Gospel Story Finder

When I was a young man, there was a time when I hated church. Things were rocky at home, and as I watched my family breaking up and my mother’s medical problems, I became rebellious. I started to hang out with the type of people I never would have hung out with before. I got a job and, with the money I earned, got two piercings and dyed my hair almost every color of the rainbow.
My family never knew where I was. I was dumb and doing dumb things. I didn’t care what I did or who I was with, as long as I was having fun. But I knew that I wasn’t really happy.
Then a new missionary moved into the ward—Elder Smith. He talked to me like no one else in the ward would at that time. I thought he was a weird guy at first because he smiled all the time. But soon we became friends, and he and his companion would come over to see me just to say hello. He talked me into going to church and priesthood meeting. It took a while before I said yes.
At that time the missionaries were teaching someone else my age. I saw how this person was made truly happy by the things the missionaries shared—by the gospel of Jesus Christ. I wanted that happiness. I knew I had to take a big step in my life and pray for the first time about the Book of Mormon and about the Church. I had heard of Moroni’s promise, which says that “if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, … having faith in Christ, … he will manifest the truth … by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moroni 10:4–5).
I got my answer. I was overwhelmed with the Spirit. I know that there is a living prophet on earth, that Joseph Smith did in fact see Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father, and that They restored the Church through him.
I have a treasure, a dear gift that I have been given—the blessing of this valuable gospel every day. I didn’t know I had it until I prayed about it. The message is so strong that it has changed my life and the lives of many others.

My aunt went through a divorce when only her oldest son had been baptized. To maintain a peaceful relationship with her children’s biological father, she wanted to get his permission for their other children to be baptized. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t give permission for many years.

My aunt finally decided that she wanted to have the children baptized despite their dad’s not approving. But after my aunt and cousins fasted and prayed about the decision, everyone received the impression that they should continue to wait.

That same week, my cousins’ biological father told my aunt that he wanted the children to meet with the missionaries and be baptized. I still remember the joy I felt when my mom told me the news. I knew that Heavenly Father had blessed my cousins after many years of patiently waiting.

We may not always know when the Lord will answer our prayers, but I know that He always will. I don’t know why Heavenly Father wanted my cousins to wait to be baptized, but I do know that He blessed them because of their faithfulness.
Bre J., Florida, USA

Members in Falls Church, Virginia, USA, felt the joy of serving together at two homeless shelters. Scrubbing a wall, Adeana Alvarez told a fellow ward member, “I’ve had a frustrating week, and it feels good to just take out the frustration on this wall! We all need service at some time in our lives, and it’s good to do it for other people.”
Another ward member, Anne Sorensen, remarked, “It’s a great way to be connected with your community. I now feel more invested in what is going on with that organization. Every time I drive by here, I’ll think about the people who attend classes here and hope that the work we did gives them a tangible way to feel like they aren’t alone in what they are doing to improve their lives.”

A busy teenager in a rather large family complained about the amount of time that family prayer was taking. As the wise mother was praying the next day, she intentionally left that youngster out of the prayer. As the prayer concluded, the busy child said, “Mother, you left me out of the prayer!” The loving mother explained that she was just responding to the youngster’s complaint. The busy child complained, “Don’t leave me out.”

When I was about 17 years old, one day I met my cousin to see a movie at the other end of the city. Afterward my cousin suggested that I sleep over at his house, but I declined because I wanted to return home.
There were no streetlights, so I started home in the dark. At this time in my life I was not very confident. So to give myself a sense of security, I began to sing softly as I walked. The farther I went, the more afraid I became.
While I was passing a soccer stadium, I heard a small voice tell me, “Thierry, change sidewalks!” I didn’t want to believe it was anything other than fear, so I ignored the voice. After I had gone several meters, the voice became more distinct: “Thierry, change sidewalks!” I told myself again that I was only afraid. I continued on the same side of the street, now almost at a run. Suddenly I heard the voice the third time: “Thierry, change sidewalks now!” I didn’t listen.
I then noticed at the next corner four or five individuals. I ran to the other side of the street, but it was too late. The group saw me, and they attacked, wanting whatever I had in my pockets. I tried to defend myself, but I couldn’t do much. Finally I fell to the ground and pretended to be unconscious. When they all left, I got to my feet with difficulty and ran home as quickly as possible.
Twenty years after this adventure I now work for the security of others. I have found myself in more serious situations than this and have again heard the voice that tells me what to do. Needless to say, I don’t need to be warned three times now.
I know that the experience I had as a young man, while painful, allowed me to discover the voice of the Holy Ghost. Today this voice is very familiar to me.

