Gospel Story Finder

As part of his redeeming power, Jesus can remove the sting of death or restore the spiritual health of a struggling soul. The scriptures are filled with examples, but a young Korean sister indelibly taught me this lesson. In early 1994, while attending a stake conference in Seoul, Korea, I met Kim Young Hee, a young woman in her 20s. I noticed her beautiful countenance as she sat in a wheelchair on the stand waiting to speak. When her turn came, a brother pushed her chair to the front of the stand but off to the side of the pulpit so she could see and be seen. He gave her a microphone and she told us her story.
As a young woman, she was healthy, had an excellent job, and was content with life. She was not a Christian. In 1987, she was in a terrible car accident that left her paralyzed from the waist down. Following her recovery in a hospital, she returned to her parents’ home wondering what life held for her. She was despondent and empty. One day a knock came at the door. Her mother answered, and two American women asked to share a message about Jesus Christ. The mother was hesitant, but the daughter heard the voices and invited them in. They were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Kim Young Hee accepted the invitation to receive the missionary lessons. She read the Book of Mormon, prayed about its truthfulness, attended church, and received a witness of the divinity of the Restoration. She was baptized.
“I know that Heavenly Father does not look on the outward appearance, but on the heart. I also know that the true miracle is the healing within, the change of heart, the loss of pride. Although my physical body may not be healed in mortality, my spirit has felt the healing power of the Holy Ghost. And in the Resurrection, a fully restored, perfect physical body will again house my spirit and I will receive a fulness of joy.”

As the soft, gray drizzle grew into a steady downpour, Mackinzee Waters pushed a damp wisp of hair from her eyes and quickly finished filling the bucket with wild blackberries. She pulled her shawl tighter about her and glanced up at the steely sky. Huge black clouds were unfurling, and thunder boomed like Civil War cannons. The weather seemed much like her life—harsh and indifferent, even though her family was trying hard to live by God’s commandments. Sure, she sometimes argued with her older brother, Chase, or did her chores begrudgingly, but were those offenses worthy of all the misfortune that had befallen her family?
Lightning seared through the dark day, its crooked fingers of white clawing the heavy air. It had been lightning that burned down their prairie home just two years before.
Mackinzee and her family had been in church at the time. Why would God let such a thing happen while we were worshiping? she wondered now as she hurried back toward the sod house built in the face of the small hillock by a stand of cottonwoods. Was he punishing us for something, or had he somehow completely forgotten us?
She paused by a small grave under a scraggly willow and gazed at the little headstone:
Eric Waters
Born December 15, 1867
Died May 22, 1869
Her baby brother had passed away the year before, stung to death by a swarm of bees. Why? Why did God let it happen?
Distracted by the sound of someone’s knuckle tapping at a window, she glanced at the sod house. Papa was beckoning through the rain-smeared glass. He was lying in bed as he had been since being mauled three months ago by a grizzly that had wandered down from the timber. Doc Gunnerson had said that it would be another three months before Papa’s leg would be mended enough for him to go back to the fields. It had been a real struggle for Mama and fourteen-year-old Chase and herself to manage without him.
Mama met her at the door. “You’d best get out of those wet clothes, honey, before you catch your death.”
Mackinzee set the pot of berries down hard on the table. “Why should I expect anything different, Mama, after everything else that’s happened to us?” She turned abruptly and disappeared into a small adjoining room, the door closing behind her with a bang.
Chase looked up from a boot he was polishing with soot from the bottom of a stove lid, shook his head, and chuckled to himself. “She sounds more growly than a hungry bear.”
“She has been awful moody lately,” Papa admitted.
On Monday, Chase dragged the big black washtub into the yard and fetched water from a nearby stream. Mama heated water in a kettle on the stove, and Mackinzee carried it out and poured it into the tub until there was enough to do the laundry.
The washing took most of the day. Finally mother and daughter hung out the wet clothes on a rope stretched between two trees. As they did, Mama paused and glanced over at Mackinzee. A gentle breeze tugged at the young girl’s auburn hair that glowed in the sunlight like rusty gold. She was a pretty girl. “As pretty as a spring fawn,” Papa often commented, “with a gold-dust shine that could dazzle the hardest of hearts.”
But today that simple loveliness was overshadowed by lines of deep despair. This wasn’t the first time Mama had observed her daughter’s unhappiness. But whenever she had asked about it, Mackinzee always smiled and shrugged it off.
“What are you staring at, Mama?” Mackinzee asked, at the same moment realizing she had just given her mother an opportunity to enter her most guarded thoughts. Mackinzee was attempting a quick evasive smile when her mother stroked her cheek.
The gentle gesture broke the barrier that held back a sea of pent-up hurt and anger, and she broke into sobs.
Mama quickly pulled her close. “What’s the matter, honey,” she soothed. “What’s been tearing at you so?”
Papa pulled back a curtain by his bed and squinted out through the weather-streaked glass. “Do you know where your sister and your mama are, Chase? I saw them hanging out clothes about an hour ago. Now they’ve disappeared.”
Chase splashed water on his face and neck and rubbed them vigorously to get off as much sweat and field dirt as he could, then turned to his father. “When I came in from the field just now, I saw them sitting on the big log by the creek. They looked to be deep in talk.”
Papa gazed back out the window and nodded. “Good,” he said quietly. “Good.”
Out in the field, Mama put her comforting arm around Mackinzee. “I don’t expect there’s anything sadder than a body keeping a world of heartache to herself, honey, unless it’s thinking that she must.”
Mackinzee rubbed at a hot tear that oozed from a swollen eye. “I didn’t want to add to your or Papa’s worries by—”
Mama placed a gentle finger across her daughter’s lips. “Do you think your papa and I haven’t been concerned over not knowing what’s been troubling you? It’s a lot easier to puzzle out a problem once you have all the pieces before you on the table, right?” At Mackinzee’s slow, tentative nod, Mama continued, “And now let’s try to do that, shall we?”
Mackinzee agreed, but her first question almost caught in her throat. “Why does God allow bad things to happen to us? Is he punishing us?”
“Sometimes he allows misfortune to befall someone because of wrong choices. For every one of our actions, there is a consequence.”
Mackinzee’s eyes dropped. “Sometimes I haven’t done my chores with a good heart, Mama. And Chase and I get in arguments. Maybe Heavenly Father—”
Mama squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Shame on you for being normal,” she chuckled. “Besides,” she added, “I don’t believe that even bad experiences are wasted. Most can be for our profit and learning. It’s all in the way we accept them. And in how we deal with them.”
“Then you don’t think God has forgotten us?”
“If he counts every sparrow that falls, like the scriptures teach us, it’s a sure fact that he keeps track of the rest of us.” Mama’s eyes misted. “It’s in me to know that he keeps company with the afflicted,” she added with a granite conviction.
“Then why … ?”
Mama regarded her daughter with a look that was so profoundly reverent and alive with testimony that it made Mackinzee pause. “How do you suppose one would get to the top of that mountain over there?”
Mackinzee gazed off at the purple form that rose and fell at the bottom of the sky. “By climbing it, of course.”
“Yes. And always remember that heaven is up too. By climbing the mountains of adversity in our lives, we can develop our spiritual muscles. Doctrine and Covenants 136:31 [D&C 136:31] says that the Lord’s people ‘must be tried in all things, that they may be prepared to receive the glory that [he has] for them.’”
As Mackinzee thought about this, Mama reached down and picked up a shiny river rock. “We must learn to let the waves that beat upon our shores wash away the weaker parts and leave in its wake a stronger man or woman.” She stood and went over to a wild rose plant and plucked a blossom with its stem. “If rain can make the flowers grow, then why not the rest of us?” She ran a finger lightly across a large barb on the stem. “This thorn flower can teach us a valuable lesson, honey,” she counseled gently. “A rose without a thorn is only half a rose.”
A slow smile rippled across Mackinzee’s face. She would learn to be happy, even when it rained.
Mama pinched off the thorn with her thumbnail, then put the rose in Mackinzee’s hair. The girl stood and took her mother’s hand, and they started toward home.

