Gospel Story Finder

Sister Dil had only six weeks left on her mission in New Zealand when she found out she would be spending those last weeks serving with Sister Tuala!
“It’s the very last thing I would have signed myself up for,” says Sister Dil.
Sister Dil and Sister Tuala had been starting players for their high schools’ top competitive basketball teams in Auckland, New Zealand. They were rivals. They would often play against each other in final tournaments, and it was not pretty.
“To put it into context a little bit,” says Sister Tuala, “we would walk off the court with scratches and bruising.”
Sister Dil and Sister Tuala spent a lot of time training and playing basketball. “Basketball was our lives,” says Sister Dil.
After graduating from high school, they both felt impressed to serve a mission—although neither of them had ever felt a desire to serve before.
Just because Sister Dil and Sister Tuala served in the same mission didn’t mean they were instant friends. After being rivals for so long, Sister Dil and Sister Tuala still had a hard time seeing each other as anything else.
In fact, the first day Sister Tuala saw Sister Dil, one of her first thoughts was, “I don’t know if I’m supposed to like her.”
So when Sister Tuala and Sister Dil were assigned to serve together, it was definitely weird.
Both had ideas about each other based on how they played on the basketball court. Each thought the other was aggressive, competitive, and mean.
But things began to change as they got to know each other. Sister Dil realized Sister Tuala is “the complete opposite” of how she had always seen her. “She is actually a very loving person—one of the most loving companions I’ve served with,” Sister Dil says.
Sister Tuala had a similar experience. She hadn’t realized that her feelings of rivalry toward Sister Dil had been “quite an unconscious conflict” in her life.
Those negative feelings of conflict and judgment were replaced with love and understanding as she began to see who Sister Dil really was. And although Sister Tuala thought Sister Dil was quiet, she found that “Sister Dil can talk!”
In their newfound friendship, Sister Dil and Sister Tuala realized that maybe they had never really been enemies after all.
“In basketball you build in your mind this idea that we’ve got to win, and every other team’s the enemy,” says Sister Dil. “And then basketball finishes, and you realize, ‘Oh, they’re no longer the enemy. They probably never were really the enemy.’”
Now, Sister Dil and Sister Tuala see that they are on the same “team”—God’s team.
Both sisters felt God’s hand in their assignment as companions and know the power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ allowed them to experience healing and change.
“Jesus Christ made that sacrifice so all these things that have gone wrong in the past can be healed, made right, and made better,” Sister Dil says. “We can forgive. We can forget. We can move on, and things change.”
Not only did Sister Tuala and Sister Dil heal their conflict, but they also learned how to see others as God sees them.
“Coming out here and being able to see my companion and other people in a different light, I realize that every person’s story matters,” says Sister Tuala. “And everyone needs the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”
They learned that although it can be difficult, it’s possible for two people who once saw each other as enemies to come together through love.
“It doesn’t matter what age you are or what ethnicity you are,” says Sister Tuala, “or whether you’re an atheist or religious.
“If I can work alongside someone who I never really had a great relationship with, and the two of us come together for one main purpose, then other people can too.”
Oh, they’re no longer the enemy. They probably never were really the enemy.

The patriarchal order runs from Abraham to Isaac and to Jacob. Through the line of the priesthood, it continues in our own day and time. Through the ages, blessings and promises were given from the fathers to their faithful sons. A modern example of this is taken from the life of Elder John B. Dickson of the Seventy. He recalls:
“When it was time for me to go on a mission, I was very excited to serve the Lord. Just before I was to leave, however, I found out that I had bone cancer. The chance of living long enough to serve a mission wasn’t very high. I had faith that the Lord would provide a way if He wanted me to go. My father gave me a blessing in which I was told that I would serve my mission in Mexico, serve in the Church all my life, and have a family. My right arm had to be amputated above the elbow, but my life was spared, and the promises I was given have all been fulfilled.
“Some would think that losing an arm would be a terrible burden, but it has been one of the greatest blessings in my life. I learned that it is very important to have challenges and to face up to them.”
Elder Dickson had always been right-handed, and now he had to learn to do everything left-handed. One struggle was learning how to tie his ties. He said: “One Sunday morning when I was in my bedroom with my tie in my hand, I thought, How am I going to tie this? I thought about getting a clip-on tie. I thought about asking Mom to help me. But I couldn’t take her with me on my mission just to tie my ties. So I decided I had to learn how to do it myself. I finally figured it out by using my teeth. I still do it that way, even after having tied it thousands of times.”