Susie Finlayson had been trying for some time to get a friend to have the missionary discussions, but he “kept not being too excited.” She gave him a subscription to the New Era, and while he was waiting for the first issue to arrive, someone gave him a couple of old copies so that he would know what he was getting. A day or two later he stopped Susie in the hall. “I’ve got a poem for you,” he said. He then quoted from memory a poem he had read in the New Era. A few weeks later he asked if he could start taking the missionary discussions. That success reminded Susie of another friend she had given the New Era to a year earlier. She checked with him and found that he was feeling bad because the subscription had ended. He is now receiving the New Era again.

A young woman in another country applied to work as a journalist, but the official who assigned jobs was merciless. He said to her, “With my signature, I guarantee you will not become a journalist but will dig sewers.” She was the only woman digging sewers in a gang of men.

Years later this woman became an official. One day a man came in needing her signature for a job.

She asked, “Do you remember me?” He did not.

She said, “You do not remember me, but I remember you. With your signature, you guaranteed I never became a journalist. With your signature, you sent me to dig sewers, the only woman in a gang of men.”

She told me, “I feel I should treat that man better than he treated me—but I do not have that strength.” Sometimes that strength is not within us, but it can be found in remembering the Atonement of our Savior, Jesus Christ.

I am indeed grateful that I was given the unique and distinctive opportunity to attend this institution many years ago and for the positive effect it has had on my life. I came to BYU–Hawaii when I was 17, an inexperienced freshman from Apia, Samoa, very timid and shy. I lived in Hale 3 when the apartment spaces consisted of 8 small rooms with a separating curtain in what was then referred to as a “unit.” In our unit were three Samoans, one Japanese, two Canadians, one Mainlander, and one Hawaiian. While school was in session, the school and dorms were packed with students. During the summer and winter holidays, the locals and mainland students went home. Those of us from Samoa, Tonga, New Zealand, Australia, Philippines, Asia and basically from the entire Pacific Rim, remained on campus. Even though there were no classes, we worked full-time to earn money to pay for our student loans. Each payday, we went to the business office to endorse our paychecks and receive money for tithing and personal spending. On one occasion as we stood in line, the lady at the window handed a student his paycheck to sign and return. We were all shocked when he ran off with it. She tried calling him back, but he had disappeared very quickly. It was humorous at the time, but I have since felt empathy for that student. There would have been numerous reasons why he desperately needed that money.

Eating in the cafeteria was a luxury during the summer so in order to reduce spending, we opted to provide our own meals. There was no grocery store in Laie so this developed our talents to become very creative. I remember sharing a pack of hot dogs someone gave us and a roommate showing us how to grill each dog on a hot iron. Sometimes we went into the mountains looking for mangoes, papaya and bananas. One of our roommates found an old electric frying pan to cook with. It was the first time I learned to cut up and fry green papaya to make stir fry with a can of fish. Another roommate worked at the PCC diner. When tourists left uneaten food on their plates, she would bring it home for all of us to enjoy. Our dorm parent was Bella Stokoe. On occasion she would make a large pot of Koko rice and feed us when we arrived home from work. On the weekends, there was no food to eat. We became more creative. We walked down the streets of Laie and began knocking on doors. One of us would stand at the opened doors and say, "We are hungry. Do you have any food to spare?" Sometimes the answer was "sorry we don't."

We were fortunate when people like Sister Valu Ta’ilele, Sister Ta’aloga Stone, Sister Eka Aumua, Sister Ann Rivers and Sister Malia Leiataua would recognize us and hand us food or invite us in. I am grateful and will never forget these mothers who loved us, who had hearts of gold to give and fed us “at such a time as this.” Their acts of kindness have had a great effect on my life forever. It has taught me to do things for people NOT because of who they are or what they do for you in return, but because of who I am. It has taught me to simply reach out and LOVE without expectation.

