Gospel Story Finder

The air was chilly as my friends and I walked around the playground. We stopped at the red swing set. Usually, I loved to swing high and feel the wind blow through my hair. But when I sat down this time, I didn’t move. Ruth and Amruta sat in the swings next to me and didn’t swing either.
“I’m scared,” Amruta said. “Are you?”
I kicked the sand under my feet. “Yeah. Especially when I watch the news.”
“Me too,” Ruth said. “I’ve slept in my mom’s bed all week.”
Last week there had been a terrorist attack. Everyone was talking about it. Mom told me a terrorist attack was when bad people hurt other people who haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t understand everything that had happened, but it made me want to cry.
After Mom tucked me into bed that night, I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept thinking about the people who had died or been hurt. How did their families feel? I wanted to help them, but I didn’t know how.
When I got home from school the next day, Mom looked a little more cheerful. “Our neighborhood is going to have a lemonade stand. We’ll raise money for the firefighters who helped during the attack. Do you want to help?”
“Yes! How will the money help the firefighters?” I asked.
“Well, it could help them pay for doctor visits. Or it could help their families,” Mom said.
“Let’s do it,” I said. Finally, something I could do!
On Saturday, Mom, my brother, and I spent all morning baking Mom’s special triple-chocolate-chip cookies to sell at the lemonade stand.
That afternoon we carried trays of cookies to the street corner. Our neighbors were waiting for us with pitchers of lemonade and plastic cups. A boy from school waved at me.
“Hey, Aaron!” I said. “Are you helping sell stuff too?”
“Yeah! This lemonade stand was my mom’s idea.”
“Cool! Want to try a cookie?” I asked.
After eating chocolatey cookies and sipping sweet lemonade, Aaron and I hung up signs that said, “Lemonade Stand” and “Help the Firefighters!” All afternoon Aaron and I waved at cars, poured lemonade, and traded delicious cookies for crisp dollar bills.
Even when people didn’t stop, they honked their car horns and waved as they drove by. Mom said it meant they thought we were doing a good thing.
Then Aaron’s mom passed around a card to send to the firefighters. It had pink and red hearts on it. I signed my name and wrote, “Thank you for saving lives!” I drew a heart and a smiley face too.
By the end of the day, I was tired, but I couldn’t stop smiling.
“I feel better now,” I told Mom as we walked home.
“I’m so glad. When you help others, you are being like Jesus. And the Holy Ghost can help you feel safe and happy.”
When I went to bed that night, I thought about how happy the firefighters would be when they got the money and card. And I thought about how happy Heavenly Father is when we serve others. I snuggled up in my blankets and smiled. I wasn’t scared anymore.

My own family, anticipating the celebration of this 90-year milestone in my life, started helping me remember and appreciate the experiences of my long life. For example, my niece gathered and shared with me several letters that I had written to my parents nearly 70 years ago from my marine outpost on the island of Saipan in the Pacific during World War II.
One of these letters particularly caught my eye. It was a letter I wrote to my mother for her to open and read on Mother’s Day 1945. I would like to share some excerpts with you in the hope you will see why I will ever be grateful to my loving father and mother for the lessons I learned from their teaching in the home. My parents are the defining example I retain of goodly parents who placed their marriage and the proper rearing of children as their highest priority.
My Mother’s Day 1945 letter began:
“Dear Mom,
“For the last four years I have had the great misfortune of spending Mother’s Day away from you. Each year I have wanted to be with you and tell you just how I love you and how much I think of you, but since it is once again impossible, I will have to do the next best thing and send my thoughts through the mail.
“This year more than any of the others I can see just what having a wonderful mother has done for me. First of all, I miss the little things you used to do for me. Whenever I got out of bed in the morning, I never had to worry about whether I’d find a clean shirt and clean socks. All that I had to do is open a drawer, and I would find them. At mealtime I always knew that I would find something I liked, prepared the best way possible. At night I always knew that I would find clean sheets on my bed and just the right amount of covers to keep me very comfortable. Living at home was really a great pleasure.”
When I read these first two paragraphs of the letter, I was shocked by how sentimental they sounded. Perhaps living in a tent and sleeping under a mosquito net on a camp cot had my thoughts returning to my very special home.
My letter to my mother continued:
“But deeper is the feeling for you because of the example you set for me. Life was made so enjoyable for us as a family that we wanted to follow in your footsteps, to continue on through experiencing the same joy that had been ours in our younger days. You always found time to take the family into the canyon, and we could count on you to do anything from climbing mountains to playing ball with us. You and Dad were never going on vacations alone. The family was always with you. Now that I am away from home, I always like to talk about my home life because it was so enjoyable. I couldn’t turn from your teachings now because my actions would reflect on your character. Life is a great challenge to me to be worthy to be called the son of Nora Sonne Perry. I am very proud of this title, and I hope that I will always be worthy of it.
“I hope that next year finds me with you to show you the good time I have been planning to show you on Mother’s Day for the past four years.
“May the Lord bless you for all the wonderful things you have done for this troubled world.
“All my love, Tom”1
As I reread my letter, I also reflected on the culture of the family, the ward, the stake, and the community in which I was raised.

