Gospel Story Finder

Sometime after the war was over, the missionaries returned to Germany, and one Sunday morning a new missionary from America who couldn’t speak our language came to our home for dinner. My parents spoke some English, since they had lived in Liverpool, England, for four years. In the evening we all went to sacrament meeting, and the new elder was asked to speak. I remember feeling sorry for him, knowing that he knew no German, and I wondered what be would say. He didn’t have time to copy a talk from one of the other elders who had been there awhile.
But he spoke for over an hour. He told the Saints to go to America because another world war would come which would be worse than the one we had just been through. This was a terrible thing to hear, because the suffering of the recent war was still vivid in our memories. On the way home from the meeting I asked my parents what language the missionary spoke. I knew it wasn’t German and I knew it wasn’t English, although I didn’t understand English; yet I understood every word he said. My father said I should never forget that experience for I probably would never hear anything like that again. This elder had spoken in tongues.

As a Brazilian, I was surprised when I received my mission call to serve not in Brazil or even in South America but in the Texas Houston South Mission in the United States. My surprise soon turned to deep gratitude.
Four days after I arrived in my first area, the bishop of the local ward invited my companion and me to go with him to the hospital to visit Brother Noel Stevenson, an older member who was ill with leukemia. When I met Brother Stevenson, I was amazed that he started speaking Portuguese. He told me he had served a mission to Brazil in the 1950s. He mentioned several cities where he had served, including Ponta Grossa in the state of Paraná.
“When you were in Ponta Grossa did you know Raul Pimentel?” I asked hesitantly.
With an expression of joy, he replied, “Yes, I knew Raul. I baptized him.”
I told Brother Stevenson that Raul Pimentel was my grandfather, the first member of the Church in our family. We embraced, and tears rolled down our faces.
Then I told him that my grandfather was 84 and still active in the Church. His 8 children were also active, all who are married having married in the temple and 5 having served full-time missions. And his 30 grandchildren were active in the Church as well. As we talked, the Spirit of the Lord filled my heart with joy and gratitude.
My grandfather was baptized in 1958 by two American missionaries. He had heard that the other elder had now passed away, but he had never had any news about Elder Stevenson. When my grandfather learned that I had met the missionary who baptized him, he was overwhelmed with joy.
He and Brother Stevenson began exchanging e-mail messages almost every week. Then the e-mails stopped abruptly. I received a telephone call telling me that Brother Noel Stevenson had passed away.
Although I felt sad, I felt even more grateful that the Lord had allowed me to meet the man who brought the blessings of the gospel to my family. This experience helped me be a better missionary and strengthened my testimony that mission calls are inspired.

While I was serving as a deacon, teacher, and priest, we usually had a priesthood lesson about the value of keeping the Word of Wisdom, and almost always a part of that lesson would concern itself with the marvelous story of Creed Hammond. Creed was an excellent runner whose coach tried to get him to drink some wine the night before the national track championship. A few years ago in a stake conference I heard Creed himself tell of that experience, and I was very moved when I caught a detail that I had missed as a boy. President Hammond told of going as a young boy from Springville to Provo with his mother and sister to hear Apostle Reed Smoot speak. That evening Elder Smoot chose as his topic the Word of Wisdom. Returning home, Sister Hammond stopped the buggy, took her son and daughter by the hand, and they made a covenant together that they would never violate the principles contained in the Word of Wisdom. “The night,” Creed said, “when the coach wanted me to drink the wine, I could feel my mother’s hand and my sister’s hand, and, though it was long ago, I could hear my mother’s voice. I could not violate the covenant we had made together.”

