Gospel Story Finder

When Dale was 11, his father, a skilled carpenter and builder, was called to serve as a building missionary in Sweden for three years. The family spent time in Helsinki, Finland, and Gothenburg, Sweden. They attended a small branch of the Church, and the children attended Swedish public schools. Dale’s sister Anita M. Renlund, who is one year younger than her brother, recalls one of the difficulties in the transition: “This was initially a shock to us because, even though we spoke Swedish at home, we did not know the grammar or spelling of the language.” As a boy Dale had a testimony-strengthening experience after reading the Book of Mormon. The mission president in Sweden had invited the young men of the Aaronic Priesthood to read the Book of Mormon, so Dale’s older brother, Gary, who was 12 at the time, accepted the challenge. Eleven-year-old Dale also took the challenge. After reading the Book of Mormon, he prayed and asked if it was true. Elder Renlund recalls, “I had a distinct impression: ‘I’ve been telling you all along that it’s true.’ And that was an amazing experience.” Dale and his siblings—Gary, Anita, and Linda—remember that when the family moved back to the United States, they continued to speak and pray in Swedish. They also recall their parents’ remarkable emphasis on scripture knowledge. They said, “The best way to make a point with our parents was by using scriptures.” Anita jokes, “Knowing the scriptures in our family was a survival skill; it was not optional.” Remarkably, both Gary and Dale were called to serve in the Swedish Mission at the same time. They were never companions, but both were able to use their Swedish-speaking skills to serve the Lord as missionaries for over two years. Elder Renlund describes his mission as a lot of work but a wonderful experience: “It was life-changing in terms of commitment and deciding to do the best one can to be a disciple of Christ.”

The cold winter winds had blown drifts of snow into our tent that morning. We didn’t find out until later how lucky we were—the snow had piled up on the tops of several other tents that same night, causing their roofs to collapse on the people sleeping inside. But at the time, all Tamar and Maria, two of my sisters, and I knew was that we were terribly cold and hungry.
We were camped next to the Sweetwater River with our mother and other family members, on our way to the Salt Lake Valley. It had been snowing for four days straight, and until the blizzard let up, we were stuck. And what was worse, we were quickly running out of food. Everyone in our handcart company shared their supplies equally, which meant that everyone got equally small portions. We were only allowed a handful of flour each. The night before, Mama had taken a strip of rawhide off the frame of the cart and boiled it into a sort of broth. To my brother and sisters and me, it tasted wonderful, but it did little to fill our empty stomachs. And now here we were the next morning, lying buried under a layer of quilts and a layer of snow, knowing that there would be no more food today than there was yesterday. All that stood before us was another day of cold misery.
I shut my eyes and wished that I could go back to sleep. In my dreams, at least, I was comfortable and warm. I could pretend that I was back in our lovely England, in our beautiful little cottage. I remembered the day the missionaries had spoken at our town chapel, and how Mama’s and Papa’s eyes had begun to burn with a light I had never seen before.
That was why we were here. Ever since their baptisms a few years ago, Mama and Papa had dreamed of joining the Saints in America. We had skimped and saved and finally were able to afford the price of passage on a boat to the United States.
Not being able to afford a horse or wagon, we signed on with a handcart company led by Mr. Edward Martin. Papa passed away early in the journey, and Mama’s health was very delicate. We often had to let her rest in the handcart while we three older girls pulled and pushed. She was so determined to reach Salt Lake that there was never any thought of turning back. But now, after trudging across half the American continent, it didn’t look as if we were going to get much farther. I shuddered and tried pulling the quilt closer around me. I had never felt as weak or as miserable as I did that morning.
“Patience, are you awake?” Mama’s sleepy voice came from the other side of the tent.
I groaned.
“Come, Patience, get up and help me make a fire.” I could hear the rustlings as she climbed from beneath the quilt.
The thought of leaving the small warmth provided by the quilt and my slumbering sisters made me shiver even more. “Oh, Mama,” I said, “I can’t get up. It’s too cold. And I’m so hungry! I don’t think I have the strength.”
“Tamar? How about you, lass?”
Tamar barely stirred beside me as she mumbled, “I don’t feel well, Mama, not at all. I can’t possibly get out of bed.”
Mama came over and knelt next to our huddled bodies. She put a gloved hand on Maria’s shoulder and shook her gently, saying, “Come, Maria, you get up.”
Maria groaned. “I can’t, Mama.”
Mama stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Girls, this will not do!” She pursed her lips in thought for a moment, then her face brightened. “I believe I will have to dance for you. Will that make you feel better?”
And before we could react, Mama stood on her toes and began dancing a jig, a bright lively dance from home with lots of kicking and bouncing. She also began singing an old ballad we used to sing in our village on holidays. Mama jumped and spun around, her voice cheerful and bright in the muffled stillness of the winter morning. Tamar, Maria, and I all poked our noses out from beneath the quilt to watch her, too surprised to laugh.
Then all of a sudden, Mama’s foot slipped on the snow that had drifted in through the tent door. She let out a little yelp as her feet flew out beneath her and she landed on the cold ground with a thump.
“Mama!”
In seconds, all three of us girls were at her side. We were sure that she had twisted her ankle or broken her leg or worse. But as soon as we helped her sit up, we saw that she was shaking not with pain but with silent laughter.
“Mama!” I exclaimed. “What on earth did you think you were doing, dancing like that on the snow! You could have been hurt!”
Mama chuckled again as she held us all close. “Oh, girls, I knew I had to get you out of bed somehow! I couldn’t stand the thought that my girls were getting discouraged and were going to give up. I knew that that simply would not do. So I thought that I could make you all jump up if I danced for you—especially if I fell down!”
I looked at my sisters. They looked at me. I knew at that point that no matter how hard our journey got, Mama would never let us fail. We would make it to the Salt Lake Valley if she had to drag us all along behind her.
“That was a clever little trick, Mama,” Tamar said.
“Yes,” I said as I grabbed Maria’s hand, “and now that we’re out of bed, let’s get that fire going before we all freeze to death!”