I remember a story about when President David O. McKay, ninth president of the Church, was a young lad. He received a new pocketknife on his eighth birthday, and he got on his horse and rode out into the valley, made a fire, ate his lunch, then got ready to return home.
As he began riding home, he realized that he had forgotten his new pocketknife. He quickly turned around and raced back to the spot where he had eaten his lunch and searched in vain for his knife. His father had taught him to pray when confronted with a problem, so because of his faith in his father, David got on his knees and began to talk simply and earnestly to the Lord. In the midst of his prayer, he saw a vision—a picture as clear as any TV picture—of his knife under a clump of weeds. He got up on his feet, looked around, walked directly to the scene he had just witnessed in his mind, and found his knife exactly as it had been revealed to him!

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! A busy yellow bee landed on a flower by Andrea. She jumped up and hurried away. Andrea didn’t like bees. She moved to a different part of the garden to pull weeds by a leafy tomato plant.
The sun was warm on Andrea’s back. She could hear Mom close by in the rows of corn. Suddenly Andrea heard more buzzing. Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! She ran to find Mom.
“There are too many bees, Mommy!” she said. “I want to work in the garden without the bees.”
“We need the bees to make our garden grow,” Mom said. “Jesus created bees to pollinate the plants so we can have our favorite foods.”
“Without the bees we wouldn’t have our garden?” Andrea asked. She thought about all of her favorite plants. She liked pretty flowers. She liked to eat strawberries and tomatoes. She would be sad to live in a world without them.
“I’m glad Jesus made the plants,” Andrea said. “I’m glad He made the bees too!”

My father did not believe in accepting government handouts. While he was fit and able, he believed he should meet the needs of himself, my mother and me. It meant long hours, working at least two jobs until he finally retired at eighty-one. He had his own one-man business, travelling through the villages near where we lived, selling hardware out of the back of a small van. His customers were mainly agricultural workers living on very low wages. Frequently they couldn’t afford to pay him. and he would come home with a rabbit, some eggs and, on one occasion, a chair, given in place of cash. In turn, his compassionate heart was rewarded by the boss of his second job. Early mornings and evenings he would gut fish and pluck chickens, for which he was paid a wage and given gifts of fish, crab, and chicken.

In the mid-1950s my parents were picked at random to take part in a government household expenditure survey. Our completed form was returned for “obvious corrections”, as it was judged that three people could not live on such a small cash income (less than what social security would pay). But they didn’t know my parents and their ability to make something out of nothing (“summat out nowt”). They also didn’t know our neighbours, who were of higher economic standing, and who appreciated my parents’ honesty, integrity, compassion, and hard work, consequently putting work their way and providing much of our clothing needs.

The Lord blesses those who keep His commandments, whether they know they are doing so or not. My father lived the second great commandment (“thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself”—Matthew 19:19) and taught me, as the Lord did Adam and Eve, that we “shall eat [our] bread by the sweat of our [our] brow” (Moses 5:1).

I have also always remembered his mission stories. Even though he was married and had a child, Grandpa was called to serve as a missionary in Mexico City—just as the Mexican Revolution broke out. One time, federal soldiers accused him and his companion of being spies and threatened to shoot them on the spot. Remembering the story of Abinadi, Grandpa said, “You can’t kill us because we haven’t delivered our message yet. Take us to the president.” He and his companion were taken to the presidential palace, where they gave the president a Book of Mormon and taught him for two hours. The president discovered that my grandpa was from his hometown and asked, “Do you know Francisco González?” Grandpa replied, “Yes, he’s my father.” The president said, “He was my teacher when I was a little boy! Now that I know who you are, is there anything I can do to help you in your work?” The missionaries asked for a letter with the presidential seal and signature, stating that they had permission to preach. The president gladly gave them the letter, and they were able to continue their missionary work.

On a warm July evening, 2,500 young Latter-day Saints from Southern California congregate next to the football stadium at the University of Redlands. It’s 20 minutes before showtime on opening night, and the youth dressed in colorful dance costumes are excited to perform their dance festival show after two years of planning and months of dance practices.
One group of youth begins to clap and chant “It’s dance time” as they cheer. All around them other participants are practicing their parts alone or with partners.
Soon they all line up to go into the stadium, and after the prayer and opening number, all 2,500 of them flow onto the field. The California Dreamin’ dance festival has just begun.
During the next two hours the youth move across the field performing dances like the waltz, cha-cha, and swing to live music performed by other youth and adults. When it’s over, the crowd cheers and the dancers hold their heads high, grateful for the opportunity to participate in this great event.
With more than 2,500 youth dancing on the field, making friends, and strengthening testimonies, the California Dreamin’ dance festival turned out to be just that: something great.