There were twelve children in the Cullimore family—six boys and six girls—and Elder Cullimore was the seventh child. Remembering those childhood days, Elder Cullimore says, “Father owned a store in Lindon and also a farm. I think my father got the farm just to keep us all busy. During the day we’d thin and top sugar beets or cut grain. Each fall Father would divide the money from the sugar company among us boys. Sometimes after a hard day’s work the store still had so many customers that we had to help out there until it closed at nine o’clock. And there were chores at home to do as well!
“My father was the most influential person in my life. His life was exemplary. He was a bishop for twenty-six years. When I was growing up, I didn’t even know any other bishop. We had what we called ‘home nights’ every week. And on Sundays it was just expected that we’d all go to church. Whether working on the farm or in the store, our large family always felt very close to each other.”

Build spirituality. Young people are capable of rising to meet spiritual challenges. For a youth conference a few years ago, stake leaders took the young people to an amusement park. The next year they tried a different type of activity. Following the counsel of Church leaders, they decided to take the focus off entertainment and put it on experiencing true joy by planning spiritual workshops and service projects. At first the teenagers weren’t very excited about the change, but as the conference progressed, they began to see things in a new light. The testimony meeting at the end of that conference was far different from the one a year earlier when, as one of the leaders described it, “Most of the youth just sat and giggled and poked each other.” This time, the young people were eager to express their joy at having served others and their love for Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.

The silence of the sacrament service lingered as the young bishop walked slowly to the pulpit. “May I please see by a show of hands, how many of you love the Lord?”
Everywhere in the congregation hands were raised—some high, some low; some people raised only a finger. A few kept their hands in their laps. “That’s fine,” nodded the bishop. “How many of you would like to have a perfect day?”
Again the hands were raised.
“Larry, would you like to have a perfect day? Would you please come up here in front. Gene and LaRae? DeeAnn? Sean? Tess and John? Lynn and Mike?”
The names were called slowly and carefully, a short pause between each one. Some of the hands dropped lower, some fell back into the laps of their owners, only a few remained high.
“A widow? Do we have a widow who would like to live a perfect day?” There was a moment of silence as the bishop looked over the congregation filled mostly with widows and older people. “Vivian, would you like to have a perfect day?”
The bishop then turned to those who were on the stand behind him. “Now which day would you like to be your perfect day? Tuesday?”
Shock, disbelief, bewilderment—no one had really expected to have to make a real commitment. Some heads were nodding yes. Others stood motionless. After several seconds someone suggested Thursday because it was farther away and would give them more time to prepare. So Thursday was set as the day.
The bishop, with eyes twinkling, said, “That’s fine. Thursday you will have a perfect day. And next Sunday we’d like you to describe your perfect day in sacrament meeting.”
Then he turned back to the congregation. “Is there anyone else who would like to live a perfect day?” James, a young Aaronic Priesthood teacher, with freckled face and a winning grin, raised his hand. He was included.
“Thursday these eleven people are going to have a perfect day,” the bishop continued addressing the congregation. “Your responsibility as ward members is to pray that they accomplish that assignment.”
What makes a day perfect? How does one live a perfect day? All through the week when ward members would get together, the subject of the perfect day would come up. We were excited to hear the reports.
Sunday finally came.