Tami liked to go to Primary. She liked learning about Jesus, she liked to sing, and she liked her teacher, Sister Brown.
Tami liked everything about Primary except for one thing. She couldn’t sit with Mom. Mom taught a different Primary class.
Mom, I want to sit with you.
You need to sit with your Primary class, and I need to sit with mine.
Tami walked to the chairs where her class was sitting. She was not happy.
Tami saw that Jamie was sitting all by herself. Jamie was new to Primary. She was crying.
Tami sat in the chair next to Jamie.
Don’t cry. It’s OK.
I want my mom.
I know, but Sister Brown is really nice. I’ll sit next to you so we can be together.
Thank you.
Tami saw Mom smiling at her. It felt good to help Jamie. She was glad she was sitting in her own seat.

A Church history story illustrates the difference.
A small six-year-old boy wandered away from his handcart company during a storm and was lost. When the storm subsided, Robert and Ann Parker realized their boy was missing and began searching. For two days an organized search was unsuccessful. The decision was made that the company must move on because of the approaching winter.
A pioneer journal records the following:
“Ann Parker pinned a bright [red] shawl about the thin shoulders of her husband and sent him back alone on the trail to search again for their child. If he found him dead he was to wrap him in the shawl; if alive, the shawl would be a flag to signal her. Ann and her children took up their load and struggled on with the company, while Robert retraced the miles of … trail, calling, and searching and praying for his helpless little son.”
One suspects that he did not just casually look behind a few trees or leisurely walk along the trail, but that he vigorously investigated every thicket, every clump of trees and gully or wash.
“At last he reached a … trading station where he learned that his child had been found and cared for by a woodsman and his wife. [The boy] had been ill from exposure and fright. [But] God had heard the prayers of his people.
“Out on the trail each night Ann and her children kept watch and, when, on the third night the rays of the setting sun caught the glimmer of a bright red shawl [above her husband’s head], the brave little mother sank in a pitiful heap in the sand. … [She] slept for the first time in six … days.”

At that time, Elder Jones (from Utah) and Elder Erickson (from Canada) had been sent by President Thomas S. Bingham to open missionary work in Warrnambool. Local ministers warned townsfolk not to speak with them, claiming they would “brainwash your children.”
Elder Jones and Elder Erickson faithfully knocked on doors for three months and experienced total rejection. They were discouraged and depressed. Their faith was wavering. They wrote to President Bingham and asked to be transferred out of Warrnambool.
Eventually, a letter arrived from President Bingham. After prayerful consideration, he wrote, he had the strongest impression that there were people in Warrnambool ready to receive the restored Church. He encouraged them to go back to work and to visit places they had not been before.
The elders received the letter around the same time that Fred and Lois were praying for answers. A few days later, they knocked on the Meurs family’s front door at 68 Jamieson Street, Warrnambool. Lois answered, and the elders said they had a special message about Jesus Christ and His Church to share.
Elder Jones and Elder Erickson returned the following week and began teaching Lois and Fred. As they taught, they answered every question on Fred and Lois’s long list. They explained the nature of God, priesthood authority, the Resurrection and life after death, the purpose of life, developing faith, and the ordinances of baptism and the sacrament.
Fred and Lois opened their scriptures—already marked from their earlier study—and found confirmation for everything the missionaries were teaching.
Years later, when I was called as an Area Seventy, I spoke with Elder Bruce Jones about this experience. He told me that their time in Warrnambool, up to the point of meeting my parents, had been a great trial of his faith. But teaching Fred and Lois and having them respond with confirming scriptures from the New Testament rekindled his faith and became a turning point in his life.