For years I had sent out packages of clothing at Christmas time to families whose need I had read about in a New York newspaper. I had also included some spiritually oriented reading material.
One holiday season my husband, Will, stopped to watch my preparations. “You’re spending a lot of money on postage,” he noted. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea if I drove into the city with the packages? Our station wagon would hold a lot of them.”
I was excited at the idea! If he did that, I could send heavy winter clothing, too expensive to mail, and also food. Happily I went about gathering all I could, while Will got maps of Manhattan, the Bronx, and Brooklyn, and began to locate and schedule the stops on his route.
Early the day before Christmas, Will and our teenage boys loaded the station wagon, packing it to the roof. The day was cold and grey, but the only concession to the weather Will would make was to wear a cap. He held an office job and rarely spent time out of doors, yet he was confident that he’d be warm enough.
As I watched him back the loaded car out of the driveway, I was assailed by sudden doubts. What if the car broke down? What if he got lost? Or chilled? He was going into some of the most crime-ridden sections of the city—what if he were assaulted?
Turning back toward the house, I noticed that snow was lazily drifting down—an added worry. I went into the house and knelt down to pray for Will’s safe journey. “Dear Heavenly Father,” I began, “Will has gone on an errand for me—.” Then I stopped. I had the sudden impression that I had said something wrong. The thought came, “No, he has gone on an errand for Me.”
I was taken back by the thought. I had been thinking too highly of myself in assuming that Will had gone just for me, and that his safety depended on my prayers. At that moment, I realized that delivering the packages was his service to God, and he would be protected.
I got up, determined not to worry about Will any more, and went on with my holiday preparations. The snow that had begun so lazily in the morning was a blizzard by lunch time. In the afternoon I tried to walk to a nearby store but had to turn back because of the drifts. If they were impassable here, what must the roads be like in the city?
Dinner time came. Still no word from Will. He had said that he’d call me. My resolve not to worry was getting harder and harder to maintain. In the evening, when our sons came in from shoveling snow, one of them asked, “Isn’t dad home yet? Where can he be?”
“Mom,” said the other, “he can’t still be delivering packages at this hour. No one would let him in. I don’t want to worry you, but—.”
“He’ll be all right,” I assured the boys, but I was beginning to panic in spite of myself. Resolutely I worked at wrapping gifts, trying to ignore the kitchen clock which was now creeping toward eleven P.M.
Then one of the boys yelled with relief, “Mom, dad’s car is turning into the driveway!”
Excitedly, I grabbed a coat and went to meet him. As Will got out of the car, I noticed that he wasn’t cold and exhausted as I had pictured he would be. He looked as though he had been outdoors for a pleasant half-hour, instead of just having spent fifteen hours on snow-clogged streets, driving around abandoned cars and lugging packages up unshoveled walks.
“I didn’t have a bit of trouble,” he assured me, “and I found every family.”
That evening I gave thanks for my husband’s safe journey and for my increased understanding of the Lord’s ways.

Joseph Smith’s religious searchings were not directed exclusively to his own benefit and comfort. He frequently invoked the powers of heaven in behalf of others who suffered around him. In an early letter to his brother Hyrum, Joseph wrote:
“This morning after being called out of my bed in the night to go a small distance [to administer to a sister] I went and had an awful struggle with Satan, but being armed with the power of God he was cast out and the woman is clothed in her right mind. The Lord worketh wonders in this land.”27

But, our story does not end there. It goes on to an event in his life and that of his wife, the former Aurelia Campo Barata of Llorente, Samar Province, in the setting of the Rocky Mountains, U.S.A.
Sometime in the first week of September, 1977, Bro. Odulio took a long lingering look at his car—a car that served him well and one that he had taken care of with his own hands as an experienced mechanic. It had to go to the best offeror at a price dictated by a quick-sale situation. Other personal effects also had to go at bargain prices. The reason: he had a goal to be sealed with his wife in a temple of the Lord, and the opportunity to go came when he was designated a participant in the October 1977 Conference in Salt Lake City.
On September 27, Bro. and Sis. Odulio left Philippine soil for the first time in their lives. On October 5, the very day Sis. Odulio celebrated her 40th birthday, they were sealed for eternity in the Salt Lake Temple together with their unborn child (she was then 7 months pregnant). Three days later, on October 8, Bro. Odulio also observed his 40th birthday. Husband and wife had the best birthday celebration ever in a setting that had been their cherished dream since their conversion to the Church.

“Excuse me, boys,” said a loud voice from behind John and me as a heavy hand fell on each of our shoulders, “but I think you’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you.”
I was too stunned to speak, but my friend John wasn’t.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” he said as he wrenched his shoulder free and turned to face the man who had addressed us so suddenly. “We didn’t do anything. Who are you anyway?”
The man’s face turned red. “I’m Mr. Kennard, the manager of that store you just left,” he said. “And I watched you steal those candy bars.”
Steal? Candy bars? I looked at John. He didn’t even blink an eye as he continued to argue.
“What do you mean? I just bought these.”
“Now look, boy, I saw you take those candy bars and stuff them into your jacket pocket. Then I watched you as you left my store, without paying, and met your accomplice out here.
“And you,” he said, looking at me, “are just as guilty. I saw you reach for the candy bar as soon as this kid left the store. Even though you didn’t steal it, you’re just as guilty for letting him do the work and then sharing what he stole.”
His words shocked me. “Wait a minute. I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s what your friend said.”
“No, really, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know he was going to steal anything.” I explained to Mr. Kennard how John had told me he had some money and asked me to wait outside the store while be ran in to get us something to eat.
Mr. Kennard didn’t believe me. “Look,” he said, “I don’t have all day to play games with a couple of teenage shoplifters. What are your names?”
He wrote down our names and made us come back inside the store while he called our parents. I was angry—angry at being wrongly accused of shoplifting and angry at John for stealing and getting me caught in the whole mess.
“Sorry,” John mumbled as we sat in Mr. Kennard’s office.
“Sure, but not nearly as sorry as I am.”
“No, really, Chris, I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d get caught. I’ve never been caught before.”
“Look, I don’t want to talk about it. Just forget it, okay?” We sat in silence until our parents picked us up.
When Dad and I were finally alone in our car, I told him the whole story.
He listened quietly until I finished, then started the car. As we drove away from the store, he said, “I believe you, son, but you can’t blame Mr. Kennard for not believing you. You have to admit, you must have looked guilty. It’s a case where you’re guilty by association. You’ve heard me say before that you’re judged by the company you keep, haven’t you? Well, today you looked like a shoplifter because you were with one.”

