Gospel Story Finder

Last summer, my ward went to the temple. Before going on the temple trip, my mom told me that she had found some names that I could take. Immediately, a name popped into my head: Grace A. Smith. I felt like I knew her, and maybe I did. We printed the names, and sure enough, there was a Grace A. Smith waiting to be baptized.
I quickly looked Grace up on FamilySearch.org to see if there were any pictures or stories about her. There weren’t any pictures, but there was something much better: her brother, sisters, and husband all needed to be baptized! At the temple, I was baptized for Grace and her sisters.
I learned that I not only have a family here but a family waiting to see me in the spirit world too. It must have been exciting for Grace to be with her mom and dad there in the temple and especially to have her brother, sisters, and husband with her. Even though someday I will leave my family here on earth when I die, there will be many family members there to meet me. I am excited for when I can see them again.
Isabel J., New Mexico, USA

At about age 10, I experienced that warm feeling again when I went to stake conference with my parents. An Apostle, Elder Matthew Cowley, was the visiting speaker. He was well known for being a man of faith and miracles—he served a five-year mission to New Zealand starting when he was only 17! As he spoke, I knew for myself that he was a servant of our Heavenly Father. After the meeting, I asked my parents if I could shake his hand. We stood in line for a long time because many other people felt as I did, that Elder Cowley was a very special man. When I finally had the opportunity to shake his hand, I began to cry. I cried all the way home. As a young lad, I was very self-conscious about crying for no apparent reason. My mother explained to me that the feelings I had were a sign of the Spirit confirming that Elder Cowley was a special witness of the Savior. I often experience those same feelings when I shake hands with the Brethren whom we sustain as prophets, seers, and revelators today.

Michael knew that Christmas would not be the same this year. Although everything else would be the same—the manger scene that was always set up on top of the piano, the Christmas tree he and his father would go up in the mountains to cut, the Christmas cookies his mother and younger brothers and sisters would make—it would not be the same this year, because Michael was not the same.
He didn’t know what to do about it.
He had messed up.
He was not as good as everyone thought he was.
He tried not to think about it because it was embarrassing and painful. It made him feel guilty. Nobody else knew about it. And nobody would ever find out.
It had happened on fast Sunday in December. It was during church. His mother asked him to take his two-year-old brother, Zach, out because he was acting up. Out in the hall Zach started playing around where coats were hung up. Zach liked to get down on his hands and knees and crawl through the maze of coats. Somehow in the process Zach pulled a purse off the coatrack and knocked it to the floor. Everything spilled out.
Michael knelt down and started putting things back in the purse. Zach quickly ran away, thinking he was in big trouble. Michael decided to look in the billfold to find out who it belonged to. As he opened the billfold, he saw a stack of five-dollar bills.
Michael looked around, grabbed one of the five-dollar bills and slipped it into his pocket, put everything back in the purse, and put the purse back up on the coat rack.
He got Zach, picked him up, and took him back to sacrament meeting.
And that was it.
He wasn’t even sure why he’d taken the money. He didn’t need it for anything. Of course he liked to play video games at the mall after school, and that’s where the money eventually went, but it wasn’t like an obsession with him or anything.
He wondered if he would ever get caught, and if he were caught, and someone asked him why he’d taken the money, what he would say. He wasn’t sure. There didn’t seem to be any reason. He remembered he’d been upset with his mother because of something she’d said before they left for church, something about his always making them late for church. He tried to imagine telling a policeman, I stole the money because my mother got mad at me for making us late for church.
And now here it was, a Monday night, two weeks before Christmas. Their family had a large manger scene they set out on top of the piano every Christmas Eve. It had been in the family for as long as he could remember. His grandfather, who had died two years earlier, had carved it when his mother was a child. When Michael was a little boy he had been fascinated by the mules and straw and the cow and Mary and Joseph and the little baby Jesus in the wooden manger.
That night his mother asked him to take charge of unpacking the manger. He would unpack each figure and give it to one of his brothers or sisters for them to place on top of the piano. Each figure was wrapped in tissue paper.
Michael used to like this family tradition, but this year for some reason he didn’t feel the same about it. He just wanted to get it over with and get back to his video game.
The box was empty. “Okay, that’s it. Can I go now?” he asked.
“Where’s baby Jesus?” his mother asked. “We haven’t put him out yet.”
He looked through the box, but all he found was tissue paper. “It’s not here,” he said.
“It has to be there. Where else could it be?”
He dumped the contents of the box onto the floor. “I’m telling you it’s not here.”
“How can we have the manger scene without baby Jesus?” his mother asked.
“Look, I don’t know, but I did what you told me to do. I’m finished. I just want to go back to the TV room.”
“Michael, we’ve got to have the baby Jesus for our manger scene, or it won’t mean anything. You’re good with your hands just like your grandfather was. Will you carve us another one?”
“Why can’t we just buy one?”
“It wouldn’t be the right size. Besides your grandfather carved this. He’s not here with us anymore, but you’re good at things like that. It doesn’t have to be perfect, but it will mean so much more if someone in our family does it.”
“Oh, all right,” he grumbled.
The next day Michael’s father brought him a carving knife, several blades, and a small piece of fine wood. He laid it on Michael’s bed when he came home from work. Michael pushed it aside and said he was too busy and that he’d wait for school to be out before he began.
Finally at three in the afternoon on Christmas Eve he had run out of excuses and his mother had run out of patience. He decided to start. It doesn’t have to be much, he thought. Just get it done.
He spread old newspapers on the kitchen table and started to rough out the general shape.
An hour later his mother came in to see how he was doing. She put her hand on his shoulder and watched him carve. “You’ve got a gift, Michael, just like your grandfather. You’re so much like him.”
“I’m not anything like him,” Michael said, sounding almost bitter.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know. You’ve seemed kind of grumpy lately.”
“I’m just getting tired of the same old thing every Christmas. Why do we have to have a manger scene anyway?”
“That’s what Christmas is all about.”
“A baby was born in a stable and shepherds came. So what?”
“We don’t celebrate Christmas because a baby was born in a stable and shepherds came. We celebrate Christmas because that baby is the Son of God and the Savior of the world.”
“The world still seems messed up to me.”
“He saves the world one person at a time. He gives us hope. He helps us understand that it’s never too late to begin again. If we’ve made mistakes, if we truly repent we can be forgiven. When that happens, our burden of guilt is lifted. That’s why we celebrate Christmas.”
She knows, he thought.
He quit carving. “Something is wrong with me,” he said.
“Tell me what it is.”
He wiped the beads of sweat from off his forehead.
“Michael, whatever it is, tell me. We can work it out.”
He took a deep breath and said, “I took five dollars from a purse three weeks ago at church.”
“You did?”
“Yes. You knew about it, didn’t you?”
“No, not really. I knew something was wrong though. I just wasn’t sure what. You weren’t acting the same—but I didn’t know what it was.”
“Why did you talk about making mistakes then?”
“Because I make mistakes too. We never outgrow the need for the Savior in our lives.” She paused. “What do you think you should do?”
“I was thinking of waiting until after Christmas and then going to tell the bishop what I did.”
“Is waiting a good idea? It will gnaw at you until you do something.”
“But it’s Christmas Eve. The bishop will be home with his family.”
“Why don’t you see what he says? You’ll enjoy Christmas a lot more if you’ve started resolving this. It’s still early. I don’t think he’d mind if you stopped by.”
“I don’t want Jessica to know what I’ve done.”
“He won’t tell anyone in his family, not his wife, not Jessica, and not his other children. Why not call and see if he’s there?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell him you have a private matter you need to discuss with him.”
Fifteen minutes later Michael walked up to the door. He rang the doorbell. The one thing he dreaded was that Jessica would answer the door and he would have to tell her he needed to talk to her father and she would guess that something was wrong.
But the bishop opened the door, shook his hand, and led him downstairs to an office. Michael could hear family noises from upstairs. They were singing Christmas carols. He could hear Jessica’s voice. She had a beautiful singing voice. He had sung with her in a quartet once for church. He wondered if she would ever talk to him again.
“Three weeks ago I stole five dollars from a purse at church,” he blurted out.
Michael was surprised at the bishop’s reaction. He didn’t say, “How could you do that?” He didn’t order him out of his house. He didn’t call the police and have him thrown in jail. He didn’t tell him he was the worst person in the world. He didn’t tell him never to talk to his daughter Jessica again.
What he did was loan Michael five dollars. And then the two of them drove to the home of the woman who reported that someone had gone through her purse and taken five dollars. She was a widow and the money in her purse was her tithing.
When she opened the door, she smiled and invited them in.
“Are you my new home teachers?” she asked.
“No, not exactly.”
“Would you like some Christmas cookies? My grandchildren sent them.”
“Not right now,” the bishop said. “Michael has something he needs to tell you.”
“I’m the one who took five dollars from your purse,” Michael said quickly.
“Oh, Michael, not you! I never would have thought you would do something like that.”
“I’m really sorry.” He handed her the five-dollar bill the bishop had loaned him. “I came to give you five dollars.”
“Do you need the money, because if you do …”
“No, I don’t need it. I don’t know why I took it.”
“It takes a big man to admit when he’s done wrong.”
“That’s right,” the bishop said. “But it’s only part of repenting. You need to make sure you’ve done all you can and that you’re right with the Lord.”
It was silent for a moment. “Would you like a Christmas cookie now?” the widow asked.
Michael turned away so she wouldn’t see his eyes.
There could be no leaving until they had a Christmas cookie. To Michael the cookie tasted like sawdust. Finally, mercifully, the bishop said all the right things to get them out of there.
The bishop gave him a ride home. “You owe me five dollars,” he said as they pulled into Michael’s driveway.
“I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”
“What did you use the money for?” the bishop asked.
“Video games.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t play video games until you get this taken care of.”
“All right.”
“You and I will need to have a long talk next week about the process of repentance,” the bishop said. “Is that all right with you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. But relax, you’ve done the most difficult part today. I’m glad you had the courage to admit you’d done wrong. That’s never easy.” The bishop leaned over and shook his hand. “Merry Christmas, Michael.”
Instead of playing video games or watching TV, Michael spent the rest of Christmas Eve finishing the carving of baby Jesus. He finished at eleven o’clock that night. Everyone else in the family had gone to bed. All the lights were off except a reading light near the piano. Michael gently set the carved figure in the manger and placed a tiny blanket over it. It wasn’t as good as the one his grandfather had made, but to Michael it meant much more.
Two months later they found the original baby Jesus in another box in the basement. But even so, from then on, they always put out the one Michael had carved the year he discovered the true meaning of Christmas.