It was one of those warm summer afternoons, the kind of soft and lazy day that seems to envelop the mind in daydreams and push out thoughts of work or study. While I’d been on my mission, this had been the hardest kind of day to keep my mind on the work. Now it was the same way with school. Since before noon I’d been up in the foothills east of campus collecting root samples. My lab partner and I had been collecting them for a botany project. It had taken us about twice as long as it should have, because we spent as much time chasing butterflies as we did collecting plants. After we had finally completed our collection, my lab partner had given me a lift back to civilization, and I’d caught a bus for home. It was Friday afternoon, and with the quiet spell of the early summer day still tugging at my brain, I decided as I rode along to dedicate Saturday to sunny beaches and cool water.
I was beginning to envision the day in a little finer detail when the air brakes gave a familiar hiss and I noticed a small Chicano boy getting on at the front of the bus. The bus was only about half full. There were several empty seats between the front and myself, so I paid little attention. Gazing back out the window, I let my mind drift again to my imaginary weekend.
But just as I was getting back to my daydream, I caught sight of that boy again out of the corner of my eye. He had passed two empty seats and seemed headed straight for the one next to me. He was about nine or ten, dressed in well-faded but clean jeans and a red-checkered shirt. The shirt seemed a little too big, probably a hand-me-down. As he approached, I stared determinedly out the window, hoping he’d pass by my seat in favor of one of the empty ones behind. No such luck.
“Hi, mister,” he said, plopping down next to me. He had a smile so big it seemed about a size and a half too wide for his face. I didn’t want to smile back, but his grin was too contagious; I couldn’t help myself.
“Hello,” I answered, trying to regain my stern composure.
“Nice day, huh?” he said.
“Yes,” I answered, “nice day.” This time I managed not to smile, and I looked back out the window hoping that would end the conversation. It was a day too well suited for daydreaming to waste talking to some little kid about the weather. There was silence for a moment, and I began to relax again, conjuring up visions of playing volleyball on the beach.
“Hey, mister, you married?”
“What?” I asked, turning back to the boy. His smile, if possible, seemed even a little wider than before.
“You married?”
“No.” I answered coldly, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Oh,” he said, looking down disappointed, his smile fading. I seemed to have momentarily caught him off-guard. He was thinking. Then in an instant he looked up again, his eyes brighter than ever. “But you’re going to get married, right?”
I tried not to smile, but his eyes and that row of teeth made it impossible. “Yes,” I said smiling back, “I guess I will.”
“And when you get married, mister, are you going to love your wife?”
Now he had caught me off-guard. The question seemed out of place coming from someone so young. I felt like he was leading up to something, but I wasn’t sure what. “Of course,” I answered cautiously, “of course I will.”
“And when you love somebody, you always want to be with them, don’t you, mister, even after you die?”
Suddenly it hit me! He was asking me a Golden Question. He was a Mormon. I sat there looking at him. I didn’t answer; I didn’t know what to say. How many times had I asked almost that same question? How many times on the buses and streets of Brazil while I was on my mission? But that was my mission; that was then, not now. It seemed inconceivable that those same words were being repeated to me here, at home, by a ten-year-old boy. The bus was slowing rapidly and the boy stood up, taking something from his back pocket and handing it to me.
“Hey, mister, I got to get off here. Take this. It’s got the name of two of my friends on it. If you want to know more, give them a call. Good-bye, mister.” And he was gone.
I sat staring at the pamphlet he had given me. It was folded in half and a little tattered at the corners. I unfolded it and read the title, “The Plan of Salvation.”
I’d come home from my mission almost two years ago. I’d brought home my missionary journal, color slides, souvenirs, and a lot of memories. But I’d left my mission behind. How many people had I told about the Church in the time I’d been home? How many Golden Questions had I asked? How many nonmembers did I know who might be interested if only I’d bring up the subject? I’d just been taught a lesson about missionaries that I hadn’t learned in the whole time I’d been on a mission, and it had been taught to me by a young boy with nothing but a testimony and a smile.
The bus was filling up with people now. We were near the center of town and it was almost 5:00. A young man in a business suit sat down next to me. Self-consciously I stuffed the pamphlet in my shirt pocket and looked down at my feet. I was still thinking about that boy; as young as he was, he was still more of a missionary than I’d ever been. I glanced up again. The man next to me was looking out the window, probably daydreaming.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” I said without thinking.
“Yes,” he smiled back, “a very pretty day.”
I sat for a moment, fingering the pamphlet in my pocket. Then, mustering my biggest smile, I asked, “Say, are you married?”

