Gospel Story Finder

When I was 14, I met two American missionaries. I was interested in hearing about the Book of Mormon, so we set an appointment for them to visit me. My entire family listened to the first discussion, but none of them were interested in continuing. I had felt something and sensed the message was true, so I asked my parents for permission to continue receiving the missionary discussions. They agreed, and when I was almost 15 years old, I entered the waters of baptism in the Godoy Cruz Branch, Mendoza Argentina District.
The next year I faced a great trial in my life: my parents separated. Thankfully, I had the Church during that difficult time and the support of excellent teachers, leaders, and friends. At about that same time, after being ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, I baptized my 11-year-old sister.
I worked full-time for the next few years, attending school in the evenings. When I was 19, I sent in my mission papers. I will always remember the day I received my call to the France Paris Mission. It was signed by President Joseph Fielding Smith, dated June 16, 1972, just weeks before he passed away.
After going through endless formalities to obtain a passport (I was underage, my parents were separated, and I was of military age), I was finally able to leave for my mission, a year and a half after completing my papers. I flew to Paris, France, with only my five years of high school French and without knowing any English. The zone conferences in my mission were in English. And I hadn’t been endowed yet because there were no temples in South America at that time.
One month after I began my service, President Willis D. Waite sent me with a young Frenchman, Jean Collin, to receive my endowment in the Swiss Temple. We traveled all night by train and spent three emotional and spiritual days there.
Six months into my mission, I had a special interview with my mission president during one of our mission conferences. In essence President Waite told me, “Elder Agüero, I’m going to give you an assignment. You have to learn English because when you return home you will be a member of a stake presidency, a mission president, and a leader in the Church. You will need English to communicate with the General Authorities.”
I laughed, perhaps because at the age of 20 I couldn’t see myself in these positions and because I came from a new stake in Argentina that was among only three that had been organized in the country.
He said, “Don’t laugh, Elder Agüero. I’m being serious.”
I felt the Spirit very strongly through this man, my leader, who then explained to me the way in which I was to fulfill this assignment.
He said, “From now on, you will speak only in English, every day, for half the day, with your companion.”
My companion received the same instructions in his interview, and we started doing so. It was extremely difficult for me at first, but later after much effort, I began to understand basic ideas. I prayed at night, crying many times out of frustration and helplessness because I wanted to be obedient to the task I had been given.
After some months and a few companions later, the miracle came. While a missionary was giving a beautiful talk in English during a zone conference, I suddenly began to understand every word. The miracle did not end there. Over time I came to serve as the mission’s financial secretary, which helped me read and write English. I tried to understand the language by reading Church News, the Ensign, and other English materials. Through these I was able to get a feeling for the English language, which is still with me today.
Shortly after I returned from my mission, my stake president asked me to interpret for Elder Hartman Rector Jr., then of the Seventy, who had come to Mendoza, Argentina, to preside over a stake conference. These marvelous opportunities have continued over the years. I interpreted for President Thomas S. Monson and other General Authorities during the 11 dedicatory sessions of the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple.
During four of those sessions, I read the dedicatory prayer in Spanish from the pulpit in the celestial room. My voice broke up several times because of my emotions; tears filled my eyes and flowed down my face. I was reading the inspired prayers and promises for my country from Heavenly Father, who lives and reveals His will, just as He did 12 years earlier through my mission president when I accepted the challenge to learn English.
I also interpreted for the prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, during the four dedicatory sessions of the Montevideo Uruguay Temple and the four dedicatory sessions of the Asunción Paraguay Temple.
It’s difficult for me to explain how sacred those moments were for me when I stood alongside prophets, seers, and revelators in the Lord’s house. I felt somewhat like Peter, James, and John when they had the amazing experience of seeing Jesus transfigured. Peter expressed my feelings when he told Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here” (Matt. 17:4).
From these and other experiences, I learned how the Lord works in our lives. The price for good things is paid in advance by our patience, humility, and obedience, especially during trials. If you don’t give up during your trials or let frustration and discouragement overcome you, trials will refine you spiritually and prepare you for better things. You will see the fulfillment of beautiful miracles in your lives.