His mother, Jean, joined the Church as a teenager in Hawaii, USA, and later attended Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, USA, where she stayed with the family of Gerrit de Jong, the first dean of the College of Fine Arts. “The de Jongs helped me understand what a gospel family is like,” she says.

After BYU, Jean attended Stanford University in Palo Alto, California, USA, where she met Walter A. Gong. “He was already a Christian and quickly understood what the restored gospel offers,” Jean says. He joined the Church, and a year later they were married in the Salt Lake Temple. Both became professional educators and collectively spent more than 70 years teaching.

“Dad also became a patriarch,” Elder Gong says, “and because patriarchal blessings were given in our home, our home was filled with a deep reverence for God’s love for each of His children.”

On December 23, 1953, in Redwood City, California, the first of Jean and Walter’s three children was born. “His given name, Gerrit, is Dutch, to honor Gerrit de Jong,” Jean explains. “His middle name is Walter, to honor his father. And our family name is Chinese, which honors his heritage.”

Jean says Gerrit was considerate to his younger siblings, Brian and Marguerite. “He liked to help them,” she says, “even with little things like teaching them to tie their shoes.” She remembers coming home from church one day and overhearing Gerrit and Brian saying they thought a sacrament meeting talk was boring. “So I challenged them: ‘Then you come up with a better talk.’ They took the challenge and started paying more attention to all the talks,” she says.

After sacrament meeting the bishop called me into his office for a talk. Here it comes, I thought. I’m going to be the new teachers quorum president, I’ll bet. I was filled with pride and excitement. Wow, is the ward ever going to heap handshakes on me. Mom will be so proud!
I sat in the big chair across from the bishop. He was a pleasant man, smiling as always, but I felt that even so, this conversation was going to be an important one.
“Steve, we have an assignment for you,” he said. My heart raced.
“This is a special ‘good neighbor’ assignment. We’re concerned about Hasty McFarlan. He’s a pretty sad old man, you know. He needs someone to befriend him. He’s not a member of the Church, but God’s love reaches to all people, and we as members of his church have the responsibility to show it. Maybe I should say we have the privilege of showing that love.”
I guess I must have looked stunned.
“You know Hasty, don’t you, Steve?” asked the bishop.
My memory jumped back a couple of weeks to when some friends and I had made fun of the old man by singing jingles and shouting the jokes we had made up about him.
“Yes, I know him,” I said, choking down my disappointment and guilt. “He’s the old hermit who lives outside of town.”
“Right,” said the bishop. “I would like for you to go out and visit him two or three times a week.”
“Okay,” was the only answer I could manage.
The bishop must have detected my crestfallenness, because he leaned forward in his chair and looked at me carefully.
“Now, if this assignment will be too much, don’t be afraid to say so.”
I sighed. “Oh, I’ll do it, sir,” I said.
“Good,” said the bishop with a smile, and before I could catch my breath, he went on. “You can chop wood for the fire, and get him food, blankets—whatever he needs to help him feel wanted. Be a friend. Your father is aware of the assignment, and he told me he would help you. Your Heavenly Father will be prompting you, too.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I was 15 years old then, and there were other things I would rather do—play football, hunt, fish, or just do the things my friends were doing. But I had told the bishop I would carry out the assignment, and I knew it wasn’t good to go back on my word.
Hasty lived in a little log cabin at the foot of a mountain, just outside the Idaho farming community I grew up in. On the long hike to his cabin after school that first afternoon, it seemed to me that every pine along the trail whispered Hasty’s loneliness.
Once a year at Christmas the old man got a free bath at the hotel, compliments of the sheriff. Probably, we all thought, it was the only bath he got all year. We used to say he looked like a pirate with that growth on the side of his head and his black eyepatch. Most of the kids and even some of the townspeople had the habit of making unkind remarks or doing something “clever” whenever Hasty was around. Would he remember me as one of the tricksters? By the time I reached the cabin, I was genuinely frightened.
I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. I knew he had to be in there. Where else could he go?
“Hasty?” My voice broke halfway through the word. I don’t know how long I must have stood there before I decided to go inside. The thick oaken door creaked as I pushed it open.
“Hasty?” I called again. “Hasty, are you there?”
Hearing a rustling, I poked my head in as far as I dared and peeked around the door. It was cold in Hasty’s cabin and very dark. I could just make out the figure of a man on the bed. Hasty was all slouched down, but not like he’d been asleep, or even like he’d been thinking. He looked like he was slouching because there was no reason to do anything else. I noticed that the soiled, mildewed blanket he was sitting on was more hole than blanket.
My heart was beating in my throat. I swallowed hard.
“Hasty, is there anything I can do for you?” I managed to blurt out.
I told him my name and that the bishop from the LDS Church had sent me to see how he was doing and to help out. He said nothing. The silent, staring troll was freezing my nerves.
“Hasty, your fire is out.”
No reply.
“Can I chop some wood?”
No reply.
I went outside, found an axe and some stacked stumps, and began chopping kindling. With every strike of the axe my brain pounded. What am I doing out here? Why me? Why?
“Quit grumbling,” a voice inside me said. “The old man is cold and lonely, and you can help him.”
I got a fire going and tried to talk to him, but after a few minutes I decided he wasn’t really listening. He needed a new blanket, so I told him I would get a thick, clean, comfortable one, and the next day I did. After that I came every other day. Slowly, over the next several weeks, he began talking.
One day after we had talked some he said, “Boy, why do you come? I’m sure a kid your age can find better things to do than visit a sick old varmint like me. But I’m glad you come.” And then he smiled.
At Thanksgiving I invited Hasty to our house for dinner. He didn’t come, but our family took part of the dinner to him. There were tears in his eyes as he tried to thank us.
I discovered as our visits continued that Hasty had been a sheepherder. Once he had had a wife and children, but they had gotten a terrible fever and died of it.
Feeling in his grief that his life had been shattered, Hasty wandered the whole country as a vagabond. A diseased growth on the side of his face made one eye blind. And the teasing and practical joking had begun.
But to me the old man didn’t seem as ugly and frightening anymore. In fact, after school I hurried to his cabin to help him and to listen to his stories.
When Christmas arrived, we invited him to dinner once again. This time he came, and what’s more, he came in a suit, all cleaned and handsome. He looked great. A smile curved his lips. Hasty was happy because we showed him he was needed.
As we finished dinner, the old man bowed his head for a second, and then raised it and said, “You people sure are wonderful. My life has been a shambles for a long time, but the love you’ve shown is making me a different person. I’m very grateful.”
As he said that, I could feel a little fire in my chest getting big. It felt good.

