Gospel Story Finder

I was born in 1929 in Meissen, Germany. My parents were simple people. My father was unemployed for many years, and my mother worked in a factory. When World War II began, my father was immediately called to military service and became a prisoner of war in 1945.
My parents were not happy in their marriage, and when my father returned from the war in 1947, they divorced. My world fell apart.
I was eighteen when my father left our apartment to live alone. I lived with my mother, but there were many conflicts. Kindness, warmth, and understanding were foreign to me, and I began to lose faith in the possibility of living a harmonious life. I gave my all to my job, but my life had no real meaning. As the years went by, an iron wall developed around my heart.
When my mother died in 1991, the emotional pains of my childhood flooded back to me. I felt forlorn, once again like a lost child.
Just two months later, the missionaries found me. They spoke quietly, with understanding, warmth, and kindness. The spirit they radiated penetrated my iron heart, and on 11 November 1991 I was baptized.
Since that day, peace has entered my heart. I have learned to pray, to fill my mind with the scriptures, and to live according to the Word of Wisdom. Of course I have much to learn, but I will gladly do it, because I know that our Heavenly Father is with me every day, helping and leading me. I have found peace at last.

But then my husband passed away. Besides dealing with grief, I was pregnant and worried about how I would provide for my children. Yet I knew the Lord would continue to help me.
One of the ways He helped was to comfort me. While in the temple, I came to know that my husband was fine, that there was a reason he had to leave the earth, and that he would be helping us from the other side of the veil. I also felt strongly that I needed to return to the temple soon. I wanted very much to return in three months, but I knew that finding both time and money to return would be difficult. I attend the Bern Switzerland Temple, which is a long way from my home in Italy.
As I was walking out of the hostel near the temple, a member of the Church stopped me. He handed me an envelope and said, “This is for you.”
I opened the envelope and found money inside. “I can’t take this,” I said.
“Please take it,” he told me. “While I was in the temple, I felt the Spirit prompting me to give this to you.”
When I counted the money, I found that it was what I needed to cover the cost of driving from Italy to the temple and back. Three months later I returned to the temple.

When I was presiding over a mission in Central America, we received an elder who had the following beautiful experience, which illustrates the nearness of the Lord and his willingness to help in our moment of need. This elder was a little older than the usual 19-year-old missionary. He was a convert to the Church, had been released from the military service, and had subsequently prepared for a mission. He received his call and entered the Missionary Home in Salt Lake City. While there he said to himself, “Now I had a testimony, but where is it? If I am going to spend my own money on a mission, then I must know if Joseph Smith was, in fact, a true prophet of God.”

That night he knelt in his room and lifted his thoughts to his Father concerning the Prophet Joseph Smith. To his disappointment, he received no confirming experience and proceeded the next day to his meetings. It was the day when a General Authority was to speak to them. Not feeling much interest, he sat at the back, behind the other 305 missionaries who were present. When President N. Eldon Tanner walked in the room, the elder thought to himself, “Well, he looks like any other well-dressed businessman of the day, not necessarily like a prophet.”

As President Tanner began his talk, the elder, still feeling his disappointment, had little desire to pay attention to him. But as the minutes went on, he began to listen more intently. All at once President Tanner requested, “Would all missionaries who are 24 years old please stand up?” Now, how many missionaries of that age do you suppose were present? Just one: this elder. President Tanner asked him to come up to the front, which he reluctantly did.

As he approached President Tanner, he received the testimony he had asked for the night before of the divine calling of the Prophet of God. President Tanner then asked the elder if he would bear his testimony regarding the divine nature of the calling of Joseph the Prophet. He bore his testimony, declaring that he knew that Joseph was divinely called and was in truth a prophet.

How blessed we are to be led by a living prophet! Growing up during the Great Depression, President Thomas S. Monson learned how to serve others. Often his mother asked him to deliver food to needy neighbors, and she would give homeless men odd jobs in exchange for home-cooked meals. Later as a young bishop, he was taught by President J. Reuben Clark, “Be kind to the widow and look after the poor” (see Thomas S. Monson, in Conference Report, Apr. 1986, 79; or Ensign, May 1986, 62). President Monson looked after 84 widows and cared for them until they passed away. Through the years, his service to members and neighbors throughout the world has become the hallmark of his ministry. We are grateful to have his example. Thank you, President Monson.

