Gospel Story Finder

“A Blessing in My Life”
Blessing Nwakaego Okoronkwo felt drawn to the Gathering Place in her stake in Nigeria because she wanted to learn a skill—in particular, catering—that would benefit her financially.
“In the class, we learned amazing things,” she says. “I tried to take the class very seriously. I tried not to miss even once, and I always had my notebook and my pen.”
During one class in her Port Harcourt Nigeria North Stake, she and other students learned to make chin chin, a crunchy deep-fried snack popular in Nigeria, Ghana, and other West African nations. Blessing also learned to make peanut snacks.
“I decided to buy my ingredients and practice in my house what I had been taught,” she says. When she took her finished product to the school where she teaches, “Everybody was like, ‘Wow!’”
That prompted her to begin selling her snacks—in small quantities at first and then in larger quantities. Her little business quickly proved successful.
“It’s been amazing!” she says. “I’ve been really blessed by the Gathering Place.”
Blessing encourages others to take advantage of the opportunities that have blessed her. “Just put in your best effort,” she says.

The story of the doughnut and how it got its hole is legendary. One version suggests that it was Hanson Gregory, a well-known sea captain, who suggested the idea to his mother one day in 1847 when she was frying dough cakes in a small New England town.
Hanson noticed that the centers of her cakes always seemed doughy and undercooked, so he suggested that she cut out their middles before she started to fry them. She laughed at the childlike suggestion but tried it out anyway. The very first result was so excellent—the whole doughnut ring being uniformly cooked and of a light, spongy texture—that she never went back to the old way. Her method soon became famous and was copied widely until it spread throughout the United States and, eventually, to other lands.

“In Primary Melissa and I aren’t in the same class, but sometimes our teachers let us sit together during opening exercises and Sharing Time. I like Primary. One of my favorite lessons that I learned in Primary was from a talk that one of our leaders gave. She said that once when she was little and had gone out trick-or-treating, some teenagers took her bag of candy away from her. Her brother saw how sad she was and gave her his bag of candy. I thought that was a good lesson.” And it’s a lesson that Marnie Payne lives by.

A few years ago, on a beautiful Halloween evening, my wife and I were in the temple in Kirtland, Ohio. In the late fall afternoon the sun was streaking through the old, wavy, hand-blown windowpanes. The building was light and airy and magnificent. Since some of my forebears were involved in its construction, I was humbled and honored to be under its roof. Within its walls and under its spell, I was enchanted by its beauty. I was so impressed with the building that I came back to Church headquarters and told the Brethren that it would be wonderful if that building were still operating as one of our temples. Elder Packer corrected my thinking when he said, “We do not have the building, but, when our people left, they took with them that which was important. They preserved the keys of the ordinances, the covenants, the endowment, and the sealing power. They took with them all the essentials which we have today.” So the Church cannot, in and of itself, be the temples, magnificent as they are, because the temple buildings alone do not bless. They are the exquisite containers for the pearls of great price administered therein by the priesthood of God.

It’s a long drive from Magrath, Alberta, Canada, to Calgary, and the torrents of rain pelting the highway didn’t make the trip seem any shorter. Most of us were tired, so we stretched out on the seats and mattress in the back of the family van while mom and Grandma Briggs sat up front and talked. I remember thinking we were in the middle of a real cloudburst and then drifting off to sleep.
When I regained consciousness, I ached all over. No wonder. The impact of a violent crash had stuffed me into a small space near the side door. My legs were scraped and bleeding; my breath came convulsively. I seemed to be alone except I could see grandma lying in the wreckage, and I heard moans. Soon strangers pulled me from my painful trap, and I approached grandma, who whispered, “Everything is going to be all right.”
Briggs, my 13-year-old brother, had been thrown out the rear door of the van. He said that when he found me I was hysterical. He shook me by the arm to help me get control of myself and told me to quit screaming and pray. I calmed down. And I did pray. He stumbled back to the highway and flagged down a car, even though his arm and collar bone were broken and his head was cut.
Evidently my mother had lost control of the van when it hydroplaned through a large puddle. We had crossed the road, skidded down an embankment, and then continued forward until the wheels hit a culvert and we became airborne. We crashed into the dirt and rolled several times, then came to rest upright near a dirt road that led to a farmhouse. Mother was seriously injured, with a crushed chest and a lacerated forehead; she was trapped in the wreckage and couldn’t be moved without help.
It was hard not to panic. We were far from home on vacation, and though we had been on our our aunt’s new home, we didn’t know anyone in the immediate area. (We were later to find out that we were close to Vulcan, a small town about 35 miles from Calgary.) And we weren’t where we could be easily seen from the road. But my brother’s words stuck in my mind, that I should be quiet and pray. Whenever I did start to get upset and worried, I prayed and felt calm again.
There were two girls in the car Briggs flagged down. They in turn stopped a car with a CB radio, an ambulance was at the scene in two and a half minutes. We were lucky. There was a small emergency hospital in Vulcan, and we received care quickly.
There was only one phone for patients to use. My mother asked to be wheeled to it. She called my father back in Salt Lake City; then she called my uncle in Calgary, and he came immediately. When he arrived, the first thing room asked him was if he could find the elders. Approaching the hospital desk to inquire, he was met by two men in their 50s or 60s.
“Has anyone here been asking for elders from the Mormon church?” they asked. “Yes!” he said, and led them to our rooms. They said they had been driving down the road, had seen the Utah license plates on the smashed van, and felt inspired to check at the hospital. They said they were both high priests. Before leaving, they gave a blessing to my brother, my cousin, my mother, and me. We never did find out their names or where they were from, but later we sent a letter to the editor of the local paper in an effort to thank them.
It was in the hospital that we also learned that Grandma Briggs had died at the scene of the accident. But her words of assurance had helped me to understand that she was ready to rejoin grandpa in the spirit world and that she had felt peace in her heart as she passed to the other side.
I learned another important lesson, too. And that is that the Lord does hear and answer prayers, and that he can direct worthy priesthood holders to be in places where they can help others. Though we all suffered serious injuries, we recovered. And the priesthood blessings at a time of need were a great comfort to us. I will always be grateful to those two men who took time to obey a prompting of the Spirit that led them to the hospital, and thankful for the peace that came to my heart when I prayed, telling me everything would be all right.

