Gospel Story Finder

After completing my degree at BYU-Provo my wife and I moved to Pullman, Washington to pursue a Ph.D. From the first day in my graduate program at WSU, it was obvious that I was the only LDS among both graduate students and faculty. The habits and life style of my colleagues and instructors were not consistent with mine, which led to a confrontation between myself and one of the faculty members. In my graduate program there was a tradition called the "Friday night seminar", where the graduate students and the faculty met in a social setting to visit and "rub shoulders" with each other. It was a time that the students could get to know the faculty more as individuals and visa versa. The seminar would begin on Friday afternoon, after the last class of the week, around 5 p.m. and was held at a local tavern, or bar where alcoholic drinks were served. All graduate students were expected to attend. I didn't. Of course the obvious reason for not attending was my adherence to the word of wisdom. The not so obvious reason was I had been taught by my parents and leaders to "avoid the appearance of sin" in every way.

After the first month or so, one of the professors approached me and after some light conversation he stated, "Steve, I haven't seen you at the Friday night seminars. Why?"

I explained that I was just getting into the program and that I was struggling with the rigor of the graduate courses, which required me to spend a lot of time at school in studies and classes. Each day of the week usually began about 5 a.m. and ended around 10 or 11 p.m. which didn't allow me to see my family very much. On Friday, I would put down my studies at 5 p.m. and go home and be with my family. The faculty member then suggested, "Well, you know that it's real important that you get to know the faculty and that we get to know you. We are here to help you in your studies and we can help you more if we know more about you, and the best place for us to get to know you is at the Friday night seminars."

I expressed my appreciation to this faculty member for his concern and willingness to help me. Then I explained that because of my religion that I didn't drink alcohol and didn't frequent taverns or bars because of the example it might set for my four young children. His response was quick and sharp, ""Well it's just as important that you do attend. If you don't start attending the seminar on Friday night, you can kiss your Ph.D. degree goodbye. I will make sure you do not get your degree here."

I thanked him for his opinion and told him that he had to do what he felt he had to do, but I had to do what I knew was right. I would not be attending the Friday night seminars. To shortened the story, I did not attend the seminars, and through the intervention of the Lord with one miracle after another, I did complete my degree within four years -- almost 1 to 2 years earlier than most of the graduate students. One graduate student that I had become friends with came into my office after the first year and announced that he was going to have to drop out of the program. I asked him why. He stated that he had become an alcoholic, that he had become a slave to alcohol. He said the problem first started with the social drinking of the Friday night seminars, and then the social drinking turned to more frequent drinking until he could not control it. He was not the first to fall to the Goliath of disobedience.

I saw the results of another great teacher while serving as the president of a single adult stake at BYU–Idaho. That experience changed my life. On one particular Tuesday evening, I interviewed a young man named Pablo, from Mexico City, who wanted to serve a mission. I asked him about his testimony and his desire to serve. His answers to my questions were perfect. Then I asked about his worthiness. His answers were exact. In fact, they were so good, I wondered, “Maybe he doesn’t understand what I’m asking him.” So I rephrased the questions and determined that he knew exactly what I meant and was completely honest.

I was so impressed with this young man that I asked him, “Pablo, who was it that helped you come to this point in your life standing so uprightly before the Lord?”

He said, “My dad.”

I said, “Pablo, tell me your story.”

Pablo continued: “When I was nine, my dad took me aside and said, ‘Pablo, I was nine once too. Here are some things you may come across. You’ll see people cheating in school. You might be around people who swear. You’ll probably have days when you don’t want to go to church. Now, when these things happen—or anything else that troubles you—I want you to come and talk to me, and I’ll help you get through them. And then I’ll tell you what comes next.’”

“So, Pablo, what did he tell you when you were 10?”

“Well, he warned me about pornography and dirty jokes.”

“What about when you were 11?” I asked.

“He cautioned me about things that could be addictive and reminded me about using my agency.”

Here was a father, year after year, “line upon line; here a little, and there a little,” who helped his son not only hear but also understand. Pablo’s father knew our children learn when they are ready to learn, not just when we are ready to teach them. I was proud of Pablo when we submitted his missionary application that night, but I was even prouder of Pablo’s dad.