I shall now call attention to some circumstances in which this matter of integrity is involved. Here is an account that you bearers of the Aaronic Priesthood might think about:
“Four Latter-day Saint boys set out from a Utah city on a cross-country trip. They had saved all their money during the last year of high school for this purpose, and now that graduation was over, they packed their suitcases into the trunk of their car and said good-byes to worrying parents and envious friends. It was a matter of considerable celebration when they crossed the Utah State line and entered into another state. They pulled up alongside the highway and got out to see how it felt to be in new surroundings. A certain thrill of excitement was noted by each of the young travelers and a sense of adventure led them to great speculation.
“They had agreed to send their parents a postcard every other day to indicate their whereabouts, and had promised to send a collect telegram if they ran into any trouble. One of the boys commented that it felt real good to be on his own and not be under the necessity of getting advance approval from someone for every move he made. Another suggested that they must act like seasoned travelers and not impress others as country boys on their first junket away from home. As a follow-up, this same boy proposed to his friends that they forget all about being Mormons for the duration of their adventure. Asked why by the other three puzzled boys, he said that they could now afford to ‘let their hair down’ and sample some of the excitement enjoyed by other people, not of the Mormon Church. ‘Anyway,’ he argued, ‘what difference will it make? Nobody out here in the world knows us or cares anything about our church connections.’
“The thrill of the new experience weighted their judgment, and the group made an agreement to give it a try. They decided to announce themselves to the world as students from the East who had been to school in Utah for a short time. Their Utah license plates made this necessary.
“Nightfall on the first day of the journey found them at a famous tourist attraction spot, and they made arrangements for camping near the resort. After the evening meal they gathered at the large hotel for the night’s entertainment. No sooner had they arrived when the ringleader of the boys suggested that they begin here and now sampling the things they had so long been denied by strict parents and teachers. The first thing that caught their eyes was a large neon sign at the far end of the lounge. It read, ‘Bar—beer, cocktails.’ Thinking it a moderate nod in the direction of ‘sinning just a little bit,’ they agreed to go into the bar and order a glass of beer for each one. There was a nervous air about them as they entered the gaudily lighted bar and surveyed the counters loaded with intriguing bottles of liquor. The boy who had been delegated to give the order lost his voice on the first try and had to swallow hard to get out an understandable, ‘Four glasses of beer, please.’
“What the beer lacked in palatability, the atmosphere and thrill more than made up. They grew bolder and began to talk of the next adventure they would undertake. The talk was growing racy when suddenly a well-dressed man entered the bar and walked straight toward their table. The look on the stranger’s face and the determined pace at which he walked toward them left the boys completely unnerved.
“When the man reached the table at which the boys were sitting, he extended his hand to one of them and said, ‘I beg your pardon, but aren’t you George Redford’s son from Utah?’ The boy was speechless and terrified. His fingers froze around the base of the glass of beer and he answered in a wavering voice, ‘Why, yes, sir, I am.’ ‘I thought I recognized you when you came in the lobby of the hotel,’ the stranger continued. ‘I am Henry Paulsen, vice-president of the company your dad works for, and I met you and your mother last winter at a company dinner at the Hotel Utah. I have never forgotten how you explained your Mormon priesthood to one of the other executives of our company who asked you what it meant to be a Mormon boy. I must say I was a little surprised to see you head for the bar, but I suppose that with Mormons as well as non-Mormons, boys will be boys when they’re off the roost.’
“These boys had heard a sermon they would never hear duplicated in the pulpit. They were sick, ashamed, and crestfallen. As they left their half-filled glasses and walked out through the hotel lobby, they had the feeling that everyone was looking at them. The cover of darkness was kind as they made their way to their camp. ‘You just can’t win,’ said the boy who had proposed their dropping their true identity, trying to ease the tension. ‘I’m not so sure,’ replied the boy to who the stranger had spoken. ‘If we have any sense left, we can make this experience into the most winning lesson of our lives.’”

Emily’s family had spent a wonderful weekend at Grandma’s house, and now it was time to leave. Emily was sad to say good-bye but happy that it was her turn to fly home with Dad in his small airplane while her sisters and brother drove back with Mom in their car. Emily loved flying with Dad. It was so peaceful in the sky. She liked to gaze across the tops of the puffy clouds and pretend that she could jump down onto them and run about.
“We’d better get going,” Dad said. “Although when I turned in my flight plan, the airport official said that we should easily miss the storm coming in, it’s almost dusk. I don’t like to take chances, even on a short flight like this one.”
Emily hugged Grandma good-bye and climbed aboard. Soon they were in the air.
It quickly became dark and began to rain. “Are you OK, Emily?” Dad asked. Emily nodded. The weather was making the flight bumpy, but she did not mind. The bumps made her tummy tickle.
The storm grew worse. Rain pounded the windows, and lightning flashed all around. The little plane bucked and shook. Emily started feeling scared. She knew that Dad must be nervous, too, because he stopped talking to her and concentrated on flying.
Then Emily remembered something she had learned in Primary. Sister Adams had told them that whenever they were afraid, they could pray to Heavenly Father. “Dad, can we have a special prayer to help us get home safely?” she asked.
Dad smiled at her. “I’ve already been praying in my heart. Will you please say a prayer for us out loud?”
Emily closed her eyes and folded her arms. She asked Heavenly Father to bless them to fly safely home and to help her to not be afraid.
“Thank you for praying, Emily,” Dad said. “We should be home in about thirty minutes.”
Emily felt peaceful and calm. The wind and rain continued to lash the plane, and the ride was still bumpy, but she was no longer afraid. Instead, she felt sleepy.
When the wheels of the airplane hit the runway, they made a squeaky sound that awakened her. “We made it, honey,” Dad said. “Let’s go home.”
The next morning when Emily got up, there was a letter by her pillow.
Dear Emily,I wanted to tell you how much I love you. Last night I was afraid. I couldn’t believe that I had taken my little girl with me in such a bad storm. After your sweet prayer, I looked over to see how you were doing. When I saw that you were asleep, an overwhelmingly peaceful feeling came over me. I knew that if you could sleep while the plane was being tossed around in a lightning storm, you must have tremendous faith that we would be OK. Then I, too, had faith that we would be OK. I knew that Heavenly Father was watching over us and that I would be able to fly us home safely. Thank you, Emily, for not only having faith in me, but faith in our Father in Heaven.Love,Dad
Emily felt good inside. She loved Dad and her family so much! She knelt by her bed and thanked Heavenly Father for such a wonderful family and for the gospel. She couldn’t wait to get to school and tell her friends all about her airplane ride in the storm.