This summer I was invited to speak on the subject of the family to a gathering of United Nations diplomats. I agonized over what to say to such a diverse group. In the end I simply shared my personal experience. I explained that my parents had taught me as a child that personal virtue was essential for a happy marriage and family and that in my youth I had made promises to God that I would live a chaste life.

I then acknowledged that I was about to turn 50 and that, though I had not yet married, I had kept my promise. “It hasn’t always been easy to stay morally clean,” I admitted, “but it has been far easier than the alternative. I have never spent one second worrying about an unwanted pregnancy or disease. I have never had a moment’s anguish because a man used and then discarded me. And when I do marry, I will do so without regret. So you see,” I concluded, “I believe a moral life is actually an easier and a happier life.”

I worried about how this sophisticated audience would respond to a message about virtue and abstinence, but much to my surprise they leapt to their feet in applause—not because of me but because the Spirit had borne witness of the truth of that message.

Every time Olin Pinter heard his Uncle Pembroke’s coal-box buggy banging over the little bridge just up the ridge from his family’s sod house, the boy hooted louder than a lightning-struck owl and ran to greet his uncle.
Outside of a good meal, Olin reckoned Uncle Pembroke was the most welcome sight the end of a day could bring. The bearded, gray-haired wheelwright, who rode out from Livingston every month or so to talk and laugh and spend the night, always brought with him his magic black felt hat.
Following supper and some fireside talk, and maybe even a tall tale or two, Arthur Pembroke would ask Olin to fetch his hat from the deerhorn coatrack on the wall where he always hung it when he first came in. In less time than it took Uncle Pembroke to shake his head and slap his knee, Olin would be back with the tall headpiece.
He would plop down on the old bearskin rug in front of his uncle, his brown eyes glued to the strange hat in the dancing firelight. Olin would fidget anxiously as the stout little man rubbed his hands together, scratched his invisible chin through his long whiskers, and winked slyly at Olin’s father and mother. Then Uncle Pembroke would pretend to clean a dust speck off his gold-rimmed spectacles with his old red bandanna.
Just when it appeared that his nephew’s patience would give out, the little man would burst out laughing and reach into the hat. Olin would sit spellbound, as though the slightest movement would somehow jinx the flow of magic from the hat.
Almost anything could appear from the hat. Maybe, Olin reasoned, that was the best part of all—the not knowing. One time a real live rabbit was pulled from it! Another time it was a jar crammed full of jellybeans. He remembered the time a windup toy soldier that played music was drawn out of the magical hat. Once a fine china cup for his mother came out of the hat. The cup had come all the way from Paris. Even a pair of shoes with tiny gold buckles for Baby LeRoy had come from that wondrous hat.
How his uncle managed to get so many different things out of his hat was always a mystery to Olin. Before he ever took the hat to his uncle, Olin always checked it carefully inside and out, but there was never a clue as to what would soon materialize from inside it.
Olin had concluded that Uncle Pembroke was pure magic. In fact, Olin was sure his uncle could make anything happen that he set his mind to. He could turn a frown into a smile or a gloomy day into a happy one.
This visit, however, was to be different. When Uncle Pembroke’s buggy appeared on the little bridge over Sweetwater Creek, the look on the man’s face was as gray as his hair, and no shout was heard from the boy waiting quietly by the front porch.
“Father’s mournful sick, Uncle Pembroke,” Olin announced when the buggy came to a halt. “He’s got a graveyard fever!”
Arthur Pembroke nodded somberly. “I know, Olin. Doc Chamberlain told me as soon as he got back to town.”
“He’s out of his head,” Olin continued. “Mother nearly had to tie him down to the bed.”
The wheelwright put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and they started toward the house.
“You can help him, Uncle Pembroke!” Olin went on confidently. “I know you can. You’re magic. You can do anything!”
Uncle Pembroke stopped just outside the door and eyed Olin gravely. “I’m afraid there’s no magic in my hat, or in my possession, that can help your father, lad.”
Olin looked at his uncle with surprise. “What do you mean?”
Uncle Pembroke took off his glasses, sighed, and looked Olin straight in the eye. “It’s one thing to pull a rabbit out of a hat, Olin. Anyone can do that if they’re clever enough and their hand is quick enough. It’s quite another thing to snap my fingers and take the fever from a man, even your father.”
Olin sagged, and the near awe he had for the little man with the bright gold spectacles began to evaporate. His uncle sagged inwardly, too, as he beheld the boy’s faith in him flicker.
Uncle Pembroke turned away and started to open the door. Then he paused and looked back, his dark eyes misting. “I do know a kind of ‘magic’ that may help, lad. It’s a power far greater than my own, or even the doctor’s. It will take all of us together to make it work, if it is indeed meant to work.” He regarded Olin with solemn reassurance and motioned for the boy to follow him inside. Olin held back for a moment, his face reflecting his bewilderment.
The moon quivered in the heat waves that poured out of the chimney of the sod house, and the stars shimmered and blinked in the dusky heavens like a million fireflies frozen in flight. Inside, Olin and Uncle Pembroke were kneeling in prayer by the great, warm hearth. Olin shifted his knees. He, like the old man, had been on them for some time. Olin looked up for a moment. He could see his mother seated beside his father’s bed through an open bedroom door. She was wiping a cool cloth across his brow. Then he looked over at Uncle Pembroke. Olin had never seen him so serious, so humble and dependent on a power other than his own.
Olin bowed his head and started to pray again. Sure, he was tired, but how much more tired his Uncle Pembroke must be, and he had not stopped.
Morning’s crimson light splashed down over the top of the dark hills and flooded through the window. Uncle Pembroke stirred from where he had fallen asleep on the floor. He saw Olin still praying by the dying fire. The boy was whispering so as not to disturb his uncle. The wheelwright pulled his crumpled bandanna from his pocket and wiped a tear from his eye.
When Olin’s mother stepped into the room, the sound of the bedroom door closing behind her roused Olin from his fervent prayer.
“His fever’s broken,” Mother said, tears streaming down her face. “He’ll be all right”—her eyes settled on Uncle Pembroke—“thanks to you.”
Uncle Pembroke pointed to Olin. “It’s the boy who kept up the vigil with heaven, Polly.”
Olin blinked back his tears. “And it’s you who showed me the way, Uncle Pembroke.”
Polly, Olin, and Uncle Pembroke knelt together, and Uncle Pembroke, on behalf of them all, thanked a merciful God for extending the life of their loved one.
Uncle Pembroke would come again, and Olin would listen for the welcome sound of the coal-box buggy rattling over the bridge. He would run to greet his uncle, but no longer was it just for the fun of seeing him make magic pop out of his black felt hat. It was more for the pure joy of seeing the wheelwright himself—and for the memory he brought of a power he had helped Olin discover, a power that could lift a man or boy to heaven.

The Liahona (Spanish) helped bring about a complete change in my life. Prior to my baptism into the LDS church 15 years ago, I was a practicing Catholic. I was active in that church’s lay organization, serving at the national level and representing the organization at many international conventions.
My two sons, Jaime and Bernardo, were the first family members to make contact with the Church. They tried to discuss its teachings with me on several occasions, but, indignantly, I said I was not about to change my religion.
One day, out of curiosity, I picked up a copy of the Liahona that they left on a table. As I read the first article, by President Spencer W. Kimball, I felt as though I had been touched by a ray of light. His message gave me something I had hungered for all my life. Within a week, I met with the missionaries, and I was later baptized by my son, Jaime (now a bishop).
My wife has not chosen to be baptized yet. However, she supports me and loves the local church members. Patiently, I wait for the day when we can be sealed together in the temple.
Reading my first Liahona those many years ago not only brought change in my life, it also brought peace in my heart.
Jaime Rey GalvisAlhambra Ward, Bogotá Colombia Stake