I wanted to read the Bible from the time I was about 11 years old. But in the home where I was raised, the Bible was considered so sacred it was kept in a closet under lock and key. When I was 13 and my brother was 12, we went to live in the beautiful country of Canada. Between the ages of 16 and 20, I attended two Christian churches. They used the Bible to teach correct principles, but as I was investigating, I learned something about the members—that they didn’t get along with each other very well. I stopped going to these churches for three years.
When I was 23, I met a young man at a discotheque. A few months later I married him, and shortly afterwards we had our first baby. Everything was going well in our home. He worked hard, always came home from work early, and helped me with the housework. I was very happy and peaceful in my home, and I completely forgot about God.
But without any warning, one day my husband started going out to discotheques with his friends. These friends also wanted to go to bars. So in just a few months my husband had become a drunk and a carouser. Eventually I resigned from my job and left him. Soon after our separation I learned that I was expecting my second child. I felt so sad and distressed I couldn’t find peace. I would go to sleep crying and wake up crying. But thanks to a woman who was a great friend to me, I started attending a Christian church again.
This time I took the things of God more seriously. I even set a goal to investigate more churches. Before I would go to church, I would kneel down and ask Heavenly Father to give me more wisdom so that I would be able to choose good and reject evil.
I began to visit other churches in addition to the Christian church I attended, but I often felt confused by their different doctrines. The more confused I got, the more I prayed. It seemed that every time I visited a church, I felt something was missing, but I didn’t realize what it was. That’s why I set a goal to keep investigating other churches and not rest until I found the truth.
One day I was visiting my brother and sister-in-law, and it got dark before I left. I had quite a distance to walk to reach the bus stop. This was March 1992, and it was very cold with a strong wind. My baby was squirming as I carried him. I walked backwards many times so the wind would hit me and not my baby.
I became sad as I thought about how I was freezing, walking with my baby, while my ex-husband had our car. I started thinking about how cruel life had been to me and felt a great weight in my heart. I started to cry like a child. I looked around and saw I was alone, so I cried to God out loud, “Heavenly Father, help me find the light.”
Finally I arrived at the bus stop, and when the bus came I sat in the front seat as I always did. When I looked to my left, I saw two young men in white shirts and ties. One of them came up to me and said to me in Spanish that was quite limited, “You too speak Spanish?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
“You desire to receive the gospel of Jesus Christ?” he asked.
These words were wonderful to me. The gospel of Jesus Christ. I had investigated several churches, and in none of them had I heard this beautiful turn of phrase. I had always heard the word, the gospel, or the good news. So I very happily gave them my address and phone number.
I started taking the discussions from the missionaries, and in June 1992 I was baptized and confirmed. I will never forget that very special day. Before entering the waters of baptism I could feel a great weight, as if I were walking with feet of lead. But when I came out of the water, I felt like I was flying in the air. And when the missionaries placed their hands on my head and gave me the gift of the Holy Ghost, a warm feeling entered my body, and I was filled with a peace I had never felt before. The tears began to roll down my cheeks. To my surprise I realized I was crying not from pain or sadness but for the great joy and peace in my heart.
Some months after my baptism I was called to serve in the nursery and then as a Primary teacher. A year later I received my endowment. I also met a great man at church. In September 1994 we were sealed in the Toronto Canada Temple. Three years later we were blessed with a beautiful son.
I continue to serve in Church callings, and I share my testimony of the gospel with all my loved ones. I know that the gospel of Jesus Christ comes from the heavens in all its glory and that through this gospel we can be transformed if we are obedient to the Lord’s commandments.

A highlight of Boys Nation for me was meeting then president Dwight D. Eisenhower in the Rose Garden of the White House. He was one of the most impressive men I have ever met. His deportment and bearing, his piercing blue eyes, and his commanding manner of address made an indelible impression on me. Senator Wallace F. Bennett of Utah hosted the two of us who were representing Utah. He was gracious and kind and devoted considerable time to us. He introduced us to then senators John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson, as well as then vice president Richard M. Nixon, all of whom would be future presidents. The topic of civil rights was significant at that time. It was at Boys Nation that I was first introduced to the religious-based effort led by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. to achieve equality.