“How was the party?” Mom asked as I ran into the kitchen.
“Amazing! We made sparkly headbands.” I pirouetted so Mom could admire my work. “And Arianna got the best gift ever! A doll.”
“Didn’t you say you were too old for baby dolls?” Mom asked as she measured flour for brownies.
“Not a baby doll, Mom. This doll has long braids, and she wears Scandinavian clothes. Mom … ?”
“Yes, Maddie?”
“Can I have a doll like that?”
Mom mixed in the oil. “Christmas isn’t for a while, honey, but you can put it on your list.”
Put it on my list? But Christmas was months away! “Can I just have it now? I’ve been extra nice to Elise lately, and I clean the bathroom sometimes.”
Mom smiled as she stirred the batter. “Being nice to your sister and cleaning the bathroom are part of being in our family, Maddie. But you could always work and earn money.” The phone rang. “I need to answer this, but we can discuss it more at dinner.”
I stomped off to my room. Work for it? That wasn’t fair. None of my friends had to work for anything! How much did the doll cost anyway?
I found the doll in a catalog, and I blinked at the price. She was pretty expensive. I could never earn enough to buy her. Maybe I could ask Dad for her, or Grandma Ruth.
“But how would they pay for it?” a small voice asked in my head. “They’d have to work.”
I thought of my family—Dad doing paperwork, Mom cleaning the attic, and Grandma weeding the garden. All of them worked really hard. Maybe it was my turn. Still, I’d never saved that much before.
Inspiration struck. I glued a picture of the doll onto some heavy paper then carefully cut it into puzzle pieces. The doll looked silly with her eyes, nose, and mouth spread all over the carpet, but I just grinned. As I earned money for the doll, I could put the puzzle together and keep track of how much more I needed!
When Mom came to get me for dinner, she was impressed. “Great idea, Maddie! Now it’s time to put you to work!”
I had leftover money from my birthday, so I put that in a special jar for my doll money. That was a few pieces of my puzzle. The rest of the pieces came together more slowly. I did extra jobs for Mom—sorting books, sweeping the garage, and organizing her junk drawer. One weekend, I went to my grandma’s and planted flowers till my shoulders ached. I even watched my neighbors’ dog while they were on vacation. Each time I earned money, I put ten percent in my tithing jar and the rest in my doll jar.
It wasn’t easy to save. Sometimes I wanted to spend my money on candy or games. But I always thought of my goal, looked at my puzzle, and kept working.
Finally I put the last dollar into my jar and the last piece in my puzzle. I couldn’t believe I had done it! I just stared at the completed picture and let satisfaction wash over me.
“How do you feel, my working girl?” Mom asked from the doorway.
“Great!” I said with a smile. I was excited to get my doll, but the knowledge that I worked hard to earn her was the best feeling of all.

Dee Dee Floyd of the Camden Branch, Little Rock Arkansas Stake, is an outstanding example of commitment to her principles.
Dee Dee was the only LDS student at her school for three years. Since her branch did not have enough youth to hold seminary, her mother drove her to another branch an hour away in order for her to attend seminary each week. She served as stake seminary secretary her second year.
This year Dee Dee earned her Young Womanhood Recognition and serves as president of her Laurel class, which now has three young women.
In school, Dee Dee is on the tennis team, has been a class officer and cheerleader, and is in madrigal choir. She was the only student selected for all-state choir.
About her Church membership, Dee Dee says, “The gospel has become a source of strength in my life. Without the gospel and its teachings, I would most likely be a different person than I am now.”

The closest temple for the saints in Brazzaville is currently in Kinshasa, in the DRC. Getting there has not always been easy.
“We organized massive trips to the temple in Kinshasa, which meant we had to brave the challenge of crossing the turbulent river with our families,” said President Gayouele. “It was also during a time when our country was going through a severe recession. Families were destitute, but for these trips, members made enormous sacrifices to pay for the tickets for crossing the river, meals, and accommodation. There were so many of us leaving for the temple that very often there was no more room for us in the Kinshasa temple. Some brothers and sisters had to stay outside the temple and wait for their turn. These trips were times of trial of faith and determination for temple ordinances. Eventually, these trips have enabled us to bring the spirit of the temple into the hearts of Church members.”

One morning a family gathered to study the scriptures as usual. As they gathered, the father felt a negative spirit: some members of the family did not look very excited to participate. They had family prayer, and as they started to read the scriptures, the father noticed that one of the children did not have her personal set of scriptures with her. He invited her to go to her room and bring her scriptures. She reluctantly did so, and after a period of time that seemed like an eternity, she returned, sat down, and said, “Do we really have to do this now?”
The father thought to himself that the enemy of all righteousness wanted to create problems so that they would not study the scriptures. The father, trying to stay calm, said, “Yes, we have to do this now because this is what the Lord wants us to do.”
She responded, “I don’t really want to do this now!”
The father then lost his patience, raised his voice, and said, “This is my home, and we will always read the scriptures in my home!”
The tone and volume of his words hurt his daughter, and with her scriptures in hand, she left the family circle, ran to her bedroom, and slammed the door. Thus ended the family scripture study—no harmony and little love being felt at home.
The father knew that he had done wrong, so he went to his own bedroom and knelt down to pray. He pleaded with the Lord for help, knowing that he had offended one of His children, a daughter whom he truly loved. He implored the Lord to restore the spirit of love and harmony at home and enable them to be able to continue studying the scriptures as a family. As he was praying, an idea came to his mind: “Go and say, ‘I’m sorry.’” He continued to pray earnestly, asking for the Spirit of the Lord to come back into his home. Once again the idea came: “Go and say, ‘I’m sorry.’”
He really wanted to be a good father and do the right thing, so he stood up and went to his daughter’s bedroom. He gently knocked on the door several times, and there was no answer. So he slowly opened the door and found his girl sobbing and crying on her bed. He kneeled next to her and said with a soft and tender voice, “I’m sorry. I apologize for what I did.” He repeated, “I’m sorry, I love you, and I don’t want to hurt you.” And then from the mouth of a child came the lesson that the Lord wanted to teach him.
She stopped crying, and after a brief silence, she took her scriptures into her hands and started to look up some verses. The father watched as those pure and delicate hands turned the pages of the scriptures, page after page. She came to the verses she sought and started to read very slowly with a soft voice: “For the natural man is an enemy to God, and has been from the fall of Adam, and will be, forever and ever, unless he yields to the enticings of the Holy Spirit, and putteth off the natural man and becometh a saint through the atonement of Christ the Lord, and becometh as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even as a child doth submit to his father.”
While he was still kneeling next to her bed, humility overcame him as he thought to himself, “That scripture was written for me. She has taught me a great lesson.”
Then she turned her eyes to him and said, “I am sorry. I am sorry, Daddy.”
At that very moment the father realized she did not read that verse to apply that scripture to him, but she read it applying it to herself. He opened his arms and embraced her. Love and harmony had been restored in this sweet moment of reconciliation born of the word of God and the Holy Ghost. That scripture, which his daughter remembered from her own personal scripture study, had touched his heart with the fire of the Holy Ghost.