Grandpa learned to harness horses by helping his father. By the time he was eight, he could harness a dog to a small cart and ride around his parents’ dairy farm. By the age of twelve he could harness his family’s horse to a two-seater cart. Harnessing requires more, however, than just knowing how to put on the harness. You have to know how to train and handle horses and how to get along well with them. And you have to practice your skills often. You need to learn how horses are likely to behave in certain situations, and you must study each horse’s temperament. It takes patience, a good memory, and love.

One Sunday when I was a deacon, I was in the foyer with a tray of water passing the sacrament when a woman walked into the building. Dutifully, I approached and handed her the tray. She nodded, smiled, and took a cup of water. She had arrived too late to receive the bread. Shortly after this experience, my home teacher, Ned Brimley, taught me that many aspects and blessings of the gospel of Jesus Christ are given to us in sequential order.
Later that week, Ned and his companion came to our home with a memorable lesson. Ned reminded us that there was order to how God created the earth. The Lord took great care in explaining to Moses the order in which He created the earth. First, He started by dividing the light from the darkness, then water from dry land. He added plant life and animals before introducing to the newly formed planet His greatest creation: humankind, beginning with Adam and Eve.
“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. …
“And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good” (Genesis 1:27, 31).
The Lord was pleased. And He rested on the seventh day.
The sequential order in which the earth was created gives us a glimpse not only of what is most important to God but also why and for whom He created the earth.
Ned Brimley punctuated his inspired lesson with a simple statement: “Vai, God’s house is one of order. He expects you to live your life with order. In proper sequence. He wants you to serve a mission before you get married.” To this point, Church leaders currently teach that “the Lord expects each able young man to prepare to serve. … Young women … who desire to serve should also prepare” (General Handbook: Serving in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 24.0, ChurchofJesusChrist.org). Brother Brimley continued: “God wants you to get married before you have children. And He wants you to continually develop your talents as you earn an education.” If you choose to live your life out of sequence, you will find life more difficult and chaotic.
Brother Brimley also taught us that through His atoning sacrifice, the Savior helps us to restore order to our lives made chaotic or out of sequence by our own or others’ poor choices.

When I was just a young girl, I became seriously ill. Each day the illness became increasingly severe. Nothing the doctor recommended helped. At that time the dreaded disease of polio was raging in almost epidemic proportions in the land. It was taking the lives of many, and those who didn’t die were often left crippled.
One night my illness became critical, and my father and grandfather administered to me using consecrated oil, and through the power of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood, which they held worthily, they called upon God for healing, help, guidance, and comfort. And then my parents took me to a doctor in another town who immediately sent us to the hospital—two and one-half hours away—with the admonition to hurry. I overheard the doctor whisper that he was certain it was polio.
When we finally arrived at the hospital in Salt Lake, there were medical personnel waiting for us. They grabbed me from my parents’ arms and whisked me away. Without a word of good-bye or explanation, we were separated. I was all alone, and I thought I was going to die.
Following the painful diagnostic procedures, including a spinal tap, they took me to a hospital isolation room, where I would stay by myself with the hope that I would not infect anyone else, for indeed I did have polio.
I remember how very frightened I was. It was dark, and I was so sick and so alone. But my parents had taught me to pray. I got on my knees, and I knelt beside the railing in the criblike bed and asked Heavenly Father to bless me. I was crying, I remember. Heavenly Father heard my prayer and sent His comforting power, which enveloped me in quiet love. I felt the power of the Holy Ghost, and I was not alone.
You too are loved by the Lord. You are loved more than you will ever know. He wants you to be successful in your life’s mission! You don’t have to face the experiences of this life alone, nor have you been sent here to fail.