My mother loved that scripture and lived its principle. The greatest affliction of her life was the death of her husband, our father, after only 11 years of marriage. This changed her life and imposed great hardships as she proceeded to earn a living and raise her three little children alone. Nevertheless, I often heard her say that the Lord consecrated that affliction for her gain because her husband’s death compelled her to develop her talents and serve and become something that she could never have become without that seeming tragedy. Our mother was a spiritual giant, strong and fully worthy of the loving tribute her three children inscribed on her headstone: “Her Faith Strengthened All.”

During summer vacation, this group participated in a not-so-typical youth conference: five days of hard work. And many of them even knew in advance that it would be hard work, because they had done the same thing last year.

“Sure it’s lots of work,” said 16-year-old Shirley Frazier. “But it’s also lots of fun. We play when we work. It’s not every day you get to work side by side with members of your ward. A bond is established, and I feel closer to the members of my ward and to the Lord.”

How much work can 47 youth do on a ranch in five days? Plenty. For example, they built fences with wooden posts and barbed wire, and they built a small bridge across a creek. They tilled and weeded a garden. They even finished constructing a barn (where they would perform plays and skits). As if that weren’t enough, they also cleaned up an old farmhouse once inhabited by barn swallows and mice, built a retaining wall with rocks they had gathered in a field nearby, and planted flowers.

You’d think that would be enough to tire them out. But there was also time for the fun usually associated with youth conferences. They boated, they fished, they swam. They played baseball in a pasture, organized and participated in a lip-synch contest where they imitated singers from the ’50s to the ’80s, and enjoyed a hayride on a wagon pulled by a team of Clydesdale horses.

Like the unique focus of the conference, The Ranch is also unique in its character. The young men and women are quick to point out some reasons why. For example, there is an outdoor eating place known as the “Chuckwagon,” located where cattle used to roam the fields. The building that is now the kitchen was a place of shelter where the cattle sought refuge from the hot, blistering sun, or the hard, cold Idaho winters. Sister Hamnett still laughs as she explains how they had to borrow a tractor and clean two feet of manure off the ground when the transformation from cattle lounge to Chuckwagon began. But the youth don’t mind the Chuckwagon’s past. In fact, as soon as they arrived Monday afternoon, they were scrubbing down tables, and sweeping and mopping the floor in preparation for some “good fixin’s.”

And if you take a walk up the hill above the lake to look at The Ranch, you’ll get a bird’s-eye view of the six sheep wagons. Built by Carlisle himself, they provide cozy sleeping quarters for some of the guests. The six wagons are arranged in a tight circle in a small meadow, as if part of an old western movie set. You’d almost expect a few cowboys in chaps to come walking out of one of them.

And the garden. Well, that’s where an 80-year-old barn stood, until the weight of winter snow on the roof caused the structure to buckle. Youth from the ward helped weed and till the ground where the barn used to be in preparation for planting flowers and vegetables.

“Here, weeding is fun,” said 17-year-old Lisa Patterson. “I think working together seems to make it more fun, especially because we’re giving service.”

Corey Wride, 17, agreed, and added, “I was surprised at how the adults passed responsibilities on to us.” Even with all that good food at the Chuckwagon ready to be eaten by hungry, hardworking teenagers, Corey’s favorite expression seemed to be, “Well, I’m ready to get back to work.”

He said, “I have a granddaughter. This granddaughter is a sweet, lovely girl. She came to me one day and said, 'Grandpa, if I read all of the scriptures all the way through will you make a Moroni for me?'” And he told me this while we were working in the temple one day and in the hallway. He said, “I told her I would be glad to do that if she would read all of the scriptures.” And I smiled and said, “I hope she can do it.” Then I said, “Now Karl, if you are going to do that for her, you know I am always reading the scriptures. I read them all the time. What do I have to do?” You know I have a kind face, and he looked at me and he said, “Well, I’ll make one for you.”

So, in a few months, this young girl came to her grandfather and told him that she had read the scriptures. Now I would like to invite Julie Quilter to come up to the stand with me. Julie is here. She’s a senior at this great school. Where are you Julie?

Julie, your grandfather made you a special Moroni, didn't he? "Yes." Did you read the Scriptures? "Yes.” Good for you.

This is her sculpture. I got it from him the other day. So we brought it up here. Would you pick it up? Are you strong enough? Isn’t that wonderful to read the scriptures? Isn’t it wonderful to have a grandfather who can do something like this?