Some years ago I was invited to participate in a fireside in which I outlined ways for people to overcome discouragement. At the beginning of the presentation, I invited those who were in attendance to write on a card a major challenge they were facing, one they would feel comfortable in having me share anonymously with other members of the group. When the problems came forward, I was overcome by the significant issues faced by members who looked in control of their lives. Here are some they listed:
My farm is not making any money.
My son has a terminal illness.
Friction with a teenage child.
My oldest son is nearly blind.
Learning to accept the death of my son.
My husband sees the flaws but doesn’t see the lovely things as much.
Many of us face significant challenges. Even the great prophet Enoch experienced sadness when he viewed the wickedness of the world: “And as Enoch saw this, he had bitterness of soul, and wept over his brethren, and said unto the heavens: I will refuse to be comforted; but the Lord said unto Enoch: Lift up your heart, and be glad; and look” (Moses 7:44).
There are at least three steps to take when striving to overcome discouragement:
You can work on changing your attitude toward the problem. Even though you can’t change the circumstances in which you work or live, you can always change your attitude.
You can receive help from those who are close to you—your family, friends, and ward members, those who love you the most.
You can develop a more powerful and complete trust in the Lord Jesus Christ.
Change your attitude. By looking at a problem in a different way, it may be possible to reduce discouragement. I have been impressed with the pioneer story told about Zina Young. After experiencing the death of parents, crop failure, and sickness, she was encouraged with a spiritual experience that changed her attitude. While attempting to seek divine help, she heard her mother’s voice: “Zina, any sailor can steer on a smooth sea, when rocks appear, sail around them.” A prayer came quickly: “O Father in heaven, help me to be a good sailor, that my heart shall not break on the rocks of grief” (“Mother,” Young Woman’s Journal, Jan. 1911, 45). It is often difficult to change circumstances, but a positive attitude can help lift discouragement.
Accept help from others. The next important point is to be willing to ask for help from those around you. Sometimes help comes from unexpected sources. A few years ago I stood in line in Chicago waiting to put my baggage on a plane. Behind me was an older man. After a few minutes he said to me, “Where are you going?” I said that I was heading for Salt Lake City. He said, “I’m going there too. Are you a Mormon?” I responded by saying I was. He said that he had been a Latter-day Saint all his life and had prepared himself finally to go to the temple. While waiting for the plane, he opened his suitcase to show me all the missionary pictures that he had collected through the years. After some minutes, we were on our way and had a wonderful talk as we flew toward Utah. Upon arrival, we left the plane quickly. I made sure he knew where he was going and said good-bye.
Some weeks later I received this card in the mail: “Dear Brother Christensen, I lost your address and then found it. So I’m writing you a card. When I met you in Chicago, it was a prayer answered. I never travel anywhere. I wanted to be with someone. I have thought of you many times. I really enjoyed myself in Salt Lake City at the temple. Hope to see you someday. Thanks many times for the help you were to me.” I wasn’t planning to be useful that day, but I’m grateful for this brother who sought for extra help and I was nearby to assist.
Develop trust in the Lord. I’ve talked about changing attitudes and receiving help from others. Now, let me mention the need to put more trust and faith in the Lord. I once talked to a woman who received help with her discouragement. While waiting for a temple session to begin, she picked up a Book of Mormon to read a verse. Her eyes fixed upon Alma 34:3: “And as ye have desired of my beloved brother that he should make known unto you what ye should do, because of your afflictions; and he hath spoken somewhat unto you to prepare your minds; yea, and he hath exhorted you unto faith and to patience.” The scripture in Alma was an answer to her prayer. The message was simple: the problem she faced was going to take a long time to solve. If we place a little more patience in the process and a greater amount of faith in the Lord, our challenges will find their way toward successful conclusions.
In the Doctrine and Covenants we read this: “If thou art sorrowful, call on the Lord thy God with supplication, that your souls may be joyful” (D&C 136:29).
I pray all of us may appreciate the challenges we have and try to improve our attitudes, even though our problems remain the same. Ask help from friends and family. I also testify that Jesus Christ lives and that He will help us through our discouragements if we will humbly ask for His love. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When Drew* was a young boy, he lived next door to the bishop of his ward, Bishop Philip T. Sonntag. The bishop’s son Mark was one of Drew’s best friends. One afternoon, Mark and Drew were playing in different parts of the Sonntag yard, when the bishop came outside looking for his son. “Drew, do you know where Mark is?” he asked. Drew knew that if he told the truth, Mark would have to quit playing and go inside. “No, I don’t know where he is,” Drew answered.
The bishop went back into his house, and Drew ran to the other side of the large yard, where Mark was playing. “Who were you talking to?” Mark asked. “It was your dad,” Drew answered. “What did he want?” “He wanted you to go inside.” “Then I’d better go in,” Mark said. He left, and Drew stayed outside. A few minutes later Bishop Sonntag came outside again. He told Drew that what he had done was not right and that he (the bishop) was disappointed that Drew hadn’t told the truth.
Drew felt terrible. He was nine years old. He had been baptized. He knew that he was accountable and that he had made a mistake. He walked home and went to his bedroom. He cried as he knelt beside his bed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive him. Then he went back to his friend’s home. When Bishop Sonntag answered the door, Drew said, “I just want you to know that I’m sorry about what I did.” The bishop put his arm around Drew and invited him to come inside.
Drew learned two valuable lessons from the experience: First, it’s important to tell the truth. Second, when we repent after doing something wrong, we feel better. Drew always remembered the outpouring of love he felt from his bishop upon correcting his mistake. He appreciated the bishop and felt that he had been forgiven.

Once I visited some Primary children in Jamaica. I asked them to draw a picture of something they could do that week to show Heavenly Father that they love Him. Two girls were sitting near each other.

The younger girl had just a teeny, little pencil with no eraser. She was struggling to draw her picture. The older girl noticed the younger girl needed help. She handed her own pencil to her. The younger girl smiled, took the pencil, and started drawing.

I watched the older girl wait patiently while the younger girl finished her drawing. Then the younger girl handed the pencil back. They took turns using the pencil without saying any words. The older girl was willing to help, and the younger girl was just so grateful and accepting of that help. They knew they could depend on each other.

When everyone finished their drawings, I told the older girl that I saw her share her pencil. I asked, “Why did you do that?”

She said, “I just saw she needed help.”

Then I asked the younger girl, “How did you feel when she helped you?”

She said, “I was so grateful!” It was very sweet.

