choctaw Nation who lived during the early 1800s have accepted the temple work completed in their behalf. As I participated in baptisms for the dead one Saturday morning, I felt their gratitude. During one particular temple session, I was asked to speak to the members of a Logan ward. While we sat together in the temple’s chapel, I told them the story behind the names they carried that night. I remember that temple session as one of the most sacred I ever attended.
I recall feeling a vivid sense of light and joy at one particular point in the session. I thought of my son’s dream. My friends and neighbors were now giving the “bread of life” to those who had asked for it. I again felt that those whose work we were performing, though unseen, were grateful for the opportunity to accept the gospel. Though they had once walked the “Trail of Tears,” now they could walk the straight and narrow path of joy that leads to eternal life.
Many native American records have been compiled by various organizations. It is now possible to do more temple work for native American ancestors than ever before; many of them are eager to receive the saving ordinances of the gospel.
I learned just how eager they were one spring day while driving to Salt Lake City to talk with a woman there. Suddenly, I felt that I could hear the sound of drums beating. I seemed to see an Indian woman, dressed in an oversize plaid shirt, a Navajo skirt, and a silver medallion belt. The seat beside me was empty, but I could sense her presence.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt prompted to ask the woman with whom I had the appointment whether she had any Indian ancestors. But Carolyn doesn’t look Indian; she’s blonde and blue-eyed, I thought to myself. She’ll think I’m crazy.
When I met Carolyn in her office, the prompting for me to ask was just as strong as it had been in the car. So I asked if she had Indian ancestors.
“Yes,” she said. “My grandmother was Cherokee and was adopted by the Navajo.” She told me about how her “Granny” had worked as a nurse for many years with the Navajo in Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Texas. Later, I asked Carolyn about the clothing her grandmother had worn, and she described to me the clothing I had seen the woman wearing.
I told Carolyn about the temple work we had done for the Choctaw. She was thrilled about the possibility of doing the same work for the Cherokee. The Cherokee were the second nation to walk the “Trail of Tears”; there is a record of the tribe in its entirety from 1835—before they had settled in Oklahoma. Carolyn is now doing extraction work on that record, preparing names for the temple.
I know that my Choctaw ancestors desired the blessings of the gospel. My love for my ancestors has grown as I have learned about them. Though they suffered great hardship in mortality, they are now receiving the great blessings of the temple.

In 1979, Art Hansen was wrestling with the decision to give up his personal pursuits in competitive skiing to go on a full-time mission. Back then he went to a sacrament meeting that helped him make up his mind.
Art listened to a talk given by a friend who had accepted a mission call. “I thought, hey, I’m going to go too,” he remembers. Guided by his initial excitement, he penned a letter to another friend, Elder Matthew Balkman, who at the time was serving in the Philippines. He told his missionary friend about his decision to serve. Only one problem—Elder Balkman never received that letter or the two that followed. “We didn’t communicate regularly back then,” Art says. “I didn’t know he never received my letters.”
Almost 30 years later, Elder Balkman’s son Blake was called to serve in the same location in the Philippines where his father had served. When Elder Balkman junior arrived at the mission home, he was presented with three faded letters from “Elder Hansen” addressed to an Elder Balkman. He noticed the postmarks were dated 30 years ago and sent the letters home to his father, assuming they had something to do with him. Elder Balkman senior then forwarded them on to his old friend Art Hansen, not knowing that this time the letter would arrive just at the right moment—for someone else.

Meet Isaac Sani Dadzie from the Bibiani Ghana District—a young man whose determination to serve led him to discover a valuable skill and build a small business along the way.
It started when the young single adults needed a television hooked up in their building. Instead of waiting for outside help, Isaac took it upon himself to learn how to install and configure TVs and networks. What began as a humble effort to help his YSA group quickly grew into something bigger. With practice and persistence, Isaac mastered the process and has since set up multiple systems for others.
Word of his talent began to spread. Through recommendations from satisfied clients, Isaac built a reputation for reliability and skill—and with that, a small business was born. His journey is a powerful reminder that service, curiosity, and faith can open doors to unexpected opportunities.
Recently, Isaac joined fellow young single adults on a visit to the temple, strengthening both his testimony of Jesus Christ and his vision for the future. Whether in a chapel or a career, Isaac is committed to building—one connection at a time.

