Gospel Story Finder

When I was a teenager, my family moved to Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates (UAE). My high school was an international school where people from many different cultures and religions attended. There were hardly any members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in our area, and I was the only member in my grade.
After a while, I started dating a classmate who was Christian but not a Latter-day Saint. As we got to know each other better, he became interested in my beliefs and started doing his own research on the Church.
Unfortunately, the sources he consulted were against The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and what began as curiosity for him soon grew into confusion and concern about my faith. I did my best to answer his questions, but I didn’t always know what to say. It was difficult and painful to have someone I cared deeply about challenge the things I held close to my heart. He was my boyfriend, and his opinions and perspectives were important to me.
As time went on, the questions and criticisms he had about the Church seemed reasonable, and I began to have doubts about my faith too.
The things I believed in seemed uncertain to me. I questioned whether Joseph Smith was really a prophet of God and if he’d really translated the gold plates. Had I been accepting made-up stories as truth? Being surrounded by so few Church members made me seriously question the legitimacy of my and my family’s faith. I felt lost and scared.
But I kept coming back to one thing—the examples I had in my life. My grandparents and my parents have always been faithful members of the Church. Every time I felt tempted to step away from the gospel, I remembered them and the goodness of their lives.
In Matthew we read:
“A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. …
“Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them” (Matthew 7:18, 20).
I knew that my parents and grandparents were good people and that the fruits of their lives were good too.
I reminded myself that there must be a reason why they raised me in the Church. So I decided to trust their judgment and faith when I was unsure whether I should trust my own.
I held on to the faith of my family members for a while. As time went on, my boyfriend lessened his scrutiny of the Church, but I continued studying the scriptures and praying to receive answers to the questions he had brought up.
And then one day, I had a big realization: I don’t need to answer every single question someone has for me about the gospel. I just need to tell them to follow the Spirit. I cannot give someone else my testimony.
I already knew this, but the reminder of these truths hit me with force. I couldn’t convince my boyfriend of the reality of the gospel if he wasn’t willing to listen to the Spirit, study, and pray. Elder Robert D. Hales (1932–2017) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “We do not have the authority to bestow a testimony upon someone else, because a personal testimony is granted by the Holy Ghost.”1
After some time, I worked up the courage to tell my boyfriend that I couldn’t answer all of his questions. But I invited him to pray and read the Book of Mormon if he wanted to know the truth. I explained that although my testimony wasn’t the strongest, I’d decided not to step away from my faith—it had helped mold me into who I was and had brought amazing people into my life who were good examples to me.
I would stand by my faith.
After talking with him, a huge weight came off my shoulders. I knew I had made the right choice in holding on to faith.
Having my beliefs challenged wasn’t fun, but I’m grateful for that experience because it helped me strengthen my own testimony. President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency, said: “Another way to seek a testimony seems astonishing when compared with the methods of obtaining other knowledge. We gain or strengthen a testimony by bearing it. Someone even suggested that some testimonies are better gained on the feet bearing them than on the knees praying for them.”2
In hindsight, I can see that standing up for my beliefs helped me strengthen my faith. Although my relationship with my boyfriend eventually ended, he and I have remained respectful friends, and I’m glad I learned how to protect my testimony while respecting his questions and beliefs.

During the open house of the Paris France Temple in 2017, Valérie and I had the special opportunity to serve as guides for a group of visitors from another faith.

As we walked together through the rooms of the temple, we had a delightful time sharing what we believe. At the end of the tour, one of our guests made a comment that I have never forgotten.

He said, “In our Church, we don’t believe in a life before this life, and we don’t know much about what comes after. But you Latter-day Saints seem to understand eternity. You seem to know where you come from, why you are here, and where you are going. Why is that?”

That question has stayed with me.

In the Doctrine and Covenants, we read: “Truth is knowledge of things as they are, and as they were, and as they are to come.” [7]

How grateful I am for the knowledge, restored through the Prophet Joseph Smith, of God’s plan of salvation and exaltation, which spans the past, the present, and the future. We know that we lived with God before this life, that our brief time on earth has a divine purpose, and that “through the merits, and mercy, and grace of the Holy Messiah,” [8] we can one day be resurrected and return to the presence of our Heavenly Father.

It’s been almost eight years since I have put up Christmas lights at my parents’ house. Due to a variety of circumstances, my family has not been able to be together for a long time. I did not like decorating my house, because I resented not being with my family. However, I could not hide what my heart was feeling: I had the urge to put up Christmas lights.
I convinced my brother to help me hang them. Between work, school, and different responsibilities, we took several days to finish hanging the lights. When we finished, two lessons stood out to me.
The first is that life doesn’t always follow a straight path. We began to hang the lights in orderly rows, but when we got to the back of the house, we noticed we had more lights than anticipated. We decided to dangle the leftover lights on the lower part of the house, far more crooked than the rest of the lights. It was then I realized my life has been like these lights. I try to go straight, without straying from the path of the gospel of Jesus Christ. But sometimes, I make mistakes and don’t know what to do. The Lord said, “He who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more” (Doctrine and Covenants 58:42). Although the Christmas lights were tangled, they continued to serve their purpose: to give light and to illuminate my house. Like the lights, I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes but can still find the light and follow God’s plan for me, thanks to the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
The second thing I learned is that the Light of Christ is always present. Above, below, to the right, to the left—it is there, ready to give us guidance and correction. In Moroni 7:19, we read that we should search diligently in the Light of Christ so we can distinguish between good and evil. I feel it was the Holy Ghost that spoke to my heart so I could hang those lights and remember that Jesus Christ is there, calling me and giving me guidance. The Light of Christ illuminates the whole year, not just special times like Christmas.
The lights on my home may not be the best in the neighborhood, but they remind me that my efforts to follow the Savior bring blessings into my life.