Dinah sat on the rug, excited for story time. It was her favorite part of the day.
She looked across the rug and saw a classmate named Felicity waving to her.
“Come here!” Felicity said.
Dinah scooted across the rug. “What’s up?”
“Your hair is different than mine,” said Felicity. “Why does your hair look like that?” She touched Dinah’s braids and giggled.
“My mom helped me do it,” Dinah said. She loved the color of her hair and how it felt under her fingers. She loved the neat rows of cute little plastic hair clips.
“Also, I want to see something,” Felicity said. “Show me your arm.”
Dinah held out her arm. “Well, what?” she asked as Felicity moved her own arm next to Dinah’s.
“Your arms are so brown!” said Felicity.
“Oh,” said Dinah, scooting back to the other side of the rug. Suddenly she couldn’t wait for the day to end.
At home, Dinah didn’t say much at dinner. When it was cleanup time, her sister, Aly, grabbed a towel to dry dishes and Dinah picked up the broom.
Mom started singing. Mom loved to sing while they cleaned.
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine …”
Dinah smiled a little. She hummed and sang along as she swept: “Let it shine, let it shine …”
The song ended. “My turn!” Aly said. She started a new song. Dinah tried to harmonize like Aly and Mom did, but it sounded flat. Like a boring gray color. Everyone burst out laughing.
“That was funny!” said Dinah. “Let me try again.”
Aly started the song again, and Dinah closed her eyes and joined in. This time, the different notes started to blend, like yellow and blue mixing into a bright green.
They sang almost the whole time they cleaned. When they were finishing, Dinah remembered what happened at school. She still felt uncomfortable about it.
“Mom, do you ever think about how people look different?” Dinah asked. “How everyone has different hair and skin and eyes?”
“Hmm, yes, I know what you mean,” said Mom. “Did something happen that made you think about that?”
Dinah told Mom about what Felicity said. “I felt weird. I didn’t like it. Why did she say that?”
“It sounds like Felicity was curious about you,” Mom said. “Everyone has their own unique skin color. And hair and eyes too. We’re all Heavenly Father’s children, and there’s no right or wrong way to look. But sometimes people need to get used to the beauty of different colors.”
“All peoples’ colors are beautiful?” Dinah asked.
“Definitely. Everyone’s color shows something special about their family and their history. The way you act represents our family to others. And who do we always say we follow in our family? Jesus Christ, right? So you also represent the Savior.”
Dinah nodded as Mom pulled her into a hug. Then she pulled Aly into the hug too.
“We can always feel good about who we are—especially when we’re following Jesus Christ,” she said quietly.
Dinah’s upset feelings began to settle down.
“Now,” Mom said with a smile, “time to get ready for bed. And then—dessert!”
“Yay!” Aly shrieked. “It’s gonna be pie, I just know it!” She zoomed upstairs.
Dinah followed Aly. She felt much better after talking with Mom. Her skin color was another part of who she was, like her family and her testimony were. She would keep being kind and set a good example at school. With God on her side, it would be a piece of cake.
Or even better, a piece of pie!