When I was 16, I moved into a Taiwanese ward. Ken, a 13-year-old, had recently been baptized. But shortly after his baptism, Ken almost never attended church. I had a great desire to help Ken come back to church. I invited him to come to several Church activities. Ken played basketball at Mutual and joined the youth choir. He and his sister, Linda, also began to attend the free English classes taught by my family and the missionaries. Soon Linda began to attend youth activities as well. I could see God’s hand helping us.
Ken’s family wondered why my family tried to help Ken and Linda. We told them that the gospel had brought us great joy, and we really wanted others to find the same joy and peace from the Savior. Later, Linda and Ken accepted our invitation to go to church. Linda came and had an awesome experience. However, Ken was ill, and when I prayed about what I could do to help him, I felt impressed that we should bring him the sacrament. With the bishop’s permission, our family went over to his house, and my brother and I helped administer the sacrament to him. We also visited with his family. I felt peaceful.
Our family has prayed for Ken, and all of us feel love for Ken and his family. The youth and adults in the ward and stake continue to fellowship Ken and Linda. The members’ combined efforts to minister are helping Ken and Linda feel the love of the Savior. This experience of trying to minister like the Savior has brought great joy to my life. Ministering is the Lord’s work, and because it is His work, His hand will guide our ministering efforts.

Last Christmas Madison brought her mother a letter to Santa Claus. In it she had written that she really didn’t need anything for Christmas, but she would like him to use the money inside to help buy presents for children who didn’t have much. She asked her mom to make sure that Santa got the letter and the enclosed plastic sandwich bag full of money. It was all of her savings—about $30. Her mom asked if she would like to keep a little of the money, since it was all she had. Madison started to take out a 10-dollar bill, but quickly returned it to the bag, saying she wouldn’t feel good about that.
About a week later, a box was left on her front porch. In the box was a beautiful handmade blanket. There was a letter telling Madison that she had helped others to remember the true meaning of Christmas. The letter said to always serve others and help those in need. The letter was signed “Mrs. Santa Claus.”

Grisell was very excited to join the Church and loved learning about the gospel, but as we continued teaching Grisell, many challenges came up, as they usually do when someone commits to baptism. Her family opposed her attending church, and she was becoming distressed. I decided to share the same scripture with her that I had shared with Hugo many months prior. Grisell’s downcast face changed to the expression of joy and excitement she had shown when we first met as I read her the promise that she would be able to do anything that was the Lord’s will.

Suddenly I realized that this scripture was not only true for Hugo and Grisell. Just weeks before I had doubted my own ability to do what God had commanded me. As I reflected back on my recent discouragement and my mission up to that point, I knew that the Lord’s promise was true for me as well.

When I was about 17, I began to feel I couldn’t relate to people at church anymore. Around the same time, my parents divorced and stopped attending church. I still went, but I had lost faith in eternal marriage. When I met Kristian,* it wasn’t hard to turn my back on the Church and walk away. So I did.

We lived together for almost four years before we split up. I wanted to start going to church again, but I was afraid everybody would ask all sorts of questions. I went to visit my sister. In her ward no one knew me or how long I’d been away from the Church, and during my stay I started going to church again. I continued going in my own ward when I returned home. The first Sunday I was really scared, but people were just happy I was there.

I knew I had to choose a side; I couldn’t keep walking with one foot on the Lord’s side and one on the world’s. I started meeting with my bishop. He has helped me understand the Atonement. It’s been a long road of repentance—at times a very difficult one. I’m still in progress, and I still have a lot of things to learn, but I’m happier now. I know I chose the right when I decided to come back to the Church. It was about making up my mind about what I felt and what I knew was right and then just going for it.

Moroni Rubio was only 16 when he earned the number one ranking among sprinters in Mexico, after breaking records in the 100- and 200-meter sprints. That same year, 2002, he took first place in the 100 meters at the Central American Junior Championships and was named athlete of the year in the state of Yucatán.
His dreams are pinned on his feet, which are expected to carry him all the way to the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing, China. But even if, for some reason, his feet don’t take him to the Olympics, they will have already accomplished a great work.
His feet have put his unique name in the spotlight, bringing him numerous missionary opportunities. Because of Moroni’s success, he’s been on television a number of times—each time with his name right there on the screen.
“I’m asked about my name a lot,” says Moroni, a priest in the Mérida México Lakín Stake. “It’s a great opportunity to talk about the gospel. And when I race, the members watching always know I’m a member too—by my name. I think it’s something they’re proud of.”