One day when one of my daughters was going through registration in college, she called to ask if I would come down and sign for her so she and her roommates wouldn’t have to pay a deposit for the telephone. Evidently someone with a home and an account with the phone company could guarantee a new account. After standing in a very long line (which I’m sure most of you could relate to), I got to the clerk with the necessary paperwork filled out. To my surprise she said, “You don’t have an account with us.” I FELT NONEXISTENT! I knew I had been paying bills to the telephone company for twenty years, but my name was not Robert Hales. From that time on I made sure I had a name. I made sure my name was recorded on accounts, that it was spelled correctly, and I used my name.

My brethren and sisters, last Sunday as I sat in my study thinking of what I might say on this occasion, I received a phone call telling me that Staff Sergeant James W. Cawley of the U.S. Marines had been killed somewhere in Iraq. He was 41 years of age, leaving behind a wife and two small children.
Twenty years ago Elder Cawley was a missionary of the Church in Japan. Like so many others, he had grown up in the Church, had played as a schoolboy, had passed the sacrament as a deacon, and had been found worthy to serve a mission to teach the gospel of peace to the people of Japan. He returned home, served in the Marines, married, became a policeman, and was then recalled to active military duty, to which he responded without hesitation.
His life, his mission, his military service, his death seem to represent the contradictions of the peace of the gospel and the tides of war.

In the first decade of the organization of the Church in this dispensation, many conditions and circumstances and even the geographical locations of the main bodies of the Church changed rapidly. What did not seem to change, however, was that the message of the Restoration was not uniformly received with affection and appreciation. This was especially true for the representatives and advocates of the then newly emerging Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In fact, it was often not only risky to one’s popularity but even to one’s mortal existence to be too closely identified with the Latter-day Saints.

Most of you are familiar with the general details of the history of the Church in those first few years. After relocating from New York and Pennsylvania to Kirtland, very soon many of the Saints and leaders of the Church were drawn to Missouri with the potentially great blessings the Lord had promised to his Saints, predicated on their faithfulness, in that part of the land.

It was there, in the emerging community of Far West, Missouri, that a very important and instructive revelation was received by the Prophet Joseph Smith on July 8, 1838. In that remarkable communication from the Lord, among other instructions, were given very precise directions related to the beginning and unfolding of international missionary work. Almost unique among the published revelations given through the Prophet Joseph was that the Lord specifically instructed his servants as to not only their missionary labors “over the great waters,” but also as to the exact time and place from which they should take their leave (see D&C 118).

At the time the revelation was received in July 1838, although the Saints were having difficulties with their neighbors in Missouri, I suppose most of the leaders and members did not appreciate how difficult fulfillment of this revelation, with its attendant specific prophecies, would finally be. In the ensuing months, after the revelation was received, conditions became even more difficult. Persecution increased, and the Prophet Joseph, together with several companions, was incarcerated in Liberty Jail while the body of the Church was physically expelled from Missouri by an edict of the governor.

Interestingly, this revelation outlining the departure of the Twelve Apostles as the first missionaries to Great Britain from the temple site at Far West, Missouri, on April 26, 1839, was not only well known to the leaders of the Church and to most of the members generally, but also to the opponents and detractors of the Church, several being apostates or dissidents.

The attitudes of those involved or observing these events were interesting and could be divided principally into three groups. The first group included those who actively opposed the Prophet Joseph, the Church, and the mission of the Restoration. These were those who recognized that this revelation (D&C 118) was unusual with respect to the specific prophecies related to the time and place of certain events. They felt strongly that if they could prevent these events from taking place, the Prophet, the Church, and the work of the Restoration would be discredited. They spoke vigorously and organized aggressively to prevent the remaining members of the Quorum of the Twelve, and other key leaders who were not in prison, from returning to the temple site in Far West and doing their parts in fulfilling the prophecy that had been declared by the Lord through the Prophet Joseph.

The second group may have, in fact, been the largest. These were those who were interested in the revelation for various reasons but considered themselves to be only bystanders. There is evidence to suggest that even some of the basically faithful leaders and members of the Church felt that though the revelation and prophecies had been given with specificity, because conditions had changed the Lord would excuse his servants from attempting to fulfill them, and the mandate to accomplish the important work that had been previously prescribed by the Lord was no longer operative, as was the case in some other instances in Church history.

The third group, although small in number and perhaps seemingly insignificant at the time, is the one on whom I would like to center our attention. These faithful Saints were those who not only understood the revelation and the prophecies included, but also felt heavy personal responsibility to see them fulfilled.

In 1869, thirty years following these most significant circumstances, Elder Wilford Woodruff of the Twelve, who had been a participant in these events, recalled them with great feeling. He reported that even among the Brethren in April 1839, the question arose, “What is to be done?” Said Elder Woodruff:
The general feeling in the Church, so far as I know, was that, under the circumstances, it was impossible to accomplish the work; and the Lord would accept the will for the deed. . . . Joseph was not with us, he was in chains in Missouri, for his religion. When President Young asked the question of the Twelve, “Brethren, what will you do about this?” the reply was, “The Lord has spoken and it is for us to obey.” We felt that the Lord God had given the commandment and we had faith to go forward and accomplish it, feeling that it was His business whether we lived or died in its accomplishment. [Wilford Woodruff, 12 December 1869, JD 13:159]

Elder Woodruff then went on to describe the trip of the remaining Twelve and a few trusted associates back to Missouri and the events of that early morning of April 26, 1839, in Far West, including the laying of the cornerstone of the temple and the other business that was conducted. He concluded his account of this experience by saying, “We then returned, nobody having molested or made us afraid. We performed that work by faith, and the Lord blessed us in doing it” (ibid.). A miracle had happened, but as Moroni explained, it would not occur “until after the trial of [their] faith” (Ether 12:6).