This was the beginning of a beautiful year filled with spiritual blessings. An institute class began in our branch, with the Doctrine and Covenants as our course of study. Ceci said that she would help me if I would participate. A few months later the instructor left, and I was asked to take his place.
One of our lessons was on temple marriage and vicarious work for the dead. One night soon after, I dreamed that I saw my uncle, who had died nineteen years before, and my stepfather, who had also passed away. They seemed to want something from me. I felt something whisper to me that I must go to the temple, that temple marriage is a commandment of God.
When I awoke, I knelt down and asked Heavenly Father to permit us to go. Then, wanting to strengthen my resolve, I took out a piece of paper and wrote down the prayer I had just offered. “Heavenly Father,” I wrote, “if it is thy will, I ask thee to let me go to the temple with my wife, Ceci, and my children, Diego and Adrianita.” I awoke my wife and told her what I had done. She cried and hugged me. She knew how hard this goal would be to reach.
Since we lived in Ambato, Ecuador, the nearest temple was across national boundaries in Lima, Peru. A trip there would involve a lot of paperwork, a thirty-six-hour bus ride, and real economic sacrifice. It would be hard on our children, who had never traveled and were very active. But we were strengthened in our resolve when we received our patriarchal blessings.
On 20 May 1987, my wife, my daughter, my son, and I finally saw the temple. There was the figure of the angel Moroni, facing heaven from one of the towers. What joy we felt as my wife and I received our endowments and were sealed to our children for eternity! Then we did vicarious ordinance work for our loved ones.
Every time I think about this experience, I want to return to the temple again. I am so grateful we did not miss the opportunity to make these eternal covenants. God has restored his gospel, including his temple ordinances, because of his love for us. I know that he lives.

I realize that before me are hundreds of young men, many of whom are deacons. I remember when I was a deacon. (It has been a long time ago, however.) I thought it was a great honor to be a deacon. My father was always considerate of my responsibilities and always permitted me to take the buggy and horse to gather fast offerings. My responsibility included that part of the town in which I lived, but it was quite a long walk to the homes, and a sack of flour or a bottle of fruit or vegetables or bread became quite heavy as it accumulated. So the buggy was very comfortable and functional. We have changed to cash in later days, but it was commodities in my day. It was a very great honor to do this service for my Heavenly Father; and though times have changed, when money is given generally instead of commodities, it is still a great honor to perform this service.

John Akpik hunched behind his father on the seat of the snowmobile. The machine clacked noisily as it sped across the tundra snow. Although it was noon, only a faint sun shone above the horizon. However, the brightness of the snow and the filmy clouds overhead lighted the way.
John and his father were speeding from Kivalina to Point Hope to see Grandfather Akpik, who was dying. Grandfather was a storyteller, and John remembered the many times that he had listened to Grandfather tell of the old ways of the Eskimos.
As he thought of his grandfather, John kept a sharp eye on the country that they were passing through. It seemed to be an unrelieved white blanket of snow and ice. Yet, for those who looked closely, the country showed its secret directions: an ice ridge looked like a dog sleeping; wind lines on the snow pointed north; the smooth frozen flatness was the Kukpuk River.
Suddenly Father hollered and pointed to the left. “A whiteout! We’ll have to stop.”
The machine came to a halt. John had seen a whiteout in his village, but he had never been caught in one on the tundra. Now he watched the whiteout sweep toward them. The low clouds over the tundra seemed to gather what light there was and scatter it down. Shadows disappeared. John could still see some things in the distance, but he couldn’t tell how far away they were.
Soon the snowmobile seemed to be encased in light cotton. Without any shadows, the snow mounds, the ridges, the hills all blended together. If he and Father kept going, they might head up an ice ridge and zoom right off the other side, never realizing its height. Or they might see a river and believe it to be a mile away, when it was only several feet away. There was no way to tell by looking.
In spite of the whiteout, John thought that they should keep going. They had to see Grandfather, to say good-bye to him.
Father shook his head. “We can’t travel in a whiteout. It’s too dangerous. We could run into a river with unstable ice and not even know it was there.”
“I could walk ahead,” John said. “Grandfather told me a story once about a driver who walked in front of his dog team in a whiteout. He threw his whip ahead of him, and he could see where it landed and if it was safe to keep going. I have my knife. I could throw the sheath ahead of me and watch where it falls.”
The older man thought for a minute. Then he said, “Let’s try it. We can’t wait here. It might be days before the whiteout lifts.”
John walked ahead of the snowmobile as it inched along. It was like moving in a fog, except that the air was clear. Without shadows, John couldn’t tell if his footing would go up or down with each step. But the sheath, dark against the whiteness around them, told its story and helped them each time John tossed it. It fell low in the dips of the snow, it landed high when the land sloped up, and it clattered noisily against any snow cliffs in their path. Progress was slow but steady. Each footstep brought them that much closer to Point Hope.
And just as suddenly as it had arrived, the whiteout faded away. Shadows appeared around them and deepened. Slopes showed their heights, and ridges disclosed their depths. The snowmobile could now go fast without the great danger that the whiteout had caused.
“Grandfather helped us,” John said. “This time I will tell him a story. I will tell him how a great storyteller helped rescue his son and grandson.”