My admiration for President Eisenhower grew when a few months later, on September 23, 1957, he ordered the National Guard to support integration and protect the nine African American students who were attempting to integrate into Little Rock Central High School. The president’s action was in support of the Supreme Court’s decision of 1954, Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, requiring integration of public schools.

I was one of the 13. My dad was not ready for baptism at this time. The missionaries were still teaching him because he was not ready to let go of his family’s traditions. He was born a Baptist and he said he’d die a Baptist. Our mother said, “I’m going to wait for your dad.” So, she was not baptized with her children.

Well, my dad, died at the age of 98. He was buried fully clothed in the garment of the holy priesthood and his sacred temple clothing. He was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, May 31, 1979. He promised my mother he would marry her in the Temple. They were married and sealed in the Mesa Arizona Temple June 7, 1983.

My dad struggled with accepting the Book of Mormon because he had been taught all his life, that the Bible was the only true word of God.

As he continued to read the Book of Mormon for himself, through the power of the Holy Ghost, he came to know the Book of Mormon as another testament of Jesus Christ.

Because my dad continued to pray and study the Book of Mormon, the power of God strengthened him to overcome his family traditions and other personal challenges that held him bound from accepting the restored gospel.

Before long, Aulola reconnected with an acquaintance from her early days in Tonga: Brother Semisi Mounga Mateialona, a priesthood holder who had recently found himself single again, too. They bonded over shared experiences and their mutual love for the gospel of Jesus Christ, and Aulola knew in her heart that this was the man for her. The couple got married in New Zealand in 2019 and at the end of September 2022, they travelled to the Nuku’alofa Tonga Temple to be sealed to each other for time and all eternity.

Recently, I spoke with a Laurel from the United States. I quote from her email:
“This past year some of my friends on Facebook began posting their position on marriage. Many favored same-sex marriage, and several LDS youth indicated they ‘liked’ the postings. I made no comment.
“I decided to declare my belief in traditional marriage in a thoughtful way.
“With my profile picture, I added the caption ‘I believe in marriage between a man and a woman.’ Almost instantly I started receiving messages. ‘You are selfish.’ ‘You are judgmental.’ One compared me to a slave owner. And I received this post from a great friend who is a strong member of the Church: ‘You need to catch up with the times. Things are changing and so should you.’
“I did not fight back,” she said, “but I did not take my statement down.”
She concludes: “Sometimes, as President Monson said, ‘You have to stand alone.’ Hopefully as youth, we will stand together in being true to God and to the teachings of His living prophets.”

We have seen the manifestation of the Savior’s power in a widow who lost her husband while they were on the Lord’s errand in Bolivia. We have seen it in a young woman in Argentina who fell under a train and lost her leg, just because someone wanted to steal her cell phone. And in her single father, who now must pick up the pieces and strengthen his daughter after such an unexplainable act of cruelty. We have seen it in the families that lost their homes and every possession during fires in Chile just two days before Christmas in 2022. We have seen it in those who suffer after a traumatic divorce and in those who are innocent victims of abuse.
This is the kind of faith we saw when we visited the families after the fires in Chile. Their houses had been burned to the ground; they had lost everything. Yet as we were walking in what used to be their homes and they were telling us about their experiences, we felt that we were standing on holy ground. One sister said to my wife, “When I saw that nearby houses were burning, I had the impression that our house was going to be burned, that we were going to lose everything. Instead of desperation, I experienced a sense of indescribable peace. Somehow, I felt everything was going to be OK.” Trusting God and keeping our covenants with Him bring power to our weakness and comfort to our grief.