Roger: I remember hearing a story about a young man and his wife when they were just newlyweds. The husband was convinced he had married an angel - she was "practically perfect in every way." However, after several weeks of marriage he discovered that his bride had a few idiosyncrasies that irritated him a little. He decided that rather than point them out to her every time something happened (ceaseless pinpricking, as President Kimball called it), he would keep a little card in his pocket to record his notes on and prepare for an opportune time to sit down with her and share his observations. When he felt he was ready, he invited his wife to join him. After he let her know how much he loved and appreciated her, he also told her that he had noticed a few little things that he thought she could work on. He then pulled the card out of his pocket and started to go through his list. You can imagine how well that went over! He said that as soon as he did that, she pulled a long list of her "issues" out of her pocket and let him know some of the things she had observed about him. He was shocked to think that someone could find some faults in him! He decided he had better go for a walk and think about what she had said. As he was walking, he reflected on three important lessons: (1) Walking is good for a relationship - whether you do it alone or together. Either way, when there are intense emotions involved surrounding an issue, it is a good idea to let a little time and distance pass before addressing the matter so both can focus on resolving the issue and not get carried away in the emotion of the moment. (Fuel, heat, and hot air are the elements needed for creating a fire!); (2) It's a good idea to remember the sage counsel of Benjamin Franklin, who said, "Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterwards"; and (3) You cannot change another person, you can only change yourself. This young husband reported that when he started working on the things that he needed to do to make himself a better companion for his wife, all the little idiosyncrasies he had noticed before seemed to disappear. Now, I am sure that the wife was working to make herself a better companion for her husband as well. If we focus on being the right person and becoming better rather than trying to change our companion and hoping they will become better, our relationships will be much happier.

We had a strong group of young men in our ward, but our son Matthew gravitated to a nonmember who shared his love for cars and anything mechanical. Unfortunately, this young man came from a family that did not value religion. His parents allowed drinking and smoking in their home and didn’t believe that being morally clean was important.
Matthew had earned the top rank in Scouting, but he did not participate in the awards meeting because he had stopped living Scouting standards. I gathered all his Scouting awards and made a display case. Then I put it away, hoping that one day it would be of value to him. By the time he was 16, Matthew was smoking, drinking, and doing drugs. He dropped out of school and moved in with his girlfriend. For a couple of years, we rarely saw him.
We were devastated. We didn’t know if he would ever return to his family and faith, but we decided to follow Alma’s example in dealing with his wayward son. Alma continued to love his son and prayed with faith that he would “be brought to the knowledge of the truth” (Mosiah 27:14).
We prayed constantly that the Lord would intervene in Matthew’s life, and we took every opportunity to express by word and action how much we loved him. When he would come home, we did not say anything he might interpret as criticism or judgment. We simply expressed our joy at seeing him.
One day Matthew came home and said he wanted to talk. He said he had met a girl at a party who had questions about the Church. Before he could tell her that he no longer knew the answers, words started coming out of his mouth. He found himself answering her questions as fast as she asked them. Matthew said he did not remember having learned the things he spoke, but he knew his words were true. He wondered why he was living as he was when he still believed the gospel.
After three days of soul-searching, he decided to leave behind the life he had been leading. He had come home to ask for help in starting over.
Matthew called a cousin in another state who had overcome similar difficulties and asked if he could stay with him. His cousin agreed, and Matthew began attending Church meetings with him and met with the bishop to get help with the repentance process. He felt love and support and became active in the Church.
In time he met a lovely, righteous young woman. They fell in love and were married in the temple.
When their first child was born, I came for a visit and brought the display case I had made of his Scouting awards. He was thrilled and proudly hung it in a prominent place in his home.
An angel did not appear to our son, as had happened to Alma the Younger. But Matthew’s return to the truth was just as miraculous.