When I was a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood, the member of the bishopric who advised the deacons quorum came into our quorum meeting the Sunday before Thanksgiving and said, “I hope we won’t have one family of this quorum who won’t kneel down in family prayer and have a blessing on the food this Thanksgiving.” It was 1943, and our country was engaged in World War II. We discussed our need for a divine blessing for those who were in military service and for all the other difficulties we as a nation were facing. We also talked about the blessings we each enjoyed. Then we were again encouraged to have family prayer.
A heavy cloud settled on my heart. I didn’t know how my family could have family prayer. My father had a drinking problem, and my mother was not a member of the Church at that time. We had never had a prayer in our home, not even a blessing on the food. After quorum meeting I continued to consider the challenge, and finally concluded we would not be able to have prayer.
That evening at sacrament meeting the bishop stood up at the close of the meeting and said, “Brothers and sisters, Thursday is Thanksgiving. I hope we will not have one family in the ward that will not kneel in family prayer. We ought to express our gratitude for the great goodness of our Heavenly Father to us.” And then he enumerated some of our many blessings.
Again it seemed as if my soul were filled with an enormous gloom. I tried to figure out a way our family could have prayer. I thought about it Monday, and again on Tuesday, and on Wednesday. On Wednesday evening my father did not return home from work at the normal hour, and I knew from experience that, because it was payday, he was satisfying his thirst for alcohol. When he finally came at two in the morning quite an argument ensued. I lay in bed wondering how we could ever have prayer with that kind of contention in our home.
On Thanksgiving morning, we did not eat breakfast so we could eat more dinner. My four brothers and I went out to play with some neighbor boys. We decided to dig a hole and make a trench to it and cover it over as a clubhouse. We dug a deep hole, and with every shovelful of dirt I threw out of the hole I thought about family prayer for Thanksgiving. I wondered if I would have enough courage to suggest to my parents that we have a prayer, but I was afraid I would not. I wondered if my older brother, who has always been an ideal in my life, would suggest it, since he had been in the same sacrament meeting and had heard the bishop’s suggestion.
Finally, at about two-thirty in the afternoon, Mother told us to come get cleaned up for dinner. Then we sat down at the big round oak table. Dad sat down with us silently—he and Mother were not speaking to each other. As she brought in the platter with the beautiful golden brown turkey, my young heart was about to burst. I thought, Now please, won’t someone suggest we have a family prayer? I thought the words over and over, but they wouldn’t come out. I turned and looked at my older brother, praying desperately that he would suggest prayer. The bowls of delicious food were being passed around the table; plates were being filled; and time and opportunity were passing. I knew that if someone did not act immediately, it would be too late. Then suddenly, as always, everyone just started eating.
My heart sank, and despair filled my soul. Although I had worked up a great appetite, and Mother was a marvelous cook, I wasn’t hungry. I just wanted to pray.
I resolved that day that no son or daughter of mine would ever want to pray and not be able to do it because of shyness or lack of courage. In our family we have family prayers, personal prayers, and blessings on every meal. As one who has known the contrast between families that do not pray and those that do, I know the value of prayer in the home and in the life of every child and youth in the Church. What a blessing it is for us to know that our private, individual prayers are heard and answered by a kind, wise, loving Heavenly Father, and that we can take our problems—no matter how simplistic they may be—to him in prayer!