It was fast and testimony meeting in the ward. Several young people had stood up and testified of the goodness of the Lord and his blessings unto them. Then an elderly gentleman stood on his feet. There were lines of care on his face, and time had turned his hair to silver. But his voice was clear like the tones of a bell on a frosty morning:
“I know that God lives and guides our destinies. I am here today because he heard my prayers as a boy and guided my footsteps.”
To understand his words we must go back many years to the time when a 12-year-old boy became a man and went to work.
He lived in a coal-mining village in the little country of Wales where almost all of the male inhabitants worked at the colliery (coal mine and its connected buildings). In a few weeks he would be 12, and like other boys in the village he would go down the pit to dig coal. He was a normal boy who understood that he must leave school to go to work to help support the family. But one morning as he was on his way to school, an incident occurred that was to affect his life. He was to learn the meaning of fear.
Coming up the hill toward the cottages where the miners lived was a small cortege. Two men were carrying a stretcher while one walked in front. Their faces were black with coal dust. On the stretcher was a body, a small body covered over with a brown blanket.
“And who is it now?” someone asked.
“It is little Davey Edwards,” the man in front replied. “He was caught by a roof fall, poor lad.”
The boy continued on to school, but his thoughts were not of schooling but of Davey Edwards. Together they had roamed the hills. They had picked chestnuts from the copse on Mynyddyslwyn Mountain and picked wild blackberries along the bank of Gwyddon Brook. They had stood together where the golden gorse ended and the woodland began and listened to the plaintive call of the cuckoo telling of the approach of spring.
“Aye,” he thought to himself, “those days are gone. Soon Davey will be in the graveyard on Llanvach Hill, and it will be the pit for me.” For the first time in his life he knew the meaning of fear. But he kept the fear inside of him.
His 12th birthday came, and his father informed him he was to start work at the colliery come Monday. On Saturday afternoon they went down to the village where his father took him to the haberdashery and bought him a pair of moleskin trousers and a Welsh flannel shirt. He also bought him a tommy box and tea can, and a pair of yorks to buckle below his knees to prevent the coal dust from going up his trouser leg.
Monday morning came cold and wet, but not as cold as the boy’s heart. He was assigned to work as a butty (partner) to Dai Jenkins, an experienced miner. The management discouraged father and son from working together because it looked bad if two members of a family were killed in one accident.
He stood by the side of Dai Jenkins as the cage descended. Through the glimmer of the miners’ lamps he looked across the cage at his father, who smiled back at him. By his father’s side was another 12-year-old boy from the village.
The cage landed on the bottom with a bump. As the gate was opened and the men stepped out, the smell of horses and donkeys assailed the boy’s nostrils. These animals were used to pull the loaded trams out of the headings and the empties back in. A man with the title of hostler took care of the animals.
The boy followed his butty along the narrow tracks until they reached the face of the tunnel where they were to work. Dai removed his jacket and hung it on the nail that protruded from a timber that supported the roof. He did the same with his tommy box and tea can. The boy did the same.
The coal seam was only three feet thick so Dai spent most of his time on his knees swinging his pick. It was the boy’s responsibility to load the coal into the tram and the muck into other trams. The ostler would then come and take them to the cage at the bottom of the shaft where they would be hauled to the surface.
So the days went by, and each day the boy’s hatred for the darkness grew. There were times when there was a squeeze, a time when the earth settled and it seemed the timbers supporting the roof must snap and he and Dai be crushed. It was at times like this he thought of his friend Davey and wondered if he too would be taken home on a stretcher covered over with a brown blanket.
There was, however, a time during the day that he really enjoyed. Dai would lay down his pick and say, “Come, bachen, it’s time for a bit of food and a sip of tea.”
Together they would sit in the dim light of their lamps and eat the food in their tommy boxes. Occasionally, Dai would give the boy a Welsh cake that his wife made. This was like a bit of heaven.
One day while Dai was digging with his pick, a strange and unusual thing happened. They broke through the face of the tunnel into a small cave. It was no bigger than a small room, and the roof seemed to be of solid rock. At about shoulder height a shelf ran across one side of the wall.
One can only wonder why on that same day as they sat together eating their lunch there was a sound like thunder that echoed through the mine. The earth shook. Dai jumped to his feet and grasped the boy by the arm.
“It’s an explosion, bachen; there may be fire. We must put the brattice cloth (temporary partition of cloth) across the opening. It could be the only chance we’ll have.”
Hurriedly they nailed the heavy cloth across the mouth of the little cave and then sat and waited. Soon they felt the heat as the flames approached.
On the surface the villagers crowded around the mine top. Rescue squads had been sent down but came back almost immediately.
“No one could live down there” was their report. “The mine is on fire. God help those who are down there.”
The mine owners met and made a quick decision. A canal that ran close by must be turned into the mine to extinguish the fire.
A woman cried out, “What about our men?”
Her anguished cry was answered with a shake of the head. In the little cave the heat was almost unbearable, but somehow a little air was coming in. Time seemed to stand still and hours went by. Then they heard the water. It came seeping into the cave, first to shoe tops, then to the knees, and it continued to rise.
Dai climbed up onto the shelf and pulled the boy up beside him. As the water rose, the heat subsided. Then came an eerie silence.
“Bachen,” whispered Dai, “can you pray?”
“Aye, I can,” replied the boy. “Before my mam died, she taught me.”
“Then pray for us. ’Tis all we have left.”
The boy closed his eyes, and for a few moments no words would come. Then they came slowly as from a troubled heart:
“Gentle Jesus, we reach out to you in this darkness, having nothing left but your help. If it be thy will, let us see the light once more. Let our feet climb the hill to our homes. Let us hear the song of the birds and see the sun rise over Rhysog Mountain. We are alone and we need your help. Amen.”
He felt Dai’s arm around his shoulder and heard his voice. “Thanks, bachen. It’s not afraid I am anymore.”
Hours went by and night must have come for they slept. When they awoke, their lamps had gone out. Now there was complete darkness, darkness that was black and foreboding. With the blackness came fear, cold, trembling fear. The boy saw himself being carried up the hill on a stretcher, his body covered with a brown blanket. Dai sensed his fear and put a comforting arm about his shoulder.
“Bachen,” he said, “is it a bit of singing you could do?”
The boy hesitated for a while, and then in a fear-stricken voice, he sang: “Jesus lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, when the tempest still is nigh.” In his boyish tenor he sang the chorus: “Hide me, oh my Savior, hide, till the storm of life is past.” He felt Dai shaking with emotion, so he could not continue.
It is hard to know how fast or slow time passes in the darkness, but the pangs of hunger and thirst came to them.
“Chew on a bit of leather, bachen,” Dai reminded him. “It will help the hunger.”
The boy removed the leather york from below his knee and chewed on it. It was new leather, and the taste of the tanning was still in it. But it helped to assuage the pangs of hunger.
Sleep came again and another day passed. Dai was quiet now, as if realizing the end was close. As a result of hunger and thirst, the boy had become quiet and listless. The complete darkness had settled on him like a shroud. He only waited now for that complete sleep.
Then suddenly from far away a voice was heard: “Is anyone about?” The voices came closer. Then someone threw aside the brattice cloth, and his light shone on Dai and the boy.
“A miracle it is,” he shouted to the other rescuers. “It’s alive they are!”
Dai was able to walk, but they carried the boy to the cage that transported them to daylight and life.
The boy’s father had been killed in the explosion, so Davey Edwards’ family took him in. In a few days some relatives from farther down the valley came to pick him up and take him to their home. They were lovely people, it was said, except they had joined some strange church that had originated in America.
Together the boy and his new family made plans, and the day came when they emigrated to America. Here they made their home in the valley of the mountains.
The old man was bringing his testimony to a close. “So, my brothers and sisters, out of fear came faith, and out of darkness came living light.”