Archie noticed the red-orange reflection in the mirror as he walked through the family room on his way out the door. He had seen that color thousands of times in his life. He had grown fondly accustomed to the vibrant orange hue that surrounded his roundish face. Every time Archie looked in the mirror he was reminded of the fact that he was not only a redhead, he was the personification of the brightest, most intense, flaming red that ever graced the top of a young man’s head.
He recalled several years earlier when he was living with his parents in Africa that people would pat him on the head because they thought red hair was an omen of good luck—a symbol of good fortune.
His pleasant reflection was startled by the “MEEOOOP!” of the horn from the enchanted yellow bus that would carry him to his first day of junior high.
Archie anxiously gathered his books and papers and rushed to the front door where he was greeted by a proud reception line composed of his mother, his two little brothers, his grandmother, and his dad. After all, it isn’t every day that the oldest son in the family takes off for the first day of junior high. A little embarrassed and hurried, Archie kissed his mom on the cheek, waved to his grandma and brothers, and shook his dad’s hand as he galloped off to his new adventure.
Archie slipped through the folding doors of the bus, only to find himself staring into the faces of dozens of different and older students who would also be attending Jefferson Junior High School.
With a sigh of relief he focused on Jimmy, his best friend, who had saved a seat for him by the window.
Archie plomped into the seat as the bus rumbled down the road. Jimmy said, “Greg said that we’d better watch out today at school or he and his ninth grade friends will sit us on the fountain or write on us with lipstick.”
Archie asked, “Why do they do that?”
“He said it is called initiation to junior high. Sort of like when you have to do something scary to join a club.”
While Archie’s face showed no fear, he suddenly became intensely aware of the bigger kids at the back of the bus who were laughing and joking.
Finally the bus halted in front of the big sign that said Jefferson Junior High. As he and Jimmy jumped down from the bus, his combined excitement, joy, fear, and anticipation made his heart thump twice as fast as normal.
As he reached the top of the stairs he pulled open the big metallic doors that led into a whole new world. He gazed down the hall and saw hundreds of jostling, laughing, bustling students who all seemed to know where to go and what to do. Even his friend Jimmy had wandered down the hall on his own. Now Archie was alone in the strange and exciting new environment. As he walked down the hall he felt as if everyone was staring at him. Just then he saw one of his pals from grade school.
Walt yelled across the hall, “Well, if it isn’t red Archie!”
Archie cringed when he heard the word red, and his face blushed to fit the description. Suddenly he wished that he had a hat to cover his bright thatch of red hair.
Just then the “ZZIINNGG!” of the bell sounded to go to class. He hurried down the hall to his locker and spun the dial to his combination, but nothing happened. Again he tried … 37 to the left … 15 to the right … and 22 to the left. His locker still wouldn’t open!
Frantically he pulled on his locker door but to no avail. “ZZIINNGG!” went the second bell, and Archie realized that he was tardy for the first period. He gave up on his locker and ran down the hall to his first class. As he-entered the room everyone looked at him and he hurriedly went to one of the empty desks and sat down. The teacher called the roll, “Steve Cranbrook … Archie Crenshaw … Richard Daines …” until he had called out all twenty-six students in the homeroom.
Mr. Williams, the teacher, closed the rollbook and said, “I remember the first day I went to junior high. I was so scared that I had to walk around the block twice before I dared go in. Then I couldn’t remember where my locker was and was late to every class for the first week. The worst thing was that everyone teased me.”
As Mr. Williams talked, Archie felt a grin blossom on his face. The teacher went on to explain how the first day is always the worst, and after that you get to know your way around and have a good time.
From that moment on, Archie felt a lot better about being in junior high. He didn’t even mind if kids called him Red. In fact, his bushy red locks became his trademark. Archie became confident and happy (and finally figured out how to open his locker). And it all started with Mr. Williams in social studies class.
Archie’s parents were both proud and happy that their son was doing so well in school. Nearly every day Archie had something good to say about Mr. Williams and what he had learned in social studies.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw were interested in meeting Mr. Williams, the man they had heard so much about from Archie. Finally the day came for parent-teacher conferences for Jefferson Junior High. Archie couldn’t wait for his folks to go and talk to Mr. Williams. He even drew them a map of how to get to his room so they wouldn’t get lost!