My wife and I have been worried about this since the other day when Julie’s grandfather put it in the trunk of my car. We hope we get it home. But, Julie, if it gets broke, it is not my fault. You’re the one who put it up here on the table.

I remember Christmases from my childhood, and they remind me of the love and preparation that my parents went through to provide great experiences for us at Christmas. To show my age, I remember a Christmas when I dearly wanted what some of my friends already had: J. C. Penney walkie-talkies. We used them to play army. Imagine the dim recesses of time before the cell phones and twittering you now experience. Contact was not constant then. I know there are some here managing text and twitter contacts even as I speak, arranging dates or Christmas travel or taunting a Yankees fan that the Red Sox won the World Series.

On that Christmas long ago in the sixties, I thought walkie-talkies cost so much that I had no hope of getting a set. When I got one, it was a miracle that I still remember with a little frisson of happiness. Almost immediately I went out with my friends on that Christmas day in Arizona to use our walkie-talkies to play army, as was our custom in those days, complete with gun sounds and medics who would attend to you after you had been wounded. Those medics would come up to the wounded and shamanistically wave their hands, muttering the magic words “Fix, fix, fix,” and you were back in the game.

I realize that acting out such a bloody scenario today could be seen as troubling and would violate most schools’ safe-school policies if it occurred during recess. Times have changed. Television in my childhood consisted of a grand total of three to five channels—one from Mexico showing bullfights and one an educational channel. Then prime time included weekly doses of the popular TV showCombat! with Vic Morrow, et al., or Twelve O’Clock High and other such shows based on World War II.

It’s a little different today. Today most of you don’t know that Jimmy Stewart, star of the Christmas classics Mr. Krueger’s Christmas and It’s a Wonderful Life, served through the horrors of World War II as a wing commander flying B-17s with great courage and skill. Most of you were not raised by a decorated World War II combat veteran who saw and inflicted horrific death as a B-17 pilot, flying daylight bombing raids over Germany when he was younger than most of you. And yet after the hell that such parents and society had experienced, such men and women as my parents, and perhaps your grandparents or great-grandparents, through Christmas and throughout our lives, protected us and let us be children untouched by the horrors they had waded through. They even let us play war without scaring us too much about what it actually meant. They knew that Christ hasn’t promised we can avoid the horrors this world is capable of inflicting upon us. They also knew that we are to become as little children by choice, despite the world’s horrors.