“You look just like my brother Matthew did when he was eleven,” Aunt Emily said.
In spite of himself, Matt was curious. “I do?”
Aunt Emily’s lined face crinkled into a smile. “He had the same stubborn chin, the same blue eyes, and the same freckles.”
Matt scowled. “Did he hate them too?”
Her smile deepened. “He sure did—at first.”
Intrigued, Matt sat down at the kitchen table. He said “thanks” when his mother placed four peanut butter cookies in front of him, but he was more interested in what Aunt Emily had to say. “He didn’t always hate them?”
She shook her head. “No, he didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because they helped him get the lead in the school play. He tried out for the part of Tom Sawyer and got it because of his freckles.”
“But I don’t want to be Tom Sawyer,” Matt said.
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to be a professional ball player or president of a company or something.”
Aunt Emily shoved a package toward him. “Here.”
Eagerly Matt unwrapped the brown paper, then stared in disappointment at an old leather-bound book. “What’s this?”
“It’s your great-grandfather’s journal. He started keeping it when he was just about your age.”
Matt opened it. Pasted inside the front cover was an old-fashioned photograph of a young boy. Even the faded tones of the picture couldn’t hide the freckles scattered across his face. “This is my great-grandfather?” Matt asked.
Aunt Emily nodded. “Does he look familiar?”
Matt didn’t answer. His own face stared back at him.
That evening, he excused himself after dinner and went upstairs to his room. He started flipping through the journal. He stopped at an entry dated June 15, 1911: “Worked in the fields today. It was hot! Earned $1.50.”
Matt kept reading. His eyes drooped, but he couldn’t put the book down.
“Aunt Emily, do you have any more of my great-grandfather’s journals?” he asked the next morning.
“I sure do. I had a feeling that you might be interested in them.” She motioned to him to follow her to the bedroom, where she opened her suitcase. Inside were eight journals—seven brown and one black. She picked up the black one and handed it to Matt. “This one is very special,” she said.
Matt looked inside. The pages were blank. “It’s empty.”
She smiled. “I know. You get to fill them.”
He wanted to look through the other journals right away, but he had to hurry off to school. After gulping his juice, he folded a piece of toast and jammed it into a napkin and ran to catch the bus.
His fifth grade teacher assigned a report due the next day. “Choose someone you admire and tell us about him.”
The other kids started talking about whom they would choose. Josh chose Abraham Lincoln. Sam picked Thomas Edison. Mary chose Babe Didrikson Zaharias. Matt frowned. All the good names seemed to be taken. But by that evening, Matt knew whom he was going to give his report on.
As he stood before the class the following day, he rubbed his wet palms against his jeans and took a deep breath. “My great-grandfather was never president. He never invented anything. He never even finished school. But he was a great man. When he was twelve, his father died. So he dropped out of school to help support his family. He hoed beets for only a dollar-fifty a day. When he was nineteen, he went on a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
By the end of his report, Matt was flushed. “I’m proud that I look like my great-grandfather. I hope I can be the kind of man he was.”
The class applauded.
After school, Matt hurried to spend more time talking with Aunt Emily about his great-grandfather Matthew. He also wanted to write in his own journal about his class report. Before going to bed, he looked in the mirror. His customary scowl had been replaced by a smile as he studied his freckles. He decided he didn’t mind them so much, after all.

Now if you could hear from each one of these men! For instance, I had a business with ten men and two girls working for me, and the President of the Church sent my father over to see how I would like to go to California and preside over the Hollywood Stake. I won’t take time to tell you all the details. In sixty days I’d sold my business, I’d sold my beautiful home, and moved my family down to California with no allowance to live on. I had to start all over again.
Then when I was in business here in Salt Lake and President Heber J. Grant called for a thousand short-term missionaries, he said: “Bishops and stake presidents are not exempt.” I was then a bishop. I landed back in New England—left my wife and seven kiddies and my business in the hands of my brother-in-law. You don’t do things like that with normal men! It takes men inspired by the Holy Spirit.