Archie’s mom and dad walked into room 29 with the sign that said Mr. Williams and suddenly understood everything they had heard about him. As they went in Mr. Williams gave them a glowing grin that was accented by the brightest, curliest, flaming red hair imaginable.

One way to revitalize our spirituality is to unselfishly serve others. At the same time, the recipient of that love will also be spiritually fed. A young mother from Bountiful, Utah, recalls how the spiritual sensitivity of a special sister in her ward helped her through a very difficult time in her life. “When my twin daughters were born, I didn’t know how I could possibly manage. I already had three young children—one of them a mentally and physically impaired ten-year-old. Since my husband’s business took him away from home most of the week, kind friends came many days and evenings to relieve me. But one day, a dear sister came to my home at 6:30 in the morning. She stayed for several hours—long enough to help me care for the babies, straighten my house, and get the older children ready for the day. She continued to do this every day for four months. I don’t know how I could have survived without her.”

A true story from the USA.
Matt kicked a rock as he walked home. He couldn’t figure it out. Why did he feel so awful?
He had been hanging out with his friend Joseph. But Joseph had seemed really bored, and Matt had ended up going home earlier than he had planned.
Maybe I’m imagining it, thought Matt. Maybe Joseph is just having an off day.
The next day when Matt got to school, he saw Joseph talking to a group of friends. Matt called to him and waved. Joseph looked in Matt’s direction, but he didn’t wave back. He turned back to his friends.
Joseph just didn’t see me, Matt told himself.
During class when it was time for group work, Matt walked over to Joseph. “Do you want to be partners?” Matt asked.
It was like Joseph didn’t even hear him. “Come on, Mike,” Joseph said to the boy sitting next to him. “Let’s go work over there.”
The two boys walked away. Matt’s stomach felt heavy. Something was obviously bothering Joseph. But what?
Matt couldn’t think of anything he had done to make Joseph mad at him. Sure, sometimes they were on opposite teams playing baseball at recess. But they always gave each other a high five after. Why did it feel like Joseph was choosing to be on the opposite team in everything?
At least I can talk with Joseph at recess, Matt thought.
At recess, Matt ran to join the other kids on the field.
“Hey, Joseph!” called Matt. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“The game’s about to start,” said Joseph.
“OK, I’ll come play outfield by you and we can talk,” said Matt.
“You’re too late. There isn’t room on my side,” said Joseph as he ran to join his team.
Matt watched as everyone started to play. Having too many people had never bothered Joseph before. Everyone had always been welcome.
But Matt sure didn’t feel welcomed by Joseph. Why was Joseph acting this way? Why was he not including him? Matt hadn’t done anything wrong!
“Joseph is the one who’s doing something wrong,” said Matt to his parents at dinner. “He won’t even talk with me and tell me what he’s mad about!”
“That does seem hard,” Mom said.
Matt felt hot tears in his eyes. “It feels like he just stopped being my friend, and I don’t know why.”
“I’m proud of you for trying to talk to him about it,” Dad said. “Maybe you could try telling him how you feel and that you want to help.”
Matt shrugged. The way Joseph had been acting, Matt wasn’t sure Joseph would even listen to him.
Mom squeezed Matt’s hand. “We’ll also pray for you, and for Joseph.”
That night as Matt got ready for bed, he thought about what Mom and Dad had said. He had prayed for his friends before when they were sad or having a hard time. But this was different, right? Joseph was the one being mean to him.
So why were Matt’s parents praying for Joseph? Should he pray for Joseph too?
Matt knelt by his bed. “Heavenly Father, it’s hard not to be angry at Joseph,” Matt prayed. “I can tell he’s mad, but he hasn’t told me what’s bothering him.”
Matt paused. “I want to talk with him, but I’m not sure he’ll tell me what’s wrong. Please help him with whatever’s bothering him. And whatever happens, please help me still be kind to him.”
As Matt prayed, he started to feel peaceful inside. He knew Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were his best friends. They could help him love Joseph, no matter what Joseph chose to do. And They would be there for him even if Joseph didn’t stay his friend.
Matt smiled. Praying for Joseph had been a good idea after all.
Illustrations by Mark Robison