I suppose that no one, even those who faithfully participated, could fully understand at the time the great impact on the kingdom of that cumulative and courageous act of faith which is so obvious today. Although the mission to Britain that was commenced by the Twelve at that time was not without great difficulty, the future success of the work was not only greatly strengthened but ensured by the fulfillment of the prophecy of July 1838.

Given the prophetic calling of the Twelve, it is very possible that they might have clearly understood the long-term implications of their actions. However, it seems more likely that most were involved in doing what they did not because they necessarily understood with any detail or clarity the future consequences of their acts, but rather because they wanted “to fulfil all righteousness.”

Don Antonio Manuel de Garcia was a short, round man with a tall opinion of himself. “I am the wealthiest man in all of San Pedro,” he would say. “Therefore, I am also the most important.”
Yet when he went out onto the calles (streets) of San Pedro, nobody gave him the attention he felt that he deserved.
“Perhaps if you thought more of others instead of yourself, you would gain the respect of the people,” his wife said gently.
Don Antonio did not listen. “Why, they pay more attention to that peasant, Juan Mendoza, than they do to me,” he grumbled.
His wife smiled. “Juan is a good man. He grinds corn for the old women of the pueblo, for their tortillas. He has a kind word for everyone, and you can always see him coming, because of that large sombrero he always wears.”
“Ahhhh, his sombrero!” Don Antonio ignored everything else she had said.
The next day he rode to the big city. When he returned, he was wearing a new sombrero—but what a sombrero! It had red tassels that bobbed as he trotted by, and a shadow so large that it kept both Don Antonio and his horse in shade from head to tail.
Villagers filled the calles as Don Antonio rode by. They stared in amazement.
He smiled and waved.
“At last the people see how important I am,” Don Antonio told his wife when he returned home.
She looked at the sombrero, shook her head, and said nothing.
For days Don Antonio went out whenever he could, enjoying the crowds that gathered at the sight of his unusual hat.
Soon, however, the novelty wore off. People saw him coming and merely murmured, “Buenos días (Good morning),” before returning to their tasks.
Don Antonio was not pleased.
“Why even Claudia Sanchez gets more attention than me,” he complained to his wife.
“Isn’t she the one who tutors the children after school?” she asked. “Even so, she has time to grow that magnificent garden—and shares what she grows with the less fortunate.”
“Ahhhh, a garden!”
The next day he rode into the big city. When he returned to San Pedro, people flocked to the calles again, their jaws dropped in amazement. Don Antonio was wearing the same sombrero, but now above the red tassels were piles of potatoes, cascades of corn, and bunches of bananas. It was a most amazing sight.
“At last they see how important I am,” he told his wife proudly.
She sighed and said nothing.
For a week Don Antonio basked in the attention of the village. However, his fame did not last. Soon people grew accustomed to his strange sombrero. They no longer gazed in awe as he rode through the calles, and he began to feel smaller and smaller beneath his enormous, heavy hat.
“Why, they pay more attention to Carlos Ramirez than they do to me,” he complained to his wife.
“Ah, Carlos,” she replied. “Isn’t he the boy who carries water for half the women of the pueblo and never charges a peso for it? He sings in the church choir and has a parrot named Xiomara.”
“Ahhhh, a parrot!”
The next day he rode into the big city. As he returned to San Pedro, the people of the pueblo gathered to stare. His sombrero was still huge, with red tassels, and it still looked like a garden. But now four enormous parrots perched on the crown. Their tails dangled down over the sides of the sombrero, and they nibbled at the corn as they rode along.
It was a most unusual sight.
Don Antonio smiled as he rode through the crowd. At last they see how important I am, he thought proudly. But as he rode down the calle, enjoying the amazement of the crowd, he noticed that not everyone was watching him. Some of the children were playing a game.
He was angry. A man of his importance deserved the attention of everyone!
He waved his hands and shouted to make the children look at him.
The startled parrots fluttered from his hat. One landed on the horse’s head. The horse reared, and Don Antonio fell off—kersplash!—into a mud puddle nearly as large as his hat. The sombrero went rolling down the calle, scattering potatoes, corn, and bananas. The parrots winged their way to freedom.
The people of the pueblo sprang into action.
“Save the sombrero of Don Antonio Manuel de Garcia!” they shouted as they raced down the calle after the runaway hat. “Save that magnificent sombrero!”
Soon there was no one left but a short man sitting in a large mud puddle.
“Save Don Antonio Manuel de Garcia!” he cried, but nobody answered. So Don Antonio had to get himself out of the puddle and limp home with mud on his clothes and water in his boots.
“Even my sombrero is more important than I am,” he told his wife, sadly.
She looked at him and shook her head. “You’re the one who made the hat so important,” she pointed out. “If you spent as much time making friends as you did making a magnificent sombrero, you would not have been left alone in the calle. Never let what you wear become more important than what you are.”
For once, Don Antonio had nothing to say.