One Sunday evening, all of the youth and their parents were invited to a meeting to launch Moroni’s Promise. It was the young, valiant captains of ten who gave the vision, reviewed the promise (see Moro. 10:3–5), spoke of agency and obedience, explained the program, and called for volunteers to join one of their teams.
One young captain of ten, Michelle Gardner, referred to the promise made by President Gordon B. Hinkley to all the members of the Church who read the Book of Mormon. He promised those who read daily that “there will come into your lives and into your homes an added measure of the Spirit of the Lord, a strengthened resolution to walk in obedience to his commandments, and a stronger testimony of the living reality of the Son of God” (Ensign, Nov. 1979, p. 9).
Appealing to the youth for whom she now felt a keen sense of responsibility, she added her own personal testimony. “I know when I read each day, especially when I study and don’t just skim over what I’m reading, I do feel a greater desire to live the commandments and to have the Spirit of the Lord in my life.”
Individualized packets were provided which included the quote from Moroni printed on parchment ready for framing, a system for recording progress, recommended target dates, helpful study methods, a promise of celebration stations, and a letter to be sent to a trusted friend or relative requesting support and continuous encouragement during the coming months as they read the Book of Mormon. An application form was also provided requesting the parent’s signature as well as the signature of a member of the bishopric.
Each participant was invited to add his or her own signature as an indication of willingness to be diligent in endeavoring to reach the goal of having read the entire Book of Mormon within the set time limit. This could be accomplished by reading approximately 16 pages per week. A captain of ten also signed the application indicating a willingness to be in touch each week to determine progress and provide encouragement to each member of his or her team.
Individual progress was not a public matter. However, increased interest was awakened when the aggregate “scores” of the teams were recorded on an attractive chart that was periodically displayed in the chapel foyer with pictures of various activities.
As eager participants finished the last verse of Alma 63, “And thus ended the account of Alma,” they would rush, regardless of the hour, to Sister Bonnie Guthrie, who helped with the records, assisted in making calls for captains as needed, and dispensed T-shirts to each one finishing the book of Alma. The T-shirts with “STOMP” (for “Students Trying Out Moroni’s Promise”) printed in bold letters across the front provided the incentive that urged many through the pages of Alma.
A celebration station was an event scheduled at regular intervals along the way to give strong incentives and provide continuous encouragement to the captains, who in turn, inspired their team members as they made their weekly contacts. The captains were to then give an accounting to the specialist in a brief weekly meeting following sacrament meeting. Many, many extra calls at various times were required to accomplish this necessary follow-up.
As the group completed Alma, a celebration station was scheduled. The snow had been falling all night, and it was unseasonably cold, but nothing would daunt the plans for the scheduled tree planting celebration. A flowering cherry tree had been selected. The hole was dug, and all ward members were invited to gather at the church.
Robert Davis stood before the group holding a scroll containing all the names of those who at that time had finished reading Alma. He rolled the scroll, put it in a plastic-coated container, sealed it, and then respectfully placed it in the hole at the base of the tree and explained, “You’re probably wondering why we are planting a tree. If you will recall in Alma the planting of a seed which became a tree has meaning because of the analogy to a growing testimony.” He then read Alma 32:27–41, “But if ye will nourish the word, yea, nourish the tree as it beginneth to grow, by your faith with great diligence, and with patience, looking forward to the fruit thereof, it shall take root; and behold it shall be a tree springing up unto everlasting life.”
On Mother’s Day following sacrament meeting, the entire ward was invited to gather around the flagpole for yet another celebration station. Richard Newman and Mike Bettilyon, both captains of ten, unfolded the beautifully designed flag with the large dark blue letters “Moroni’s Promise” centered in a white open field.
There were other names on that flag also. Those who had finished the Book of Helaman had added their signatures to the flag as an official Mother’s Day record. Bishop Bradford reminded everyone of the stripling warriors who did not fear death for they had been taught by their mothers that if they did not doubt, God would deliver them (see Alma 56:47). The captains attached the flag and pulled the ropes raising it to the very top of the long silver pole. Hearts were opened and feelings were tender as expressed by a younger member of the group, who whispering to a friend close by, said, “My name is on that flag,” and his friend responded reverently, “So is mine.”
By now the flowering cherry tree planted earlier was bursting into bloom nearby as a reminder of growing testimonies.
What difference has all this effort made? There have been 120 readers, 38 adults and 82 youth, participating in Moroni’s Promise.
Thirteen-year-old Wid Covey, standing before an audience, volunteered his testimony, “I’m thankful for this Moroni’s Promise program because it helps me understand the scriptures. When I sit down with my dad to read the Book of Mormon he helps me understand about it also. I’m thankful for Michelle Gardner. She calls me every week, and it helps me a lot and she encourages me.”
Sister Margaret Kirkham reported, “Our whole family looks forward to Richard Newman, our captain of ten, coming to encourage us. This project has been a great influence to our entire family.”
Bishop Bradford reflected on the past eight months. “It has made a great difference. There are few activities that could have unified our youth as well as this. I can’t say that all our youth now have a strong personal testimony of the Book of Mormon, but it’s a super beginning. With the help of our inspired specialist, a great number of young people will be better missionaries in every aspect of their lives, and all of them are better prepared to withstand the evils of the world.”

Tears gathered in 56-year-old Frans Lekqwati’s eyes as he sat across from Olev Taim, his stake president. President Taim had just asked him what he thought about creating a branch of the Church in Frans’s hometown of Soweto, South Africa.
“Why are you crying? Did I offend you?” asked President Taim.
“No,” Frans responded. “This is the first time in South Africa that a white man has asked me my opinion before making a decision.”
The year was 1981. At the time, black and white people in South Africa were segregated under a system of laws known as apartheid. This legal separation, together with the Church’s restriction preventing black African men from being ordained to the priesthood, had long meant that the Church could not thrive among black South Africans. A new day dawned in 1978 when President Spencer W. Kimball received the revelation that lifted the priesthood restriction, but the challenges of segregation and a culture of suspicion between races remained.
The vast majority of black South Africans lived in townships, usually built on the outskirts of predominantly white cities such as Johannesburg. Soweto, short for South Western Townships, was the largest. White people rarely went to the townships, and black people who went to the cities were rarely treated as equals with the whites.
Frans and his family were part of a small group from Soweto who had embraced the restored gospel during the 1970s. At first they attended the Johannesburg Ward. Frans’s son Jonas remembered getting up on Sundays at 4:00 a.m. so the family could catch an early train into Johannesburg and then make the long walk to the chapel before the services started at 9:00 a.m. The family was always early—though sometimes it was difficult for the children to stay awake through Primary!
Being a pioneer of racial integration could also be an emotional challenge. Josiah Mohapi remembered overhearing a six-year-old white boy say something offensive about the black people he encountered at church. “To be honest, I became hot under the collar,” Josiah recalled. But then he heard the mother tell her son, “The Church is for everybody.” Comforted by the reminder, Josiah cooled down.
President Taim was aware of the physical and emotional challenges black members faced. He considered starting a branch in Soweto to make travel easier for them but did not want to make them feel as if they were unwelcome in Johannesburg. He decided to interview Soweto members like Frans to gauge their feelings before taking any action. They gave him a clear answer: “We would love to establish the Church in Soweto.”
President Taim identified experienced leaders who could help mentor recent converts. He interviewed over 200 members in Johannesburg and ultimately called 40 to join the new branch long enough to help train a pioneering group of local leaders there.
Just as black members had crossed into another part of town and another culture to attend the Johannesburg Ward, white members had to adjust to a new environment and culture as they served in Soweto. Things did not always go smoothly. Maureen van Zyl, a white member who had been called to serve as Primary president, thought nothing of it when the South African national anthem of the time was chosen as the opening song in Relief Society meeting one week. She soon learned, however, that black South Africans viewed the anthem as a symbol of apartheid and that many black sisters were offended by the choice of song.
Black and white members alike could easily have become discouraged by such misunderstandings, but they chose to see them as an opportunity for discussion and improvement instead. “We shared all sorts of things,” Maureen remembered. “As blacks, what would be offensive and as whites, what we’d find offensive. How they did certain things and how we did certain things. And so it was just this wonderful time of learning together.”
As the branch in Soweto grew stronger and larger, branches were started in other townships using the same model. Khumbulani Mdletshe was a young man living in the KwaMashu township near Durban. When he joined the Church in 1980, he brought with him suspicions of white people common to almost all young black men in South Africa at that time. But his experiences worshipping in an integrated branch changed his perspective.
In 1982, Khumbulani and several other young men in his branch were invited to attend a young single adult conference. His branch president, a white brother named John Mountford, wanted the young men to look their best, though few of them had nice clothing. He emptied his closet, distributing suits to the young men, who wore them to the conference. The next Sunday, President Mountford wore the suit he had loaned to Khumbulani. “I could not imagine a white person wearing the same clothes that have been worn by me,” Khumbulani recalled, “but there he was. He began to help me see white people differently than I’ve ever seen them before.”
Now an Area Seventy, Elder Mdletshe observed, “We all needed these lived experiences that caused us to change.”
Years before apartheid ended, the Johannesburg South Africa Temple, dedicated in 1985, helped unite members of the Church.
Apartheid in South Africa ended in 1994. While many congregations today exist in mostly black or mostly white areas, the greater freedom means that an increasing number of areas are mixed. Like the pioneers of the first branches in the townships, members with different backgrounds worship and work together to build up the kingdom of God.
The current Soweto stake president, Thabo Lebethoa, describes the gospel as glue that binds people together in times of division. “We may not have agreed on things that were happening outside church, with politics and other things,” he observed, “but we agreed on the doctrine.” Working from that shared foundation, people can learn from each other’s differences as they counsel carefully and listen with spiritual sensitivity. “One of the most important things about leadership is to listen to people,” President Lebethoa advises. “Listen so that you can understand. Listen so that you can feel. Listen so that you can receive inspiration.”
Thoba Karl-Halla, the daughter of early Soweto Branch member Julia Mavimbela, agrees that listening helps keep inevitable friction from turning into painful division. “I should listen with an ear that would make me understand the frustrations of the person who might probably come out as an offender to me,” she says.
Elder Mdletshe urges South African Saints today to find strength in their diversity, especially in council settings. “The Lord would have liked that,” he observes, “to have people from all walks of life sit around the table and talk about the issues.” His call to local leaders throughout the Church is to continue to build up leaders from different backgrounds, just as a past generation supported him. When trying to reach new areas and new groups, he notes, “you’re not going to find experienced people. But you build experiences in the Church. You build experiences by bringing people right into the center and having them work together.”