Early in my service as Church commissioner, I received a call from President Oaks, who invited me to be his companion speaker at an Ensign College devotional. I asked what he wanted me to speak about. He informed me that we would speak together, going back and forth at the podium discussing several difficult topics of the day, including race, prophetic infallibility, and gender.
Then he said, “I would like to make this authentic. So let’s not use a teleprompter. Let’s just go back and forth.”
Knowing the importance of following the prophet, I hesitantly said, “President Oaks, that will probably work for you. But for the sake of the Church, we may want to write out what I say.”
He compromised somewhere in the middle, and the title of that message was “Stand Fast with Love in Proclaiming Truth.”49 A year later, in a worldwide devotional, President Oaks would similarly counsel young adults to remember to teach truth with love.50

For a few, the tests are over. For some of the members of that ward, the tests ended early. I was reminded of one young man the other day. For me his face will always be young and bright with hope. He left our ward for a mission in Japan. Decades later I mentioned his name in a talk I gave to a group of Latter-day Saints in Tokyo. After the meeting a number of members came to me, their faces shining with the brightness that I remember in his face when he returned from his mission. They told that he was “their” missionary. If I understood their English, they said that he was the greatest missionary they had ever known.

I was released as the bishop when our family was asked to move to another state. I kept track of that missionary enough to know that he had graduated from college, applied to medical school, and been accepted. I did not know his plans for the summer before he began medical school, but I am sure that he looked forward with great anticipation to the years ahead.

A phone rang where we then lived, and I learned that he had been killed. He and friends had gone to climb a peak in the Wind River Range in the western United States. I was invited to speak at his funeral. I asked some of the young men who had been climbing with him, friends from our old ward family, to meet me at the chapel where the service would begin in a few minutes. We went to a room to be alone. After we had renewed our acquaintance, I asked if they would tell me something about our friend’s life. I think they knew why.

I wished to speak in the funeral about him and his life. They knew how much I had admired him. They also knew that I had not seen him nor spoken with him for a few years. They knew that I wanted to praise him but that the praise had to be true.

They told me this story: They had camped the night in preparation for the ascent to the peak. As they climbed, high on the face of the mountain, a storm came upon them. They could not see their way because of the clouds and the storm. Our friend had volunteered to go alone to find the path. He didn’t come back. They found later that he had fallen to his death, trying to save his friends.

Then, without my prompting with a question, they told me of more than his courage. They told me of where he had been on the trail of faith. They said that the night before the climb, while others had talked quietly and prepared for sleep, he had been studying his scriptures and his missionary lessons, in Japanese.

I suppose that in the time after his mission he had the trials and the temptations that are common to returning missionaries. The fact that he had applied to medical school makes it clear to me that he thought the tests of life stretched far ahead of him. Yet when life ended, he was ready. I think of him often. A stake president, who was his friend in youth, met me the other day in Virginia. I heard the same sound of love and awe in his voice that I heard from the members in Tokyo and from the fellow mountain climbers.

When such a life touches ours, we are never the same again. We want somehow to be as constant in our faith as he was. We want to know the way to endure whatever surprises life may give us, always ready with the power to pass the tests that come, always faithful, whatever the tests—to the end, whenever that may come.

Follow is another invitation. On the pioneer trek, Ethan G. gained a greater understanding of this word. “Sometimes I haven’t felt the best on trek, or I’ve felt kind of discouraged,” he admitted. “But I realize that the pioneers also felt that way.”
Ethan used to wonder why the early pioneers were willing to do what they did. He said, “I feel like I might have just given up. But as I’ve thought about that, I kind of realized that it’s because they loved the Savior, and they have a hope they can become better through Him. I want to try that too.”
Before Ethan went on the trek, he read about pioneers from the past, felt a connection with them, and was inspired by their faith to follow Jesus Christ. And what is Ethan doing now? He is preparing to receive a call to serve as a full-time missionary. True to President Monson’s counsel, he is getting ready to show others the way to follow.

I remember one night when a friend, Adam, and I couldn’t find dates, so we called up a young couple we knew and announced we wanted to give them a night out. We picked up their kids, took them to an animated movie and then for ice cream. The kids loved the movie and the ice cream. There was mint chocolate chip and rainbow sherbet everywhere. Before we dropped them off, we played Superman and twirled them around in circles until we were totally dizzy. The whole night was cool—cool-aid.