I met him on the street, and he had changed from when I knew him last. There were streaks of gray in his hair, especially around the temples. But his eyes had that same friendly glow that I knew years ago when he was my explorer leader. My name is Bobby. Economic conditions had caused Jim to move away from our ward and our city, and I had not seen or heard from him for several years.
We dispensed with the usual handshake and threw our arms around each other in a bear hug.
I looked into those warm, friendly eyes, and words that I had stored in my heart came tumbling out.
“Remember our trip to Yellowstone, and especially our pack trip into Heart Lake?” I asked.
We had had 12 boys in our explorer post, and Jim had been the leader. What a leader he was! Each boy loved him like an older brother. As for me? Well, I guess I was different. I was not dishonest, but I had learned that there were ways to get out of work and have other people carry your load.
For example, when we planned our trip to Yellowstone, each member of the post was to make his own trail tent. I didn’t want to bother my mother to do the cutting of the material. So, just by chance mind you, I learned when one of our troop was going to cut his. I just happened to stop by his home, with my material, of course, and his mother just naturally cut out mine.
My mom didn’t like to sew, so I didn’t bother her. Johnny, a post member, had a mother who just loved to sew, and it was no job for me to have Johnny invite me to his home. While I was there his mother sewed up my tent. One of our projects to finance our trip was to collect scrap metal and sell it. On Saturday morning Jim would come around in his old pickup, and away we would go in quest of scrap iron or steel. That stuff was dirty and heavy, so I volunteered to drive the truck. Some of the guys in the post were bigger than me anyway.
Summer came and preparations were completed for the trip to Yellowstone. Each post member had his own trail tent trimmed with his favorite color. A committee was chosen to go with Jim to purchase the food.
What a morning it was when we started on our journey! There was laughter, and back slapping, and all that silly stuff that boys do.
We spent our first night at Old Faithful. We enjoyed the old geyser, but supper that evening was even more enjoyable.
Jim had called for volunteers to peel the potatoes and help prepare the other things, and perhaps it was the camp-robber bird in a nearby tree that took my attention away from cooking chores. There were plenty of other volunteers anyway.
But that supper—I can taste it yet. Chicken cooked in a dutch oven, and potatoes and carrots so tender they wouldn’t stay on a fork. Reflector-oven rolls that just begged for butter. What a meal! What a memory!
The next day we traveled to Lewis Lake, which was the jumping off place for our hike to Heart Lake.
Early in the morning after we saluted the dawn with prayer, Jim had us gather around a picnic table. There, each boy was allotted his share of food—so much bacon, eggs, pancake flour, and so on. Jim explained that we would be gone for three days and that each boy would be responsible for his own food and for the cooking of it.
A bear strolled through the campground, and it got my attention, so maybe Jim’s instructions didn’t sink in too deeply.
Finally, packs on our backs, we headed up the trail toward Heart Lake. We passed a skinny looking cow moose, standing knee deep in water, who wondered what all that boy noise was about. We passed the summit, and as the trail descended toward the lake, we discovered Witch Creek. It was a warm stream that originated in some underground heated spring. There was a spot where it tumbled over a ten-foot bank, creating a beautiful waterfall and a perfect shower for overheated boys.
As if with one thought we threw off our packs and clothes, and with varied yips and squeals we dashed under the shower.
By this time Jim, who was carrying a heavier pack, caught up with us.
He took one amused look at us, then off came his pack and clothes, and soon his happy yips joined ours.
We found a delightful camp spot in a pocket of pines just off the lake shore.
It was time to prepare the evening meal and the post began preparation to cook. I hate cooking. It seems such a useless chore to provide a meal.
I looked at Chubby Lewis, the overweight boy of the post who had an appetite like a wolf cub, and suggested to him that if he would cook my meals, I would give him part of my food as payment.
Chubby jumped at the chance, and everything was lovely until the afternoon of the third day when I discovered all my food was gone.
I couldn’t ask Chubby or any of the other post members for a share of their food because they only had enough for their supper and breakfast the next morning.
I sat down with my back against a pine tree. Across the lake a trout jumped, making rings that turned to silver when touched by the rays of the sun. A gull soared overhead, its white underpart looking like a maverick snowflake against the blue sky. In a nearby pasture a bull elk threw his huge antlers into the air, a picture of majesty and strength.
The breeze was touched with the smell of pine, and the chatter of a squirrel broke the silence. But these things had lost their beauty and meaning because the growling in my stomach was like thunder in a storm. I didn’t realize that Chubby had told Jim of my predicament, but still, when I saw him walking toward me, I knew I was in for a good scolding.
Oh, I know a Scout is supposed to be brave and all of that, but there were tears ready to come, and if Jim had cussed me out, those tears would have fallen like Witch Creek over the bank.
Instead, he took me by the hand and helped me up. Then with his arm around my shoulder he led me to where he was preparing his supper.
He shared with me his beans and a trout he had caught; then he reached into his knapsack and brought out a little package containing two oatmeal cookies, one of which he gave to me. The other he returned to his knapsack.
When the meal was over and the dishes put away, Jim sat down by my side. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, like the breeze on the lake.
“Bobby,” he said, “there are certain responsibilities in life we cannot pass on to others. If we try, we will end up being dismal failures. God gave you a talent to be able to sway people with words, but words are empty echoes if not backed up with work and acceptance of responsibilities.”
There was a campfire program that night with songs and the exchange of the day’s experiences. But somehow I couldn’t join in. The words that Jim had spoken were strong in my heart. I knew I had failed as a post member. The program ended and the campfire was dying. Jim had called on one of the boys to say the evening prayer. However, before he could begin the prayer, I stood on my feet, and words touched with tears came tumbling out.
“Fellows, I want to apologize for my actions. I realize I have been a disgrace to the post, but if you will help me, I will try to be a better Scout.”
Morning came, and with the rising sun, a miracle in comradeship. One by one the post members came and shared their meager breakfast with me. One sliver of bacon, a hotcake, a cup of hot chocolate, and other things. Then Jim reached into his knapsack and brought out the other oatmeal cookie.
“Here, Bobby,” he said, “this will help you down the trail.” The trip back to Lewis Lake was uneventful. Soon our duffle was packed in the truck, and we were ready to leave for home. Before we did, however, Jim had us gather in a circle and he uttered a prayer. He first asked for a safe journey home. The words that followed have been a guideline in my life.
“Heavenly Father, we thank thee for all things that are good and lovely, for the friendship we enjoy with each other. May the lessons we have learned on this trip help us as we go through life.”
The years have passed, and I now have a wife and children of my own. I am considered a fairly successful businessman and am active in the Church.
I still know the power of words, but as Jim said, they are empty echoes without work and responsibility. Do I remember Jim? When I greet the dawn and feel the breath of a summer breeze, the memories of that mountain lake and Jim come out of the treasure chest of my heart.