One day the sister missionaries knocked on my door and my mother answered. I remember her telling them, “Well, I am not interested, but my daughter would be. Wait, I will get her.”
When I started to talk to them, I could feel the Spirit telling me to listen. After a few months of listening and learning, I knew that this was what I had been looking for. Even though it didn’t feel like it to begin with, my decision to be baptized helped me to come not only closer to the Lord and but also closer to ending my ongoing battle against loneliness.

Prior to coming to BYU, I spent several years on the faculty at Harvard Business School, where I had the opportunity to teach and interact with many amazing professionals.

I loved the Savior and I loved my students, and although I was not free to speak as candidly as we are blessed to do here at BYU, I took the opportunity to regularly speak of matters of eternal importance and to model Christlike attributes.

I was trying my best to be, as Paul admonished us, “an example of the believers.”3 And if I’m being honest, I thought I was doing pretty well. But the Lord knew I could do better.

One night after a conference, I went out with several colleagues. As the evening progressed, someone noticed I wasn’t drinking—which prompted the usual inquiry: “Abigail, are you a Mormon?”

As I responded in the affirmative, a nearby colleague dropped his drink and exclaimed: “Really? I would have never guessed!” He continued with dubious amazement: “But you’re not a fully practicing Mormon, right?”

At this point I was feeling a little bit humiliated and confused. What about me had screamed “not a member of the Church of Jesus Christ”? I dressed modestly, kept the Word of Wisdom, used clean language, and faithfully attended my worship services—all common litmus tests for an outsider questioning our faith. Beyond that, I had been trying to express my discipleship in the way I lived, in the way I loved, and in the way I served. Where had I gone wrong?

Befuddled, I affirmed my devotion to my faith and invited my colleague to ask me any question he liked. I had lived outside of Utah for most of my adult life, and this was not my first time being questioned about beliefs. I fully anticipated the usual litany of personal questions: “Have you ever smoked?” “Were you chaste before marriage?” And the one that always makes me laugh: “Do you wear ‘special underwear’?”

But none of these were on the quiz that night. Instead, my colleague looked at me earnestly and asked, “Do you do genealogy?”

Defeated, I feebly and honestly had to admit, “Well, not very much.”

My colleague then informed me that he had once known a devout member who had explained the importance of genealogy in the context of eternal families and temples. While I attempted to save the moment by sharing my own convictions on these revealed truths, my colleague soon lost interest, and I knew that I had missed an important opportunity. My actions—or inactions, in this case—had spoken louder than my words. It was impossible to accurately convey the depth of my convictions when they were so starkly juxtaposed against my lackadaisical negligence to an inspired prophetic invitation.

What this colleague had once supposed about members of the Church of Jesus Christ was weakened rather than strengthened by my example.

I believe our Heavenly Father has provided a simply beautiful plan for finding both joy and peace and He has always shared this with His children who seek Him. One of my favorite examples of this is the hall-of-fame pro football player Gale Sayers.

Gale played for the University of Kansas, where he earned the nickname the “Kansas Comet.” He gained over 4,000 yards and was a two-time All-American. He was drafted by the Chicago Bears in 1965, and in his rookie year, he scored an NFL record 22 touchdowns and gained 2,272 all-purpose yards. Sadly, in 1968 he suffered a serious knee injury that cost him the final five games of the season. Helping him through this challenge was his fellow running back, Brian Piccolo.

Brian’s path to the NFL was much different than Gale’s. Brian played at Wake Forest, and at that time there was only one African-American player in the ACC—Darryl Hill, who played for Maryland. In 1963 when Maryland visited Wake Forest, the home-team student section began to taunt Darryl Hill. Noticing this, Brian Piccolo went over to the Maryland bench and approached Darryl and said, “I want to apologize for the behavior of my fans. . . . Then, draping his arm over Hill’s shoulder, he began walking him toward the Wake Forest side of the field, where the jeering was at its worst. By the time the two of them reached the middle of the field, the . . . screaming dropped to near silence.” [4] Two years later, Brian signed with the Chicago Bears as an undrafted free agent and made the practice squad.

Gale and Brian were the first interracial roommates in the NFL. While Gale was injured, Brian saw more playing time. Once Sayers returned, they played together as the starting tailback and fullback. After scoring a touchdown against the Atlanta Falcons, Brian pulled himself out of the game, complaining of shortness of breath. A medical examination revealed that he had an aggressive form of cancer that, in spite of surgery and treatment, would spread throughout his body. It was now Gale’s turn to help and serve his friend.

The month before Piccolo's death at the age of 26, Gale Sayers was accepting the George S. Halas Courage Award and told the crowd that they had selected the wrong person. He said, "I love Brian Piccolo and I'd like all of you to love him too. When you hit your knees to pray tonight please ask God to love him too." [5] Brian left behind a wife and three daughters.

Inspired by his friend, Gale wrote his autobiography titled I Am Third, which stands for “God is first, others are second, and I am third.”

This book was the inspiration for the 1971 movie Brian’s Song.

I accepted the research opportunity and arrived in Finland in the middle of the week, eagerly awaiting Sunday when I could meet old friends in the Helsinki chapel. As I greeted members at the door, a new face entered the chapel, and I immediately wanted to get acquainted with her. That person was to bless my life from that moment on. Of course, it was Sister Luthy, who was a student at the University of Helsinki. She helped me with my research then, and has been helping me in everything ever since. Without her, little of what I have experienced professionally or in the Church would have happened.
Was the small notice in the student paper or the meeting with Bud Patterson on the stake house sidewalk mere coincidence? What if I had decided to stay away from Stake Conference that Sunday. Was my unanticipated, unlikely meeting of my future wife which followed these events coincidence? Or were these special blessings of guidance, divine micro-management, intended to lift someone who didn't want to study English to a position where he could serve others? (Incidentally, my first teaching position as a linguist turned out to be in an English department.)
It seems that my life has been filled with things that I once said I would never do. I once said I would never study a foreign language, and I ended up a linguist; I once said I would never have an international marriage, and I have one. Now I am considering saying that I will never be a multimillionaire.
I have found that one of the ironic facts of life is that many of the most significant things in our lives result from seemingly small events or decisions. May we be in the right spirit to choose wisely when such things happen at unpredictable times.