My brothers and sisters, I am sure each of you has been touched by the stories of the Church’s great relief efforts to members stricken by floods or earthquakes. Our hearts go out to these people in need. There are, however, other needs—social-emotional needs—that can be just as devastating as any natural disaster. And these needs cannot be met with truckloads of food or clothing. I would like to illustrate several of them in my talk to you today.
Let me begin by reading a letter which relates the tragic story of a young man who became entangled in a way of life which led him to violate the most sacred of God’s commandments:
“I know not why I write this letter. Perhaps I grasp at last straws before it’s over or whatever. I seek help, without hope of receiving it. Not because I doubt that the Church is true, but because of my sins. Let me say here, I love my parents and do what I am able to help them, but my strength is going, and what flicker of spiritual life there is left in me spends itself on writing this letter.
“At a very young age,” this young man continues, “I became convinced that my father didn’t love me. It stemmed from an encounter when one evening I went to kiss him good night and he brushed me away. I’m sure he doesn’t remember, and it had no significance to him, but I was devastated: my entire sense of security and my world crumbled into ashes as I stood there.
“Not knowing what else to do, I ran from this new stranger in a panic to my mother and whispered tones to her of my calamity, which she denied, but did not convince me. That night I watched my father as I stood in the shadows of my darkened bedroom. I swore to myself that I would close the door until he sought to open it. I would ignore him until he sought after me.
“He didn’t notice. If he did, he never asked me what was wrong. Well, needless to say, through the next years I went through the motions and rebelled to get his attention, which I got in the form of anger. At any rate, I developed into a homosexual, a vitiating disease, and was soon entrenched in my prison. I didn’t know myself. And I have felt for more years than I can remember that the Lord didn’t love me either. From age seventeen to about twenty-three I began using drugs. …”
Well, you can imagine where his life went from there. This young man closes his letter with these words: “Thank you for your time. Can you help me? Is there reason for me to help myself? Can you convince me? Can you spare the time? I’ve not much left.”
Yes, young man, there is help available to you.
We know that the Lord does love this young man, as he loves all of us. This individual has since been referred through the priesthood to an LDS Social Services agency. Hand in hand, his priesthood leader and his LDS Social Services caseworker will help this brother learn what he didn’t learn at his father’s knee—that the Lord loves him and that the gospel’s plan of repentance and forgiveness is available to all.
In this next situation, Janet, as I will call her, was involved in serious transgression. After discovering that she was expecting a child out of wedlock, her bishop referred her to LDS Social Services. Instead of being condemned by staff personnel as she had feared, she found love and understanding—the love and understanding that she needed to help her repent. With the help of her bishop and the agency, she began to seek the Lord’s forgiveness. She was introduced to foster parents who lovingly accepted her into their home. She attended church regularly and studied the gospel. An unwed parents group sponsored by the Church helped her to realize the magnitude of her transgression and to resolve to start a new life. She began to more fully understand herself and her relationship to her Father in heaven.
“I went through an awful lot,” she recalled. “But I felt like such a load was lifted by being able to share the burden with those who understood. I’m so grateful for all the help I received from my Heavenly Father.”
In the final story, Verinda, a vibrant young Apache girl, was accepted into the Indian Student Placement Service. She later gave this testimony:
“When I first participated in this program eight years ago, I got off the bus with only the clothes on my back and a few small possessions in a shoebox. I came from a humble home. My people are humble. But you have opened your hearts unto me. For that I am thankful. Now I can go home with a brand new suitcase of clothes. But that is not my wealth. I am wealthy because that which is inside of me is as precious as all of the wealth in this world. I have a testimony of the gospel. I know that Jesus is the Christ and that God lives and answers prayers. I now have a goal—something I can strive for.”
Brothers and sisters, these three stories are in sharp contrast to the world around us. Today, we suffer not only from physical pollution, but from mental pollution as well. Perversions of our basic values are offered as the “new morality.” Cheating and violence are often accepted as a means of achieving individual and group desires. Working mothers and weekend fathers abdicate their parental responsibilities. Husbands and wives separate at the smallest argument. Natural affection is waning. I remember as a bishop an incident of a couple who lost custody of their two young children—one in diapers, the other too young for school. Each day the mother and father went to work and left their children locked in the house to fend for themselves. When questioned by the judge, the mother was quite surprised. She said that they had always left sufficient food for the children to last until suppertime! Can you imagine such an attitude?

Fourteen days is not very long. But two weeks was all we had as cast members of the Hill Cumorah Pageant to read the Book of Mormon cover to cover.
I knew that reading the 531-page script would make it easier to bear my testimony to the thousands of investigators that came to see the show. The reasons to read were obvious; however, the ways to find time to read were not so obvious.
The cast of 600 came to the Hill Cumorah from around the U.S. and Canada to perform this annual pageant. Not quite a vacation, daily practices started before sunrise and ended as late as 2:00 A.M. Every day was filled with learning our parts, attending classes, and having as many as four devotionals a day. There was no personal study time set aside. I snatched bites of the book during meals, on the bus rides, and during visits to the Sacred Grove.
The sacrifice to read became greater as each day and performance passed. Although I was tired and sore, my spirit was awake and eager to finish the sacred book. The characters were becoming my friends—partly because I was reading so much about them in such a short time, and partly because my friends literally were those characters in the pageant.
The couple playing Nephi and his wife, for example, made their characters real for me. I watched as she supported Nephi, making sure he arrived at rehearsal on time. I saw her straighten his headband and clothes, preparing him for his part. Laman, although a contentious character, was played by a sociable, popular guy. It made me wonder if perhaps the real Laman had a likable side—he just never caught on to the gospel message. Before the actors who played Jesus and his Twelve Apostles took their turn on stage, they gathered in prayer in a grove of trees near the stage. They took their parts seriously, as I’m sure the real men did. By having people dressed as these well-known characters, we realized that these scriptural people were human beings with individual personalities.
I headed for dinner just before our last performance. But then I saw Moroni walk by, which reminded me that I hadn’t finished the last few chapters of his book.
I wanted to meet the challenge and finish the Book of Mormon before our final performance. So I skipped dinner and climbed to the top of Hill Cumorah in my Nephite outfit. Although tourists and costumed cast members were on the hill, I found a private place away from the beaten path.
As I read the last words of Moroni, I looked into the woods and imagined what Moroni must have felt as he buried the plates. “I wander withersoever I can for the safety of mine own life” (Moro. 1:3).
I was getting to know Moroni as I read his words and sat where he may have been when he wrote them. It almost seemed as if he were reading aloud the last few chapters of the book.
“If ye have faith ye can do all things which are expedient unto me” (Moro. 10:23). I thought of all the hard things I had done, such as read the book in 14 days, and all of the hard things yet to come, such as standing up to peer pressure, fulfilling my church callings, and doing well in school. But Moroni reminded me that with faith we can accomplish what the Lord would have us do. He was becoming a real person to me.
I finished the last few verses of Moroni on his historic hill. I felt as if Moroni and I were sharing this moment together. I knew I wouldn’t forget the friendship I felt between us that night.