The day after Martin’s departure, Emma endured an agonizing labor and gave birth to a boy. The baby was frail and sickly and did not live long. The ordeal left Emma physically drained and emotionally devastated, and for a time it seemed she might die too. Joseph tended to her constantly, never leaving her side for long.38
After two weeks, Emma’s health began to improve, and her thoughts turned to Martin and the manuscript. “I feel so uneasy,” she told Joseph, “that I cannot rest and shall not be at ease until I know something about what Mr. Harris is doing with it.”
She urged Joseph to find Martin, but Joseph did not want to leave her. “Send for my mother,” she said, “and she shall stay with me while you are gone.”39
Joseph took a stagecoach north. He ate and slept little during the journey, afraid that he had offended the Lord by not listening when He said not to let Martin take the manuscript.40
The sun was rising when he arrived at his parents’ home in Manchester. The Smiths were preparing breakfast and sent Martin an invitation to join them. By eight o’clock, the meal was on the table but Martin had not come. Joseph and the family started to grow uneasy as they waited for him.
Finally, after more than four hours had passed, Martin appeared in the distance, walking slowly toward the house, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.41 At the gate he paused, sat on the fence, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He then came inside and sat down to eat in silence.
The family watched as Martin picked up his utensils, as if ready to eat, then dropped them. “I have lost my soul!” he cried, pressing his hands on his temples. “I have lost my soul.”
Joseph jumped up. “Martin, have you lost that manuscript?”
“Yes,” Martin said. “It is gone, and I know not where.”
“Oh, my God, my God,” Joseph groaned, clenching his fists. “All is lost!”
He started pacing the floor. He did not know what to do. “Go back,” he ordered Martin. “Search again.”
“It is all in vain,” Martin cried. “I have looked every place in the house. I have even ripped open beds and pillows, and I know it is not there.”
“Must I return to my wife with such a tale?” Joseph feared the news would kill her. “And how shall I appear before the Lord?”
His mother tried to comfort him. She said maybe the Lord would forgive him if he repented humbly. But Joseph was sobbing now, furious at himself for not obeying the Lord the first time. He could barely eat for the rest of the day. He stayed the night and left the next morning for Harmony.42
As his mother, Lucy, watched him go, her heart was heavy. It seemed everything they had hoped for as a family—everything that had brought them joy over the last few years—had fled in a moment.43

It was a windy day in Mongolia. Nine-year-old Batbayar was walking home from the bus stop after school. He hugged his coat tighter in the wind. Luckily, it wasn’t far to his grandparents’ house, where he lived.
“Hi!” Batbayar said as he came inside.
“Welcome home,” Grandma said. “I made some khuushuur for a snack.”
“Thank you!” Batbayar reached for one of the warm, spicy meat pies.
“Wait! Don’t eat any until the missionaries get here,” Grandpa said. “They’ll be coming any minute.”
Batbayar loved it when the missionaries from Grandma and Grandpa’s church came to visit. He always learned a lot from them. But there was just one problem.
“Will they ask me to read from the Book of Mormon again?” Batbayar asked. “Reading is hard for me.”
“That’s why they’re bringing another book today,” Grandma said.
“What book?” Batbayar said.
“You’ll see,” Grandpa said.
Soon the missionaries arrived. They ate Grandma’s delicious meat pies together. Then Batbayar said, “Grandma says you brought me a book.”
“I think you’ll like this book,” Sister Heitz said. “It has lots of pictures.”
Batbayar looked at the cover. Book of Mormon Stories, it said. A picture on the cover showed people building a boat.
“I remember that story,” Batbayar said. “The man didn’t know how to build a boat. So he prayed. And God helped him.”
“That’s right,” Sister Enkhtuya said. “Will you try reading this book? Then you can pray to know that what it teaches is true.”
“I will,” Batbayar promised.
That night he read from the book with pictures. He read the story about the boat. Then he prayed. He fell asleep thinking about the man who built the boat and how God helped him.
From then on, each night Batbayar read a story. Then he prayed. And each night, he fell asleep thinking about what he read.
When the sister missionaries came again, they taught Batbayar more about Jesus Christ. Batbayar learned about prophets. He learned about God’s commandments. He kept going to church with Grandma and Grandpa. And he kept reading and praying.
One day Batbayar had something important to tell his grandparents. “When I read the stories in the book with pictures, my heart feels good,” he said. “When I pray, I feel they are true. I think I should be baptized.”
Today, Batbayar is a member of the Church. He has gotten better and better at reading. And he still reads the Book of Mormon every night!

Bishop Ochieng and his wife had a friend who moved away from their neighborhood, but his wife knew where she now lived. The Ochiengs decided to “do something merciful” and visit her and also see how she was doing. They found her in a predicament with rent due and only KSh40 for the whole week. They gave her a little. She wept and the Ochiengs wept with her, because she didn’t know they were doing the 25 ways in 25 days program.

Some years ago, Sister Sorensen and I visited India. At one airport I saw some men sitting in front of wicker baskets, playing flutes. As they started to play the music, they would take the top off the basket and a cobra would appear! As the music continued, the snake would rise higher and higher, nearly reaching its full length until the cobra would collapse back into the basket. Once I noticed a cobra fall outside the basket. The man playing the flute reached over, petted the cobra, and carefully put it back into the basket. I was amazed that a man could handle such a dangerous creature, apparently without being harmed. But our guide quickly told me that this was very risky and told us that a major cause of death in this province was indeed poisonous snakebite.