“It can’t be done. It won’t work.” That’s what everyone said. But when 17-year-old Tanya Fisher took a courageous stand against an embarrassing “eyesore” in her community of Laramie, Wyoming, she made it work.
A huge retaining wall (100 feet long and 22 feet high) covered with graffiti stood at the intersection of two of the busiest streets in the city. Many efforts had been made by the city council to eradicate the graffiti. They had tried painting over it with white wash. But that encouraged youthful street artists to write on it again. Then the city council spent lots of money to have large streetlights installed hoping to deter the activity. All that did was give the artists more light to work by. It seemed to be a losing battle.
One day Tanya and her mother were chatting at the kitchen table when Tanya came up with the idea to paint a giant mural on that embarrassing retaining wall. She thought it would be a great project for the student council of Laramie High School. An ambitious idea was born that day, but to bring it to full maturity took a lot of time and energy.
Tanya fought opposition everywhere, especially with her peers. They said it wouldn’t work, that graffiti would cover the drawings immediately. But Tanya didn’t give up. During the summer of 1988 Tanya visited Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, with her family. She contacted the Anti-Graffiti Network there and gathered more information. She took pictures of a wall that had been partially painted with a mural. Interestingly enough, there was graffiti all over the unpainted part of the wall. But the mural was left untouched. This gave her hope.
After much research Tanya’s first step was to present her idea to the student council at Laramie High School. It took a written proposal and some tall talking, but she finally won their support. The second step was to get the city council’s approval. Surprisingly, she was met with enthusiasm by both the council and the mayor, and the project took hold in the summer of 1989. It had taken more than a year to get to this point.
Ryan Fulton, a counselor at Laramie High School who became the sponsor of the project, said of Tanya, “That girl ramrodded the project and spent her time researching possibilities from other walls in other cities. She wasn’t afraid to present her ideas to the city council. That’s something for a high school student.”
The theme of the mural represents the three educational institutions of the community: Laramie High School, Wyoming Technical Institute, and the University of Wyoming. It was decided that there would be no advertising involved and neither the names of the schools nor the artists would appear anywhere in the drawings. Logos of the institutions are depicted in a kind of “new wave” art according to Tanya.
With about a dozen students from the high school and another dozen from the tech school, Tanya launched her project. John Kearnes, a Wyoming Tech student, was very helpful in the design and drawing of the mural.
Tanya had already met many challenges, but as the project began she found there were many more ahead. While the paint was still wet, rain washed away the first base coat. Hail ruined the surface in places another time. Tanya described the problems with the size of the wall. “There are 29 sections, only four where you can really stand. To get to the rest of it, we had to tie ropes around our waists and hang down the wall while we put in the measurements, did the sketching and the painting.” Over 600 man-hours were spent on this project. And Tanya personally contributed 87 hours. She also used this as her Young Women values project in the Laramie First Ward, Laramie Wyoming Stake.
Tanya’s mother Darlene Fisher, says, “Months have gone by and the wall is still fine. The whole city is proud of it. My husband (Monte Fisher) and I overhear people talking about the wall, and they don’t know we’re the parents of the girl who spearheaded the project. It makes us feel so good.”
What about upkeep on this huge project? The senior class of Laramie High School has formed a committee from the student council to provide maintenance on the wall. And the city council donates the paint.
Tanya said, “Everyone said it can’t work. But I said ‘Yes it can. If it can work in Boston and Chicago, it can work in a small town like Laramie.’” And it did! One young, determined girl, with a sense of community commitment, proved it.

Howard Swainston, a friend, age 87
“Ezra Taft was a little above the ordinary person. I always pictured him that way. He was one swell fellow. I’m a month older than he is. We grew up together. We thinned beets. We worked together. He loved to ride horses. We just grew up as almost brothers.
“He was a hardworking, clean-living young man. It wasn’t an uncommon thing for him to go out and thin an acre of beets a day. He was a hard guy to follow. We used to go to the canyon and get wood together. We used to put up our hay with hay derricks. I remember going into Cottonwood, 20 miles north. He and I went and got us a derrick apiece. We had to camp overnight. I never liked olives, and he made me eat some olives he had, and from then on I loved them.
“Someone interviewed me and asked if I had any idea he would be President of the Church. I said, ‘Good heavens no!’ We never thought of such things in those days. We knew he was a good guy, but we had no idea that he would be President of the Church.
“He was quite a joker. He was popular among everybody. He could make friends with anybody. He was just that type of a guy. He knew how to meet people. He had that personality. He seemed to like everybody. He didn’t have any enemies. He was just a good person. Everybody respected him.
“I can just see us out playing, having fun together, riding horses, playing ball. Every 24th of July we’d put on a celebration, and he was right with us. We’d have a rodeo and race horses and wrestle. That’s the kind of guy he was. He was always right at the head of everything. He was a leader right from the start.
“I can just see him as a big, husky, robust boy. He always had a smile on his face. I can just see him to this day that way. He was always ready to meet you and speak to you or go riding with you. That was the way he was—a lot of fun.
“Ezra T. was pretty good at basketball. He was a good athlete—a strong fellow. He was hard to handle.
“I think if I remember him in church he was just a little bit more spiritual than the rest of us. I think he was born to be a President of the Church, but we didn’t realize it.”