Two years into my actuarial and financial mathematics degree, I had a strong prompting to go on a mission. I chose to serve, even though I would potentially forfeit certain college credits that had to be taken consecutively.
A short while later, as I read my mission call to the Utah Salt Lake City Central Mission, the moment felt surreal. I didn’t know anybody who had served in Salt Lake City. I thought maybe I had opened the wrong mission call. When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt that everything I knew had been taken away. I found myself on a bicycle in the snow without any idea of how to be a missionary. With its different culture and climate, Salt Lake City felt as far away from South Africa as I could have traveled.
In my first area, my companion and I visited a member named Chris Ruppel for dinner. He asked if either of us knew music. My companion mentioned that I played piano and sang, so I sang a song for the family. Then something special happened. Brother Ruppel looked at me and said, “Elder Vizzini, if you keep singing like that, you will be a successful missionary.” I thought that was sweet of him but didn’t think much of it.
A few months later, with Brother Ruppel, I helped organize a musical missionary fireside. In every area I served thereafter, we used this same fireside structure. Many people participated with us, from stake members to well-known local musicians and members of other faiths. We taught about the Savior through music to people who otherwise would not have wanted to sit through a lesson. I learned that music could touch both the poor and the wealthy, the educated and the uneducated.
My mission taught me that I can do hard things. As I served in an area so far away and so different from my home, I learned that everybody is a child of God. I have seen miracles in people’s lives on the other side of the world in Utah, and I have seen them here in South Africa. I know that if we just have faith, miracles can happen in each of our lives (see Mormon 9:15–21).

When I was in high school, I decided it was time I gained a testimony of my own instead of relying on those of my parents.
I wasn’t quite sure how to go about gaining a testimony, so one night as I was kneeling by my bed saying my prayers, I asked the Lord to let me know whether or not the gospel was true. Then I jumped into bed and went to sleep.
The next day I did the very same thing and for the next few days after that. Needless to say, I was not gaining a testimony.
I decided to try a different approach. Instead of just praying and jumping into bed, I would pray and then wait on my knees for the answer to come to me. It didn’t.
Something had to be done. I had just finished reading the Book of Mormon. The people in there were constantly gaining testimonies. It just didn’t seem fair that I couldn’t get an answer. What was I doing wrong?
I was reading one night in Doctrine and Covenants 9:7 where it says, “Behold, you have not understood; you have supposed that I would give it unto you, when you took no thought save it was to ask me.” [D&C 9:7]
I realized then that I had been going about gaining a testimony all wrong. Instead of just expecting it to be given to me, I needed to find one.
I looked up all the cross-references I could find on the subject of testimonies, talked to my bishop about it, and talked to my parents and others.
After studying and fasting, I prayed and asked the Lord to help me know the truth. My testimony started to grow.
But I was wrong when I thought that my first prayer hadn’t been answered. Section 9, verse 7, was what I had prayed for. Although it was not a testimony, it was telling me the way I could find one for myself.

My freshman year at BYU was like coming home. I felt so comfortable with the required standards. I began to ask questions about the Church, and my teammates were eager to share without pressuring me. They encouraged me to read the Book of Mormon. Bob Stephens, an LDS team member, and I hit it off and became close friends.
One day Bob and I decided to take dates on a ride up the canyon. As the four of us drove up a steep hill, the car engine died. We tried and tried to get it started, and nothing seemed to work. It was an embarrassing situation until a policeman came along and asked if he could help. We asked him if he could take the girls back. They volunteered to go for help while we stayed with the car.
While we waited I thought it was the perfect opportunity to ask Bob some serious questions about the Church. Generally speaking, football players are not the most articulate people, and Bob is no exception. However, when he began to answer my questions he sounded like a scholar. He answered every question with authority and conviction. I was deeply impressed.
Then I noticed an unusual thing was happening. Though it was cold and I didn’t have a coat on, I noticed I was feeling warm. I thought it must be because my arms were folded, so I stretched them out across the back of the seat. But the warmth stayed. It was a comfortable feeling, difficult to describe.
When I was through asking questions, I said, “I think the car will start now, Bob.” And it did, with the first turn of the key. It blew me away. I thought, This must be the work of the Lord so that I could have this chance to talk seriously with Bob. It seemed like a little miracle to me.
After that I asked to see the missionaries and with every discussion the gospel logically unfolded. I had resisted reading the Book of Mormon before because in the past I found the Bible difficult to follow and understand. But as soon as I began to read the Book of Mormon, I understood it and even enjoyed reading it. The more I learned through study and prayer, the more I knew the Church is true. It all made sense.

As I poured the boiling water into the mush pot and stirred in the cracked wheat, I thought of other Thanksgivings. Last year when Grandma was taking flaky crusted pies out of the oven with a towel, her thumb accidentally touched the hot tin pan and she dropped a currant pie upside down on the kitchen floor. Steaming red juice trickled across the clean linoleum, and I thought it was a disaster until Grandma said, “You youngsters can have that pie.” She wasn’t one to waste anything. I remember my aunts saying that Grandma was so saving that if a mosquito lit in the molasses, she’d lick its legs before turning it loose. Maybe so, but no pie ever tasted so good as the one she dropped.