Even with growth from missionary work, reactivation is a high priority everywhere among members and missionaries alike. Claude Gaston became less active while serving in the army. Though he married a Latter-day Saint, he rarely came to church. “After our second child was born, I began to watch my sister and notice the blessings of the gospel in her family,” says Claude. “My wife, children, father, and branch president encouraged me. I think it was pride that kept me from coming back.” Finally, after nine years, Claude began to attend church again. A year and a half later, he took his family to the Swiss Temple to be sealed.

“I have found a great balance and stability in my life as a result of living the gospel,” says Brother Gaston, who is now bishop of the Vitrolles Ward. “The love that unites my family makes us very happy. I am convinced that if I had not become active again, my family would have dispersed.”

Rising Fawn heard the big man’s prayer before she reached the clearing where Melissa, her white friend, lived. “Oh, no!” the Indian girl whispered, as she saw the little group gathered around an open grave. It looked like an ugly scar in the glistening snow.
Who died? Rising Fawn wondered. She stayed hidden in the pine trees and quickly ran her eyes over each member of the family. The mother was missing! And Melissa was holding a tiny, wailing bundle. The blond girl wiped away her own tears and reached down to comfort a small sister. The other children clung together, tearstained and bewildered, as their frozen-faced father began to fill in the lonely grave. His steamy breath spiraled into the cold air as he worked.
Rising Fawn retreated to the riverbank. The grief of the white family was her own. She had hidden and watched them from the first day their clumsy covered wagon creaked into Elk Valley. That they had come to stay was evident. The parents had immediately set about cutting trees and building a cabin. How hard they worked! Even the smallest of the seven blond children helped to gather stones from the river for the chimney and fireplace, and that was how Rising Fawn met Melissa. When the children were called away for meals or to help with other things, the Indian girl selected and piled up stones to help them.
It was Melissa, the eldest, who had slipped back to the river to spy on their mysterious helper. Rising Fawn remembered how frightened the girl had looked when she found herself confronting an Indian! Rising Fawn smiled and pointed to the pile of stones—her gift to the hardworking white children.
She and Melissa had been secret friends throughout the summer and fall, and now it was winter. Gradually the girls had learned to communicate, although neither spoke the other’s language.
Rising Fawn understood why she was never invited to visit the cabin by the way Melissa started, face flushing with guilt, when she was called by her parents. Usually Melissa ran away quickly and often without even a good-bye wave. Such actions told Rising Fawn that the parents either feared or disliked Indians, so Melissa could not tell them about her friend.
It made Rising Fawn sad to think that white people so readily believed all the evil things they had heard about Indians before moving west. Hers was a peaceful tribe. Her heart held only friendship for the new white settlers.
Melissa had not come to the river since the first snow fell, and the Indian girl missed her. The family’s clothing was not right for such frigid weather. They wore no furs or pelts. Perhaps that was why she no longer saw her friend.
Rising Fawn and her brother made a pair of snowshoes for Melissa. She, her mother, and an aunt also made nine pairs of skin mittens for the white family, laced together with the rabbit fur inside for added warmth. Long before dawn the Indian girl slipped up to the cabin door and left the gifts and a large packet of venison. She waited many afternoons but Melissa had never used the snowshoes to come to their meeting place by the river.
The Indian girl came as often as she could, through light snows or blizzards, to leave some meat or a few smoked fish at the cabin door when her family had enough to share. But she always hurried away, for Rising Fawn was afraid of the bearded white giant of a man who seemed to dislike Indians.
Rising Fawn swept snow from a log and sank down to consider the calamity that had befallen her friend. Melissa would have to be the mother of the family now. It was an awesome job for a young girl. Pioneer life was difficult, even for strong women. I will help Melissa! I will even if her father forbids it! the Indian girl vowed, tears slipping down dusky cheeks.
But the baby! How can it live without its mother? she worried. The family had no cattle—not even one cow—only the pair of oxen. Rising Fawn arose and walked back toward the cabin, her snowshoes leaving webbed tracks.
Smoke curled from the chimney, but there was no sign of the children. Rising Fawn shrank back behind a pine tree and watched the father pick up his axe and head into the forest. He looked dazed. Cords of wood were stacked by the door. Rising Fawn’s face softened with understanding. They needed no firewood. The man’s need was to be alone with his grief. Working with the axe would help.
The girl’s heart hammered as she removed her snowshoes and knocked on the cabin door. Would Melissa be afraid? How long would her father be gone? Melissa was working at the fireplace, her back to the room, when a small boy opened the door. Rising Fawn stepped inside and closed it. Melissa turned and dropped a ladle when she saw her. How thin and pale the white girl was! Melissa stared at her friend, then ran to her, weeping.
The Indian girl clasped her close for a moment. Then she gently pushed her away, still holding her hands. They had very little time. With signs, Rising Fawn told Melissa that she had watched her mother’s burial. She pointed at the baby and explained that her aunt, a new mother, who was young and strong, could easily feed both babies until the child was old enough to eat soft foods. Could she, Rising Fawn, take the child to her village?
Melissa’s tearstained face brightened with hope, then her shoulders slumped. Her father considered all Indians to be unfeeling savages. He would never allow it. And if he did not, this small new brother would not live and grow old enough to run, laugh, and play. Her mother would have died for nothing!
Both girls froze as the door crashed open and the father stormed in. His face was flushed with anger. He had followed Rising Fawn’s tracks back to the cabin. The children huddled together, big-eyed, as their father lashed out at their older sister. Rising Fawn felt sick. She had caused her friend added grief. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes reflected scorn for this man who would allow his child to die because of prejudice. The insults she couldn’t understand didn’t matter. Proudly, she held herself as tall as possible, her black eyes fastened on the man’s blazing blue ones. The silence that followed his angry words seemed to hold everything in suspension. Rising Fawn tried not to hear the infant’s weak and hungry wails as she left.
It was dusk when Rising Fawn heard the shout that a white man was approaching the village. She was glad that it was Brown Fox who entered her mother’s hogan with Melissa’s father carrying the baby! Brown Fox spoke English. The girl laid aside the moccasin she was beading and stood to listen as Brown Fox spoke the white man’s words.
“He says that his daughter, who is now the only mother his children have, was very angry with him after you left. For the first time he has seen that her temper matches his own.” Brown Fox translated further, “She reminded him of the food that has been left at their door when they had no meat. She said that she would not permit the baby her mother died giving birth to, to die also and that she would bring it here herself to be nursed by an Indian mother, if he did not have the courage and good sense to do so himself.”
Brown Fox waited patiently as the shamefaced father continued slowly. “He says he has been a very foolish man and that his daughter is wiser than he. He asks you to forgive him and to take his son to your aunt until he is older. You and your people are welcome at his cabin. If we need his help or his oxen, he will gladly oblige us. He wants to be a friend and neighbor.”
Rising Fawn smiled and took the tiny bundle the white man was holding so awkwardly. She cradled it in her arms and laid her cheek against the baby’s blond hair. “Tell Melissa’s father that we will care for his child as for one of our own. He brings us a weak, motherless infant. We will return a strong and healthy son to him. Tell him that Rising Fawn speaks these words: We have always been his friends—and now he is ours.”