To start out, I would like to relate an experience I had several years ago. When I first moved to Rexburg about 6 years ago, I was called to be the 2nd counselor to a new Bishop here in Rexburg. This new bishop, even though he was young, he was very wise. Well it just so happened that we had a member of the quorum of the seventy in our ward at the time of our call. And this young Bishop, he being wise, asked this member of the seventy to give some personalized training to us in the bishopric. So this Elder graciously agreed. As part of this training, the Elder talked directly to the other counselor and me for a while. He talked about the need of counselors to support the Bishop and how we could lighten his load. It was really good counsel. After speaking with us, he turned to the Bishop to give him his council. And to the best of my recollection, this is what he said. "Now Bishop, your job is really easy." And then he paused and then continued "Bishop, your job is to be perfect." And I remember sitting there thinking, oh yea, I knew I did not want to be Bishop.

Providing that environment can sometimes tax one’s preparation. I recall vividly the time when one of our children, then a first-grader, came bursting into the kitchen to tell me of a new word he had just learned. It was a hard and adult word, but he was so proudly spelling and pronouncing it. Yet, when he spelled it one letter was wrong. As I look back, I am not sure why I did not correct him. Perhaps I thought it wouldn’t matter for the moment. He went from the kitchen to where his father was studying and told him his new word. His father explained the error and corrected it.

Our son came back to me and asked, “Mother, why didn’t you tell me it was wrong?” I didn’t have a very good answer that day, but I had a good lesson. I learned how much it does matter, and that children depend upon mothers to tell them what is wrong—what is wrong and right about words, about life, and about the world with which they are trying to cope. I think it is not possible for a mother to be overtrained for her role.