Faith lay on her bed and stared at the afternoon sunlight on her ceiling.
“Is there really a God?” she wondered. She wanted to believe her parents and Primary teachers when they said God was her Heavenly Father and He loved her. But she wasn’t sure.
She rolled over and saw her scriptures on her nightstand.
“That’s the perfect place to look for the answer,” she thought.
Faith knelt down and prayed. “Heavenly Father, I need to know if Thou art really there. Please help me find the answer.”
Then she climbed back on her bed and opened her scriptures. They opened to 2 Nephi 2. She read in verse 13: “If ye shall say there is no sin, ye shall also say there is no righteousness.”
Faith paused. “I know sin exists because I’ve done things that are wrong,” she thought. “And I know righteousness exists because I’ve done good things too.”
She continued reading: “And if there be no righteousness there be no happiness. And if there be no righteousness nor happiness there be no punishment nor misery.”
“I know happiness exists,” Faith thought. “I felt happy just this afternoon when Mom and I watched a butterfly in the backyard. And I’ve felt miserable sometimes too.”
Faith read, “And if these things are not there is no God. And if there is no God we are not, neither the earth; for there could have been no creation of things.”
Faith looked up and said, “I exist. The earth exists. So if all these things are real, God has to be real too.”
As Faith said these words, she didn’t feel worried anymore. She felt like she wanted to run around the whole world and look at everything that existed. And she felt like she wanted to sit very still and feel close to Heavenly Father.
So she prayed again. “I know that Thou art real. I thank Thee for teaching me with the scriptures and with a peaceful feeling in my heart.”

Several years ago I made a presentation to a group of 20 managers in a large computer company. After the presentation, I asked them to describe a person in their organization who they felt was blocked and frustrated in his or her career. We heard about 20 different people who had specialized in a narrow area, and in many cases the company no longer needed the specialty. The managers were surprised that they had such a pervasive problem. But I was not surprised, because we had found that problem in dozens of organizations.

Nicholas Ofosu-Hene was a young policeman assigned to guard an LDS meetinghouse during the freeze. His duty was to watch over the building at night. When Nicholas first arrived at the meetinghouse, he saw that things had been scattered around, with papers, books, and furniture in disarray. In the midst of this disorder, he saw a copy of the Book of Mormon. He tried ignoring the book because he had been told that it was evil. But he felt strangely attracted to it. Finally, Nicholas could ignore the book no longer. He picked it up. He felt impelled to start reading it. He read through the night, tears running down his cheeks as he read.

The first time he picked it up, he read all of 1 Nephi. The second time, he read all of 2 Nephi. When he got to 2 Nephi chapter 25, he read the following: “And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”2

At that point, Nicholas felt the Spirit so strongly that he started sobbing. He realized that in the course of his reading he had received several spiritual promptings that this book was scripture, the most correct he had ever read. He realized that the Latter-day Saints, contrary to what he had heard, strongly believe in Jesus Christ. After the freeze ended and missionaries returned to Ghana, Nicholas, his wife, and his children joined the Church. When I saw him last year, he was a police commander and was serving as the president of the Tamale Ghana District of the Church. He says: “The Church has transformed my life. … I thank the Almighty God for leading me into this gospel.”3