I grew up on a farm in Washington State, where my parents raised kids and cattle. I was the youngest in our large family, and at 14 I was busy trying to balance chores at home with my budding social schedule.
Each day after school it was my responsibility to feed and count all 60 head of cattle to make sure that each was safe. To a 14-year-old girl, this was a tedious chore, so I avoided counting them. In the winter it wasn’t as dangerous because none of the cattle were calving, but when the spring hit, it was critical that the pregnant heifers that had never given birth were each watched carefully. But I was too busy worrying about my hair and braces to be bothered about a few cows.
I clearly remember the day I was pulled out of school and rushed home to help. One of our young heifers, my very own actually, had been in labor for three days, hidden in the woods, suffering with no food, no water, and no help. The unborn calf had perished days before, and the cow had been unable to birth it. So, with the help of a vet, my father and I had to remove it from her.
When I pulled up in the truck and saw my father standing there, I was sure he would be angry with me. He had told me thousands of times to count the cattle, always asking if they were all there and all safe. But I was too busy to listen. I was too busy with things I thought were more important, like basketball practice. Or I would wait too long and feed them in the dark, making it impossible to count the herd. At the time, my own things really did seem more important. I didn’t understand; I didn’t have the big picture yet.
When I looked at that poor animal suffering from starvation, crippled and ruined, never again to bear a calf, I knew my father had been right. I had chosen not to listen to his simple instructions, and the consequences affected far more than my own life. I spent the next two months nursing the animal back to health, working her through the paralysis, and doing my best to repair the damage I had caused.
My father? He loved me. He put his arms around me and knew that I would never do it again. He knew that I had learned the lesson the hard way, but it was learned. If only I had listened. It was my own laziness, my own selfish insistence on my personal comfort that had kept me from following my dad’s simple instructions that would have saved a life.