Jamie stood outside looking around. No one was playing. She could hear the tap, tap, tapping of Uncle Ed’s hammer. Maybe I’ll go over and see what he’s doing, she thought.
Uncle Ed and Aunt Ruth lived across the street. They weren’t really her aunt and uncle, just very special people who loved the neighborhood kids. They didn’t have any children of their own, so all the kids called them Uncle Ed and Aunt Ruth.
Jamie knocked on Uncle Ed’s workshop door.
“Come in,” he hollered. “Hi, Jamie. Have you come over to help me?”
“What are you making?” she asked.
“Oh, I made a birdhouse. I’m just about ready to paint it, and I sure could use a helper.”
“I’d love to help,” said Jamie. They painted the birdhouse red and green.
“We did a good job,” said Uncle Ed. “Now we need a reward. Let’s go in and see if Aunt Ruth has some spare cookies.”
Uncle Ed and Aunt Ruth’s house was a wonderful place. Jamie’s favorite thing in it was the curio cabinet in the living room. Sitting on the shelves were dolls that Aunt Ruth had collected since she was a little girl. They were all beautiful and different. On the top shelf was her most prized possession, a doll dressed in a white sailor suit. He had a china head, and his face was hand painted. With a friendly smile, he seemed to watch you wherever you were in the room. His name was Buddy, and Aunt Ruth’s own aunt had given him to her when she was eight years old. He was the beginning of her collection. All the dolls were special to her, but the most special was Buddy.
“Come in and have a cookie. I just took them out of the oven,” Aunt Ruth said.
“Jamie and I finished the birdhouse. Where do you want us to hang it?” Uncle Ed asked.
“Well, let me see. How about the elm tree?”
“Sounds good to me. Jamie and I will hang it up as soon as the paint has had time to dry. OK, Jamie?”
“Yes,” Jamie answered, crunching her cookie. “Sounds good to me too. Guess what? My birthday is on Thursday, and I’m getting baptized in my church on Saturday. Will you come to the baptism? My grandparents can’t come, and I’d love you to be there. Please?”
“We’d love to, Jamie,” Uncle Ed said. “We don’t go to church much. We really don’t belong to any church. Do you think it will be all right?”
“Of course,” Jamie responded. “It’s my special day. Mom said I could invite anyone I wanted, and I want you.”
Aunt Ruth smiled. “We’re honored, and we’ll be there. I’ll talk to your mother.”
Later, Jamie and Uncle Ed hung the birdhouse high in the elm tree.
The morning of Jamie’s birthday the sun shone brightly. Jamie hurried and dressed and ran downstairs. Everyone was waiting for her. Mom and Dad, her brothers—Mike and Tommy—and her sister, Christine.
“Happy birthday!” they yelled.
When she opened her presents, there were some clothes, a necklace from Christine, and a game from the boys. Grandma and Grandpa Ellis had sent her a set of scriptures with her name on the front in gold. Inside, Grandma had written a note:
Dear Jamie,
We are sorry that we can’t be with you on your special birthday. We are very proud of you and know that you will be a wonderful member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Remember, the scriptures will be one of your most prized possessions. Read them often.
We love you,
Grandma and Grandpa
Jamie smiled when she read the note. That afternoon after school, Jamie put away her presents and thought about Saturday. It was going to be even more exciting than today. Her aunt and uncle and cousins would be there. Bishop Davis and her Primary teacher, Sister Naylor, would be there, too, with her CTR A class. And, of course, Uncle Ed and Aunt Ruth were coming.
Jamie went downstairs where Christine was setting the table for her birthday dinner. The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!” Mike hollered.
It was Uncle Ed and Aunt Ruth. “We won’t stay long. We know it’s your dinnertime. We have a present for Jamie.” Aunt Ruth handed Jamie a large white box tied with a big pink bow.
“Ruthie’s been more excited about this than Jamie will be, I think,” Uncle Ed said.
Jamie untied the ribbon and carefully lifted off the lid.
“Hurry up!” Tommy squealed.
“I’m hurrying as fast as I can!” Jamie carefully took out several pieces of tissue paper. Nestled in the middle of the layers of tissue paper was Buddy, Aunt Ruth’s prized doll. “Oh, Aunt Ruth,” cried Jamie, “thank you, thank you!”
“You’re welcome, Jamie. I got Buddy when I was eight years old, and since there are no little girls in my family, I want you to have him. He’s my most prized possession—next to Uncle Ed,” Aunt Ruth said with a chuckle.
“Aunt Ruth, I promise I’ll take good care of him. Oh, this is the best birthday ever!”
Uncle Ed and Aunt Ruth were invited to stay for dinner and for birthday cake, which made Jamie very happy. When they went home, she went upstairs to get ready for bed. She put Buddy on the shelf above her dresser, right next to her scriptures. My two prized possessions, she thought. As she lay in bed, the moonlight shone brightly through the window. She could see Buddy smiling at her. Then she noticed the light on her scriptures. The best idea popped into her head! She fell asleep wondering why she hadn’t thought of it before.
The next morning Jamie was up and dressed early. She ran downstairs with something in her hand. “I have to see Uncle Ed and Aunt Ruth,” she told Mom. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Aunt Ruth was surprised to see Jamie so early in the morning.
“Aunt Ruth, last night you gave me one of your most prized possessions,” Jamie said. “This is one of mine.” Jamie handed Aunt Ruth the copy of the Book of Mormon she had received from Primary. “Please read it and then talk to my mom and dad about it. They can tell you how you can keep another one of your prized possessions—Uncle Ed—forever.” Jamie hurried down the walk, calling back, “See you at my baptism.”
Saturday afternoon Jamie and her parents waited anxiously at the church until they saw Uncle Ed and Aunt Ruth come through the door.
“Hello, Jamie,” they said, giving her a hug. “We read your book all day yesterday and most of the night, and we’d like to talk to you and your folks about it soon.”
“We’d be very happy to talk to you about it,” Jamie’s dad said as he welcomed them.
“Your little Jamie’s quite a missionary,” said Uncle Ed.
After the baptism, Dad confirmed Jamie a member of the Church and gave her the gift of the Holy Ghost. A warm feeling came over her, and she knew that she had just received the most prized possession of all.