The workshop couldn’t have been busier if it belonged to Santa’s elves. From one end to the other, workers were unloading trucks, repairing sleds and furniture, sorting buttons for clothing, sewing, and even stacking skis.
But these weren’t elves at work. They were young men and women from the Ogden Utah Weber Stake. And the workshop wasn’t at the North Pole. It was at the Deseret Industries welfare complex in Ogden, where the youth of the stake converged one Saturday to help the regular employees beat the Christmas rush.
It was part of a month-long program to get the youth acquainted with the elderly and handicapped who form the main part of the labor force at the facility, which repairs and sells used furniture and clothing. It was also part of an effort to help those employees have a merry Christmas. In addition to the day spent working in the warehouse and production areas, the young people also presented a week’s worth of morning devotionals, put in another Saturday collecting reusable items, and just a few days before Christmas, sponsored a party for employees.
“The whole idea was to get in the Christmas spirit,” Paula Watkins of the Uintah Second Ward said. “When you do something for other people, it makes you feel that you’re giving of yourself.”
Frost was still in the air the morning the young men and women went door-to-door in their ward areas reminding people to donate items in good or reparable condition. Couches, lamps, dolls, toasters, an adding machine, desks, chairs, and other household wares soon bulged the sides of two large trucks, with more contributions still coming. One neighborhood florist donated a whole van full of Christmas decorations. One young man, enthused by the spirit of giving, pedaled up on his used bicycle and donated it to the drive. Half a dozen truckloads of usable items were amassed during the day.
The following week the group began presenting morning devotionals. Each ward was assigned a particular day. Ward members presenting the program would meet with D.I. employees in the Ogden complex chapel for prayer, song, and a spiritual thought.
The devotionals strengthened the staff, according to Niolee Petersen, a supervisor. “One of our goals is to bring the Spirit into the lives of those who work here, and the devotionals help a lot. These were special spirits, a lot of good kids. They have communicated very well with the handicapped workers.”
The following Saturday, however, is when real friendships and close relationships began to grow.
“We have about 30 handicapped workers under the direction of each supervisor, but they don’t all work on the same shift,” Sister Petersen explained. “Handicaps include age, physical impairments, and social and emotional maladjustments. This group of young people moved right in and helped everyone who was there on Saturday. It didn’t take much instruction before they were doing high-quality work.”
It was indeed a sight to see a deacon working side-by-side on a commercial steam press with a woman who could have been his grandmother, but who joked and chatted with him like a schoolmate, or to watch a squadron of young men descend on a carpentry shop and learn under careful tutelage some fine points of cabinet making. Other work assignments included sorting clothing, polishing shoes, shredding rags to make rugs, pricing items for sale and affixing tags, ironing, and a variety of other tasks.
“But,” as Shelley Johnson of the Uintah Second Ward stressed, “the most important thing isn’t what type of work we did. It’s that we were able to help other people.”
About 325 young people participated in the project. They worked in two shifts, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. Each person was given the name of an employee to become acquainted with. Some were then given tasks to perform on their own, others were assigned to work under the direction of an employee, and others worked with supervisors.
“It was something different, something I’ll remember for a long time,” said Nan Brian of the Uintah First Ward. One of the supervisors said Mark Stockset of the Uintah Second Ward was a “real whiz on the steam machine.” Mark laughed. “I’ve never worked with one before,” he said, “but I’m kind of used to it now.”
“I think this whole Deseret Industries idea is a good thing,” said Janean Dickson of the Uintah Second Ward. “It helps people take care of themselves. It teaches the value of work and makes you count your blessings.
“I was especially interested to see the quality of merchandise they sell. The clothing isn’t worn out and run down; it’s nice. They have things for sale I’d be glad to wear.”
“Next time I give things to D.I., I’ll be more aware of what they can use,” said Lisa Fowles of the South Weber Second Ward, “so I’ll make a more meaningful donation.”
Over in the furniture repair shop, three young women from the stake removed nails from furniture being prepared for reupholstery.
“Did you think you’d be doing this kind of work today?” they were asked. “No,” came the reply, “but it’s fun to be able to work firsthand with tools. I don’t usually get a chance to do that, and the exposure will help me.”
“The people who work here have been really friendly to us,” David Jensen of the South Weber Second Ward said. “They seem like they’re glad to have us here.” Laurie Glissman, of the same ward, added, “It helps you when you work along with people; you come to understand them and the way they are. And it sure put me in the Christmas spirit to realize how fortunate I am. I think this welfare program is a good way to help those in need, because they can work and maintain their dignity.”
“Those who have never had a chance to get close to the handicapped don’t understand them.” Gladys Huber, another supervisor, said. “It’s good to see these young folks come out and get to know their brothers and sisters.”
“The workers were a bit wary about it at first,” Sister Petersen added. “But when the young people got here and started working with them, they were delighted. It’s been a perfect show of brotherly love.”
The employees did in fact seem impressed by the youthful volunteers. “They learn pretty fast, and work hard,” Rell Smith said. “It’s good to have them here. We’d like more groups to come. Just let us know when.”
Janean spent the day working with Lottie Dayton, putting size labels on clothing and hanging apparel on racks.
“If I weren’t here today, I’d just be sitting home, or maybe riding my horse,” Janean said. “This is more important—it’s more important to serve the Lord than to serve yourself. That’s what Christmas is all about, helping others. We had to put priorities in order. Sure, it was hard to squeeze everything in, especially when we were trying to do Christmas shopping of our own. But we were excited to come down here, and she’s so sweet …”
Her voice trailed off as she looked over at Sister Dayton, who was still hanging things on the rack as she softly hummed “Where Love Is.”
As young and old labored amid clothing baling machines, steam tunnels (used to remove wrinkles from clothing), label racks, and sorting tables, the workshop did turn out some Christmas magic after all. By the end of each shift, there were no young and old, no handicapped and nonhandicapped, just friends, co-workers, and fellow Saints.
The same spirit prevailed at a Christmas party ten days later.
“We brought all the workers to the stake center,” Nan Brian of the Uintah First Ward explained. “When they got there, we gave each one an ornament with his name and the name of one of the kids in the stake who had worked with him printed on it. Then we did all we could to make them realize we are their friends.”
That included a program of carols, stories, a visit from Santa Claus, and of course, the true story of the birth of Christ as recorded in the scriptures.
As the workers were escorted home and the youth of the Weber Stake returned to their final holiday preparations, there was a warmth and a glow about both groups. Some had learned that others still cared, and some had learned that caring is the solid foundation of December’s glorious celebration.