When a young mother in South Africa recently became ill with cancer, the sisters in the ward rallied around her family, bringing meals almost every day. They cared for her children. And as the young mother became more ill and depressed, her Relief Society sisters took turns staying with her in her home until evening, when her husband returned from work. When she had to go to the hospital, her Relief Society sisters continued to remain at her side. They were with her and her family when she died.
Says one woman who joined in this charitable work, “She left behind a sisterhood greatly saddened, yet unified and strengthened by their opportunity of service and love.”

A true story from the USA.
Savannah pulled the blankets over her head. Today had been a really bad day.
During school today, Savannah couldn’t focus on anything. She had felt tired, frustrated, and sad. There was a heavy weight in her stomach that wouldn’t go away. By the end of the day, all she wanted to do was crawl under her desk and hide.
Lately, Savannah felt sad almost all of the time. Her friends had tried to cheer her up, but sometimes Savannah didn’t want to be with them. They always seemed so happy. Sometimes she thought they would be happier without her.
What’s wrong with me? Savannah wondered. Why can’t I be happy like everyone else?
She felt as cold and lonely as the gray clouds outside. And now she just wanted to sleep.
Savannah heard her bedroom door open.
“Savannah,” Mom said, sitting on the edge of the bed, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Savannah said. “I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure?” Mom asked. “I’m worried about you.”
“I’m OK,” Savannah said.
“All right.” Mom stood up. “Just remember that you can talk to me about anything. I love you.”
Savannah stayed in bed until dinner. That night, she couldn’t fall asleep. Her brain wouldn’t stop thinking about everything.
The next day she still felt worn out. It was another long day. Savannah got home from school and sat at the kitchen table. She sighed and looked out the window. It was snowing again.
“Savannah?”
Savannah turned and was surprised to see Grandma come into the room.
“Hi, Grandma,” Savannah said. “What are you doing here?”
Grandma sat down. “Your mom wanted me to come,” she said. “She’s worried about you.”
“I’ve just been really tired. I’m fine, though,” Savannah said.
Grandma smiled gently. “Did I ever tell you about the summer Grandpa and I moved?”
“I don’t think so,” Savannah said.
“I was sad all the time,” Grandma said. “I wanted to be happy, but I just didn’t care about anything. I felt so lonely.”
“But you had Grandpa and my mom.” Savannah looked down at her shoes. “Why would you feel lonely?”
“I couldn’t figure out what was happening,” Grandma said. “I had never felt that way before. I eventually went to the doctor.”
“What happened?”
Grandma put an arm around her. “I learned I have depression.”
“Oh, so you just felt sad?” Savannah asked.
“No, depression is more than just feeling sad,” Grandma explained. “My sadness didn’t seem to go away. I struggled to do all the things I normally did. And I had a hard time connecting with other people, even my own family. I really needed help.”
Savannah looked up. “What kind of help?”
“The doctor explained what was wrong, and we made a plan together to help me feel better,” Grandma said. “But sometimes I still felt sad. I spent a lot of time praying. When I was lonely, I imagined the Savior sitting beside me. I felt better thinking about Him.”
Savannah looked at the snow outside and shivered. “I feel sad a lot too. I try to feel happy, but sometimes I just can’t, and then I’m mad at myself for feeling that way.”
“I know, honey.” Grandma gave Savannah a hug. “That’s how I feel sometimes too. But you’re not alone. I love you, your parents love you, and Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ love you. They understand your pain and will never leave you.”
Maybe Grandma is right, Savannah thought. I’m not alone. The weight in Savannah’s stomach didn’t feel quite as heavy.
“I think I should talk to Mom,” Savannah said. “She wants to help me too.”
“That’s a great idea.” Grandma took Savannah’s hand.
Savannah smiled and leaned on Grandma’s shoulder. She didn’t feel quite so cold and lonely anymore.

Families can be your greatest source of strength. My sister Sharon had a record she played over and over until she memorized the lines, and she still repeats them to me on occasion. It’s about a young girl in a small mining town in Leadville, Colorado. She was found by some backwoods people, who raised her. They didn’t know where she came from, but she had a drive and a hope inside of her that took her from that tiny mining town in Colorado to some of the most prestigious places in all of Europe. As her story unfolds, we learn of her dramatic experience on the ill-fated Titanic, which sank to the bottom of the ocean with fifteen hundred people aboard. She managed to get into one of the lifeboats with a few others, and she began rowing. People were gripped with the fear of a watery grave. Many cried out in anguish, “We can’t make it.” But Molly never heard their cry, or if she did, she paid no attention, and she kept rowing and never gave up. The headlines of the New York Times called her the “Unsinkable Molly Brown.” She was full of hope, and her unwavering hope inspired others with hope.