After 15 months, I was reassigned to the American Embassy in Pretoria, South Africa. I was selected as the first black Marine security guard ever to serve in South Africa. In each place I was assigned, I was handpicked because of my standards. Interestingly, President Bill Clinton phoned to ask me to accept the South Africa assignment. Those were some of the reasons that I received many recognitions and awards.
It was in South Africa that I met the Cleverlys, who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The mother of the family invited me to their home at various times. She always told me about young single adult activities, but I could never attend due to my job schedule. Then she invited me to attend church, and I accepted. But before Sunday came, I had three nights of night-shift duty. I went downstairs to the library of the embassy where there was a computer with a huge search capacity. I just typed in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. All this information came up, so I just read it for eight hours the first night, eight hours the second night, and eight hours the third night. What I looked at most of all was what Latter-day Saints believed and how they applied it in their lives. Did they live according to what they had established as laws or standards of the Church?
The week preceding my visit to church, I had a dream. I was sitting at a table, and there were two young men with white short-sleeved shirts and black tags. They were sitting on the sides of a table, and I was seated at the head. I woke up, but I didn’t think much about the dream.
The first time I walked into an LDS ward, I knew there was something different about this church. Also, it happened to be the first Sunday of the month, which meant that the members had an opportunity to stand and bear testimony. Now this is the true order of church, I thought.
I was introduced to two missionaries who began to teach me. One of the young men was one of those in my dream, the exact person. Sister Cleverly invited the missionaries and me to her home for dinner. She placed us at the table exactly as my dream had predicted.
Later, when we got to the principle about baptism for the dead, I thought it was so amazing that one could go to a sacred place and do these things for people who had passed away. I just thought that was incredible, and I thought about my two grandfathers and my grandmother who had passed away. That’s when I started to feel the Holy Ghost. The teachings sounded right to me.
We got to the next principle, which is about families, and I just always knew that was true. When I heard about eternal families, I told the missionaries, “I knew this existed.”
Then the missionaries taught me about the Word of Wisdom, and it was then that I had a discovery. I don’t want to call it a paradigm shift, but it felt like my soul unfolded, and I just shed this shell and a new person came out. I felt like I was three feet off the ground. I had always lived the Word of Wisdom, and I wanted to know why I was the way that I was. No one ever had the answer to that for me, but the Lord did through the missionaries and the discussions. I knew that everything they had taught me previously was true, and everything that they would teach me would be true. I never felt the Spirit so strongly reading scriptures before, and when I read Doctrine and Covenants 89:18–21, I knew it was true. I always knew that my body was important, and I knew that it was never to be defiled.
From this point forward, I began to experience mixed emotions about becoming a member of the Church. I was concerned about my father’s opinion and his reaction to my decision. The night of the sixth discussion was a very eventful night.
During the sixth discussion, I received the message that I had an incoming call from my father. The phone rang. I picked it up, and it was indeed my dad.
He said, “Your mother informed me that you’ve made a decision to join the Latter-day Saints.”
I said yes.
He said, “I’m here to prevent that from happening.”
And I said, “You know what, Dad? I love you, and you’ll always be my dad. You’ve done a great job with me. But I’m 22. I’m a man now, and these decisions are for my family and my future. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and that you will continue to do for me, but this is my decision. I’m going to do it, and I know that the Lord wants me to do this.”
My dad wasn’t too happy when he hung up the phone. Immediately I got on my knees in the kitchen and asked the Lord to help me see and understand that what I was going to do was correct. I was thousands of miles away from home. I was all alone, and nothing was going right. Only when I was with the missionaries did I feel good. At that moment the Spirit testified to me that it was the Lord’s will and that the Lord wanted me to be baptized. It was a very clear voice that just said, “You’re to do the Lord’s will. You are to follow His example.” Then I knew. I never looked back after that. I was baptized on October 12, 1995.
It was a year to the day of my baptism, October 12, 1996, that I entered the Washington D.C. Temple to be endowed in preparation for serving a full-time mission to the Spain Madrid Mission.
During the first year of my mission, my parents were not supportive about my missionary service. The Lord revealed to me while I was on my mission that my family was fine, and they would be taken care of. Then things changed all of a sudden. The last six to eight months of my mission my family was very supportive. They said they were receiving blessings, and they knew it was because of my serving a mission.
After I returned from my mission, I stayed with my family for three weeks before I had to leave to enter Brigham Young University. Before school started, my father visited me, meeting my friends and seeing Salt Lake City. When I took him to the airport, he embraced me and told me, “Out of all 46 years of my life, never ever have I felt more love or the Spirit of God in my home than when you were home the last few weeks. I know that we owe it to the service that you gave in Spain for two years.”

One night when our children were younger, we were having family scripture time. We read about the Savior and talked about how He never made any mistakes.
Later that night my wife tucked our three-year-old daughter, Susie, into bed. Susie looked up at her mother and said, “Mummy, Jesus did make a mistake.”
“What do you mean?” her mother asked.
“He broke something,” Susie said.
Somewhat puzzled, her mother asked, “What did He break?”
“Jesus broke the bands of death,” Susie answered.
My wife realized that she and Susie had sung the Primary song “On a Golden Springtime” many times, and Susie had learned the words “On a golden springtime, Jesus Christ awoke and left the tomb where He had lain; the bands of death He broke.”1 Susie’s mother explained that breaking the bands of death means that Jesus was resurrected so that we can all live again after we die.
That conversation has given my wife and me many opportunities to teach our daughters, Lizzie, Susie, and Emma, about what the Atonement really means for each of us. Susie was right: Jesus did break the bands of death. But it wasn’t a mistake. It was the greatest gift He could give us! (See Doctrine and Covenants 14:7.)

Lunch period was the worst. Polly and I ate at different times, so we had to eat alone. It was also embarrassing to have to bring a sack lunch. Every day I sat by myself, reading a book so I didn’t have to look up.

One day a girl from one of the tough groups sauntered over on a dare from her friends. Her heavily made-up eyes jeered at me.

“Whatcha readin’?” she said.

I could hear the laughter of her friends. My heart pounded. Maybe if I kept reading she would just leave.

“Is it good?” she tried again, turning to look at her friends. Loud laughter. I kept reading.

“Man, are you dumb,” she said as she walked away.

I was too embarrassed to mention the incident to my parents. I don’t think they ever realized I had no friends at school. I don’t know if it was just the clothes we wore or that we didn’t know exactly what to say or do to be like everyone else, but we never did feel like we fit in.

I wrote in my journal, “I don’t know what to wear. White socks and shoes are out in the winter, and I have the wrong kind of coat and boots. Styles are so different here!”

Church and home were the only two places where I felt accepted. The kids at church didn’t seem to care about my eerie eyewear or my outdated clothing. I loved activity nights. An industrious seamstress, I modeled several of my creations in an MIA fashion show. Another time I participated in an impromptu speech contest and did terribly, but no one seemed to mind. Virginia Webb became a good friend, but she attended a different junior high.

I began to live for weekends and the hours after school spent playing with my brothers and sisters. In Hawaii we had had scores of friends and rarely played together. But here my brothers and sisters became my closest friends. They were there when that long-awaited snow finally fell. We frolicked in it like kittens in catnip. We held our mouths open as it fell. Each flake was a miracle, every snowball another excuse to giggle.