I grew up in what some of you might call a boring farming community: Virden, New Mexico, population 135. One summer night when I was a boy, my cousins, some friends, and I were looking for ways to create some excitement. Someone suggested we play a harmless prank on a neighbor. My conscience whispered it was wrong, but I didn’t have the courage to resist the enthusiastic response of the group.
After performing our mischievous act, we sprinted down the dark country road to make our escape, laughing and congratulating ourselves as we ran. Suddenly, one of the group stumbled, crying out, “Oh no, I kicked a cat!” Almost instantly we felt a very fine mist settle over us. It carried a horrible odor. What my friend thought was a cat was actually a skunk. It had sprayed us in self-defense. Very few odors are as nauseating as skunk spray, and we smelled terrible.
Dejectedly, we went home in search of a little parental comfort for our pitiful plight. As we stepped inside the kitchen door, Mom took one sniff and shooed us out into the yard. We were cast out of our home. Then she launched the cleansing process. She burned our clothes. Then, it seemed that every home remedy or concoction in the community was volunteered in our behalf. Among them, we endured a variety of baths: first tomato juice, then cow’s milk, and even harsh homemade lye soap. But the stench remained. Even my dad’s powerful aftershave lotion could not overpower the stench. For days we were condemned to eat outside under a tree, sleep outdoors in a tent, and ride in the back of the pickup truck.
After a while, naively thinking the smell was gone, we tried to approach some normal-smelling girls. They would not allow us within yards, shattering our fragile teenage egos!

While I was serving as president of the West European Mission I had the opportunity of association with some of the servicemen stationed there. The president of the servicemen’s stake told me an interesting story.
He said that while he was executive secretary in the stake, the general of his army unit called him and told him he would like to have him serve as his assistant, which would require him to accompany the general wherever he went. Recognizing how this would affect his Church position and his responsibilities to his family, the brother told the general he would have to forego this assignment.
The general said, “Do you mean you would turn your back on this promotion because of your family and your Church?”
The brother said, “Yes, that is what I mean.”
The general said, “Well, then, forget it.” But he called back in a few days and said that he still wanted him for the job, that he would make the necessary adjustments for the man to carry out his responsibilities to the Church and to his family.
Another of the servicemen who had served a full-time mission told me he had baptized more converts during a year in the service than he had in two and one-half years on his mission in France. This is how we remember who we are and act accordingly.

At age 25, I found myself in a verbally abusive relationship. I’d become less active in the Church, but when I finally left my boyfriend, I decided to go back to attending church regularly. I wanted to be on the straight and narrow path again. Little did I know, though, that when I made that decision, I was already pregnant.
I decided to stay true to my choice to be active again in the Church, but I didn’t really want to be pregnant and go to church where I lived. I wanted to attend a ward in a different city, so I went there one Sunday. It was the day of the Primary sacrament meeting presentation. As the children talked about how Heavenly Father always loves us, I felt His love too. That message was a great blessing for me that day.
After the meeting, I asked the bishop if I could attend that ward given my situation. He advised me to go to the ward within my boundaries. I didn’t want to, but he assured me I’d be OK, and I was.
When I told my bishop about my pregnancy, he was so helpful. It was a blessing to meet with him regularly. As I talked with him about my options for the baby, he wanted me to know that he was there to represent the Lord in my repentance process but would not tell me what decision to make about raising or placing my baby. As we were studying Doctrine and Covenants 9:8–9, my bishop asked me to pray and tell Heavenly Father what I really wanted—he encouraged me to make a decision and seek confirmation from the Lord.
So I went home and prayed. I told Heavenly Father all the amazing reasons why I would be the best mom for this baby, and I asked to know if that decision was right. The next day, everything in life felt like it was falling apart. For instance, I lost my medical insurance, and my car broke down.
At church the following Sunday, I told my bishop how life seemed to fall apart after I prayed about my decision. Because of what had happened after my prayer, my bishop suggested that I consider a different decision and seek confirmation about it instead.
While working with my bishop, I had considered placing the baby for adoption and had narrowed down the potential adoptive families to two couples. The bishop suggested that I select one of the two couples and pray about that decision to ask if this little guy needed to go with them.
I went home and reluctantly prayed, asking Heavenly Father if the couple I had chosen were the ones my child needed. The next morning, a connection my sister made led to a miracle solution for my insurance. I felt this was a confirmation that adoption was the right path for me, and I remember thinking this child could have so much more with a different family.
I knew that Heavenly Father would help me with this decision. Part of me hoped this choice would be like the story of Abraham and Isaac (see Genesis 22)—that when it came time for me to place my son for adoption, God would tell me I didn’t need to do it anymore. But He didn’t. I needed to place my son with a wonderful family.
As I sat in the hospital with my new little bundle of joy, I turned on the TV. General conference happened to be on. I heard a talk by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles entitled “None Were with Him.” He taught that “because Jesus walked such a long, lonely path utterly alone, we do not have to do so.”1 I closed my eyes and told Heavenly Father that I felt so alone, and then I felt so much love from Him.
After the placement, I felt completely empty. But in the back of my mind, I still knew I wasn’t alone. I knew Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were with me, as Elder Holland had taught. I prepared for the temple and received my endowment. I was obeying the commandments, and I was determined I would never let myself be deceived into wrong choices again.
But years later, I was deceived again and ended up in another abusive relationship. When I broke away, I found out I was pregnant again. I didn’t want to place the baby. I was older than before, and I felt like I could be a good mom. I met with my bishop and a social worker. I started following the same process that I had before in praying about adoption, but nothing ever seemed to click. It always felt difficult.
I still went to church. Sometimes ward members would say they were surprised to see me there pregnant, which hurt a little. But I still went every week. I wanted people to see that what I had done reflected a choice I had made but that it didn’t define who I was. I worked with my bishop to move forward.
As my due date grew closer, I started to panic. With my first baby, I’d had a plan, but this one was so different. I didn’t feel like I was receiving a strong answer regarding any option for my baby. I let the couple whom I had placed my first baby with know that I was pregnant but unsure of whether I would place, and that if I did place, I would want them to raise this baby as well.
After I had the baby, I still felt unsure. Then my doctor came in to check on us and said, “I don’t know if you’ll be able to have children again, so love this little one.” While that may not be the answer for everyone, I felt the Spirit confirm that this was the right choice for me. After panicking for nine months, I felt peace. I let the couple know that I had decided to parent my daughter.
I wanted to be the best mom I could be, and I knew that the only way to do that was staying close to family and the Lord’s Church. I knew that what I had learned in the gospel of Jesus Christ would help her like it had helped me.
With my pregnancies, was one decision easier than the other? No. Both options were hard—just different kinds of hard, as were the joys. With my daughter, she is an incredible delight to me. Yet being a single mother is hard. With the son I placed, I still think about him and hope he’s happy throughout his life, but I am not as involved in his day-to-day happenings. When I was pregnant with him, I couldn’t see what Heavenly Father had in mind for him. But now I can see it, and I know he’s where he needs to be.
We can’t know beforehand what placing or single parenting will be like. But we can always trust in the Lord.
As part of my repentance, I remember hearing my bishop say, “Your sins are forgiven.” I felt such great relief, and I realized that the Atonement of Jesus Christ is real. I would remember my sin, but from that moment on, my Savior, Jesus Christ, would remember it no more (see Doctrine and Covenants 58:42). I knew that He wanted me to move forward to become a better person, to become what He sees I can be. That’s what I strive to do every day—to become even closer to Him and to hold ever tighter to the iron rod (see 1 Nephi 15:23–24; see also 1 Nephi 11:25).
One of my favorite scriptures reads, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life” (John 3:16). I am grateful for Heavenly Father’s plan of redemption.
I currently serve as my ward’s Young Women president. One principle I try to help the young women learn is that regardless of any choices they make, there is no place where they are out of Heavenly Father’s reach. As Elder Holland taught: “However many mistakes you feel you have made or talents you think you don’t have, or however far from home and family and God you feel you have traveled, I testify that you have not traveled beyond the reach of divine love. It is not possible for you to sink lower than the infinite light of Christ’s Atonement shines.”2
I hope that the young women in my ward—and everyone—remember that truth. It has blessed my life immeasurably, and the joys I now feel in living the gospel have become an even greater strength to me.