In the musical play, The Unsinkable Molly Brown, we see Molly at first as a young, backwoods girl with few opportunities, no education, and no refinement. She is wrestling with her adopted brothers. They get her down. Her brother says, “You’re down, Molly. You’re down.” And young Molly responds, “I ain’t down. I ain’t down. And even if I was, you’d sure never hear it from me, ’cause I hate the word down but I love the word up. ‘Cuz up means hope, and that’s just what I got. Hope for someplace prettier, and someplace cleaner, and if I’ve gotta eat catfish heads all my life can’t I eat them off a plate just once and in a red silk dress?” Then she begins to sing, and she sings with her heart and soul:
One day with all my might and my main,
I’m gonna learn to read and write.
I’m gonna see what there is to see.
And if you’re goin’ from nowhere on the road to somewhere
And you meet anyone, you’ll know it’s me.
(“I Ain’t Down Yet,” music and lyrics by Meredith Wilson, New York: Frank Music Corp. and Rinimer Corp., 1962).
Does that sound like hope to you?
I used to wonder where that road to somewhere was and how I’d ever find it. As a young girl, I remember standing at the kitchen window of our home and looking out, down the gravel road toward the east, as far out as I could see. On each side of the road was tall grass in the summer and deep snow in the winter, and only a few houses sprinkled along the way. I used to wonder, “What is out there for me? Where do I belong?” I’m sure you must wonder that sometimes. At the end of our gravel road was the Indian reservation, and across the river a Hutterite colony. Things didn’t seem too hopeful for me at that time. School had been very difficult for me. My friends were moving on without me, and I felt dumb. Do you have any idea what that feels like? It’s awful.
When I was twelve years old and feeling very discouraged after a long, hard winter, my mom and dad had a plan they worked out at some sacrifice that they hoped would give me hope. They determined to take me with them beyond our gravel road, out across the Canadian border, through the great states of Montana and Idaho, and eventually to Salt Lake City, Utah, the headquarters of the Church, to attend general conference.
We arrived early on the first day of conference and waited in line, hoping to enter the great dome-shaped Tabernacle that I had only seen in pictures. I remember we had a seat right over there in the balcony on the left side where I could look down and actually see the prophet in real life and hear him speak, a thing I never dreamed would ever happen to me. When I heard the prophet of God speak at that time, I felt he was talking to me. The feeling I had was one of hope, and I began to understand about the real road to somewhere. I determined right then to plant my feet on that road—the strait and narrow path leading to the celestial kingdom—and never, never give up. I have come to know without any question that the gospel of Jesus Christ is the pathway to hope that leads us back to our Heavenly Father and our eternal home.
Listen to our Father’s promise to us. He says, “Be faithful and diligent in keeping the commandments of God, and I will encircle thee in the arms of my love” (D&C 6:20).
And he comforts us, saying:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me [that means taking upon us his name and following him]; for I am meek and lowly in heart [that means gentle and humble]: and ye shall find rest unto your souls [that means comfort and peace” (Matt. 11:28–29).
Now, if we were sitting together on my back porch, I would stop and ask you, “Do you understand the plan of our Heavenly Father and your part in it? Have you received your patriarchal blessing? Do you know you are literally youth of the noble birthright?”
Young women, I plead with you, find your own back porch, away from the demanding, loud voices of the world. Learn to really listen—not to the crickets, but to the constant whisperings of the Spirit with its messages of hope prompting you each step of the way on your road to the celestial kingdom.
Can you imagine what could happen if every young girl were sending out messages of hope to the world that would inspire others to never give up?
That is exactly what is happening. Let me explain what I mean. As most of you are aware by now, all three hundred thousand young women of the Church have been invited to participate in a magnificent, worldwide celebration. You have been invited to prepare brief messages of love and hope to the world and attach them to helium-filled balloons to be released at sunrise on October 11. In some cases, for various reasons, the messages of hope and love are being sent in advance to Salt Lake City to be given to other young women to release.
Many of them begin, “Dear person who finds this balloon.” Angela Santana sends her message of love from Brazil. She writes on the envelope, “If a man still has hope, he is never completely unhappy.”
Shauna Bocutt, age fifteen, from Africa, includes her personal testimony: “I know my Heavenly Father loves me because I have asked.”
From the Philippines: “Hi! I’m Dhezie Jimeno, 16 years old. I would like to share with you a message which I hope you’ll keep to your heart’s delight. This message is that God cares and loves you very, very much. Yes, in life we experience pain and heartaches, sorrows and tribulations, but mind you, all these things are just to give us experience; and besides, we can make them work for our own good. Difficulties are just God’s errands. If we are sent upon them, it is an evidence of his confidence. Therefore, let us be glad, be happy, for it is a way of being wise. God loves you and he is ever willing to help you at all times. Just call on him through fervent prayers. I know God never fails; he is there, he is listening, and he cares very deeply about you. You’ve got a friend.”
Thousands of young women writing messages of love and hope sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ worldwide give us reason to celebrate.
With daily prayer, scripture study, and our feet firmly planted on the road to the celestial kingdom, we have a “perfect brightness of hope” (2 Ne. 31:20). There will be some steep climbs ahead, but our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ has covenanted and promised to climb with each of us every step of the way. Think of it! Young women, covenant this day, this very day, if you haven’t already, to plant your feet firmly on the path to the celestial kingdom. Lift up your heart, lift up your heart, and let your soul rejoice, and never, never, never give up. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The Beehives of the Iowa City First Ward were too young to participate in the youth handcart trek, but they were determined to be involved in the commemoration of the handcart pioneers. On a recommendation from one of their leaders, these young women volunteered to be storytellers at the Handcart Festival.
The girls decided to use this experience as a Personal Progress project. Each girl sewed her own bonnet as part of the authentic pioneer costume for the festival. They practiced for hours to memorize the story they had chosen—the story of Fanny Fry, who traveled with the George Rowley handcart company in 1859.
Fanny was separated from her family and endured hardships while crossing the plains. One day she fainted and was run over by her handcart. Thinking she was dead, the sisters began preparing her for burial. The Iowa Beehives love to tell how surprised those good sisters were when Fanny opened her eyes. Despite her injuries, Fanny pressed on and was later reunited with her sister.
“I love to think how brave Fanny was to have left her family and to survive,” says Summer Burch. “She was tough.”
“I admire her because she never had a bad attitude, even when things went wrong,” says Allison Engle.
On the morning of the festival, Summer and Allison, along with their fellow Beehives, Miranda Decker, Kendra Dawson, Lyssa Abel, and Jenna Abel, exhibited those qualities they admire in Fanny Fry. The day was windy, rainy, and cold. But they braved the chill with willing hearts and cheerful smiles. Every girl was at her post, dressed in full pioneer costume, ready to tell Fanny’s story to any and all who wanted to hear.