Manassas Virginia Stake
They came with square pillows and round pillows, plaid pillows, flowered pillows, and frilly pillows.
But it wasn’t a giant slumber party. Women throughout the stake sewed special pillows for the 175 young women who would attend girls’ camp as a visual reminder that “someone in their stake family loves them.” Accompanying each pillow was a personal letter from the pillow’s creator.
Rebecca Patten keeps her letter in a special book where she saves all of her spiritually uplifting things. “My letter was so perfect for me. It was all about something I needed to hear. I loved the pillow, but when I read the letter it made the pillow all the more special,” she said.
Later, the young women met with the women of the stake who wrote the letters and made the pillows. As they headed home after the reunion, they realized that not only did they have families that love them but people throughout the stake family loved them too. It was a nice thought to sleep on.

I guess I’d have to say that it all started with a bad attitude. When I was about ten years old, I formed the opinion that most people around me weren’t as “good” as they seemed to think they were. This feeling of disillusionment grew as I grew.
While there were other youth in the ward, even others my age, who enjoyed church and got something out of it, my friends and I became the group that went through a Sunday School teacher every month and were proud of it.
The members of the ward really didn’t approve of our attitude toward them and toward life, and some of them just gave up on us. Some did not. We had a very patient bishop and some great leaders. Most of them, however, we considered hypocrites, and we used their perceived weaknesses as an excuse for our own.
In junior high, this same group excelled in scholarship, athletics, and popularity. We had a lot of fun and decided we didn’t need and didn’t want the Church. When “forced” to enroll in seminary, most of us managed to get ourselves kicked out before too long.
We didn’t really give in to peer pressure—we exerted it. We were among the first of our age group to start drinking. We were the first to smoke pot and experiment with other drugs. We saw the chance to make some money in it, and so involved others to increase our own profits by dealing drugs. We were living high. Immorality also became a goal in our minds.
Some of my friends resisted. They said we were stupid, that there was no way they’d get involved. But by the time we got out of high school a few years ago, only one had stayed straight. He took a lot of verbal abuse and pressure, but he did it. I have more respect for him than for any other guy my age.
We were the leading partygoers all through school. The scriptures say, “Ye shall know them by their fruits” (Matt. 7:16). I don’t know all the fruits of our behavior, and I’m thankful for that. I do know many of them, though. Many of my friends that I grew up with, even some honor students, leaders, and athletes, dropped out of school. One committed suicide. Most have spent time in court, and some in jail, for a variety of things. I knew a lot of girls who had babies or abortions while in high school. Some went into prostitution.
I quit taking drugs when I had some serious health problems. I almost died a few times—many times actually, both from overdosing on drugs and driving while my senses were gone. One night I was bored, so I took everything I could find and then sat there and watched TV while my pulse dropped to 20 beats per minute. I forced myself to stay awake, because I felt that if I went to sleep I wouldn’t wake up.
In order to straighten myself out, I had to leave my friends. Afterwards I tried to help them quit too. A few of my old friends came with me, but most really didn’t care anymore.
After I quit drugs, I went way overboard with alcohol, and can honestly say I was a high school alcoholic. When I decided I wanted to quit, I couldn’t, on my own. I didn’t care enough about myself to do what I knew I needed to do.
Then I became close friends with a good, active LDS girl. She couldn’t understand what I was going through, but she did know I was honestly trying to get out of the hole I was in. It hurt her when I slipped back. I finally quit drinking because I knew it hurt her, and I knew I wouldn’t lie to her.
Keeping my morals straight was so hard under my weakened condition that I avoided any social contacts with girls except as good friends like this one.
I hadn’t prayed for years, but I finally had to go to my knees. I was afraid to, because I knew my guilt. That first time, honestly wanting to change and repent, was the biggest turning point in my life.
I tried to pray, but I couldn’t. I started to cry, the first time in years, and I felt like I was being torn apart inside. I fell over, still in a kneeling position, and my body went into convulsions. I kept praying in my mind, “Please help me!”
I almost blacked out. Then the physical pain passed, and I just lay there crying. I had a long way to go, but I knew that the first step was the hardest. I didn’t understand the Atonement, but the feeling of peace and comfort that engulfed me left no doubt that it was real.
There was a lot more. You see, chemicals that are used to cover or bury emotions tend to cripple a person emotionally, because you stop growing. I recovered pretty well physically and mentally. I started progressing spiritually. But emotionally I was a mess. The girl who helped me so much for so long didn’t understand that, and I lost her as a friend while trying to overcome the scars of the past. She saw the outward changes and thought that was the hard part. The hardest struggle was inside me, emotionally. My pride was a fierce adversary, and the painful memories sometimes dropped me down into depression.
I still have a long way to go, and a lot of work to do. I am now trying to help other people with similar problems. It has taken a few years so far to get to where I am, and I’ve done a lot of fasting and praying. When I look back, the memories hurt. I know now that we learn through experience, from our successes and our mistakes. I just wish I could have learned more without the burdens and scars that came with my method of learning—mostly from my mistakes.
I put myself through a lot of pain, and it kills me inside to see others following me. Young men, young women, think about yourselves and your friends. Before you give in to temptation—and believe me, pride and a bad attitude are temptations—think about the effect your actions will have on others, and on yourself in the years to come.
It is always possible to repent and come back. But it is so much better not to begin. Please, please, don’t give in. You will never regret staying pure, keeping the Word of Wisdom, coming home on time—the rules are there for a reason. I have seen the results of ignoring the rules, of saying, “That won’t happen to me.” My friends and I knew that no matter how clean a girl was morally, if we could get her drunk or stoned, she would eventually give in.
The first step down is the easiest, and the first step back is the hardest. When you’re on your way down, there are a lot of people who are eager to help you, but the farther down you go, the more alone you will be when and if you start back.
I have gained a strong testimony of the truth of the gospel. My fellow members are still not perfect, but I finally realized that their imperfection doesn’t make the gospel any less true. It just shows that they, too, are human.
I know the power and reality of the adversary, but now I know the power and reality of the Lord and of the priesthood, and I know that “they that be with us are more than they that be with them” (see 2 Kgs. 6:15–17).
Never be ashamed to be innocent. I envy you that. Once innocence is lost, it is gone. Please, be strong. More people than you will ever know are counting on you—your friends, family, and unborn children. Don’t let them down.