About a year after my husband and I were married, my youngest brother’s three daughters came to live with us. My husband’s youngest sister and a girlfriend of mine also asked if they could stay with us for a while, and since we didn’t have any children, we welcomed all of them. Suddenly we were no longer just a couple; we were a large family.
Prior to this time, my husband and I were not too serious about holding home evenings because it was just the two of us, but with the new additions to our family, we decided to implement the program earnestly in our home.
From our first family home evening together, our Mondays were never the same, nor will our lives be the same, because of those wonderful experiences. Our usually quiet home started to be filled with music. The children who couldn’t read started to learn and developed a love for it. Those who were shy and hesitant to accept assignments developed confidence and showed eagerness to contribute, even volunteering to do special presentations. There was excitement throughout the week as everyone talked about what we had done the previous Monday night and what we were going to do the next one. Excitement would build as Monday neared and as family members were busy making preparations for their “big surprises.”
The promise of an exciting home evening even became a motivation for all to do their assigned household chores. Each home evening brought insights and discoveries that enriched our lives.
My nieces have since returned to their father, my sister-in-law has moved out on her own, and my girlfriend now lives in a dorm close to the school she’s attending. We’re back to being just a couple again. But we are still having those fun-filled, meaningful home evenings. Sometimes we invite other families to join us, and other times we take pleasure in just getting to know each other better, working out our problems together, and expressing our appreciation for each other. Our themes and activities continue to be simple and focused on meeting our needs.

Juliano stood up to rest his back. Pulling weeds was hard work, but he knew that his family needed a good crop of potatoes. The ch’unu (freeze-dried potatoes) that they made from them would feed them all winter.
He could see his awquinaca (parents) at the other end of the field. They had finished their rows and were headed back home for dinner. Juliano finished his row and headed for the house too. When he got there, he stopped in surprise. Two men were talking to his parents. He could tell that they weren’t Aymara Indians. The tall one had blond hair. Both of the men wore white shirts. Because his parents couldn’t speak English or Spanish and strangers never spoke Aymara, he wondered how they could talk together.
As he drew closer, he could hear the strangers—and they were speaking Aymara! He wondered what they wanted with his parents, who were just humble yapur jake (farmers) living in a mud house.
Juliano sat down where the men wouldn’t notice him. They seemed to feel at home and sat on a rock when his parents sat down. The mud house was too small to invite anyone inside.
Ana, Juliano’s sister, was drawn to the blond hair of the tall man. When she touched his hair, he laughed.
Juliano soon learned that the men were missionaries from a new church—at least it was new to Patacamaya, a very small village so far into the altiplano, or high plain, of Bolivia that few strangers ever visited there.
The tall one held Ana on his lap while he talked. Juliano’s family listened politely. They had never heard a stranger speak their tongue. Soon Juliano noticed that this man was more than just speaking in their language. He was teaching his parents.
Juliano looked at his parents. They were carefully listening to everything that these men said. Juliano started to really listen too. They told of a book that was a history of their people from long ago. It told of a white god, Jesus Christ, and of how He had visited their ancestors.
He saw tears form in his mother’s eyes. She seemed to be excited and touched by what they taught.
After that, the missionaries came often. Juliano continued to sit in the shadows and listen, but he was still too shy to come any closer. His father asked many questions.
One night the tall blond man asked them if they were ready to be baptized. Juliano’s father said, “Yes,” and his mother eagerly agreed. Then the man turned to Juliano.
“Are you ready to be baptized?” the man asked.
“I’m only ten years old,” Juliano answered, surprised. “How can I know the truth?”
“You can know the same way that your parents do,” the missionary answered softly. “You can think about what we’ve taught you. You can read the Book of Mormon. Then you must pray and receive an answer for yourself.”
The other missionary spoke. “Your parents will soon be baptized. Ana is too young to be baptized, but you’re not. We would like you to be baptized with your parents. But you must seek and gain a testimony of your own.”
Juliano knew that his parents wanted him to be baptized. But he wanted to be sure for himself. He decided to do as the missionaries had told him. Every night he read the Book of Mormon to his parents, who had never learned to read. Juliano was glad that the Book of Mormon had been translated into Aymara. It made it easier for them all. After they read in it, they had family prayer.
One morning after doing his chores, Juliano took the Book of Mormon into the hills behind their home. He sat down next to the path, then read again Moroni’s promise: “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”*
“How can the Holy Ghost visit a young boy like me?” he asked himself after he read it. Then Juliano remembered a story that the blond man had told him from the Book of Mormon. The story was about a boy just his age when he learned that he was to be the future keeper of the gold plates. Quickly he searched through the scriptures. Yes, here it is! Juliano thought with satisfaction. The boy my age was Mormon! Maybe it doesn’t matter how old you are for the Holy Ghost to testify to you. Maybe it only matters how faithful you are!
Juliano knelt by the path and bowed his head. He prayed as the blond man had taught him. When he finished, he felt a peaceful feeling spread through him. Now I know that the Book of Mormon is true, he thought.
That Saturday night Juliano joined his family at a nearby jawira (river). The baptism was beautiful. As he came up out of the water, he felt especially clean. He had never felt closer to his family, and he had never felt closer to his Heavenly Father. He was glad that even a boy can know for sure that the Church is true.