Claire and Sandra Hoey of Craigavon are members of the Portadown Ward. They talk about the walls that missionaries helped tumble for their family.
“The missionaries had been coming to our parents for a long time,” Sandra says. “But I never paid any attention. Then one night I was upstairs and I started listening. I got more interested in what they were saying. I decided it was time to see what it was all about.”
The discussions became more and more serious. The parents were baptized. An older brother was baptized. Then Sandra, then Claire.
After the baptisms, a friend “noticed that since I’ve joined the Church I’ve been happier,” Claire says. “She wanted to find out what it was that was making me happy.” Now the friend is taking the discussions in the Hoeys’ home. “I can remember asking the same questions, praying to resolve the same doubts,” Claire says. “It helps when I can tell her I’ve been through the same thing, and gained my own testimony.”

Every quorum activity should have a designated purpose, and that purpose should be gospel oriented. For example, may I relate a story of an Aaronic Priesthood youth in Korea who happened to come from a rather affluent family. One day one of his father’s business associates called the father and inquired if he were having financial difficulties, offering help if it were needed.
The father responded that things were going well.
The man asked, “Are you sure?”
The father replied, “Things are fine. Why do you ask?”
The friend then indicated he had seen the young man on a street corner selling newspapers. The father couldn’t believe it. He told his friend that his son received an adequate allowance and asked if there might have been a mistake of identity. The friend responded there was no mistake; he had personally visited with the boy.
That evening when his son came home from school, the father asked him if he had been selling newspapers on the street corner. The reply was yes. The father asked, “Why? Isn’t your allowance sufficient?”
His son responded that it was adequate, but he had a friend at school who was very poor and who was going to have to drop out of school if he didn’t get some financial assistance. As it turned out, this young Aaronic Priesthood holder was using his allowance money to buy newspapers. Then he and some of his classmates were selling the newspapers to raise money to help keep his friend in school.
A short time before this, he had asked his mother to pack larger lunches for him. She did so, thinking that as a growing teenager he was just extra hungry. He confessed to his father he had been sharing his lunch with this same friend, who otherwise would have gone hungry.
The father was obviously touched by his son’s thoughtfulness but asked the reason for such action. The boy replied, “We studied the lesson of the Good Samaritan a few weeks ago. I wanted to know the real meaning of this lesson by being a good Samaritan, not just learning about one.” (See “Profiting for Others,” New Era, June 1979, p. 50.)

Miriam looked at the floor. “I think I goofed,” she said. “I didn’t come up with a good idea like the others.”
“I’m sure you did fine,” Mom said. “Please tell us what you did.”
“Well, I didn’t eat my Popsicle,” began Miriam. “I saw Tony on his front porch. I said, ‘Hi,’ but he didn’t say anything. Then I remembered that he had his tonsils taken out Monday. That really makes your throat hurt. So I gave my Popsicle to him, and I sat by him and told him stories and jokes until I saw everyone else coming back here. When I left, he still didn’t say anything, but he smiled.”
“Miriam,” said Mom, kissing her, “that was a good idea. You made someone just as happy as Benjamin and Johnny and Katie did. In fact, now we have a problem.”
“What?” asked the children.
“I don’t think I can decide which idea was best. They were all wonderful.”

Shortly after graduating high school, Enoch discovered the power of music. Passing by a classroom in church one day, he saw the missionaries teaching members to play the piano, and he was captivated by it. He sat in and listened as they taught what musical notes look like on a page, and how they relate to the piano keys. Curiously enough, it all made perfect sense to him. The 30 minutes of instruction ended, and the missionaries eventually left, but his interest remained, so he learned to play on his own, note upon note, stanza on stanza, playing just the melody first with one finger, then with two, then playing with both hands, and by perserving through the struggles, he learned to play beautifully.