Even though I was at school, I asked for my call to be sent to my parents’ home in Tempe, Arizona. When the envelope arrived, my dad set up a conference call, so there was my family in Tempe, Tucson, and Mesa. We all sang the hymn “I’ll Go Where You Want Me to Go,” and I was definitely wondering where that would be. But as soon as my mom read I was going to Asunción, Paraguay, I felt an overwhelming peace and comfort. I haven’t had a moment’s worry since. I know that’s where the Lord wants me to go, 100 percent. And this time as I go to serve, I don’t have to worry—I can talk about the gospel with everyone I meet.

A cry from his mother rolled Black Beaver out of his warm bed furs. She stood outside the tepee, facing the mountains and pointing. There on the highest slopes of the tallest mountain, the one that his people considered sacred, was the sign they had waited to see—the wind and sun had shaped the snow into the form of a giant dove in flight. It meant that today he would climb up to search for White Horse, his grandfather, who had been trapped by a late spring blizzard. But how could the old one have survived up there alone for almost two weeks? the boy wondered. There seemed little hope of finding him alive now.
Black Beaver appeared calm as he prepared for the dangerous mission, but his heart hammered and his hands were moist and slippery. Was it the fear of failing, a dread of the unknown, or a combination of both? His younger brothers and sisters watched big-eyed and solemn as their mother handed him a backpack containing food, furs, and a coil of rope. “I—I wish you did not have to go alone,” his mother murmured, touching his dusky cheek.
Black Beaver wished, too, that it were not so. He had told no one, not even his family, about his fear of heights. He felt sure that White Horse had never understood why his eldest grandson refused to climb to the summit to fast and meditate as his ancestors had always done when they were troubled. “It is a place of incredible beauty and peace. It soothes the turmoil in a man’s spirit. Don’t you have faith in the ways of your people? Why do you turn away from the old ways?” his grandfather had asked.
The miserable youth had not replied. There were no words. How could he explain that he was both drawn and repelled by the mountain? He had seen his father and other relatives return from the summit renewed in spirit, a look of awe and serenity on their faces. How he envied them! The experience was one he yearned to share, but he always failed to reach even the timberline. He was not cowardly about other things, but he could not fight the choking panic that tightened his throat and shut off his breath. But could he now, to rescue his beloved grandfather? He wished that he had that much courage!
The youth had hunted on the lower slopes all his life, so he was familiar with the trails and made good time. He had not looked back to wave to his family, wanting to appear braver than he felt. The rising sun was warm on his back, but he dreaded the numbing cold and fierce winds that raked the mountain above the trees. He had heard about the trials necessary to reach the top, including the thin air that made the lungs ache. He pushed back the fear with thoughts of White Horse and climbed faster.
It was noticeably colder as Black Beaver stopped to rest his aching leg and shoulder muscles. He stared up at the snow and remembered his grandfather’s warning, “Never climb the mountain until the melting snow forms an outline of a soaring white dove, or you may be caught in a slide or some bottomless crevasse where the ice never melts. Always skirt the snow and follow the handholds and footholds around the bird’s left wing and you will be safe.”
Safe, the youth thought yearningly, trying not to look down. But it hadn’t been safe for White Horse even though the dove had flown when the old man climbed up for what he expected might be the last time. The raging blizzard had swept across the heights and trapped him. The dove was not visible on the morning they had waited for his return, and it had remained hidden until today. Suppose the bird vanished again in the night!
Black Beaver was hours above the timberline when he made his camp between boulders that blocked winds that tore at him. He looked down at the floor of the valley, hoping to see his family’s cooking fire, but it was too far away. He knew how anxiously they must have watched the mountain all day and it made him feel less lonely. This was the highest he had ever been and he was too numb and too exhausted to be frightened. He fell asleep in the heavy furs that had been too hot during the first part of his climb. Above him the giant white dove seemed to stir its wings as the snow glistened in the light of a full moon.
It was almost noon the next day when Black Beaver saw fresh moccasin tracks edging the snow. Grandfather has survived the blizzard! White Horse lives! thought the boy. Then he shuddered, remembering how many times he had dangled like a spider twirling on its web, out over the sheer drop to the bottom. Despite ancient notches carved in the stone face of the mountain, Black Beaver knew that without the rope he would not have made it to the top. The thin air made him drowsy and confused so that he often lost sight of the footholds his grandfather could follow in the dark. But he had done it and survived, and, somehow, White Horse had survived too.
The dove was disappointing up close. It was nothing more than a huge expanse of deep snow trapped in a vast fissure.
Black Beaver decided to rest for a moment. He was startled a short time later by his grandfather’s voice gently chiding, “Are you going to sit there and doze within just a few feet of the most soul-stirring sight you will ever see?” As the boy moved, White Horse cautioned, “Careful! Don’t leap up or you will go tumbling down into the valley.”
“You look well, Grandfather—for one who has been trapped up here for so long,” Black Beaver said boldly, as the thought occurred to him that he might have been tricked into the climb. He sniffed the air. “I smell food cooking!” he added incredulously. “Or have the heights made me delirious?”
White Horse arose stiffly and motioned his grandson to follow. The old one lumbered along like a bear in heavy fur garments Black Beaver had never seen before. Were they kept here for the final part of the climb? he wondered.
Black Beaver stopped and stared. “A cave! And it is stocked with many supplies. You were never in any real danger!” the boy accused grimly, thinking of his hazardous and needless climb. “You could have survived here for many more weeks or even climbed down, once the blizzards had passed!”
“Yes, but then you might never have seen the world from this mountain height as you longed to do,” White Horse said softly. “This one fear might have remained throughout your life and would probably have led to others. I had to trick you and force you to conquer the fear as my father tricked me so many years ago. I understood your fight more than you realized. I experienced all the same agonies and self-doubts as a youth. Now you have won. Come and eat with me.”
“No. First I must stand on the summit and feel the same beauty and awe as my ancestors,” Black Beaver said decisively. “Now that fear is no longer knotted around my throat like a rope, I am free. I will climb this and many other mountains throughout my life—thanks to the wisdom of White Horse.”