I realized that our special communication had vanished, but I was still shocked one day to open my mail and find a wedding announcement from Emily. Even more surprising was the absence of the word temple in the announcement.
I rushed home that weekend and headed straight for Emily’s. There we talked—talked in the almost forgotten way we had that eternal year ago. She had only known Ted two months, but he was the most handsome, intelligent, popular guy on campus. They would both finish college, and then Ted would go on to dental school. His folks had already agreed to help them with expenses, so that would be no problem. After he graduated, Emily joked, all they would have to do is sit around and rake up the money.
Once again I had begun to feel close to Emily, when suddenly, I heard myself wondering out loud why there had been no mention of the temple on her announcement. “Well, we can’t,” she said, her flippant attitude not quite covering the concern I sensed. “Ted’s a Baptist in the first place, and besides, we want to be married in his parents’ ski lodge and write our own ceremony. A wedding should be really personal and meaningful, not just the same words for everyone. Ted will join the Church someday. But even if he doesn’t, my dad’s not a member and it hasn’t stopped my mother from being active. It won’t stop me either.”
By the time Emily was through with her well-practiced little spiel, her defiance had built a wall between us once again. What could I say? After a few moments of fumbling chatter to try to ease the discomfort, I said goodbye.
Three weeks later I attended Ted and Emily’s ski lodge wedding. Contrary to my expectations, it was a very striking event—though not religious in any way. They both read poetry to each other for the ceremony, while a flute played lightly in the background. After there was dancing, with punch for us Mormons and champagne for the others. Ted’s parents were super rich, I could tell, and they had just about planned the whole wedding. They were deliriously happy with their new daughter-in-law (and probably a little from the champagne, too). But I noticed Emily’s mom had really red and swollen eyes—like she’d been crying a lot. Mothers are that way—especially when it’s their only child.
Surprisingly enough, Emily did stay active in the Church. With all her school work and married duties, she attended her meetings faithfully and also served as the assistant librarian. She and Ted lived in an apartment in our ward and I saw her quite often. She always gave me glowing reports of marriage and told how great Ted was to her. “What a life,” I thought.
Six months later Karen married a returned missionary who was just completing his master’s degree in education. They were married in the Logan Temple, so I couldn’t go, of course. But I did attend the reception in our cultural hall, and it was really beautiful. After the wedding Karen and David honeymooned on their way to California, where he would teach in a junior college. Not exactly raking in the money, but they seemed very happy, and I had a sense of well-being just talking to them.
Well, that left me—21 and the old maid of the gleesome threesome. I had never dated quite as much as blonde, beauty-queen Emily or smart, vivacious Karen, but I never thought it would come to this. I sometimes felt that Karen and Emily had married rather young and was sure I wasn’t of old maid vintage yet. But then, a lot of my other friends were getting married too, and I began wondering, “Am I right and the rest of the world wrong?” Relatively speaking, I was panicked.
Just after Karen’s wedding I started going with Allen Johnson. He was great! Really everything I’d ever wanted—kind, intelligent, a great conversationalist—and he liked to do really fun things for dates, like candlelight dinners in the canyon and roller skating downtown after the stores were closed. Only one problem—Allen was not a member of the Church. I had never really intended to start dating him, but he kept insisting and was so cute about it, I couldn’t resist.
We’d been dating off and on for nearly a year when, out of the blue, he popped the big question. “I love you,” he said. “I want you to be my wife.” I gave him a flat no at first and explained, as I had many times before, about my religious beliefs. He told me to think about it.
Believe me, when you’re twenty-two and haven’t even had another offer, and you’ve never enjoyed being with anyone so much in your life, and your two best friends have been married over a year and are both expecting babies, and one of them is married to a nonmember and couldn’t be happier, I tell you, you think about it. And I thought about it some more.
I kept seeing Emily now, coming to church radiant and excited about everything she was doing. “No problems at all,” she would say. “He’s really very liberal. ‘You go to your church and I’ll go to mine.’ Only he doesn’t even go to his.” But in the back of my mind I could also see Emily when we were younger: praying her nonmember dad would baptize her, wondering if her dad would take her to the Primary daddy-daughter party, trying to pretend it didn’t matter when he went golfing instead of coming to her seminary graduation. But then childhood is such a small part of life. What difference does it really make in the long run? And so I continued to think about Allen.
Karen and Emily, still doing things together, had baby girls within a week of each other. I took a pink dress to Emily’s little Julie and absolutely fell in love with her. Karen’s mother told me in church one day that Karen, David, and their little Melissa would be coming in March to show off the baby and get her blessed where Grandpa and all three of Karen’s adoring older brothers could stand in the circle.
Then came the first Sunday in March. I’ll never forget that day. Just after Sunday School Bishop Edwards asked me if I could come to his office an hour before fast meeting for a little talk. Well, I know the bishop doesn’t just call people in for a little talk for no reason. I wondered what I had done—or what I was going to do. But I did tell him I would be there.
At three o’clock I found myself stepping on the rich blue carpeting of the bishop’s office and then staring into the eyes of a man who, it seemed, instantly knew everything about me. I had known Bishop Edwards for a long time. He had been my Sunday School teacher when I was in junior high school and had been bishop now for a couple of years. I hadn’t known him as a bishop too well since I spent many Sundays in my student branch at school. But now, as I looked at him, I knew what a wonderful man he was and the great power he represented.
After a few minutes of small talk about school, family, and whatever, he got to the point of this meeting. “Today as I looked over the congregation, my eyes rested on you,” he said intensely, “and as clearly as we have been speaking to each other, a voice said to me, ‘That girl needs to go on a mission.’” I was stunned! That was the last thing I expected him to say. Me? On a mission? His voice interrupted my thoughts.
“I can see by your expression that you didn’t receive the same inspiration. It must come as quite a surprise. But it’s something you don’t have to decide right now. You think about it and be sure to include your parents and the Lord in your decision. Just let me know when you’ve found your answer.”
A few moments later I walked out of the door, and the fluorescent lighting of the hall hit me with the reality of the situation. I figured in two years I’d really be an old maid. But two years might give Allen time to join the Church on his own. It would give me a chance to find myself. And most important, it would be a chance to get closer to the Lord and serve his children more than I had ever done, I found an empty room and knelt in prayer, asking my Heavenly Father to help me make the right decision. When I stood, I felt a certain calm, even though I still didn’t feel that I had a positive answer.
As I made my way down the stairs and into the chapel, I met Emily and her baby in the foyer. It was her first time back to church since Julie’s birth. We talked for a minute and then entered the chapel. Emily and her mother sat in the row in front of me, and just before the meeting, Emily leaned back guiltily and whispered to me, “I forgot this was fast Sunday until I looked at the program. We just finished eating a turkey dinner at Ted’s, so I guess I’ll have to fast twice next month.” I smiled and just then my stomach growled uncomfortably, testifying to the fact that I had remembered.
Through the rows of heads and shoulders that I saw from my position on the fourth row from the back, I caught a glimpse of Karen and the rest of her family taking up an entire center bench. I was glad that she had made it but sorry I’d missed her before the meeting. I’d have to hurry to the front after the closing prayer to talk to her.
After the songs and announcements were over and after we had taken the sacrament, Bishop Edwards stood behind the pulpit and said, “This afternoon we have a special treat. I know many of you have known Karen Evans since she was a little girl.” Emily looked back at me and winked knowingly, but then turned her head sharply forward as the bishop went on. “Well, this afternoon Karen, now Karen Sanders, has brought her own little girl to receive a name and a blessing from her husband. Assisting in the circle will be her father and brothers.”
As I watched David take his little girl from Karen and carry her almost reverently to the front, I could see a side view of Emily. Tears were rapidly filling her deep blue eyes and streaming down her face onto Julie’s downy head. Her shoulders shook violently as she buried her head in her baby’s neck. Emily’s mother tenderly put her arm around her daughter’s throbbing shoulders, and I could see that she, too, was crying. Emily looked up, and I heard her gasp in a desperate whisper, “Oh Mama! Who is going to bless my baby?”
“I bless you, Melissa, with a sound mind and body,” I heard David Sanders say at the front of the room, “and that you will live a righteous life, that when the time comes, you will meet a choice son of our Father in heaven, one who honors his priesthood and who will take you to the temple of the Lord to be sealed to him for eternity.” Through the entire blessing and for the rest of the meeting, Julie’s baby shawl absorbed her tears.
And now, even though a year has passed, and even though the dark-haired women in this once strange country contrast vividly with blonde Emily, whenever my companion and I are out tracting, or we go to a branch meeting and I see a mother and baby alone, something grabs at my heart. For I keep seeing Emily.