One young couple loved playing computer games with each other as their favorite way of dating before they got married. After they were married, their basic needs forced them to talk through a few fundamentals, like actually living with another real person. They soon discovered that they hardly knew each other. Then one of them began computer dating again to escape the demands of paying attention to a live companion under real-life conditions. Before long, sadly, the marriage ended. Their foundation was just too shallow.

Jackeline Martinez Roman of the Colon Ward, Quito Ecuador Colon Stake, was recently selected as second runner-up in the Miss Quito contest, part of the annual celebration of Ecuador’s capital. She was nominated by her employers. Jackeline, along with the girls selected as Miss Quito and first runner-up, will spend time during the year raising funds for the elderly and underprivileged and attending activities sponsored by the city.
Jackeline hopes her new position will offer some good opportunities for missionary work. In fact, Miss Quito and the first runner-up have already asked about the Church and its beliefs, and Jackeline was happy to explain.
Although born in Ecuador, Jackeline lived for nine years in Maryland in the United States, where she attended school. She has served as seminary president and as a teacher in the Primary and Sunday School, and she is presently serving as Primary secretary.

Twenty-five years ago I found myself in my first nursing course at St. Benedict’s Hospital in Ogden, Utah. My clinical instructor, Dr. Helen Farr, lined me and other students up against the wall to inspect our clean, white, crisp nursing uniforms early that first morning. With stethoscopes around our necks and confidence abounding, we were assigned our first patients. We could hardly wait to care for our patients—to do those skills that we had practiced so long and so hard in the nursing lab. We were excited to take our first blood pressure, give our first medication, and start our first IV.
I remember my first patient, a man in his fifties who had been diagnosed with bladder cancer—a terminal disease. I completed the technical skills with precision and, after giving what I thought was good care, walked out into the hallway to be met by Dr. Farr. She asked how I was doing. I reported all the tasks I had completed, including giving her a report of the patient’s current blood pressure and pulse.
With a worried look she asked me if I had taken the time to talk to the patient and really listen to understand his concerns and worries about his health problems. She told me to go back into the room and not come out until I had talked and then listened intently to my patient.
With my tail between my legs, I turned around and headed back into his room. I felt uncomfortable as I entered. I cannot remember what was said to break the tension, but I soon found out this patient’s physician had told him of his terminal condition that morning. The man shared with me his concern and his fears about the terminal diagnosis. How was he going to be able to talk about this to his wife? He told me he was scared of being in pain. He shared his concerns about leaving his wife and told me how important she had been to him. Tears came to his eyes as he spoke about how much he wanted to be with his children and grandchildren, to go fishing and camping with them. We spoke for a long time that day. At times no words were spoken, but communication occurred soul to soul.
Even though I felt I had been scolded by Dr. Farr that morning, I was taught an important and valuable lesson that day: to be still and listen. That lesson has helped me more throughout my nursing career than anything else I have learned since.