I had planned my entire life to serve a full-time mission. But when I went to college at Brigham Young University (Utah, USA), I started to get nervous. How could I know whether I was really supposed to serve a mission? I spent the year before my 21st birthday begging Heavenly Father to tell me if I should serve. Then one of my religion professors said something that changed my life: “The Lord can’t drive a parked car.” I decided to act.
I turned in my papers, received my call, bought missionary clothing, and drove home from Utah to North Carolina—all while preparing for my mission with earnest prayer, study, and fasting.
After I went home to North Carolina, a young man I had met at school flew out to visit me, and we talked seriously about our relationship.
My prayers became earnest and pleading again, but I continued to feel that the Lord trusted me to make my own decision. I felt the weight of responsibility but also the sweet assurance that as long as I chose in faith, the Lord would support my decision.
Ten days before I was to leave, my friend proposed. I postponed my mission to give myself time to think. When I decided to get engaged, the Spirit confirmed to my fiancé and me that it was right.
Although I didn’t serve a full-time mission, preparing for one changed my life. Drawing close to the Lord helped me become the person He needed me to be for my mission as a wife and mother.
Cassie Randall

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked my dad as he dumped a pile of cassette tapes on my desk. “Transcribing all these will take weeks, maybe the whole summer.”
Earlier that week, I had agreed to help him record stories from the emergency room. As an inner-city doctor, my dad is always seeing unusual cases—like a boy with a watermelon seed stuck in his ear and a man who claimed his dandruff and flaking skin were caused by aliens. My family loves to hear his stories, and one day my mom suggested he record them on tape. I volunteered to type them.
This was, of course, before I remembered I was going to be in summer school all day, studying chemistry. After the first week of learning about elements and chemical formulas, the thought of reading, writing, or even thinking outside of school made me sick. I didn’t want to spend two hours a night typing stories. I wanted to do unproductive things like watching TV or playing video games.
“Well, I guess I can find someone else to do it,” said my dad, looking disappointed. “Or maybe we can just put it off for a while.”
I almost said “great” and left, but he looked so crestfallen I couldn’t. “Leave the tapes, Dad. I’ll see what I can do,” I said finally.
Every evening after summer school, I would come home, eat, go running, and head upstairs to the computer. For two hours I would transcribe the tapes, typing at a painfully slow speed because I made so many mistakes. At first I hated it, and my eyes seemed constantly blurred from staring at the screen. But it was easy to get interested in the stories my dad was telling, like the one about an old woman who saved her fingernail clippings in a jar for a year and then brought them in for examination.
One case, in particular, touched me. It was about a boy from Mexico who was dying. When my dad went to see the patient, he found the mother by the boy’s bedside, weeping.
“Hola, Señora Garcia,*“ said my father, who had served a Spanish-speaking mission. Startled to hear Spanish, the woman told my dad she had brought her son from Mexico to receive care. They continued to talk, and the woman told my father she was LDS. As the only LDS emergency room doctor at the hospital—and the only one who spoke Spanish—my dad was able to give the boy a blessing of comfort before he died and help the mother with funeral arrangements.
As I heard my dad bear testimony of the experience, I realized that these tapes were doing more than improving my typing skills. They were improving my relationship with my father. In a funny way, I was getting to know my dad better as I listened to his stories. Soon I couldn’t wait to get home from summer school each day so we could talk about what I had typed the night before. My dad seemed excited, too, that I was interested in this part of his life.
He would frequently come up to me to tell me little things he had forgotten to put in a story. “Did I tell you the male nurse who kept fainting was transferred to pediatrics?” he’d ask, or, “Did I remember to say that the bicyclist who crashed was 83?” And sometimes we would sit and talk for hours—about his job, my schoolwork, anything.
As we talked, I began to realize what a wonderful friend my dad was. In the past, I had been so busy with school and cheerleading that there were days when I barely said hello to him. But the tapes helped me see what I was missing. And once we developed the habit, taking time to talk was easy. We were friends.
Within a month, I had finished transcribing the tapes. “Here you are, Dad,” I said, handing him 38 single-spaced, typed pages.
“Thanks, Elyssa, I hope this didn’t take too much time away from hanging out with your friends,” Dad said.
“Nah, it was actually pretty cool. I’m kind of sad to be done,” I said, smiling. I had been hanging out with a very important friend.

We are a humble and very happy family. We were baptized in 1993, although it feels as though we have always been members of the Church and blessed with the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Initially, we were not interested in A Liahona (Portuguese). But then we read a copy loaned to us by a special missionary. We immediately realized that we wanted our own subscription. Now, should we ever miss an issue, it would be quite a spiritual loss for us.