For Scout camp this summer, we took our Scouts to Flaming Gorge. One day we rafted the Green River below Flaming Gorge Dam. They were letting extra water out of the dam, so the currents in the river were impressive. Each raft had a guide who told us how and when to stroke—“forward three,” “left four,” “back two.” We responded quickly with the required strokes. In this way the guide directed us to currents in the river in which we could enjoy the rapids as well as safety.

I was touched by the heartbreaking statement of a young missionary in Japan. He said, “I have been here for months. I can’t learn the language. I dislike the people. I am depressed by day and weep at night. I wanted to die. I wrote my mother and pleaded for an excuse to return home. I have her reply. She says: ‘We’re praying for you. There is not a day passes that all of us do not kneel together in the morning before we eat and in the evening before we retire and plead with the Lord for his blessing upon you. We have added fasting to our prayer, and when your younger brothers and sisters pray they say, “Heavenly Father, bless Johnny in Japan and help him to learn the language and do the work he was called to do.”’”
This young man then went on to say through his tears, “I will try again. I will add my prayers to theirs and my fasting to their fasting.”
Four months after hearing that he would try again, I received a letter from him in which he said, “a miracle has happened. The language has come to me as a gift from the Lord. I have learned to love the people in this beautiful land. God be thanked for the prayers of my family.”

Once upon a time there was a little Slobovian boy named Gorb who lived in a little boardinghouse with 10,000 Slobovians. Every morning all 10,001 of them were served the most nutritious breakfast cereal available anywhere—Captain Steadfast’s Forthright Whole Wheat Crunchies. Now federal agencies and senate hearings had proven not only that Captain Steadfast’s was the best breakfast food known to man but also that it was, spoonful for spoonful, the most economical cereal on the market. And it tasted great.
One morning just at breakfast time a stranger walked into the boardinghouse and casually tossed a new cereal onto the table that, he said, was groovy, outasight, and everyone was eating. It was called Gurgle, Twaddle, and Sop. Some of the guys said they had heard it was pretty bad, but 10,000 hands nevertheless reached for the box and heaped their bowls high because, after all, it obviously was the thing to do. However, when the box came to Gorb he kindly said, “No, thank you,” and he poured himself a bowl of Forthright Whole Wheat Crunchies.
“Comment!”* roared a chorus of 10,000 Slobovian voices.
“Well, it isn’t any great mystery,” replied Gorb. “I just read on the box here that Gurgle, Twaddle, and Sop has no vitamins, no proteins, none of the good stuff Captain Steadfast’s has, and it even admits to having some real junk in it. The price looks pretty expensive, and I’ve heard it can really taste gross. Besides—I like these Crunchies.”
At that point 10,000 fists hit Gorb on the jaw. “What gall,” mused Gorb as he shrugged his shoulders and went on eating his Captain Steadfast’s.
But even as Gorb was taking his lonely stand, some strange things began to happen around the table. Many of the 10,000 said they were sick; some said they were seeing strange things; a few said they couldn’t see anything at all. Several fell face first into their Gurgle, Twaddle, and Sop, and at least one just cried and cried. But those who were still able kept forcing down the G, T, & S because, after all, somebody had said it was groovy and outasight and everybody was eating it.
It wasn’t long before just one person remained sitting at the table; 10,000 others were screaming around the room or sobbing at their benches or just retching on the floor. The place was a bad scene that didn’t look either groovy or outasight, but at least everybody was doing it—except Gorb. He just quietly finished his Whole Wheat Crunchies and wondered why new always meant better to so many people.
Moral: 10,000 Slobovians can be wrong.