A visitor once asked me, “What is there to see while I am in Salt Lake City?” Instinctively I suggested a tour of Temple Square, a drive to the nearby canyons, a visit to the Bingham copper mine, and perhaps a swim in the Great Salt Lake. A fear of being misunderstood kept me from expressing the thought, “Have you considered spending an hour or two at one of our cemeteries?” I never did reveal to him that wherever I travel I try to pay a visit to the town cemetery. It is a time of contemplation, of reflection on the meaning of life and the inevitability of death.
In the small cemetery in the town of Santa Clara, Utah, I remember the preponderance of Swiss names which adorn the weathered tombstones. Many of those persons left home and family in verdant Switzerland and, in response to the call “Come to Zion,” settled the communities where they now “rest in peace.” They endured spring floods, summer droughts, scant harvests, and backbreaking labors. They left a legacy of sacrifice.
The largest cemeteries, and in many respects those which evoke the most tender emotions, are honored as the resting places of men who died in the cauldron of conflict known as war while wearing the uniform of their country. One reflects on shattered dreams, unfulfilled hopes, grief-filled hearts, and lives cut short by the sharp scythe of war.
Acres of neat white crosses in the cities of France and Belgium accentuate the terrible toll of World War I. Verdun, France, is in reality a gigantic cemetery. Each spring as farmers till the earth, they uncover a helmet here, a gun barrel there—grim reminders of the millions of men who literally soaked the soil with the blood of their lives.
A tour of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and other battlefields of the American Civil War marks that conflict where brother fought against brother. Some families lost farms, others possessions. One family lost all. Let me share with you that memorable letter which President Abraham Lincoln wrote to Mrs. Lydia Bixby:
“Dear Madam:
“I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the republic they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.
“Yours very sincerely and respectfully,“Abraham Lincoln.”
A walk through Punchbowl Cemetery in Honolulu or the Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific at Manila reminds one that not all who died in World War II are buried in quiet fields of green. Many slipped beneath the waves of the oceans on which they sailed and on which they died.
Among the thousands of servicemen killed in the attack on Pearl Harbor was a sailor by the name of William Ball, from Fredericksburg, Iowa. What distinguished him from so many others who died on that day in 1941 was not any special act of heroism, but the tragic chain of events his death set in motion at home.
When William’s boyhood buddies, the five Sullivan brothers from the nearby town of Waterloo, received word of his death, they marched out together to enlist in the navy. The Sullivans, who wished to avenge their friend, insisted that they remain together, and the navy granted their wish. On November 14, 1942, the cruiser on which the brothers served, the USS Juneau, was hit and sunk in a battle off Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands.
Almost two months went by before Mrs. Thomas Sullivan received the news, which arrived not by the usual telegram but by special envoy: all five of her sons were reported missing in action in the South Pacific and presumed dead. Their bodies were never recovered.
One sentence only, spoken by one person only, provides a fitting epitaph: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
Frequently the profound influence one life has on the lives of others is never spoken and occasionally little known. Such was the experience of a teacher of girls, even 12-year-olds in the Beehive class of Mutual. She had no children of her own, though she and her husband dearly longed for children. Her love was expressed through the devotion to her special girls as she taught them eternal truths and lessons of life. Then came illness, followed by death. She was but 27.
Each year on Memorial Day, her girls made a pilgrimage of prayer to the graveside of their teacher. First there were seven, then four, then two, and eventually just one, who continued the annual visit, always placing on the grave a bouquet of irises—a symbol of heartfelt gratitude. That last girl later became a teacher of girls. Little wonder she is so successful. She mirrors the reflection of the teacher from whom came her inspiration. The life that teacher lived, the lessons that teacher taught, are not buried beneath the headstone which marks her grave but live on in the personalities she helped to shape and the lives she so selflessly enriched. One is reminded of another master teacher, even the Lord. Once, with His finger, He wrote in the sand a message. The winds of time erased forever the words He wrote but not the life He lived.
“All that we can know about those we have loved and lost,” wrote Thornton Wilder, “is that they would wish us to remember them with a more intensified realization of their reality. … The highest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude.”
Some years ago, in beautiful Heber Valley just east of Salt Lake City, a loving mother and devoted father returned to that personal haven called home to discover that their three eldest sons lay dead. The night was bitter cold, and the fierce wind swept the falling snow, which covered the chimney, trapping deadly carbon monoxide fumes throughout the house.
The joint funeral service for the Keller boys was one of the most touching experiences of my life. The residents of the community had placed aside their daily tasks, children were excused from school, and all thronged to the chapel to express their deep feelings of condolence. So long as time and memory endure, I shall remember the scene of three shiny caskets, followed by grief-stricken parents and grandparents making their way to the front of the building.
The first speaker was the wrestling coach of the local high school. He paid tribute to Louis, the oldest boy. With an emotion-filled voice and choking back the tears, he told how Louis was not necessarily the most gifted wrestler on the team but added, “No one tried harder. What he lacked in athletic skill he made up with a determined heart.”
Then a youth leader spoke of Travis. He told how Travis had excelled in Scouting, in Aaronic Priesthood work, and was such a sterling example to his friends.
Finally, a distinguished appearing and obviously competent elementary school teacher told of Jason, the youngest of the three. She described him as quiet, even shy. Then, without embarrassment, she told how Jason had, in the scrawled penmanship of a boy, sent to her the sweetest and most welcome letter she had ever received. Its message was brief—just three words: “I love you.” She could barely complete her talk, so deep-felt were her emotions.
Through the tears and the sorrow of that special day, I observed eternal lessons that had been taught by those boys whose lives were honored and whose mortal missions concluded.
A coach expressed the determination to look beyond athletic prowess and into the heart of each boy. A youth leader made a solemn vow that every boy and girl would have the benefit which the program of the Church provided. An elementary school teacher looked at the small children, classmates of Jason. She said nothing, but her eyes revealed the determination of her soul. The message was unmistakably clear: “I will love each child. Each boy, each girl will be guided in the search for truth, in the development of talent, and be introduced to the wonderful world of service.”
And the audience could never again be the same. All will strive toward that perfection spoken of by the Master. Our inspiration? The lives of the boys who now rest from care and sorrow, and the fortitude of parents who trust in the Lord with all their hearts, who lean not to their own understanding, and who in all their ways acknowledge Him, knowing that He will direct their paths.
Let me share with you a portion of a letter sent to me by the noble mother of these three sons. It was written soon after their passing.
“We do have days and nights that right now seem so overwhelming. The change in our home life has been so drastic. With almost half our family gone now, the cooking, washing, and even shopping are different. We miss the noise and clutter, the teasing and playing together. Such are gone. Sunday is so quiet. We miss seeing the sacrament blessed and passed by our sons. Sunday was truly our family together day. We ponder the thought: no missions, no weddings, no grandchildren. We would not ask for their return, but we could not say we would ever have willingly given them up. We have returned to our Church duties and our family responsibilities. Our desire is to so live that the Keller family will be a forever family.”
To the Kellers, the Sullivans, and indeed to all who have loved and lost, let me share with you the conviction of my soul, the testimony of my heart, and the actual experiences of my life.
We know each one lived in the spirit world with Heavenly Father. We understand we have come to earth to learn, to live, to progress in our eternal journey toward perfection. Some remain on earth but for a moment, while others live long upon the land. The measure is not how long we live but rather how well we live. Then come death and the beginning of a new chapter of life. Where does that chapter lead?
Many years ago I stood by the bedside of a young man, the father of two children, as he hovered between life and the great beyond. He took my hand in his, looked into my eyes, and pleadingly asked, “Bishop, I know I am about to die. Tell me what happens to my spirit when I die.”
I prayed for heavenly guidance before attempting to respond. My attention was directed to the Book of Mormon, which rested on the table beside his bed. I held the book in my hand, and it providentially opened to the 40th chapter of Alma. I began to read aloud:
“Now my son, here is somewhat more I would say unto thee; for I perceive that thy mind is worried concerning the resurrection of the dead. …
“Now, concerning the state of the soul between death and the resurrection—Behold, it has been made known unto me by an angel, that the spirits of all men, as soon as they are departed from this mortal body, … are taken home to that God who gave them life.
“And then shall it come to pass, that the spirits of those who are righteous are received into a state of happiness, which is called paradise, a state of rest, a state of peace, where they shall rest from all their troubles and from all care, and sorrow.”
My young friend closed his eyes, expressed a sincere thank-you, and silently slipped away to that paradise about which we had spoken.
Then comes that glorious day of resurrection, when spirit and body will be reunited, never again to be separated. “I am the resurrection, and the life,” said the Christ to the grieving Martha. “He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live:
“And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”
“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
“In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. … That where I am, there ye may be also.”
This transcendent promise became a reality when Mary and the other Mary approached the garden tomb—that cemetery which had but one occupant. Let Luke, the physician, describe their experience:
“Now upon the first day of the week, very early in the morning, they came unto the sepulchre. …
“And they found the stone rolled away. …
“… They entered in, and found not the body of the Lord Jesus.
“… As they were much perplexed thereabout, behold, two men stood by them in shining garments:
“And … said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead?”
“He is not here: for he is risen.”
This is the clarion call of Christendom. The reality of the Resurrection provides to one and all the peace that surpasses understanding. It comforts those whose loved ones lie in Flanders fields or who perished in the depths of the sea or rest in tiny Santa Clara or peaceful Heber Valley. It is a universal truth.
As the least of His disciples, I declare my personal witness that death has been conquered, victory over the tomb has been won. May the words made sacred by Him who fulfilled them become actual knowledge to all. Remember them. Cherish them. Honor them. He is risen.