I remember so well how my father used to get us together in family prayer and how he would talk to the Lord. He just didn’t say a few words and off we would go to the fields. He kneeled down with us and he talked to the Lord. He told the Lord about some of our weaknesses and some of our problems, where we had failed, and he apologized for us. “Eldon didn’t do exactly what he should have done today. We are sorry that he made this mistake. But we feel sure, Heavenly Father, that if thou wilt forgive him, he will determine to do what is right. Let thy Spirit be with him and bless him that he can be the kind of boy we would like to have.”
My, that was a help! He used to say in the morning, “Let your blessings attend us as we go about our duties that we may do what is right and return tonight to make a report.” I used to think of that: “I am going to report to the Lord tonight.” It helped me materially in the kind of life I lived during the day.
Father thanked the Lord for our crops and for our home, for the country in which we lived, for one another, and for many, many things, and always asked the Lord to let His blessings attend us.
He told us about Joseph Smith’s prayer—how he went out into the grove to pray and the result; how God the Father and His Son Jesus Christ appeared to Joseph Smith, and he said, “That’s the kind of God we are talking to, boys.” We knew it as he prayed, and we learned to pray. We depended a great deal on the blessings of our Heavenly Father as we went through life.
I recall an experience while I was a deacon. I had a sister who had spinal meningitis, and a very severe case of it. I remember one night as we knelt in prayer Father said to me, “My boy, you hold the priesthood now; I wish you would lead in prayer, and remember Lillie.” She had been, and was at that time, very, very sick. They didn’t know whether she would live or not. As I prayed with the family, the feeling came to me that she would be made well.

He gave me the Book of Mormon in 1981, but I did not read it or even open it for two years. One Sunday I was bored when my friends were out of town, so I picked up the book and went to a nearby railway station and read. When I read that day, I could feel the motivation to do good, but what really touched me later on in my reading was 3 Nephi 11. I read about the surviving Nephites who had come through war and turmoil, and then the Savior Jesus Christ appeared to them.
My country had been through our own war for 15 years. Some of the people I had grown up with in my village had gone to war and did not make it back. Others were crippled for life.
So, while reading about the Nephites, I felt as though the Savior Jesus Christ was reaching out to me when He said, “Arise and come forth unto me, that ye may … feel the prints of the nails in my hands and in my feet, that ye may know that I am the God of Israel, and the God of the whole earth, and have been slain for the sins of the world” (3 Nephi 11:14).
I felt as though He was reaching out to me personally, inviting me to come unto Him. It hit me that I could do this. It changed everything.

In the opening exercises of our priesthood meeting, the bishop announced that many of the teachers would be assigned new senior home teaching companions. Filled with the gentle excitement that accompanies such changes in assignment, I left the chapel wondering who my new companion would be. I strolled down the hallway hoping that I had been chosen as the companion of one of the young, dynamic elders in the ward. I looked in the open classrooms that lined the hallway and imagined working with a powerful, spiritual man intent on fulfilling his calling. At the end of the hallway was the Relief Society room where the high priests met.
Turning to go up the stairs, I looked into the room and my eyes caught a glance at an old man sitting in an almost tattered gray suit. He was sitting alone, thoughtfully, with his fingers intertwined. He wore round, wire-rimmed glasses and had a slightly blotchy, leathery complexion. I had seen this brother before, but I did not know him by name. And it seemed to me at the moment that he represented the companion I would like not to have. Please not him, I said to myself. He’s too old.
Upstairs the teachers quorum adviser informed me that I would be the companion to a brother Oliver Johnson. The name did not mean anything to me, but he was soon described as an elderly high priest who had round glasses, often wore a gray suit, and kept bees. That was him. That was the man I had seen downstairs a minute before. I was deeply disappointed. I reasoned that I deserved it after what I had thought about him, but that did not diminish my dissatisfaction. If anything, it made my yearning for a powerful young man—someone I knew—even greater.
Though I wanted to be a good home teaching companion, I still begrudged my assignment as the companion of this old, slow-walking, slow-talking brother. I remember in particular how critical I was of his driving. I was in the process of getting my long-awaited driver’s license, and I thought there was no better driver than myself. The first time we went out as companions, Brother Johnson drove up in a 20-year-old worn out car. In that outdated vehicle it seemed to me that he drove well below the speed limit.
But to accompany the slow, steady pace of his driving, he talked slowly and steadily, perhaps sensing my impatience and reluctance—my youth. As we visited our families monthly, I came to realize that dressed in that gray suit and tattered old hat was a man whose power was experience. He talked about the mission he and his wife had been called on. (During the course of the mission his wife had died, but after she was buried he returned to finish his calling.) He talked about Indian trails, about his bees, and about people who seemed to me to be out of another time period.
The more we talked the less critical I became. The slow driving no longer irritated me. It gave us more of a chance to talk. His old car, his funny glasses, his withered hat, and his pocket watch with the broken crystal no longer bothered me. It was as if he got younger, and as his years shed in my mind, some of them must have fallen to me.
Of all the topics we discussed, I was most drawn to Brother Johnson’s activities as a beekeeper. One early summer day, he called me and told me that he was going up the canyon to see how some of his bees were doing. He asked if I would like to come. We drove casually up the canyon, and he told me how he had started in beekeeping and what he did to help the bees produce their honey. We drove off the paved road, up a bumpy dirt road, through some streams. Periodically I had to get out, open sheep fence gates, let Brother Johnson drive through, and join him after I closed the gate.
We finally got to the hives. He gave me an old veil—a hat with material mesh that came down in front to protect my face from the bees. He told me to be sure my long-sleeved shirt (which he had warned me to wear) was buttoned at the wrists. Then he gave me some rubber bands to put around the wrists. He told me to push my pant legs inside my socks. As Brother Johnson did these things himself, he explained to me that if the bees flew or crawled up a sleeve or pant leg, they would not be able to get out, so they would become afraid and sting. I marveled that he did not wear any gloves. As he got the smoker ready with which he subdued the bees, I asked him if he got stung very often.
“Oh, you get stung every once in a while—usually if the bee gets scared or doesn’t know you. Or they may sting if you don’t know what you’re doing. And they sting if they get trapped.” As he said that he looked at me, and from beneath that distorting veil I saw the bright, shining eyes and the quick smile of one who knew what he was talking about. Brother Johnson was slow, methodical, careful as he lifted the tops off the hives and puffed in the smoke to relax the bees. Some landed on him, crawled on his gloveless hands. Some even buzzed agitatedly around his head, but he never cringed or moved away. I kept a safe distance where I could watch. I was not going to let bees crawl on me and have a chance to sting me.
Some of the hives were doing better than others, and I marveled that Brother Johnson could tell what was wrong, why some hives were not producing, and then correct the problem. He did not take any of the honey that day, but he promised me that when he did he would bring me some. He told me that you chewed the honey out of the honeycomb and spit the wax out. He said it was better than eating the honey itself because you had to work for what you got. I didn’t understand then how that could be. But once I had tried it, I knew.
A few years later in the mission field, I received a letter from my mother with a newspaper clipping. At the top of the clipping was the picture of the man who had so kindly taught me something of bees, something of aged men, and something more. The face in the picture of that obituary notice was strangely lifeless—so unlike the face I had seen in the Relief Society room the first time I remember seeing him, but much more unlike the face behind the beekeeper’s veil that day in the canyon. And though I could ask with Paul, “O death, where is thy sting?” I felt a quick pain of regret and sadness at the passing of this gentleman, this brother. And yet my mind is ever soothed by the memory of that rich, sweet honey he encouraged his bees to produce and which he gave to me—with the wax to chew out for myself.