It was a chilly Wednesday afternoon when I opened a white envelope with a blue Mount McKinley stamp. As a missionary in southern Brazil, I always looked forward to Wednesdays because it was preparation day, and that meant reading my mother’s encouraging letters.
This particular day my mother’s letter did not appear different from any other letter she had sent me before. The envelope was covered with the usual colorful Primary stickers, and I opened it quickly. My mother wrote that Brett had just received his mission call to Tokyo, Japan. As I read, I could not control my smile, and I tried to hide my moist eyes from my companion. My mind went back to the day I met Brett.
One Sunday at church a family friend introduced me to his son, who had recently moved back home. “Hey, Tyler, this is my son, Brett.”
Brett was chatting with his family in the bench behind mine. I politely smiled and leaned back over the bench to meet him. I figured this was what his dad hoped I would do. He had informed me previously that Brett was less active in the Church. Brett appeared nice enough, with his brown, gel-slicked hair and red pullover sweater. I remember thinking, “This guy seems cool. We’ll have to hang out sometime.” As the day wore on, I forgot all about Brett and my good intentions to become his friend.
Hours later, after a delicious Sunday dinner, a thought came to my mind, “You should call Brett now.”
As an enthusiastic priest and soon-to-be missionary, I longed to feel the Lord’s influence more powerfully in my life. My heart thrilled at the thought that the Lord might use me to help Brett come closer to Him.
But as I sat considering the impression, doubts began to creep in. “I barely know this kid,” I thought. “What will I say?”
Recognizing the source of these doubts, I made a conscious decision to follow the prompting to call Brett. I said a short prayer: “Please help me know what to say to Brett. I really want to help.” After the prayer, I felt an odd mixture of apprehension tempered with faith. Not wanting to allow any time for my fears to return, I quickly grabbed the telephone and dialed his number.
As the phone rang, I tried to decide what I would say to Brett.
“Hello?” I heard. It was Brett’s voice.
“Hello, Brett. This is Tyler, the guy who sat in front of you at church. What’s up?” I tried to sound cool.
“Oh, not much. How are you?”
“Umm, good.” There was an awkward pause. “Hey, I was wondering if you would like to go to ummm … institute maybe this Thursday night. It’s a long drive, and I would like someone to go with me.”
“Sure, Tyler, that sounds cool,” was his response.
“Awesome. I’ll pick you up at 6:30.” After a little more small talk, I hung up the phone. I eased into my chair and smiled.
We went to institute and church together that week and a couple weeks thereafter. Brett and I became good friends, and I realized later that the call I had been inspired to make came at just the right time in Brett’s life. He longed to feel closer to the Lord. Just like me, he was in desperate need of a friend who could give him support and encouragement.
Sitting in my apartment in southern Brazil, thousands of miles away from home and more than a year since I had met Brett, I became fully aware that the Lord had inspired me to be one of the friends Brett needed. Gratitude overwhelmed me as I realized that, despite my weaknesses and insecurities, the Lord can magnify my efforts and make up for my shortcomings. If I desire to serve Him, His hands will mold me into the servant He wants me to become.