“So what about our rowing team—is it history?” the upperclassman was passionate as he put the question, obviously a rhetorical one, to the first-year students. “No way! It’s a tradition!”
I was one of those new students beginning medical school at the University of São Paulo, which had long been famous for its victories in rowing competitions. Team members had asked our professor for a few minutes to recruit for the team. We would be replacing those who had graduated.
As a result of the enthusiastic pitch, about 30 of us decided to try out. None of us had any rowing experience. We were all out of shape, as our coach constantly reminded us. He had been in the military and made no effort to hide his disgust at our sorry physical condition. He had lots of jokes, too, about the irony of poor muscle tone in students of medicine.
Training was grueling—held at 5:00 A.M., six days a week. We had to set our alarms for 4:15 to catch the bus to the training area. The less disciplined did not show up for long. Those of us who stayed noted that the coach gave all his attention to the team veterans. Meanwhile, we recruits were ordered to run around the campus perimeter.
The University of São Paulo campus covers a large area, so the run was about 6 miles (10 kilometers) and required enormous effort from men in our condition. We were exhausted when we finished, and the coach ordered us to the showers without comment.
This routine continued for several weeks. In time, a few ingenious souls discovered that they could cut their running time by taking a shortcut. Instead of making a full circle around campus, they detoured through the woods. Of course, they thought themselves very clever when they beat us to the showers. They even gave their shortcut a name: the easy return.
In time, the coach announced that he was ready to name those who would join the official team. To their surprise, not one of the men who took the easy return was selected. I still don’t know how the coach knew.
Each of us has a race to run in life. The course may become difficult at times, but we have a Coach who knows us well. He has promised us, “He that is faithful and endureth shall overcome the world” (D&C 63:47). Some people may seem to profit by breaking the rules, but in reality, no effort to keep the commandments will go unrewarded.
I always feel grateful when I think back to the rowing team. I still have the gold medal I was awarded for our victories. But more importantly, I have the determination I developed then never to take the easy return.

The STOMPing that took place wasn’t grapes or dance floors or each other’s toes. In fact, it had nothing to do with feet.
The STOMP that the youth of the Hermosa Vista Ward in the Mesa Arizona Red Mountain Stake participated in becomes clear when you find out what STOMP stands for—Students Trying Out Moroni’s Promise. (See the New Era, “Captains of Ten,” Nov. 1983, p. 49.)
In 17 weeks (that translates to four pages a day), the Young Men and Young Women and their youth leaders, divided into groups of ten, decided to act on Moroni’s promise in Moroni 10:4–5. [Moro. 10:4–5] They read the Book of Mormon as a group.
Each group of ten was assigned a captain. At first the captains weren’t really sure they wanted the responsibility. Blair Phelps had a little insider’s knowledge about what they were up against. His sister had been a captain the year before, so he knew what was involved. But he agreed, joining seven others as the captains.
Each week these captains contacted each member of their team and added up the points each had earned that week. Points were given for reading each day, for being up to date with their reading assignments, for memorizing certain scriptures, and for attending the firesides and activities organized to encourage participation. Each person was given a booklet with a reading chart, the schedule of events, the scriptures to memorize, and Moroni’s promise printed right there in the front. The teams were not competing. Reporting in to their captain helped each person stay interested and focused on the goal.
Michelle Shephard described what happened perfectly, “I was pretty excited”; then she paused, “at first.” It seems like enthusiasm was high for the first couple of weeks. Then school let out for the summer and the schedules started to slip. It seemed like everyone had some trouble keeping up. In fact, the Beehives took drastic measures to catch up. They had a sleep-over where reading the Book of Mormon was the planned activity. Maria Dastrup said, “It was the strangest sleep-over I ever went to. Who would have thought we would have fun just reading the Book of Mormon?” And read they did, with occasional breaks, until they finally fell asleep. Then in the morning they woke up and read some more.
Nearly everyone had a favorite character or favorite story from the scriptures. Mike Walker said, “I really admired Nephi. He’s a good role model. I kept wondering about his brothers. How could they have an angel appear to them and such wonderful things happen that should build their faith, then turn around and be wicked again? It’s hard to understand.”
Many developed a strong feeling for Moroni. Reading his last words made them both sad and hopeful. “It was sad when Moroni said good-bye,” said Lisa Corrington. “His promise works if you really want to find out if the Book of Mormon is true.”
Michelle also commented on Moroni’s last words. “He gives you a final promise after all his people have died and after all that has happened. He tells us we can still do it—we can still live as Christ taught.”
Blair adds, “It gives you a good feeling. It makes you want to try.”
The young people in Mesa were determined to finish reading the Book of Mormon on schedule. They came up with a list of suggestions that helped them finish their reading:
Pay attention.
Pray first; it helps.
Apply what you read to things going on around you.
Keep a reading chart.
Read along while listening to scripture tapes.
Read the chapter headings.
Read during the day when you’re awake. And try to read at the same time every day.
Read it with your friends or family so you can discuss it.
Read the book of Moroni first; then go back and start at the beginning.

The Bread Cast Upon Waters Reverberation Pattern
There is more. (There always is.) The test of a divine pattern is this: An act of divine intervention, when acknowledged as such and testified of, will, like the proverbial bread cast upon the waters, come back after many days to testify, bless, and re-bless, for it witnesses an eternally re-greening and re-blossoming truth. It is a pattern. So Christ becomes alive in us as we bear witness, in any age. So this little contact lens story has reverberated in at least two ways and surprised me both times.