Eventually it dawned on us that we were the biggest kids on the sledding hill across from our home. In Michigan sledding was only for kids. But Alan didn’t care. At age 16, he was six feet, five inches tall, and he loved sledding. Every day after school, he went sledding alongside the grade schoolers. They gawked at him, but since he was so much bigger, no one ever said a word.

The rest of us, still trying to fit in, bought used ice skates. I’d been a good roller skater in Hawaii and ice skating came easy. With all the ponds and lakes in Michigan, we never had to settle for endless circling in a stale old rink. I loved the exhilaration of skating hard and fast across a frozen lake.

In the middle of the winter, a package arrived from my Grandmother Marsh in Los Angeles. I caught my breath when Polly and I tore off the brown wrapping. Inside were two outfits, breathtakingly in style. Mine had a pink flowered top with knee socks to match. Polly’s was identical, except that it was blue. This was our big chance to show the kids at Forsythe Junior High that we weren’t such misfits after all. Boy, would they be surprised!

I was a little nervous about the color because this was no ordinary pink. It was a sizzling, shocking pink. But the outfit was so definitely “in” that I squelched my fear. I slowly hung my oversized plaid coat in my locker and wondered what the kids would think of me appearing in such style.

A sea of eyes followed my dazzling pink presence from my locker to my homeroom. Then the whispering began—but not whispers of envy or admiration, as I had secretly hoped.

“Look what she’s wearing.”

“Didn’t we already have Halloween?”

All day the laughter continued. Resentment and frustration built within me. If only I had a friend to walk with, it would be so much easier. If only somebody who knew what was acceptable would give me some hints. Repeatedly I had tried to fit in and failed. And now even Grandma’s outfit had betrayed me. After that I stopped trying to live by other people’s standards. I warned Polly, and she never even wore her new clothes.

I wish I could say that there was some magic turning point, that we discovered a key that made us popular, that we found friends at our school, and that we became leaders and trendsetters ourselves. Of course we didn’t. In a year the sabbatical was over, and we returned to Hawaii, our scores of friends, our waves and mountain fruit, our mild weather and perpetually green foliage. Never was I happier than when we returned to our beloved island.

And yet now, 20 years later, when I think of Michigan, I smile. With fondness I recall Alan running barefoot in the snow. I grin at the memory of Philip and me raking autumn leaves. My heart soars when I remember skimming across a frozen lake with Polly or strolling through the farmer’s market with my father. Tears come to my eyes when I think about the whole family piling into our cream-colored station wagon, off for a picnic in Kalamazoo.

It isn’t easy to move when you’re in junior high school. It’s even tougher when you’re poor and you’re exchanging a provincial paradise for a bustling college town. There were times when I was sure I would never make it.

But now, given some time and distance, I know what the secret was. I leaned on my family. And because of them I survived.

My thoughts turned also to my righteous parents, who raised me in the principles of the gospel. I was reminded in particular of a moment when my loving mother knelt with me to pray by my bedside when I was around 10 years of age. She must have felt that if my prayers were going to reach my Father in Heaven, they would need to improve. So she said, “I will pray first, and after my prayer, you pray.” She continued this pattern for many nights, until she was confident I had learned by principle and by practice how to speak to Heavenly Father. I will be forever grateful to her for teaching me to pray, for I learned that my Heavenly Father hears my prayers and answers them.

In 2021, my parents were called as mission leaders over the France Lyon Mission. In 2022, Elder Soares came to visit. In his talk to the missionaries, he mentioned that his luggage got lost on one of his flights.
This was kind of a wake-up call for me. It’s easy to see apostles and prophets on our screens and think that life is easy for them. But our leaders don’t ask to do this—they are called to do it. They choose to follow the Lord, and that means leaving behind their plans for the future.
Elder Soares taught me what it means to be a disciple of Christ. Even though he was busy and had his own struggles, he tried to talk to as many members as possible. I realized that the General Authorities are people like you and me who have chosen Christ and work to show His love.
Lydie L.

“Are you excited for Activity Day?” Chloe asked Gabby as they sat down in sharing time.
Gabby shrugged. “We’re supposed to learn about a pioneer ancestor and do a presentation, right?”
Chloe nodded. “I’m excited. My great-great-great-grandma was from Scotland. She crossed the plains to Utah in a covered wagon. I think I’m going to bring her journal and read it in a Scottish accent.”
“That’ll be cool.” Gabby looked down at her hands. “I don’t think I’m related to any pioneers, though.”
“Hmm,” Chloe said. “Well, Sister James says we’re all pioneers.”
Gabby imagined everyone in the room dressed in pioneer clothing and laughed. “I’m glad we don’t have to wear bonnets!”
Later that day, Gabby was helping Mom cook dinner when she thought about Activity Day again. “So … what pioneer ancestors do we have?” Gabby asked, stirring a pot of bubbling red sauce.
Mom threw some spices into the pot, then started chopping little sausages.
“Ancestors? I tell you about them all the time. You should know.”
“Wait, like who?”
“Like your Great-Grandpa …”
“No, I mean pioneer ancestors who crossed the plains. Ones who pulled wagons and wore bonnets and stuff.”
Mom laughed. “Well, we don’t have any of those. But we do have other awesome ancestors who did pioneering things. Like your Great-Grandma Luisa.”
Gabby smiled. “I love hearing stories about your grandma! She grew up on a farm in Spain, right?”
Mom nodded. “Then she moved to Argentina and started her own business. Even though she never had a chance to finish school, she made sure her children got a good education.”
As the sauce simmered, they sat at the kitchen table, and Mom told Gabby more stories about Grandma Luisa. She was a gardener and talked to her flowers. Whenever she went on a trip, the flowers would wilt a little, just because they missed her.
“And the most important thing to remember about Grandma Luisa is her faith,” Mom said. “She would pray out loud as she did dishes, as she cooked, as she gardened … she loved talking to God!”
Mom got a happy-sad expression on her face, like she was looking at something far away.
Gabby reached out and put her hand on Mom’s arm. “Those are cool stories, Mom,” Gabby said. “I think I’ll tell the other Primary kids about Luisa. I wish I could have known her.”
“Me too. She would have loved spending time with you,” Mom said.
When the day of the activity came, Gabby was ready. She’d gathered a few of Luisa’s things to show: her favorite lotion, a beaded rosary she held while praying, and a gourd she used as a cup for traditional drinks. But Gabby’s favorite thing to show was a picture of Luisa when she was 18 years old. It made her seem so real!
At the activity, Chloe presented first. She had dressed up like her great-great-great-grandma, with a bonnet and everything. Then it was Gabby’s turn.
“I want to talk about my Great-Grandma Luisa,” Gabby said. “She was my mom’s grandma …”
As Gabby kept talking, she felt really good inside. Even though she had never met Luisa, she loved her!
“Because of Luisa’s faith, my mom learned about God,” Gabby said. “And then my mom joined the Church when she grew up. And that’s why I’m here!”
As Gabby sat down, she looked down at her picture of Luisa.
Thanks for being a pioneer, Gabby thought with a smile.