Tears stream down the missionary’s face. Watching the people he has taught come out of the waters of baptism, he feels weak with emotion as he listens to these new members pray. They thank their Father in Heaven for sending him to teach them the gospel. All the sacrifices he has made to come so far from his home have been worth it.
At another baptism, a young girl of 14, with tears in her eyes, hugs the sister missionary who has taught her the gospel. Even though this missionary had to leave her home thousands of miles away to serve a mission, it has been worth it.
Two missionary stories with the same emotion and the same sacrifice. It may be surprising to learn they took place 150 years and an ocean apart. The first missionary was Addison Pratt, who baptized in 1844 the first members of the Church in the Pacific not far from Tahiti. The second missionary was Barbara Nauta, a native Tahitian, who left her island home to serve a mission in Canada in 1993.
For as long as the Church has been organized, missionaries have been willing to sacrifice to serve the Lord, and new members are grateful to them. And particularly in Tahiti, missionary work has come full circle. Young islanders are leaving their homes and serving missions on other islands as well as around the world.
Exactly 150 years ago the first missionaries ever called to serve in an organized foreign-speaking mission started their missions in what is now French Polynesia, the most well-known island being Tahiti. Their mission call came from the Prophet Joseph himself.
Getting to Tahiti and surrounding islands was no easy matter. It took almost a year of traveling. Those first missionaries, Addison Pratt, Benjamin F. Grouard, Noah Rogers, and Knowlton F. Hanks, had to literally sail around the world to get there. They had to travel on land to the East Coast to find a whaling ship going to the Pacific. They crossed the Atlantic, where Elder Hanks, suffering from ill health, died and was buried at sea. They rounded the Cape of Good Hope, crossed the Indian Ocean, passed the islands of Southeast Asia, and landed first at the island of Tubuai, just south of Tahiti. It was nearly a year after they had left Nauvoo that they found islanders eager to welcome the missionaries. Elder Pratt was immediately popular because, years earlier, as a sailor, he had visited Hawaii and learned a little of the Hawaiian language. The people of Tubuai could understand him.
Within a few years, there were hundreds of members of the Church on several islands around and including Tahiti.
Eight years later, the government asked the missionaries to leave. For 40 or so years, the mission was closed, but a core of members stayed faithful. Then, when the mission was reopened, came a hundred years of growth. It started slowly but picked up speed and really started to boom. Today, with four stakes, Tahiti and its neighboring islands have a temple, dozens of chapels, and scores of young people serving missions and many more preparing to serve as soon as they are old enough.
Just like those missionaries 150 years ago, young Tahitians look to the Lord to guide them as they serve. For example, Barbara Nauta, who grew up in Tahiti, served in the Canada Toronto Mission. She said investigators in Canada were amazed that she had left her warm Pacific island to learn another language (Barbara, who speaks French and Tahitian, had to learn English) and suffer in cold and snow. They asked her why. “I told them the Lord sent me here,” she says.
French Polynesians today still know the names of those first missionaries of 150 years ago. They also keep the names of other missionaries treasured in their memories—especially the missionaries who first taught them the gospel.
For 17-year-old twins Titaina and Titaua Germain, from the Haumi Branch on the island of Moorea, those special missionaries are Elder Nelson and Elder Snowden. The twins, who share everything including remarkably similar faces, said, “When the missionaries explained to us about the principles of the gospel, we were truly astounded. It was as if we had dreamed of meeting people who lived like this and a church that worked like this one.”
The twins have to wait until their 18th birthday to be baptized, but they attend all their meetings and institute classes besides. “We were both interested from the moment we heard about the gospel from Elder Nelson and Elder Snowden,” said Titaina. Or was it Titaua? “We feel the same about things.”
There are living, breathing pioneers in French Polynesia. For Lianna Tarahu, 14, of Hapiti, she needs look no further than her grandparents. They joined the Church many years ago and remember with fondness Elder John Fuhriman, the missionary who taught them.
Because of her grandparents, Lianna is the third generation in her family to be active. But Lianna, just like everyone, has to gain her own testimony.
“First of all, I was very blessed to be raised in the Church. My parents taught me all of my life the principles of the gospel. We have studied the scriptures together,” said Lianna. “There wasn’t a particular moment or one experience, but many things through the years that have helped my testimony grow little by little. Now I attend seminary and am learning a lot of wonderful things about the gospel. Because of seminary, when I serve a mission I will be much better prepared.”
Lianna is very serious about a mission. She said her favorite scripture is 1 Nephi 3:7 when Nephi promises to go and do the things the Lord commands. [1 Ne. 3:7] Lianna says, “This promise is one I make also.” When asked what she will do if she is called to a faraway place, Lianna hesitates. She is the oldest of 11 brothers and sisters. She will miss her many family members and they will miss her. She says, “It would make no difference. If the Lord calls me to America, to London, or to Bora Bora, I will serve.”
Taped in the front of Lianna’s scriptures is a copy of the standards booklet For the Strength of Youth. Of course, her copy is in French, so it’s called Soyez Fort, “Be Strong.” She looks at it often.
Is it difficult for her to follow the standards? Lianna gives one example. “It is very hot here, but we are told to be modest and wear dresses and blouses with sleeves,” Lianna says. “Sometimes it is difficult, but the standards are good and protect us. We learn about dating and courtesy and many things we need to know to be Saints.”
Stelio Mauahiti lived next door to an attractive building in Paea on the island of Tahiti. He was told it was a church, but he didn’t really know what kind of church. The grounds were always neat, and people seemed to come nearly every day to participate in a variety of activities. On Sundays, he could hear the singing as the doors and windows were always open. Other days, he watched boys near his own age play basketball on the outdoor court. He paid particular attention to the two young men who wore white shirts and dark trousers.
Soon he was playing basketball with them. Then he started to listen to what they had to say. He and his mother agreed to be taught the gospel. At their baptism, Stelio made up his mind to serve a mission someday.
That day has come. Elder Mauahiti was called to serve in the French Polynesia Mission. One of his first assignments was to the village of Uturoa on the island of Raiatea. Mission life is very different from his life before his mission. Now he is the young man in the white shirt and dark trousers. Now he is the one who plays basketball on the outdoor court with those who are wondering about the Church. Now he is the one who does the teaching.
Best of all, Elder Mauahiti sees the same thing happening to his people that Elder Pratt saw 150 years ago. He’s seeing people change for the better. “I have seen the difference between the homes of members and the homes of nonmembers,” says Elder Mauahiti. “I have seen lives changed, hearts touched by the Spirit. I know that it’s not me who makes the difference, but the Spirit of the Lord working through his missionaries.”
Instead of missionaries just coming to French Polynesia, now many young French Polynesians are serving missions. Take, for example, Alona Losamkieou. She left her lovely island of Raiatea in the Pacific and traveled to a far-off land—Salt Lake City—to teach the gospel to visitors on Temple Square. She is just one young French Polynesian missionary following the example set 150 years ago by those first missionaries to the Pacific. Missionary work has come full circle.