Many Ivory Coast pioneers exemplify a total change of life. Perhaps no story is more typical of such change than that of Mammadou Zadi, a retired border guard.
Before Brother Zadi joined the Church, he was in poor health because of liver problems related to alcohol abuse; nevertheless, he decided to open a bar with his savings. He purchased a good location and was soon enjoying a brisk business. He little realized then how his life would change after his wife, Josephine, met the full-time missionaries. Josephine was impressed with their message, but in Ivory Coast’s culture she needed her husband’s permission to take the missionary discussions. He granted approval but told her he wanted nothing to do with the Church. The life he had chosen to live, he realized, was incompatible with gospel teachings.
Josephine, however, wanted to share her growing gospel knowledge with her husband. It was her fervent prayers, Brother Zadi insists, that brought the influence of the Holy Ghost into his life and prompted him to listen to the missionaries. He, too, was quickly impressed—so much so that he began living the Word of Wisdom. After his health dramatically improved, he became convinced of the truthfulness of the gospel.
With the Zadis’ baptism, membership grew not just by two but, within a short time, by all 18 members of the couple’s immediate family. The Zadi family spread the gospel to many extended family members as well, and now a son and a nephew, as full-time missionaries, are spreading the message of the Restoration to more Ivorians.
Because the gospel became foremost in their lives, Brother Zadi closed his bar and donated the building to be used for Church meetings. Brother Zadi supports his family off a pension and income from rental properties. He and Sister Zadi have donated many hours of service to the Church as well. Brother Zadi has served as a district president, and Sister Zadi as president of the Dokui Branch Relief Society.

Perhaps I can best explain this through a personal experience.
When I was the age of many of you and was attending college at the very challenging Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania, things weren’t going great, at least not academically. It was a struggle for me simply because I didn’t apply myself to the rigorous studies. After my sophomore year I went home and visited with my father. He encouraged me to change my major and to attend a college that was not so difficult. I thought about taking an easier route and remembered the wise statement a radio commentator had recently made. He stated, “Difficulty is one excuse history has never accepted.”1
I returned to college my junior year a reinvigorated, new person. I applied myself. I studied diligently. My grades skyrocketed, and upon graduation two years later I was awarded the university’s highest honors. Thus I realized between my sophomore and junior years that it was my dream I must live and not my father’s, and that I must achieve it through adversity and hard work.