I was soon to leave for my military service. Nevertheless, my desire to be around the missionaries and members grew powerfully. As soon as I learned a new principle of the gospel, I put it into practice. Just before I left, one of the elders said, “You know, you live like a Mormon, but you’re trying to become perfect before you will join the Church. That’s the wrong way. It’s the Church that will help you achieve perfection.” They told me I had a testimony, but I still wasn’t sure.
In the military I had time to let my feelings grow and develop. There was lots of time to think, and I reflected deeply on my impressions of the Church. I was stationed with the mountain troops in Briancon, with no LDS branch nearby. But I guarded the things I had learned in my heart and let the seed of faith grow.
When I was released from the service, I faced a critical decision. My best friend from Normandy and I had planned for a long time to visit the United States, and I had saved my money so I could go. But his plans felt through. I had to decide whether or not to go by myself. I returned to Normandy, to walk the beaches and to think.
Anyone who could have eavesdropped on my mental conversation at that time would have known I already had a testimony. “I am well off here—I have my family and friends, I feel sure of myself, and this is the most beautiful spot on earth,” I told myself. “But what if I don’t go? I could miss an opportunity to learn even more about the gospel, to really gain a testimony of it. I could give up the trip, the dream of my young years. But to give up a chance to know more about the Lord’s church?”
In the U.S. I had the opportunity to develop many close relationships with Church members. I finally began to believe I did have a testimony—I can’t forget the wonderful feelings when, each time I’d ask myself a question, I would feel the Holy Ghost enlightening my soul, clearing away the doubt. I had had difficulty understanding why polygamy had been practiced. On a bus somewhere between Colorado and Utah, I glimpsed the vision, not a visual sight, but a spiritual insight, of the men who practiced it. And I saw how it was possible for such a thing to be pure, that it had come from God. That sort of clarification continued throughout my trip in the United States.
I eventually visited some islands near Seattle, Washington. There, in a small apartment, I studied the Book of Mormon for ten days. My testimony continued to grow. The time had come to return to France, and in my heart I knew I would be baptized.
Several days after I returned home, the missionaries asked me to help them teach a lesson. The investigator was a science student, and he was struggling with some of the same questions I had confronted when I was studying the same subjects. I explained to him how I had found answers to the questions, and when we left he seemed satisfied and happy.
A few days later, the missionaries called to tell me he was joining the Church. “How about that,” I told myself. “Here I am, able to help someone else accept baptism, and not myself. This has lasted long enough!” I felt I had a testimony, but I fasted and prayed. I stayed up the whole night pleading with the Lord to seal this testimony in me. Finally, early in the morning, a sweet, peaceful calm filled my soul. I knew I had to tell the elders I was ready to be baptized.
As I rounded the last corner on my way to see the missionaries, I felt a strong force trying to keep me from going. It was like walking against a 100-kilometer-per-hour wind, which I had done before, only it was stronger. But this was a spiritual “wind,” not physical. I was just about to give up and turn around. I knew this force wanted me to doubt everything, but I finally said, “No, no. I know there’s a God.” I felt that truth deep in the roots of my soul. I knew He would battle this force for me.
I reached the chapel door, just a normal chapel door, but I had to pull with all my might to force it open. When I entered I saw some members and felt their spirit, and the opposing force was gone, broken. I felt the sweet peace in my heart again, and felt it even more strongly several days later as I was baptized and confirmed. I still feel it to this day.

The author lives in Wisconsin, USA.
Our Young Women group decided to focus on general conference and listening to the words of our prophets. We had a special lesson before conference discussing the importance of listening to our leaders. We talked about why we have it and how to prepare so that we can hear the messages Heavenly Father has for us. Everyone was encouraged to listen so that we could share with each other the things that “stuck to us.”
We went home with sticky notes and wrote down the things that “stuck” during conference. Afterwards, we took turns sharing all the wonderful messages and quotes that “stuck to us.”
We have done this activity for the past three general conferences. At first, some of the young women were hesitant to share and only brought one or two notes. But after doing it three times, the girls found they had so many spiritual insights we hardly had time to let everyone share. After showing their notes, many wanted them back so they could put them back in their journals or hang them up in their rooms.
We have found this to be a great way to really get into conference. And we are a stronger and more unified group because we know that we are all seeking strength and inspiration so that we can come closer to Jesus Christ and keep His commandments.
“I really like to hear what ‘stuck’ to the other girls. It helped me remember and think about things I may have missed or forgotten about during the different conference talks.”
Mikelle F., 17
“I really like our ‘What Sticks to You’ lessons from general conference. It is cool to listen to how the different talks impact and stick out to each of us. I like hearing the unique takeaways that everyone gets.”
Emily F., 17
“I’m grateful for the words of the prophets to help remind me of my importance and to remember the Savior.”
Chanelle D. 18
“It was fun to hear everyone’s thoughts and favorite moments. I liked hearing the different perspectives and sharing the love with my fellow Laurels.”
Olivia A., 16
“Doing ‘What Sticks to You’ helps me remember the Spirit I felt when I watched general conference.”
Hannah Q., 18
“The ‘What Sticks to You’ lesson helps me prepare for general conference. It allows me to take better notes and really reflect on the talks given.”
Julia C., 18