The first time I ever said that I was going on a mission for the Mormon church was at the intermission of the New York Philharmonic Annual UNICEF concert. I was standing beside my parents as they discussed the performance with their friends and a Mr. Blaiseworthy turned to me and said, not that he really cared, “And what are you going to be doing after your graduation next spring?”
My mother immediately began to explain that we, meaning she, had sent off applications to Princeton and Harvard and New York University, that we would probably be studying business. I had heard this “we” answer before. But I swallowed once hard and without looking at my mother replied, “I will be going on a mission for the Mormon church, sir.” Then I smiled.
My mother, not smiling, smoothed things over carefully and explained that I have a wonderful sense of humor but that Harvard was really our preference. Mr. Blaiseworthy gave me a peculiar stare and politely hurried off. In minutes my mother was back laughing with some woman in blue hair. I believe they were discussing how we had loved Eaton.

Another “father” who was placed in my life was a member of my stake presidency. President Merrill was always at our stake dances, Young Women camps, and youth conferences.
As I was preparing to leave for college, President Merrill felt I needed some fatherly advice before heading into the world. His voice was gentle and soothing. I could feel his concern. I knew he loved me. He told me he would go as far as the Salt Lake Temple to attend my wedding.
A few years later, I called my father to announce my engagement. He was cold and indifferent. Nothing had changed. I tried not to cry. I turned to my Heavenly Father in prayer, and the Spirit reminded me of President Merrill’s promise. I wondered if he would remember what he had told me several years before. Did he really mean it? I picked up the phone and dialed his number. President Merrill answered. I stumbled through telling him of my engagement and asked if he remembered his promise to me. “What temple are you getting married in?” he asked.
“The Salt Lake Temple,” I answered.
“Then I will be there,” he said. He drove 13 hours in the snow to be there for me. When I walked into the sealing room with my future husband, he was the first person I saw. He was my father that day!

On a preparation day in the Cambodia Phnom Penh Mission, Elder Trent Nielson of Mesa, Arizona, watched as his fellow missionaries began a game of soccer. The field was adjacent to a school, and the activity of the missionaries attracted some of the local teenagers who approached Elder Nielson and asked why so many Americans were playing soccer in Cambodia. He explained that they were all missionary teachers of the gospel of Jesus Christ. The young men wanted to know how much these teachers were paid. When they learned that the missionaries paid their own way, they were dumbfounded. Why would anybody do such a thing?
Soon the curiosity of the teens led to probing spiritual questions, and they became engrossed in the missionary’s message. Before long Elder Nielson was teaching 10 young men on the grass of a soccer field about the Restoration of the gospel.
The member of the group who was the most antagonistic in the beginning became the most interested in the end. He and others asked for copies of the Book of Mormon. Elder Nielson realized that he did not have enough to give one to each of the inquisitive young men, so he hurriedly searched through the bags of the missionaries on the field for additional copies. Before the group left, Elder Nielson told them how they could get more information about the Church.

The spirit of Sauniatu seems to affect everyone who goes there. Brother Isamaeli, who works on maintenance at the school, said that he didn’t want to come at first. “But,” he said, “after I had been at Sauniatu for a while, I felt the Spirit of the Lord upon my family. I knew it was a blessing to be here. When my family is sick, I administer to them and they get better. Before we came here, my wife and I quarreled many times, and sometimes I lost patience with her. But I’m glad to say that now we have a very happy family.
“It is nice to live in a place that is far away from town and other big villages. It is very quiet, and we are free from drunkards, robbers, and other people who cause trouble.”

That same brother, Phineas, was the first of the Young family to see the Book of Mormon, though even before it was published, they had all heard and read of the Prophet “Joe Smith” and his “gold Bible” over in Palmyra less than 15 miles away. In April 1830, Phineas was given one of the first copies by the Prophet’s brother Samuel, and because he felt responsible to his little religious society to expose any such things “got up to lead people astray,” he read it carefully. But he could not find the errors he expected, and when he appeared before the group the next Sabbath, quite certainly with Brigham present, he “had not spoken ten minutes in defence of the book when the Spirit of God came upon me in a marvelous manner, and I spoke at great length on the importance of such a work, quoting from the Bible to support my position, and finally closing by telling the people that I believed the book.”22