When I was a Mia Maid, I noticed a less-active girl in the same class as I was. I sometimes saw her at school in the hallways, at Mutual activities, church, and even at girls’ camp. It seemed no matter how often I would see her, she looked unhappy. I knelt down one night and prayed for the strength to somehow help her.
The next day, I told myself I would greet her with a friendly “Hello!” But something inside held me back. So I passed her by and said nothing. As the days stretched on, the desire to help her increased. I knew I had to say something to her, and I wanted to do it soon.
I prayed several times in the early morning to gain the courage I needed. As I saw her walking down the hallway one day, I knew I had to act fast! I was afraid if I didn’t say something now, I would not be able to later. With a turn of my head, I faced her and said, “Hi!”
The instant results surprised me. Her face immediately lit up like a candle. I decided that from then on, I would make an honest effort to say kind words to her. Months went by, and I found she became one of my best friends.
I know that Heavenly Father was sending me a message the day I got the courage to go up and say “Hi!” We need to reach out to others and forget ourselves. We can pause for a moment to offer a kind word. We can ask, “How can I help someone smile today?” Heavenly Father will help. Don’t be afraid to ask. He will guide you and direct you in the path you should go.

Young members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and their Muslim friends in Queensland are helping an Australian charity to bring light into communities in Vanuatu impacted by energy poverty.
Last October, 186 young single adult volunteers, including friends from the Ahmadiyyah Muslim community, Church members and friends, gathered to assemble 1,000 solar lights.
The workers also wrote a greeting or message of encouragement on the instruction sheet that accompanies each light.
One volunteer said, “Not only are we building the lights, but we are also writing a letter to send with the lights, and it really makes it personal, and it really feels good to help others.”
Billie Murphy, SolarBuddy representative, said, “These lights will be used for children to study at nighttime and to move about their community safely and hopefully give them a really good opportunity as they move forward.”
Carl Maurer, self-reliance manager and Area Seventy, said, “I see this as an opportunity to relieve suffering, to increase the capacity for education to be a profile in somebody’s home, to offer better health opportunities in their homes, where they can become more self-reliant.”
Volunteers registered on JustServe, a free community service platform for building unity through community service, where the service project was posted.
The lights were purchased as a humanitarian project, by Latter-day Saint Charities, the service arm of the Church, from Solar Buddy, which is an Australian charity with the goal of ending energy poverty for all children.
After assembling the lights, which took about five minutes each, the young adults continued to mingle with games, activities, and, of course, food.
Carl Maurer said, “I hope that this will be a significant opportunity for families and individuals to see not just the light from the light, but see the Light of their lives, Jesus Christ.”

Let me share a more positive story. We have a good friend who lives with his family in a modest suburb of Idaho Falls. He and his wife had decided to put their house up for sale and purchase a larger and nicer home up in the foothills. However, he attended the October 1998 general priesthood meeting, and listened carefully to President Hinckley's address when he said:
There is a portent of stormy weather ahead to which we had better give heed... I urge you, brethren, to look to the condition of your finances. I urge you to be modest in your expenditures; discipline yourselves in your purchases to avoid debt to the extent possible. Pay off debt as quickly as you can, and free yourselves from bondage.
This is a part of the temporal gospel in which we believe. May the Lord bless you, my beloved brethren, to set your houses in order. If you have paid your debts, if you have a reserve, even though it be small, then should storms howl about your head, you will have shelter for your wives and children and peace in your hearts. That's all I have to say about it, but I wish to say it with all the emphasis of which I am capable.[6]
At that point in time in 1998, the US economy was booming, prosperity appeared to abound, and there seemed to be no end in sight. Despite that, however, my friend returned home after that priesthood meeting, and before entering his house he removed the "For Sale" sign from their front yard. He conferred with his wife, and together they decided that they weren't moving, but instead were going to stay put and work hard to get out of debt.

It was almost exactly ten years later, in October 2008, when the US housing market "bubble" burst and the US and world economy entered a severe recession. While he and his family were able to weather that storm, many of their friends in the foothills ended up losing their homes. It was obviously a huge blessing for our friends to be able to keep their home, but I suspect the greater blessings will come from their decision to heed the guidance of the prophet.