You take your place in line, rubbing the chalk deeper into your hands. You take a quick glance at your older sister. She is running, jumping, spinning—making difficult gymnastic moves into something beautiful.
“I can do it,” you say to the air.
Then you run at the vault. There is a low crack, a moment of uncertainty as the ground disappears and you begin twisting. I can do it, you repeat. The landing is perfect. You turn and your older sister is watching. You both smile. For a moment anything is possible.
If you’re not 13, try to remember what it was like. Standing in the shadow of an older brother or sister. Wondering who you are. Proving yourself in a big world.
Denice Pauga is 13. She is also one of the best gymnasts her age in Canada, but her sister Cassandra, 16, has always been that little bit better. It has taken a long time, but Denice is beginning to find her own way, in life and at the gym.
In Lethbridge, Alberta, the west wind always blows hard off the plains, twisting and dancing through town. The wind is persistent, like the girls have learned to be. In the quiet city of Lethbridge, Denice and Cassie have found anything is possible.
For Denice, persistence is not a natural quality. Oh, she has talent, lots of it. In fact, when Denice was only two she followed her sister into gymnastics—the routines, the moves, they all came easy to her and it was fun. But getting to a point where she could compete with the best was hard work. Cassie never objected to training long hours, skipping parties, missing her friends. But for Denice it was different.
She complained about having to practice every night. Her dad said she didn’t have to go and for six months Denice played with her friends, instead. No gymnastics.
In the end Denice missed the competition, the limelight, and asked to go back—this time for good. “I think one of the things Denice loves about gymnastics is showing a crowd what she can do,” says Cassie.
And that love of performance is apparent as soon as you meet her. So is her distaste for practice. In a way it is charming, that she cannot fake an attitude. Denice grumbles all the way up to the bars; then she grabs a hold and her eyes focus. She turns professional. She seems to relish each movement that defies physical law—to know that she can do something so wonderful, so fascinating for the people watching.
But even with that love of performance, there have been difficulties. “It’s hard because Cassie is always one step ahead of her,” says Robby, their mom. “What Denice doesn’t realize is that she is actually a better gymnast than Cassie was at her age. But Cassie always gets to move first.”
“I feel competition to do as well as Cassie, but I have realized that I can do some things as good as her,” says Denice. “Some things I can do even better. That makes me feel equal.”
And in time she has found something of her own that has helped—a relationship with her Heavenly Father. “It’s become important in my life. I always pray before a meet and I haven’t been hurt yet. And I know if I stick to the standards of the Church, if I don’t give them up, He will help me out when I need it.”
Cassie was the opposite of Denice. She never wanted to leave gymnastics. “You could put her in the gym at eight o’clock in the morning and come back for her at eight o’clock at night and she’d still be working hard,” says Robby. She loved the practice as much as competing—the thrill of nailing a move that only a handful of girls in the world could make.
But along the way Cassie had her own obstacles to overcome.
In December of ’89, Cassie was coming off a remarkable year. She had placed 13th in Canada her first year as a high performance senior (the highest class of amateur—Denice competes in the Open Class, 13- and 14-year-olds). But then, as she was performing a routine on bars, she slipped and tore ligaments in her back. For the next six months she was in pain, at first barely able to move. She rested, did all the right things, but Canadian nationals came and practice and competition were still painful.
She convinced her coaches and parents to let her compete anyway. The night before the meet, Cassie said a prayer that her back would be better. That morning, as she was warming up, her grandmother came up and said she had been fasting and praying for her, to help her through the competition.
“My back had hurt for all those months. It was hurting all the time. But at that moment it stopped.
“I’d always prayed before a competition, but that was the first time I realized Heavenly Father does answer our prayers, that he is there to help us get through the tough things in life.”
Although she missed most of the year due to her injury, she was able to place 13th again, one spot off the 12-person Canadian international traveling team.
From then on life and gymnastics were different. They meant even more. It was like the Lord was there, always, and it was through him that anything was possible.
Of course, there’s more than the gym in Cassie and Denice’s lives. Cassie attends seminary faithfully, and Denice starts this year. Both girls sing and play instruments. They enjoy attending Young Women. And there are friends and family.
Mom and Grandma take the girls to the gym and travel with them on trips. Little sister, Kirsten, is also in gymnastics, and the older girls enjoy helping her. And there’s Dad. Tony loves his family, but he has found he has his own obstacles. He’s a perfectionist—he admits it. Tony has always been a top athlete and he expects his children to win. So usually he stays away from the meets, not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares so much.
“I’m afraid that my presence will be too much—that they will perform to satisfy me, rather than themselves, and end up making a mistake.
“I’m a very hard person for them to have for a dad. I don’t actually know if they think I’m proud of them. I think Cassie knows.”
They know. Through time Dad has become less of a mystery. “I’m learning to deal with it,” says Denice. “It’s like other problems in life. You just take them one step at a time, just like learning a new move.”
You strive for excellence, but eventually you realize you can’t be perfect in everything you do, everything you try. You just have to do your best and accept that in others.
That includes accepting each other. In training they have put aside sisterly differences and offer encouragement.
“Believe it or not, they train together like friends, not sisters,” says their coach, Dan Niehaus, who supervises the girls’ 25 hours a week of training. “They transmit a good feeling to the younger girls in the gym. They make it a fun place to be.”
As for the future, it is rich with hope like the present, full of challenges and occasional victories. This year both girls are hoping to place well at nationals and realize a life-long dream, to make the Canadian traveling team.
“I think representing my country would be the best,” says Cassie. “Being at an international competition and having a Canada track suit on—the suits are really nice.”
All that seems so far from Lethbridge. But it started here on the southern Alberta plains—with the support of a family and a determination to do their best.
Outside, the prairies seem to stretch on forever. The persistent west wind always blows, twisting and dancing. Cassie and Denice know Lethbridge is a place, like any place, where anything is possible.