Reverberation One
On the Sunday after the event, I told the contact lens experience to the members of the Wettingen Branch, over which I presided. The Saints, who had witnessed my visual difficulties up close and shared my joy in my newfound vision, reverberated with the larger meanings of the incident and apparently told it to others. In 1986, 28 years later, I returned to Switzerland as mission president. As President Peter Lauener introduced Janice and me to the Bern stake conference, he surprised us: “We all have known about President Cracroft for many years,” he said. “He it is, brothers and sisters, who as a young missionary here in Switzerland exercised faith and found his lost contact lens.” Many in the congregation nodded in recognition.

I was dumbfounded. He turned to me and said for all to hear, “Over many years, that story has been told and retold in all our meetings as an illustration of the necessary steps to faith.” Suddenly I understood that young Elder Cracroft had unwittingly cast his burden on the Lord by taking an inspired and faith-impelled step into the dark. I wondered if President Cracroft, at 50, still possessed that same simple faith.

Reverberation Two
In January 1994, on the day after our 25-year-old daughter and bride of one short year died suddenly, naturally, and without warning—and my wife and I were plunged into the belly of the whale—I received a letter from a former Swiss-Austrian missionary living in Salt Lake City. He knew nothing of our sorrow, of course. He said he had recently read my name on an article and was writing to inquire if I was the same Elder Cracroft he had known briefly in 1958, at the beginning of his mission and near the end of mine. He said he had been deeply impressed by a story I had told at a missionary conference about losing and recovering a contact lens. He had related the incident often over the years and hoped he had told it accurately. He then repeated the story as he recalled it. Although I had not told it in a long time, I was amazed that he had captured it exactly as I recollected it and as I just told it.

The reverberation resounded in my ears. In his letter I read my own story in tears of joy amidst my tears of grief. His retelling us that story 36 years later, at the darkest moment of our lives, was no coincidence. Janice and I had received a message from the Lord reminding us that he was there with us at the fall of our dear sparrow, just as he had been there with me on that long-ago hillside. He was reminding us that this was merely another obstacle on our salvation journey; that all things, including our daughter and ourselves, were in his hands; and that we should press on, confident that, as Lehi says, “All things have been done in the wisdom of him who knoweth all things” (2 Nephi 2:24). Who knows, perhaps this twice-told tale may take on new life in the soul of someone in this congregation who needs to hear that message.

I grew up in the Church in a loving home. Yet as I entered my teenage years, I started to drift away from the gospel. I still went to church nearly every Sunday. I believed what was being taught, but I just wasn’t committed enough to live the gospel.

When my older brother came home from his mission, he could see that I wasn’t going in the direction I should be. He came into my room one night and tried to talk with me. But I really wasn’t that interested. Finally he said, “All of the answers to all of your problems are in this book,” and he put a Book of Mormon on my bed. Then he left. After a few minutes, I said to myself in a mocking voice, “All of the answers to all of your problems are in this book.”

“OK,” I thought, “let’s see.”

I opened the Book of Mormon and the first verse I saw was Alma 29:13, which says, “Yea, and that same God did establish his church among them; yea, and that same God hath called me by a holy calling, to preach the word unto this people, and hath given me much success, in the which my joy is full.” I felt similar to Joseph Smith when he said, “Never did any passage of scripture come with more power to the heart of man than this did at this time to mine” (Joseph Smith—History 1:12).

The Spirit was very strong, and I knew that I had been directed by the Lord. I immediately looked for a red pencil, fearing that I might lose this scripture and never find it again. I reviewed it again, trying to understand what it meant for me. I came to understand that I should go on a mission, that I would be successful, and that I would be happy doing it.

Fearing perhaps that I might change my mind or doubt the prompting, I jumped in my car and went to my dad’s pizza shop to ask for his support, which he immediately gave. I then went to my bishop’s house and asked him what I had to do to go on a mission. Before long, I received a call to serve in the Philippines Manila Mission. As it turned out, I was happy and successful.

Since that time, my life has never been the same. I’m not sure where I would be or what I would be doing if my brother hadn’t come into my room that night, but I’m sure my life was going in the wrong direction. The Book of Mormon really did save my life. I know that the Lord is aware of us and wants to help us if we will put forth effort and show we are interested in Him.

Although I prayed every day, I’d never felt like my prayers could be described as anything but ordinary. I wondered if the heroes in the scriptures were the only ones whose prayers could be described as “mighty.”
One day, a friend called and described a beautiful prayer experience she had had. “It was like real two-way communication with my Father in Heaven,” she said. “Heaven felt so close around me.”
Her experience caused me to wonder, “Is that what the scriptures meant by mighty prayer?” That was what happened with Enos when he knelt in prayer. Since I couldn’t remember ever having this experience when I prayed, I decided to find out what makes prayer mighty and how I could make my prayers more meaningful.
I started by making a list of the things I thought would work. My main problem was falling asleep during my prayers. It may seem silly, but the first thing on my list was to try praying in more uncomfortable places. This really worked to keep me awake, but my prayers still felt the same as they always did.
I thought I might try longer prayers, like Enos. Surely that would let Heavenly Father know that I really wanted to communicate with Him. Nothing changed. And although I was sure Heavenly Father was blessing me and listening to my prayers, I wanted to feel closer to Him than I was feeling.
Over a period of time I tried many other techniques, such as concentrating harder, writing down everything I needed to pray for so I wouldn’t forget anything, and praying out loud. Nothing seemed to make my prayers feel mighty.
Then one day that all changed. It happened to be near Christmastime and I was listening to “O Holy Night” in my bedroom. As I pondered the Savior and His mission, the music penetrated my heart. A feeling of joy and gratitude washed over me as I thought of the Savior’s love and His great Atonement. I got on my knees and uttered a simple prayer of thanksgiving, with the hope that I could become more like Him. As a gentle warmth and happiness enveloped my heart, heaven felt very near, and the Spirit helped me to understand that this is what it meant to have mighty prayer.