Phineas lent his copy of the Book of Mormon to his father, who thought it “the greatest work he had ever seen,” then to his sister Fanny, who declared it “a revelation.” Fanny passed it on to Brigham, who was more reserved:
“When the Book of Mormon was first printed, it came to my hands in two or three weeks afterwards. Did I believe, on the first intimation of it? … ‘Hold on,’ says I. … The mantle of my traditions was over me, to that degree, … it was almost impossible for me to see at all; though I had beheld, all my life, that the traditions of the people was all the religion they had, I had got a mantle for myself. Says I, ‘Wait a little while; what is the doctrine of the book, and of the revelations the Lord has given? Let me apply my heart to them;’ and after I had done this, I considered it my right to know for myself, as much as any man on earth.
“I examined the matter studiously for two years before I made up my mind to receive that book. … I wished time sufficient to prove all things for myself.”23

On another, later occasion Brigham further explained this reserve:
“Upon the first opportunity I read the Book of Mormon, and then sought to become acquainted with the people who professed to believe it. … I watched to see whether good common sense was manifest; and if they had that, I wanted them to present it in accordance with the Scriptures. … when I had ripened everything in my mind, I drank it in, and not till then.”24

At times Joseph’s cheerfulness went beyond the friendly smile and cordial handshake to playful tests of physical strength. One man who had lived in Nauvoo as a youth recalled that Joseph “frequently used to come out of the mansion [house] and play ball with us boys. … Joseph would always conform to the rules. He would catch the ball till it came his turn to take the bat. Then, being a very strong man he would knock the ball so far that we used to shout to the boy that was going for the ball to take his dinner [with him to eat on the way]. This used to make the prophet laugh. Joseph was always good natured and full of fun. I have seen him sit down on the carpet in his office and pull sticks [a game of strength] with the Nauvoo police.”4