Karl Bielefeldt, 14, of the Aqua Fria Ward, West Maricopa Stake, Arizona, doesn’t just study history—he lives it. He and a few friends spent half a year studying the Holocaust, then wrote and produced a ten-minute play about an individual in Italy who was responsible for saving many lives during that time.
The play won a number of competitions, giving Karl and his team a chance to compete in National History Day in Washington, D.C., where they placed eighth out of seventy-three entrants in their category.
Karl has also won awards for spelling and knowledge of science. He plays trombone in a jazz and an all-state band, and loves to work with computers. He still finds plenty of time to serve as a leader in his Scout troop and priesthood quorum.

The courage of a military leader was recorded by a young infantryman wearing the gray uniform of the Confederacy during America’s Civil War. He describes the influence of General J.E.B. Stuart in these words: “At a critical point in the battle, he leaped his horse over the breastworks near my company, and when he had reached a point about the center of the brigade, while the men were loudly cheering him, he waved his hand toward the enemy and shouted, ‘Forward men. Forward! Just follow me!’
“The men were wild with enthusiasm. With courage and resolution, they poured over the breastworks after him like a raging torrent, and the objective was seized and held” (Emory M. Thomas, Bold Dragoon: The Life of J.E.B. Stuart, New York: Harper and Row, 1986).

Some years ago, Zulma—my wife, my better half, my best part—received some difficult news just two weeks before the wedding of one of our children. She had a tumor in her parotid gland, and it was growing rapidly. Her face began swelling, and she was to immediately undergo a delicate operation. Many thoughts ran through her mind and weighed on her heart. Was the tumor malignant? How would her body recover? Would her face become paralyzed? How intense would the pain be? Would her face be permanently scarred? Would the tumor return once removed? Would she be able to attend the wedding of our son? As she lay in the operating room, she felt broken.
In that very important moment, the Spirit whispered to her that she had to accept the will of the Father. She then decided to place her trust in God. She strongly felt that whatever the result, His will would be the best for her. Soon she drifted into surgical sleep.
Later, she wrote poetically in her diary: “On the surgeon’s table I bowed before Thee, and surrendering to Thy will, I fell asleep. I knew I could trust Thee, knowing that nothing bad can come from Thee.”
She found strength and comfort from surrendering her will to that of the Father. That day, God blessed her greatly.

At Philadelphia, Elder John E. Page lost the spirit of the mission and Orson continued on to Jerusalem alone. During his travels Orson met many notable personalities, some of whom were amazed at and interested in his mission. He enjoyed his travels through Europe and while waiting for his visa in Munich, learned to write and speak German.
Tired and weary after several months’ travel of nearly 10,000 miles, Orson’s enthusiasm was revitalized as he finally arrived at the sacred city of Jerusalem. Here he carefully walked along a dark, narrow street, avoiding the heavily loaded camels that traveled toward him. In the early morning hour he passed through the ancient gate in the old decayed wall near the brook, Kidron. As Orson crossed over the small brook and climbed up the gentle slope of the hill, bright rays of sunshine encompassed the Mount of Olives. It was a magnificent sight as he gazed upon the surrounding countryside from the top of the mount.
There, alone, on Sunday, October 24, 1841, Orson wrote and offered the prayer dedicating Palestine for the return of the Jews and for the building of a temple in the future. For the first time in 1,800 years, an apostle stood again on the Mount of Olives. After his prayer Orson Hyde built two stone altars patterned after those of ancient Israel for memorials. The first memorial was on the Mount of Olives and the second on Mt. Moriah.