Is not all of this a miracle, my brethren and sisters? I mention in passing one other impressive and remarkable thing. This coming July will be a season of celebration for members of the Church in the British Isles. There will be commemorated the 150th anniversary of the opening of the British Mission. That, too, was an act of faith.
The year was 1837. The Latter-day Saints were settled in two locations, most of them in and around Kirtland, Ohio, and others, some eight hundred miles distant in Missouri. It was a season of economic depression. Banks failed, fortunes were lost. Among the failures was the bank in Kirtland. A spirit of criticism and evil speaking threatened the Church. In those circumstances, Joseph Smith said to Heber C. Kimball, “Brother Heber, the Spirit of the Lord has whispered to me. ‘Let my servant Heber go to England and proclaim my gospel, and open the door of salvation to that nation’” (Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1967], p. 104).
It is difficult for us to comprehend the enormity of that call. Such a request from one ordinary man to another would have been incredible. It meant leaving a family destitute. It meant traveling to New York and crossing the sea when he had no money. It meant that a man with very little schooling, who had grown up and lived in frontier communities, would go to the great cities of the British Isles among a people known for their education and enlightenment.
In his mind, Heber C. Kimball demurred. He thought of all of these problems. He then wrote in his journal:
“However, all these considerations did not deter me from the path of duty; the moment I understood the will of my Heavenly Father, I felt a determination to go at all hazards, believing that He would support me by His almighty power, and endow me with every qualification that I needed; and although my family was dear to me, and I should have to leave them almost destitute, I felt that the cause of truth, the Gospel of Christ, outweighed every other consideration” (Life of Heber C. Kimball, p. 104).
That undertaking will be much spoken of during these coming months. Suffice it to say that Heber C. Kimball and his six associates, at the call of Joseph Smith, left their homes, traveled over land and sea, and laid the foundation of a mighty work in the British Isles, from where the cause spread to Europe and subsequently across the world.

Some years ago in Eastern Europe, I listened as a young elder stood before his fellow missionaries in zone conference to share an experience that shaped his life. He and his companion had found and taught a middle-aged man named Ivan (name has been changed) in a distant city. Their investigator came from a difficult background, as was reflected in his well-used clothing, ragged beard, and hesitant demeanor. Life had been harsh and unkind to him.
Without any prior religious training, Ivan had much to overcome. Practices not in harmony with the restored gospel had to be set aside. New principles needed to be accepted and then incorporated. Ivan wanted to learn, and he prepared himself diligently for his baptism and confirmation. His clothing remained threadbare and his beard ragged, but he had taken the first steps. Shortly after Ivan’s baptism, the missionary was transferred. He hoped that he might again cross paths with Ivan.
Six months later the mission president reassigned the young elder to his former branch. Surprised but eager to return, the elder, with a new companion, came early to sacrament meeting his first Sunday back in the branch. The members were pleased to see the missionary in their midst again. They rushed forward with broad smiles and warm greetings.
The elder recognized nearly everyone in the small congregation. However, he searched in vain among the faces for the man he and his companion had taught and baptized six months earlier. There arose within the elder a sense of disappointment and sadness. Had Ivan returned to his harmful habits? Had he failed to honor his covenant of baptism? Had he lost the blessings promised by his repentance?
The elder’s fears and reflections were interrupted by the approach of an unfamiliar man who was rushing forward to embrace the missionary. The clean-shaven man had a confident smile and an obvious goodness radiating from his countenance. Wearing a white shirt and a carefully knotted tie, he was on his way to prepare the sacrament for the small gathering that Sabbath morning. Only when the man began to speak did the elder recognize him. It was the new Ivan, not the former Ivan they had taught and baptized! The elder saw embodied in his friend the miracle of faith, repentance, and forgiveness; he saw the reality of the Atonement.
The missionary told his peers attending the zone conference that Ivan had changed and grown by every measure during the months the elder had been away from the branch. Ivan had embraced the gospel, and it radiated from him. He had experienced a “change of heart” (Alma 5:26) sufficient both to be baptized and to press forward in the continuing process of conversion. He was preparing for the higher priesthood and the ordinances of the temple. Ivan had indeed been “born again” (Alma 7:14).
As the missionary concluded his remarks, he asked himself aloud, “How much of a ‘change of heart’ have I experienced in the past six months?” He continued his self-examination, asking aloud, “Have I been ‘born again’?” These are two profound questions that each of us should privately pose on a continuing basis.