When the South Weber First Ward, Ogden Weber Utah Stake, had an unused field next to the chapel, they put it to good use. The youth of the ward grew tomatoes. They planted 13,000 tomato plants on the 2 1/2 acres of ground. The tomato plot was the result of a challenge given the young people of the ward by the bishop to raise money to support their own activities.
For many, raising the tomatoes was their first experience in gardening. The project, spearheaded by Annette Gardner, had the ward’s teens making arrangements with a local greenhouse for the plants, organizing the plot into rows, and preparing the soil. After the plot was planted, each teen was assigned a row to care for. They were in charge of weeding, nurturing, and harvesting their row. They often spent the time before youth activities each week in the tomato patch, with additional time throughout the week required to properly care for the tomato patch.
“The calloused hands and blisters from the hoes were eye-openers to many,” says Sister Gardner. “The youth are proud of their rows. Some have made signs to identify their rows.”
After the harvest, a party was held to present awards for the best row sign and for the biggest and funniest tomatoes.
The tomato plot had some unexpected side benefits. Often whole families showed up to help their son or daughter with his or her row. Younger brothers and sisters got involved. It turned out to be a good family project and ward members became closer.

That night she helps her mom fold towels and asks her, “Why is Dad always so happy? Hasn’t he ever experienced anything really hard?”
Her mom stops folding and looks at the towel she is smoothing. “Oh, he’s had some hard times. Maybe you’ve forgotten. Your dad’s mother—your grandma—died when he was 12. That was really hard. He lost the first business he started. Then he was diagnosed with a liver disease and diabetes all in the same year.” She pauses, begins to lift a stack of towels, puts them down, and continues. “He was sent to fight in Vietnam when he was 19. He’s told me some about that, but I know he hasn’t told me everything. His brother was killed there. That was probably the hardest for him; he used to wake up with nightmares.”
Amy doesn’t say a word. The rest of the weekend she hardly says anything at all until her research is finished. On Sunday her dad asks her to sit down and make a report to him.
“Dad, terrible things happened to Christ, but he spent his time lifting others. And there are others who were like that too. They did terrible things to Joseph Smith and his family, but even though he had the right to be really miserable he still found time to arm wrestle and play with the kids and things like that.”
“So, did you learn from your research that it’s okay to be a happy person?”
“It’s more than okay. I think Heavenly Father wants us to find joy in our lives while we’re here. Maybe it’s like a skill. If we learn it here we’ll be better at it in eternity.”
He smiles. “So your research really helped.”
“Actually, I think I learned the most from example. There’s this man, you see, and he’s had some hard things happen to him. But he likes to get up early every morning and go to the flower mart, he listens to corny comedy on the radio, and he’s been teaching me all along that being happy is an important skill.”
Her dad isn’t smiling anymore. She doesn’t remember ever seeing him look this serious. “We have our agency,” he says. “We choose how to react to the hard things in life. We can grow and have gratitude for our blessings, or we can be miserable and stagnate.”
“Dad, will you lighten up!”
“Here, let’s give these to your mom.” He takes an armload of wilted flowers from a large grocery bag, and the two of them carry the gift. Amy fully breathes in their fragrance.