It was then that I moved to Kinshasa to commence my studies in law. Once I arrived in 2007, I enrolled at the University of Kinshasa. In my first year in 2008, we experienced a total strike at the University of Kinshasa. During the strike, I left the neighborhood where I lived to go to the commune of Masina to stay with my older brother.
And once in Masina, during the strike, I discovered The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the neighborhood where I lived with my older brother.
I made the decision to go to a meetinghouse of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on a Sunday. When I arrived at the building, a brother greeted me at the door and invited me to come inside. I then participated in the Sunday service and afterwards I was placed in contact with the full-time missionaries.
I took the missionary lessons for two weeks. After being taught, I had a strong desire to be baptized.
However, this was the beginning of strong opposition from within my family and my older brother who was like a guardian to me. He told the village to inform everyone that I wanted to become a member, that it is a bad church, and that no one should support me or contribute money to support my academic studies.
Consequently, I dropped out of law school and began preparing for a full-time mission. Thanks to Bishop Mutambay’s advice and direction, I remained a member of the Church despite opposition and began preparing for my full-time mission. I served in the Lubumbashi DR Congo from June 2013 to June 2015.
After serving as a full-time missionary, I came home and was fortunate to find the Church’s inspired Perpetual Education Fund program which allowed me to achieve my goals in completing my law studies through this program instituted by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008).
Today, I am a lawyer. My wife, Mireille, and I are parents of four children: Ross Power Kongo Kongo, Ron Cross Kongo Munemeka, Blacke Prestones Kongo Ibula, and Brian Lesser Congo. I accepted adversity by relying on my faith without knowing what was going to happen to me when I was abandoned for having chosen the restored Church.
I know that God is our Heavenly Father and despite difficulties and opposition He is there to help us. I will never be disappointed with the path I took and my decision to join His church.
I know this was the best decision I ever made. I will be forever grateful. Joseph Smith is the prophet of the Restoration, and I am grateful to be in the Church of Jesus Christ.

Natalie dipped her brush into the orange paint and put the finishing touches on her newest picture. Orange swirled together with red, yellow, pink, and lavender watercolors to form a sunset behind majestic mountains.
“There! I’m finally finished,” she announced as she placed the painting on the kitchen counter to dry.
“It’s beautiful, Natalie,” Mom said as she admired the painting. “No wonder you won the school art contest again this year.”
Just then, Jared, Natalie’s nine-year-old brother, zipped through the kitchen. “Bye! I’m going to practice for the big race!” he yelled as the screen door slammed shut. In the next instant, he was in the kitchen again. “Hey, Natalie! You’re still going to paint my go-cart for me, right?”
“Sure, Jared. I’ll do it after lunch. You’ll be back by then, won’t you?”
“I’ll make sure I am!”
In the meantime, I’ll go try out my new bike tires, Natalie thought. Jared had put new tires on her bicycle, and in return, Natalie had agreed to paint bright red flames on the sides of his go-cart for the race on Monday afternoon.
As she started to pedal down the street, she heard her friend Nicole calling her. “Natalie, my parents are taking me to the amusement park today, and they said I could bring a friend. Would you like to come?”
“I’d love to!” Natalie squealed. Then she remembered Jared. “Wait—I can’t go. I promised Jared I’d paint his go-cart for the race on Monday. Tomorrow is Sunday, so I can’t do it then.”
“We can wait a couple of hours for you if you want to paint it now.”
“Jared has it with him. He’s practicing for the race and won’t be back until after lunch,” Natalie said sadly.
“Well, it will go just as fast without paint as with paint,” Nicole pointed out. “Your painting it isn’t going to help him win the race.”
Natalie thought, That makes sense. Besides, does he expect me to wait around all day for him? “OK, I’ll go!” she told Nicole. “Mom’s gone to the store, so I’ll tell Dad. We can go right away!”
At the amusement park, smells of food filled the air, and clowns carried bouquets of bright red balloons. The girls went on every ride, but for some reason, Natalie wasn’t having much fun. Even when she rode the carousel, her favorite ride, she didn’t enjoy herself. As she sat on a beautiful white horse with sparkling jewels in its trappings, all she could think about was how disappointed Jared was going to be when he found out she had broken her promise.
That evening, Natalie dreaded going home. She opened the door as quietly as she could, hoping nobody would hear her come in. But Mom was sitting on the couch. “Did you have a good time?” she asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Natalie answered halfheartedly. “Where’s Jared? I really need to talk to him.”
“He and Dad are out practicing for the race. They’ll be home late,” Mom said with an “I’m disappointed in you, but I’m not going to say anything” tone of voice. “You’ll have to wait until morning.”
On Sunday morning, Jared didn’t mention the go-cart, but Natalie could tell he was hurt. She was glad when it was finally time to go to church.
After a prayer, her Primary teacher, Sister Parker, began to explain the lesson. “Today we are going to talk about covenants. A covenant is a promise, or an agreement, between two people.”
Natalie slumped in her seat.
“As long as one of them keeps the agreement,” Sister Parker continued, “the other is also bound to do what he or she has promised.”
Just like the deal I made with Jared. Natalie squirmed in her chair.
“We all make covenants when we are baptized. We promise to take upon us the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ. This means we are willing to live as he would have us live.”
Jesus would not have wanted me to break my promise to Jared, thought Natalie.
“We also promise to always remember him and keep his commandments. In return, he promises to send his Spirit to always be with us. The sacrament is a time for us to remember what the Savior has done for us and to renew our baptismal covenants.”
During the sacrament, she thought about what Sister Parker had taught in Primary. She listened carefully to the sacrament prayers. She remembered Jesus and how he had suffered and died for her. Then she thought about the covenants she had made at baptism. “Heavenly Father, I promise to do better,” she prayed silently.
On the way home, she apologized to Jared. “I’m really sorry I didn’t paint your go-cart. How can I make it up to you?”
“It’s OK, Natalie. I can still race. Don’t worry about it.”
But Natalie did worry about it. She wanted to make things right. After praying again, she knew what she would do.
Monday morning, Jared was astonished. When he went to get his go-cart, it had been painted a sleek black, and bright red flames raced along the sides. He ran into the house. “Hey, Natalie!” he shouted.
“Shhh!” Mom said with her finger to her lips. “I’m going to let her sleep for a while longer.”
“Did you see it?” Jared asked, barely able to hold still long enough to hear the answer.
“Yes, I did. It looks great! She got up at three o’clock this morning to paint it for you.”
The time for the race finally came. Friends and families crowded along the course, waiting for the go-carts to come racing down the hill. Natalie waved to Jared as he slipped into the red and black go-cart. “Good luck, Jared!”
As he waved back he had a huge, happy grin on his face. Natalie’s grin was just as huge and happy.