My little sister and I weren’t the best of friends. But then, I guess we weren’t the worst of enemies either. Looking back at it, I guess we were typical teenage siblings. Sure, we loved each other, but we didn’t always show it.
We lived in an old Quaker farmhouse in the eastern Pennsylvania countryside. I was in ninth grade, Jenni was in seventh, and we both went to the same middle school. Every day we would walk to our own private bus stop, board the bus, and sit in separate seats. We didn’t want to be seen together. We didn’t even want our friends to see us talking to each other. It wasn’t cool.
But my heart changed one day. It was a cold, frosty, late-fall morning. I remember riding home from early-morning seminary in a dense fog. We had to drive slower than normal because we couldn’t see very far ahead. As soon as we arrived home, I went into the dining room, sat down, and began eating the scrambled eggs Dad had made.
Jenni came downstairs and joined us. My older brother and sister had to leave earlier than I did, so Jenni and I were soon sitting alone eating breakfast. We argued over something at the breakfast table—something so insignificant I can’t remember what it was anymore.
As usual, Jenni and I walked the distance to the bus stop without saying a word to each other. Our coats were bundled tight, and our scarves warmed our necks.
I arrived at the end of our quarter-mile, tree-lined driveway first. The fog was dense. I knew the sun was up, but we couldn’t see very much. I looked down the winding, two-lane highway for cars. I looked the other way. I couldn’t see more than 20 feet through the fog, so I listened keenly for sounds of traffic. I knew the coast was clear, so I darted across the highway safely to the bus stop.
I stood and waited for Jenni and the bus. Neither came. There was no traffic, either.
Am I even at the bus stop? I thought. I looked down at the gravel and knew that I was.
Suddenly, the sound of tires screeching caused my heart and body to jump. I looked, but couldn’t see anything. Is the car going to hit me? I wondered in an instant.
Then, through the thick haze I saw Jenni dodging a car. She ran to me for safety, but stopped, not knowing if she dared hug me. The car had missed her by inches.
My heart filled with love and concern for her. I wrapped my arms around her as she cried.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Everything is okay.”
I held her for what seemed several minutes, then let go. Soon the bus arrived, and we were on our way.
Ever since then, when my friends or family have been in difficult times of their lives, we’ve held hands and crossed through the fog together.

As a bishop a few years ago l held a temple recommend interview with one good brother; a really fine member of the ward. All went well until we got to the question, “do you pay your tithes?” Then he began to stammer; words could not come out clearly. I looked him straight in the eye and asked a second time, “Do you pay your tithes?”

The answer then came out rather quietly, “l am not consistent in paying my tithes, because many times when I get my pay, l have a lot of pressing needs and the money seems not to be enough to cover all the expenses or commitments.” I knew that this was an opportunity to teach him about the principle of paying an honest and full tithe, as commanded by the Lord. He then asked for time to go and make good on his promise to become a full tithe payer. It took six months before l could have another interview with him to ascertain his worthiness. Indeed, he had begun to take baby steps in the right direction.