My heart sank to the very bottom of my shoes. The words didn’t register at first, with my head pounding so hard. “What was that?” I stammered, all the while looking for an explanation.
“I said, did you cheat, Robbie?” The question came from one of my best friends, Darla. We’d grown up together and were now in our junior year of high school. Over the years we’d always talked about everything, but at this moment she was the last person in the world I wanted to talk to.
The day had started harmlessly enough. I got up, got dressed, went to school—all the usual things. Eventually it was time for French class to start. I’d forgotten it was a test day. I groaned inwardly as our teacher passed around the exams.
“Now class,” she said, “I have some things to do, but I expect you all to be finished when I get back.” With that, she left the classroom. Everyone in the class was silent as we struggled to pull knowledge from the dark recesses of our brains. It wasn’t working for me.
After some time, two friends sitting next to me glanced up from their papers and looked around. Josh and Justin, two guys I had always admired and wanted approval from, started comparing answers. They whispered back and forth, silently chuckling as they went through the questions.
Then it happened. Justin turned to me and asked, “What did you get for number six?” Almost without thinking, I started sharing my answers with them. An empty, guilty feeling lined my stomach, but I ignored it. I laughed along with them, pretending to be happy I had outsmarted the teacher and was going to get a good grade without studying.
After some time the teacher came back and collected the tests. She gave us some busy work and left the classroom again. Everyone started talking about the test they had just endured. Most of the class members weren’t very happy with how they had done, but Justin and Josh wore big smiles.
“I think we did just fine, didn’t we guys?” Josh said smugly. Justin laughed and nodded in agreement.
“What do you mean?” one of the other students asked.
“Oh, just that Justin, Rob, and I here pooled our resources. That test was a breeze with three doing it together!” The others didn’t say much but gave us dark looks and went back to their work. That is, all but one went back to it.
There I was, Darla in front of me, her question aimed right at my heart. What could I tell her? I had cheated on a lousy French exam just to please my friends. I could see the look on her face, as if she didn’t want to believe the possible answer. I respected Darla more than almost anyone. She wasn’t a member of the Church but was active in her church and had strong values. She knew I was a member of the Church and respected that. We agreed on a lot of issues and found strength in each other’s desire to do good. Usually.
“Yeah,” was all I could say, lamely.
“Oh, Robbie,” was all she said as she turned back to her work. I can’t describe how much the disappointment in her voice and on her face hurt me. I had compromised my standards just to fit in with a couple of guys and ended up disappointing someone I really admired. Guilt washed over me. I kept thinking I had hurt the image of the Church in her eyes. I apologized to her for what I’d done and talked to the teacher afterwards. She wasn’t pleased either, but we worked things out.
I’ll never forget that day. I now know it isn’t worth compromising your values just to please other people. Since then I’ve tried to be honest and am much happier with myself. Thankfully, I can say I haven’t repeated that mistake again. I’ve felt the difference in doing what’s popular and in doing what’s right, and I know what makes me happy.

After graduating from high school and getting a job, I struggled to make time to do the simple things every day to keep my faith strong—things like reading the scriptures and going to institute. I felt like my faith was weakening and that I was losing my relationship with my Heavenly Father.
So one day I wrote down two goals on a piece of paper: “Read the scriptures every day” and “Go to institute every week.” I put that piece of paper up on my wall. I prayed to Heavenly Father and asked Him to help me, and that day I promised myself that I would really do these things.
And I did. I started reading two chapters in the Book of Mormon every day and going to institute every week. Some weeks I had to work so I couldn’t attend institute, and some days I was so busy that I would forget to read my scriptures. I was also working on other goals that required time and attention. But I kept trying.
I felt my Heavenly Father nearer to me than before and felt Him helping me more frequently because I chose to follow Him. Reading the Book of Mormon every day helped me understand the plan of salvation better, which made me very happy. It became easier for me to find answers to my faith-related questions. And going to institute every week helped me see God’s light everywhere I went. In general, I felt the Spirit more in my life.

I am the oldest of five children—four girls and one boy. In 2022 my brother, Houston, suffered a heart attack. Unfortunately he was not found right away, and his long-term lack of oxygen caused a brain injury. Over the days we spent with him in the intensive care unit, I can safely say that I have never prayed harder or exercised more faith. And yet, day by day, Houston got worse, and eventually we were told that he would not live. It was hard to accept that despite the faith and prayers of so many wonderful people, we were going to lose Houston. And yet we did. My heart was broken.