Our companionship did not end with the 10-month assignment. World War II was raging, and when I returned home I had only a short time to adjust before I was drafted into military service. On my first Sunday in boot camp, I attended an LDS service. I saw the back of a head that was very familiar to me. It was my first missionary companion. We spent most of the next two and a half years together. Although circumstances were very different for us in military service, we tried to continue the practices of missionary service. As often as we could, we prayed together. When circumstances allowed, we had scripture study together. I recall many companion study sessions under the light of a Coleman lantern in a shrapnel-scarred tent. Several times our reading of the scriptures was interrupted by the sound of an air raid siren. We would quickly turn off our lantern, then kneel together and close our study class with a prayer.
We were both set apart as group leaders, and we again had the opportunity to serve and teach together the glorious gospel of our Lord and Savior. We were more successful in the military than we had been as full-time missionaries. Why? Because we were experienced returned missionaries.

Last year, I attended a play at Brigham Young University in Provo called “Handing Down the Names” by Steven Dietz. While the characters were fictional, the play was a family story, based on historical facts. The play begins with a woman named Irina living in Colorado in the 1940s. She introduces the play by saying that each family has a history but the beginning is difficult to find. She takes off her wedding ring and places it on the table.

The play then steps back in time almost 200 years as we see a young widow named Ruth Dorn in Germany. She picks up the wedding ring, saying that it belonged to her husband, Henry. He had just been killed in a war. His brother then arrives for the funeral. Ruth is expecting her first child, and the brother offers to marry her so the child can have a name and family. The young family decides to travel to Russia to colonize an area along the Volga River. The mother dies during the journey, and the father cares for the child, eking out an existence in the harsh land. Even though that baby daughter is not his biological child, she gives his life a purpose.

The play then shifts to the early 1900s, showing descendants of the Dorn family leaving their home along the Volga River to come to America. Unfortunately, the mother dies on board ship, but the father carries on with his three adult children. Upon arriving at Ellis Island, one of the daughters, Katie, is found to have an eye infection. She is sent back to Russia, while the rest of the family helplessly watch her go. They move to Colorado where they work hard to raise enough money for Katie and her husband to join them. They pray constantly that their family can be reunited. One year follows the next and they cannot understand why Katie’s family does not come. We find out later that Katie never received the money or the letters due to political interference.

Katie eventually has a son named Adam. Before she dies, she tells him to do whatever he can to go to America and join her family. Just as World War II is starting in Europe, Adam finds someone who offers to help him leave Russia and go to America. However, as he enters Hamburg, Germany, preparing to board the ship for his journey across the Atlantic, he is seized and conscripted into the German Army.