Three to one—that was the ratio published at the beginning of fall semester. Ten to one was more like it. Susan Taylor twisted and pulled herself into a half-lotus position just minutes before midnight, grabbed a yellow, ruled tablet, a no. 2 pencil, and scribbled her New Year’s resolution: “Get a date; get two; get engaged; get married.”
Straightening her spine into correct posture and breathing correctly, she lowered her head within inches of the floor, at the same time forcing her arms into an unnatural, towering position above her contorted body.
Nineteen seventy-four clocked out and 1975 clocked in while she held her breath. Nostalgic dance-band music, filtering into her bedroom from downstairs, signaled the New Year. Hanging full-length on the wall, the mirror reflected her 19-year-old freshman image. She stood, swiveling gracefully from side to side. Would the guys notice? She was slimmer; she seemed taller and prettier. But still, her legs were straight, her shoulders narrow. She had, however, learned to disguise figure faults. Now her brown hair caressed her shoulders. Her new dresses fell full and easy at her ankles.
“If it weren’t for Cynthia,” she thought, “I might have a chance.” Cynthia stalked from male to male—sweet-talking, smooth-walking Cindy lured admirers to her like a spider, trapping them in filmy webs of flattery. Thanks to her, Susan had sat dateless for 12 weeks, eating almond-studded chocolate bars.
But the New Year brought new hopes.
The New Year’s bells could have been campus bells, so swiftly did the time pass for Susan. She and 5,000 other students had blown into Rexburg on a wind and a prayer. They settled down and snuggled in for the winter.
Susan hesitated at the water fountain near the open door of COB 478, her first class of the new semester. She listened for her cue.
“Quiet, please. I’d like to …”
Head held high, Susan swung into the room, swishing an ankle-length plaid skirt. Sashaying, she dipped in and out of regimented rows of students, working toward an empty desk near the window, while the teacher and the students looked on. She flipped the last corner with a flourish, confident she was making a good impression.
Then suddenly an overhead projector loomed large in her way. She stumbled over it, catching her skirt on the neck of the projector. She hit the linoleum with a thud, her straight legs scissored under a row of desks, her skirt bunched at her knees. Students snickered.
“Welcome to class, Miss … uh?” the teacher said with a smile.
“Taylor,” Susan volunteered with a blush and a gulp.
“Did you hurt yourself, Miss Taylor?”
“No, sir. At least I don’t think so.” She pulled herself up.
Phase 2 followed on the heels of her clumsy beginning. It was easy—three public telephones in three boys’ dorms, three slips of paper on which she had written in her best hand, “A cute coed is waiting by a telephone for your call. Why not give her a ring? 356-9927.”
Susan slipped into the dorms early on a Saturday morning. Assuring herself no one was there, she walked on feline feet to the booths, pushed back the doors as quickly and quietly as she could, and stuffed her notes in the coin return slots. After all, who doesn’t look in the slot when he hears the false drop of a coin? It was easy; it was sure. Now all she had to do was wait. Carried along by the early morning wind, she bounded back to her apartment, took the stairs three at a time, and only then caught up with her breath as she sank into a vinyl-covered chair by the phone.
Painting her nails, styling her hair, she waited. Each ring vibrated in her ears and set her to jittering in the chair. Linda’s parents called from Salt Lake; two boys called for Cindy; Susan waited for a fourth call.
Ring! Susan lunged for the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hello, cute coed,” the masculine voice drawled. “This is the call you’ve been waiting for. What’s your name?”
“Sue.”
“Sue what?”
A flutter of the heart and a pause.
“Sue Taylor. What’s your name?”
“Joe.” The voice continued, “Joe McIntire.” And then irritatingly, “I repair phones. Now quit abusing the telephone system or I’ll report you!”
Click!
Downstairs the lounge was quiet except for the soft shuffling of papers as Sister Calder sorted through an old cardboard box. Susan shrank past her to the door. She didn’t want to talk to anyone just now, least of all to a successfully married dorm parent. Outside in the hall she slipped a dime in the vending machine, pulled the button, and waited for the sliding and drop of a chocolate bar. She stuffed it into the pocket of her coat, turned up the fur collar around her neck and ears, and walked out into the wind.
The sky was iron-gray, breaking only a little light through at the horizon. Patches of dirt-peppered snow crusted on the frozen grass and at the edges of the sidewalk. Gravel scratched between the walk and her shoes as she turned south toward the hilltop above the campus buildings. She shifted her body first one way and then the other, trying to escape the full force of the wind. She leaned into it, every step an effort; then suddenly, it swooped up behind her, thrusting her forward effortlessly.
“Just like the wind,” she thought, “my life is out of control. Why does everything have to go wrong?” Pulling the hair out of her eyes, she looked for shelter.
Susan passed one house, two houses, three, and then an open field. Bordering the open field, a woodshed extended beyond a garage. She pushed her way there, finding a protected log lying between two cords of wood piled eight feet high. When she straddled the log, the wind raged only three feet above her head but seemed a whole world away. Tucked away in the wood, her head on her knees, she confronted herself. Struggling against the wind had swept her clean. She whispered prayers there among the buoying smells of sawdust and raw, wintry air.
The oncoming night had nearly pinched out the rim of light when she reentered the dorm. It was bright and warm in the lounge. A couple clasped hands in front of the television; Sister Calder knelt on the floor surrounded by piles of papers and magazines. The cardboard box was empty and cast off to the side. She glanced up.
“Susan! You look absolutely frozen. Come and sit for a minute.” Sister Calder smiled broadly and patted a nearby chair.
Thinking it easier to obey than make an excuse, Susan dropped to the chair and rubbed her icy hands on the warm upholstery. She gazed vacantly at the neat piles.
“What are you doing, Sister Calder?” she asked politely.
“I’m trying to sort through some things. Don tells me he doesn’t have room to turn around in that small apartment of ours. The only problem is, I just can’t bear to throw anything away.” She laughed heartily and raised her arms in hopelessness. “Our love letters, my decorating books, these old prints—I can’t part with any of it. Not even this, though I have another copy.” She picked up a New Era that had been making its own pile. “Here, you look at it; maybe there’s something in it you can use.”
Sister Calder thrust the magazine into Susan’s lap. It fell open. Susan held it for a moment, then looking closer, she read: “Young women in Zion, worrying takes energy. Instead of worrying why you don’t date or while you’re not married, expend that energy positively. Take a class. Make a recipe or home decorating file. Join a service club. Spend 15 minutes a day with the written testimonies of the prophets. In short, develop yourself into the kind of person who attracts the priesthood bearer you desire. Happiness does not miraculously begin with marriage—it strengthens marriage. Create your happiness now, for someday it will guide you into eternity.”
Help lay before her on the page. Though printed months before, the words spoke to her at this moment. Susan held it to her.
“Sister Calder, I will keep this, if you don’t mind.”
When Susan opened the apartment door, Cynthia was draped over the couch dreaming, her legs dangling prettily over the couch’s arm. As if suddenly animated, she bounced to her feet and twirled excitedly. Her auburn hair shone in the light; her cheeks flushed with life—she looked more beautiful than ever.
“Guess what?” she exclaimed. “This fantastic guy called from one of the boys’ dorms. He said he found my phone number in the telephone booth. Can you believe that? Gosh, we talked for just hours and hours. And he’s coming over tomorrow night to see me. Oh, I can hardly wait! How will I ever be able to concentrate till then?” Cynthia fell back to the couch in a swoon.
“Hey, what happened to you?” Cynthia looked at Susan as if seeing her for the first time. “You look like you’ve been out in a hurricane. Seriously, where have you been?”
“Seriously, I’ve been learning.”
“Well, that’s what they tell us we’re here for. Just between you and me, though, I’m working toward my MRS degree.” Her secret hardly popped out like a genie long-corked in a bottle.
Susan was amused at her confession. From Cindy’s lips she could hear her own narrow view of life rumbling, tumbling down in a heap on the floor. She started for the bedroom.
“Where are you going now?”
“I need some privacy, Cindy,” she smiled brightly. “I’m rewriting my New Year’s resolutions.” As if lifted up by a breeze, Susan glided past Cynthia into the room beyond.