For example, we once tried to take a family picture after church. This can be complicated with two little children, but I really love to capture these moments and then look back at how much my kids have grown.
While we were trying to get the kids settled down for the photo, I had to take a moment to talk to my two-year-old son, Alvin, who was crying because he wanted me to carry him. I bent down, wiped away his tears, and then begged him to stand up so I could show off our outfits (which I had strategically matched that morning). My three-year-old daughter, Avril, was also asking my husband to hold her because she didn’t want to stand either. They really didn’t want to be taking pictures.
The photography session was unsuccessful—so we gave up. But when I got home, I found something better. My brother (who was taking the photos) captured the moment when all the chaos was happening. Both my husband and I were comforting our children in the photo. It didn’t really show off our outfits, but it was such a tender—and real—moment. I loved it.
When I shared the photo on social media, I captioned it “The reality of a family photo.” I never imagined that so many people would relate to it, but it made me realize that things don’t always need to look perfect. It’s OK to just go with the flow and be real. But it also taught me a larger lesson—that when we believe someone is perfect, we just haven’t seen all the details.

Anyone who has had the experience of opening a mission call knows what a thrilling and spiritual experience it can be. When Joel Hiller of Taylorsville, Utah, saw the white call packet his mother had placed on the kitchen table, his heart jumped, and he could hardly wait until his family and two close friends were able to join him at his home a few hours later to open it.

After what seemed like the longest three hours of Joel’s life, major excitement erupted as everyone gathered together, talking, laughing, and speculating. But a spiritual calm suddenly filled the room as Joel opened the envelope and began to read aloud the words of the prophet: “Dear Elder Hiller, you are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

Joel describes what he experienced as he continued reading the letter, “I felt honored to be called, and the Spirit bore an immediate witness that this was the right thing and the right mission for me. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

Mike Strong, who was 14 at the time, received a plaque from the Veterans of Foreign Wars for saving the life of his infant sister, Danielle. The eight-month-old girl stopped breathing as her mother held her in her arms. The little girl had a soaring fever.
“It really scared me because I thought she was dead,” Mike said. “But the first thing that came to my mind was, ‘Do as you were taught in school.’” He took Danielle from his frightened mother’s grasp and gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Paramedics later said Danielle’s body temperature had reached 106 degrees Fahrenheit as a result of viral bronchitis, and that although she might have started breathing again on her own without help, Mike’s quick action had likely prevented brain damage.
Mike is a member of the El Cajon 5th Ward, El Cajon California Stake.

“You’ll go up with Fritz,” the gliding club commander says. He looks me in the eye. “You nervous?”
“Nah.” A little white lie for bravado.
I am still in college at the time. Well, actually I’m working the summer before my senior year as an intern on an Alberta daily newspaper. On Friday a call comes into the editorial offices looking for someone to give the gliding club a little publicity. I volunteer.
Fritz arrives. He is dressed simply, in a golf shirt and slacks. I had expected a dirty leather jacket and goggles.
He raises a finger, checking for wind. “Get in,” he says to me. We strap ourselves into the glider’s belly. The clouds are gray and thick above us. Fritz looks at them with stern concentration. He seems to want to chase the clouds from the sky.
The gliding club doesn’t have a tow plane, just a winch with a long cable that catapults us upward. Suddenly we are being pulled with frightening velocity into the sky. In seconds we are two, then three thousand feet above the wheat fields. The cable breaks loose and there is nothing holding us up except balsa wood and fiberglass. I’m holding my breath. My fingers are white from gripping my seat.
I release my fingers and breathe deeply. The sound of the wind rushes by, the creak of the rudder as we turn. “Relax,” says Fritz. He’s looking for lift in the warming day.
I can’t see my pilot, but I know he’s there. I feel him controlling the plane. Mustering my bravest voice I ask, “How do you find the thermals?” Thermals are warm air currents that rise, allowing birds and gliders to gain altitude.
“You just know where they are,” he says from behind me. “I’ve done this a million times.”
We’re circling. I watch the horizon, perpetually tilted. Then a bump. “Ha,” says Fritz, “watch this.” The warm air lifts us, we circle faster, in a tighter loop. The ground passes by, round and round. The lift comes from nowhere. We are alone, soaring on air, climbing higher, circling faster.
From my seat I get an ever increasing view of the world. I forget my nerves. My pilot has given me a rare thrill, to be lifted on nothing more than air currents, to new heights.
The tilting earth levels, and Fritz and I prepare to land. Green, brown, asphalt gray rush below as we descend. Above, the clouds have parted. There is only blue sky where we have been.

Though some friends were openly critical of Tiffani’s investigation of the Church, Catlin was genuinely curious. When Catlin started asking questions, Tiffani simply invited her to come to church and see for herself. Catlin left the meetings that first Sunday with a copy of the Book of Mormon and an appointment to meet with the sister missionaries. Catlin’s testimony grew steadily, and soon she wanted to be baptized. On March 3, 2007, Catlin was the first of the five to be baptized and confirmed.