Lisa soaked in the coolness of the dewy morning air as she walked down the winding lane. She knew she should be exhausted. Yesterday she and her mother had left their home in Utah. They had flown to Chicago, then on to Manchester, England. The trip had taken 16 hours. Aunt Enid met them in Manchester and drove them the three hours to the old farm house at Bwlchycibau, Wales.
As they had neared the small village, her aunt had slowed the car down and said, “That’s the churchyard where your grandparents are buried, Lisa,” pointing to the left. Looking out the window, Lisa saw a church spire above a grey stone wall. As they rounded the corner she noticed a small wooden gate.
She hadn’t had time to think any more. There had been cases to unload, cousins to meet, a farm house to explore, and finally the bliss of lying in bed for much overdue sleep.
It wasn’t quite dawn when she awoke. She knew that she should still be asleep, but her body was on Utah time and no amount of mental persuasion could entice sleep back once it had fled. She heard voices and peeked out of the small dormer window to see her uncle and oldest cousin Wynn heading off towards a building that she assumed was where the cows were milked.
She lay back on her pillow. A picture of the churchyard flashed into her mind. All at once, she knew that more than anything, she wanted to be alone for her first visit to Bwlchycibau churchyard.
Lisa stopped at the small wooden gate in the wall that she had noticed the night before. She realized as she reached for the latch that she was nervous. She had held back her feelings for many years, and now in a strange churchyard, half a world away from home, she was going to confront them.
She walked slowly down the well-worn path. On either side of her were gravestones, some lichen covered, others leaning slightly. Some stones were well cared for with small flower arrangements at their bases; others were totally neglected. She could imagine other girls, perhaps her own ancestors, walking down this same footpath.
She began meandering between the stones, looking for a familiar name: Williams, Roberts, Davies, Jones. It took awhile, but suddenly she read: “Mabel Jones, beloved wife of Arthur Jones 1917–1994.” Beside the purple slate stone was another: “Arthur Jones, beloved husband of Mabel Jones 1911–1968.” There was a copper bowl of yellow roses at the base of each grave. Her Aunt Enid had been here.
Lisa turned, sat down on an old tree stump nearby, then faced her grandmother’s grave. She said aloud, “Oh, Granny, I wish I had known you. Why did it have to be this way?”
She looked down and whispered, “I wish you had known that I am a good person and that Mum is happy. I don’t understand why you were so bitter. How could you hate me without even knowing me?”
Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop talking. “When you have a testimony of the gospel like Mum does, you just can’t deny it. Her decision to join the Church was not made carelessly. She fasted and prayed about it many times because she knew it would be hard on you so soon after losing Grandpa. Even though she went away, Mum never stopped loving you or feeling bad for hurting you, Granny.”
Lisa paused. Her eyes filled with tears. “Why couldn’t you have just once acknowledged me? I know that Mum wrote and told you when I was born. We never heard anything. Weren’t you even curious about me? It was hard hearing all my friends talk about their grandmas. You were just an empty ache inside. I didn’t even know you, but I missed you so much.”
Lisa looked at the new gravestone and asked, “Did you get my letter last year? I wrote and told you that I was going to come and see you. I came, Granny. I came, but you didn’t wait.”
With that, Lisa’s whispered words ceased, and she let the tears run down her cheeks without wiping them away. She didn’t hear the quiet approach of a short, aging man in black until his dark robes brushed against her leg. She gasped, startled.
“Can I help you, child?” His soft Welsh accent was like music. Lisa stood, feeling a little foolish.
“You were sitting here for so long that I became anxious about you,” the man said. “Early morning in the churchyard can be quite chilly you know.”
Lisa managed a watery smile. “Oh, I’m fine. Really I am. But thank you for your concern. Are you the rector here?”
The clergyman peered at her perceptively, noting her deep blue eyes, still filled with tears. “That’s right, dear. I’m Reverend Lloyd. Been here at Bwlchycibau for well on 35 years now. Yes, indeed, I’ve seen a lot of people come and go in my time.
“You take this lady here now,” he continued in a comfortable tone, and gestured towards Lisa’s grandmother’s grave. “She was a very special lady. She lived her life quietly giving service to others. Yes, indeed, Mabel Jones is sorely missed by us all.” He sighed, a little sadly.
“What did she do?” Lisa asked, trying to hide her feverish desire to know more.
“Well,” said Reverend Lloyd, “it may be easier for me just to show you. Come with me.” He turned and led the way slowly to the church.
The cool, dark interior of the church was a shock after the bright light of morning outside. Lisa gazed around with interest. The wooden pews were polished to a shine. The stone floor and walls were cold, and every footfall echoed. At the front of the aisle was the altar, draped in a white lace cloth. All around the chapel were tall narrow stained-glass windows. Beams of multicolored light danced on the floor as the sunlight hit the beautiful glass.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” exclaimed Lisa, instinctively lowering her voice to a whisper.
“I’m glad you think so, child,” Reverend Lloyd smiled briefly. Then he led Lisa to a pew halfway down the aisle.
“This is the Jones’s pew,” he said. “Mabel’s daughter Enid and her family still use this bench. A few years ago Mabel decided that her knees were getting too old to kneel on the stone floor, so she made herself a small cushion to kneel on.” He handed Lisa a rectangular pillow that was tucked under the pew. “It’s needlepoint, I believe.”
Lisa touched the delicate work. “It’s lovely,” she said quietly. She felt overwhelmed to be holding something her grandmother had made.
“Yes, that’s exactly what everyone in the congregation thought too. So during the next few winters, Mabel made one or two for every family at church. Each one is a little different, but all most beautiful.” Reverend Lloyd bent down and lifted another pillow from beneath the next bench and handed it to Lisa.
Lisa looked at the two works of art in her hands and wondered that aging hands could create such masterpieces. Reluctantly, she handed them back to the rector. He then guided Lisa towards a small door at the back of the chapel.
“When Reverend Price, my predecessor, first came here as a young rector, there was no village school for the children. A few of the wealthier families sent their children into Oswestry on the train to attend school, but most of the children went without formal instruction. Mabel married Arthur Jones about that time. She moved into Bwlch Farm and was soon involved in the community. It concerned her no end that all the young children here were illiterate. She approached Reverend Price to see if they could do something about it. This was what they came up with.”
Reverend Lloyd opened the thick wooden door into a small room containing one large wooden desk, a large old oak chair, and half a dozen small chairs and tables. On the wall were faded maps, pictures of wild animals, and the alphabet.
“For ten years this was the Bwlchycibau schoolroom. Mabel would come and teach the children of the village three mornings a week. She received no pay for it. She just did it because she saw a need. There are many farmers around here now who wouldn’t be reading if it weren’t for Mabel Jones.
“When the county finally built a school in the village and sent us a certified teacher, Mabel still stopped by once a week to read to the children. I think it was the highlight of the week for them all.”
Lisa let her eyes wander around the room as the rector spoke. She tried to imagine her grandmother reading to the young farm children. Suddenly, she realized that Reverend Lloyd had moved onto another subject.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he was saying.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Lisa asked apologetically.
“Well, it’s like I was saying,” said the rector, “Mabel Jones did so much Christian service that nobody ever thought she’d done anything she really regretted. But there was something. I only found out about it a few days before her death.”
Reverend Lloyd took Lisa by the arm and led her out of the schoolroom, closing the door behind him. They walked outside, and he motioned for her to sit beside him on the bench beneath the church porch.
“Mabel became ill a few days before her death. I went to see her. She was very weak but wanted to talk to me. She told me about her daughter, not Enid who lives at the farm now, but Mary, an older daughter who went away to America as a young girl. She married an American out there, and they had a daughter.”
The rector didn’t pause in his story as Lisa looked up in surprise and recognition. “Mabel had never seen that granddaughter. I believe when Mary left, there were some bad feelings. Anyway, over the years, Mabel had come to regret the things she’d said to Mary and wanted more than anything to see her again and meet Mary’s husband and daughter. But she didn’t know how to approach her. Then last year, she received a letter from her granddaughter saying that she and her mother were going to come and see Mabel the next year. Mabel was so pleased. She wanted to apologize face to face. She talked of all the things that she wanted to show her granddaughter. Most of all, she wanted that young lady to know that she loved her.
“I think Mabel knew she was going to leave us when I sat with her that day. She drew me close and made me look into those deep blue eyes of hers. Then she said, ‘Reverend, you promise me that if I’m not here when that young girl comes, you’ll find her and tell her what a fool her Gran was not to tell her that she loved her long ago. You tell her that I kept her baby picture that Mary sent right next to my bed where I could see it every morning and every evening. You tell her to grow up to be as fine a woman as her mother is. But most of all, you ask her to forgive me.’”
Her grandmother loved her! In some ways, it made her death harder to bear, but where there had once been emptiness and heartache, Lisa felt a warm glow of gratitude as she began to cry.
Reverend Lloyd covered Lisa’s hand in his. “Now, now child. It’s all right.”
“But, rector,” Lisa said, practically whispering. “I’m Mabel Jones’s granddaughter.”
The rector looked into her face. “You don’t have to tell me that, dear. Mabel Jones’s blue eyes are looking right back at me.” Then with a smile tugging at his lips, he added, “And you don’t talk like a Bwlchycibau native either.”
Lisa smiled at the kindly old man and said, “Thank you,” as they both stood and walked down the path through the churchyard.

When I came home from my mission, I wondered if I would be capable of attending university. Because of my learning disability, I hadn’t planned on it when I was younger.
But since Heavenly Father had helped me during my mission, I had confidence that I could attend university and be successful. I went to school and not only became better at reading and writing but also began learning two other languages and wrote a novel. I am now pursuing a PhD in literature and history—something I never would have imagined for myself.