“Not again!” Howard gasped, sick at heart, as he peeked from behind the bushes in his neighbor’s yard. But no one heard his quiet plea, and the neighborhood boys again stuffed the soaked, terrified kitten back into the sack. One boy gave the sack a hefty toss, and again it flew into the canal.
This time, however, the kitten could barely struggle free. As the sack and kitten floated down the canal, the boys finally lost interest.
As soon as the boys turned their backs, Howard dashed from behind the bushes, jumped the neighbor’s fence, and raced to the kitten’s aid. The poor animal could barely meow, and Howard had no trouble fishing it out of the canal and wrapping it gently in his shirttail. As Howard hurried home, tears filled his eyes. He prayed that the kitten would somehow survive.
“Howard William Hunter, what have you got there?” Dorothy, Howard’s younger sister, asked him. She stood on the front porch, hands on hips, trying to look as stern as she thought her mother would.
“Howard William Hunter,” his mother echoed, coming up behind Dorothy. “What have you got there?” She placed her hands on her hips as the screen door banged shut behind her. Both mother and daughter looked at him expectantly.
Howard was still too upset to speak. Instead, he carefully unwrapped the kitten.
“Oh my goodness!” Mother exclaimed, covering her mouth in surprise. Shaking her head, she gently placed a hand on Howard’s shoulder. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she explained to her tenderhearted son, “I know how much you love animals, Howard, but I’m afraid we can’t save this poor kitten.”
“Mother, we have to try!” Howard wailed. “We have to!”
Mother thought for a moment. “Come on, Howard. I think I know what to do.” She turned and hurried into the house.
Inside the hall closet, Mother found an old quilt and a small wooden box and placed them on the kitchen table. Howard and Dorothy watched as their mother lined the box with the quilt. “Now, give me the kitten,” she told Howard. He quietly placed the animal in her gentle hands, and she wrapped it in the quilt. “We’ll put the box where it’s warm,” she said, sliding it carefully under the stove.
“Now what should we do?” Dorothy asked.
“Be very quiet,” Mother said, putting her finger to her lips. “Play outside, and don’t be noisy in the house. We’ll let the kitten rest and see if it’s better in the morning.”
“How will we know if it’s all right?” Howard wondered.
“Don’t worry.” Mother smiled and patted him on the back. “We’ll know.”
Howard didn’t sleep well that night. He dreamed that the neighborhood boys had found the kitten under the stove and were trying to steal it.
Before the sun came up the next morning, Howard heard meowing. He sat straight up in bed and rubbed his eyes. When the kitten meowed again, he raced to the kitchen.
The kitten had climbed out of the box and was meowing for its mother as it wandered around the kitchen. Howard dropped onto the floor beside the kitten, who looked up hopefully into Howard’s eyes. He gently patted the kitten’s soft, warm fur. “I’ll get you some milk,” Howard said, taking a saucer from the cupboard. He poured some milk from the tin can in his mother’s cool pantry, and set the saucer in front of the hungry kitten.
“It’s going to be just fine now,” Mother said as she came into the kitchen and saw the kitten hungrily lapping up the milk. “That was a wonderful thing you did, Howard.”
Howard smiled up at his mother. He felt warm inside as he watched the kitten drink.

How, then, do we strengthen our faith so that we can defend the faith?
Four years ago, a marvelous young woman who had just graduated with honors from BYU called me, distraught. Through sobs she blurted, "I'm not sure I believe the Church is true anymore, and I'm scared. What if my family isn't going to be together forever?"
I asked, "Do you want a testimony?" "Yes," she said.
"Are you willing to work for it?" Again, "Yes."
And she was. She had a great bishop and an off-the-charts Relief Society president, both of whom worked with her. Friends and family came to her rescue. And she and I began to meet for gospel study sessions. I told her, "Bring your scriptures and every question you have. Questions are good. Let's see what the Lord will teach us."
She took me at my word and brought one thorny question after another. We searched the scriptures and the teachings of prophets for answers. Little by little, she began to realize that just because she had questions didn't mean she didn't have a testimony. The scriptures are filled with accounts of prophets who had questions. And she began to recognize when the Spirit was bearing witness to her-including bearing witness that prophets, seers, and revelators are truly prophets.
Her testimony began to grow, and time passed. Then about a year ago she called again. "I wanted you to be one of the first to know that I am holding in my hand a temple recommend. Will you come when I receive my endowment?" Then she added, "Do you know what you said that helped me the most? You told me that questions are good, and that allowed me to see myself as a seeker rather than a doubter."
I was overjoyed! But two days later, I received a much different call from another BYU graduate. "Sister Dew," she said, "before you hear it from someone else, I want you to know that I'm pregnant." She said that for several years she had doubted the truthfulness of the gospel and had finally decided there was no reason to live the law of chastity.
I told her that I was not her judge and that I loved her. Then I asked her if she would like to have a testimony. "No, I don't think so," she said.
The contrast was stunning. At about the same time, these two young women had questions that threatened their testimonies. One of them sent out a cry for help, and family, friends and leaders followed President Monson's counsel and went to her rescue. The other girl nursed her doubt and convinced herself that her immoral choices were acceptable. I love and care about this girl. But for now, she has chosen a spiritually perilous path.
One girl's questions propelled her to become a seeker of truth. The other girl used her questions to justify her immorality.

In conclusion let me share with you some of the feelings of a prospective elder who has recently come into full Church activity. He writes: “Returning to church activity after years of absence would have been impossible without a lot of help. I’ll always be grateful for that evening when my elders quorum president came to my home and said, ‘Roger, starting next Sunday evening we are having two other couples over to our home once a week to talk about some important gospel principles. We would be pleased if you and Pat would join us.’

“I know it took courage for him to invite us, but that was an important beginning. That was the first time anyone had ever asked me to get back into Church activity. In those fireside meetings my wife and I learned things about the gospel that we had never understood before. When testimonies were expressed, we felt feelings that had been dulled by many years of inactivity.