He is captured and sent to America as a prisoner of war. Ironically, or maybe providentially, his imprisonment is in the same area of northern Colorado where his now deceased grandfather and uncle had lived. The prisoners are forced to work for farmers in the area, and that is where he meets Irina, a young woman whose father was also from the German colonies along the Volga River. He recognizes that she is one of his own people. After the war, he is sent back to Germany, but later manages to return to Irina in Colorado, bringing the wedding ring that had been handed down for many generations. Ruth Dorn, from 200 years earlier, then enters the stage, saying, “He farms now, on land where he’d been held prisoner. She wears a ring that I wore, nearly two hundred years ago. And their son, Henry, wears a name that belonged to my husband. A name seven generations in the making.”[3]

This family story touched me because it showed how the individuals who lived in the twentieth century were profoundly influenced by their family members from previous generations. You may not realize it, but your life and situation have come about in part because of the decisions made by your ancestors. The playwright Steven Dietz stated, “We can look back . . . because they chose to look forward.”[4]

Their marriage was hopeless, they told me. And now they were in the final stages of preparing for divorce.
They had received marriage counseling elsewhere. But it was of a purely secular nature, and their relationship was getting worse, not better. Instead of humbling themselves and changing their behavior, they had been focusing on trivial techniques—such as liking themselves better and becoming more self-assertive—which only further justified them in their destructive behavior.
These were good people. But they had become caught up in the behavior and attitudes of a competitive world—where forcing, criticizing, controlling, and commanding are often promoted as the way to gain influence. They were blaming one another for their problems and were trying to punish and intimidate each other into changing.
I was frank with them. I tried to help them see how self-righteous they were being and how accusing their hearts were. I explained that our problems as individuals and as couples are primarily spiritual—and that these problems begin when we fail to apply gospel principles. And I told them that since we have no direct control over the behavior of our partners, we need to focus on our own hearts.
After our first visit, this couple went to the temple together. In the celestial room, each quietly prayed that our Father in Heaven would reveal to them individually what they, themselves—not their partner—had been doing wrong. In his mercy, God opened the floodgates and gave them their answers. The revelation they received humbled them and softened their hearts. Since they hadn’t attended the temple for some time, even though they lived close by, they were amazed at how freely and clearly the answers came to them and how merciful our Heavenly Father really is.
Now they could start making progress. They began to shift their focus away from blaming each other and toward their own need for repentance. They began to see that striking back at each other is the world’s way—not the Lord’s. They recognized they had not read their scriptures or genuinely prayed on a regular basis—and now they could see that these were manifestations of pride.
Their hearts were broken over the fact that they were both so self-preoccupied and self-serving and that their conflicting self-interests were destroying any possibility for oneness. And they realized that their examples were adversely affecting their children.
It was thrilling to watch this couple humble themselves and find again the love they thought they had lost.

Elder Russell M. Nelson illustrated this point. He said: “I was serving as a consultant to the United States government at its National Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia. Once while awaiting a taxi to take me to the airport after our meetings were over, I stretched out on the lawn to soak in a few welcome rays of sunshine before returning to the winter weather of Utah. … Later I received a photograph in the mail taken by a photographer with a telephoto lens, capturing my moment of relaxation on the lawn. Under it was a caption, ‘Governmental consultant at the National Center.’ The picture was true, the caption was true, but the truth was used to promote a false impression.”17 We do not discard something we know to be true because of something we do not yet understand.

One of my best friends in high school was a young man named Paul. Often after a basketball game he would have a beer or two, sometimes a six-pack, while I would have a shake or soft drink. “Some 3.2 beer can never hurt you,” he would rationalize. Then one night after a beer or two he hit a gas pump in his sports car in North Salt Lake going 115 miles per hour. It took the police twenty minutes to put him in a sack. That’s what we call a closed-casket funeral.

His military obligation fulfilled, Hal enrolled in the Harvard Graduate School of Business, where he earned a master’s degree in 1959 and a doctorate degree in 1963, both in business administration. Though he had the intellect to succeed in a career in science, Hal found that his passion lay in teaching, lifting, and strengthening others.
While attending Harvard during the summer of 1961, Hal met Kathleen Johnson, the daughter of J. Cyril and LaPrele Lindsay Johnson, of Palo Alto, California. She was attending summer school in Boston, and Hal was smitten the first time he saw her. He felt an immediate desire to do his best when he was in her presence—a feeling that has continued throughout their lives together.
They dated that summer and continued their courtship through phone calls and letters after Kathleen returned to California. They were married in July 1962 in the Logan Utah Temple by Elder Spencer W. Kimball. That same year Hal became an assistant professor at the Stanford Graduate School of Business.

One hot summer day, Reesey and Cheyenne invited Zara over to play. Mum made a snack. The girls sat at the table to eat.
Mum sliced mangoes from their mango tree. She put apple slices and grapes on a plate. Reesey looked at the delicious food. She remembered to say a prayer before eating her snack. She asked Zara, “Do you pray at your house?”
“What’s that?” Zara asked.
“Like this,” said Cheyenne. She folded her arms and bowed her head. She asked a blessing on the food. When she was done, she said, “See? Like that. Easy!”
“We don’t do that at our house. We just eat,” said Zara.
Reesey had never thought about not praying. “Mum,” she said, “do we have to say prayers?”
Mum smiled as she carried cups of ice water to the table. “We like thanking Heavenly Father for what He has given us. We’re going to keep saying prayers. But it’s OK if other people don’t.”
Reesey knew Mum was right. She was happy when her family prayed. Maybe praying would make Zara happy too. “You could try it,” she said to Zara.
Zara smiled. “Maybe I will,” she said and ate a slice of mango.
“I like it when we pray,” said Cheyenne.“It makes me feel happy inside.”
Reesey and Cheyenne were happy they could tell their friend about praying. They all finished their snacks and ran back outside to play.