Yes, the Spirit giveth light in this church. I am thinking of a wonderful new convert in England. In response to my asking, he told me about his conversion. He explained how he was kneeling at his flower bed on a Saturday morning preparing the soil for spring planting. All of a sudden an unseen voice from behind asked the simple question, “Sir, do you love the Lord?”
He said that he turned around, fully, expecting to see an angel standing there; instead there were two angels, two Mormon missionaries. And his response was, “Of course I love the Lord. Please come in the house so we can talk about it.” It was all so simple, so genuine. It was an approach that the Savior might have used.

When my sister was single and struggling with dating, she realized she might be making this mistake. So she drew a simple picture of her desired partner:
A stick figure with three—only three—of the most important attributes she wanted in a husband. No height requirements, no six-figure salary quota.
Within several months she started dating her future spouse. He was dedicated to the gospel, hardworking, and honest. Together they are working to create an eternal marriage.

Earlier I mentioned Sister Andersen and her Beehive Girl’s Handbook. She is the wife of Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Presidency of the Seventy [now a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles], a mother, and a grandmother. I love the thought that even though she has moved so many times, she has always known where to find her Beehive Girl’s Handbook and achievement bandlo. Sister Andersen has stood by her husband and taught the gospel all over the world. She has also exemplified womanhood and goodness as a faithful member of the Church.
As an 11-year-old girl, Sister Andersen couldn’t wait to enter the Young Women program. When her birthday finally arrived, she was given the Beehive Girl’s Handbook. Sister Andersen explains:
“In the beginning of the book it said, ‘As a Beehive girl, and for the rest of your life, set your goals high’ (Beehive Girl’s Handbook, 12). I could tell this was going to be a great adventure for me. I took my book home and immediately read it from cover to cover to see what goals I should complete during the next two years.
“I discovered that there were 80 possible goals to choose from. In my excitement, I determined that if I worked hard, I could complete all of the goals in my book—well, all except one: to go to the temple … and be baptized for the dead (Beehive Girl’s Handbook, 140). I [could not] be baptized for the dead because there [was] no temple in Florida.”
Sister Andersen decided to tell her father about her situation. Her letter continues:
“My father hesitated only a moment. We had no family in the West and no other reason to travel to Utah. He thoughtfully said to me, ‘Kathy, if you [will] complete all of the other goals in your Beehive book, we will take you the 2,500 miles [4,000 km] to the temple in Salt Lake City so that you can do baptisms for the dead and complete your final goal.’
“I worked on the goals in my Beehive book for two years and completed 79 goals. My father worked during those two years to save enough money to make the journey to the temple. My father kept his promise to me.
“Air travel at that time was too expensive for our family, and so we traveled 5,000 miles [8,000 km] by car to Salt Lake City and back so that I could complete my last Beehive goal. What joy I felt as I entered the Salt Lake Temple and in proxy was baptized by my father. It was an experience I will never forget.
“I will forever be appreciative for my mother and father’s willingness to make the temple an important part of my life. … They wisely understood that as I worked on my Young Women goals, my faith would be strengthened. My parents’ faith and sacrifice in making the long journey to Salt Lake City significantly impacted me and the generations that have followed” (“I Can Complete All of the Goals—Except One,” unpublished manuscript).
As a young girl, Sister Andersen strove to do the small and simple things that would help her become an exemplary woman— “an example of the believers”— and that is what she has become. Each of you has the same opportunity. The small and simple things you choose to do today will be magnified into great and glorious blessings tomorrow. Living each day as “an example of the believers” will help you to be happy and more confident. It will strengthen your testimony, help you to keep your baptismal covenants, and prepare you to receive the blessings of the temple so that eventually you can return to your Heavenly Father.