“As we started having family prayers together, we felt a special spirit enter into our home. Before long I became so anxious to learn about the gospel that I found myself reading the scriptures on the bus going to and from work and even during my noon hour.”

His letter then tells of the great joy he and his wife felt when they went to the temple, where they and their children were sealed together for time and for all eternity. And now they are helping prepare their three sons for missionary service.

Elder Mark E. Petersen taught me another penetrating lesson about delegating when he was the supervisor of the missions on the East Coast in the late 1960s. He toured the North Carolina-Virginia Mission over which we were presiding in order to give instruction and help.
Knowing of his very distinguished service as president of the European missions, I knew he would be able to give me the answers to all my mission supervision problems. So when we had a few spare minutes together, I would ask about a problem and invite his recommendation. In response he would most often say something like this: “I know one mission president who solved that problem in this way. Another in a more distant area approached it this way.” Always he outlined the options but left the selection of the solution to me. After six days he left on the plane, having responded to my every request for help but leaving to me the responsibility to choose the solutions and accept the consequences of my decisions. That was one of many helpful lessons taught by an outstanding leader in the Lord’s work.

For a number of years, one of my very favorite BYU assignments was teaching a late-summer honors class in international relations. I wanted the class to grapple with real international issues, so I gave the students challenging case studies and small-group assignments.

One day the class said, “Professor Gong, we didn’t finish our assignment until 3 a.m. this morning.”

I felt terrible. Then I thought to ask, “What time did you begin your assignment?”

The class said, “Well, first we had to get something to eat. Then we were having so much fun in our small groups that we didn’t begin our assignment until 2 a.m.”

I didn’t feel so bad after that.

The summer after Mother came home was wonderful. Primary was grand! We had Primary on weekday mornings. One week we made little dolls out of stockings. Then we made them little leather dresses. We cut fringe into the bottom of the dresses and added beading. Then we braided hair. We also embroidered faces for them. We made them little beds out of cardboard and yarn.
Primary was the beginning of my testimony. I learned the gospel there and felt the Spirit through good music. I remember the leaders who taught us the songs with so much energy. Singing was fun! I don’t remember anybody telling me what I was feeling, but it was the Spirit. That’s the kind of power that good music has.

When Samuel joined us in January, he was healthy in every way except one: There was something a little unusual about his skin in some places. As the first hours went by, the outer layer of skin started to come off in some areas, mostly on his legs, arms, and back. This left weeping wounds that looked something like scrapes or burns. Doctors and nurses seemed very puzzled by it. Finally, perhaps 18 hours after our baby's arrival, a doctor informed us that she thought he had a rare and serious skin condition that can profoundly affect the quality one's life. Her explanation seemed reasonable, and squared with what I was able to locate on the internet. This was certainly sobering for us. We prayed, and Samuel received a priesthood blessing.

That night, and over several days of intensive care for Samuel, a scripture from Proverbs with which you are all familiar persistently came into my thoughts: "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths" (Proverbs 3:5-6). Sister Richardson similarly had a scripture come to her mind-hers from the Doctrine and Covenants-with the essential words being: "Be not troubled" (D&C 45:35). Since that night we have tried to think and act in accord with those persistent impressions. This has brought us comfort and peace. The doctors involved, after a significant amount of testing, still do not know the exact nature of Samuel's skin condition, but it is clearly improving. A specialist has informed us that he does not have the serious condition that had seemed so logical and likely early on. In other words, to have leaned unto our own understanding back then would have been to lean unto inaccuracy, and would have done no good. All indications at present are that Samuel's problem will resolve itself entirely.

What I wish to emphasize here is that the scriptures encouraging us to trust in the Lord and to be not troubled have power in them. We have realized that they were the right spiritual promptings for us if Samuel's outcome is positive, as it seems it will be, and that they were also right for us if his outcome turns out to be just as serious as the original diagnosis suggested. In either case, trust in the Lord brings us comfort and peace.

Representative of the members who struggled through this difficult time is Poland’s Marianna Glownia. During World War II, she and her husband became involved in the underground fight against the Nazi occupation and were captured. Both her husband and child were killed. She lived, but the rigors of interrogation left her with broken wrists and ankles. Given no medical attention, the joints healed in that condition, leaving her crippled. She walked with difficulty and depended on neighbors for assistance.
After she joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1958, representatives of another church told her they would care for her the rest of her life if she renounced her membership. When I visited her in 1981, she looked at me and my traveling companion, Matthew Cziembronowicz, and said, “Brethren, I want you to know I have never renounced my faith.” Because of the difficult circumstances she faced, she had lost contact with the Church but not with the Lord.
And neither the Lord nor his Church had forgotten her and the others like her. Quietly, patiently, both were at work preparing the way for the time when the full resources of the Church could be brought back into Eastern Europe.