When I graduated from high school, I was an accomplished tennis player, and I was selected to travel around Europe on a great team. While in France, we often played on fast indoor courts. I played well the first month and won a lot of matches.
Feeling really good about myself, I left France with my team and headed for Austria. The first tournament was on slow red clay. Going from fast indoor courts to slow red clay was a dramatic change. For the first time—and the only time in my 40 years of playing tennis—I lost 6–0 6–0, a double bagel, we call it. It rocked my world. Unwisely, I dwelt on my deficiencies from the match for days. A week later I was still dwelling on the loss.
I began to constantly doubt myself. Every time I messed up, I told myself I wasn’t good at tennis. I would miss a backhand into the top of the net and say to myself, “Not again! Your backhand stinks. You can’t make a backhand. Why do you even play this game? You just stink.”
Then I had the opportunity to play tennis at Brigham Young University, and I thought it was the perfect time to reset. However, I quickly learned that the bad mental habit of self-doubt I had created wasn’t going away anytime soon. I was working hard physically, but I wasn’t working hard mentally.
The problem was that I didn’t know how to fix my habit. How could I develop the belief that I could improve when I constantly doubted my God-given ability to do so? And my doubts didn’t just relate to sports. I had often told myself I wasn’t a good student. As a result, I didn’t study well and therefore didn’t do as well in school as I could have. Receiving low grades just reinforced the cycle of self-doubt, negative talk, and negative performance. As I prayed and pondered about these things, the Lord taught me some valuable lessons that could apply in all areas of my life.
One of the most important things I realized is how dangerous self-doubt is. When it gets into your mind, it hinders your ability to fulfill your potential and undermines confidence. However, confidence and fear, or positive and negative thoughts, cannot occupy your mind at the same time. To break my habit of self-doubt, I needed to fill my mind with the belief that I could excel.
I started working on thinking more positively. President James E. Faust (1920–2007), Second Counselor in the First Presidency, said, “We develop our talents first by thinking we can.”1
But positive thinking by itself isn’t enough. I realized that because I have a divine nature and destiny, I can trust in God to help me improve in all areas of my life. And as I listen to the Holy Ghost, I can make good choices, develop my talents, and work to reach my divine potential.
What’s more, God wants me to become my best self as I strive to become like Him. As Elder L. Tom Perry (1922–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “It matters not the size or the quantity but the effort we put forth to develop the talents and abilities we have received. You are not competing with anyone else. You are only competing with yourself to do the best with whatever you have received. Each talent that is developed will be greatly needed and will give you tremendous fulfillment and satisfaction during your life. …
“… We are instructed not to idle away our time nor bury our talents and not use them. We are expected to make our lives better through our own initiatives and efforts.”2
As I exercise faith in God, ask Him for guidance and help to fulfill my divine potential, and trust that He will help me, I gain trust, confidence, and a growing sense of self-worth.
Of course, that doesn’t mean things always work out the way you or I hope—you may not always win the game, the girl may not say yes when you ask her on a date, and you may not ace or even pass the test—but trusting God does sustain us through those circumstances.
The Lord also taught me that increasing confidence has a lot to do with how you talk to yourself. Every time I caught myself thinking or talking to myself in negative, reactive ways like, “Your backhand stinks” or “Don’t miss that backhand,” I would stop that thought and immediately replace it with thoughts such as, “I love my backhand” or “I am going to rip it down the line.” And instead of saying to myself, “School is tough; my classes are too hard for me,” I started telling myself, “I’ve got this; I can get good grades.”
It took some time, but everything started to change. I was playing amazing tennis (at least for me), and I was studying and getting better grades. More importantly, it chased out fear. This change in thinking was a continual work in progress, and I constantly battled to apply what I had learned. As my fear disappeared, my confidence grew.
The Lord also taught me that it was important to remind myself of my worth and potential when I started doubting or talking negatively about myself. I started thinking of short phrases that would remind me of my divine worth when I am under pressure or discouraged. Doing this is a lot like using a scripture or hymn to lift you up when you feel down or want to stay strong in the face of temptation—only personalized to your particular situation. When used at critical moments, doing this can flood the mind with positive, strong thoughts and instantly squeeze out any negative thoughts and emotions.
As an example, when I applied this process to my coaching, I was amazed by the dramatic increase in performance from the athletes I worked with. One was a U.S. Olympic mogul skier who was not ranked very high.
As I worked with her, she worked hard on training her thoughts to be positive and on using positive phrases to purify her thought patterns. As her thoughts improved, so did her performance. Eventually she was selected to join the World Cup touring team.
After the prequalifying races, this athlete was in fourth place. She told me after the event that when she had gotten on the chairlift to go up for her finals run, doubt had gotten into her mind. She began to accept her doubt, thinking, “It’s OK. No one expected me to do this well. My family will still love me.”
But then she caught herself and said: “No! Today is my day! I am making it happen today!”
And guess what? She ended up skiing faster than she had ever skied before and finished tied for first place.
Here’s the really cool thing: This doesn’t just work for skiing. You can think of personalized, positive reminders to replace negative thoughts when you struggle with grades or feel like you don’t fit in or that you are not worth much because you aren’t popular.
Dwelling obsessively on what we do wrong prevents us from maximizing our potential. It is one of the adversary’s greatest tools. But using language to build confidence and trusting in God to help you do your best no matter the result builds confidence in your abilities and chases away doubt. That concept has changed my life.
When we trust in God, we achieve our greatest potential because we become who He wants us to be. We can replace fear with confidence and pessimism with optimism as we strive to do our best.

Recently at a stake conference, Elder Charles “Tiny” Grant, one of our fine regional representatives, shared an experience with us. He said that some years ago while he was the football coach at Ricks College, he met a man named Hal Barton, who was famous for his love of fishing. He was warned, however, that “although Hal knows where to find the big fish, he often goes into strong waters to find them.”

Their first opportunity to go fishing together was in February as the ice was breaking up. As they walked together up the river, Hal pointed to an island about 50 yards away and said, “Coach, that is where we will find the big ones.” The day was cold, and now they had to cross a dangerous part of the river. The coach soon discovered that the rocks were round and slick, and the water was only inches from the top of his waders. Since he is six feet five inches tall, that meant it was deep. He was about to tell Hal that he was afraid he couldn’t cross the water, but realized that the football coach could not admit that he was afraid.

Just then Hal said, “Coach, this is how we are going to cross the water. You take a step and get a firm footing while I hold your hand and arm steady. Then I will take a step while you stand firmly and furnish the support. We will work our way through this roiling, swift water over these slippery rocks.” With this mutual support, they crossed the river safely and caught the big ones.

I saw the promise come to fruition that my doctors would be guided. When I awoke after one of my operations, the surgeon came to see me.
“I was all done,” she explained, “but something told me to go deeper, and I found additional problem areas, which I was able to remove. We’re fortunate to have found them.”
She is not a member of the Church, but the promise of the blessing I had received early on had come to pass. The Spirit had guided her.

Hey, Andy. How was school?
Good. We talked about different religions. I learned a lot about other beliefs—we have more in common than I thought!
Wow! What did you learn?
I learned that Ayla is Muslim, and she prays five times a day.
Stephen is Baptist, and he praises God when he goes to church.
Anastasia is Catholic. She repents through prayer and confession.
And Levi is Jewish. His family follows God’s laws to guide their life.
Wow, you learned a lot! Did you share anything with your class?
Yep! I told them that Jesus Christ knows and loves me, and that I try to be like Him.

Priscila Vital, a member of the Rio Negro stake in Manaus, Brazil, had to make a difficult choice about how to celebrate her 15th birthday. Priscila’s birthday would come while her mother, Francilene, was in the middle of a 17-day stake caravan trip to the São Paulo Brazil Temple. Francilene had saved money for three years to go to the temple for the first time, and she had enough money to either take Priscila with her or throw a traditional 15th birthday party upon her return. Priscila’s decision was further complicated because most of the relatives in her tight-knit family were members of other churches and had been eagerly anticipating her birthday for several years. They did not understand the importance of going to the temple.
“All of my aunts and uncles wanted me to stay and have the birthday party, especially because I’m the only girl in my family,” says Priscila. “When I decided to go to the temple, it was a good opportunity for me to show them just how important this was to me.”
For Priscila, giving up her 15th birthday celebration was no sacrifice. “When it was time to come home, I didn’t want to leave,” Priscila remarks. “All I want to do is save money so I can go back to the temple as quickly as possible.”