On a hot, humid afternoon in May 1895, two missionaries made their way up the rocky, but thickly wooded hills near Smithville, Tennessee. They had been rejected by the townspeople and so had gone to seek converts among the mountain folk, who survived on hilly, low-productive farms. Traveling on foot, without purse or scrip, the elders relied upon the Spirit of the Lord and the hospitality of the people to meet their needs.
Toward evening the missionaries arrived at the humble cabin home of my grandfather, Harvey Anderson Pinegar, and his young family. Grandfather had gone to a meeting to hear them preach and had offered them food and a place for the night, which they eagerly and gratefully accepted. Harvey and his family shared their food, beds, and lodgings with the elders. The three children slept in the loft, Grandfather and Grandmother placed straw pallets on the floor in the corner for themselves, and the elders slept in the only bed. In this humble mountain home the missionaries taught Grandfather and his family the true gospel of Jesus Christ.
Grandfather wrote in his journal,
“I investigated their doctern and I became convinced that they belonged to the only true church upon the Earth. So on the 14th day of May, 1895. … my wife and myself was baptized by Elder Owen M. Sanderson in Sink Creek a few rods above Jones’ Mill in the 7th District of DeKalb County, Tennessee, which caused great dissatisfaction with my folks, however I went on doing the will of my Heavenly Father. I knew the Doctern was of God and not of man.”
About one hundred people witnessed the baptism of Harvey and Josie Pinegar.
There was much opposition among the people in the area toward the “Mormon religion.” Harvey’s happiness at becoming a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was not shared by his brother, sisters, parents, and neighbors. Harvey soon discovered that he would be required to face opposition in the community and in his family. He was serving as a constable at the time. Upon learning of his having joined the Church his bondsmen gave up his bonds—one of these men was his own cousin.
Several times Harvey Pinegar’s cabin became a place of refuge for the missionaries. The elders would help Grandfather board up the windows and doors as a protection against mobs who threatened to tar and feather the elders.
Four years after Grandfather joined the Church, my father, then a young lad eight years old, accompanied his family and the members of two other families to a baptismal service. Grandfather was to baptize his young daughter and the daughters of a neighboring family on that cold December 3, 1899. As they traveled toward the stream at Reynold’s Mill, they were approached by three men on horseback. When the men asked where they were going, Grandfather explained their intentions. The leader threatened to bring a mob upon them if they carried out the baptismal service. Grandfather informed him that he and the 20 people with him would complete their errand regardless of what the man and his associates did. Grandfather and his party continued their journey to Reynold’s Mill.
Arriving at the mill they located a secluded spot for the baptism. The hill above the river was covered with trees, scrub oak, and ivy. My father, young John, was perched on a fallen tree that stretched out across a sandbar into the slow-moving stream. Here he could observe every detail of this sacred ordinance. Grandfather waded out into the stream to find the right depth and then returned to the riverbank for prayer. In the quiet of the prayer John heard the sound of a cracking limb. Opening his eyes and glancing quickly up the hill through the trees he saw the men who had stopped them earlier. They had arrived with a mob to carry out their threat. One of them was by a pile of rocks and was ready to pelt the baptismal participants. Suddenly all eyes were opened as a big redbone hound owned by the leader of the mob bounded down to within a few feet of my father. Young John looked fearfully at the hound as it growled menacingly. These men and their associates were determined to stop the baptisms from being performed. My Grandfather Pinegar courageously proceeded with the services.
Convinced now that these Mormon families were unafraid of his threat, the mob leader commanded his dog to attack Grandfather Pinegar. At this moment an amazing thing happened. The dog let out a low growl and his hair bristled like that on an angry hog’s back. Suddenly it bared its teeth and turned on its master, leaping at his throat and knocking him to the ground. The rest of the mob fled in fear when they saw the dog turn on its owner. As soon as the astonished leader could free himself from his dog, he left in hurried pursuit of his associates, with the dog yelping close at his heels.
A miracle had occurred! The Pinegar family and their neighbors thanked the Lord for their deliverance, and the baptismal service continued without further interruption.
That evening the families returned to Grandfather’s home. After darkness had fallen upon the mountain cabin, the troublemakers returned and again threatened to mob my grandfather and his Mormon friends. As they taunted him from the gate, Grandfather commanded them in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ to leave. The mob departed and did not return.
This experience told repeatedly to us by my father and grandfather has served as a source of strength to the members of the Pinegar family for generations. It has taught me appreciation for my grandfather’s loyalty to the Lord and has given me an assurance that right will prevail against all odds or opposition.
The courage of my grandfather and those who were with him to stand firm for that which is right brought assistance from the Lord. A quiet, peaceful strength came into their hearts, giving them the ability to face the opposition with courage and confidence. There have been occasions in my own life when the memory of this event in my grandfather’s life has given me the strength to resist persuasions to do wrong.
I am thankful for the loyalty and faith of my grandfather. His fearlessness established a heritage of faith in and love for the Lord. The sacrifices made by him and others of my forebears have made possible the many blessings of freedom and religious liberty that I enjoy today. I want to show my loyalty to my grandfather by also being loyal to the Lord.
We may prove our loyalty to the Lord by being obedient to parents, being respectful of our brothers and sisters, following Church leaders, and fulfilling our church callings and priesthood responsibilities. Loyalty includes being obedient to the laws of the land and the commandments of God. Loyalty to employer and employee, demonstrated by an honest day’s work and an honest day’s pay, is part of our loyalty to the Lord, for what we do unto each other we do unto Him. It means standing up for that which is right when our associates would persuade us to do wrong. It may mean standing alone in the defense of truth and right.
You may look into the lives of your family members and find similar examples of loyalty to our Heavenly Father that may be a source of strength and courage to you.
May each of us be grateful for the rich heritage we have received from our loyal ancestors, and may we strive with true faith to be true to these noble souls by being loyal to the Lord.