With Danielle and Michelle Hancock of the Lakeside First Ward, Show Low Arizona Stake, you might think you’re seeing double since they are identical twins, but the sisters are ace spellers trading off taking first and second in their district competition for the past three years.
In the past, Michelle won the county spelling bee and went on to win the Arizona State Spelling Bee. She represented the state in the national contest.
This year, Danielle won the county spelling bee and went on to the state competition. She took second place but only after setting a state record for spelling bee rounds. She participated in 82 rounds with the final 61 rounds just between her and the eventual state champ.
Both girls are honor students, and both were awarded All Sports Awards from their schools for making all the sports teams this past year.

When Elder Sergio R. Vargas fell in love with Andrea Sanchez, he thought he had a simple solution to their religious differences: they would have one wedding in his church for his family and another wedding in her church for her family.
He quickly learned, however, that doing so would not be that easy. Andrea was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and she wanted a temple marriage. So she invited him to learn more about her faith from the missionaries.
Elder Vargas accepted the invitation, which changed his life.
He recalled working for a salmon company at the time, helping transport live fish by sea. During a 25-hour voyage, he found a private place to read the Book of Mormon and ask Heavenly Father about the gospel. It was a spiritual turning point.
Elder Vargas was born on November 2, 1976, in Puerto Varas, Chile, where he and his two siblings were raised. His mother, Gladys Barria, kept the home while his father, Renato Vargas, kept the peace as a police officer. Despite encounters with missionaries as a young man, he was more interested in playing basketball than learning the gospel.
It was not until Elder Vargas met Sister Vargas that he was prepared to hear the missionaries with an open mind and heart, he said. They were married on July 26, 2003, and were later sealed in the Santiago Chile Temple. The couple has three children.