The worst part of it was the look on Ben’s face as soon as he saw me. No one had ever been afraid of me before, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t blame Ben, though. The kids had been really mean to him yesterday. He had a bandage on his chin, and I wondered if he had cut it on the fence, trying to get away from them. No, not “them”—“us”! I had been there too. I didn’t push him or call him any of the ugly names that had rung in my ears all night. But I hadn’t tried to stop them. I’d even laughed when Ron had tried to trip him.
That’s why I had to talk to Ben in the coatroom. “Don’t be scared,” I started. “I just want to say I’m sorry. I’m not going to tease you anymore. I’ll try to not let the others do it, either.”
“I’m not scared,” Ben lied. I didn’t blame him for that, either. I guessed that he was trying to be brave—he was even trying to smile. “Does this mean that you’ll be my friend?”
“No.” It sounded ruder than I meant it to. He quit smiling and looked confused. I tried to explain. “It was really wrong for everyone to gang up on you. But even though we do some wrong things, these guys are my friends—we’ve known each other since kindergarten. I don’t even know you. But I’m not going to let everyone pick on you again.”
Ben still looked confused, but we had been in the coatroom way too long. …
At recess, I took my football out, and most of the other boys went with me. We fifth-grade boys play the sixth-grade boys after school on Fridays. They always win, but we try, and we practice every recess.
I saw Ben sitting by the classroom door. He was alone, but no one was bothering him. He laughed out loud when he saw Ron throw the ball. Ron never threw a football straight. His throws were long but wobbly, and no one could catch them. Ben was lucky that Ron didn’t see or hear him laughing. Ron couldn’t take a joke, and he fought a lot better than he threw a football.
After lunch, Ron started shoving Ben away from the drinking fountain, and he called him a few names. But everyone followed me when I yelled, “Last one to the fence is a wet dishrag!” Even Ron followed—he hates to be last. So Ben got his drink, and no one bothered him for the rest of the day.
I was feeling pretty proud of myself when I told Mom about it after school. She shook her head. “That’s a good start, but what he really needs is a friend. Maybe if no one is teasing him, someone will find out what kind of friend he can be.”
The rest of the week most of my friends just ignored him, and after a try or two, even Ron began to let him be. By the end of the week, though, I was wishing that someone would be his friend soon, because it really bothered me to see him alone all the time.
We lost the Friday-afternoon game, and I couldn’t wait to get home. Dad had asked me to help him paint our fence on Saturday. I was the only boy my age in our ward who went to West Elementary, so I wasn’t going to have to worry about Ben or school or even football for two days!
While we painted the fence, I told Dad about how I had been keeping the kids, especially Ron, from teasing Ben all week. I told him what Mom had said about someone becoming his friend.
“Who do you think will be that friend?” Dad asked.
“I don’t know. Not me. He wears corduroy pants and green sweaters.” I thought Dad would understand, but he didn’t.
“Can’t someone in corduroy pants throw a football far enough?” he asked with a funny smile on his face.
“How would I know? I’ve never seen him throw a football. He just sits by himself.”
“So how are you going to find out what kind of friend he is under that green sweater?”
“Why do I have to find out? Someone else can! I stopped the teasing!”
“Oh, someone will, eventually,” Dad said. “I just figured that since you stopped the teasing, you’d have a head start on being friendly. The others don’t seem to have that kind of gumption.”
I wasn’t sure that I wanted to. I knew that Ben’s clothes weren’t the important thing, but if he didn’t know what to wear, how could he be one of us? If I tried to include him, what would the other guys think? What if he laughed at Ron again? Would I get beat up too?
Saturday night, Dad went with the elders quorum presidency to welcome a new family into the ward. He didn’t get home until after I’d gone to bed, so I didn’t know that Ben would be in my Valiant class the next day at Primary. But there he was. I could tell that he was uncomfortable. So was I. But he smiled nervously at me, so I smiled back.
He knew all the Primary songs, and he sang “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission” as loudly as I did. Sister Alvarez reminded us to sing, because we were trying to out-sing each other and we were practically yelling. She asked us if we were really planning to go on missions. Ben said that his brother was on a mission in Texas now.
In class, he showed me a wallet that his brother had sent him. It was real leather, with leaves and acorns tooled into it. It had his name carved on the inside—and a picture of his brother. He looked just like Ben, only much older. Ben said that his brother was going to play football for Brigham Young University after his mission. Then Ben said that he wished he could keep in practice, because he’d always played with him when his brother was home from school.
“We play all the time at school—you should play with us.” I’d said the words before I’d thought about them, but they seemed the right thing to say, so I didn’t try to take them back.
After the lesson, one of the guys asked Brother Clark why he was Brother Clark in church, but Mr. Clark at school. Brother Clark told us that it was because of something King Benjamin had said in the Book of Mormon. He read to us where the king called his people together to tell them about serving Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. He said that when they were baptized, they became the “children of Christ.”* That made us all “brothers” and “sisters.” Then Brother Clark read a scripture in the New Testament that said the members of the Church were “no more strangers” but were now “of the household of God.”**
Well, that explained why Ben didn’t seem so strange anymore—and why it wasn’t hard to be friends with him, after all. He was “no more a stranger”—he was my brother! So of course I’d asked him to play football with us! I just hoped the other guys would understand. That night I prayed that I would have the kind of gumption that Dad thought I had.
At recess on Monday, Ben almost did blend in. He must’ve practiced a lot with his brother, because he—Ben, I mean—could throw farther and straighter than any of the rest of us. It was beautiful to watch the football leave his hand and fly wherever he wanted it to go. And he could catch almost as well as he could throw—he just seemed to appear wherever the ball was about to land. He could even catch Ron’s wobbly passes!
The only time all day that I worried about Ben was when he tried to help Ron throw the ball straight. Ben was clear across the field when he yelled to Ron, “Grip the strings,” so I knew that Ron couldn’t get him. But I did think that he’d blown his chance to fit in at school.
I was wrong, though. Ron didn’t say anything! And he must’ve gripped the strings, because he threw the ball straight, and clear back over to Ben!
Ron and Ben were always together after that, except when Ron went home for lunch. Then Ben and I ate together in the cafeteria. One day I told Ben how surprised I was that he and Ron were such good friends.
“I knew that Ron would be my friend if I could get him to stop teasing me.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Because my mom said that at every school there’s someone who needs a friend to help them with something and that I’d find one here. When I saw Ron throw a football, I knew he was the friend who really needed me! And after we beat the sixth-grade team on Friday, I’m going to ask him to come to church with us on Sunday.”
I must’ve looked surprised, because Ben laughed again and added, “Maybe Brother Clark and Sister Alvarez can get him to quit trying to beat everyone up.”
When we really did beat the sixth-grade team—for the first time in history—Ben did as he’d promised. I was surprised again when Ron said, “Sure.”
Now there are three of us from West Elementary at Primary every Sunday. Since snow has covered the football field, we’re working hard at something else—memorizing Articles of Faith. In two more weeks Ron, Ben, and I are going to say them together in sacrament meeting when Ben’s brother reports on his mission.
We have something exciting to report, too: Ben and his parents and me and my parents all meet every Tuesday night at Ron’s house with the local missionaries. His dad said that anything that can keep Ron out of trouble the way going to Primary with Ben and me has is worth investigating. Ron’s mom said that if we do a good job on the Articles of Faith for Ben’s brother, we can say them again at Ron’s baptism!

I was coming home from swimming lessons Saturday morning when I saw lots of people lined up for a parade. I asked my mom why we weren’t going to the parade. She told me it was because we needed to listen to general conference. I really wanted to go to the parade and was sad that we couldn’t go, but I told my mom that I knew it was more important to listen to conference and that I would do that instead. I liked listening to the prophet and other speakers. I know it helps us to learn more about Jesus.