Right after I was married, I was called as home teacher to four families. The father of one was active but not spiritually converted. The young husband in another wasn’t a member of the Church and wouldn’t attend with his new bride, who was a member. The third couple was inactive—even though the husband was formerly in a stake presidency and the wife had been a stake Primary president. The fourth family, the Smiths, was happily very active in the Church: the father was on the stake high council, and the mother was the ward Relief Society president.
As my home teaching companion and I considered our assignment, our immediate reaction was to concentrate on the three families that needed obvious encouragement and fellowshipping. The Smiths, we reasoned, would get along fine with just a short social visit from us once a month.
But after our initial visit with each family, and after praying about how to be effective home teachers, we began to realize that every family needs—and deserves—a great home teacher, and that the Smiths needed just as much attention, prayerful consideration, and love as any of the other families.
During the first year, we tried to develop a good rapport with the Smiths. Devoting part of every month’s visit directly to the three children, we became fully aware of their progress in Primary, Scouting, Aaronic Priesthood, and school. When the boy received his (highest award a boy can earn in scouting in the U.S.), I was asked to be the speaker at the meeting where he received his award.
Sometimes we went out for ice cream with them. At ward parties, we socialized with every member of the family.
The friendship worked both ways. For example, when our first baby was born no one was more excited than the Smiths. In fact, Sister Smith gave a party for my wife.
One day Brother Smith called to tell me that he was going to be operated on shortly: the doctor had just found a tumor. I helped administer to him.
The surgery was successful—the cancer was removed. We felt that our role was to encourage the family during their father’s recuperation.
About a year later, another tumor appeared. Again the Smiths needed spiritual strength and support, and again the cancer was removed.
However, several months later they found another tumor. We appreciated many times the comforting power of the Spirit as blessings were pronounced in Brother Smith’s behalf. As home teachers, we discussed with the family the importance of combining faith with submissiveness to the Lord’s will.
When this last tumor appeared, it was so extensive that the doctors couldn’t operate. We were all disheartened—yet we still hoped that Brother Smith would live.
I frequently stopped to spend some time with him on my way home from work. Many times he was in so much pain—his pain relievers were ineffective by then—that he would ask me for a blessing. Those experiences became a highlight of my life. Each day I tried to live so that I could receive inspiration that would encourage my ailing friend.
One Saturday morning, as my wife and I were leaving home to do some shopping, I said to her, “I have a feeling that we should go see how Brother Smith endured the night.” We had seen him the night before, and everything seemed fine.
“All right,” she said. “If you feel we should go over, let’s do it.”
We found him in bed—doing about the same as the night before; there had been no major decline in his strength during the past week. I couldn’t help wondering why I had felt impressed to visit them that morning. So I decided that maybe we should share some faith-promoting experiences with them. The children sat around the bed and listened, and the Spirit of the Lord was there in rich abundance. Suddenly, as we talked, Brother Smith died in the arms of his wife.
My wife took the children into another bedroom and spent the next little while talking to them and answering their questions. She indicated to them that their father would be a source of strength to them all their lives and that someday, because of the Savior’s atonement and resurrection, they could have a beautiful reunion with him.
I helped by calling the doctor, the bishop, and the mortician. Later during the day we ran errands for Sister Smith.
The funeral was the following Monday. When the bishop was making the arrangements, Sister Smith indicated that her husband had planned the funeral in great detail, and that I, his home teacher, was to give the spiritual message.
I was overwhelmed. Brother Smith was close to many stake and general leaders in the Church, but instead, he had asked for me to speak at his funeral. And the printed program was to indicate that I was his home teacher.
Afterward, we did what we could to help the family adjust. We arranged for an accountant in our ward to help set up a budget for them and to get the family finances back in order. We asked another ward member, a carpenter/handyman, to help us inspect the house to determine what needed to be done to maintain the value of the home. The priesthood quorums in the ward then came in and did the needed work to get the home back to its normal condition.
We also helped Sister Smith evaluate various job opportunities. And we tried to be even closer to the children.
Did we neglect our other home teaching families during all this time? No, we saw some small, quiet successes there, too.
The family whose father wasn’t spiritually converted remained active in the Church. The family’s bond of love and closeness enabled them to understand and accept each other’s points of view without alienating one another.
We arranged for the young nonmember husband of the second family to speak at youth firesides and Mutual classes on his life as a policeman, and he was excited about helping young people feel good about policemen. Once he took his motorcycle to Mutual and explained to the boys how it functioned. When this couple moved from the ward a year later, he left with a better feeling towards his wife’s church than he had at the time of their marriage.
The third couple, we learned, had become inactive because they had not felt a part of the ward. We convinced them that we were their friends and were interested in them. Then we helped the wife see that the Church needed her special talents of teaching children. She began attending Sunday School and later accepted a calling as a Sunday School teacher. When my wife was asked to bake cookies for the ward Christmas party, we asked this couple if they would make the cookies, and then we invited them to come to the party as our guests. When they moved to a new ward later, they didn’t become inactive again but remained active.
We didn’t do anything spectacular—nothing more than anyone else could have done. But as I recall these early home teaching experiences, I feel again the great testimony I gained of the importance of home teaching, of the great love a home teacher can feel towards other people, and of the resulting joy that can come from serving others. And I’m especially glad I learned early that every person—even if he’s active—deserves a good home teacher.

When I began high school, I was a shy and timid teenager. I set goals to combat my shyness and even decided to run for class president.
Running for office represented everything that frightened me, including speaking in front of my peers and setting myself up for possible failure. But after I survived the primary elections and became a final candidate, my confidence began to grow and I found myself actually enjoying the experience. What I didn’t know was that I was about to experience a much different challenge.
The day before the final elections I stayed after school to hang up a few campaign posters. As I rounded a corner, I was shocked and hurt to see one of my election opponents and her friend tearing down my posters and leaving them strewn on the floor. In anger I reached up to tear down one of her posters. But then I remembered another goal I had set for myself, a goal to be more like the Savior. What would He want me to do?
I dropped my hands and strode up to my opponent. She tensed and was ready for a confrontation. I surprised her by wishing her luck in the election. Blushing, she whispered, “Thank you” as I walked away.
Looking back on that incident now, I’m glad I didn’t follow my first impulse to retaliate. Tearing down my opponent’s posters would only have caused contention and cost me my self-respect. Christ’s example isn’t always easy to follow, but if we strive to do so we can avoid painful mistakes.
I did end up winning that election. But even if I hadn’t, I would still be able to look back on the choice I made that day in the hallway without regret.