But pain and sadness and faith can coexist. I and many others fought all the anticipatory fears of losing Houston and facing life without him with as much faith as we could muster. We kept praying, kept hoping, and kept trusting that God knew Houston’s path even when we could no longer see the miracle we were hoping for.

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf said:
There are so many things in life that God sees differently than we do. . . .
We tend to think of joy as the absence of sorrow.
But what if joy is not the absence of sorrow?
What if joy and sorrow can coexist?
What if they have to coexist?22
The pain of losing my brother helped me to seek peace and to solidify my faith in the covenants I had made with God and the promises that came with them. My sorrow solidified and increased my joy and belief in the Atonement and Resurrection. I could act with the hope that my brother could be restored completely. I know that in those great moments of pain, it can seem impossible that joy could coexist. It may not be the joy we hoped we could experience had the miracle we prayed for been granted, but God does not leave us alone.

It was at the time my father was in the last stages of stomach cancer, his body wasting away to less than 100 pounds, his spirit growing in strength every single day, that he shared with me his new insights from that perspective.
It is a fact, he bore witness, that the body and the spirit are separate. When this process of separation is witnessed firsthand, he said with conviction and enthusiasm, the meaning of eternal life and the resurrection take on a new dimension of understanding. It is like discovering a precious gift you’ve held in your possession all this time but never unwrapped; and the time comes when you open it, and you’re more ready to fully appreciate the divine nature of the gift because you are prepared to use it for the purpose it was intended.

We also need a wide-angle lens to look beyond the obvious when is comes to apologies. With a zoom lens, an apology looks like something you offer to someone you have wronged. However, one man found that it was his apology TO someone who had wronged HIM, that was his key to freedom.
The man was President George Albert Smith. He offered what many would call a high level apology-some would even call it, "an impossible apology" -to a man who had spread false rumors about him. He was in anguish over this, and filled with such an abundance of negative feelings toward his perpetrator, that he felt unworthy to partake of the Sacrament.
George Albert Smith finally found freedom from his suffering, when he went to his perpetrator and said, "I'm here to ask forgiveness for the hateful feelings I've had toward you." The man became immediately apologetic himself, and the two became lifelong friends.[6]

There are many stories that demonstrate the principle of "small and simple things," but the one I would like to share comes from an experience that my son, who is currently serving a mission in Brazil, shared with us relating to "small and simple things."

He said,
On Sunday there was a baptism for the other elders in our house. It was scheduled for after the great big stake conference. So after the meeting we all went to try and set stuff up for the baptism. The only problem was that there was no water in the font! The water wasn't working! So we tried to find a place we could get water and there were some faucets and hose lines we were running into the font but it was so slow and we were running with buckets to anyplace on the church grounds where we could get water! The cool part was that just about the entire ward saw what we were doing and helped! There were little kids that would grab a tiny cup and run into the bathroom and fill it with water then run to the font and dump it in... we had older members grab big water bottles and fill it up at the drinking fountain and throw the water into the font! Cupful by cupful, step by step, the whole ward filled that font just enough to baptize someone they had never met... Man it was such a sweet experience seeing everyone doing everything they possibly could to help us fill the font! Each cupful doesn't seem like it did anything but with everyone pitching in, the work will press forward! We don't always need to do everything, have that huge gallon tank full of water! We need to do our part and help the church grow.....one cupful at a time.

As a child, I remember I couldn’t understand the language of the Book of Mormon, and that upset me because every family home evening my mother would give a quiz on a chapter from the Book of Mormon. I wanted to take the quiz, but I couldn’t understand the Book of Mormon (you can see the seeds of teaching were planted in me at a very young age). My mother found for me a copy of the Book of Mormon that was in simple English. She could have very easily had said “wait till you grow up and you’ll understand,” however, she found a copy that I could understand, which showed me how important I was to her. She gave of her time, her knowledge, and her experience, just like the farmer, and like the yam who wants to be a yam (‘ufi fie ‘ufi), I bloomed and grew in the gospel.